As this morning has progressed, Aftermath is starting to slowly piece together exactly what Steel Panther did to us last night at the House Of Blues. Thank God we brought a camera.

For one, we can't hear really well, which is a sign that the music was nice and loud. When we sit down we can feel a welt on our left haunch, which means we either fell down or were whipped. Now we just shifted in our seat and the right side is in pain, so that's not good.

We also sadly found out that when we type "panther" in our phone, it auto-corrected it to say "panties," so we wrote our mother last night that we were skipping dinner with the family to see "Steel Panties."

A few weeks ago we said we were swearing off covering metal shows for a while to recharge our hearts for the hard stuff. Things were starting to meld together every night and we couldn't hear birds chirp anymore, let alone our own cell phone ringing. Then Steel Panther comes to Houston and muddies up our plans. That must mean we are metal lifers, or just really stupid.

Steel Panther could be called a hair-metal parody band, but most parody bands can't draw a packed and lusty crowd like the one at HOB last night. These folks were stoked like they were about to see Poison in 1988 on the "Open Up And Say Ahh!" tour. At the end of the day, hair-metal is the great equalizer between every brassy chick in her early 20's pulling back vodka and the middle-age man reliving his high school mistakes.

Panther really is just a four-man mass of hair, spandex, and glitter-making puns that would make GG Allin snicker, playing songs like the penile proprietary anthem "Community Property" or the equal-opportunity-enforcing "Fat Girl (Thar She Blows)."