I can tell a lot about a person from the music they listen to. I've had a wander around the Mooks' CD racks and it's frightening.
Mook A (the stocky one) likes German opera—the kind where a chorus of half-a-hundred hefty Herren and fifty fat Fräuleins try to drown out an aria sung by an adenoidal tenor and a soprano who is shrieking like a castrated Hitler.
Mook B (the skinny one) likes folk. Not the good stuff but the kind where some dollar-store Sonny and Cher stink up the stage with an aroma of patchouli, pot, week-old-sweat and their own foul talent.
The songs are the same in German or cracker-barrel English: love duets where everything is sugar and nothing is good, hard, doggie-style fucking (the kind where you lock in and not even a bucket of water can pull you apart...like with Gigi, a real slut of a shih tzu back in the hood).
If I ever get out of here, I have to send flowers to Steve Jobs for inventing the iPod. Can you imagine if I had to listen to that music as often as they do? I wouldn't be drinking from the toilet, I'd be drinking Drano.
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