This is music for people to listen to while fantasizing about bench pressing 500 pounds, throwing the game winning touchdown, Eiffel-towering Pamela Anderson, and kicking some commie ass (does "Lars Ulrich" sound suspiciously European i.e. commie?). But then they open their eyes to discover they've smashed a family bucket of KFC and crushed a 12-pack of light beer while yelling at the television and telling their fat wife to try to look pretty every once in a while. If Flavortown had a soundtrack it would be this album. A goatee-fueled bomb-dot-com explosion of repressed sexuality. Lights out delicious.