Welcome to the first column of a brand spankin’ new series I’m calling: Alienating My Audience! It’s where I’ll discuss something that you probably like, but I most definitely loathe. As a writer, it’s just more fun sometimes to bash something you hate than to praise something you love! Maybe that’s why so many critics are utter douchebags. Well, here’s to continuing that tradition of douchebaggery! Feel free to tell me what an asshole I am in the comments section below, but try to keep the gloves above the belt, alright people? It’s all in good fun!

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When it comes to music, there really is no accounting for taste.

This became quite clear to me one day as I enjoyed a delicious latte outdoors at one of my favorite local coffee joints. With a riveting biography in hand, I kicked back with my feet up on the chair next to me, drinking my favorite during-work-hours beverage – patio to myself, king of the castle. That is, until my worst nightmare came barreling down the driveway – a towering beast of a truck, with a hugeass lift and ginorm’ monster wheels that screamed: “I HAVE A SMALL PENIS!” Frankly, I don’t even know what kind of truck it was because I was disgusted with the vile spewing out of its windows.

It was that damn “Chatahoochie” song by Alan Jackson.

Before my nemesis arrived on the scene, the coffee shack in question was cranking a quite pleasurable Sirius station. The Kooks, The Noisettes, Incubus and more were floating out from the house speakers and adding joy to my temporary Zen bubble: happy sun, good vibes, caffeine. Not only was “Chatahoochie” priming to destroy my happytime lunch hour, but there was no escaping it. The driver had his “music” cranked up to 11. I let my sunglasses fall. Not enough so that they fell off face, but just enough so that I could extend an icy stare down to the driver of this noise machine. Because if there’s one thing I hate more than anything else in this world, it’s Country music.

Country music is a leech to our society. It’s shallow, depressing, and fosters a community for cowboy hats, straw chewin’, and idiotic slang. ‘Hillbilly Chic’ is not in this year, people. Or any year, for that matter. Why? Because Country music is God’s punishment for Adam and Eve’s sins. It is the evil incarnate hiding in Pandora’s Box. And it needs to be stopped.

It’s not that I’m a music snob or anything (well, sometimes), it’s just that Country music is so, so nauseating! It’s safe, Western, hick bullshit that makes me want to light someone’s cowboy boots on fire while stomping on a Kenny Chesney Greatest Hits CD. Rarely does it push boundaries, musical limitations, or stir up controversy. It’s just all shotguns and tractors and barbecue sauce stained t-shirts! Vomit.

Though this post may seem shallow in itself, I do admit to being a fan of a few Country artists, but for very specific reasons: The Dixie Chicks, for their killer harmonization and masterful plucking (multi-instrumentalists, for the win. Always); Miranda Lambert, for her feisty, take-no-bullshit attitude; and I enjoy the Country twang of Neko Case’s solo material – her awesomeness cannot be described in less than a bajillion words. I respect music and artists where I see fit, but as for the Chesney’s, Paisley’s, and Alan Jackson’s of the world? You can keep ’em, pard-ner.

Country fans everywhere, I implore you: Seek out some new tunes. Dip your toes into some garage rock, check out an indie club in your town, hell, even listen to some smart Pop. If Country is your only outlet, I do not tip my hat to you. Do not pass go. Do not collect $200. Because let’s be serious: There is far greater and more meaningful music out there yearning to be explored.