Chances are if you can’t find the humor in rhyming “chicken” with “dick in,” you’re not going to enjoy this absurdly crass debut from the NYC duo known as The Moldy Peaches. The Peaches specialize in an unusual brand of lo-fi clatter mixed with purposely off-putting and frankly disgusting lyrics. Imagine the demented ramblings of Gene and Dean Ween set to the Royal Trux and you’ll be close to the sound on their self-titled LP. Genius it’s not, but The Moldy Peaches just might be the perfect diversion for those of us who still appreciate a good bathroom joke, but can’t quite stomach the musical atrocities of Blink-182.

Here’s what we know regarding the genesis of The Moldy Peaches. The group was born when Adam Green, then 13, and Kimya Dawson, just barely legal at 21, met at a coffee shop. They quickly became friends as Adam harassed her while she worked at the local indie record shop. Eventually, they came up with their band name and moved to the Big Apple. Although they’d been a staple on the NYC live circuit for some time before scoring their record contract, having earned a reputation more for their chosen garb (bunny suits) than their musical prowess, their press kit is surprisingly thin. And it would probably be a hell of a lot thinner if fellow city dwellers, The Strokes, hadn’t caused every two-bit music writer to whip up a swarm of hype for “the burgeoning NYC scene,” which, in case you were wondering, doesn’t actually exist. And so The Moldy Peaches, an amusing regional band, suddenly find themselves catapulted onto the international radar, armed with glowing write-ups in the NME and positive word-of-mouth from vinyl-toting indie kids everywhere.

Essentially, The Moldy Peaches are the dictionary definition of a one-trick pony. Cue the drum machine, insert sloppy-sounding power chords, and crack a few jokes about child pornography or defecating in a urinal and, boom, there’s your Moldy Peaches composition. About the only surprise over the album’s running time is their straight take on “Little Bunny Foo Foo,” but even that move seems in keeping with the Peaches’ spirit-since it’s just flat-out weird. And damn them, a handful of these 19 Pollard-sized songs are downright catchy. Even the seedy production values and Dawson’s off-key hollering can’t hide the anthemic hooks at the center of “Who’s Got the Crack?” and “NYC’s Like a Graveyard.”

Issues of hype and publicity aside, The Moldy Peaches is a fine album for what it is. I stress “for what it is” because I don’t know how much use any one person can have for this sort of acid-tinged pee-pee humor. But if and when you do have that craving, any one of these ditties should suffice. Of course, if you listen to all of them in one sitting, well, shit, you’re crazier than I am.