I’m one of those haters.
I hate. I can’t even help it. I hate people. I hate people I’ve never even met. I hate things. Some things I hate more than others. I immediately hate people with bumper stickers. I hate people with Nascar stickers even more, but the people who display their political or religious beliefs on their machinery makes me hate them. As though I couldn’t tell already from looking at your Volvo with the ecology license plate and the bike rack that you vote Green Party and pro-choice? Or from your Kia Rio that you like to be spanked? Or from your Suzuki SUVlette that you’re a lesbian?
I hate people who drive Ford Focuses, mostly because if I am stuck behind someone and the light turned green like two minutes ago, chances are good that they have chosen to roam this earth in a Ford Focus. I find it ironic that they are driving a car with the name of a state of mind that they clearly have yet to grasp. I also inherently distrust anyone who still has wood paneling on their car. Because they had to ask for it specifically and therefore they obviously can’t be trusted to think for themselves. Also, I know that they will decide two seconds before it’s too late that they absolutely positively must risk their lives to pull into the local Quiznos.
I hate people who decorate with Home Interiors. I hate potpourri. It smells like moldy flowers. I hate silk flowers because they almost never ever look like real flowers.
I hate guys who cut their lawns in those diagonal patterns. Like their day job is working at the big league stadium or something.
I hate comet cursors. I hate the abbreviation ‘omg’ or ‘lol’ or when people change the spelling of words to be kute. I hate web pages that blink at me. I hate pop up ads. I hate the person who is subsidizing SquirrelX’s banner ad campaign because she’s got to be on her eight millionth banner view. I think I’ve seen a thousand on my very own. (I mean, they’re really clever and everything but what the hell? It’s like a little game now. Good banner’ should I click’.gahh!!! The mystery is gone.)
I hate it when men with overhanging stomachs wear their pants below their natural waistline, as though they are hoping that it somehow counts that they still are only wearing size 34 pants. Just wear a belt, dumbass. And no, put down the damn Speedo. Also, I hate the person who brought back crop pants on men. They look wrong. Every guy looks either gay or part of the chorus of a South Pacific revival. And I probably shouldn’t wear them for exactly the same reason.
I hate the people who write for Damn Hell Ass Kings . Why? Because I want to be on Damn Hell Ass Kings and I’m so jealous I can barely stand it. Same goes for the people who get published on Salon. And the 25 people admitted to the University of Iowa Creative Writing program. And also Maeve Binchy. Because she’s mediocre and too damn rich to be so damn mediocre. And I still hate Wally Lamb because I Know This Much Is Suck.
I hate the fact that I am not independently wealthy. I’m really creative when I’m not burdened by eight million phone calls to return and 78 unread emails when I come back from a lunch hour spent driving around in a fugue state, constantly reminding myself why I shouldn’t just hit the freeway and keep driving in one solid direction for twenty hours or until my ass cramps up. And thus, I hate people who are independently wealthy and also can afford to have the fat sucked from their asses so that their asses do not cramp up.
I hate the fact that I pushed a button on my stereo and now, instead of a picture, I have a blue screen, and will have to wait until Esteban comes home and looks at me like I’m a vegetable and dramatically pushes one tiny button to make the picture come back. I hate the people at Sony for putting some Viagra crazy button on there that makes everything go blue and now I have to prolong the misery that is Adaptation.
I hate Nicholas Cage for having man breasts in this movie and ruining my normal Nic Cage chest groove with big saggy and hairy manmaries. I hate Meryl Streep. Not for anything particular that she did in this movie. I just have always hated her. I think it’s her face. I don’t like it when she smiles. I would substitute Glenn Close in almost every single Meryl Streep role ever. She is the green pepper of any movie.I hate green peppers. Red peppers are ok. Yellow and orange peppers are actually tasty, particularly in fajitas.
I still hate that woman at Tiffany’s. In the screenplay of my life, she will be played by Meryl Streep but have no lines and then unceremoniously snipped and left on the cutting room floor and everyone will point at her and laugh during the wrap party and she’ll wonder if perhaps there is a spot on her skirt.
And I hate the fucking Pillsbury dough boy. Because he is doughy and full of carbs and I’ve sworn off white flour and I’ll bet if I roasted him until golden brown and then schmeared him with butter and honey and then gorged myself, it would make me really happy.
Maybe the no flour/sugar thing has me a touch cranky. Yeah. I’m thinking.
