The origins of this album are forever lost, obscured by hallucinogenic visions of neon beavers chewing through Neo-Tokyo. The recordings were only recently discovered when Chaz visited the dentist. Six months of bickering over burp reverb ensued, and billions of donuts were consumed before our producers informed us the CDs had shipped.
They were castrated, but the damage was done. Doris's zombie bones are circling a faraway star now, doomed to forever broadcast the dismal signal encoded on this stupid, shiny plastic disc. Perhaps one day an alien civilization will arise, their DNA forged in the jungle, beaten with terrorism, tempered by our burps. Then we'll be sorry.
We're swearing off bacon for real this time. Well, maybe.
The power of Doris compels you to listen to tracks 3, 6, and 18!
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