Country music sucks balls.

Ok, it’s official.

If I go through the breakroom to find CMT on and no one watching it one more time then the cries of the dying and wounded will echo through these halls for all eternity.

It’s bad enough to be in there working while someone’s on break and be forced to have to endure the musical masturbations of what passes for today’s country music. But to walk in unprepared and be sonically assualted by fucking Sugarland, Kenny Chesnee or Cowboy Troy is un-fucking-forgivable.

I had the misfortune of having to work in the breakroom for a few minutes and was subjected to a thoroughly unhealthy amount of modern “country music”. First up was Trace Adkins, the big 6′8 linebacker looking motherfucker who makes Toby Keith seem like a musical prodigy. His new “song” Swing! consists of the lyrics “Swing batter batter, swing batter batter, swing batter batter, swing!” over and over and over again. As I stood there trying to control the rising torrent of bile gathering in my stomach, I wondered what Ralph Stanley would think of this unbelievable shitty “song”.

The Trace Adkins onslaught abaited and was followed by Hank Williams, Jr. I breathed a little easier, at least Hank Jr was country. He was one of the original outlaws of the 70’s. He knew what country was and how to modernize it without making it sound like the goddamn Backstreet Boys. He’d never lower himself to such depths as Trace Adkins. Right?

Wrong.

As I’m listening to “That’s How They Do It In Dixie” which was a thoroughly run-of-the-mill Hank Jr song, I hear a couple of unfamiliar voices. I look up and who should I see on stage with Bocephus? Big & Rich…sweet fucking christ.

Oh but wait, it got worse…about a minute later Gretchen Wilson, the “redneck woman” herself, starts singing and I realize that Hank Jr is apparantly in desperate need of cash. Why else would he surround himself with such weak ass, shitty, country music impersonators? Fuck…was Billy Ray Cyrus too busy to fly out and do the song?

Look, I know there’s always been a cheese factor built into country music. You never had to look any farther then Porter Wagoner’s sequinned blazer to come to that conclusion. But regardless of that the music itself was country…steel guitar, fiddle, banjo, upright bass…all that shit.

The lyrics and subject matter were simple because let’s fucking face it…most of the artists were simple. Loretta Lynn and Tammy Wynette weren’t exactly fucking brilliant individuals. So i can forgive them for bringing a more simplistic type of song to the party.

Now, all the country musicians sounds like fucking pop stars. There’s no more Gatlin Brothers, no more Charley Pride…no, we get LeeAnn Rimes, Shania Twain and Faith Hill.

While they may all be beautiful women, they’re about as country as Slipknot. They don’t surround themselves with country musicians, they don’t put anything out until it’s produced and polished to near perfection, they smile and wave at their little teeny-bopper fans, the songs get played on MTV and VH1. Am I the only person who remembers George “No Show” Jones?

He’d show up for concerts if you were lucky. If you’re even luckier he wouldn’t be drunk. And if you were lucker still he might actually play a song you wanted to hear. Don’t yell songs out to him…he doesn’t like that. That’s a good way to get a profanity laced tirade directed your way.

Recording songs was a simple matter…he’d walk into a sound booth, record it in one take and leave so he could get drunk.

There was a roughness and an edge to country music that is sorely lacking in todays country/pop shitty fusion.

Country music used to be about rebellion…now, it’s all about political correctness.

The only connecting thread between today’s “country” and the true country of the past is the oppressive Velvetta-iness of it all.

Country music 15 years ago would be crucifying George W. Bush. Today The Dixie Chicks get death threats for simply saying they’re ashamed to be from the same state as the cocksucker. Their songs get pulled from country radio, they’re made into pariahs for speaking their minds.

Saying stuff about the president is immoral and unchristian…but singing songs about fucking, drinking, cheating and fighting is perfectly fine. What a bunch of goddamn hypocrites.

“She thinks my tractor’s sexy”…give me a motherfucking break.

So yeah, country music sucks big fat sweaty donkey balls.

