It looks like many of you missed the point that since he is in the store, and can't really hear it the "music" is for me to hear, not him.

When this actually happens, the "music" is invariably a combination of sampled bass and drumbeats interspersed with egotistical cursing, imagine Mather blather on shore leave.

I guess rather than tossing them into the bushes, I could deliver them to him in the store and say. "In spite of what your music says, I do not have intercourse with either of my parents and I am not interested in the sexual habits or bling collection of your various hip hop "artists."

And while we are talking fantasies, There is another I have involving a tow truck, a car crusher, a sturdy chair, some duct tape and a Donovan CD on an infinite loop.