I always refer to Geno Auriemma as the coach that won’t ever be Pat Summitt, and now I have another one. Every time I see Gwen Stefani’s bony butt, I think to myself, “Look… there goes the chick that will never be Miranda Lambert.”
Miranda Lambert is Loretta Lynn, Dolly Parton, and Reba McEntire all rolled up into one. She’s Carrie Underwood with a twang. While Carrie is my go-to for grace, Miranda Lambert is the go-to for ache. She wails pain like nobody this side of Johnny Cash. From the moment I heard her on Nashville Star, she wore heartache like nobody in country music had seen in a generation. And Miranda Lambert will always be the biggest mistake Blake Shelton has ever made.
Leaving her is up under “bad choices” in Blake Shelton’s life list right behind the wardrobe choice he makes every damn day.
We all know I love country. Am country. Have always been country. How many of the modern day “country music” fans paid to have custom made black and white canvases of Johnny Cash and Dolly Parton made to hang over your fireplace? I did.
I am country music. Will always be country music. Raised in and right outside of Nashville, it’s in my blood the same as Big Orange. And if you hadn’t seen a George Strait show a handful of times before you graduated high school and met Reba McEntire at Green Hills mall in the 90s, you’re not doing this part of the country right.
But when I’m setting in line at Dunkin Donuts — I’m sorry, country boys, if I see the Yeti sticker on your truck, the only thing I think is: “You paid how much for a cooler?”
I, personally, am way more Dolly Parton then I will ever be Jason Aldean. When I make my millions, I’m spending it on books — and then giving it away. I just don’t see the need for all that fancy stuff to keep my drink cold. And, when the hell did country music become a three-minute track that’s nothing but a commercialize plug for the Bass Pro Shop, boys?
And what’s up with Dierks Bentley? I used to adore him. He used to be on my daily running playlist, but lately he always sings solely about bedding — and understand, I’m using that term loosely — some random girl. Now country music has always been about the walk of shame, but lately it seems to be missing the “shame” part. Instead of singing about the remorse of drinking and picking up a stranger to heal your broken heart, we’re bragging about it. Advertising it with pride. Dierks’ last few hits are all about rubbing it in your ex’s face that you picked up an equally drunk bed hopper, but maybe if you weren’t such a slut puppy yourself, she — that girl you really love — wouldn’t have left you. Ever think about that, Dierks-in-the-song? The men in country songs used to, you proud male whore.
Country music has gone to some anti-feminist, female degrading horsesh*t. Long before Maddie and Tae wanted to slap the hell out of Luke Bryan every time he told me to “hand him another beer,” I always responded to the radio myself, ” I’ll give you another beer, but it’ll have something else in it, big boy.”
What the hell happened to country music?
This bro-bonfire female bashing music fest is making me throw up my throat.
But I’m sure Jason Aldean has some liquored up sex I could take with my antacid to make it feel better.
Bring back the ‘Amarillo by Morning’s, not the Luke Bryan taking a selfie with some drunk chick in a bar. By the way, Luke Bryan, if you’re still texting me about how happy you are with someone else — do you not see the problem in that?
Does her drunk ass not?
Over it, country music. Over it! What happened to my Nashville?
An Unhappy Tennessee Girl