Parents Who Condescend to Their Children

I know parents who say not an encouraging word to their children. They always expect the worst. When the children's names are mentioned, the parents jump first to the worst conclusion. The parents ask for something, the children try to fulfill the request, the parent is disappointed and pulls a, "If you want something done, you have to do it yourself" attitude. An adult makes the same mistake, it is a natural mistake that any could have made. The parents look to their peers with a smile and their children with a frown and eye-roll.

You know, dear pessimistic parents, you receive what you expect. If you think of your children more pleasantly and with respect, maybe you will see something more than a child. Other people should not be more attentive to your children than you are.

(Note: Written in September, marked as a draft, forgotten, posted in December. Mystery of ghost blog entries: Solved. Request: Richard, finish your numbers entry!)

Inconsistent Facebook Statuses

Annoyance:
[Person's Name] is going to the mall and I am really not looking forward to it.
[Person's Name] is OMG CHRISTMAS!
[Person's Name] I want to go to the movies.

Do you see the problem?

Correction:
[Person's Name] is going to the mall and he is really not looking forward to it.
[Person's Name] is excited for Christmas OMGZ. !!
[Person's Name] wants to go to the movies.

You have to follow through. If you start out one way, that is the way you must finish. If you write a book in the third person, you don't change to the first person midway through a chapter! Unless you say, "[Character]'s thoughts went a little something like this: [Character's thoughts]", or something of the sort. Apply this rule to your facebook statuses, please! Sure, your statuses aren't as important as material in a book, but they do at least mean something - or else you wouldn't be writing them.

Something I should hate but don't:

...

Vista.

I'm sorry! I just.. haven't had any problems with it yet. Well, ok, a few problems, but I was able to get them to stop bothering me, for the most part. It's better than XP!

Sorry.. Maybe I'll hate it later.

Audience Members Who Try to Impress the Performer

You've seen them. You know them. Dear god, please tell me you're not one of them.

You know when you go to a comedy show.. The comedian is up there, doing a spiffing job, being funny, doing what he's paid for. Then some ass in the audience thinks it would be fun to yell out jokes of his own. This obnoxious audience member is secretly (or not so secretly) hoping that the comedian will be wildly impressed with his humor, and will offer to take him on the road to be a part of the comedy act. Meanwhile, the rest of the audience wants to kill Mr. Obnoxious Man, and the comedian .. well, the comedian probably wants to do so as well, but more violently.

I don't really have much more to say on the subject at the moment. But this: Do you like it when a drunk person tries to give you pointers when you're playing pool in a bar? When you're practicing the piano? When you're trying to finish a project for work or school? No, you don't. Your abilities are being inhibited by a selfish and intolerable know-it-all. And, guess what? If you are the obnoxious audience member I am speaking of, this is the situation you are creating for your hero up there on stage.

Be respectful. Please.
Thank you.

Autumn (or if you're silly, "Fall")

Autumn's the season of change, sandwiched neatly in between two different extremes. It's progression from one place to the next, and home to ten thousand pretty photo postcards featuring explosions of red orange, yellows and altogether scenes of loveliness. It can be beautiful, warm, artsy, splendid, and an all manner of other positive adjectives that can make you feel anywhere between happy and ecstatic.

Or not.

The postcards lied, because everything isn't peacefully orange at all. There's no warm breeze- there's a ****ing gale trying to not just blow the leaves down, but the actual tree. Things are cold, and wet, puddles can be the size of swamps, and raking leaves is a royal pain in the ass if they're wet and mushy. There's none of this smiling and having a good time while raking leaves, and leafblowers/suckers are one of the best inventions never fully realised: they fail to catch the leaves, but are overly keen on munching the gravel from the drive, how's the hell does that work? Even worse, none of these trees are even mine- if the leaves are from the tree of a neighbour shouldn't he be the one sweeping the damn things up?

The worst thing about autumn is that it is just that, a change. A filler season where everything changes, and things go from brilliant to shit, all in a manner of weeks. It's winter...but somehow worse, and a season that sometimes feels like it's there, only to annoy.

Circuit City.

As you may have noticed, I have not posted in this darling blog very much recently. You might think that I have tired of the blog, have forgotten it, or have not had anything to write about. You, non-existent reader, are quite incorrect.

The reason for my absence is this: Circuit City is inefficient. My laptop - my wonderful, beautiful friend, my dear laptop - had been going through a rough patch, as they say. Blue screens of death, random beepings and shut-downs, temporary amnesia.. Poor thing.

When a computer is having troubles, you take it to a doctor. Circuit City was its hospital of birth, and they now provided its health-care. (If only children had warranties [/old, bad joke]) SO I took the laptop to the City of Circuit on the third of October. On this day, I was given a piece of paper, a filled out form, upon which was printed, "Promised [return] date: 10-17-08".

Please, look at your calendar. The day is now 11-15-08. We are well past October the 17th. If they had promised the computer for 10-12-08, I may have thought, hm, perhaps they were British in writing the day before the month. However, I have yet to meet a 17th month of year. Maybe there is one somewhere in the universe, but on Earth, there are definitely only 12 months.

As you have undoubtedly, and correctly, assumed, my associates and I have contacted Circuit City about this problem. Numerous times. Have they been helpful? Well.. not especially. They do not fail to agree when it is stated that the situation at hand is ridiculous, but rather than fruitless sympathy, I would love to have my laptop back. And fixed, preferably. Though I have reached a point in which I might just take the laptop back unfixed, with reimbursement for the warranty, what with the bankruptcy of the company. I'm not so sure I want my computer to be tampered with by a desperate sinking ship with limited accessories.

