World’s Worst Human Beatbox


One of the things I used to do to annoy one of my long-suffering co-workers was arbitrarily declare Flava Flav Fridays, which essentially consisted of just shouting “Yeaaaah, boy-ee!” and “Tell ’em, Chuck!” after anything she said. (I used to also declare “To the Extreme” Tuesdays. Anytime I’d mention I was going to do something, I’d follow that with “… to the extreme!” while making the devils-horn sign or the hang-loose gesture. For example, I’d say something like, “I’m going to file these TPS reports … to the extreme!“)

Flava Flav Fridays probably don’t have much to do with what I did today, but it somehow seemed apropos to mention them.

Yesterday, one of the designers walked into the kitchen. I immediately threw a punch at his groin, which he easily blocked. Then he looked over to where another employee was scooping avocado onto a bean burrito. “Oh. It’s wrap day,” he said

“Rap day?” I said. “My name is Peter / and I’m here to say / I punch designers / every day.” He obligingly laid down a Fat-Boys-style beat. I attempted some vocal scratching, but it came out as a lackluster, mechanical “Haha, haha, haha,” like the villain from the “All Your Base” thing right after he says “You have no chance to survive, make your time.”

“Man, I’m the world’s worst human beatbox,” I said, shaking my head.

“You should put that on a T-shirt,” he said.

I should put that on a T-shirt, I thought. And I did, stopping by a local T-shirt shop and having one pressed up that read WORLD’S WORST HUMAN BEATBOX on the front and, for good measure, SUCKA MC on the back. I figured it’d blow his mind when I actually showed up with it today, which happened to be a casual Friday.

This morning I came in and got one of the production guys to call this designer to come over, ostensibly to discuss some technical detail while I stood nonchalantly nearby, sticking my chest out. Eventually, his eye lit upon me. “‘World’s … worst …’,” he read. “Oh, that’s awesome! I told him to make that shirt!”

“What are you talking about? I’ve had this shirt forever,” I said.

“You have?”


“Goddammit!” he said. But he was still pretty delighted.

It was the reaction I’d hoped for, although I’ve had to put up with people asking me to beatbox all day. (I’ve demurred, saying that it would be like asking Heather Mills-McCartney to moonwalk.) And I’m not that sure it was worth the twenty-five bucks it cost to press it. I guess it could have been more expensive, though. He could have said, “You should have that engraved on your tombstone,” which would have cost hundreds of dollars for a granite headstone, to say nothing of the inscription fee and the shipping costs to get it to the office just so I could lean on it casually.

4 Responses to “World’s Worst Human Beatbox”

  1. 1 Steve Ely

    Tell’em, Chuck!

  2. 2 hilly


    I remember watching MTV back in the day (1990?) in the TV room of my college dorm. Hearing Flavor Flav yell was my cue to find something else to do, since it was time for “Yo! MTV Raps!” and I hated it like slow death.

    Now I wish I had stuck around and watched more of it. What got me interested, of all things? GTA San Andreas.

  3. 3 Thea

    thank you for the coaster. I’m going to get it framed, and then printed on a t-shirt, and then I’ll frame the t-shirt.

  4. You’re welcome, Thea!

    Also, San Andreas is the shit. I just realized I still haven’t finished the final mission, though.

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