There are three levels of bad, each like a loosely defined Circle of Hell in Dante's Inferno. First, there is that which is merely bad. One hears it, says, "that sucks" and continues breathing. The second level encompasses stuff that is so bad, intentionally or not, that it becomes parodic. One might say, "Oh, that's so bad," but laughs and continues watching or listening anyway. The third circle consists of that which is unforgivably bad, so bad it goes beyond that which sucks, beyond self-parody and into the realm of sheer torture. This column deals with albums that fall into the third dastardly circle, those which grab Oculus' attention not because of their astonishing excellence, but because they are stupefyingly horrible.

The first offender (Hand over your guitars, gentlemen. You won't be needing them.) is Kolos, a band that manages to meld the worst bits of The Dave Matthews Band, The Spin Doctors and Live. Keep in mind that these bands have no discernible good bits. On Presto Change-o (Dora Records), Kolos achieves new heights of boredom, those only realized in high school trigonometry class or by watching two consecutive Three's Company reruns. Kolos is already wimpy and lyrically challenged, but they also manage to be unwittingly sexist on their first song, "Are You Man Enough To Be Woman." It appears they tried to write a pseudo-feminist song, one that ostensibly shows their "sensitive" side but is actually intended to help get them laid. The song dares men to meet the everyday challenges that face women, but the liberated boys in Kolos begin by asking male fans if they know how to apply makeup: "Can you tweeze your eyebrows/ Without screamin' in blood pain/ Can you put on liner/ While changing lanes."

The next musical disaster, "Happy Misery," ups the stupid quotient exponentially. Okay, this guy, right, was ditched by this girl ("Part of me still wants to be your man/ And part of me never wants to see you again."), and he's, like, finally getting used to being single, but, like, she's trying to get back into his life ("Don't come and topple the joy of my pain."), and he just tells her, like, to go stick it ("Some people say foolish my way/ Dear friends you all mean so well/ The bitch can go to hell.")

Unbelievably, "Yellow Moon" is even worse, a sappy power ballad (Can you say REO Speedwagon? Journey? I hope not.) with grade school poetry that rips off John Lennon (Imagine a melody without harmony/ No birds to fill the sky/ Painter's canvas would be dry."). Boo hoo.

Even in Yiddish (I'm not kidding. Honest.), "Souvenirin" is morbidly trite. Sounding like Extreme after Hebrew school graduation, lead singer Alty warbles "Nechtin Ersht/ Kumt mir in haant/ Ah bintl souvenirin." Thankfully, Kolos provides the English translation: "Just yesterday I came across/ A box of memories I thought I'd lost." Oy vey. Cringe factor: Nine out of a possible ten.

On Spit's The Godfather of Smut (Pacific Force), the liner notes say it all. Apparently, Spit has "starred in over 30 adult films," is married to "the world famous Dominatrix, Mistress Jacqueline" and publishes several fetish magazines. The title track is dedicated to portly porn star Ron Jeremy, who was apparently the best man at Spit's wedding.

Backed by mostly hackneyed industrial and punk music, Spit spews disgusting, admittedly funny lyrics. My dream is to appear at a poetry reading, wearing a black beret and smoking unfiltered Camels, and giving a reading of "The Godfather of Smut:"