I just want my laptop back. Please. I need it. It is attached to my soul. -Dramatization-

Circuit City, you hinder me. I limp. Damn you.

America

Or so I'm told by our dear Sarah Palin.

And since I hate America so much, I am not entitled to freedom of speech. Or so is implied by America-lovers.

Methinkst this is a bit of a paradox. Let's say I start as an America-lover, but then question a Republican leader- I have become an America-hater, which then strips me of free speech. So if I have no freedom of speech, I do not question the Republican leader, making me an America-lover again, which once more gives me freedom of speech .. to question the Republican leader. (Of course to question a democrat is patriotic!)

Gosh darn it, I love the Constitution so much, I hate America.
Will this idiocy never end? Will I ever be able to peacefully enjoy the pleasures of the Constitution again?

I do love America. But I hate the morons who tell me I don't.

This post does not actually contain hate.

Emily's informed me that I must have a post up here by the end of Sunday OR ELSE, so here I am. Now, the reason for my absence from this blog of late is still present - namely, I can't really focus my hatred onto any one particular thing that I can write about. So, instead, with the memory fresh in my mind, I'm going to explain how W. was a rather disappointing film.

If you, Dear Reader, are one George W. Bush (hello!), spoilers will most likely not follow - though I doubt that the film was anything close to one-hundred-percent accurate, so perhaps I'm wrong there. For that matter, if you aren't G.W.B., chances are spoilers won't follow for you either. I mean, really, you'd better know the plot.

Now, as a wise man once said, W. is "an interesting idea, an (unrelated) interesting storyline, and great performances, poorly executed."

- the interesting idea: that most of W.'s decisions as President come from a sense of failure instilled in him by his father, and by the desire to be like "hey, man, I can totally do what you couldn't."

- the unrelated interesting storyline: Colin Powell's reluctance to dive right into the invasion of Iraq (leading to his resignation IRL, but the movie never shows that).

Hang on, gotta turn my record over.

Okay, back.

- the great performances: this would encompass pretty much everyone. Standouts, though, are Josh Brolin as W., Jeffrey Wright as Powell, and Toby Jones as Karl Rove. That about covers that subject.

The poor execution mostly comes from a lack of a central focus, I guess. Stone does play up the almost Oedipal relationship between W. and his father, but only in the sense that it's more prominent than any of the other motivations that W. may have had for his decisions - most obviously the whole "born-again Christian" thing that I'm pretty sure he went through. That period is in the movie, but it's done with a couple of seemingly perfunctory scenes: W. collapses while running the morning after a drinking binge, then in the next scene is talking to his pastor after a small support-group-type meeting at his church. His pastor mentions something about "not having touched a drop in six months." Then that's the end of that 'til W. calls the pastor in to say he's "heard the call" and God wants him to run for President. Thus endeth the evangelical part of his development, apparently. So there were some interesting ideas there, but none were really given the proper attention.

There was also this really fucking weird thing where they were re-enacting W.'s landing on the cruiser (with the Mission Accomplished banner etc.) and they had a fake commentary by people on a show called "SPINBall" who were saying "This is why women like him, and why they like the war" and "You'd never see a Democrat doing something like this!" in a completely out-of-sync with the rest of the movie, heavy-handedly "satirical" way.

There were a couple of good things to it, though. There's a central scene where most of the cabinet is deliberating in the war room about invading Iraq and Powell has a rather nice speech about, like, what the fuck are they doing? W. always calls Cheney "Vice", too, which makes me laugh because I can imagine that actually being true.

But the best part was a scene during W.'s campaign for Texas governorship, where Rove tells him he's "just a magical fairy, sprinkling pixie dust at your feet" and then dancing a little jig as he walks off.

That pretty much made me look on the movie more sympathetically.


Oh, and also: I love James Cromwell as an actor, but the dude apparently cannot sound like anyone but himself, because he just sounded like James Cromwell, President of the United States. And, as my friend said, "I see James Cromwell as President and I just assume it's true, because it seems like a fit."

It's Electric!

I've had gas burners for all of my life. They're nice. You can even light them when the power is out. Hell yes? Hell yes.

In this new place of mine, though, there is electric. Sure, sure, gas leaks are a bitch, but damn it, landlords. Do you realize that my food suffers? Ok, it hasn't suffered until today, but today it did suffer.

I decided to fry myself up an egg. I am perhaps allergic to eggs (maybe grease), so my egg-intake is considerably lower than that of the average breakfaster. Hell, I barely even like eggs, but for that delicious little yolk... I love yolks.

Today was a day of braving the allergy. Sometimes I am not effected, if the egg is fried properly. You might guess that the egg was not fried properly, hence the writing of this post. Well, it turned out ok - because I am truly amazing - but it took me two eggs, and I have a bad taste in my mouth left by the white. (That acursed white!)

First egg, I thought the pan had been heated appropriately. However, when I cracked the damned thing in, there was no sign of heat. There was just a sad puddle of clear goo. And this wouldn't be so bad, if not for the slope in the spiral gratey thing that most electric burners seem to have. The slope, that is. I believe they all have the spiral gratey thing..

Let me tell you, it is not easy to flip an egg that slants into one side of a pan when you do not wish to break the yolk. So I moved the pan to an unslanted burner, which would work marvelously with a gaz burner since the heat appears magically, but takes forever with an electric burner since the heat doesn't want to have anything to do with you and your stupid egg. But you wait as you must.

