Dodging The Bullet

For a number of years, I've professed that Country music will turn a man gay. I've got it documented a number of times in another blog, not to mention the shit I've seen with my own eyes, including on young dude this past New Year's Eve, who dropped a half-full beer on the floor, to go dance with his buddy to some stupid country shit.

Other examples I have is Kid Rock. He used to date Pamela Anderson. That is, until he began recording some of that country-inspired shit, then he dropped her ass like a hot potato. This proves the man is turning gay, because I for one, would never drop Pamela Anderson as a romantic partner. I don't care if she squatted in the middle of my living room and dropped a stanky deuce. As long as she cleaned that shit up, we'd be good to go.

Another example is that Kiwi crooner, Keith Urban. There was a point in which he dumped his (now) wife, Nicole Kidman. They've since reconciled, I can only imagine it's mostly because of her excessive forehead. With her chosen hairstyle, she closely resembles a balding man with a skullet. It's kind of a Jack Nicholson look. Only with nicer boobs. Still quite discombobulating, though.

So last night, I went out with some friends to a local bar, where for the most part, music was enjoyable. I've been there a couple of times previously this year, once when I was painfully inebriated and therefore I'm unable to recall much of that evening, let alone how crappy the music was. I went once more on St. Patty's Day, where I remained sober and hated the music, which was a abundance of heavy beated boogy-boo music and a lot of Rihanna, whose voice I've now equated to sounding like a Scottish bagpipe. Good lookin' girl, sure, but her voice is more grating than nails drug down a chalkboard. But I digress. As annoying as Rihanna is, her music won't turn ya gay. However, country music still will.

As I stated, last night the music was quite enjoyable. Still too much Rihanna for my liking, but it was preferable over the two country music selections that the second rate DJ chose to inject into an otherwise enjoyable musical repertoire. The first song was a murdered version of the Bruce Springsteen classic "Cadillac Ranch". Personally, I don't know why country music homo's would record a song about Cadillacs, in the first place. Everyone knows that cowboys prefer to ride horses, old Cutlass Supremes, and each other. Cadillacs never enter the picture until one is hauling their AIDS-riddled body's off to the cemetery. But thankfully, because the song was written by The Boss, Bruce Springsteen, there was enough heterosexuality in the lyrics to keep me safe from turning. Phew, dodged that bullet.

However, a second country song followed that first one. Only this time it was an original recording from a duo known as Brooks & Dunn. These cowboys were recording music on the cusp between the era's of when country music was okay, because of manly artists like Waylon Jennings and Johnny Cash, but with those two icons dead and buried, musicians have had to stop recording to make way for the fruitier artists like... uh. That Paisley fellow and a whole host of others with equally gay names, I'm sure. Still, with the bouncy beat of the "Boot Scootin' Boogie" raining over me in the cramped quarters of the bar, I soon found myself wishing to be shot in the face.

Let me clarify. I find that country music is SO painful, that I often pray for death when it's being played. Kind of like those individuals in the zombie movies, who'd rather die than become a member of the undead. This is kind of the same. I'd rather be a rotting corpse than a flamboyant gay cowboy, listening to that drivel. So last night, as I sat in the booth next to M______ & D____'s friends, I was quietly wishing to be shot in the face. And not the kind of shot in the face that gay homosexual cowboys like to be shot in the face. I didn't want no beef jerky spitting it's molasses on me. Nope! I was picturing a manly 9mm Beretta blowing the back of my cranium out. No sooner, had I pictured my brains spread across the people inhabiting the booth behind me, than did AC/DC's "Who Made Who", came over the soundwaves, quickly cleansing my soul and eliminating all thoughts of self-termination and demise. Thank the Powers That Be for AC/DC. Sure they can't play worth shit, but they'll never turn anyone gay either.