This is the Central Scrutinizer. Joe has just worked himself into an imaginary frenzy during the fade-out of his imaginary song. He begins to feel depressed now. He knows the end is near. He has realized at last that imaginary guitar notes and imaginary vocals exist only in the imagination of The Imaginer, and ultimately, who gives a fuck anyway? So-- So-- Excuse me. So, who gives a fuck anyway? So he goes back to his ugly little room and quietly dreams his last imaginary guitar solo

This is the Central Scrutinizer. As you can see, music can get you pretty fucked up. Take a tip from Joe, do like he did, hock your imaginary guitar and get a good job. Joe did, and he's a happy guy now, on the day shift at the Utility Muffin Research Kitchen, arrogantly twisting the sterile canvas snoot of a fully-charged icing anointment utensil. And every time a nice little muffin comes by on the belt, he poots forth

And if this doesn't convince you that music causes big trouble, then maybe I should turn off my plastic megaphone and sing the last song on the album in my regular voice