Music To My Ass

 

Louis CK over here knows what I'm talking about.

Louis CK over here knows what I’m talking about.

Naming every shitty band, rapper or singer–let alone all of the shittiest songs–is a task more daunting than trying to count all the grains of sand at the beach.  Thankfully, narrowing my hatred down becomes much easier when I dissect music by genres.  The following types of music make the deaf seem lucky:

Shitty Country Music – Before you snicker, “Is there any other kind?” the answer is yes, plenty.  What I’m referring to is the unnecessarily twangy-voiced dipshits singing about their goddamn pick-up trucks.  Also known as “Lowest Common Denominator” or “Romney Rally” music.  Every asshole in a cowboy hat has been trying to re-invent “Achey Breaky Heart” for twenty years.  Jesus, my achey breaky balls.

Boy Bands – Created to obscenely mimic and become a gross parody of classic doo-wop groups, every boy band in history’s success has nothing to do with their universally horrendous music, but everything to do with exploiting the stupidity of sexually blossoming little girls.  So it has the unique combination of being both shitty and sleazy.

Pop Sluts – Basically boy bands in reverse, it’s no coincidence that the most talent-less and popular pop icon in recent memory donned a school girl outfit for her first music video, and her first CD cover featured the skirt-clad teenager on her knees in an apparent bukkake pose.

Dance “Music” – Lyric-less mind-numbing bass-driven hunks of shit, chiefly enjoyed by groups of people who like to writhe drunkenly and grope eachother in the dark like an orgy of Neanderthals.  It’s absolutely intolerable to listen to while maintaining sobriety.

Faggy Folk – Those assholes who wear ironic hats and sit underneath trees to annoyingly strum guitars and bemoan their lack of a uterus, among other douchey meanderings.  If it had the power of speech, it’s the type of music a vagina would sing.

Hip-Pop – Responsible for the neutered, soul-less, and record label-driven churning out of a parade of derivative embarrassments.  Lame hook-driven interchangeable beats combined with “rappers” possessing Cat in the Hat-esque lyrical ability.  Much of it spews from below the Mason-Dixon line, and I’ve always suspected the first hip-hop tracks to reach the south were on vinyl and slightly melted.  This is the only explanation for such a hideous mutation of what Cool Herc intended.

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