Kenny Chesney, your midget ass. Our troupe of unstoppable pit bulls. A dark plain in West Texas borded by a river, and us in a monster truck with hunting lights and a shotgun. Let’s roll, shorty.

You’re on the list, now:

Award-winning country music star Kenny Chesney, known for his high-energy stadium concerts, has written a song exclusively for ESPN’s college football game and studio telecasts during Dick’s Sporting Goods Kickoff Week (Sept. 3-7) and Championship Saturday (Dec. 5) as well as select contests throughout the season and bowl games. ESPN will have the exclusive premiere of the song during its pregame show Thursday, Sept. 3, at 7 p.m.

Needs editing. One moment please. [Sound of screaming, fire, steel clanging, tendons ripping.] Okay, here you go.

Shitty, meaningless Award-winning country music star prize dwarf Kenny Chesney, known for his high-energy stadium concerts lackadaisically humping the dead carcass of a long-dead musical genre pandering to humanity’s most fatuous and ignoble traits, has written a song misbegotten flaming abortion of ass-cramping tripe exclusively for ESPN’s college football game and studio telecasts during Dick’s Sporting Goods Overpriced Jockstrap Hut Kickoff Week (Sept. 3-7) and Championship Saturday (Dec. 5) as well as select cursed contests throughout the season and bowl games. ESPN will have the exclusive premiere public excretion of the song during its pregame show Thursday, Sept. 3, at 7 p.m. a date that shall live in infamy as the day suck conquered the universe.

What the hell is wrong with this?

Just play that, show some people hollering, a few shots of people getting knocked the fuck out, and then Fowler/Lieutenant Beautifulpants/Corso. There! There’s your new intro, not this crapulent piece of faux-cornpone pablum the marketing people pulled from America’s Milquetoast Mecca, Nashville, the home of country music that can go fuck itself in the ear with a wolverine.

She thinks your tractor’s sexy? Bullshit. You drive a fucking Honda Odyssey to work, Sonic, Bass Pro Shops, and that’s about it. God, please: if you exist, send 1988 Steve Earle forward in time to us. We will give him a flamethrower and a suitcase filled with blacktar heroin to burn country music to the ground and make people start writing honest songs about running from the cops, drinking yourself blind, and resigning yourself to your own doomed bastardhood before a premature and giddy death.

To Sam the Eagle, the commenter who will say, “Now, now, pish-posh, this is really all too much–” That dash is you being obliterated by our army of pitbulls. Do you have any idea how many times we are going to listen to this bullshit this fall, and the next, and the next? If Kenny Chesney loved college football at this point, he would go get arrested for a crime of moral turpitude and force DisneySPN to hang back with the old standard, “We’re Coming To Your Citaaaayyyyyyy,” known in our household as “The Song That Makes Daddy Fart Pure Flames Of Rage.” That’s how far you’ve beaten us down, Bristol: we’re rooting for the return of Big and Rich, who have spent years perpetually promising to come to your city without either fulfilling the promise and allowing us to ax a little ax-dang in their chest-tang, or put a little cyanide-tink in their drink-ink.