The egg on my pan appeared to be water turning to ice. The clear goo had spread out wide and thin, and when the color began to turn, it mixed with the black of the pan underneath and made a blue-ish white. Quite nice and poetic, surely, but hell. This was supposed to be my breakfast.

I then did the stupid thing that too many eggmakers do: prod it. Prodding the edges is fine, but moving beyond the edges is daft. And I am a daft, dafter person (albeit amazing). The egg begins to break up, and more often than not, the yolk breaks.

The yolk broke.

The entire mess showed no sign of solidifying, so I dumped it, god damn it.

The new egg was luckier (new frying pan) and though I prodded the hell out of it, the yolk did not break. The rest of it broke up, which is annoying, but altogether... I hope I don't get sick.

Grilled cheese is also difficult (grilling the bread as well as melting the cheese - an art), but it is manageble.

Stupid electric.

Cougars.

Listen, bitch, nobody wants to see your saggy tits pushed up into a bra 2 sizes too small. Nobody wants to see your ass cleavage. Nobody wants you.

Is there anything more embarrassing than a cougar? I don't know whether to feel sorry for them or to throw rocks at them. The people that I really feel sorry for are the children of cougars. These poor, misguided children. How awful for them. I mean, they constantly have to divert friends from their home out of fear that mommy will pounce on the nubile flesh of a young gentleman.

Cougars think they're cool. They think they're "one of the girls". They wear their daughter's Juicy Couture sweatpants. They shop at 5-7-9. They even speak in the young, hip vernacular.... mostly, to lure the young menz.

It's disgusting. It's sick.

I want to personally murder every. single. goddamn. cougar. that walks into Gap.

"And modest, too!"

To which I reply with an equally unoriginal and overused piece of sarcasm, "Ohh, aren't you clever?"

Look, ladies and gents who aren't reading this blog, you fail in your attempt at humor. You say, "People laugh, though!" That's because they are equally humorless, or are just trying to be nice. I used to be one of those nice people. Now I will just stare, most uncomfortably, at you.

You do know what I'm talking about, don't you? You know, when a person is listing his achievements or totally awesomez characteristics, and at the end of the list, another person says, in an annoyingly chipper and self-satisfied voice, "And modest, too!" Sometimes both things are said by the same person. STFU, mofo.

This bit of hate goes under my larger category of of hate, titled, "People who tell unoriginal and unfunny jokes without any irony + People who laugh at these jokes as though it's the first time they have heard them (i.e. Death by Katunga, or however the hell it's spelled)". Then there is the, "People who continue to tell Monty Python jokes as though no one has ever heard the line, 'It's only a flesh wound'" category.

Animals with computerized mouth movements.

I've always thought that non-human animals (henceforth referred to simply as "animals") have extraordinary telephatic powers. They need not move their mouths to form human words. Not to mention, their mouths do not move in such a fashion.

Yes, you may say that animals cannot speak, and wouldn't have anything intelligible to say even if they could. Since this is the case, if one were to imagine that an animal could speak, then there are no rules to restrict the creature from moving its mouth.

Very well. Make this argument. But as you make it, keep with you the knowledge that I hate you.

Mind, yes, please do mind that if an animated movie has talking animals with moving mouths, I have no qualms whatsoever. (Unless it's .. bad.) That's part of the fun with animation. You can make any and every thing possible. It is a person's imagination on paper. Or.. film. Or.. yes.

As animals are now, though, I cannot take moving mouths. With imagination in mind, I think of the mouth-moving as a cheap visual aid. My imagination wants animals to be talking all the time. If animals talk all the time, then they don't have to move their mouths. So why do it in movies? If you're going to imagine that animals can talk and can have intelligent conversations, then give them some mad telepathic skillz. Make it seem more possible for them to talk.

Because! Christ, it's so ugly! I'm actually insulted when I see animals talk. My cats talk all the time, and they don't resort to such silly human tricks!

Six Posts In A Row

That is not good. I've held off on my hate. I really have. Not because I want to be a positive person (ohhhhh, goodness no), but because I thought that maybe, just maybe other people might like to share their hatred.

But it looks like all of you are abandoning hatred. Detestable fools. I hate all of you.

The sink.

The sink is a very dangerous place when more than one person uses it. The kitchen sink inspired this, but the bathroom sink can also be treacherous.

The bathroom sink has excess toothpaste staining the edges, spit, bits of facial hair if a man uses it, and oh hell, long hair. The hair that goes down in the sink, wraps around the plug, and clogs the drain. Then the rest of the filth that goes through the sink gets stuck in the hair, so that removing it is the most disgusting, vomit-inducing experience to be forced upon you. Let us not speak of it any more.

Oh, but the kitchen sink. Ohhhhh, no. People insist, they insist on not rincing their dishes. they leave all manner of food, sitting in the wet sink, with the wet dishes, piled on top of each other, filled with filthy water. And when it is your job to clean the dishes (and it is usually my job, though I take it with pride, since I trust few to clean properly), you have to reach your finger down, with much fear and anticipation.. and you reach for the bottom plate, with much care to not actually get the water onto that poor finger.. and you, very carefully, tip the plate in the opposite direction.

If you are lucky, your finger will be untouched. Most often, though, you are not lucky. When you are unlucky, at best, only a small bit of the water leaks onto your finger, with no pieces of egg or pasta or bread or rice or mayonaise or chicken or beef or tomato or cereal or or or... In the worst case, when you tilt the plate, it falls instead toward you, and all of the bowls and mugs topple onto your hand, and all of the sludge with its foul smell and oh no no no. Actually, what would make this even worse would be if the plates broke and the shards were to drive their way into your arm and some more would bounce into your eye, blinding you, making you unable to clean yourself and find the invading - as I write this, I take breaks to life my hands from the keyboard, flail them around, cover my eyes, and whimper "No! Make it stop!" - pieces of.. no no no, make it stop!

