It's a shame how they let any old dope smoker put out records nowadays. Back in the day, they used to issue permits for such things. Sure, we might never have heard Cypress Hill using the old method, but we could be insured insulation from the likes of the Kottonmouth Kings. I heard they were originally called the Whiskeydick Buttfuckers, but they changed it when they changed both their drug and sexual preferences.

But seriously folks, Royal Highness is just fuckin' awful. I like the white- boy drug rap thang, don't get me wrong, but these guys-- or whoever the hell writes their songs-- are fuckin' stupid. Let's start with the opening cut, "Bong Tokin' Alcoholics." The chorus, repeated, ad nauseaum, is (you guessed it) "The Bong Tokin' Alcoholics/ The Bong Tokin' Alcoholics/ The Bong Tokin' Alcoholics..." If that ain't pure genius, American ingenuity, and drug- induced creativity all rolled into one glimmering pearl of wisdom, I don't know what is. The Kings of pain continue for no less than 17 tracks. They delve into such socially tempestuous issues as weed, dope, marijuana, drinking, fucking, ganja, beer, hash, liquor, and even mention at one point... weed. Er... I'm going to break for a bong now, I'll be right back.

Well, it still sounds like shit, my friends. Are they tryin' to be the Beastie Boys of the dope world? Hmmm. That reminds me-- I know this guy down the way that saves his bong water in a big jug, an' when the jug gets filled he burns some incense and lights lotsa candles. He puts on Nusrat Fateh Ali Khan and sets a maple box with ornate brass fittings on the table. Then he meditates for a while, saying his mantra "Kaaaaa-- mmaaauuuu--- ffaaaaa" over and over, until he has achieved what he calls "alignment with the bong."

Then he opens the case, removes a small opaque plastic pitcher with "Yuengling" emblazoned on the side, a small strainer and a coffee filter. He places them on white paper doilies on the table, and after blessing them, he places the strainer into the top of the pitcher and the coffee filter into the strainer. Then he closes eyes, raises the jug above his head says "haaa-aa, haaa-aa" and slowly pours the bong water through the coffee filter into the pitcher, chanting his mantra, "Kaaaaa-- mmaaauuuu--- ffaaaaa," all the while.

After several hours, all of the water has been strained, and he closes the lid of the jug and returns it to its place. Next, he places the sacred drying towel upon the maple box, and places the moist, dark filter upon it for drying. After a new moon, he returns to it, scrapes the fine black powder from the filter and into his bong. He says a silent prayer and then solemnly smokes the sacred powder. The cycle is complete, and the Kottonmouth Kings still suck.

-James P. Wisdom