If you?ve ever had the pleasure of meeting my Maine-man id m theft able you would be just as flabbergasted that he?d been able to wring the effeminate air-o-plane theme out of his lumbering mountain-man self, in what I can imagine would be a ceremonial tethering of ones testicles and the experimentation of shopping for air-miles in your mother?s sun dress. and so the first side of this newborn 7? record commences with the fairy-tale exploitation of the potty-trained pig-tailed man/girl kicking her feetsies on the porcelain latrine, which eventually devolves into a choir of unspeakable butt goblins choking, gurgling and deep-throating the toilet water and seeking a way out for their limbless mass to drop onto the bathroom floor and stain the newly-laid tiling with their regurgitations and over-active salivary glands. these butt-goblins carry-on in packs of four and compliment each other with increasingly off-putting slurping gestures that are narrowly suggestive and enough to make the uptight seasick or vaguely aroused? a nice little draft for those who make a mess of their apple sauce and like to let it all hang out.

Second side lacks any of the grand gestures of air-o-plane and instead opts for a chafing game of mouth and tapes, where the player attempts to magnetize his tongue and play an assortment of quarter-inch reels containing the ancient rites of monkey-men who preferred their pork-breath on white-rye instead of futuristic foam-seating. Vague? I know sometimes it?s hard to write poetry with one hand on the flush-option? 9/10 -- Andrew Zukerman (10 July, 2006)