Do yourselves a favor, if you want to hear country music…real country music…then try Hank Williams Sr., Marty Robbins, Merle Haggard or Waylon Jennings.

Because I’ve got news for you, once you hear true country music you’ll be as repulsed by the shit they’re playing now as much as I am.

The time I met Darth Vader…

As I was talking to some friends today I related a story to them that in all honesty I had completely forgotten.

I mean, I still knew it…I just forgotten that I knew it. Hopefully that makes at least a little sense.

So anyway, it was about the time that I met Darth Vader.

I was 6 years old when the magic of Star Wars entered my life in 1977. Like every other kid in the world at that time I was fucking hooked. I had Star Wars lunchboxes, books, comics, records, toys, posters, pajama’s, bedclothes…everything.

If they had slapped Han Solo’s face on a tube of KY Jelly I would’ve owned it. I wouldn’t have known what the fuck it was or what it was used for…but I would’ve owned that mother fucker just the same.

Me : “Hey Mom!”

Mom : Yes, dear?

Me : What does ‘personal lubricant’ mean?

Mom : Uhhhh…would you like some candy little man?

Me : Candy! Golly…I love candy! What were we talking about?

Mom : You were telling me about how much you love the baby Jesus.

Me : I was?

The Star Wars craze hit such a fervor that Darth Vader, the Dark Lord of the Sith himself, made a personal appearance tour around the country at select stores to promote the toys. One of those stops was at my hometown…Greenville, SC.

My grandfather, who wouldn’t have known a Jedi Knight from a donut, took me to the downtown airport so I could see Darth Vader arrive in town.

I shit you not…Darth Vader flew into town on a fucking Lear jet. There were tons of us standing outside in the oppressive summer heat waiting for a dude in a patent leather outfit and a cape to climb out of a private jet. The local news was even there to film Darth Vader getting off the plane in Greenville.

It retrospect it was probably one of the most surreal things my grandfather had ever experienced.

Finally, Vader’s plane arrived. It taxied up next to the fence, a ramp was rolled up to the door. I was shaking…Darth FUCKING Vader was about to step out of that plane.

The door opened and there was a hulking dark mass looming just inside the plane, out of sight.

Suddenly, out strode Darth Vader…his cape billowing in the wind. I almost pissed on myself. The sun reflected off his gleaming black helmet. His lightsaber hung at his side.

He slowly decended the ramp, waved at us, got in a car, and was driven away.

He was scheduled to make an appearance at a department store downtown so my grandfather and I rushed to get there in time.

When we arrived there were even more people there then at the airport and the line extended out of the store and into the street. There was talk about cutting the line off, that maybe everyone who had come wasn’t going to get to meet Vader. I was crushed…I had to see him. I had to meet Darth Vader.

I remember my grandfather telling me “Don’t you worry baby…Papa’s gonna get you in to see Darth Vader”

So we waited and waited and the line got shorter and shorter. Eventually we made it inside and pretty soon I could see HIM. Sitting on a small stage, surrounded by children and adults was Darth Vader.

Then, almost as if by magic…it was my turn.

I slowly stepped forward. I was still shaking from the heat and the excitement. There, looming before me was Darth Vader. I could see my face reflected in his mask. I could hear the leather suit as he moved…Darth Vader was real. He was alive and I was standing 3 feet from him.

Suddenly, all the evil shit Vader had done in the movie flashed before my eyes.

Holy Shit! This was Darth Vader. The villian who had killed Ben Kenobi, who had betrayed and destroyed the Jedi Knights. The man who had killed Luke’s father, and tried to kill Luke himself. This was a man who had killed a man with his bare hands and thrown his lifeless body aside like a ragdoll. This was a man who could choke you using only the power of the Dark Side. A man who carried a lightsaber and who’s heart was as black as the armor he encased himself in.

As I stood there…staring into the face of what was up to that point the most evil and cruel thing I’d ever been exposed to, I suddenly found myself not happy or excited. Oh no…I was afraid.

