You know when you were masterbating growing up, and someone would come in the garage, and you would have to rush to make sure that the porno was turned off and everything was clean to the appearance? That's what it sounds like, like you ought to get in trouble for listening to it; like it's going to leave a layer of flith on parts of you that you can't scrub clean. And then you laugh, and you feel even worse.
Hello! I'm indiscriminately MySpace'ing you to ask you to spare a moment to go read my Chinese Democracy review, over on the brandspankingnewMusic Towers.
