First things first. Time to Prioritize. I'm gonna chain a goat to Vince Gill's left leg, then shoot that goat dead. Then we'll see how Mr. Vince Gill gits around the big topsy tury world of livin. Why would I have malevolence towards this extremely talented man, as some have foolishly claimed? The fact is simple. I am just mean and I have a vision. Pony Payroll Bones is truly an awful fucking human being.

Well, Glen Campbell is being moved off to tha Alzheimer's facility. He's gotten so wild with tha dementias family cannot handle him anymore. Nostalgia. A disease of very convincing nostalgia.

Let Mr. Campbell regress to those good damn cocaine powdered rhinestone days standing naked except in cowboy boots and a hard on about to get it on with Tanya Tucker.

Tanya cut her foot open. She kicked her leg, of her own volition through the screen glass door. She ran around the beach bleeding. She goes back into condo. Glen KNOWs Tucker has been fooling a fucking with Mr. Merle Haggard himself. Tha Hag himself said, "She jumped into tha bed just like a trained monkey." This phrase repeats over and over like a marble rolling in a cracked blue Chinese porcelain bowl.

Mr. Rhinestone cowboy buddy body boy man seizes up with immense stupid energy. Mr. Galveston unleashes the brute of brutality and hits the hard flesh. The fist connects with Tanya's front two teeth ripping them ungodly from the mouth. Blood is flowing portentously. Gushing. Blood gushing everywhere!

Mr. Campbell will dream in the visceral mutations of dementia, perhaps these ugly things of the past. His wastrel mind and body lost in the cocaine free camouflage scrubs of strangers.

After you smashed Tanya Tucker's two front teeth out, Mr. Campbell, our soulful heroin turned out fine. Even if she occasionally got naked and smeared her natural naked naughty self with blood, blaming the next door neighbor's Doberman. Even if she rode bareback two sparrows into a hurricane.

So let's get back to the dumb fuckery ugly news. Shenanigans abound. Official shenanigans from the officials! HEAR YE HEAR YE!! Ronnie Milsap, Mac Wiseman and Hank Cochran have all been tapped to be in the County Music Hall of Fame. The more special of the three, the suave blind as a rabies bat Mr. Ronnie Milsap, will be nominated to be included in the "Modern Era." category. Hank Cochran is god damn dead.

Country pop balladeer Kevin Sharp got tha old stomach cancer and checked out of Motel Life taking a dive into the ole River Jordan. He was only 43 years of age. The main problematic biological malfunctions were severely concentrated with digestive issues, yet he kept a very optimistic outlook upon life. His hit charting song was honestly not that good. Death does not make anyone a good or interesting musician after the fact.

Blake Shelton may or may not divorced. He is dispelling rumors. Black Shelton may or may not get D I V O R C E. Blake Shelton is famous. Blake Shelton is famous. The rumors concerning him are famous.

Who are the new women of country? Let us fret. Nikki Lane is one. She does a style of country called "concrete country." There is an army of women on the sidelines who want sing mean reality songs.

Here's the obvious spiel of speculation amongst this torrid of vibrant banality. I am certain country music died an awfully quiet suicide of unintentional insincerity in the 1990s. It had something to do with Shania Twain sounding like AC/DC. It was a long slow degenerative disease. It has to do with Garth Brook's mutant children who took the stupidity even further into the vast labyrinth of ferocious facades. Mr. Larry Gatlin I call you out. You contributed. You laid some of scuzzed disease after you stole single handedly all the gold in California.

Beware those who are seduced by ego and uphold that pervasive perverse collective urge to conceal.

I must admit the obvious, that terrible epiphany that country music does not exist anymore. Watch out for tha roots rockers. Watch out for tha new outlaw country. Watch out for Trampled by Turtles. What genre do you fuck him or her in?

Country music does not really cathartically grapple with the ruins of rural America anymore. You git loads of cow shit anthems to delude the working class. You get Hollywood style gossip with the accents grotesquely removed. You get offered deluded shit pokers like Keith Urban who stylistically and metaphorically has burnt corked his face to sound like a whole bunch of Corporate Urban fake R&B.

We're all the working class now. Those rich country music assholes just want your money. They wanna get bigger and TAKE ALL OF YOUR MONEY. They have already turned you into money. They are eating you. They want to completely devour your genitals, dick and cunt.

Simplistically, the history of country music is a loose story about economic warfare. Country music is a pity party. I am ashamed to have fallen a victim to it.

When you love the world so much, what can you do?

These are the end times, when love is sucked servile and senile. Love will set the world free. Country music won't do a damn thing. I want something to matter. I'm gonna find something out there in that whole WORLD out there that absolutely matters!

Oh Yeah, I hear that Mr. Vince Gill is a good guitar player. Someone had to try and busty my balls and tell me that. Well I'm gonna git Mr. Vince Gill AGAIN, real GOOD. I'm gonna chain a second goat to his right leg and then shoot it dead. I'm gonna release tha dogs next. The mean dogs. The dogs that are from the depths of depravity--tha blazing fury of the brimstone black hell. I'm gonna sick those wild dogs to git Mr. Vince Gill. Mr. Vince Gill is gonna have to make a tuff hell of a sprint up the steep slope of Mount Zion to outrun those dogs. Mr. Vince Gill is gonna have that handicap of a dead goat chained to each leg. His technically proficient yet emotionally imaginatively malnourished instrument prowess will do him absolutely no good.

I am mean and mean spirited. Pony Payroll Bones is a horse shit God awful piece of human trash. I am SCUM OF THE EARTH.