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The Joy of Custard

Sir David O'Clock, 4/18/2011

The music of Custard Wally reminds me of my first anal intercourse: it's loud and it stinks. It stinks of joy. The joy of allowing oneself to be as stupid as humanly possible - and believe me, it's quite a remarkable undertaking, for most people would rather sound smart than outright idiotic. To give up self-respect to such a degree as the Custards dare to do takes more than just courage: it's the kind of self-sacrifice I thought only those Tibetan monks capable of who'd rather shiver for fifteen years buck naked in an icy cave, high up in the Himalayas, feeding exclusively on mountain goat droppings, instead of spending their time sipping cocktails in the company of lovely naked ladies aboard a luxury yacht, sailing the Southern Seas, just because that's what their congregation wants as an example. If the audience wants to watch a bunch of slobbering retards making idiotic noises on the stage, so they could identify themselves with the band, then Custard Wally just gives them exactly what they want.

They are shameless humanists, true people's people, down to their Cinzano-soaked, pasta stuffed dago guts. Real rotten tomato and spoiled goat cheese fed Italian homies they are, perfectly fit in every roach-infested, dead fish smelling, repo men hangout, snot-decorated pizza joint in the worst parts of town. I can listen to their records only while defecating, but then they really work. Their music brings out the worst from any human who often fell victim to constipation. Just totter out to the loo, put on any of their CDs, max the volume and within seconds your gases-tortured system will be flushed out of all that poisonous, clotted, dried out shit which blocked your bowels ever since Old Blue Eyes kicked the bucket after unsuccessfully trying thru his way too lengthy lifetime to induce world-wide trots, or provoke at least a decently sounding series of polyphonic wet farts from the widest audience imaginable.

Custard Wally sucks, but they suck hard and they suck good. They suck past, present and future out of you, until you remain nothing but an empty, wrinkled leather bag, which can be then filled either with hot air, so you would fly like Pink Floyd's pig, or pumped full with lukewarm, slightly salty minestrone soup, which would make you sing arias like some Pennsylvanian Caruso overdosed on second mortgage home equity loans.

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