This is angry, vile, vulgar, and venomous rock’n’roll thunder-roar from a sick, twisted, and seedy skull-pummeling perspective! It’s wild, primitive, primal, and raging auditory deviance loudly overloaded with full-throttle bowery-punk sonic self-abuse! Damn straight, these sadistically blistering songs are a berserk fitful whirlwind of sexually demented musical mayhem that fractured my skull, imploded my internal organs, singed my flesh, and curdled my blood. I will never piss a straight line again. I’ll no longer sugar-coat thick wads of snot before thunkin’ it directly from my alcohol-worn esophagus into the aghast, wide-open eyes of authority. I’ll never, ever aspire to be anything more than a disastrously drunk, sexually perverse, swaggerin’-proud, standin’-tall sonuvabitch, thanks to the soul-stabbin’, gut-stompin’ sounds of this decadently divine disc! Yes, it’s inherently obvious: The ClitCops have sonically possessed my soul. –Roger Moser, Jr.
–guest (Intensive Scare)