Unzip the half of your brain that thinks. Huck it out the window. Use the other half and occupy it with rough monkey sex, crayons shoved too far up your nose, bleeding fingers guitar, a slutty love of the Mummies, the Motards, and the Dwarves, the smell of cars burning out, all sliding up the shaky knees of your daiquiri-drunk date. Perfect, no-thinking, funny/blunt (as in “England, That’s a Place to Hate,” and “Brit Pop Sucks”), bloodshot Swedish garage fest that slows down when they die. Awesome. Think angry dogs, bullwhips, and a dude that carries a mannequin head for self-service, I presume. As subtle as a fist fuck. What’s not to love? This is a forty-seven song collection of their singles.