Deep in a practice space warehouse / crack-addicted rat-maze within the catacombs of what was once Olde Weste Baltimore, the creaking of leather clad gimps signals the arrival of Sexually Retarded. The strong attempt to endure the sound by covering their ears, tolerating the errant sound waves which STILL ENTER THEIR BRAIN, debilitating neural centers of self-control and moral regulation. The weak succomb to irresistable urges; primeval pan-sexual living psychotic fantasies that end in copraphilia or self-castration.
Sexually Retarded. As in you can't get none. Or if you had it, you wouldn't know what to do with it. Probably throw stones at it.
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