Wednesday, January 29, 2014

Definitely Some Sports Happening: The Total Bozo Super Bowl Preview

By: Kelly McClure and Ben Johnson

Bronchawks helmet design by John P. Glynn

I have definitely thought that the Superbowl was happening for the past four or five Sundays. I knew that the Superbowl happened when it was cold, that it happened on a Sunday, and that it happened sometime around now, going off of that, any time I saw more than a handful of sports related Tweets in my Twitter feed the thought “oh yeah, it must be that thing,” popped in my mind. But nope! It wasn’t then, it’s happening now. This Sunday! Right?

The clearest and most accurate Superbowl related memory I have is the random year in high school when my Dad sat in his recliner in the living room watching the Superbowl and my second GF ever, Jeannie, (who is now a man) and I lazed about in my room. My Mom was nice enough to bring us in some hot peach cobbler with scoops of ice cream on it, and the minute she left the room we used it for sex reasons. The peach cobbler was way too hot still at the time of sex reasoning and I still have a burn mark on my lower body. To me the Superbowl has always just meant “snacks” and it still does.

My Co-Bozo Ben has asked me to list off the five W’s of this year’s Superbowl off the top of my head. I definitely had to look up what “five W’s” meant. Listen, it’s been a while.

I’ll check in to verify accuracy from time to time. I can neither confirm or deny peach cobbler burn scars on Kelly’s lower body area. I can neither confirm nor deny that Kelly even has a lower body area. We don’t have that kind of a relationship. I’m pretty sure you’re supposed to capitalize both words, “Super Bowl,” but we can go with “Superbowl” for narrative purposes. Other than that, we’re good to go. -Ben


Fairly certain that in this year’s game the Denver Broncos and the Seattle Stormtroopers will be competing against one another. I believe that the Denver team’s outfits revolve around the color yellow, and the Seattle team’s outfits revolve around the color blue. The game will be sponsored by Stumptown and Beyonce will NOT be performing. Since Beyonce won’t be performing, I can’t even imagine who’s doing the halftime show this year. It’s probably like Waka Flocka joined by Bruce Springsteen or something.

I think we’re as close as we need to be on the team names and colors. The halftime show this year is Bruno Mars, with the always possible surprise guest appearances by Waka Flocka and Bruce Springsteen.


Definitely the Superbowl. Which is football.



Definitely this Sunday, and not all the other Sundays I thought it was. I believe the game starts around 3pm and lasts until 11pm.

The game itself supposedly starts at 6:25pm EST. Kelly’s timing of the events is more accurate. The hullabaloo begins… actually it has been happening for over a week now. The commencement and completion of the game itself within the context of all the noise and hype surrounding it is not as definite and there is not as sharp a contrast between game and not game as there is with other football games. Instead the excitement rises to a certain point, and then there is definitely a game happening, and then there’s some confetti, and gradually the hype recedes to a non-Super Bowl level, and that’s how you know the Super Bowl isn’t happening anymore. It’s like a female orgasm.


It seems like this shouldn’t be true, but I do believe the Superbowl is taking place in New Jersey this year, which makes ZERO sense. I’m already worried about how this is for sure going to mess up the trains somehow, which is annoying because we’re going to a thing called Then She Fell on Sunday, which is an interactive Alice in Wonderland experience.

She’s right. The Super Bowl is happening in New Jersey and it makes ZERO sense. My guess is that going outside to go to a weird thing that is not the Super Bowl will be a pleasant experience, since many of the type of people who would usually lend an air of menace to New York’s ambiance will be busy watching the game. But that’s an educated guess. The trains are going to be fucked up, but that’s just because it’s Sunday and because Kelly lives in Brooklyn.


For reasons very similar to those that caused the British Government to feed their young soldiers acid in 1963. Mind control. Also because of commercials. And to allow spies and terrorists a nice block of time to do shady shit while we’re all sitting on the couch watching fat men play grab ass.

I think of it as a kind of seismic-event national celebration of the end of football season, where all the stupid and shitty but also great aspects of football and the production of football as a product get arbitrarily and obligatorily cranked up way past the pain threshold, and the citizenry responds by similarly cranking up their gluttony and sloth and avarice and lust and wrath and pride and envy, and we end up with this big day of ridiculous cartoonish football-esque exaggerations permeating our entire society, so that even the least interested among us end up with peach cobbler burns on their crotches.

Follow us on Twitter at @totalbozo.

