Mr Triple J Snob

If music be the fruit of love, then play on. Although, you must love within boundaries. Those who reach for the low hanging fruit of commercially successful artists should shamefully enjoy their 92.9-berries in a dark cave where their cretinous musical taste can’t taint the circle-jerk harvest of Hottest 100 predictions.

Felix streams Triple J through his iPhone while buzzing around Mount Lawley on his beige Vespa. His beard is scruffy, his glasses are thick, and his faux-flanno and skinny jean combination alerts pedestrians that he has totally posted his top 10 Hottest 100 predictions on Facebook and proceeded to argue and berate anyone who offered a dissenting opinion. In fact, his predictions aren’t even a list, they are the new Ten Commandments. Listening to Triple J has caused his body to become divine, he is God, Jesus and the Holy Spirit all rolled into one smug radio-devotee. Bow before his enlightened musical cock as he shoots a warm load of melodic education into your Nova FM peasant hole.

Felix returns home and logs onto his MacBook. His homepage is, but he never browses the site. He waits patiently for his beloved Triple J to drop a tune, thus giving him the OK to research that artist’s older work and draw his own snobby conclusions as to why that artist was better before they got big.

Standard procedure for a bloke that successfully alienates himself from people at parties and spends the night flicking through his iPod and snaring lone-revellers like a hipster venus fly trap, “I’m going to do you a favski brah, listen to these guys, I used to listen to them jam at the Hydey, before they both sold out”.

In the act of dietary smuggery, Felix fixes himself a bowl of gluten-free, activated, soy & goji berry stir-fry. He eats his “work a day for world peace” gruel while listening to Triple J’s Hack. Fuck Vice, Hack always has the hottest scoop. Ground level, front line journalism at it’s finest. He agrees with the opinion of some hairy legged, dolphin-fucking eco-warrior on the issue of live animal export. Felix turns to his pug, “mahn, those are the boats Abbott should be stopping, fuck Abbott, hey poochy”. Poochy licks his own gooch, while Felix rings up Hack to try and voice his opinion. In reality, they are doing the same thing, and the taste ain’t different.

Felix prepares for Australia Day. He updates his status, “the only good thing about Invasion Day is the Hottest 100”. Translation: “the only good thing about Australia Day is loudly disagreeing with the order of songs”. He has painfully prepared for every conceivable contingency and is armed with a litany of reasons why his own top 10 list may not be reflected in the actual vote. Do you think this is a fucking game, you 94.5 cunt?

It now 1am and Felix considers catching a few winks. Alas, there are still comments being made on a “vote for Tay Tay” group on Facebook. Evil happens when good men do nothing. Felix simply can’t sleep while people are voicing incorrect opinions on an online forum. He is like a detective, an inspector, solving musical crimes one pleb at a time.

Go-go gadget dickhead.

Documenting the Human Zoo is thirsty work, so if you enjoyed what you read how about buying Belle a beer, ay?


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