Walker says about PPX: What are you, kidding? That dumbass has no life, that's why he fiddles with HTML all fooken day, when he's not busy annoying people with cacophonous synthesizer patches or jacking off to Michael Bolton CDs. And all fooken night, too... I tried calling him up (his number is all over the fooken Internet) just last night. It was after midnight down in Redneck Jubilee-Land and I got nothing but a busy signal. There is no doubt in my mind that he was d/ling MP3s of Bolton to jack off to while replaying Oprah's interview of Michael on his ancient, mono, two-headed, cum-spattered VCR. Yeah, that's right, I've got your phone number now, Beavis! That ring in the night may be none other than Walker, Texas Stalker, nailing down your location for my posse of redneck truck drivers, set to tow your trailer off to hell, or worse, Utah! That'll learn ya!
PPX says about Walker: He's a fucking hideous, crooning cadaver, a
collage of shoulder blades, elbows, eyeballs, toenails, multiple torsos, sewn together in
zig zags, the rotted larynx has so many stitches in it you can hardly tell where one ghoul
blends into another. The skin is eaten away by the renegade enzymes of "Bing Crosby
disease", anywhere you look you see a body part of some kind crudely sewn to a place
its not supposed to be. The bellowing throat has so many extra vocal doo-dads growing out,
it looks like a DNA monster with tiny faces popping out like tumors. He's everywhere at
once, he turns his back, but he has so many little shrunken heads, and sub-heads, knobbing
up thru the flesh, with beady eyes watching his back because its theirs, too..... 
