Kid A.G. and El Pres drag you back to the days when you’d sniff a chick’s stench so rancid it’d knock a buzzard off a shit wagon—then crave it like a triple-stack burger with extra mayo after age 18. 

El Pres is out here, practically dry-humping the mic, screaming about hauling his kid to the condom aisle: “Here’s the glow-in-the-dark rubber, you little bastard—don’t knock up your future!” 

Meanwhile, Kid A.G.’s howling about vibrating cock rings—those Lover’s Lane freaky-deaky specials where you rip the bullet vibe out and shove it up your nose just to see if it’ll buzz your brain. 

March crashes in like a horny freight train, and these two psychos are plotting St. Paddy’s blackout binges and Hooters’ $19.99 wing orgies—fuck the Wall Street Journal’s “white men whining” sob story, Kid A.G.’s confused about Hunter Schafer’s rack (plot twist: it’s a dick in disguise!). 

Then some idiot double-dips a mom AND her daughter—bam, two wombs, one wang! It’s a shitstorm of freedom, threesomes and bar pals.

Listen in. Go Deep.