Oh, and then you die.

So now the liquid is out. And you must wash the dishes or put them in the dish-washer if you are lucky enough to possess such a thing. (I am.) Either way, you will have to remove the obvious filth that stands out from the plate. The egg yolk that has been smeared all over the plate, the bigs of cereal that have cemented themselves to the bowls, the soggy bread that smells like all the garbage in the world.

If you are to wash the dishes by hand, you have to use a wash cloth or a sponge. This is a new level of disgust. You thought the bread smelled bad? The milk? This wash cloth has touched those things, and so much more. It has soaked in slime, and relished in doing so. You don't smell this out right. No, do you know what you do? You, being an absolute idiot, pick it up and put it to your nose to see if you need to get a new one.

And then you vomit into the sink.

But you can't tell the difference between the vomit and everything else that is in there, so I suppose all is somewhat well.

After you throw the wash cloth as far from you as possible and scald your hands in boiling water, you get a new wash cloth and go on the terrible mission of cleaning the plates. I need not go back to the egg stains and the cereal cement.

If you wash your dishes in the dish-washer, be prepared to find still some bits of food on the plates when it is done, overturned containers (Ohhh, I forgot to mention the containers. You know, when people close them and put them in the sink, even though they still have food inside? Perhaps my most hated thing.) have some of the water from the dishwater with some of the food from the dishes inside. You don't want to wash these by hand, so you turn them over and keep them in the dishwasher, with hope that next time they will stay in the correct posistion. And in the end, the dishes most often smell like wet dog.

But back to the sink. Now that the sink is empty of dishes, you still have the remains of the food and filth left in the basin. you turn the water all the up, and to maximum heat, grab that little squirty thing, if you are luck enough to possess such a thing (I am.), and spray the hell out of that bastard. And, of course, not everything is gone, so you have to wipe it down by hand with your trusty wash-cloth.

There. You are done. For now. But you can't take your eyes off the sink, because next time you look, there will somehow be even more dishes, even more filth, and you will realize that you are, indeed, doomed.

Dilated Pupils

God damn it.

People Who Do Not Rate Their Amazon Transactions

Ok.. so I did this. Meaning I hate myself. But, hey. I didn't understand the importance until I started selling things.

I would like some ratings, please! I have sold many, many things, but only two people have rated me. I'd like some more! I don't even know if you got your packages! Well, I assume you have, since you haven't given me a 0 or sent me an angry response. But please. Pleeeease!

Gig

I hate this word. It sounds so smug. And when people use it for something not relating to a show, you know, like a job? Oh, shut up. You think you're so clever.

Job-Hunting

At this moment in time, I cannot think of anything more detestable, more miserable, than job-hunting.

Please, kill me now. I've applied to so many places. So many. No one wants me. I am unwanted. Times like these, the phrase, "I fail at life" never leaves the head.

Putting the "moron" into "oxymoron".

"Jumbo shrimp" is not an oxymoron. Stop using that as an example. "Shrimp", in that example, is a noun, not an adjective. You cannot have the opposite or a contradiction of a noun. Therefore, "jumbo shrimp" is not a motherfucking oxymoron.

Quit using that as a common example of an oxymoron. You don't do yourself any favors if you do.

And, also, stop using "Microsoft Works" (lolololololol) or "Army intelligence" (lolololololololololololol). They're neither oxymorons nor funny "oxymorons".

And quit being fucking stupid. All of you.

Trucks

I hate them. I truly do. There is no part of me that likes the damned things. They're dangerous, they're bulky, and they're loud. God, are they loud.

When I'm in a car, and a truck happens to move next to me, I go into a minor panic mode. Probably orange. It's going to topple over. Dear god, it's going to topple over and I'm going to be crushed. Pointy objects, pointy objects in the car, move them away so as not to be impaled when the truck comes crashing down on me.

Or! If it's in front! The back is going to open. It is, I know it is. And inside, there are all sorts of things. Perhaps a piano. No, perhaps it's full of glass. The door is going to open, and shards of glass are going to break through the window and hit me in the eyes. They're going to slit my throats.

Or! On a hill! I'm on a hill, and the truck is in front of me! It will break down and slide backwards and kill me! Or I'm going downhill and it's behind me and it moves too fast and kills me! Or if a car stops quickly in front of me, and I stop in time, but the truck doesn't and it squashes me and causes a fifty million car pile up!

Then when I am crossing the street, and out of nowhere comes this gigantic truck, and I can't cross the street in time. Smash! Or if I'm on the sidewalk, walking innocently along, and a truck drives beside me, hits a hole, loses its balance, falls and crushes me! And what if I ride my bike? God, imagine getting hit by a truck when you are riding a bike. You have that piece of metal between your legs.. No no no nono.

And now there is annoyance. I live next to a post office. It must be one of the major ones, because all throughout the night.. No no no. Noooo. I can't sleep. I can't sleep anymore. I can't open my windows, I can't sleep. The noise! It's so loud! The crashing! And I have never heard trucks so loud! All night long, no break. Last night, I had to do the whole pillow over ears thing. No, actually I did that at 7 this morning after restless hours of tossing and turning throughout the night. And do you know when the trucks stop? They stop at 9 am. The time I wake up. Or would wake up, if I were allowed to sleep.

