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My Name is Bojan Milankovic
During early years of dark nineties, on desolate low-land of serbia, there was an act of war and rainfall from grey clouds. Me and my brother marko listened to turbonegro, for what shall i say... Motivation. Turbonegro make us feel like animal, out of control. This is good.
Then i read international review site from american troops. Big boss in music industry speak.
'oh, you turbonegro. Funny little hat and lipstick on lip. We take not serious little silly rock band. We put money on other band.' this... That... America... Britain. Now you will realize that you make very, very wrong bet.
So... Big important music boss... Pulling string... Make decision. Young girl... Cocaine...
You like party? You party boy? Ok. Crank up stereo retard pig, and we party together.
In novi sad, we have a festival were we consume substance and whip little inocent goat death while clapping hands. So, now we shall make festival for you.
Cause i like you. Lets party.
I want to kiss your important lip.
Oh no... Six million little nihilistic robot with funny hat is coming your way. Funny hat means blind group mentality and mass hysteria in strict order.
Oh no... Funny hat means facing mercilious rage of battle vehicle called turbojugend. How funny is funny hat now? You stupid dog.
And who do i see sitting on your fat lap? Little weak music critic. Is that you? You always lick anus of music industry boss. Dig your head in little leech, you might not want to hear this, because now is my turn to speak word of apocolypse to you.
Ten years too late you suddenly talk. 'oh, turbonegro. Number one rock 'n' roll band.' but i smell little hypocrite weasle talking with cleft in tongue. It is too late to say sorry.
In serbia we speak this. 'you can wash blood off of hand, but aroma of guilt will stick to carcass until hate fills the night.'
I ask you this. When you are lying tied-up like freak pig in dark crawlspace under serbian farmhouse, will you take out sharp critic pen and write about your little taste? Will you make intellectual opinion with sharp tongue? When designer glasses are crushed into eyeballs and excrement and blood are hanging in fancy-pants moustache?
I think not.
Look into my eyes. What do you see? You see abyss of two-thousand-five-hundred years of serbian trauma.
You laugh like ironic hyena now little critic? I think not.
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