Wednesday, January 22, 2014

A Thank You to Scared Internet Dipshits

By: Pete Johnson

I am currently sitting on my couch in my underwear drinking a high life and watching the snow fall. It is 12:53pm on a weekday, and I would just like to say thank you to all the dumbfuck reactionary internet crazies who made this happen.

I grew up and live in the state of Maryland, in which internet crazies have been unnecessarily canceling school and hoarding eggs and milk at every hint of snow long before the internet. You sometimes had to wait as much as 90 seconds for the ticker at the bottom of the local morning news screen to come back around to your school district to tell you that those awesome pussies had called it again today.

Sometimes it was for just a dusting of snow. Other times it was for a little sprinkling of freezing rain. They were so scared of freezing rain that a few times they even closed school because it rained regular unfreezing rain that looked the night before like it might turn into freezing rain through their ohshitohshitohshit-colored-lense weather telescopes. Kids in towns that were somehow equipped to handle their average annual snowfall had to trudge off through actual feet of actual snow to get to fraction-learning town, but we got to stay home and play the fart-on-you-on-the-couch game all day long because it fucking RAINED.

Every year the internet makes this headline bloating and snowpocalypse fear mongering worse. Every year it gets better. Who doesn't enjoy a good laugh at all the god-bless-em idiots that run quick to the grocery store to buy things they don't need because they apparently forgot what happens when it snows? The internet is inventing new terms like "polar vortex" which are on purpose making them think that the thing from The Day After Tomorrow is going to happen and wolves are going to escape from the Central Park Zoo and attack them while they try to hide in a boat. Tomorrows forecast: freezing death with a chance of wolf attack death, or, it's gonna be cold and maybe pretty snowy.

So, my office closed early today. My office closes whenever the Circuit Court of Montgomery County closes. My bosses probably chose this particular court because they are no dummies and it is apparently the only establishment in suburban DC that has any snowballs. Typically all the schools close, and every other court in the area closes, but we still have to come to work. I hate it, but it makes sense because there is work to be done and we are the ones who are being paid to do it, and there is not actually anything stopping us from doing it.

Everyone else at my office is used to it. The world freaks out, it maybe does even snow or ice a little bit, but you get up and you read the facebook posts about all the assholes and their cats that got snow days and then you go to work. It gets a lot easier once you realize that you have to every time no matter what the internet says. It really is just snow, you guys.

Today it is actually snowing a decent but plausibly workable amount, and even my don't-cold-on-me-and-tell-me-it's-wolfing bosses had to give up and let us go home. I think they based this on a certain unspoken equation where X equals the number of other places that closed, Y equals the amount it is actually snowing/dangerous out there, and Z equals the ah fuck it the bosses could use a day off too sometimes. Regardless of what their thinking was, the reactionary internet dumbfucks out there had something to do with it.

From my spot on this couch on a work day, it looks like maybe the internet dumbfucks got this one so right they are actually internet dumbfuck geniuses. I have to think at some point there was a collective agreement that hey, if we all keep talking about how bad it is going to be out there, maybe our bosses will let us sit this one out. The internet death warnings get posted, the TV ratings soar, and the news anchor tells you to go stock up on essentials because 'it looks like the whole city will be shut down tomorrow' and then winks at you.

I'm gonna go ahead and wink back at them, and then maybe take a nap. God bless the system.

Pete Johnson is the brother of Total Bozo founder Ben Johnson. He has gross feet.

You're Weird. That Thing You're Telling Me About is Weird. Life is Terrifying.

BY: Kelly McClure

Historically speaking, whenever I find myself in a situation where a person responds to something I've just said or shown with "that's weird," my standard response is: "No weirder than anything else." This can be said in a variety of ways, but its intended meaning is always the same. It can be said very calmly and smoothly, with a set pulse and a friendly shrug like "we're in this together, but you're actually wrong." Or it could be said with a tense smile and watery eyes, shaky voiced like "I thought I could relate to you. I cannot. I am all alone in this world." It can also be said in a semi-hostile way when it's directed towards a room of people who have just been presented with an idea or found object from the soup of the world we share and have collectively responded to it with the understanding that you make no sense, and the thing you have just expressed/shown is unlike anything they've ever been presented with before. They are right. You are weird and wrong.

People: "That's Weird"

You: "No weirder than anything else."
You For Real: "I am going to cry for the rest of my life because I am not a part of any of this. I cannot communicate with you. The confused look on your face makes me want to throw up. I am alone. I always will be. Being not alone only proves this over and over and over. Please God just stop trying to talk to me. Stop looking at me. Look over there."