This, my friends, is hell.

Tom Cruise

You weren't funny in Tropic Thunder. You were an asshole.

~Beefy!

Flaky people.

Hate.

I absolutely HATE flaky people.

What's more, I hate it when people I care about flake on me. Take my best friend, for example. She is the Patron Saint of Flake. Why on earth would you swear up and down that you'd be somewhere at a certain time, clear your schedule, and tell your best friend that you'd be their ride... then NEVER SHOW UP?

I don't even want to know the excuse right now. (I'm sure it isn't even a good one.) It's just plain rude. How many times does one excuse actions like this? I know I've been far too forgiving about the flakiness in the past, but Mr. Nice Guy has checked out of the building. The claws are coming out, and Best Friend is going to get an earful.

Fucking christ, am I pissed.

Rudy Giuliani

I don't think there's anything more to say. I don't care if he dressed in drag. I hate him. Conceited little bastard. Does no one have the heart to tell him that he is not funny? He was on SNL a few times, and now he thinks he's America's funniest comic.

Look. You're not. And 9-11? You are insulting. Insulting. Go away.

Yes, this post is weak. This is just a silly spouting off of poorly thought-out anger.. But I can't think of Giuliani for any longer. I see his face, I hear his voice, and I get so angry. I want to seriously hurt the nearest thing to me, and since that thing happens to be my computer (and I reallly don't want to hurt my computer), I had best stop thinking.

Hangnails.

Picture it: you're going about your day. All is seemingly normal, by most daily standards. The sun is shining, there's a light breeze in the air, you just might be enjoying your favorite beverage. Then your cell phone rings. Or you need to grab your keys. Maybe your wallet. While inserting your hand into the pocket of your pants (or purse, if you're a lay-dee), you feel THAT PAIN. That twinge of panic that suddenly makes you retract your hand faster than Bush can shoot down a marriage bill. That, my friends, is the hangnail. If there is a god, I'd imagine that he/she/it gets an insane amount of pleasure watching the fleshy miscreants fiddle around with these inconveniencing little devils.

Naturally, when the hangnail strikes, you're usually at work. Maybe at the gym. Perhaps on a nice walk around town. Never is there a fingernail clipper handy. The hangnail knows this. They ALWAYS wait until you're as far away from your bathroom/bedroom/kitchen(?) or wherever you keep such grooming devices.

Once you get home to clip the vile appendage, it's more than likely already caused you so much pain and snagging on your clothing that cutting it almost seems futile. But you do it anyway. The hangnail has won. Again.

Hate #17(a): Amateur Rappers

Okay, "amateur rappers" may not be the perfect designation, but it's close. They're the people who walk around campus listening to music (sometimes this fact is displayed by gigantic headphones that make the people look like they're listening to sonar). But! Not just any music. No. It's rap. But it's not that that makes them so annoying. Of course not. I may not like rap, but I'm not going to begrudge anyone the right to listen to it. Until they start to rap (sing?) along. At the top of their voice. While they're walking along not fifteen feet from me.

To these people: no one cares that you know every last lyric to whatever Jay-Z (more like Gay-Z, amirite?) song, or whatever Dr Dre (more like Dr Gay, amirite?) song, or whatever Ja Rule (more like Ja Gay, amirite?), or whatever Lil Wayne (more like Gay Wayne, amirite?) (I can keep doing this all day long). No. One. Cares. Just stop.

Seriously, because rap's lyrics are shite.

Life-jackets

No matter how tight the damned things are, they will always pop over your heat. (I exaggerate.) Maybe I've only worn ones that were too big for me, but I have never felt safe in a life-jacket. They pop up, push you under, and choke you. (I exaggerate again.)

Water terrifies me, I admit it. Though life-jackets are suppose to allieviate the fear that water brings, they instead accentuate the fear. I cannot move properly in the things. I feel trapped. The surface of the water is so limited. I'm sure that if I were stranded in the middle of the ocean, a life-jacket would do an admirable job of saving my life, but if I'm boating on a lake and the thing tips over, I think I'd do a better job of making it to sure without one on.

Even still, if I had one of perfect comfort, I still would not feel right, because the thing is not mine. Meaning others have worn it before, and dear god, who wore it, where had he been, and what did he do whilst wearing the thing?

I admit, that last point is the only reason why I hate life-jackets now. Because I hate people.

When I was little, though, all the other points applied.

And maybe if had my own life-jacket, I would not have so many problems. So perhaps this would be better as "Used Life-jackets". Screw it, though.

Slow Computers and Inkless Printers

I want to print up my resumé. This should be simple, yes? No. My printer is out of ink (I can't afford ink right now, hence printing up a resumé to get a job).

What is to be done? Well, use another person's printer!

Attempt 1: Email document to other computer to print.
Fail. Different word progam, meaning different font, meaning the entire resumé's appearance falls apart.

Attempt 2: Allow sharing on the printer, so I can directly print from my computer to the other printer without installing.
Fail. My computer will not locate the other printer.

Attempt 3: Look for disc to install printer onto my computer.
Fail. No further explanation required.

Attempt 4: Use another computer with the same program.
Fail.
a. Computer too slow.
b. Program, though the same as mine, does not have the correct font. (WTF?!)

Attempt 5: Update program, with hope that the new one will have my font.
Fail.
a. Computer too slow.
b. Program still does not have the correct font. (WTF??!!)

Attempt 6: Tomorrow.

Anticipated result: Death.

