D.J. Baggy Bag
I go back and forth on whether or not DJs are inherently scrote. It seems unfair to paint an entire profession with the ‘bag brush. And yet isn’t a club DJ really just a glorified used speaker salesman with added grease? They’re like the club equivalent of the audio/visual techie nerd at Best Buy suddenly blessed by the stud gods into a powerhouse of douche-force attraction.
Play a record at the senior citizens home on a Sunday, you’re a minimum wage flunky. Turn out all the lights, get those seniors dosed up on E, pass out Red Bulls and you’re hip hop Hugh Hefner. If you go for the grandma contingent, that is.
And yet DJ celebrity culture continues. They rule the roost and attract the lithe stalks of sunflower corn like Blue Wave here. So clearly they know what’s up on some intuitive level.
Play that funky music white douche. I would spin your Blue Wave friend at 44 rpms until my needle scratched. And as we all know, there’s nothing worse than when your needle scratches.
Okay, lame analogy, but what are ya gonna do. It’s Friday.