People: "Still weird. More weird than before."

A lot of things in life are actually weird. Not going to the dentist when your tooth hurts and you have insurance, or cash outright to pay for it, is weird. Just go. Why wouldn't you go? To not go is weird when going will make things so much better.  Leaving the house without pants on would be weird. You have pants. It's actually more comfortable to wear pants than not wear pants when you're in public because you won't draw attention to your private areas in a not nice way. Don't be a kook. Just wear pants. Taking a seat in a crowded subway car and bursting into song is weird. Why are you doing that? There is no singing competition taking place right now. No one has asked you to do this. No one is making a face like they want you to keep doing this. Stop singing. That's weird.

But also, you know, many many things are NOT weird. Safe to say MOST things aren't weird. Who can say though? Banana is a pretty weird word. Where did it come from? Why does "banana" mean banana and not a clicking noise or a hand gesture? Weird. Not really.  

Let's say you make your living working in a creative field, and although you are a clean, well-paid, well-educated member of society who can, for the most part blend into the walls, almost every action you make - seems weird to people. That would be very upsetting. Upsetting because people who work in creative fields, or work in a field where it's their job to receive things sent over by creative people of a creative nature, or work in a field where they're supposed to catch something you pitch to them, should have a familiarity with things. All sorts of things. Thus narrowing down the potential for things to be strange. See this thing in my hand. Keep your eye on it. Are you out there in that field? Step back a little. Ready? Okay, I'm gonna throw this. Catch it. Catch it! No, you gotta put your hand out. Anticipate where it's gonna land and then ... nevermind.

I have seen a lot of things, way less things than a lot of people, but there's not a whole lot that I would find weird. And actually, if I come across something and think "weird," I find that feeling to be exciting, rather than horrifying or confusing. I pretty much see the same things every day. There's a cat. There's my toothbrush. Looking at this computer screen. No major surprises there. If one morning I turned on my computer monitor and instead of seeing the Google homepage waiting there for me to launch my brain into an 8-hour day of internet bullshittery, I saw a vivid, undulating vortex humming with the unspoken understanding that I was supposed to push my head inside it. That would really be new! I would think "now here is something new!" Or if maybe someday I went down to check the mail and instead of finding a past due bill and the latest issue of Dwell Magazine I discovered that someone had mailed me a plastic Play-Doh canister filled with blood. I would feel exhilarated. I would text my girlfriend about it. I would write a blog about it, tweet it, Facebook it, and talk about it fairly regularly for years. I'd never stop talking about the day I got a plastic container of blood in the mail. It would pretty much change my life.

If someone signs off on an email with "Boomshakalaka" instead of "cheers" and you think that's weird (for starters) you need to live more of your life and experience more things. But then again, signing off on an email with "cheers" is pretty fucking weird. It is a KNOWN rule that the only time it's okay to say cheers in any setting or situation is when you have a drink in your hand. This isn't my rule. This is the universe's rule.

Other weird things: Using text size and bolding in emails as a way of yelling at someone, forwarding business emails to other people as a way of getting someone "in trouble," overly enthusiastic sentiments about a very boring thing, not thinking the word "butthole" is funny, so many more things, but then not really actually.

Last night I watched a movie about people who had escaped from a Mormon cult of some kind. By which I mean, they escaped from Mormonism. The main people the movie followed were teenage boys and the minute they were out of the Mormonism and free to do whatever they wanted, they immediately bleached their hair a pissy orange/yellow color, and got baseball hats. This was what they wanted to do right away. One boy didn't know the words to the song "Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer," and another boy didn't know the difference between Hitler and Bill Clinton. To these boys seeing and thinking almost anything would be weird because they haven't seen or thought very much. So yeah, I guess that's what I'm trying to say.

Monday, January 20, 2014

Abandoned New England Barn Punk Scene Update

By: Corey C.

