In Which A Misanthrope Whines About Country Music

Will Hobson, Staff Writer

Warning: The rant below is a reflection of the writer’s flimsy grasp of reality, and at times, it may be irrational, twisted, and absurd. Exercise extreme caution!

The biggest cow patty in the pasture.

The biggest cow pat in the pasture.

Operating the FM dial in the car recently has become akin to walking through the field of a lactose intolerant cow. This is to be expected, of course, from the commodity service jam-packed with stations peddling soul-decaying rap and monochromatic pop, but the biggest cow pat in the pasture is the presence of modern country stations, the False Prophets of this day and age. And if they are the False Prophets, then Luke Bryan is their Antichrist.

But I’m not sure whether to sue Rick Bragg or not. That’s not because I blame him for the end times, but it’s because, when I was getting ready to sit myself down and actually write something for once, I came up with a lead-in line that was a golden example of my fine literary skills. However, what do I find, but that Mr. Bragg used that exact same line in an exact same column as my continuing rant. I was and am incensed that the Man who makes Southern Living a barely bearable publication and who is the author of my go-to reading material when I’m occupying the commode would plagiarize my future brain’s genius. What kind of a reprehensible person would write something down in a nationally syndicated column that months later I would think of and plan to use in a college-level newspaper? That would be like Edgar Allan Poe stealing from John Green and his perpetually popular The Fault in our Stars, and if that happened, people would be rioting in the streets!

Now, a more principled person would let the first one in line stay as the first one in line (even if the red-nosed buffoon cut up to the front), but I have no principles, no morals, no restraint. I lose no sleep that my state as a misanthrope is impenetrable, but morals are worth jack-crap to someone whose brilliances were spirited away by a past version of a Pulitzer Prize winning journalist. I might sue. Most likely.

So I decided to press on, mostly because when you have acute insomnia and are up for three nights in a row stewing over a rant on pop country artists in a delirious haze, you tend not to care about ethical guidelines. Like to the point to where you would believe murder on a dirt road would be as normal as Thursday coming after Wednesday.

By the way, what’s so great about dirt roads?  Other than the tenuous nature of nostalgia hanging off the impression they give like moldy honey, there is very little that is objectively good about them, and there seems to be even less when considering “bro-country’s” unnatural affinity towards them. When considering their rutted tracks full of suspension destroying bumps and their gear clogging pea gravel and red clay, it is hard to rationalize the sensual tones paired with body-bumping bass that v-neck wearing freaks like Florida Georgia Line croon when considering the acts of depravity they’ll consecrate on the sides of those poor dirt roads. The way they swoon over those tracks makes it seem like when Judgment Day comes we’ll find out that there was a crucial mistranslation in the Bible, and in fact, we’ll see that heaven is paved with bricks of red clay, which sounds an awful lot like a country song verse.

Anyways, I have no clue what I’ve talked about. However, if you do know what I wrote about, send me an email, and I’ll send you a couple of bags of hard candy that I found under my sofa last week.