Every once in so many millions of years, all the planets in the ever-expanding universe come into perfect alignment, religious enemies temporarily lay down their arms, children play along and share, all the mysteries between the sexes are solved, and a soothing sense of calm falls upon the world. Then, like a gorilla bursting forth from a tremendously large flan cake, Jason Suecof of Capharnaum comes riding upon a colossally large kill-dozer, rendering all in its path into nothing but pure bedlam and twitching flesh, with his dog can standing on his shoulder wearing his captain’s hat and swinging around his tail like a pig in shit. Behind the dozer, riding in a Barbie Power Wheels Go-Kart with a tuba and a meat grinder, is some guy named Erik, futilely picking up all the titties and genital parts he can salvage. At the end of their global holocaust, the trio retreats back to their underground compound and utilizing the most complex secrets of Frankenstein’s elixir of life births the greatest beast to ever walk the earth: Crotchduster.

Crotchduster is more than a metal band; it’s a living breathing beast of raping insanity. Death metal, Danzig parodies, Slayer rip-offs, operatic interludes, and rambling about plastic kitchen utensil superheroes pulling out pubic hairs make up just a slight glimpse at the mammoth monster that is Crotchduster. And what makes it even better is how damn well-performed it is: this isn’t some blurpy, poorly produced porngrind album sampling ever genital remark it can in as many 70’s grindhouse films as it can find. The band goes from effects-laden wankery that could only come from a studio production, to gabber, to slightly technical death metal in the vein of a cleaner Cannibal Corpse, to basic speeding thrash, and even has time to read hate mail. And every damn moment of it is melodic, catchy, ridiculously hilarious, and never drags out.

Oh and it gets better. The songs are infectious. Utterly infectious. Unless you are a festering, militant, man-hating lesbian with sand in your vagina, there is nothing stopping you from singing along. As you’re driving past your local courthouse, you will be screaming along at the top of your lungs, with the windows down and the stereo fully blaring. When that cute little honey pulls up by you at the stop light, you will- almost as if compelled by some other worldly force- immediately put on "Let Me into Starfish Land" and will scream at her, "LET ME LICK YOUR ASSHOLE, LET ME LICK IT CLEAN, I’LL SUCK OUT ALL THE PEANUTS, I’LL SUCK OUT ALL THE BEANS!" and then do a one-handed air guitar while you stroke your dick with the other hand.

Don’t believe me? Just try not to sing along to "Mammal Sauce". Just try. Go to Willowtip’s site (or Crotchduster’s) and give it a go. You can’t. You will be manically singing along while you rectally and erotically asphyxiate your girlfriend in the shower. Oh and believe me, as unlikely as it sounds, you will discover how possible it is to rectally and erotically asphyxiate a woman in the shower.

Big Fat Box of Shit is a phenomenal force to be reckoned with. Make room for a place in your metal hall of fame next to Number of the Beast and Severed Survival, for there is a new metal master on the block, and its name is Crotchduster.

Review byNecro-tron