You Are Not A DJ

Last night I was at an exclusive party in an exclusive part of a city that you probably have only been to in your dreams. Some part-time models were taking turns sitting on my lap while I made the crowd bust their fucking nut with tales of mystery and imagination. Needless to say, phrases like “Best party guest ever” and “crucial” were being lobbed in yours truly’s direction. But there was one goddam problem. The D.J. Some shmeckle with control issues insisted on “DJ’ing” the party. I wanted to brain him with his iPod.

But I don’t wanna make a mounting out of a molehell or whatever the saying is. This yutz was just a symptom of a larger societal probleemo. We all know some idiot who says he or she “DJs”. Oh really, you fucking thumb jockey? You bring turntables and a mixer to parties and fade in and fade out and adjust the E.Q. and everything? Of course not, you exaggerating pile of penis cheese. All you did was put together an iTunes playlist.

Not only are these lemur-brained bozos liars, they’re arrogant sums of bitches. People who tell you they DJ parties are really saying they think they have great music taste. “Yeah, this party is pretty good, but it’d be way better if I was allowed to kick shit up two notches by picking songs to play.” No, you sack of scabby skin flakes, just shut up and play shit people know.

Calling these fools DJs is like calling someone who brings a box of Bugles to a party a chef; or saying that the friendless virgin watching YouTube videos in the corner is “programming” visual entertainment.

But anyway, I know what you’re thinking and the answer is yes — I left the party having received 2.5 beejers and half a handjob.


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