It’s easy to look at Ted’s latest spewing as utter nonsense, driven by jealousy of Swift, who could buy the Tedster’s home and the whole trailer park it’s set in with half the profits from one of her concerts.
Sure, you might think that Ted's music is only appreciated nowadays by old white guys high on oxy and medical marijuana, but let’s not rush to judgement, because Nugent knows something about ruining music. His career consisted of taking the driving force behind rock and roll, the raw sexual yearnings of horny young white men, to its logical extreme. Most of his forgettable canon consisted of unblushing odes to vaginas and his own trouser snake. Entire subcategories of pop that blossomed in the era of Nugent, around 1978, rap, reggae and punk, were probably the reactions of musicians who heard “Cat Scratch Fever,” and said to themselves, “Yup, rock ‘n roll is dead for sure. Better play something else.”
Ted claims that Taylor’s songs have “no fire and no sensuality in them.” What I think he means by this is that none of her songs are about Ted’s dick. Nobody has ever written a song about the Nuge’s tool except the Nuge, which is probably why he’s degenerated into a hateful old bastard, whose unprovoked attack on Swift is probably the channeling of the battle cry of miserable septuagenarians everywhere, “Get offa the lawn!”
Swift is not getting off Ted’s lawn. She may, in fact, have sex with her NFL boyfriend on it, laughing all the while at the Nuge’s impotent fumings. Nugent’s last attempt at a hit song disappeared like car phones, and at about the same time. Since then, he’s attempted a few ways to keep himself in the public eye, like gunning down wild pigs from helicopters and getting visited by the Secret Service for threatening to kill a President, with no real success. “Wang Dang Sweet Poontang,” and “Wango Tango’ continue to be featured on the jukeboxes of dive bars whose clientele entirely consists of bikers, drug dealers and leather-skinned hookers that nobody not currently out on parole would have more than one drink in. His “Goodbye Tour,” recently completed, consisted of a mass of empty seats interspersed with an occasional fentanyl user nodding off.
Swift, meanwhile, packs arenas in South America and Europe, places Ted could never play because of the language barrier and the fact that no one wants to see him there. He’s retired now, with nothing to do except sit on his porch, polish his pistol and wait for his prostate to enlarge.
Bitching about Time’s Person of the Year beats just listening to the frogs croak in the swamp and thinking about shooting them, I guess. I’m pretty sure that not a single Swiftie will ever overhear “Dog Eat Dog,” and think, Oh, wow, my whole life up to this point worshipping a billionaire philanthropist whose music I adore and whose reputation for kindliness has only enhanced her world-wide fame has been a lie. I need to sleep with Ted Nugent!
Not going to happen. Not in a single instance. Meanwhile, while Taylor continues to get all the ink, it was her rival, the equally leggy pop songstress Miley Cyrus, who had the number one streaming song of this year, “Flowers.”
And the Nuge is not going after Miley. For sure he knows she would kick his ass.