My wife forced me to listen to country music this weekend.  Perhaps forced is not truly accurate.  It is just that we have a rule that the person who is driving gets to listen to the radio station of his or her choice.  I didn’t make the rule.  But I have to abide by it.  Without the rule of law, man is nothing more than a dirty animal.  And who wants to be that?  Well, there is that guy who lives with a wolf pack and thinks he is a wolf.  That guy sure seems to want to be a dirty animal.

Wooooooowhoooooooo!!!!  Take a shower, wolf guy.  It isn’t cool to let wolves piss on you.  Though some people let people piss on them.  I hear it is good for staving off infection.  Like when you don’t have access to antibiotics, I guess.

Speaking of distasteful things, back to the country music torturing.  You know, it isn’t that I think that country music is terrible.  (It is better than jazz.  Probably on par with techno.  It gives reggae a run for its money.)  The thing I can’t stand about it is that it has lost touch with its roots.  Once, country music was about divorce and bar fights and dead dogs and wolf piss.  Now, it is about some pretty boy from the city faking a southern accent and talking about the dirt roads where he and the boys used ta’ go frog giggin’ and drinkin’ beers (when they weren’t chasing Daisy Sue).

As a rural person, let me set something straight.  Nobody wants to be catching frogs and drinking cheap beer with their buddies.  They would rather be hanging out with a girl and watching a movie (preferably on SyFy, but one shouldn’t be greedy).  The problem is that there aren’t any girls in a rural area.  Or damn few.  And the good ones get snapped up by twenty-three year old guys with their own trucks.  There is nothing cool or romantic about this.  Plus, nobody actually ever catches any frogs.  They are too elusive.  “Ninjas of the Night” I call them.  Ribbit.  Ribbit.  Can’t catch me, hillbilly.  Why don’t you get a girlfriend?  Loser.  Ribbit.

Of course, my wife doesn’t care if I’m tortured by country music.  She has a mean streak, I suppose.  Ten foot wide.  That she learnt while growing up in a trailer.  And drinkin’ in a honky tonk down by the river.  If only this were true.

In reality, she grew up in a nice house on the hill and vacationed with her family at the lake.  See?  Fraudulent.  She did ride horses, though.  Partially fraudulent.  Best horse song?

Wild Horses by the Sundays.  Hands down.  Not a country song, mind you.

And one more thing.  Lynyrd Skynyrd, the Eageles and the Marshall Tucker Band aren’t country music.  Stop your revisionist history, bumpkins.  Have you no shame?

Best country song?  Ruby by Kenny Rogers (of all people).  For those of you who aren’t familiar with it, Ruby is about a paraplegic Vietnam vet whose wife is stepping out on him.   The final line of the song is “if I could move, I’d get my gun and put her in the ground.”  Hahahaha.  Bitch.  Pow Pow Pow.

Now that’s America.

Y’all.