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I'm convinced of it.
If you were real men, and not spineless hipsters devoted to listening to soft music, the insides of your own testicles would be echoing from sounds of this nature.
Practically the soundtrack of your still restless members, despite measurements far below the averages of Lilliput, articulated by the usual corollary of atrocities:
belches, ignorant drum rolls, riffs that have never known the concept of speed limit, blasted in your face with the same subtlety with which ramblings of reptilian conspiracies and messianic (indeed) dreamlike apparitions of Lemmy Kilmister are proclaimed.
And then greasy tank tops, Matt's delicate singing, an artwork more flashy than a series of Jersey Shore.
Things that make pubic hair grow, stiffen the ego, and regress to the Paleolithic state that always dwells in us and in our precious germ cells.
UH (ZOT)
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