Country Music

Country Music

As a result, dear reader, complaints about the horrors of country music may irritate that part of our large audience that Karl Rove calls “the base.”

Perhaps, then, this is not the proper opportunity to declare that the crack young staff is in favor of euthanasia. In fact, we wholeheartedly support randomized, unwitting euthanasia.

And we also loathe NASCAR. Other than Dick Trickle, of course.

Before we begin our savage flogging of country music, we feel the compunction to inform our reader(s) that we do not detest this aesthetically-challenged detritus merely because we are an inveterate pack of Yankees.

If you must know, dear reader, approximately 47 percent of the crack young staff hails from south of the Mason-Dixon line. And a few of us grew up in southern New Jersey.

Even so, dear reader, we simply can’t stomach modern country music. As far as we’re concerned, it’s complete rubbish.

All the songs strike us as sub-par nursery rhymes sung with an irksome twang. To make matters worse, the “stars” of country music appear to have missed the memo that informed the American populace that the Randy Johnson hairstyle is officially out of style.

Even country music devotees are fond of making fun of Billy Ray Cyrus. But we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” can’t figure this out. As far as we’re concerned, all contemporary country music sounds just like that horrible “Ache-y Brake-y” ditty of his.

This doesn’t imply, dear reader, that we haven’t any respect for the roots of country music. But, if you ask us, this genre was far better when its practitioners sang songs about catching and eating armadillos. Frankly, we think that the old tunes make contemporary country singers’ feathered hairdos seem awfully “city-slicker.”

Naturally, dear reader, even though we detest the slide guitar as much as we disesteem George Galloway, we have nothing but deep—nay, profound—respect for the trailer-park white-trash inbreds who enjoy country music.