| 00:00 - 00:03 | Mein Fuhrer, we just got news about the song you pitched |
| 00:04 - 00:05 | It seems the label thinks that |
| 00:05 - 00:07 | writers outside of Nashville aren't very good. |
| 00:08 - 00:12 | They associate Germans with mostly techno pop and |
| 00:12 - 00:15 | when they found out that you live in Berlin, it was a deal breaker. |
| 00:17 - 00:19 | So, what you're saying here is |
| 00:19 - 00:21 | they didn't care for the song. |
| 00:24 - 00:26 | Mein Fuhrer, |
| 00:27 - 00:28 | they said..... |
| 00:31 - 00:33 | they said that whoever wrote it should be ashamed. |
| 00:34 - 00:36 | That it was a piece of shit. |
| 00:53 - 00:58 | I'm going to need a moment boys. The rest of you, clear out. |
| 01:13 - 01:15 | How dare they call it shit!! |
| 01:15 - 01:17 | I'll tell you the meaning of shit!! |
| 01:18 - 01:23 | Have any of you even listened to country radio in the last few years? |
| 01:25 - 01:28 | Who do they think they're messing with? |
| 01:29 - 01:31 | I've been writing for years. |
| 01:31 - 01:34 | Three chords and the truth is officially dead. |
| 01:34 - 01:37 | Now it's three chords, a drum loop and shit words. |
| 01:37 - 01:40 | I can't even stand to listen anymore. |
| 01:40 - 01:42 | Mein Fuhrer, it will turn back around, I promise. |
| 01:42 - 01:46 | You've being saying that same shit for years. |
| 01:46 - 01:48 | Mein Fuhrer, give it more.... |
| 01:46 - 01:48 | time. |
| 01:48 - 01:52 | I've given it all the time I'm going to. I need a major cut |
| 01:53 - 01:54 | and right now!!! |
| 01:56 - 01:57 | Maybe if I would've thrown in some cold beer, |
| 01:57 - 02:00 | red dirt, tailgates, front porch swings and a hot frau |
| 02:00 - 02:03 | with tan legs in Daisy Dukes, they'd be happy. |
| 02:04 - 02:08 | I can't feed my family on a Boxcar Willie cut that I got over 20 years ago. |
| 02:08 - 02:13 | It didn't make any money then and it's sure as hell not making any now. |
| 02:14 - 02:16 | They don't see the poetry in my soul. |
| 02:17 - 02:21 | There's a special place in hell for those pretentious Nashville hicks. They're finished. |
| 02:27 - 02:29 | As a small lad, I loved songs. |
| 02:30 - 02:34 | The crafting of them. I sat it my room listening when |
| 02:34 - 02:36 | other boys were out playing stickball. |
| 02:41 - 02:42 | I can't believe it. |
| 02:43 - 02:47 | When I finally hone my craft, the music business turns into a sewer of drunken, grinding filth. |
| 02:48 - 02:53 | Now it's a handful of guys trying to one up each on seeing who can come up with |
| 02:54 - 02:56 | the worst song known to man. |
| 02:56 - 02:59 | Do you think anyone will even remember these songs? |
| 03:00 - 03:02 | There's not a Wichita Lineman within a thousand miles. |
| 03:04 - 03:07 | It's okay. It's just a fad. |
| 03:14 - 03:16 | So, here I sit with you losers. |
| 03:19 - 03:23 | Maybe it's not the song but who I picked |
| 03:25 - 03:26 | to represent me. |
| 03:31 - 03:33 | The man who pitched it. |
| 03:40 - 03:46 | I told you not to use a cassette. That they had moved on from those but you had to have it your way. |
| 03:46 - 03:49 | Oh yeah, you know best. |
| 03:53 - 03:56 | I'll never write again. |