More then afraid…I was fucking terrified. This man had killed people, millions of people, a whole fucking planet…he was evil incarnate, and I was standing so close to him that I could smell him.

He reached for me…and I screamed.

Ok, so that’s pretty pussy now I know…but fuck, I was 6 and standing in front of Darth Vader. Fantasy and reality were new concepts for me. Mom and Dad had told me the things I saw on TV and the movies weren’t real, that it was all make-believe. Well if that was true then how could I be standing in front of Darth Vader? If Vader was real then all the things he did were real too, right?

Vader got up from his chair and stepped towards me, his hand still reaching for me…I screamed and begged for help. I begged for someone to help me…for someone to save me from Darth Vader.

And then suddenly, something was in front of me. Someone was between me and Vader, shielding me…protecting me. My grandfather, god bless him, had leapt between me and Vader. He was inches from Vader, standing between us.

I cried harder now. This was all my fault, now my Papa was going to get hurt by Vader and it was all my fault. What could he do, what could my Papa do to stop Darth Vader? Was he crazy? All i could think was that I didn’t want to see my Papa hurt by Darth Vader. I remember begging Vader “Please don’t hurt my Papa…please don’t hurt my Papa.”

Vader looked at me, and then stared at my grandfather.

With a power in his voice I had never heard before my grandfather commanded Vader… “Sit down…stay away from him.”

Vader looked at me, then looked at my grandfather…and slowly backed away.

My grandfather reached down, scooped me into his arms and took me home.

I can’t begin to tell you what that memory does to me…it’s all kinda silly now, but my grandfather had become something I had never thought about him being before.

He was my hero.

He saved me from what I thought was almost certain death. He stood up to the most terrifying thing I’d ever met. He’d not only stood up to it but he had made Darth Vader back down.

Darth Vader didn’t want to fuck with my grandfather…and I had never loved him so much in my entire life.

He’s performed that act many, many times…always standing between me and anyone who dared to threaten me. Ever since that day he’s been my hero…the person I want to be more then anything else in the world.

I still love him, more then words can say. I go to sleep every night and wake up every morning and hope that at 35 years old I can still grow up to be half the man that he is. I’m still coming up pretty fucking short to be honest. But I’ll tell you one thing…I’d stand between him and Darth Vader any day.

I owe him that and more.

To the Queensryche Fan Club…

I see you guys are leaving comments and apparantly diggin’ what I have to say about the new album…so thanks for that!

Also, I noticed that I’m getting quite a lot of hits from the official bulletin board, but when I try to check the actual thread to see what you guys are saying, or more correctly what’s driven you over to my insignifigant corner of cyberspace, I get a pop-up window requesting my fanclub sign in information.

Well since I’m not a fan club member that kinda leaves me in a bit of an awkward situation.

Can one of you folks help a brother out? I’d love to see what comments are being left there…as of now I’m totally in the dark.

Thanks in advance for your help!

Cinlach Hates “Professional” Eaters…

Thanks to the wonders of an incomprehensible corporate budget, my company somehow came to the decison that a 42 inch plasma screen TV was just what the doctor ordered for increasing inter-office morale.

As a result, we’ve been exposed to the horrors of daytime TV…be it in the form of the neverending stream of Fear Factor reruns or The Worlds Scariest Police Chases marathons.

Usually our big, fucking unneccesary, 42 inch plasma screen TV is on any number of stations such as The Weather Channel, CMT, CNN, The History Channel or The Playboy Channel (don’t laugh, it actually fucking happened, pardon the pun).

But a couple of days ago, as I was heading into the breakroom for my manditory afternoon pack of cookies and shot of caffinated inspiration, I happened to wander right smack in the middle of a televised eating contest on ESPN.

I shit you not…a televised eating contest.

As I stood there and watched these “athletes” being introduced and interviewed, one thought circled around in my stunned little brain…You have GOT to be fucking kidding me.

