On break, fucking finally.
Light another one of god’s cigarettes—Camel Turkish Royal.
See some fuckin’ walkie talkie looking thing in the maintenance breakroom.
Try to ignore it.
It keeps bothering me.
Goddamnit, fine.
I Google it.
Turns out it’s actually a handheld HAM radio. It can do 2m and 70cm bands. That’s some nerd speak for how big the waves would be if you could physically see them, which totally doesn’t matter.
Naturally, I ignore the constant online reminder that it’s illegal to broadcast on one without a license.
Figure out how to tune it to some local repeaters. (It’s like a DIY cell tower)
Figure out these guys all have a call sign and take some nerd test to get a license.
Figure out they are total whiners and bored.
Shit is basically child’s play to dial in if you have half a brain and they act like they’re some geniuses. I listen in and realize they’re all old dudes. One is a retired IBM engineer who constantly brags about it. One worked at Time Warner and sounds exactly like Mort from Family Guy. For old guys—wherever they worked is like a fucking badge of honor and status symbol. It’s actually pretty funny to hear them argue, something about the IBM guy desecrating radio with his ungodly antenna tower.
Listen, these assholes are mainly retired nerds and very strict about their rules. Besides the bickering, they always steer it back to something boring. Like how their back hurts, or how Linda lets the dog crap in the house, or how Kennedy “would certainly fix them damn vaccines giving everyone the autism.”
Let’s fix that.
Run over to the shop speakers. JBL L100s fed by a Pioneer Sx-1080. (Baaadass) I crank up Perfect Strangers by Deep Purple. The Hammond B3 organ starts off with an overdriven maliciousness.
Pure evil.
“Showtime.”
I hit the call button on the radio. Music building behind me, the bass is starting to thump. (Also illegal to broadcast music).
Some dude keys up, “What in the goddamn hell is that noise? Charlie, the repeater is acting up.”
I key up again as the huge drums kick in with 80s guitar chainsawing its way into power chords of menace and glory.
I start screaming:
“YEEEEAAAAAH, THIS IS 4-2-0-B-L-Z-I-T.”
“REPEAT 4-2-0 BRAVO, LIMA, ZEBRA, INDIA, TANGO. CAN I GET A MOTHERFUCKING GAAAAAAAWDAMN RADIO CHECK! CALLING IN FOR THAT RADIO CHECK BABYYY!!”
Immediately get 8 HAMS screaming into the radio over each other:
“THAT’S NOT A CALL SIGN!!”
“SHUT UP STUPID.”
“OH SOMEONE THINKS THEY ARE MR. FUNNY GUY HUH.”
“PURSUANT TO FCC RULE 42145.A.C—67 CHAPTER 23 SECTION 18…”
“WHAT YOU ARE DOING IS ILLEGAL STOP IMMEDIATELY.”
“BROADCASTING MUSIC IS STRICTLY FORBIDDEN!”
“I WORKED AT FUCKING IBM AND I’VE NEVER ONCE HEARD SUCH DISRESPECTFUL BULLSHIT!”
“OY, YOU WILL NAAHT BE DISRESPECTING OUR REEPEETAH!!”
“Oh gawddammit Yosef shut the fuck up… Sh-SHIRLEY, GET MY TRIANGULATION EQ—EQUIPMENT WE FINNA FIND THIS JACKASS.”
A chorus of, “YEAH GET HIS TRIANGULATION EQUIPMENT” and “YEAH!”
Some dude with a voice box chimes in—like Ned from SouthPark—“Triiianguu-late, that sum-bitch.”
Complete and total boomer meltdown.
I key up again in my perfect HR voice, “Sorry I didn’t get that, please wait your turn to reply, gentle reminder that cursing is not allowed, 420BLZIT over.”
More screaming through the radio.
I’m fucking crying laughing trying to enjoy my Taco Bell.
Truly, I’ve never had a better tasting Crunchwrap Supreme.
Listen, man, someone has to keep the old folks entertained and give them a reason to meet at Luby’s monthly to try and catch the notorious 420BLZIT. They go on and on about this incident for months. I listen to their chatter. (not illegal to just listen) Finally they quit bringing it up and dissolve their search party…
Grin.
Crank Deep Purple.
Crack my knuckles.
Key up the mic.