Ok, the guy across the hall from me at work must be stopped. All day long he sits at his desk, works diligently and listens to the worst collection of music ever assembled.

Not since man first began to bang sticks together and pound on skins stretched across gourds has there been an abomination such as this. He turns his stereo up and down in multi-hour waves so that just when you think you’re in the clear, he rips your heart out with a loud shriek, “We’ve built this city. We’ve built this city on rock and roll.”

For my part, I’ve engaged in a steady ritual of door slamming and wall pounding, always to no avail. I even sneak into his office and unplug his CD player when he goes outside to smoke just to send him a message. His take away: He thinks it’s funny. What’s funny about having to endure daily uninterrupted stretches of Wham, post-Thriller Michael Jackson, Justin Timberlake, several random metal songs of no merit, more post-Thriller Michael Jackson, some Mariah Carey, Huey Lewis and something by either Jefferson Starship or Foreigner? What the fuck? Is this guy trying to do me in? I tell myself it’s all part of some joke that he’s playing on all of us, but then I hear him sing along and I know the real truth. Which is why I must do something. Why we must do something. And that something is a musical intervention. It’s the only way to save him and to save ourselves.

UPDATE: He spent Tuesday morning listening to deep cuts by Air Supply. If anyone is curious as to what hell sounds like, drop me a line.