On Subwoofers, Gangstas, and Boy Bands

Useless competition is a stereotypically male thing, and generally gets a rather becoming name thereby - I'll let it go unmentioned here, but I assure you after all. These back and forths are rather biographical for their participants, and from a third perspective seem not only useless - the adjective with which I originally defined them - but hilarious.

Having been involved in one or two useless competitions myself, I can vouch that the thought of your own idiocy does not cross mind at the moment of requirement. The only important value in these testosterone filled tug of wars is the winner - or rather, who, "owned that (expletive) dawg! (sic)... (expletive)." I'm cautious to believe that my readers fully understand what brilliant examples of dogmatic refusals and Freud-shaming denial this will animate.

With that in mind, I describe the situation from which my writing today dedicates. For the sake of sanity, I shan't discuss the circumstances that led to my circumstances, only the directly attached bit anecdotal evidence required - the rest of the story is far too... ambitious (to put it vaguely).

Taco Bell is essentially a haven for midnight snackage. By consequence, it is the home of utterly baseless bits of exhausted rhetoric and neurons that don't seem to fire quite as fast as they should. Normally, my visits to the 'Bell include just a few friends and the late hour tends to more of a light spattering of drive through visitors than food-permanent residences. We are the latter, and there are plenty of story's thereby. However, tonight was different.

For whatever reason, every hound and his dog was at the 'Bell this night (a full parking lot at a fast food establishment is somewhat unnerving for society amirite?). The aforementioned brain function issues were quite proverbially the edge of a cliff, the lit wick of dynamite, and the precariously perched pewter pedestal in a paper bag of men who I'm sure would be glad to call themselves 'gangsta's' (sic) and hitch at a 'chang' (sic) around their neck.

I sat between 30 and 40 feet from my car, attempting to merely enjoy the humble ecstasy of fire sauce and a soft taco, when my ears were bombarded by... I suppose some call it music. One of the Bell going cliques had his car open and radio blasting. Soon enough, the next car in line was topping the output and the first bowed out. This secondary source of noise was again drowned out by a third. Finally, in a theatrical display of door opening and trunk popping, the loudest car forced itself upon everyone within half a kilometer, more bass than anything.

Finishing my taco and wiping my fingers to the techno 'flair' of an extremely autotuned voice, I stood and cantered over to my car. I signaled to the supposed winner for my turn and spun the keys (as they say). As the excessive bass dwindled, my stereo was ready. I smiled, trash talked and gave it a little bit of suspense.

The play button hovered over N'Sync's Bye Bye Bye. Shouting, "Here comes da (sic) real beats mother (plural expletive)!" my finger pressed.

Those poor, poor 'gangstas.' (sic) It was like their precious ears were being bombarded by something that was loud, annoying, and completely out of place.

I drove off smiling.