You mean to say that when an imbecile walks into a church, office, day care center, or school, stumbling about, almost zombie-like, with gun-filled hands at his side, blabbering incoherently to his next victim, the reaction of grown men and women is to run, cry, whimper, and hide under a desk or pew? The sheeping of America is nearly complete.

I contribute to the dead of winter and the moans of silence, blood trails are music to my ears … I'm a gut pile addict … The pig didn't know I was there … it's my kick … I love shafting animals … it's rock 'n' roll power.

I don't care if it's Bruno Mars or Aerosmith or ZZ Top... it's about songs. 'Paperback Writer,' 'Satisfaction,' 'Cat Scratch Fever,' 'Walk This Way,' all the killer songs in the world start with an identifiable guitar pattern that is basically a bastardization of either honky-tonk or boogie-woogie. And that's in every cool piece of music in the world that you and I love.

My love is like a tire iron.

I don't like repeat offenders; I like dead offenders.

As long as we continue to fight in between the jamming with all we have to save America from the current suicidal deathwish of the corrupt, criminal punks intentionally destroying the last best place.

I started singing with the Amboy Dukes in '87. I sang 'Oh Baby Please Don't Go,' the old Van Morrison song by Joey Smith. I started singing more from then on.