What’s better than sitting by the pool on a sunny summer Saturday afternoon, drinking a manly Corona and locking in your FanDuel parlay while your hot girlfriend, whom you’re cheating on, is tanning her back next to you while reading a shitty AI-generated Freida McFadden novel titled “The Doctor” or “The Stepsister”?

Doing all that while I blast tunes through my JBL Bluetooth speaker (promo code PLOPS at checkout).

Sure, nobody specifically asked me to play music, but no one specifically asked me not to. I’m just setting the mood and entertaining you all. And since no one has thrown my speaker into the deep end (joke’s on you; it’s water proof and floats, promo code PLOPS at checkout), I have to operate under the assumption that you, my neighbors and their guests, have tacitly nominated and appointed me Pool DJ. And not one of you fuckers have thanked me for my service.

I play all genres of music. Anything your heart desires, as long as it’s Top 40s, country, or classic rock. You wouldn’t understand the hard work, time, and research it takes to let Spotify automatically curate playlists of songs so popular you could shit out a clock radio and one of the songs would be playing on wherever the tuner landed as it left your sphincter. The least you could do is say “Great set today” on your way out. It’s not like you don’t know where the sound is coming from. If it helps, I’m the 52 year old man with the shoulder tattoo, goatee, and slightly overweight and trashy wife with the leathery skin. I’m the one having the loud and inappropriate conversation ten feet from your kids. Not like they won’t learn all this stuff eventually, but I know you won’t thank me for the anatomy lesson either.

And boy, do I have ads. Ads for podcasts, audiobooks, car insurance, food delivery. Ads for Spotify Premium promising an ad-free experience. Hey, Spotify, here’s a little tip from someone with a graduate business degree: start playing 30-second ads between every verse and chorus or every song, then promote a 3-year contract with new Spotify Premium members and jack up the price after month 2 (Hey, we said prices subject to change. It’s not our fault you were too stupid and lazy to read the contract terms. Also Premium will now have ads, so sign up for Spotify Super-Premium for the ultimate ad-free listening experience). Let me guess, Spotify, you won’t thank me for my free consulting services.

Back to you music freeloaders. Here’s a lesson from Economics 101: one function of money is to be used as a medium of exchange. This means that money can be traded for goods and services.

But I don’t exchange money for goods and services. I just ask Mommy and Daddy for things and they show up.

Now I see where the entitlement is coming from. Here in the real world, when people serve us food, cut our hair, babysit the kids we pretend to love, or do anything we think gives us value, we give them these green pieces of paper called money. When service providers go above and beyond what we expect, we give them extra money called a tip. In our case, I provide loud music for the entire pool area to hear, which entertains everyone, prevents awkward silences when you run out of political opinions that the establishment media spoon-fed you, covers up snickers when Timmy Lovehandle takes his shirt off, and drowns out whatever Jessica is crying about when you won’t reach over to the neighboring lounge chair to hold her hand for some ridiculous reason. And what do I get in return for these services? Jack shit. No cash, no Venmo, no social media tags. You tip the waiter, bartender, the hairdresser, even the stripper with the horrific pH balance that somehow survives multiple bleach cycles in the wash. The least you could do is let me take Jessica for a spin since my wife’s ass looks like burnt cottage cheese and you’re in the doghouse anyway.

Economics aside, it’s just common courtesy to acknowledge a job well done. A tip of the cap. A handshake. One of the blackberry White Claws in your cooler. I swear something is wrong with your generation. And before you say “But your generation raised us,” just know that I didn’t raise my kids. I abandoned them and my ex-wife, so don’t start blaming me for kids I had nothing to do with. Start acting like a functioning member of society and consider that not everyone is here to serve you.

Fine, I’ll accept that you’re greedy and selfish and it never crossed your mind to reimburse me for the ambience I create every weekend. At the very least can you throw me some suggestions? A song or album request? I’m just here for the validation. Well, validation and looking at young women in bikinis. I’m just a lonely 52 year old man who desperately wants people to think I ride a motorcycle, blasting music to drown out the perpetual dark thoughts, and hoping you get some enjoyment out of it also. Just a simple “Hey man, nice playlist. Thanks for the tunes. I’m Jessica in 408 by the way” wouldn’t kill you.

So thank your Pool DJ. If you don’t catch me Saturday afternoons and evenings by the pool, I also do beach sets on Sunday afternoon before the evening pool shift. But don’t get me started on beach sets. Ten times the audience and still no thanks to show for it. I’m starting to think you guys don’t even like my music.