If you’re looking for meaning, direction, or emotional growth, you’ve come to the wrong band. This is the dirt-nasty gospel according to Numbnutz.
Our unofficial church group. Weekly meetings in an abandoned shed, no dues, just bring your own glue. This one’s a sticky anthem for the chemically committed.
Not about anyone in particular—we just think punk smells better raw. A showerless lifestyle. The scent of freedom. The itch of rebellion.
Straight from the border waves. Surfboards, sunshine, and dodging helicopters. It’s an illegal good time with our homies from the south.
Exactly what it says. A brutal ballet of fists, flannel, and forgotten dreams. They fought for honor. Or crack. Maybe both.
A band favorite pastime. Smells like victory and irreversible brain damage. We wrote this with silver on our lips and stars in our eyes.
We found this little guy on tour. He followed us for 17 straight days, shared our fries, hit the vape, and became our road manager. A legend.
Inspired by the time that jackass Geraldo Rivera hosted a televised culture clash—skinheads, minorities, chaos. Someone lobbed a chair. Geraldo caught it. Right in the schnoz. We laughed. America wept.
More like the Rock n Roll Hall of Lame. This track is us lighting a flaming bag of dog shit on their marble steps. Punk’s not on your list? Cool. We’ll start our own.
Almost got scrapped for being "too controversial." So we disguised it. But between us? It’s about Kurt Cobain. We miss you, man. Even if the industry would rather forget.
Six A's. One masterpiece. This is our magnum opus, our Stairway to Heaven, our Bohemian Rhapsody… if those songs were screamed through a megaphone at a gas station bathroom.
Yeah, we said it. Then we met him. Turns out he's cool as hell. Bought us tacos and everything. No hard feelings, Matt. You rule.
Composed while high on Robitussin and existential dread. A love letter to every idiotic decision that felt like a good idea at the time.
We didn’t go to school with them, but if we did? Wedgies. Daily. No regrets. This song is the musical version of shoving a poser in a locker.
Drinking tallboys in the parking lot like it’s a sport. One eye out for security, the other on the sun going down. Cheers to the dirtbags.
Jay’s entrance anthem. The first thing he says when your daughter introduces him as her new boyfriend. Run, dad. RUN.
Back in the day, I ran, jumped, and hustled. Then I discovered laziness. And Cheetos. The rest is non-history.
Left alone? Lights off? Internet connected? You already know what time it is. Lock the door and blast this shame spiral soundtrack.
No explanation necessary. He bled so we could puke in the pit. This song is our gospel.
For those days where life’s too loud, people are too dumb, and you just wanna tap out. Well done, crispy, and cooked to death.
Whether you’re ducking parole or just trying to keep your job at Walmart, this one goes out to everyone praying for clean piss.
Graffiti. Tagging. Vandalism. We don’t call it destruction—we call it art. Screaming color across a gray-ass world.
Before smartphones, we hid our smut like treasure. Under logs, behind sheds, deep in the forest. It was nature’s OnlyFans.
What the fuck do you think it’s about? We’re tired. Don’t ask questions. Just light it.