superglutesuperglutesuperglutesuperglute tires.
rubberbootrubberbootrubberbootrubberboot fires.
clubbrsuitclubbrsuitclubbrsuitclubbrsuit hires.
the mysterious dub plate arrived at my door, only the above written on the otherwise featureless sleeve. i shrugged, and put the mysterious disc on my platter.
i realized i had been too hasty when the record player seemed to gain rotational momentum rapidly. i had a problem on my hands. it was too late in the evening to bother father john, and he didn't even like technology. no, to exorcise this turntable, i needed someone who kept unreasonable hours, and liked mad bluntz. i called ceephax and screamed over the turntable's ruptuious output to make myself clear. when that failed, i resorted to screaming "bluntz" over the line until he agreed to come over.
the dub plate continued to exercise control over my deck, now often slowing down to a crawl. i worried that my teak coffee table would fall under its treacherous spell next.
the acid blaster arrived and quickly realized the magnitude of the situation. he agreed that the best course of action would be to out-rinse the bitch.
we hastily set up a large amp, mixer, drum machines and a top-secret synth named melvin, which was actually four 303's duct-taped onto a serving tin.
the Ceephaxster launched into it with vigor, but the dub plate seemed to only get angrier. then he seemed to come to an epiphany.
"hay m8" he yelled over the noise
"wat" i yelled back
"did you think to unplug it??" he suggested
i hadn't. i tenatively walked up, and gave it a yank.
it slowly spun down, a final bellow of anguish escaping from my system.
well, son of a bitch.
"I, uh..." I said, somewhat embarrassed.
"Bluntz??" Ceephax said.
"yes, that."
― dubplatestyle, Thursday, 2 August 2007 07:34 (seventeen years ago)