Ta damn. I thought the age of the ghetto blaster had come and gone. But no. HEEEEEEEELL to the no.
Now I know that it’s not p.c. to call it a ghetto blaster. But I think this is one bad ass mo fo that has earned the right. Besides, calling it a boom box would be the equivalient of chopping off it grapefruit-sized balls and and pasting a Debbie Gibson sticker to its considerable casing, don’t you think?
As you can see, this specimen is equipped with what appears to be speaker spinners and twin bazooka launchers. I’m sure it is capable of making my old black and yellow Magnavox boom box (circa 1987) spontaneously spew the Hail Mary, or maybe a Martika tune (Toy Soldiers, anyone?). The last thing I’d do is bring a delinquent like this home, for I’m quite confident it would lift its leg and piss all over untitledhusband’s new video iPod.
When I stumbled across this bad boy the other day, I walked by it once, then twice, and then returned to snap a picture. To do so, I had to shoo away a 12 year-old kid who had been pulled it by the machine’s tractor beam. He was clearly creaming his pants, and I could see the numbers rolling around in his head: “If I take on two more paper routes, return all of dad’s PBR cans and steal $25 from grandma’s change jar, I might be able to swing it.”
If you’re interested in making this fine piece of electronics yours, all I can tell you is that I found it at Best Buy. I didn’t catch the model name, but I’m guessing it’s something along the lines of Annihilator or Ass Pounder or Cerebral Hemmorage. Just be careful when giving it a test listen. I’m willing to bet that the woofers alone could loosen your fillings or at the very least, render you temporarily infertile.