Much like a malcontent teen at a strip mall, killing a weekend's hours while nursing the pulpy dregs of a Jamba Juice, the internet has once again met the challenge of making something from almost nothing. This time, the subject of their dedication is a 16-second track from Blink-182’s seventh album, California called “Built This Pool.” Covers have been uploaded. Annotations have been cribbed. The band themselves knotted it in a narcotizing 10-hour loop that seems to contain all the world’s traumas and solutions. All for a cavernously stupid pop-punk blip in which frontman Mark Hoppus yelps, in entirety, “Woo woo/I wanna see some naked dudes/That’s why I built this pooo-oooo-oool.”

These endeavors as valuable as any, to be clear; the song remains hilarious, for the virtual minutes of my life I’ve dedicated to replaying it. It’s a nice jolt back to the group’s gleeful heyday, when flapping their rude bits up and down So Cal was high art to a nation of TRL viewers, and their infectious three-chord screeds belied real, sly wisdom. (It’s also a fairly unprecedented bout of brevity; the spiritual antecedent is the Take Off Your Pants and Jacket cut “Happy Holidays You Bastard,” which clocks a robust 42 seconds.) If the entire album was stuffed similarly, with sneeze-length quips and short stabs of power chords, California would seem no less anomalous for what it’s trying to be: the pop-punk eminence album, evidence humbly submitted that an aging pack of skater brats hasn’t jumped off the hedonic treadmill just yet and is still young, selectively dumb, and full of commiserating angst.

The album is a much slicker petition, though. It opens with a bald-faced admission of nerves, a level stare that doubles as a keen bit of reverse psychology. “There’s a cynical feeling saying I should give up/You said everything you’ll ever say,” Hoppus sighs on “Cynical,” the reedy edge of his voice unchanged. “There’s a moment of panic when I hear the phone ring/Anxiety’s calling in my head.” The glum pall quickly dissipates into the sort of doubletime thrash that powers most garage punk, but it never entirely leaves the record; the earnest California takes plenty of time to sprawl out, from wound-licking power ballads (“Home Is Such a Lonely Place,” “Hey I’m Sorry”) to high-shine navel-gazings that hew closely to past hits. The solemn “Bored to Death” rides a rubbery guitar intro just one note inverted from “Adam’s Song,” a hit from their 1999 breakout Enema of the State, and boasts a chorus deep in conviction only (“Life is too short to last long”).

As the title suggests, a Red Hot Chili Peppers-level obsession with the Golden State serves an undercurrent; “Los Angeles” won’t score any Schwarzenegger tourism ads soon. An ode to “San Diego,” their hometown, rings equally fatalist as a swift chanty about idyllic, surely impossible return. But there are less skilled diplomats to deliver this: especially in the spry, up-pace moments, Hoppus remains an appealing vocalist, determined and frayed, and Travis Barker’s drums are crisp. New addition Matt Skiba, erstwhile frontman of Alkaline Trio, cops some lead vocal duties with a gruff edge that complements Hoppus, and doesn’t attempt to copy the irreverence of his predecessor Tom DeLonge (who’s now thornily fixated on chasing UFOs). The many blithe punk bands their outfits influenced–Paramore, Fall Out Boy–were birthed from this nexus long before it existed on one stage.

There’s one more quick blast of total absurdity here: “Brohemian Rhapsody,” a whole 30 seconds of driving guitars and drum fills with a tinny, sole quip as lyrics: “There’s something about you/That I can’t quite put my finger in.” These two snippets couldn’t be the first dumb little jams Blink-182 committed to tape, not by a long shot, so it speaks to a canny professionalism over the years that we’re just hearing some now. And while the conceit was funnier earlier, even 10 tracks earlier—when our pants fit better and our eyes were wider—it’s still pretty damn likable.