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I Am American Metal

Behold my camo cut-off shorts! Their undulating blobs of green and brown represent the wide verdant fields of this amazing free country! This pattern illustrates my love of traditional pastimes like hunting and military service, but their frayed ends signify my repulsion of typical values and authority! Behold! I am American Metal!

Feel the might of my facial hair! The healthy follicles pouring from my chin and cheeks are like those of the mighty grizzly bear, massive stalker of the American forests! Let not my mane of oily greatness be declared false by any man, even when, in my later years, I trim it into a soul patch or vertical-bar goatee! Never shall it fall smooth or straight, but instead be curly and kinky and wild and bespeckled with foamy droplets of the cheapest beer! Do not piss on my facial hair, for I am American Metal!

Drink deeply of my domestic beverages! My beer shall be cheap, yellow, and delivered in only the tallest of boys! My tall boys are so tall that I must hold them with two hands; I have already won our game of wizard staff, though if your vagina mouth should queef out an argument, I will consume a 30-rack of affordable suds in seconds and duct tape them together to create an aluminum scepter that touches the heavens. My whiskey shall be Jack Daniels, its black label screaming my allegiance to Kentucky bourbon and large-breasted southern women. Should a jovial mood or ample paycheck strike me, let me replace it with Makers Mark, the wax coating its top like the blood of the men who died for my freedom. Let us only deviate in nationality for the sake of Crown Royal, for as Dimebag did, so shall I do! Quaff my swill, for I am American Metal!

Beware my groove! The groove is the way, the way of Dimebag, the way of Adler and Morton! Let its bluesy power wash over you, bidding your foot to tap, your hips to sway, your head to bang. As the groove swings and pummels, so do my ham-sized fists as I enter the mosh pit, forsaking all karate and breakdancing in favor of the ancient discipline of shoving and group-headbanging. Let my groove not be broken by keyboards or silly Malmsteenian guitar antics, but only by blistering solos that more often than not sound like whinnying horses. As Kerry King does it, so shall I! Blaspheme not my grooves and whinnies with your European melodic bitch-assery, for I am American Metal!

Hail Slayer! Deny not that Slayer is god, and that all metal kneels before Slayer! Scream their name at the most dulcet of family gatherings! Though Metallica be our grandest claim to the music industry at large, let us not forget that they cut their hair and made whine rock at one point, and that they feature a native Dane. Though Chilean in ancestry, Tom Araya is from California! Slayer is the law! They are thrashy and brutal, gory and Satanic but still possessing of a Christian member, ready to write about war and guns, never afraid to express their often less-than-PC opinions in the press! Let Kerry King stand as the bald, heavily tattooed, chain-toting monolith to which all who choose to play jagged black guitars must pay tribute! Diss not Slayer in my presence, for I am American Metal!

Tremble beneath my Satanic might! All the cravats and hellfire clubs in Romania hold not a candle to the backwoods blasphemy that occurs between my shores! Scandinavia may have birthed arch black metal, but Louisiana birthed sludge, truer than black metal in its obsession with sadism and prescription painkillers, which are greater scourges than any prancing imps you hail as dark lords of your fictional abyss! Your occult practices come from Aleister Crowley’s flowery prose, while ours are straight out of True Detective, immersed in seizure-inducing drugs and the grime-caked corpses of the poor! Look not down your corpsepainted noses at my inverted majesty, for I am American Metal!

Never forget my strength! Though the great European power-gods of old defined this genre, it was I who made it cool! It was I who merged the twin fashion movements of punk and NWOBHM into thrash! It was I, side by side with my brother American Hardcore, who brought danger and destruction to your baroque Shakespearean nonsense! It was I who took the art movement of grindcore and made it a brutal gore-soaked bulldozer of death metal! It was I who brought the muscle, the hustle, the true menace and rage to this fiery hellish genre! Never forget the offerings you owe me! Never forget my name! I am American Metal!

— Scab Casserole

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