How do I hate Ted Nugent? Let me count the ways. I hate Ted Nugent because he’s a crypto-fascist patriot (dirtiest word in the English language) Cro-Magnon who wears a loincloth. I hate Ted Nugent because he’s a Republican, although I guess I’m repeating myself. I hate Ted Nugent because he’s a symbol of cool to all those straightedge jerks too dumb to know that the road of excess leads to the palace of wino-dom.
I hate Ted Nugent because he said he found man-on-man sex repulsive (although he added he’d never judge another man’s morals) and because he proved he was an idiot by hosting his own reality show, in which he bow hunted humans in Birkenstocks. He also built an outhouse. Presumably so as to have a place more comfortable than a deer stand to write his looney-tunes political diatribes.
Now, let me count the ways I love Ted Nugent. I love Ted Nugent because he has a wife named Shemane. This is so close to Shemale as to be suspicious. I love Ted Nugent because he dodged the Vietnam War, even if this does make him a Grade A hypocrite. I love Ted Nugent because he once said, “I will personally cut off my dick and eat it! I will cut my cock off on The Ed Sullivan Show and chew on it. That is what I’ll do if the new album bombs.” I love Ted Nugent because the lead singer on Ted’s1975 solo debut Ted Nugent bears the hilarious moniker Derek St. Holmes, a name so positively Spın̈al Tap it’s uncanny. Finally, I love Ted Nugent because Ted Nugent is a most excellent record, even if (like me) you consider the Motor City Madman a poltroon.
Nugent, as everybody knows, got his start with The Amboy Dukes, the Detroit band that bequeathed us 1968’s psychedelic Meisterwerk “Journey to the Center of the Mind,” which Nugent later claimed he didn’t know was about drugs. One wonders what he thought it was about–two guys crossing the desert of Ted’s brainpan on a horse with no name? In the mid-seventies he went solo, and a Nuge was born. He began his solo career with a bang and Ted Nugent, which combined wham-bam-thank-you-ma’am sonic assaults (“Stormtroopin’” and “Motor City Madhouse”) with one prolonged guitar exploration of inner space featuring a wrestling metaphor.