That Guy – The Country Music Fan
Well Hey there, soggybottoms. Sorry, I’m a little late getting in here, I was sorting through my Facebook page, just checking to make sure I didn’t miss any pictures of downed trees, or knocked over trash barrels. Riveting stuff.
Anyhoo, now that we’re over annoying spritz Irene and the TV weather people can go back to being worthless, I was figurin’ I could do a little That guy about those chumpwads who overreacted to the storm and tie a nice little bow on it and go out and get drunk as soon as we’re done here today, but then I thought about it, and it seems a little predictable, no? Kinda like picking diabetes or crushed by a huge oil drum filled with lard as Kevin’s likely cause of eventual death, it just seemed a little too obvious.
Besides, as I was perusing my twitter feed to see if anyone actually suffered any actual damage for Irene, (seriously, the girl named Irene who used to steal my cupcakes in 4th grade spit more and had more fury than that quote unquote storm) there was an overload of tweets and wordvomit about how disappointed some people were that since the weather wreaked havoc on scheduled event and that meant some show had to get moved around, their Kenny Weekend was ruined. Kenny weekend? Was there a South Park marathon going on that I’m not aware of? But when my girlfriend explained to me they were talking about Kenny Chesney, I knew I had my that guy for this week. That guy who listens to country music.
Now, I know you think you know where this is going. But you’re wrong. I LOVE country music. Johnny Cash, Willie Nelson, Merle Haggard, Loretta Lynn, anything off of the Smokey & The Bandit soundtrack, Waylon Jennings… you know, country music. The genre Garth Brooks killed back in the 90s. This Kenny Chesney crap? That’s not country music. Neither is Brad Paisley, Keith Urban, or any of those bleach blonde bimbos running around in cowboy boots. That shit’s pop as fuck. Country music is heartfelt, gritty, man at his most basic and honest. I’M PRETTY SURE dudes can’t sing a true country song with plucked eyebrows.
Taylor swift, Carrie Underwood, and all the rest of the sexy starlets are just Britney Spears with a cowboy hat that’s been run through a twang generator instead of Autotune. You’re basically listening to American Idol contestants singing songs written by a committee of corporate douchebags. Another way to put it is that you’re listening to this decade’s version of Boy bands. Seriously, look at Rascal Flatts and tell me they don’t look like carefully crafted redneck versions of the Backstreet Boys.
There’s an old joke that you can make any pop song a Christian rock song just by replacing the word Baby with Jesus in the lyrics, you can do the same thing to this new country crap by switchin’ it to darlin’, and dropping a random tractor reference. The last real country music artist was probably Randy Travis, and this bastardized homogenized paint-by-numbers mass produced Nashville-via-Hollywood drek you’re listening to would make him try to hang himself by his bolo tie.
I know it’s all the rage right now, but it’s just like the food you get at the fair, it might be Oreos or chicken fingers or pickles, but it doesn’t matter after it’s all fried to death in the same boiling hot grease so that it all tastes the same and slides down your gullet easier. Don’t try to tell me you listen to country music and drive around in your pickup truck with your Guy Fieri with a guitar AKA Toby Keith CD blasting, because you’d probably ride that truck of yours out to the donut farm I told you about so you could go see where your food comes from, seeing as your more naive than Kevin when he accepts compliments on his haircut. “No seriously, you look a little less like a grown up morbidly obese version of the Dutch Boy paint kid. “
So go download a Highwaymen album on iTunes, find the Grand Old Opry on Google maps, and learn a real thing or two about country, or else I’ll take that Scotty McCrery shot glass you just did a fuzzy navel out of and cram it up your cramhole. Do me a favor, don’t be that Guy, darlin’.