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I don’t mind if you blast your music from your car while I’m stuck next to you in traffic. I just mind if you blast BAD music from your car while I’m stuck next to you in traffic. Playing your crappy, terrible music loudly is like spraying yourself with dumpster scented cologne and walking around a crowded shopping mall. It’s a direct and intentional assault on the senses of smarter people with better taste. In fact, this is another law I will pass when I complete my violent takeover of the earth and crown myself World Dictator: You may listen to your music at whatever volume you like. But that qualifier of it being actual “music” will be strictly enforced.

So, the woman who pulled up behind me at a stop light a few weeks ago with a Smokey Robinson tune cranked all the way up — She was well within the rules. In fact, I would have her pulled over in order to receive a certificate of merit as a token of thanks for brightening everybody’s day with the sweet sounds of an old soul song.

But the dude who stopped beside me this afternoon blasting at 1000 decibels the incoherent ramblings of an illiterate drug addict who sounds like he just downed a bottle of NyQuil and then started mumbling random profanities over a techno beat any 13 year old could make on his laptop — He has brazenly defied my law. I would have his license revoked, his iPod confiscated, and his car impounded to prevent him from inflicting that brain cell killing audio manure on anymore helpless victims.

I’ll you what, kid, if that’s what you like to listen to: I’ll go home, record myself banging on pots and pans while I scream obscenities and vomit all over the floor and then I’ll sell you the mp3. If I have to be victimized by your horrible taste, I’d at least like to profit off of it, too.