Slip into this bathtub of opiates, operations, felines, Fords and finckantions...

You stroll through the city parks lit only by the rosy fingers of dawn. Your hazy spectacles seem clouded from another night of behindless consumption, drowning out the noise of the screaming babies and the slow-motion pile-ups that occur with regularity on the lawn of your hedonisticide-sprayed imagination...Everything seems so purrfect, you know?...you wonder,...if a little twisted...as a possee of
common house-flies with mouths drooping Edward G. Robinson style snip & lick past ya in slow motion. They are bodied with velvet zoot-suits, legged with black stockings and armed with muted trumpets. The mouth "Bohemi-yaka" at you, beckoning you to join them as they cruise through the streets of Rome in the back of a Plymouth Fury. Together, you freestyle your way across existence like an aristrocratic spraycan on Acid and Amaretto. You are pulled into a Venusian bordillo, where you are greeted by a Superfly-Garic guy who plays you an oily skinflute concerto of mixed massages and illegal edits.

Yessss....sink into the sound of Funki Porcini. The second coming has arrived. The fertile funghi-monger returns to fuck up the children of your eardrums and terrorise the neighbours of your sensibility. Be warned - the Psychedelicatessen is back in session. INJAAAAA....