Like the pig, in Type O's all good. Here
head cheese ...
And here is the only album on which I was pouting, a disc with balls like watermelons and a prick of nag like superstar gracing their sleeves, with which he reels to ten inches of your face you eyeing an air of both bad and amused. Here is their only album that I have neglected so that (although I have yet a little stubborn indifference to it, by locations) is finally revealed to me, a bit like the smell of one of those outrageous underwear pattern you'd been offered to god knows what family Christmas and you've forgotten at the bottom of the closet for months because you never felt for the bear attack. Nature is small! All this is too fierce and potbellied mutt so I can not bring myself to go further than his unflattering appearance of vessel intended to doom doom redneck fans who have enough disks to create a radius doom doom in their nightclub. I have nothing against rednecks there, but has a TON beaufitude flying so high that all these stories of socks (since this is a story underpants heheh) and fans of NWOBHM born twenty years too late, the totemic beauferie, astral, whose force is so irresistible that even Michael Ambrose (the hidden son of Barack Obama and Hilary Swank who played Rudy in the Most Beautiful life) is a fan without knowing it.
I would not talk about the look, ultra-eminently orgiastic choucroutesque that business that reduce stomach Takeru Kobayashi in a state of flannel, and even less with the acquaintances obvious marcel hardcore, which were well summarized in Pepe Owes Us Money Satan, because deep down I always find it difficult to admit that Peter Steele is another goth thing a pure sugar despite his eighties, just as I struggled to admit that Glenn Danzig is a big transvestite fantasist, but they naturally contribute to the charm of this fat shit. Hallelujaheuh.
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