The Perth DJ

Sam’s DJ’ing is the melodic equivalent of a particularly orgasmic scissoring session between Fran Drescher and Julia Gillard.

When Sams on stage he transforms into DJ Trapboi. An insufferable wannabe that serves as living proof that telling your kids they're special can be harmful.

Some forge a career behind their decks and others just act like fuckheads on social media. So naturally, he sends out a mass unsolicited invite to Father on Saturday night:

“Brrrp brrrrp, yo, come down to Father this Sat, msg me to get your name at the door, yours truly may even play a guest set,  it’s gonna be lit fam”.

Is he playing that night? No. Can he get your name on the door? Also no. A fact countless scene-skanks can attest to as they stood in an unmoving line making unrequited calls to their “connected” FB contact.

Well, fuck the haters, ‘cos Sam just lined up a gig. Background music at his cousin's 17th. Being a true audio-plagiarist, he downloads a RL Grime set to play on the night, he then leaves a vile skidmark on the cunterpants of FB:

“Soz Perth, DJ Trapboi is booked this weekend, y’all watching the rise of a legend :P shout outs to my Xanny Family, stay lit without me, peace xxx.”

Yuk.

On the night, Sam brings his CDJs, mixer, traktor control box, laptop and oversized speakers. Alas, he doesn’t really know how to use this equipment so he overcompensates by Guetta’ring  around like an epileptic Lleyton Hewitt at a strobe light showroom.

Half way through auto-tuning the shit out of people's ears, he takes a break to chat to some of the juvies. He hands out laminated cards with his Soundcloud link and blabbers untruths out of his lie-hole, “yeh was gonna play Stereos before it got canned ay”.

Suddenly, strumming…  

A top-knotted Matt Corby-cunt emerges with an acoustic guitar and is woo’ing a group of girlies. DJ Trapboi instantly jumps back on his laptop and hits ‘em with the RL set, thus transforming into DJ Mp3.

The topknot strums louder and grossly drums on the side of his guitar. Sam can’t take it anymore. He charges over, “brah, can’t you see i'm spinning?”

Both are unwilling to lose the attention of the school students, so they begin pussy-staunching each other like two male hairdressers fighting over the last GHD iron.

During the scuffle,Sam stumbles back and knocks over his DJ crate. To the murderous shock of the party girl's father, 150 DJ Trapboi personally branded condoms spew out onto the floor. He’d actually ordered 5000 but figured he didn’t wanna come on too strong.

Needless to say, he is promptly evicted without receiving the $50 and leftover party pies he was promised.

If only those condoms could protect him from fucking his own career ay?