Wet From Birth
Author: Chris Ott
This is the audio equivalent of a 3D stereogram, and I don't know what I was on that only I could see it, but, I'll try to explain. I'm in a godforsaken club in a godforsaken city, surrounded by a hundred godforsaken flakes who dress real hard. They read Vice, they know what's up. Yeah, that's right: Check out my fucking shoes-- oops, it's just laundry marker, I'm barefoot, you asshole! PSYCH. So the digital tumbleweeds roll by in slow-motion as Todd "arrested for ass-flashing" Baechle farts out his nasal, deadpan vocals-- it's nothing too new, but offset by tasty drawing-room strings, the obligatory stop/starts, and a blowjob chorus DFA will surely stretch over six minutes ("I knew you knew I liked you")... I was "there," as they say, for a minute. I thought, "Nice one, guys, you figured out that electro-chic nets more blog buzz than that Consolidated Soft Cell shit you ran into the ground."
But as I looked over at the unkempt, long-haired dicks in t-shirts, the bump-stuffed baby dolls with eye-liner running down their cheeks... I could hear their thoughts, and they were all thinking the same thing: "No one else on the planet is dancing to anything this cool right now." That's when I noticed their dayglo sweat pooling on the floor, and it spelled out what these living templates could never put together: this is the Bloodhound Gang doing "Toxic". Come, Armageddon, come.