Nick Patti talks about music... again. (Comedy Blog #1)

So I was sitting in my room one day working on homework and listening to music, and when I finished all of my work, I felt the sensation of victory and ecstasy sweep over my entire body. It was a wonderfully pleasant feeling, which was abruptly ended by a torrential wave of vomit splashing from the mouth of the hot babe that was making extreme mouth-icular love to my wing wang. As the smell of moist, fresh barf permeated through the air of my room, I started thinking about the song that was playing on my iTunes. It was a song called “Sleep,” written by Eirc Whitacre, and performed by a chamber choir called Poliphony. Needless to say, it was incredibly soothing, so I ended up passing out in my chair at my desk, relaxed, peaceful, and still covered in vomit.

Regardless of this happenstance situation, I got to thinking about the music that I like to listen to on a regular basis, and I realized something very important. My musical tastes are horribly fucked up. If my tastes in music were (cleverly) represented in the form of taste buds on a tongue, they would probably be analogous to a guy who happens to have caught the flu, and also eats that a healthy serving of cow manure, bile, and other excrements on a regular basis, and thinks it’s absolutely delicious!

Now that I mentioned that, I’m probably going to feel nauseous every time I listen to my iPod on shuffle from now on. Great fucking job, me. *kicks self in face*

But if you were to willingly take a stroll on my iPod, you’d probably get stuck in a multi level labyrinth, each separated by genre after eclectic genre, ranging from Progressive Death Metal (which I talked about before, PDM = no pussy :’C ), to Barry White, to Choral Chamber Music, to Italian Hip Hop, to Folk Songs, to Hatsune Miku, to Rick Astley, to remixes of Rick Astley, and at that point when you’ve been Rick-Rolled till you can roll no more, my iPod would probably think it’s best to just to give up and commit suicide on a molecular level and explode, because, let’s face it, it’s just as fucking confused and lost as you are.

Wait… was that last paragraph really only one sentence long?

So if anyone here asks me, “Hey, Nick! What kind of music do you listen to? Because I believe that the strongest, most prosperous friendships are formed on sonically common preferences of music!” I’d gingerly remove my headphones, turn to them, and, with a polite smile, say:

“Cow manure. That is the kind of music I listen to.”