Nashville Knucklehead

Countrified Posse

Fellas,

I recognize your buddy there. He's sitting right next to me. He's been good to Music Row. He's a regular on the Opry, he churns out videos one after another, he's handsome and charming and well-spoken enough to take turns doing guest host stints on the video countdown shows. That's great that your buddy is doing so well.

And, because you played football with him in high school, you're doing well too. Good for you. Hell, even Elvis had a posse with Red and Sonny and all those guys. It's sort of a tradition. So that's great that you all got jobs as bus driver or guitar tech or road manager, it beats the crap out of being assistant night manager at the Red Lobster back home in Dunderfuck, Arkansas, doesn't it?

Those are some fine looking women you got there, too. Every one of them has a tiny little ass crammed into really tight jeans. In fact, when your group walked in, I commented to my friend that there must be some kind of super pooper convention going on in town.

It appears that you are assimilating pretty well into this world of decent cash and nearness to fame. I understand that you can't control how and where you were raised, and you can't do anything about your accent. Actually, in the world you travel in, country dumbfuck is an accent that is readily accepted, even embraced. So that's OK. You all have interesting, closely shaved facial hair configuations. Very hip. Your shirts are freshly pressed from the dry cleaners, which shows class. Bold pink stripes aren't for me, but what do I know about fashion?

But fellas, I'm a little worried about all the bling. Look at your buddy there, the famous one. He's just got on jeans and a sweatshirt. He looks comfortable with himself and, dare I say, normal. You guys have gold hoop earrings, big medallions on gold chains, big-ass watches and more rings than Dante's hell. Your peacock jewelery display makes you look like you just got back from Liberace's estate sale. You look like you're trying to be all ghetto, like you're in Shizzle McGangbang's posse. But you're all big ole white country boys. Well, you're a lot younger than me, I guess that's in style these days and those hotties don't seem to mind.

But let me tell you something about those hotties. They are fucking you, but they want to be fucking him. Eventually there is going to be a dealbreaker, and they are going to figure out that you are a bunch of ignorant rubes, and fucking you just really isn't worth it. And I think I am witnessing that dealbreaker right now.

It's the wine. You're constantly swirling your wine glass, sticking your nose down in it like you're at the chef's table in a boutique restaurant in Manhattan, and picking up the bottle to check the label for the vintage and varietal. You're trying to act like you know what you're doing. But you don't. How do I know? I can tell what kind of wine it is from over here. It's white fucking zinfandel. It's cold, and pink and tastes like candy. It doesn't have a nose or a finish. It is made for people with vaginas. And the people at your table that qualify to drink it are smart enough pass on it. You are making it perfectly clear that you just fell off the fucking turnip truck, posse boys.

P.F. Chang's sells beer. You should try to use that to your advantage.

posted by Nashville Knucklehead @ 9:32 AM