Johnny SexFuk and the Fleshrockets

When last we left Johnny SexFuk, a pumpkin was about to get its brains — or seeds, whatever — fucked out. That was back around Halloween, when the Hialeah-based punk troupe lowered its standards all the way down to the magma level by playing back-up band during a porn stunt, wherein one lucky sophisticate won a few bucks by banging a jack-o-lantern. This epic Shakespearean study of the human condition later led to a couple of hot chicks getting body-painted in jungle animal patterns and then similarly used by men with penises, although the chicks were marginally more articulate — if less enthusiastic — than the large orange gourd. And life went on.

Cut to today, with Johnny SexFuk and the Fleshrockets once again preparing to bring their warm, refined surf-punk roadkill to Churchill's spotlessly clean stage. Will men disguised as robots gang-bang a refrigerator? Will a well-heeled gent allow a scorpion to pinch his nut sack? Will I ever be able to stop dreaming of pumpkins with runny mascara?


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