Humidity

The beastly thing. How is humidity elsewhere? Do you have much of it? I often wonder. I remember being on the west side of the U.S., and experiencing unbelievably hot weather, but I remember the heat was somewhat satisfying. It was dry heat, without even the idea of moisture. That really seemed to be doing the thing right. There is the sun, and here is the heat. Middle-man skipped. Genuine heat.

Yet here, on the east coast, in Maryland, Humidity is God of all. A dry day? As foreign a thought as an ocean to a desert. The very air is liquid. I feel like I'm learning to swim in a vat of oil. And when it rains, dear god. A person can't think in such conditions. The concept of patience no longer makes sense, and the only words that exist are curse words.

Is this natural? I don't live in a rain forst. I live in a house, in a city. My de-humidifier should not fill with water every 20 minutes.

I hate it. I absolutely.. Ugh. Hate. I hate it.

Ollie's! Ya Gots Ta Come

This store resides in Maryland, Pennsylvania, and Delaware -- or so the internets tell me -- so those outside of this perimeter are most probably unaware of its existence.
You lucky bastards.

Let me assure those in sweet, sweet ignorance, if Hell were to be given a different name, that name would be "Ollie's Bargain Outlets".

I give you the website to look upon, and for those with an aversion to opening links (see possible future post), here is a picture that represents a small (very small) portion of that nightmare that is Ollie's.



You see the man? That is Ollie, aka Beelzebub. Look at this drawing. You have never seen it before, but a part of you recognizes it, I'm sure. You may say no, but this is just suppression. We all supress things that are painful to us, and if you say no to this as well, you are only suppressing your suppression. End.

But he is there, at the back of all of our minds. This is how he recruits his employees. At night, he enters into the nightmares of the innocent and repeats, "Ya gotta come to Ollie's!" until the message wears in and the poor souls show up at the store the next day, demanding name-tags to wear and cash-registers to stand behind. There is no other way that these people would allow themselves to be subjected to such torture, and not even notice or mind. Not even the world's most violent masochist could do this.

The store itself, though. When you enter the store, your ears are accosted by your favorite overplayed hits of who knows when and god I wish never, with frequent interjections of "Ollie's! You can get a blah blah etc. for something or another, and here's a bad joke to make your day!" from a voice with the most obnoxious Baltimore accent (you don't even know about Dundalk) that could slaughter your young, if you allowed them to accompany you to the hell-hole, you horrible, uncaring person.

Your eyes are continuously raped by picture after picture of Ollie in get-up after get-up, until you are trapped in the middle of a hopeless, helpless, badly illustrated gang-bang.

I don't know how many times I have been in this store, maybe only once. But time does not exist in Ollie's. Not time as we know it. It was a dazed eternity, of confusion and misery. I spent a life-time, or maybe five, flailing within the aisles, waiting for my accompanying party to free themselves of the ridiculous notion that they were getting great bargains.

They don't understand. There are more things to pay with than money. (Just ask your mother about her exploits of last night.) But you, dear reader, you must understand, while you are in the store, Ollie sucks out some of your soul. Each time you enter the store, more of your soul has been stolen, and each time, more pictures of Ollie appear. You think that the "artist" has had great inspiration since your last visit, but no. Ollie recreates himself. Soon, he'll have enough souls to take on solid forms, and he will not only take your soul, but turn you into an Ollie as well.

Mark my words, Ollie's will no longer be confined to Maryland, Delaware, and Pennsylvania. He'll be headed your way soon enough.

I find the weirdest things browsing the internets.

Wandering about the W(orld) W(ide) W(eb) (do people still call it that any more?) today, I came across a rather interesting piece of fiction entitled "Olsen Twins Raped by Genetically Altered Wolves". At least, I think it was fiction. The title does read a bit like a news headline though.

So, yeah, I don't really have a whole lot to say about that. At least it advertises what it's about right there in the title - if you read that and get upset about the content, well, then... you're probably Christian. Ba-dum kish.

I want to find some poorly-written piece of fanfiction at some point and make fun of it here, just because I can.

Perhaps that shall be my next entry.

Sometimes (okay, quite a lot of the time) I really don't like living in Texas.

Harrold ISD in Texas recently put district policy in place that allows its employees to carry concealed firearms.

All righty, let's get the positives in the article out of the way:

In order for teachers and staff to carry a pistol, they must have a Texas license to carry a concealed handgun; must be authorized to carry by the district; must receive training in crisis management and hostile situations and have to use ammunition that is designed to minimize the risk of ricochet in school halls.

There. That's it. That's the good stuff.

"[...] If something were to happen here, I'd much rather be calling a parent to tell them that their child is OK because we were able to protect them," Thweatt said.

And what you really don't want to be doing is calling a parent to tell them that their child isn't okay because a teacher shot them.

Now, granted, perhaps it's unfair to assume that just because teachers are given guns means that 1) something bad's going to happen and 2) it's going to be the teacher's fault. But here's how I see it: adding more guns to any situation involving guns is a bad thing. It means more bullets and more shooting. And in a room full of kids liable to panic because their classmate is trying to fucking shoot them, it can mostly only lead to bad things.

You also get into lots of other questions. Does the teacher only break out the weaponry when a kid pulls a gun? What about if someone has a knife and threatens a student or teacher with it? Is that a gunnable offense? And it seems to be that if cops can easily be a touch trigger-happy, non-law-enforcementers will be just as bad, if not worse.

I've got my highly-liberal knickers all in a twist over this, it seems.

And if anyone outside the other contributers reads this and thinks I'm jerking my knee a bit in my reaction, well... go shoot some rats, you hick.

Just kidding.

