Kiss of Death
Dear 8lb, 6oz newborn Baby Jesus, don’t let these guys break up before I can see them. Please, for me? I know that I laugh really hard at every Family Guy joke at your expense, but we’re cool, right? I’m hip, I’m down with the cause. If I don’t get to see the band who reminds me that there is a life of punk beyond shitty band patches and suspenders, I swear I will try to convert as many people as I can to Zoroastrianism. I swear it. As apathetic an asshole as they come, even I can’t help but to scream along, pounding my fists in the air, scaring all those on the 10 freeway while I swerve around in my car. With songs about stupid jobs, boozin’, and attempts at not being old, how can I not get behind this? Exemplifying the brand of fast-paced, gruff voiced, ass-kicking punk that the Fest has made famous, Monikers are sure to have a legion of neckbearded, Natty Ice swillin’, shit-job working fans to do their bidding.