A Quick Hit of Beautiful Hate: Dancing with the Stars


The only time I ever want to see Ochocinco dance is if he just scored a touchdown, and even then, I'm not too keen on it. This fuckin’ reality show even has other reality TV stars on it now, so where the fuck is the reality in watching some random asshole on two different reality shows? The only other thing I’m going to say about this show is, what the fuck, Buzz Aldrin? For real? What's he gonna do, moonwalk ten steps then have a stroke? That guy’s 80 years old, give me a fucking break.

I Hate The NY Smoker's Quit Line Campaign

There will be no lead-in today. It's Friday, and I want to get right to the point. So, here we go...

I fucking loathe the New York State Smoker's Quit Line ads. The creative agency who designed these horror shows should be dragged into the street and stoned to death. I would rather watch the lady who had her face ripped off by a chimpanzee eat Honey Nut Cheerios on a 24 hour video loop than stare at these goddamn things, they are that fucking awful.

Every evening, after spending nine hours having my pride and self-worth beaten and raped by corporate shitheads, I get on a subway packed with foul-smelling douchebags. While standing ass to face with 587 lb giant with breath that smells like a mix between kitty litter and vanilla pudding, my only solace is to read the stupid ads on the subway, and pretend the guy staring from across the car at me isn't palming a grenade, or worse, himself. Sometimes the ads are great. Sometimes it's an advertisement for a new book by some hack thriller writer, complete with hokey imagery and quotes from dorks who write for Christian Style magazines. Sometimes it's an ad for a storage place in Brooklyn with half-naked girls. Sometimes it's an ad for the bible or some shit. Sometimes the ads are in Spanish, and I use my limited grasp on the language to completely butcher what they say: Bring your Mom and your Ice Cream to our lawyers for the tornado - Wow, what the fuck does THAT mean? But recently there have been ads featuring photos taken during surgery, with the New York Smokers Quit Line tagged on them. I don't know what the picture is actually of - a lung, a heart, a throat - but it's clearly a fucking human's insides. It is the worst fucking thing I've ever seen. I would rather stare at photos of Cuban refugees with compound fractures, or rotted deer carcasses piled up on the side of I-95, or the ads for the feet corn, and I FUCKING HATE FEET. But seriously, I would rather look at anything else besides the fucking inside of a throat.

As a former chain-smoker, I get what they're trying to do. I get that they're trying to scare people into quitting. But you know what? IT DOESN'T FUCKING WORK. Showing me pictures of a fucking dead lung or a rotted throat does not make ANYONE want to stop smoking. Those ads with the lady who had her entire body amputated? They only make me change the channel, taking my eyes away from other advertisers. How about the fucking guy cleaning the hole in his neck? DISGUSTING. If I was another advertiser, I would tell the fucking YES Network to keep my fucking commercial as far away as possible from these fucking things.

What really bothers me is New York State advertisement standards okays these ads. A commercial with a girl dancing around in a bikini, shaking her ass, maybe juggling cantaloupes and singing "Oye Como Va"? NO WAY, WE HAVE TO THINK ABOUT THE CHILDREN, SAVE THE CHILDREN! IT'S NOT LIKE THEY HAVE ACCESS TO THE INTERNET AND A PORTAL TO UNLIMITED PORNOGRAPHY AT THEIR FINGERTIPS OR ANYTHING! But an open heart spitting blood and shit everywhere and a byline that reads, "Your mom is going to die tonight if she doesn't quit"? That's acceptable, let's post that on every 2 train and also air a commercial of it between every fucking inning so people watching the game will lose their appetites and want to go fucking puke in the sink.

I think what makes me most mad is that I know there is some douchebag executive out there who thought it was a clever idea, "It will save lives, dammit!" But it's not clever. It's the equivalent of airing crime-scene photos of murder victims to stop serial killers from killing - so far beyond anyone's reach, it's incomprehensible and a waste of time. If I ever win the lottery, I'm going to buy the New York Smoker's Quit Line. First and foremost, I'm going to create better trivia questions for YES and not allow Fat-Head Michael Kay to answer them before viewers, and then I'm going to create my own commercials with photos of this kid I went to college with who's finger-webbing was yellow and who's breath smelled like a menthol corpse. That right there was enough to make me contemplate quitting, I didn't need surgery photos. Until then, SMOKE 'EM IF YOU GOT 'EM.

I Hate Conference Calls

Working in an office, you must learn to cope with annoying people, because almost everyone is annoying in some way. Some people just don't "get it", mainly because they fucking suck. They have zero awareness of anything going on around them. And these people do not confine their stupidity to the office, oh no - they are the same people who try to read a book while walking down a busy street, treat waiters like ancient Egyptian slaves, and eat Quizno's Italian Combo subs dripping with balsamic vinegar on a fucking unventilated subway. They are the very top of the asshole chain. They are the apex of assholes, if that's possible.

And life would make too much sense if it was just one guy/girl who did all of this annoying shit, because then I would be able to focus all my hatred on one target. But no. It's all different people doing different but equally aggravating shit. Some of them are disgusting eaters. They microwave food that smells like Bum Feet and eat it three feet away from my nostrils. And they will eat it loudly, like a fucking starved pig sawing through a deer carcass. Other people like to listen to music. Like Salsa music or Musak or something equally as terrible, all of which make me want to funnel boiling cooking grease directly into my ear-canal. Some people bicker with their spouses while I cringe..."Do not buy those. DO NOT BUY THOSE. I TOLD YOU YESTERDAY WE DON'T NEED ANYMORE FUCKING TOWELS. WHY DON'T YOU EVER FUCKING LISTEN TO ME? FINE, GO OUT WITH SHARON, SHE'S A SLUT..." Some people coo with spouses while I vomit into my lap - "Ohhh baby, I love you so much. You are the best baby. What's that, baby? I'm your snuggle muffin, baby? Awww, baby, I love you too. Mmmm I can't wait to see you in three hours either, baby..." Some people have full discussions all by themselves, like shitty, a one-man, unsponsored Shakespeare play in Central Park, starring that creep from across the hall who does his laundry wearing only underwear and a v-neck. The aggravations are literally endless. But the worst of them all are the people who put their conference calls on speakerphone. Those people deserve to rot in a Bengali prison.

