What—did you think we were just gonna ignore the Observer's never-ending quest to keep the Toadies together, forever, please for the love of god? Damn, you'd think the Toadies were our Mommy and Daddy, and that we'd just die if they stayed apart, and we'd have to go to some child psychologist, who would hand us some crayons and say in a soothing voice, "Why don't you draw a picture of Mommy and Daddy?" And then we'd take that burnt sienna motherfucker in our sticky little fist, and we'd draw the rockin'est band the DFW area has produced in 20 years, a group so unique and viscerally scary—the way rock 'n' roll should be—that no one's ever even tried to duplicate them. Guitars buzzing like a swarm of belligerent, drunken bees, Todd Lewis' razor-blade voice slicing through the singular bass lines. Hundreds of drunken, happy fans sweatin' to what is now, sadly, the oldies. That's what we'd draw, and then the child psychologist would prescribe us huge amounts of Ritalin. Which we would take all at once and then listen to Rubberneck really loud.
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