The car’s bass was so loud, I’m shocked the little low-rider wasn’t bouncing about like a SuperBall. As I pulled up next to it at the stoplight, I felt like the vibrations pulsing through my body, knocking out fillings in my teeth.

It’s clear that the kid had invested quite a bit of money into his sound system. The speakers were huge and shiny, there were custom made boxes in the rear window holding additional equipment (probably woofers or tweeters or something), and I could see the stereo in the dash lit up like a Christmas tree.

Imagine spending that much on a stereo and having the volume control break on you. Pity.

I felt bad for the young driver’s misfortune, and the embarrassment he must be enduring with his radio malfunctioning so indiscreetly. In an act of compassion, I turned up my stereo too, so that he wouldn’t stand out so terribly. I don’t know if it did much good, his percussion powerfully drowned out my gentle music: Pink Martini’s Hang On Little Tomato.

He must have heard me though, because he looked over and held up his hands. They were all crumpled in on themselves with fingers sticking out in awkward directions. It suddenly became clear to me that his radio wasn’t malfunctioning at all:

he simply couldn’t turn it down; the poor kid had the worst case of arthritis I’d ever seen.