A contemporary jam band contrived of four musicians, plodding along with guitars, keyboards, drums, bass, and voice, containing "lyrics." Ironically, despite rampant allegations of creative genius, these perpetual noodlers are a regressive bore, with their roots firmly entrenched in the already explored and conquered vein by a forty year old jam band called (the)grateful dead.

If length were the yardstick of musical greatness, these silly men are the Ron Jeremy of jam bandom. Unfortunately for them and their fans, it isn't. Where Grateful Dead were a respectable band charting new musical territory while hitch-hiking the social torrent of the 1960's, Phish are an evolutionary hangover of that scene; an appendix, floating there aimlessly amidst the rest of the musical organism, only to hemorrhage on the unsuspecting college student.

These fans fall into either one of two stereotypes with 98% reliability. (The other two percent, although statistically negligible, are generally people that have errantly meandered into a group of Phish fans, having been the accidental beneficiary of a contact high. They follow the sheep looking for Doritos.

Type A: This Phish fan comes from the bowels of baby-boom parents. There is a strange and disconcerting melange of Benjamins and tie-die, patchouli and birkenstocks. They arrive at college in a Volkswagen Jetta fitted with a ski-rack, and they will smoke mercury (Hg) as long as you remind them that it is "natural." Fronting the failed idealism of "peace, love, and happiness," these people are like a badger in a dishwasher (on) when confronted with actual hardship. Not so loving, indeed. (To witness what a cognizant human being deduces from this mentality, read the lyrics of "Common People" by Pulp).

Type B: This type is equally offensive in odor and candor, however lacks the ability to establish an actual friendship. They want your drugs. Everything else is inconsequential.

Many fans cite grandiose concert performances as another crucial perk of the Phish experience (e.g. hot dog suits and sparkles, sometimes even balloons and disco balls (!). These, of course, are convenient distractions to the painful reality that you are listening to an eighteen minute circle-jerk lubricated with hashish and patchouli (dirt). A Phish show is an Auschwitz of terrible guitar tone and stupidity, albeit with fewer ashes (not by many) and with corpses that move slightly more.

Fact: The lyrics of this music will decrease your I.Q. score 13 points (+/-2). Do not attempt to comprehend Phish "lyrics." Do not confuse these "lyrics" as anything besides the comparable babble of a toddler with a annoying and terminal language disorder.