I don’t know wether I want to F or punch Jack Johnson. You know the musician that your girlfriend closes her eyes to and imagines she’s getting banged by when you’re giving her the thirty-second-hairy-sweat-ride. I’m sorry but he reminds me of a Hippy girl I meet at a dead show in Buffalo circa 1990. She smelled like tomato and introduced me to an 88, which is a 69 with two dillers.