"No ones can accuse these guys of not being punk," Fred Schrunk says, as a fat woman. She is wearing a long, big, ugly one-piece dress, with a faded-out flowered pattern. "This shit rules. Totally blown-out and fuzzed-out music. You can just barely hear enough of it to understand it's interesting and totally crucial." She lifts her right arm, and scratches her armpits.
She lifts her hands and begins running in position and shouts, "BLATZ fans take note." She is sweating.
She stands still, and then walks to an imaginary board and writes, "The songs are short, catchy, gross, snotty and super fun." She can smell her own armpits. She recognizes a powerful odor, not sure if it is unpleasant or tolerable.
She turns around and looks you in the eyes and says, "The lyrics are cool; the cover art is awesomely dumb." She does jumping-jacks, stops, sticks her left hand under her left breast, lifts it; from under the breast, a dove flies out.
But then she looks to the ground, saddened by her next thought and says, looking at you again, "Four great songs here but seriously sounds like it was recorded on a boombox in a basement. Most demo tapes sound better."
She punches her right fist into her left palm. She stomps her shoes.
