If you laid all the records ever made using a 303 side by side, one after another, they would reach around the world 4 and one half times. If you stood that pile up so it became a teetering vertical tower of acid, the tip of the tower would brush the North Star, and the sudden weight of vinyl would subtly shift the Earth from its axis. At first this shift would be entirely imperceptible, but over the years the globe would slip more and more from its usual orbit. A slow cold would creep upon the planet forcing a harsh and sharp Darwinism upon the surviving species. Gradually mankinds eyes and nostrils would develop a thin film to protect them from the crippling cold. The fat and the hairy would prosper, snuffling through brutal ice floes for occasional bestial seal mutants to subsist upon. Eventually almost all life would cease. The acid tower would remain, its frozen existence a stark reminder of mans doomed attempt to try and quantify all the many different ways a 303 could enrich a tune. Somewhere in the tower, a final surviving human, mad with loneliness and hunger, might come across Funkinevens Shes Acid and wonder for a moment just how, how he managed to make such a strange, compelling and damn funky piece of music from such a tired and overused instrument. And in the seconds before his final demise, he might feel a grain of peace.