(and I shit my pants)
In addition to earning a Ph. D at Badass University in Beverly Hills in creating awesome titles for blog articles, I'm also a revered and highly decorated music critic; and the results are in, motherfucker. If you don't like at least one of the vast number of Metal genres, you are a faggot and utterly and indefinitely involved in a severe degree of faggotry.
To elaborate further, even so much as disliking Metal is like re-inventing the wheel, except the wheel is called faggotism, and you literally frolic about, faggoting all over the place with a magic wand made of Harry Potter's dirty vaginal pubic hair. Get it yet you tight-green-tunic-wearing fairy? I THOUGHT so... Moving on.
Like honestly... It's the equivalent of engaging in rigorous masturbation, only to then spontaneously decide that you're on the top floor, and that your altitude is simply and indescribably less than satisfactory. You begin to descend down the stairwell towards the bathroom only to stumble in a largely hysterical manner over your own pre-ejaculant, ultimately resulting in your laughable bumpy slanted road to your untimely demise. Minutes later, your biological parents happen upon your small, exposed, shriveled sorry excuse for a premature limp dick. You wake up in a confused and horny daze only to see your Dad. You shamefully walk in silence to your room, putting the experience well behind you, never to be spoken of again.
Oh wait. Next, you venture downstairs to find your Dad examining your family's computer screen intently. After a short time, he removes his credit card from his wallet, and makes an online purchase. You make a peanut butter and faggot sandwich and head back to your gay pink race car bed with the number “intricately detailed picture of a guy sucking a fat dick” on it.
The following brisk Wednesday morning you slowly awaken to faint audits of joy. In the magical light of the beautiful morning sunrise, you saunter down the stairs (like a guy who likes other guys) to your living room.
You turn casually to see your father frantically opening the newly delivered package. In a final brutal act of pure homophobic desperation, he lunges at you with the box cutter, slashing your throat and severing your shitty insignificant balls. As you rapidly lose your blood, you slowly descend toward the floor. With your knees devoid of strength, and your head full of gay scenarios involving blowing dudes, you finally collapse to the floor. With your last bit of conjured strength, you open your eyelids one last time. The soft shadows of a thousand rectangular regrets descend upon you. As your fading vision comes to one last desperate focus, the image lands in front of your face. Mere moments before your grim, dark red blood oozes onto the photograph, you repent your now represented mortal sin to your last hope: the might of the Norse Gods of Metal.
“Not all mortals have the gift”, T. “Big Cock n' Balls” Thor declared loudly. “Indeed”, agreed the impressively hung god Tyr. “But this human has defied the ancient confines of what can even be considered music. He has effectively crossed the line of auditory acceptance, breached the Berlin Wall of talented artists, and trickled his piss along the historical record of enjoyable music to this very day.
“Great Norse Metal Gods of inexplicable rage!” a mysterious voice yelled from the heavens. “Surely this mortal can be forgiven of his awful taste in music, don't you agree?”
But even Jesus would not save this man. The Norse Gods painfully explained to him that the mortal in question preferred the whiny tone of a shitty out of tune guitar combined with the lyrics of a thousand emo dating cliches to the face-melting, boner-inducing concentrated rocking rage of a testosterone fueled asshole rocking power of a Dragonforce guitar solo.
Then suddenly, like something straight out of a version of the Bible that I wrote myself that that definitely would have been more interesting, the Metal Gods and Jesus took action. Raging with the rage of a million rage induced killing spree rages, the mighty Gods burned unto his skin the musical notation of the epic riffs of a thousand John Petruccis; an unreasonable number of platinum albums of a million shitty untalented bands, and the raging melodic melodies of melody of a hundred more Equilibrium keyboard riffs.
“Some may shred and some may jam” Tyr continued. “But if you don't like metal, well...you're just a plain old fag.”
