It happened like this. Me and Matt were on the couch with my cat Quorthon, pounding beers and chowing on vegan dumplings, just trying to think of something to do. I said we should download Cannibal Holocaust, my favorite slasher movie of all time. He just looked at me and said, “I never saw that. Is it an HBO thing?”
I was stunned. All I could think was, “Holy shit, is this dude not as metal as I thought he was?”
I thought maybe it was a fluke, that our love was not lame, and turned on the movie. All was fine until the part where they macheted that guy’s leg off. The gory majesty reminded me that Slayer was coming to town. I got excited, yanked on Matt’s mullet, and said we had to go. Then he said the words no woman wants to hear:
“Babe, Slayer sucks ass.”
Time slowed down. I felt my heart shatter. Who was this man? We shared a home. We talked about marriage. We carved dicks into tree bark. Who was this stranger sitting next to me?
From the moment we first met, I thought Matt was the one. He was bleeding from the mouth when I met him. We were at Pepe’s, he bit into a tortilla chip from the wrong angle and cut his gums real bad. I thought it was badass. He introduced me to Cambodian Viking fishcore and I introduced him to Argentinian teutonic cuntgrind. It was a match made in Hell.
And then, years later, he’s sitting there telling me Slayer doesn’t rule? How could he say that! That broke my black metal heart. You can’t be metal and not even consider the possibility that ruling is the one area in which Slayer excels at more than any other.
My relationship with Slayer started back in high school. In Señor Kriegman’s AP Spanish class, someone had scratched “Slayer Rules” in great, big letters on my desk. And it felt like I was being summoned. I didn’t know what a Slayer was or where I could find one. But I felt compelled to find out for myself whether this Slayer it spoke of did in fact rule as much as it had so boldly claimed. Within a week, I’d listened to all their albums, bought all their concert tees, and transformed myself into the psychical embodiment of the term “female douchebag.” Slayer ruled, and it ruled me. Slayer rules.
Maybe it’s the nihilist in me speaking, but any man can’t just rule. The man for me needs to rule as much if not more than the level at which Slayer rules – nothing less. I know this is a high fucking standard to hold a guy to, but if you’re going to get with me, I need you to rule, Slayer style. Which brings me back to the moment of Matt telling me Slayer did not rule. I knew what I had to do.
I unplugged his laptop, threw it out the front door, kicked Matt out of my house, doused his clothes in gasoline, and burned our house down. I have not seen him since that day.
Now I’m on the road, following Slayer on their US tour. It rules. Slayer rules!
I promised myself I would never fall for a guy like Matt ever again. If I do date again (the tour schedule makes it hard), the guy would have to be really worth it. You can’t just scratch a pentagram onto your wallet, put some spikes around your neck, rock big boots and call yourself metal. You’ve got to scratch a pentagram on your heart, your soul, and your ding dong. You’ve got to shred. You could be a hot barbarian male but if you don’t shred like Slayer shreds then there’s no way you could even remotely rule in the same realm in which Slayer is considered the leading contender. You at least have to acknowledge that Slayer is the ruliest band of all.
All in all, life is too short to settle for men who don’t rule.
Slayer rules.
