Dec 1st people. The silly season. A time when you get to watch Neo Nazi's walk down King street, skinned heads exposed, drenched in glorious sun beams, their pale skin inevitably turning a delicious brown, the irony wholly escaping them in an obvious form of misdirected self hatred. Stop being obtuse. You know what I’m talking about goddamn it, it’s summertime, and you better believe the living ain’t fucken easy.

We got worry my dudes. We got a whole lotta problems that are way above our elected officials pay grade. We got $1.60 gas prices and $5 servo chocolate. We got Chileans trying to catch the train without being robbed literally, figuratively or metaphysically. We got ledgoss Lebo’s demanding they don’t get fucken stooged. We got a planet that is literally starting to burn in front of our very eyes, from Coffs to California, and we’re watching Babylonian Amazon crops aflame, contradictory to the way we like to see em set ablaze.

But fear not, we’re here to tell you when Mother Earth brings the heat, we do too. When that fucken mercury is on the goddamn rise like a counterfeit housing market, you better believe that da puffy cream is on it’s merry fucken way also. Just when you thought you couldn’t handle the heat, that there are too many cooked cooks in the kitchen?Well we’ve added extra fuggen cooks and renovated you a new goddamn kitchen, coz how else you gonna be joining us in enjoying those tasty jambalaya’s we been cooking up down the pet food factory ey??? Chei Prim, qué fem del caldo!? Predickle me that experts!

We ain’t fucken licked yet, we been around the block, we’ve punched in a few clocks in our time. We got a couple of tricks/trax up our sleeves.

We got the dynamic duo of cop punching Clementine Fjørd and the Prince of Percussion Jason where’s Whalley taking a step back from their middle class white boy lives of bucket bongs and pigworms to start channeling the eighth planet namesake into some slender digits and stolen recording gear.

We got premium Primo Dan caballeros direct from the motherfucken motherland shredding your face and ass cheeks like it’s block off Manchego at El Dia de los Muertos!

We got a subterranean schoolyard maths cheat Sam Clouston comin in hot with some extraterrestrial squid ink splashed on your canvas screens. Visual compliments to your aural feast.

We’re fucken intercontinental is what I’m saying here goddamit! We’re fucken intergalactic. The beasties boys can suck my goddamn chode. Timmy created a time machine to stir fry MCA in his wok. Womus is eating pervert pingaz and is stubbornly claiming legendary status to not a single listening ear - An immovable object in an indifferent time. The only thing hotter than this fucken track, is Joolz’ 23 and half minute synth epic he’s been working on in complete silence, isolation and paranoia.

Lazer beams are burning you fucken flog dogs.

We’re joining Vivaldi. We’re joining Gershwin. We’re joining all the dead Kinks on a cloud of purple haze for a Feel Good Hit Of the Summer to pump through your stereo sound, virgins blood drifting ghetto blasters. Last time the jams and the temperature combined to produce something this hot, Spike Lee imagined it into a race war through the TV and straight into your fucken frontal lobes!

So crank it like it’s the AC you couldn’t afford as a child in the summer of ’99. 20 years to the day. Crank it like your the artist formally known as Prince, and you got a slimy beach party down gordon’s bay way coz you can smuggle in fatass dowgs without getting John and Gemma hassled by the fuzz. And when the Chinese government comes a knocking looking for insubordinates, you crank it and tell em it’s been 20 years since you been this fiery. You tell em you got lines of salt next your bags of rack and you need a cool 10,000 Yuan for the one armed bandit you’re about to slap. You tell em to check their fucken calendar because 2019 is history. 2020 is the Year of the goddamn Slug.

Concerto Numero. Dos in C minor, Op. 8, RV 315. “Navigare sulla marea galattica”.

Surf is FUCKING up cunts.