The story of 90 whatever point sompthing

Oh fuck, hosses. Snug’s fount himself a brant new radio station and now he can’t even get out of his car. He’s been sitting in the parking lot at work for nigh on to two weeks, subsisting on the cheese stuck to a couple of old Sonic wrappers and popping cold pills just to stay awake for one more jam. Every hour on the hour they play an old Genesis song for him, the name of which he can’t quite put his finger in. As co-workers pass his car, he rolls down the window and yells, “Goin to the roadhouse, gonna have-a-rio…a good time!” He marvels at how these DJs seem to have all the same Beatles records as he does, and on top of that how they too dig hard on some Eagles. Say, did somebody just request “Captain Jack?” Yes, please. “Bungle in the Jungle?” Don’t mind if I do. Even the commercials are killer: the latest yuks and insane cackling of those wacksters from the Bob and Tom show have never seemed so concise.

Boys, if you’re in the area do him a favor and drop a 5-hour energy, a bag of Doritos, some large Huggies, and a half-pint of anything by his car. Don’t let him coax you into sticking around for a chorus of “American Pie,” though. You’ll never leave.