I could be a great DJ. I mean, a really kick-ass one. Not one of these pussy weddings-and-bar mitzvahs motherfuckers. No, I mean a serious turntable talent. I’d spin at all the big clubs, playing my own shit. And when someone invaded my space to request the new Puff Daddy track, I’d reach into my collection of hard-to-find vinyl and pull out my extended middle finger. “Slag off!” I’d say (cause I wanted to sound mean and British), and then I’d go back to spinning. Yeah, I’d be a fuckin’ amazing DJ.
That’s what I used to say to myself. Then one night, a DJ friend of mine asked me to take over the decks. It was my big break. The party was slammin’. And now I was gonna be the one maintaining the grooves. I listened through the headphones and matched the beats dead on. I was a fuckin’ natural. The other track was ending soon, so I had to move fast. I faded up the new track, then faded out the old track. No one was the wiser. I had no idea how fucking easy being a DJ was. I started thinking about starting a new career. What could I call myself? Something cool. Something that would let people know what a fucking killer DJ I am.
Then the vocals came in. I had no idea the track had any vocals, and they weren’t sounding quite right. Probably because it was a 33 RPM track and I was playing it at 78. Yeah, I was fucked. Everyone turned to look at me. But I stayed cool. I just quickly flipped the switch to 33 RPM and pretended like it was all part of the show. Yeah, I’d been a fucking sick DJ. If it wasn’t for the talent part.
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