Miss Cleo's Gonna Bust A Cap in Yo' Ass
If yíall thought I was losing my mind last post, brace yourself because the saga of the haunted stereo continues.
For those of you who may not know- just a little background - since I have moved into this apartment my stereo tuner had taken on a life of itís own. It will switch from CD to tuner and start flipping stations all willy-nilly causing me much frustration when all I want to do is kick back and listen to the Alkaline Trio or whatnot.
But now that this has been going on for a few months, a few patterns have emerged from the chaos. Namely, this ghost/spirit/whathaveyou has a penchant for The Killa B - B96 - Chicago's Dance Station.
I swear people, the Killa B.
Yeah, I know.
I am beginning to think some club kid died of an overdose in my apartment and now haunts the hallowed room (itís a studio) hoping to one day brandish his/her glow-stick again.
Iíve become so disgusted with the situation, I just donít even bother to fight it any more. Iíll put it my Ghosts and Vodka CD and shoí nuff a few minutes later boom boom boom The Killa Bís on, yo.
Fine. Whatever. Iíll listen. But the really, really strange twist to the story is this - whenever the new Jay Z song comes on Ė the one thing I can tolerate Ďcause I kinda like it Ė the damn station switches again. Every time that song comes on.
Ohh, I know what youíre thinking. Youíre all ďann-frank, just how much you been drinking these days? Are we gonna have to revoke your Vicodin Ďscript?Ē
But itís true itís true itís true. I swear!
I get all happy when I hear:
"H to the izz-O, V to the izz-A Fo' shizzle my nizzle used to dribble down in VA"
and then Iíll be all getting ready to throw my damn hands up because thatís the damn anthem and then Ö
And then some crop report from down state.
The spirits, they are not down with the Nick Cave or the Jay Z.
Which is fine, I guess. You can mess with my Nick Cave, you can mess with my Dismemberment Plan, you can mess with my Esquivel - but come 7:00 CST Friday evenings if that apparition even thinks to fuck with my This American Life with Ira Glass Iím just gonna have to finally give Miss Cleo a call and weíre gonna have to get all Ghost Busters on his/her ass and have ourselves a good old fashioned sťance to ban his/her/itís neon-wearing-glowstick-sporting-baggy-pants-tennis-visor-all-askew-wearing-thug-life-living pastey ass to the netherworld in a big old pile of green goop never to come back and fuck with peopleís hi-fiís again.
Yeah, I said it.
And no, Iím not gonna ďwarnĒ new neighbor when he moves in and stuff - what do you think I am? Ö crazy?
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