Look folks, I can get into obscure sports as much as the next guy. I can see the athleticism involved in stuff like Australian Rules Football, Professional Bull Riding, The Pikes Peak Hill Climb, and Table Tennis. But there’s absolutely NO FUCKING WAY anyone on this planet will ever make me believe that a dude who eats 48 hot dogs in 10 minutes is anywhere remotely near an athlete.

I mean, come on…he’s just eating fucking hot dogs. These people are nothing but professional gluttons, plain and simple. We’ve got people lying in the streets STARVING TO DEATH and these cocksuckers are gonna eat 48 hot dogs on national TV?? Fuck you.

So as I watched on in growing disbelief and more then a little disgust, a commentator began interviewing one of the “favorites” for this days “competition”. That’s when I heard a man who eats hot dogs for a living actually have the balls to use words like “training”, “desire”, “mental toughness”, “will to compete” and “bring home the victory” with a straight face.

At this point I could’ve turned the channel and seen Paris Hilton receiving the Nobel Prize for “Excellence in Quantum Mathematics” and it couldn’t possibly have been any more surreal.

In my head I imagined how the interview should’ve actually gone…

Commentator : Hello food fans! I’m Chester McBarf here with the hottest man in Professional Eating, the American wunderkind Peter “The Hot Dog” Licker.

Since winning his first Denny’s Green Tablecloth in 2004, he’s had a full plate of appearances, charity events and let’s not forget…food! So what can this crazed culinary crowd expect from you here today Peter, do you think you’ve got the constitution to gobble up 3 wins in a row?

Peter Licker : Well first Chester, I just want to say hello to all my fans and sponsors out there…I couldn’t live the American dream without all you guys. As for todays event, all I’ll say to my fans is this…I came here to chew bubblegum and eat hot dogs, and as of right now, I’m all out of bubblegum.

My amazement at the fact these people were actually getting interviewed on national television as though they were important was overshadowed when I saw the fucking THRONG of people who were there to see these assholes eat. I mean there must’ve been a couple of thousand people there to see a bunch of pretentious pricks eat hot dogs.

That’s all they’re gonna do folks…they’re gonna eat fucking hot dogs! There’s no blocking, no kicking, no punching, and certainly no strategy involved…just a bunch of guys (and one chick…what the fuck is up with that?) eating an absolute shitload of hot dogs.

And then the ultimate discovery dawned on me…virtually every single one of these assholes were thin. Sure there was a portly fucker here or there, but the vast majority of these “professional” eaters were wafer thin.

So, if I’m understanding this process and the human metabolism correctly, if you eat a massive amount of hot dogs, chimichangas, raw oysters, vienna sausages and other assorted sundries you should be overwhelmingly fat…but these folks weren’t.

So what would be your logical conclusion?

That’s right, the same one I came up with…they eat all this shit and then, after the contest is over they puke it back up. It’s not bad enough these reprehensible cunts are eating food that other people could live off of for a month but then, after they’ve done it…they puke it back up.

Only in a prosperous country like the good ol’ United States of America could such a complete and utter waste of time like professional eating be considered a “sport”.

They have an activity very similar to this in many famine ravaged parts of Africa…it’s called “everyday”.

That’s right, in this version of the “sport”, players get up in the morning (assuming that the pain wracking their malnourished bodies allows them to get up in the first place) and then try to find something to eat. The winners get moldy bread, maggot ridden meat, rancid vegetables or plain white rice and stave off starvation for another day…the losers get nothing and slip inexorably closer to death.

That’s right folks, unlike professional eating here in the states and other parts of the world, if you lose enough over there, you don’t lose your world ranking, sponsors or fans…you fucking die.

So here’s to you, “professional” eaters of the world…may you all one day feel the helplessness and gnawing hunger that hundreds of thousands of men, women and children feel every goddamn day of their lives in their neverending search for food and ultimately, life.

You fuckers wanna eat something? I have a suggestion for you…

Why don’t you eat shit and die.