Diane Lane Movies

Inspired by the previews for her new movie with Richard Gere (who also gets a major HATE push) that played far too frequently during the commercials around the coverage for the Olympics.

Diane Lane is the epitome of bad romantic comedies.

First, let me state that I am a woman. Therefore, I do get a small, sick pleasure from romantic comedies. I allow myself one a year. (Sometimes I stretch to two, even three. Once you pop, etc.) Two years ago, or a year after whenever Must Love Dogs was released, I found it on TV. There we go, I thought. My romantic comedy of the year. I thought this even though I already hated Diane Lane. It's fun to laugh for the supposed wrong reasons, anyway. Besides! John Cusack! Yes, I do like him. If you don't, watch High Fidelity. If you still hate him, I hate you. And your mother.

Onwards.

Must Love Dogs. Ohhh dear, was it dire. I did not enjoy it in the slightest. My inner girl did not squee, as they say. It walked from the room with disgust, and the rest of me along with it. Mind, I'm sure this film would have been terrible without Diane Lane, but I'm sure it would have been more satisfying. Meg Ryan would have even been better, and we all (should) know how mind-bogglingly awful she is.

Diane Lane has this aura of.. euugh. "I'm just like you. I know how to live, I know how to cry." Her laugh, her watery smiles, her "I guess I'm just going to have to put up with this and make the best of it" look. It's somehow even worse than Meg Ryan's "I'm crying, where is the tissue box I'm going to comically go through" technique. Lane is a part of the giant self-righteous woman movement that I so despise (see future post). She's a woman, and by god, she's strong! She's lived life and she knows what goes on! She's been through much more than men have! Has a man ever given birth to a baby? No! And let me tell you!-

I just.. I just.. I just.. hate her. My god. I just.. Hate. Previews alone are enough to hurt my soul. Make her.. go away. Hate!

Wearing Clash shirts to show how, like, totally punk one is

The good people at wikiHow have provided a handy guide entitled How to Act Like a Punk Girl. Let's have a look.

1. Being punk does not mean wearing a certain outfit or acting a certain way. It means to be yourself without caring what the others think! But remember being a punk is not always easy you will be judged by others but don't let that bother you. [Good so far. Perhaps a little self-helpy. The grammar could stand to be cleaned up a bit too, but, hey, it's not English class, it's just a wiki!]

2. Stand up for your cause! Punk is about being a rebel and standing up for what you want. This is not, for example, going up to a bank and stealing all of the money inside; rather, it is standing up for your values. Support something you want to. [I think they should have put the "don't rob a bank" disclaimer at the beginning of this section. I'm sure too many people have read just that first sentence and gone off to totally punk a bank. Check this out:



According to the guide's history, it was created in February of '07. Now, at the time there wasn't a particularly high volume of searches for "bank robbery" on Google, but you'll notice, dear reader, that the overall volume does climb starting around mid-2007. Coincidence? I think not!

The rest of the section tells us that it's definitely punk to do something like donate to a breast cancer foundation or try to save the local YMCA that the Man's trying to take down to replace with a Walgreens/CVS combo, instead of the common wisdom of these activities being just for pansy-asses who don't want their chest hams falling off. So I disagree slightly with the parts that don't have to do with bank robbery, but this isn't about what I think.]

3. Be an individual. Stand out. Wear clothes that no others dare to wear. Stand up for what you believe in, even if the whole world is against you. Be bold, but don't lose touch of yourself. [Even if the whole world is against you, stand up for what you believe-- so most crazed dictators are punk, by that. I'm not gonna say that one name, because Godwin's right over my shoulder with an axe. Also, is it just me, or does it seem like they accidentally copied a bit of someone's horiscope for that last bit?]

4. Dress punk fashion. Vests with pins and badges are also totally punk. Like mentioned, leopard print and plaid are also punk. Purses and messenger bags are great for putting pins and badges on. Don't be afraid to wear what no one else is wearing. [They bolded this to make absolutely sure you noticed it. It is imperative to dress punk, even though "Being punk does not mean wearing a certain outfit or acting a certain way", not to mention "Wear clothes that no others dare to wear." So, if all these punkies are wearing clothes that no one else dares wear, then aren't they all daring to wear it, thus negating the lack of dare and causing some sort of temporal rift? Scary thought. Do also keep in mind that, while leopard print and plaid are most certainly punk, leopard print and plaid together is simply a horrid crime of fashion and you'll both lose your punk license and cause most others to lose their eyesight. Unless, of course, you're wearing the two together because no one else dares to. Then it's okay.]

5. Make your hair punk. You don't have to, but you can get mohawks or liberty spikes. Hair color also counts. Different colors such as red, green, blue, orange, purple or pink also stand out from just getting highlights. [Yeah, you totally don't have to do this! They're just including it as a handy reference in case you actually want to be punk and not just pretend to be, you loser. Apparently, the more mohawks you have, the more punk you are, though the "multiple mohawk" hairstyle is not something I've heard of. And the colors-as-opposed-to-highlights advice is good, but I don't think colors are better because they stand out more. It's mostly because highlights are totally gay, and gay is not punk. (I'd say that gay is junk, but that's just... well, even I won't make that pun.) But, yes, the more like cotton candy your hair looks, the more punk you are.]

6. Ignore any negative outlook towards your clothes, hair or being punk; those who judge you are just not aware of your individualism! [Yeah, get the fuck away from this post, bitches! That statement reminds me of Mormons...

Dude, punk Mormons would be awesome.]



