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!
Monday, September 29, 2008
Tuesday, September 23, 2008
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.
But it looks like all of you are abandoning hatred. Detestable fools. I hate all of you.
Thursday, September 18, 2008
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.
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.
Tuesday, September 16, 2008
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!
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!
Sunday, September 14, 2008
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.
Friday, September 12, 2008
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.
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.
Wednesday, September 10, 2008
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.
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.
Tuesday, September 9, 2008
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.
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.
Saturday, September 6, 2008
Friday, September 5, 2008
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.
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.
Thursday, September 4, 2008
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.
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.
Wednesday, September 3, 2008
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.
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.
Tuesday, September 2, 2008
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.
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.
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.
Monday, September 1, 2008
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.
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.
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