By Noah Wareness
Youth of this present day don’t recognize fuckall of background. They’re simply swinging in the course of the financial institution vaults on liana vines, atmosphere bonfires, throwing shurikens at hogs. Born right here and speaking just like the yuppies got here to us. Like humped in in a single day pass the highway with mind sludge mustaches and the air all mergency pronounces. truth is yuppies outfitted this city. Their funds introduced in mowers for the jungle, insta highway combine to forestall the rivers. We’re the mutants the following. We’re the mutants the following, and it’s our crew’s acquired the loopy tale. . . .
Punks on acid carry on yelling prior the bamboo fence, yelling silly revelations. perhaps the entire corpses in Kaliforonia did get up as soon as, yet that’s historical past, and nobody cares adequate to care. You’ve obtained this candy bed room overlooking the radioactive swamp, it’s one brief suspension bridge to the unsolicited mail manufacturing unit, and youngsters are calling Meatheads the simplest band within the world.
You leave out the times whilst not anyone got here in your exhibits, no one used to be feeding you the innerest mystery mysteries of misplaced Angeles, they usually hadn’t shaped a unmarried demise cult on your honor. in recent years it’s all last-minute mind transplants, telepathic silkscreen ink and tripping accidentally into electrostatic ghost vortexes. It’s like consuming palm wine solves not anything anymore, and you may slightly be mindful while the best way of the samurai simply intended cutting shit up with swords. . . .