White Load, Photo by Josh Landes
Harris, the front man of Glue, just got slammed in the face with a piece of pale green insulation by Steve Pid, lead singer of White Load, and now Harris’ nose is bleeding and he looks like Darby Crash, which is cool cuz that’s what he’s going for anyways, and now he’s singing from the huge gaping hole in the wall where Pid got the insulation, and he’s crawling up on this sort of ledge, a piece of wood that’s horizontally criss-crossing the gaping hole, and now he’s shouting from the top of this piece of wood, and he’s turning his back towards the crowd like he’s on the top of the ropes at a wrestling match.  He gets ready to Moonsault into the crowd, and he’s coming my way, and I try catching him, but no one helps, so he lands on my buckled right knee, back-into-knee contact.  It hurts him way more than it hurts me, but he doesn’t show it, and he stalks his way back to the stage, which is really a just an inch-raised platform, where Steve Pid waits again, this time with a hunk of snow, which he proceeds to stuff down the back of the singer’s shirt.  He’s then forced to strip out of his four layers and scrape the snow onto the ground and now he’s shirtless in approximately 25-degree weather and now Harris really does look like fuckin’ Darby. 

In the meantime, I jump into the fracas and spray the rest of my Mayflower IPA into the crowd and onto the hay and I do a little dance into the pit and emerge at the other end of the crowd unscathed.  Spectators who have been taking in the carnage from the loft of the barn start throwing hay from their elevated vantage point, directly onto the people who are beneath them, including me, and now I’m covered in horse food and it’s going down the back of my shirt and it’s all over my Red Sox winter hat.  I’m out of beer and out of breath.

I’m 26 years old and I feel the most alive at DIY punk rock shows.  When will I outgrow this shit?  My first moment of free time in months, with no real responsibilities, and my truest natural instincts demand that I drive two and a half hours from Providence, RI, to the back woods of western Massachusetts.  I land in a barn in Haydenville, a village in the town of Williamsburg, MA, twenty minutes northwest of Northampton. 

I’ll admit, I’m not a punk. I’m a recovering indie rocker.  (Hi, my name is Corey and I used to care about Pitchfork.) I’m the biggest squirrel in the world when I’m in a mosh pit.  I’m not in a band. Whenever I try to practice on my guitar I break a string and get discouraged.  Chances are, if you notice me at a punk show, you’ve thought about what a big pussy I look like. I don’t own a black leather jacket or punk patches or black boots.  My fashion icons are Stephen Malkmus, David Berman, and Mike Watt.  I work a square day job.  I’m in the middle of going to graduate school.  The only alleged creative skill I have is writing, and the jury’s still out on if that’s worth anything.

So why do DIY shows rule?  I’ve been involved in the torture chamber known as the “music biz” for a little while now, and I’ve come to understand some certain, irrefutable truths: fuck booking agents, bouncers, bartenders, roadies, ticket agents, middlemen, sound guys, promoters, record execs, A&R reps, door men, and any other dreadful, soul-sucking, money-grubbing, no-talent hacks that infiltrate music simply for the cash and the ass and the drugs and the scene cred. 

Give me a punk show in a frozen barn with a hole in the wall in the boonies of western Massachusetts.  Give me two punk bands from Providence (Power Masters and White Load), one punk band from Austin, Texas (Glue), and one psych group from Northampton (World Domination).  That’s right folks: four bands, five dollars.  Give me frozen toes, six roaming dogs, a donation bucket, a few bloody noses and black eyes, a trash can fire pit, a barely-working PA systems, and any other conceivable yet solvable obstacle if it means I can get away from people who are involved in ‘the biz’ for all the wrong reasons, which are most of people involved in music.  Give me the rare people who are there for the music, the intensity, the joy, the fucking fun!
Power Masters were the first band to play that night.  While White Load are the filthy elder statesmen of Providence punk, Power Masters are coming of age right in front of our tits.  Their music has evolved from a darker, tortured hardcore sound to a more fun-yet-still-nasty punk sound, a huge improvement.  They have real charisma and are a joy to watch.  Watch out for these guys.
As cool as Power Masters are becoming, they haven’t quite reached the levels of slop that is White Load.  They are the greatest and most underrated of Providence punk bands, three total douches whose music and blasphemy will no doubt be appreciated more in the future than it is today.  Their only LP is called “Wayne’s World 3 b/w Godfather 4”.  I’ve seen them play at least ten times in the past four years, and I after I always feel deeply offended and uncomfortable. 

Unfortunately, the Providence music scene leans more towards self-serious metal, noise, and art rock, and White Load have been unfairly ostracized in town.  (OK, so maybe some of Pid’s shenanigans go a little too far, but if you have any sense of humor, you can appreciate the benefits of his debauchery.)

