Hipsters Out Of Metal!



Ugh, I absorb a lot of insults from my elitist friends for loving Aerosmith. But the scary thing to consider is how often strangers casually slam Aerosmith. Anti-Aerosmith vibe is everywhere! Like, my Pump tee might as well read Who Farted? judging from the eye-rolls I got at the library yesterday. At the bar the day before, I rocked “Deuces Are Wild” on the jukebox and when I returned to punch in “Rag Doll,” it was requested that I not wreck a perfectly nice Sunday afternoon with, ahem, “faggot music”. (I face-blasted that guy with Boston’s “Foreplay/Long Time.”)

But please, good people, you don’t need to put me down for lovvvvvvvving Aerosmith with my entire being across space and time; I already feel pretty bad about it. Everybody everywhere holds you responsible for how they’ve overstayed their welcome by, um, two decades! They say the band is so corny and hideously dressed. And their songs are not theirs. And by the way what in the motherfuck is an aerosmith?

I know all that! And don’t bother pointing out that Aerosmith may reach a new apex in annoying if Steven Tyler is indeed to be a regular on American Idol. You non-fans think you’re annoyed by this new way Tyler has discovered to tunnel into your life, but the major beef belongs to fans like me, who squirm whenever Tyler devotes energy to non-Aerosmith activities. His resources are finite in an very real and very immediate way. This is a fact: Our days are numbered. So please, Steven Tyler, just make one last great fucking Aerosmith record, then go on and sack-tickle Randy Jackson under the table all you want. Eye on the ball, please, Steven Tyler.


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