Bit My Head Off

I tried to ask Rhodes something about his past, working in a mental hospital (covered in Bughouse Blues, out soon)--and the stream of filth he treated me to was so far beyond his habitual crisp Anglo-Saxon idiolect of four-letter cluster-bombs (not usually personal, generally swirling for a good while but then just drifting to the ground like dead leaves) that I simply can't repeat it here. We do have standards, after all. Along with a warm-hearted seasonal vibe. I'll keep you posted.