Hot damn, these rural white-trash ruffians proudly produce a rowdy, rip-snortin’, horndog hootenanny of full-fledged, grade-A, countrified aural joviality! It’s backwoods, banjo-fuelled, “Deliverance”-style sonic sinfulness that’ll make the devil feverishly dance a jig in the shadowy pale moonlight with a hedonistic honky-tonk mama. During a couple of the dandy delightful ditties, a frenetically out-of-control fiddle shreds the inner sanctums of my ears with its wildly swirling banshee-wail of screeching insanity. Sure as shit, this is some sourmash-stewin’, moonshine-brewin’ mountain music that’ll quiver your liver, twist your titties in a knot, and knock your dick in the dirt somethin’ fierce! So hey now, Junior, just do this for ol’ Rog right this very minute: grab your partner and swing her around, tap your toes, then go to town, and when you get to town, lay your money down (for the saucy swaggerin’ sounds of Hank Plank and his 2x4 compadres, of course!). Yeeeee-fuckin’-haw, this is damn near as invigoratin’ as passionate, sweat-drenched sex with a farm-bred girl in a tub full of Jim Beam and maple syrup!
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