“MIT studies have shown that, on the Standard Pretention Scale, Against Tolerance's Undefined lands somewhere close to Priuses with “Coexist” stickers on them, most Berkley grads, and postmodern French philosophers. In layman’s terms, it’s an easy 8 on the “well, fuck this shit” scales recently developed over here.
Lyrics? Entertain them for a moment, and they’ll confuse and bore you into thinking their profound. Prog-filler? Shit’s dangerous; it’s interesting enough to draw you in for adequate time for the generic thrash to start eating away at your soul.
Hi, I’m Robert Wagner and I want you to picture this… It’s sunny outside and you’re admiring your white picket-fence. Picture it. Your woman is inside cooking you a steak and pouring you some Johnnie Walker, and your heart hasn’t completely filled with plaque yet. It’s a good day. You’re listening to the game on the radio and thinking about ravaging your neighbor’s wife and mowing your lawn.
Then you’re bisexual emo son comes home from school. The inconsiderate little shit scowls and flicks his hair while passing you, his lip ring reflects the sun, and you’re left arm starts to tingle. You really hate that douchebag. But, no matter, you think, he’s dead to you anyways, and you waltz inside, knock back your drink, and open the local newspaper. You’ll survive. Life’s still, for the most part, peachy.
Then you hear Against Tolerance’s album come on upstairs…
Most of the shit your son plays sounds like a bunch of emphysemic cats being drowned in bathtubs with women crying during the choruses. But this… this you actually kind of like. Kind of really like. It sounds like it’s from a Noir movie. You rush to the conclusion that the emo upstairs is finally appreciating the Bog-art and watching your favorite flick. You suddenly remember that you used to love your son, and you remember the ball game you took him to when he was five—the one where you splurged and bought him a jersey and a hot dog and a soda and he was jubilant as all good peaches—and it’s all touching really.
You rashly grab your baseball bat, a pair of mits, and a ball and haste upstairs to embrace your boy and take him to the nearby park.
But then the jazzy noir bit stops… and the music sounds awful as usual. Like a clan of Walruses getting enemas from a pack of prehistoric gorillas. (MIT has officially reported, with usual liberal use of jargon, that it’s a thrash/screamo hybrid with some proggy-filler.) You open the door to ask him why he stopped listening to the good stuff, your heart already sinking. Then it really, literally sinks. He hadn’t changed the CD at all, he says as he starts kissing his reflection in his mirror.
And yep, that’s the final straw with him. He’s helpless and he’s a fairy with no taste. Your heart begins to seriously hurt. You throw down the mits and ball… but you hold on to the bat…
You proceed to hit your son repeatedly with said bat until your running shoes begin to get squishy with the pinkish red gunk oozing from his skull.
Your wife runs up stairs and screams at the sight. You keel over, your heart’s almost stopped now. Your wife rushes to you, cradles your head in her arms sobbing and tells you she won’t tell anyone, and that she knows a guy who can help you get rid of the body. She tells you to “just breathe”. You slap her for mentioning another man, yelp a prayer upwards and die in sheer agony. The autopsy will later show that your brain tumors had actually merged with your heart plaque to create a new form of incurable ailment… and that you had herpes.
So now you’re dead. But it gets worse. Your wife shivering and gagging in piercing anguish pulls out the gun she had planned for years to use on you and your son and shoots herself repeatedly in the head.
You won’t be found for a day. Not until your beloved dog finally finds you and your family. And he starts crying at the sight… Your dog. Your dog is crying. You monster. You did this.
My point? This almost happened to me. Don’t let [i]any[/i] of this happen to you. Don’t risk it. Avoid Against Tolerance’s new album and visit my website XRobertWagnerX420.com…”
(Special thanks goes to a fellow called ponderer for helping set this up.)