For example: Pid likes to stalk the crowd as he howls into the mic, pushing, shoving, tackling, and throwing any and all audience members in his way.  His in-between song banter typically consists of him belching to the crowd “YOUR WELCOME.”  He’s more of a punk rock hockey player wrestler.
During Power Masters’ set, the crowd had stayed pretty tame.  But from the first instance of disturbing guitar noise squalls from White Load, the crowd launched into an obnoxious mosh pit.  The insulation, which had been covering that huge hole, was soon taken down and used as a prop in the punk rock game known as ‘moshing’. 

I can’t forget to note that White Load blasted License to Ill out of their amps in between each of their so-called songs, and kept the record going on another channel while they played, so every time the music stopped The Beastie Boys would be mid-way through ‘Brass Monkey’ or ‘No Sleep Til Brooklyn’ and White Load would play along and would pick the perfect moment in the song to launch back into their own hardcore attack on punk music and general sanity.  MCA would’ve been proud, and emotionally scarred

There yah have it, folks: another cooler-than-thou essay about a cooler-than-thou punk show that you didn’t hear about.  Ask yourself: why?  Who are my friends? What was I doing December 28, 2013?  Huffing paint and snap-sexting yr ex-girlfriend’s sister?  Watching Netflix with Honey Boo Boo while drinking sizzurp and smoking middies?  Ballroom dancing with that normal chick you met on OKCupid who looked like a 7 online but is really only a 4.5?  Face it, you fucked up and missed out on once-in-a-lifetime punk rock fiesta.  I’ll never letcha live that one down, bunky.

Listen up: it’s time to turn yr life around.  Stop going to shows supported by Ticketbastard.  Tell booking agents to eat shit and die, motherfuckers.  Refuse to show bartenders ID and instead show them yr rump.  Blaspheme every band you possibly can, and then go see them play, only so you can drunkenly heckle them.  Even drunkenly heckle bands you like.  Dance inappropriately, cut tires, spill drinks, light off fireworks, avoid people who takes themselves seriously, and generally always encourage deplorable behavior.  Then, if you close your legs and wish hard enough, someday you too might be a DIY punk rock king.  

Corey C. is on loan to us from his own Zine, What Goes On

Thursday, January 16, 2014

Now I Have Boots Now

By: Ben Johnson

The boots I have.

I have boots. I am wearing boots. On my feet. I’m a guy in boots right now. A boots guy. Do I look okay in them? Do I look like a guy who wears boots or is this just the weird boots day for the non-boots guy? I don’t know and I don't really care even. But guess what: I’m wearing boots right now.

When my Mom asked what I wanted for Christmas, the only thing was boots. And then I got boots. Nice boots. These are the good boots. The expensive ones that you have to take good care of but then they are always your boots for years and years and years. I have them. Boots. I’m wearing them. They’re boots.

Never really been a boots guy. I had boots when I was in 7th grade. A pair of cheap combat boots. And a pair of cheap used thrift store blue Doc Martens that were a size too small on me. I had boots sometimes and I listened to Pantera sometimes and also I didn’t have boots sometimes and I listened to Spin Doctors sometimes. I was in 7th grade. I didn’t know which way I was gonna go. Boots way or not boots. I eventually went with not boots and also not Spin Doctors. Not boots seemed like it had more girls involved. Also I had uncomfortable boots. Also my feet were still growing.

Now, like just now right as I’m telling you this, I decided to go with boots. Just wear boots and not have to worry about what I am wearing on my feet. The answer is gonna be boots from now on. Is the idea. Be a boots guy is the idea. Guy in boots.

I rubbed oil on my boots last night to make the leather on my boots soft. Two nights ago it was a sealant. I got the sealant in the mail three days ago and then later, yesterday, I got the oil in the mail. Both times I got these boot care fluids in the mail at work I then went home later that very day and rubbed each on my boots because that’s what you’re supposed to do when you have boots you care about. I wanted to rub this boot stuff on my boots. I did it carefully and deliberately. And: I was anxious to do it so I could wear my boots and know they’re protected against all the anti-boot forces of the world.

These boots are so nice they need my help to be the best boots. I can’t just wear them the way they are until they’re ruined. I have to prepare the boots to be boots first. So I own boots products. Maybe in the future I will buy more. Maybe I will polish my boots at some point. They are nice boots. I could go to one of those shoe shine stands wearing these boots and the person who does shoe shines would think “This is appropriate footwear for the service I provide” rather than “what is this, a joke? I’m a professional human with a specialized skill, I don’t need to be mocked.” Or I could do it myself at home and that would also be appropriate. I’d sit on a stool hunched over my boots, taking care of them to make sure they’re boots. I want to take good care of these boots. They are my boots. They are nice boots.

