On the fringes of the southwesternmost corner of culture and smart in these United States, Cuckoo Chaos is the Richard Nixon of disco dancing. Cuckoo Chaos is the Henry Ford of Dada. Cuckoo Chaos is the John The Baptist of cunnilingus. The Pontius Pilot of lamb skin condoms. Cuckoo Chaos is a nice, firm ass in the palm of your hands. Cuckoo Chaos is a tarred and feathered Hugh Hefner screaming at something... you know what I mean. Cuckoo Chaos is not milk. Cuckoo Chaos is the rusty trombone you've always wanted. Cuckoo Chaos is the Rasputin of children's birthday parties and the Richard Simmons of carpet bombing. Cuckoo Chaos is the Nobel Peace Prize of bukkake. Cuckoo Chaos is the Huey Newton of cribbage and the Britney Spears of British teeth. Cuckoo Chaos has the Lindbergh baby. Cuckoo Chaos is the Abbie Hoffman of the Tea Party Movement. Cuckoo Chaos wants you to want. Cuckoo Chaos is sleazy. Cuckoo Chaos wants Obama to come out of the closet. Cuckoo Chaos capitalizes. We're chewin' the fat. Cuckoo Chaos wishes you'd stop bragging about your nightmares. Cuckoo Chaos knows you're fucked up, but loves you. Your mom likes Cuckoo Chaos. Cuckoo Chaos is awaiting your scrutiny. Cuckoo Chaos is the John McEnroe of meditation. Cuckoo Chaos is Andy Warhol... if he could shut his mouth. Cuckoo Chaos tastes like your sister's lips (even though you're afraid to admit it.) Cuckoo Chaos is the semen on the mountain top. Cuckoo Chaos is the West Coast of wet dreams. Chew on that, sucka.