Final comment: this post was motivated mostly by a girl I work with who's all dressed punk (super-tight skinny jeans, straight, roughly shoulder-length black hair, piercings on her lip and eyebrow), but, here's the problem. She was wearing a London Calling shirt. If you're going to dress like that, and try to assert your punkosity, and you have, just have to wear a Clash shirt, please limit it to one that references this album and this album only:



That is the U.K. release of their first, eponymous album, people. If you're wearing a Clash shirt that's not referring to that album, you are not wearing a shirt that has to do with a punk album The Clash were only punk for their first album, and after that they were just punk in spirit.

Also, please don't refer to the Clash as a "pretty obscure" band. People know who the fucking Clash are, and you aren't super-awesome for knowing about them.

That is all.

Stupid: The Obama Salute

"Our goal is to see a crowd of 75,000 people at Obama's nomination speech holding their hands above their heads, fingers laced together in support of a new direction for this country, a renewed hope, and acceptance of responsibility for our future," says Rick Husong, creator of the Sign of Progress.



A picture is worth a thousand words.

HATE: dudes who frost their tips.

Why? For the love of Jesus H., why does anyone think it's "cool" to frost their tips? It's just plain hideous. But to answer my own question, I'll tell you who frosts their tips: Christian men. Let me get specific -- Christian men who live in North Dallas, listen to God-rock, use terms like "whazzup, bro?", and probably teach a Sunday school class for 3. You know the ones, don't act like you don't. There was always that creepy guy at church who'd lead the music worship that had something... peculiar about him. Can't put your finger on the peculiarness? I'll refresh your memory: the motherfucker had frosted tips. Men who frost their tips are also likely to enjoy drinking Becks ("near beer"). They are likely to strike up a conversation with you about your "personal lord and savior" while you're waiting in line to renew your driver's license -- probably interjecting a few "bro"s and "righteous"s along the way.

When I see frosted tips, I head for the hills.

GEICO

Ah, yes, GEICO. How we know the company so well. Why? Because we use it? Hardly. No no no, the commercials are the things that drove the company into our subconscious.

The GEICO Gecko. I remember when this little fellow first appeared in 1999. How we thought the little thing was cute. All wanted their very own Gecko. It was a loveable little creature.

Was.

Though, no. Still I like the thing (I am weak), but in a limited way. I feel that this Gecko is a real creature that GEICO is exploiting. Even still, that damned Gecko is whoring himself! And! David Attenborough! Fortunately, this is not the actual David Attenborough, so we need not worry about his standards. At least, GEICO doesn't.

One can easily make the connection of Mr. Attenborough to Mr. GEICO Gecko, but one stops there. And why does one stop? Because Mr. Attenborough is respectful. And though Attenborough connects to the Gecko, respect does not. Thus, Attenborough could not ever possibly be fully connected.

But he has been.

GEICO corrupts. Not only has the Gecko been ruined, but David Attenborough now has had his good name sullied by association with the "Cavemen". And this, my friends, is the very heart of this entry. The GEICO Cavemen. Never. Never.

Never.

Never should such a thing have been allowed. Ok ok ok, maybe with a company like McDonalds, which supplies actual shit. GEICO, however, is car insurance. This is a branch of the law. These people are insuring your car. Your car. You are giving responsibility to the creators of the Cavemen commercials. How does this make you feel? The commercials barely make sense and haven't even a fragment of humor. I... I .. I can't even go into it. No, not this. I cannot bring myself to go into detail about every thing that is wrong with these few seconds of television time. It's a black hole, for god's sake. No, I cannot.

Stepping away from this, I ask you to be in my thoughts for a moment. Terrifying, I know, but bear with me. There. Now, imagine, as I always do, the people who created these commercials. Go ahead, think of it. And now consider the outcome. Connect. Do you think that these people exclaimed, "My god! I've got it! The most brilliant idea!" when these Cavemen entered their (even more terrifying) thoughts? Well, gee, of course not. This very rarely, if ever at all, happens with commercials. Yet no other reaction could warrant this incessant flow of Caveman nonsense. Nothing. Unforgivable. Never. Never.

Never.

Never should such a thing be allowed.

You would think, you really would, that after these Cavemen tried for a show (did anyone watch it?) and failed miserably, the creators would have gotten wise to the fact, the solid fact, that there is absolutely nothing worthwhile in their dreadful creations.

Yet. Turn on your TV, and what do you see? That's right.

You may now ask, why has my hatred for GEICO only just surfaced? Because, I have only just realized what the Cavemen commercials were for. I truly had no idea that they were promoting car insurance. How could I miss this? Because my ears and my eyes refuse to fully take in such pain. Pain!

For such a long time, I had excused GEICO, for their lack of inspiration for commercials. They were, after all, doing better things in the world. ...Well. Anyway.--
But now all is clear. So clear. GEICO is evil. I know nothing about them apart from their commercials, yes, this is quite true. With such ignorance, what right have I to judge them? To make this blanket statement, of EVIL? I have a right. Every right! They allow these commercials to represent them. They allow the Cavemen. The Cavemen. They allow them. Unforgivable. Never. Never.

NEVER.

Never should such a thing ever be allowed. In the words of the wise William Shatner, I. Can't. Get. Behind. That.

Good night.

Okay, so y'know what I hate?

I hate people like this:



I mean, really.



In the course of trying to find a suitable picture on Google Images, I discovered that "Wigger" is, in fact, a real last name. Just ask Torben Wigger!



Cue my immature giggles.

Fortunately, he's never going to see that I'm making fun of his last name, because a person that old is clearly never going to use the internet.




Also, firsties.