As a disc jockey employed by various high-end department stores throughout the county, I've encountered my fair share of hostile audiences. The department store DJ is a magnet for abuse—particularly at some of the ritzier malls—as the regular clientele, accustomed to hearing non-threatening Muzak as they plunk down $400 for a wallet, are confronted by non-threatening Top 40 and dance music, sending them into paroxysms of confusion and panic. Though my skin has grown thick from years of enduring glares and insults, I'm still sometimes startled by the malice with which some of these complaints are delivered. You were the Lucille Bluth-alike who strolled up to my DJ booth recently, narrowed your eyes at me, and hissed "TERRIBLE!" Hey lady, I don't like Will Smith either, but you should hear the stuff I DON'T play in deference to the high-minded sensibilities of my audience. I hope your nerves were soothed by the soft leather interior of your BMW. Mine were settled at the thought of how deeply miserable you must be, despite your money, to direct your bile so unnecessarily at a man just trying to do his job. Enjoy your increasing slide into irrelevance. And thanks for shopping!
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