"Why not support one of your favorite bands?" you might ask. Simple: The majority of their fans are fucking idiots. Have you ever come to like a band only to learn that their fans are so unbelievably shitty they make you reluctant to wear their T-shirts or listen to them in public for fear of being engaged by one of their “enthusiasts”? Jesus cage-fighting Christ, we sure have.
Let’s say you throw on your original Reign in Blood shirt on Saturday afternoon after waking up from a 13-hour nap to go to the mall and pick up lunch from the Kentucky Fried Teriyaki Taco Temple. Problem #1 is that the KFTTT is in the fucking mall. Problem #2 is that my shirt says "SLAYER" in big satanic scrawl across the front. The mall breeds idiots. Idiots listen to Slayer. Slayer fans have a rare form of Tourette’s where they have to yell "Slayer!" anytime the opportunity arrives, or doesn't arrive. Sometimes they'll just be chillin’ at the information kiosk, checking out the MILFs, when they see my shirt and figure everyone will appreciate being knocked on their asses by a simian retard dressed in black with a serial killer haircut bullhorning "Slayer!" through his cupped ham fists. Dude—ladies hate that shit. It makes ‘em call the cops like nobody’s business.
But back to my shirt. It’s the real victim here. I hate it when you see my shirt and start yelling “Slayer!” at top volume while doing a jig and directing everyone’s attention at me. Suddenly people think we're friends. We're not. I hate you. And now, thanks to you, I hate Slayer. Except when I'm alone. Brian Posehn, a lot of this is your fault!
On the opposite end of the spectrum, Radiohead fans, while not as likely to chase all the girls away or catch your house on fire when their methlab goes up, can be acutely tedious in extended conversation. There’s just no “short version” for these people, especially when talking music sub-genres. Be prepared to have everything you like breathlessly and/or dismissively credited to the seed of brilliance, which the benevolently godlike urethra of Thom Yorke hath planted deep within us all. Clearly, Hail to the Thief was the end of the magical era, but the hanger-ons just ain't having it. And if Thom Yorke sharted in a forest and Mike Patton mimicked the sound with his mouth but no one was there to hear them, did either make a sound? Doesn't matter, does it? Die-hard fans of both have already dedicated Facebook pages to these two sounds, whether they happened or not. Better go "like" them before you're crushed by your own inadequacy as an appreciator of really real smart fucking shit.
Speaking of smart shit, Tool is known for making innovative, cerebral, and challenging music. So how the fuck did they get the same fan base as truck nuts, rap-metal, and NASCAR? Perhaps "Prison Sex" causes nostalgia to boil in the loins of these mullet heads, longing for more hot nights in the joint with Goatlard and T-Mack.
Sadly, the classics aren’t immune either. For a guy who professed sobriety, Frank Zappa managed to soundtrack a drug culture so dipshit-laden it can preemptively scare anyone straight in a fucking hurry. So thanks Frank. Because of your fans, no one can ever do avant-garde music again. As soon as someone decides to shoot enough heroin that they're able to shrink down and fit inside the hole on their acoustic guitar and cut some tracks, here come your fans with, "Oh, he already recorded an entire album inside a piano, so you're a little late to the party." Well, guess what? You're an anal womb. Innovations were meant to be ripped off. Just ask Elvis and Lady Gaga. As long as people do something great or terrible with their influences, it's OK. It’s the bland covers that suck. But you probably prefer tired tributes instead of extensions of innovations. You're not even reading this anymore, are you? Soma Coma has taken over. Please leave comments in the bearded lady's pet snake bowl. And while we’re on the oldies, the truth is that Pink Floyd fans are the Yankees/Lakers fans of music—there’s so fucking many it’s hard to take a piss without getting spray on one of the “true believers.” We hereby call for either a forced migration to the King Crimson fan base or a mass die-off of their older, less attractive enthusiasts.
Last but not actually last, radio rock doesn’t get a pass just because we have mostly good taste. Rage Against the Machine was a band with a message—a message that most of their fans don't get. Here's a hint for you slow learners: "Bulls on Parade" is not a rodeo anthem and "Take the Power Back" is not a reference to ending entitlement programs. And firstly by way of lastly, we won't wear a Minor Threat shirt because we don’t want one of their straight edge fans to windmill kick us in the face for having the audacity to drink a beer. The message apparently being that violence is OK to these shitbirds as long as nobody has fun. This just defies every learned thing we've ever sucked into our brains. All straight edge fans should quit supporting music and join the UFC. There’s a good chance some of you will die, which might be enough to make us actually start watching it, but only after smoking a fatty, having unprotected hooker-sex, and funneling a gallon of rum. That’s right: Guilty of being logical.
By Guion Bentley, Shane Gillis with Brian Teasley and Henry H. Owings