Members: Scott - All of it.
Speed kills the censor. These scenes flourish in a perpetual state of suspended disbelief. The gene-puddle of pop culture's dilluted creative integrity has crusted over, and rotted from the inside. This is the soundtrack to sociopathological ejaculations of obsurdities. It roars in the background as the road crew is spit up or swallowed. It is the disc jockey's lament for programming atrocities. It infests the air of roller derby lockerooms. It is the best rash you will ever have. It is what you are reading right now. It's actually quite good on toast. The immoral mortal moral of this scribble is that, I'm Screaming from my Privates with my Weirdo Conflicting Thing.