My name is Boyon Milonkovich. During early years of dark '90s, on desolate lowland of Serbia, there was an act of war, and rainfall from dark clouds. Me and my brother, Marco, listened to Turbonegro for, what shall I say, motivation. Turbonegro make us feel like animal out of control. This is good. Then I read international magazine from American troops. Big boss in music industry speak »You Turbonegro, haha funnny little hat, lipstick on lip, we take not serious little rock band. We bet money on other band, this and that, America, Britian«. Now you will realize you make very, very, wrong, bet.
So, big important music boss, pulling string, make decision, young girl, cocaine. Like party? You party boy? Ok, crank up stereo retard pig, and we party together. In Novistad we have festival where we consume substance and whip innocent, little goat to death while clapping hands. So, now we shall make festival for you, cus I like you. Lets party, I hope to kiss your important lip. Oh no, six millions little nihilistic robot with funny hat is coming your way. Funny hat means blind group mentality and mass hysteria in strict order. Oh no, funny hat means facing mercyless rage of battle vehicle called Turbojugend. How funny is funny hat now, you stupid dog? And who I see sitting on your fat lap? Little weak music critic. Is that you? You always lick anus of music industry boss. Dig your head in little leach, you might not want to hear this, because now is my time to speak word of apocolypse to you! Ten years too late you certainly talk »Oh, Turbonegro number one rock n roll band', but I smell little hypocrit weasel talking with cleft in tongue and its too late to say sorry. In Serbia we speak this »you can wash blood off of hands, but aroma of guilt will stick to carcass until hate fills the night«.
I ask you this, when you are lying, tied up like crying freak pig, in dark crawlspace under Serbian farm house, will you take out sharp critic pen and write about your little taste? Will you make intellectual opinion with sharp tongue when designer glasses are crushed into eyeballs and excrement and blood is hanging in fancy pants moustache? I think not. Look into my eyes. What do you see? You see abyss of two thousand five hundred years of Serbian trauma. You laugh like ironic hyena now, little critic. I think not. (källa)