Apparently, the atomic clock in some people’s world is forever stuck on 4:20. Is the wave after wave after wave of stoner bands another of bin Laden’s treacherous terrorist ploys like the clouds of West Nile mosquitoes he sent rolling across our country this past summer? I mean, fuck: how much obstructed-bowel bong music can a person listen to? Just like all the other stoner bands stamped out of the same giant cake of brontosaurus excrement, Weedeater’s music oozes like an overturned cement truck full of pus. You and Frank Kozik might like that, but I’ve been bored with it since Man’s Ruin started cranking out little bastard Sabbath babies like Ding-Dongs off the Hostess conveyor belt a few years back. These bud-worshipping rednecks have simply had a few too many pans of hash brownies and a few too many hours staring and giggling at their own turds floating in the toilet. It still seems funny to me that a so-called “mind -expanding” drug can beget such plodding, one-dimensional hippo music. Stoner-metal zen koan: what’s the sound of a waterheaded Tony Iommi in a wheelchair?