While the Ant was busy storing up food against the harsh winter soon to come, the Grasshopper hung out in his dorm room, shotgunning Robitussin and listening to Melvins records with his ear pressed against the subwoofer. By first freeze, the Ant had socked away enough crumbs to fill his hill, and the Grasshopper had nothing to show for his work but seven-and-a-half minutes of churning, feedback-drenched guitar catharsis and a massive headache. The moral: Screw practicality. A pile of crumbs ain’t gonna get you laid, man.
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