Explain this: GWAR have been around for well over a decade now, and their music is absolute garbage. So why do you want to go every time? Why do you pick out grungies to wear in the eager anticipation of getting covered in green and red blood or cum shooting out of a monster cock? Why do you pine for the opportunity to get thrown into a giant meat grinder spewing goop, even though you know you'd crap your drawers if you ever came within arm's length of the members of GWAR?

There's something irresistible about the gross-out, dork-out panache of a band that describes its own audience as the "lowly, zit-ridden scum of outcast pre-pubescence." There is a punch line, a classic episode of Jerry Springer. GWAR's numbskull themes of cartoonish torture and sex are a cathartic indulgence for incontinent imaginations, enthusiastic perverts, and crass rock nerds nationwide. Despite the pathetic, role-playing game vibe, an element of real danger gives the GWAR experience the air of legitimate nausea.

Jonny X, local survivor of one such incident, cracked his head open at a GWAR show. Already drenched in rancid GWAR juice, the fans surrounding him knocked him around, not realizing he'd actually suffered a head wound. He finally had to be taken in an ambulance to the hospital. "It was pretty cool," he says, before adding that a friend also had his teeth punched out at a GWAR show.

An oft-overlooked merit of GWAR's appeal is its acknowledgement of current events, not to mention metaphysically quizzical quotes like "I am King Shit of Fuck Mountain! Death to all who oppose me!" For some reason, their audience is mostly male, a poor show of humor and tiresome discrimination on the ladies' part. They are also usually drunk, inviting comparisons to the orgiastic festivals of ancient time. GWAR would be the house band in the vomitorium, a release of the base, infantile desires to masturbate with furniture, spank yourself, or wipe poop on the wall.