spazzing out gatling-gun punk from gainesville rattling the cage, fast and crazy as your dad's riding lawn when your dense-headed stepmother filled the gas tank with trichlor instead of gasoline and it's spitting 'n sputtering and ripping like a rocket around the backyard and running over storks and duck-billed platypus and flowerbeds and people's feet and sneakers until the whole yard is full of blood and feathers and some other mangled junk and your stupid step-brother in his filthy tank-top is rapid punching the backdoor because he lost his dentures and got his toes cut off and he don't know what to do but yell and holler and pound on the door like a gatling gun.  I think that's what this sounds like, and I think I'm right.  It's great. -- winch  (green noise)