The Arbitron Schmutz Rating System

You like that band? Show me three of your gross fingerprints on their disc

In between promoting my weekend of remote shows, talking to my accountant, planning the bays of shelves, and having mild panic attacks about the avalanche of things happening in my life and in the world at large, I dipped out today to buy another 538 CDs from the greasiest man on earth.

I say this knowing the risk, however small, that a customer will stumble across these writings and realize they were the oily interloper in question. It’s not my intention, as a fairly hey-better-not-skip-a-shower-today guy myself, to shame anyone for what their body does or doesn’t produce in medically concerning quantities. And I emphasize that nothing about this fella’s appearance was slovenly or alarming.

But I’ve pulled 75 of his CDs from the totes so far, and I’ve had to wash 68 of them in the sink with hand soap. If he’s not the greasiest man who ever lived, he only listened to music in the 1990s while consuming lethal quantities of Marco’s Pizza and refusing all offers of napkins.