These guys can obviously operate their instruments, which from here sound like a blender, a lawn mower, a chain saw, an Army tank and a kitchen disposal, as well as the usual distinctly distorted weapons of mass destruction. And with stage names like Chud, Guug, Spug and Ru-D, these four fellows shouldn't be allowed anywhere near your children or grandparents. Clearly, they drool a lot. Not exactly raising the bar for personal hygiene. I would imagine they live in metal cages and eat out of a trough. (Hold on, I think the CD is skipping. Nope, that's the way it's supposed to sound. Sorry, my bad.) Don't mind me, I think I'm about to have a seizure.
Look, we can sit here and shoot the shit about nuclear annihilation and The End of the World until Trent Lott kicks The Robot on Soul Train, but the ugly truth is that there is no Ugly Truth. No screeching hockey-mask-wearing-rock-and-roll-Xerox-machine is gonna shed any light on the darkness at the end of the tunnel. We're all going up in flames someday. You knew that already. Don't give them your money. Just give it to me.
