Whenever I think of Staind, I think of a guy in Boston who is really, really tough, but somehow ends every evening impossibly drunk, without his long-suffering girlfriend Gina at his side and with his flaccid penis in one hand and a tear-filled Kleenex in the other, and all of his friends, one flight of stairs below him, fighting over the last 1/4-inch line of blow–cut with baby laxative, naturally.

Jeff Johnson, Fitted Sweats.