If the neutron bomb didn't exist, it would be necessary for man to invent it... at least that's what I thought to myself while waiting for Hank III to take the stage. His audience has the potential to inspire mild-mannered educated types to design weapons for the sole purpose of human extermination. Young Bob and I stood in the second row, sandwiched between some clean cut girls and a pack of wannabe white supremacists. Both groups seemed equally enthused about the arrival of the progeny of Hank Williams, Sr. The girls acted like they were waiting to see The Beatles in '64, and the Nazis kept yelling, "Where's Hank?" We elected not to answer.

Hank's bizarre band slowly took their places on stage. The fiddle and steel guitar players came straight outta Nashville, while Hank's bass player, JoeBuck looked like he crawled out of a box in Rob Zombie's basement. Then Hank appeared, wearing a cowboy hat flatter than Nebraska and surplus pants sporting a Texas-sized hole in the crotch. The planets were perfectly aligned... just me, Bob, the Nazis, and the girls stood waiting, while just a thin layer of flannel underwear separated our naked eyes from Hank's junk. Then all hell broke loose.

Hank III came out swinging with the meanest, shit-kicking country heard this decade. A fight broke out during the first song between a white supremacist and a meathead in the pit. The situation was tense for a minute, with both men face to face. The supremacist shit-talked and the meathead puckered his lips and blew kisses in reaction to the tough-guy posturing. Hank attempted to smooth things over with some well chosen words and the two "gentlemen" instantly made peace and became best friends forever.

The band then ripped through about thirty minutes of old school county while Bob and I were trapped between the two pits. It was a rather precarious position, as a smorgasbord of freaks, squares, drunken buffoons and meathead nazis attempted to mosh to the country sound. The ladies even joined in, with one tattooed chick throwing kicks and violently clawing at the surrounding atmosphere. Amidst the frenzied pit action, some old school types square danced. What the fuck?

And what the fuck indeed, Hank hadn't even busted out his metal songs yet. I knew it was coming, but poor Bob seemed to be ignorant of the impending mayhem (compared to the current, acoustic mayhem.) When the metal finally hit, these crazy mother fuckers went full-blown apeshit. Some booze had been spilled in the center pit, and the revelers constantly slipped and fell to the floor. Some asshole behind me kept doing his best metal scream, which was somehow louder than the whole band. Amazingly the fiddle player remained during the metal set and the steel guitar guy played lead through a Mesa amplifier.

At this point the pit smelled like a horse's ass. Then, like the sun breaking through the rain, the cacophony ceased and Hank bid farewell. The smell instantly vanished as Hank and his hoard simultaneously cleared out.

It was a glorious "fuck you" to every pop-country fan driving around in their new F-150. Fuck those Tim McGraw loving bastards, Hank III has their balls in a mason jar in his basement.