Oh wow. I just realized. If something bad happened to these boots, I could take them to a professional boot-repairer place. Like when you walk past one of those places that has all the shoes in the window and they’re not even for sale. They’re just somebody else’s shoes that an old guy in glasses and an apron fixed. I’m imagining an old guy in glasses because I don’t know what is really in those places. I know that in the window of these stores there is sometimes a stack of shoes that somebody once cared enough about to drop off at a shoe repairer’s shop instead of just throwing away. I could do that now. I care that amount about these boots I’m wearing.

I like these boots.

I am not worried that I might look stupid in these boots. I don’t think I look stupid in these boots. They’re my boots. I’m gonna be a boots guy now. If you see me, I’ll be wearing these boots on my feet. Then later if you see me again a different time, guess what. I will also probably be wearing the same boots. That’s gonna be me. I’m ready for that.

Right now these boots look like new boots. But then later probably they will start to look like old boots that get worn all the time. All I have to do is wear them all the time. I am prepared to do that. In my life. I am ready.

If I keep wearing these boots like I intend to, all the time for, like, some years of my life, I will probably get to the point where I don’t even think about them anymore. I will take these boots for granted. They will just be my boots. This is kind of the goal of even having boots. It makes me a little sad to think about this. Right now I am excited about these boots. Too excited. If you saw me on the street and asked me what I am up to these days I would probably want to tell you as much as I just told you about my boots. Like a nine minute conversation that’s just me talking about my boots. You would walk away from this conversation thinking “Ben is an odd person.”

But maybe you would totally get it too. This is big. This is the biggest thing in my life right now. I’m changing. I’m becoming a boots guy. This is not some small thing I can do on a whim. I know this. I’m trying to do it right. I’m getting special boot things in the mail and I’m rubbing those boot things onto my new boots with a rag I cut out of an old sweatshirt I decided I can’t wear anymore because I dropped a meatball on it that one time and now even if I’m just wearing it around the house somebody might ring the doorbell or I might need to go get something in the world and if so I immediately look like a degenerate in a meatball grease sweatshirt who is not to be trusted around children or polite adults. I cut that sweatshirt up with scissors and I use the rags of it to rub oil on my boots now.

Today the boots are more comfortable than they were yesterday before I put the boot oil on them. They are not completely comfortable yet but I’m only on boots day four now so I’m not going to sweat it. More comfort than yesterday is a step in the right direction. Maybe I will oil them again tonight. Can you over-oil boots? I am Googling that now. I need to know that.

I bet tomorrow will be even better than today is, boot-wise. I don’t want to get ahead of myself here, because boots are a process and not a destination. Today’s good too. But I’m excited about tomorrow also. Because of boots. That's good. 

Thanks, boots. You're good boots. You're like best friends for my feet. I love you. I know it's soon to say that but I don't care. All I want in my life right now is for you two boots to be my boots. Look at you. What if I move this way? Yep. You're still boots. Man. That's so great.

Anyway, I am wearing boots. And that’s what’s going on with me. I wear boots now. That’s the plan for the forseeable future. Okay. Have a good one.

Wednesday, January 15, 2014

A Review in Pictures of Childbirth's 'It's A Girl' by A Bundle of Sticks

By: A Bundle of Sticks

A Bundle of Sticks was recently overheard telling a table of friends at a fancy Hollywood eating place that it thinks this new Seattle based supergroup, Childbirth, is basically like Beyonce. It went on to explain that It thinks they're like Beyonce because they recorded an album in five minutes and then released it into the world knowing it would be well received because it has the word "Fuck" in it and explores life affirming subjects like shitting in adult diapers, and scissoring.

Childbirth's new tape is called It's a Girl and it's out now. A Bundle of Sticks listened to it on its Walkman while exercising its body at the gymnasium and these are the pictures that each song flooded its mind with.

1) "Childbirth"

2) "I Only Fucked You As A Joke"

3) "Sister Wives"

4) "Sweet Pea"

 5) "Crossbitch"

6)  "How Do Girls Even Do It?"

7) "Marination Station"

8) "Cowling At the Moon"

9) "Will You Be My Mom?"

10) "Menopause"

Best Tracks:

"How Do Girls Even Do It?"

Cool. Cool.