Last night, the Academy of Country Music Awards were held in Las Vegas. It’s easy to get the ACM’s confused with the CMA’s, because much like commercial country music, it’s all just the same shit in a slightly different order.

Three years ago, Troy Gentry pled guilty to shooting a domesticated, caged bear named “Cubby.” This year the ACM gave Montgomery Gentry their humanitarian award. As horrible as that may be, it still shows more integrity than giving them an award for their music.

Fancy!

Seriously, you’re going to put on that jacket and a $500 cowboy hat, with a perfectly groomed cock trellis for a mustache and expect two weak fists to make you look tough? That just makes it look like the Village People’s wardrobe boy was phoning it in.

Brad Paisley has a paisley print guitar? Well isn’t that just darling.

So, I guess, ultimately, Charlie Daniels lost that fiddle competition with the devil and his soul.

When I saw this, I immediately googled “John Fogerty, IRS problems,” and nothing came up. Did I misspell his name or something?

Taylor Swift performed but didn’t win any awards, which proves there is a God, but he’s a vengeful bastard.

Keith Urban waxes his chest, because, you know, that’s country.

Carrie Underwood won Entertainer of the Year. What? It’s not like they call the category Artist of the Year.

I just can’t figure out how Laura Bell Bundy got a record deal. No idea at all.

Someday, Cowboy Troy will write his auto-biography. It will be the most disturbing book ever written, described as a combination of To Kill a Mocking Bird, The Diary of Anne Frank, and the Cocaine Chronicles.

“I can hear the ocean— and it’s selling out… wait, that’s my blood.”

The moment Fergie walked on stage at the Grammy’s wearing a metal visor and matching codpiece, somewhere backstage, a disgruntled wardrobe person won a $10 bet and grinned big enough to make another year of this bullshit seem worthwhile.

Something is seriously wrong with our society’s disconnect from reality. Watching these four clowns dressed like villains from a bad Tron spinoff jump around for three minutes and yell “mazoltov” in a robot voice doesn’t make your credit card debt go away.

Does Ke$ha always look like she just got fucked in the ass for heroin for the first time? Is that her thing? Cool.

It’s hard to believe Jamie Foxx sounded more ridiculous than he looked.

That “Blame it on the Alcohol” song by Jamie Foxx and T-Pain won a Grammy for best R&B performance by a duo or group with vocals. Yeah, vocals. That, in a nutshell is the state of the music industry today.

Lady Gaga brought some class and artistry to the crowd. Seriously. Yes, I am looking at the same picture as you.

If Lady Gaga doesn’t occasionally lie in bed at night and giggle, no one does.

If I was involved enough in Native American culture to make an album Native American music, it would take more than one trophy to make me this nice to white people.

Honestly, it’s got to be really hard to be in your mid thirties and to try to compete with Lady Gaga. You go get ‘em, Pink!

When Lionel Ritchie sees kids that are too fucked up to have a chance, he knows it.

As if it’s not strange enough to be raised by Michael Jackson, to have your father die so publicly, and for you to be used by his remaining family for fame and fortune, it has to be a serious head fuck when your dead, pedophile father is broadcast in 3-D.

“Seriously, you gonna give me crap? Taylor Swift won five fucking Grammys. I may be a part of the American Idol bullshit pop machine, but at least I can sing other people’s songs well. That bitch is tone deaf. No seriously, did you hear her with Stevie Nicks? Jesus Christ, that was fucking horrible. I mean Stevie was great, but shit, that was shameful. Honestly, I just feel bad for the other musicians here. It really devalues their work and talent. It’s a shame.”

I had to no idea you could actually see someone missed a note.

“Oh wow, Record of the Year—jeez, gosh, I don’t know what to say– I’d like to thank God, or as you call him, “Satan.’”

You think a lot of little girls ask their fathers for ponies? Wait until they find out that Taylor Swift’s dad bought her first million albums before they were ever recorded in order to get her a record deal.

Taylor Swift’s rise to the top has been so warrantless and without merit, that I’m actually starting to fear her inevitable train wreck will be too tragic for me to enjoy.

And of course, congratulations to Booker T and all the many, many more very talented artists who won and were nominated for untelevised awards. Except Michael Buble. He knows why.

It’s easy to talk shit about 2009 when it’s got it’s back turned, so “Fuck you, you stupid twat! Yeah, walk away. Walk away, dick.” I’m aligning myself with a winner. The hot new thing: 2010. So here now are my predictions for the music world next year:

Oasis will reunite, and then breakup again following a slap fight after Noel accidentally wore one of Liam’s Polo shirts.

Due to overly constricting skinny jeans and the lack of support in Chuck Taylor’s, a hipster will lose control of his muted, self-conscious dancing and spill an ironic beer on Animal Collective’s equipment and electrocute them all. No one will notice, as it sounds more or less the same. It doesn’t sound bad per se, if that’s your kind of thing, just about the same.

Madonna’s shriveled and aged vagina will fall out of her pants during a trip to Africa. Her fans will call it a brave statement of sexual independence, while locals will use it as birth control.

Jay Reatard will slap his biggest fan in the face with his dick, and yet it will still be pretty cool.

Bon Jovi will release an album so bad that it will actually find your old copy of “Slippery When Wet” and destroy it.

The Back Eyed Peas will release an autotuned recording of Fergie having an abortion. It will break all known sales records.

Taylor Swift: Scientologist.

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Jermaine Jackson accepting the award for best pop/rock male artist, in honor of his brother, a dead, drug-riddled, child molester who didn’t release an album this year. Nothing strange about that.

Due to extenuating craziness, I think we have all over looked the significance and hilarity of the fact that Jermaine Jackson has a son named “Jermajesty.” No shit, that’s really his name.

On the outside, it probably seems like Daughtry’s go it made. He doesn’t do jack shit and he gets paid in cocaine and pussy, but underneath it all, he has to feel like Don Draper if his wife, three pregnant chicks, his long lost brother, and his real birth certificate all walkedinto his office at the same time.

“Oh no, Whitney, no. No, you can’t use this to chisel away the oxycontin hardened shit bricks in your asshole. No, this is an award of some sort.”

“Well thanks for nothing than, jackasses! Now, someone get me my pills, my crow bar, and some KY. Momma needs to empty.”

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