ilovefuzz.com

We are the only band to be everything to everyone, and thus nothing to anyone. We are the first all-Mormon band to preach Pentecostal. We are the greatest smooth-R&B jazz combo to feature industrial-noise guitar. We terrorize small communities across America with our iconoclastic vision of conformity. We are militantly peaceful noise-niks with our fingers on the trigger of the pulse of your generation on the move on the go in action at the front lines undercover forever and ever amen. We offer nothing but liberation, deliver everything wrapped in a package of capitalist lies that opens up to reveal a void of content, a dearth of information. We are faceless and anonymous clones who have spent months at the plastic surgeons perfecting our own personal beauty mystique. You have seen us on television, in magazines, between the lines of supermarket tabloids, within the headlines of the newspapers your grocer uses to wrap fish. We are integrated and unified in dissonance. Resistance is more than futile, it is mandatory. Not only should you hide your daughters, lock up your pets and secure your grandparents, you should convert your stocks into bonds, liquidate your assets and join the revolution, available in the meat and poultry section. This offer is good for a limited time only, so drive to your nearest department store and ask for the band with the blue Fraudcore label on the spine - the only one you can trust to deceive all the time.

The food arrived, served with the sullenly je ne sais quois flair that was apparently the diner’s specialty. The waiter skulked around the table for a second, clearly wanting to watch Maas consume his bowl of warm broth, but a cold glance from behind Isley’s otherwise impenetrable shades was enough to send him scuttling back to the kitchen. Heimeier watched as Maas proceeded to arrange his food in front of him almost ritualistically - bowl perfectly centered, napkin spread out next to the bowl, fries placed precisely just so on the other side of the napkin, silverware pushed away to the side - all while keeping up a speed-freak stream of conversation.

“Look, I’m sorry about this place, man. It’s a dump. Like really - I didn’t know. A friend said that it was a good place to do business, you know, plenty discreet and whatnot, and I guess it is at that, but the food, man - I mean, this is just inexcusable. Your chicken salad looks good and all, but these people have got to keep up with the times if they’re going to remain a viable option in today’s rapidly shifting gastronomic business world, you know?”

His food finally adjusted properly, Maas began unbuttoning his shirt, keeping up the stream of patter. Heimeier continued to smile and nod.

“I mean, really, Biotechnic isn’t even cutting-edge anymore. Maybe five years ago,” Maas reached into his shirt and to the side, his hand pushing into the skin of his lower abdomen like it was latex, “But nowadays even the freaking 7-11 on my corner has the stuff. It’s great, man - comes in little microwave-ready packets. I buy ‘em in bulk, you know,” as a squishy sound emanated from Maas’ torso, Heimeier realized that his butt was slowly sliding back along the vinyl of the booth’s seat, trying to climb up the backrest, but Maas kept the stream of talk going, going, “They’re a great bargain considering that they are, like, you know, medical scientific grade,” the squishing sound turned into a sucking sound, “way cheap, really, like twenny five cents a packet individually,” as Maas pulled his hand out from his shirt, the hand now covered with a kind of sticky-slick plasma-like substance, gripping something vaguely banana shaped and gunmetal grey but undoubtably biological, “maybe three bucks for a box of twenty,” which he dropped into the bowl of chicken broth with a plop, “way cheap,” and covered the whole thing with his napkin, switching it for the fries, “These guys should really look into it.” Drying off his hand on the back of his pants, Maas reached into the bowl of fries, pulled one out, bit into it and smiled. “You know?”

Heimeier’s breath was coming in short, machine-gun spurts. The room was spinning. “What... what the hell was... what was th... what... wh?” Inhaling once deeply, Heimeier asked on the exhale, “Maas, what the hell was that?

Bifurcating another fry, Maas smiled wider. “That? Oh - that’s my spleen.”

Fuck yeah, sounds awesome, man! The first one is incredible.

Thanks! There will be more... oh yes... there will be...

Funny unsolicited story: my son hates broccoli rabe (what 3 year old wouldn't?). But my wife tricked him into trying a slice of the stalk of one by saying it was a new vegetable called "Leekabob," and he immediately replied "I love leekabob!" So now we can get him to eat it, but only if we call it leekabob.

I'll give you a more in-depth opinion/feedback later this week. I got an exam tomorrow that I'm gonna be studying for all day.

An exam? Oof - no fun nohow. Good luck!

i post so i can remember to down load and listen after work...

Heimeier dug the three little black packages out of his pocket and balanced them on his leg. He stared at them for a minute. He stared for a moment more. This was the hard part, he realized - deciding what to take first. He tried to recall Maas’ description of them, but they all kept running together. Was Quonine the relative of DMT, or the synthesist? Which one was he supposed to take with sugar-water - the one with the blue dot, or was it the red? And which one was he supposed to smoke? He tried to remember, but could only recall that he needed aluminum foil to do it. He looked around the stall, thought about the bar outside, and realized that even if he could remember which drug was which, he probably wouldn’t be able to ingest any of them in the club, if only for lack of prior planning.

As the implications of that fact dawned on him, the stall door slammed open. Heimeier jumped up, the packets went flying out onto the bathroom floor, and he dove after them, knocking the intruder aside. He scrabbled about on the floor for a second, grabbed the three bags, which were easy to spot against the white(ish) tiled floor, rolled over, sat up and stared at the person who had thrown the door open.

magiclawnchair wrote:i post so i can remember to down load and listen after work...

Spock_Mind_Meld.jpg

Same here because I keep forgetting to check this out.

Sometimes, riffs that won't go away have to be taught a lesson. Into the garbage chute, flyboy!

i almost forgot how cool this stuff is...

Wow, that was cool I'm from Finland, so when the finnish speech thingy started in Benadryl bedtime, it was weird and creepy It took a moment to realize the speech came from the speakers and that my dead ancestors weren't speaking to me

Should've known though, usually the voices in my head make more sense than what was said in the song.

Pepsihillo wrote:Wow, that was cool I'm from Finland, so when the finnish speech thingy started in Benadryl bedtime, it was weird and creepy It took a moment to realize the speech came from the speakers and that my dead ancestors weren't speaking to me

Should've known though, usually the voices in my head make more sense than what was said in the song.

That's awesome! I found that Finnish bit online, through Librivox (they post creative commons open copyright audiobooks). Sadly, it didn't make the cut for the album, but I may have to play around with it and see if I can get it onto the next one.

Oh yeah, that's news: THE ALBUM WAS OFFICIALLY RELEASED TODAY!!! WHOO-HOO!!!!

It's a short run, on 75 or Less Records (http://www.75orlessrecords.com) - CDs are a cheap five bucks plus shipping!

For those who want to try before they buy, you can stream the whole thing at http://crotchthrottle.bandcamp.com/albu ... offee-shop

And finally, for those of you who are into that whole "social networking" thing that has the kids all excited these days, you can find Crotchthrottle on Facebook at http://www.facebook.com/pages/Crotchthr ... 0355240157

There is a Myspace, but I'll probably neglect it horribly. Best to forget about that entirely.