What if Little Richard had joined Hasil Adkins and recorded with Bill Spector, Phil's rigoddamndiculous brother, in Sanford and Son's mobile recording unit? Or, what if GG Allin had been the Svengali behind a boufannt-ed girl group, having them out-raunch anybody while maintaining sweetness and light? It might not have sounded exactly like Nobunny, but it definitely would have resembled the spirit.
Handclaps, broken pianos, toilet-bowl guitars and whisky bottles full of piss used as maracas make up just a portion of this irresistible infection created for the wino in the alley, as well as the kids just discovering the joys of masturbation and drugs. Songs are about giving girls what they really want, prostitution, laughing instead of crying about failed relationships, and fun, fun, fun like the Beach Boys never knew.
When you're used to life in a rubbish heap, you can adapt and overcome, or become part of the junk landscape. Nobunny has found the true path: do both--not just overcoming the detritus that society produces, but lifting it up and showing the beautiful side of it--and, no, I don't mean in an ironic, kitschy way; I mean in the same way you'd view a perfect sunset or ass. You see the beauty in trash in the way a Buddhist koan could never teach you.
Nobunny loves you and Nobunny cares, and the next time he's in town, if you've never been hugged by a horny, drunken Muppet, you should seek him out. He's better than anything you'll find in the self-help section of Bookmans.