I know I'm a little crazy, but listening to people hold conference calls through a speakerphone at their desks, to me, is the annoyance-equivalent of someone screaming in Arabic through a megaphone while beating a tambourine into an amplifier and using a jackhammer on a piece sheet metal while I'm trying to sleep five feet away. The minute I hear that scratchy jumble of stupid voices, my stomach boils. And the call can never be kept quiet. That would be to cordial. No, these people feel the need to pump their speakerphone volume to level 7,860, making the people on the line sound like Buffalo Bill from "Silence of the Lambs."

And conference calls in general are the fucking worst. The calls are always super-disorganized; it's mostly people mumbling and whispering and typing too loud and bullshitting about the weather "How is it out there, Bob? Is it raining. It's raining here. Is it nice where you are, Bob?" BOB IS IN CALI-FUCKING-FORNIA, FUCKFACE, OF COURSE IT'S NICE OUT!!!!

And there is always a technically-retarded person on the call who is unable to hear anyone because they have the call on mute and they're just saying, "hello...hello...hello..." until they hang up and dial in again. They click all the buttons at once so it sounds like Speak-and-Spell while some other shithead wanna-be-hero tries to help them, even though shithead #1 can't hear a fucking thing. At this point, I'm so annoyed I put the call on mute and start to decide who I'm going to pimp-slap when I win the lottery.

Once the call is underway, it usually takes me less than three seconds to decide who I hate the most. There have been times when I've been on calls with like thirty fucking people, and after just one introduction, "KAAARRRAA in Chicago..." I will already know that I hate this person. And I also know that they will be the one who needs things explained sixty times.

Person Leading the Call: So does anyone not understand the 35 minutes of nonsense I've just dictated?


Person Who Doesn't Fucking Get It: Umm, yeah, actually, Ken, I don't. If you don't mind, could you repeat it all again? My three-year-old nephew and my Ukrainian Au Pair just joined me, so I just want to make sure everyone is in the loop on this.

That blood-curdling screaming you hear? That raging cry of lost humanity? That's my fucking soul. It gets stabbed in the fucking eye every time someone extends a call for the sole purpose of feeling important and having their voice heard and contributing to the worthlessness of what's unfolding before us. And this same person, the one who needs everything repeated, he/she will be the one who keeps the call going just as its about to wrap up.

Person Leading the Call: Well, I think we're all set here. Thank you for sacrificing 123 minutes of your life to hear my idea that will never see the light of day. I will be setting up 34 more meetings this week because I'm paid handsomely to do futile shit like this.

Person Who Doesn't Fucking Get It: Ummm, did we discuss the time frame for this idea? What about budgets? And time travel, did we discuss that? Can we also go over why my husband/wife fucked the cleaning lady/plumber? I was too busy putting the call on mute and bad-mouthing my assistant for being a slut and wishing my kids didn't hate me for never being home so I can be here to BE THE MOTHERFUCKING ASSHOLE WHO MAKES CONFERENCE CALLS DRAG ON FOR 3 FUCKING HOURS!!!

(crying on a bus stop bench)

Honestly, I could keep going. I could probably write 45,000 words on speakerphones and conference calls. I could pull a Jack Torrence and write the phrase "Speakerphones and Conference Calls suck fucking dick" a million times over. But I'll stop here, because each paragraph I write on this topic is shaving six months off my life.

I Hate Michael Irvin

- Do you want proof that network and cable television executives lure hobos into their homes with promises of a hot meals and dry clothes only to strangle them with fishing line for sexual gratification?

- Do you want proof that network and cable television executives snipe dolphins with illegal automatic firearms provided by Pakistani terrorists from the crow's nest of their eighty-foot yacht that runs on untaxed Saudi Arabian petrol?

- Do you want proof that these same executives sell uncut Colombian cocaine to children and promote unprotected/underage sex to African orphans and smoke menthol cigarettes in non-smoking hotel rooms?

Ready for the proof? Are you ready?

Michael Irvin.

BOOM. There's your proof. Look no further, my friends.

Now bear with me here for a moment. Let's think back and remember the great recession of 2008, and let's remember when your co-worker Bob was fired for producing poor quarterly numbers. Do you remember that pathetic fucking look on his face when he said goodbye to you, and you knew he wasn't going to go straight home and tell his wife what happened, but instead was planning to drink whiskey at some dirty bar until he pissed his pants and/or got in a fight with another loser who was also scraping bottom?

Now, Bob was fired for working hard, but not hard enough. That’s just the way Corporate America works sometimes. Good guys are fired. Bad guys are fired - it all evens out in the end. But answer me this: did Bob ever try to stab someone in the neck with a pair of scissors for cutting him line at the barbershop? No, I'm sure he didn't. But, Michael Irvin did. Okay he, allegedly, tried to stab Everett McIver in the neck for cutting him in line at the stadium barbershop. Throw in three arrests for crack possession and two sexual assault allegations and you have the kind of person who I wouldn't leave a tube of super glue around.

But not Bob, no, Bob never did any of this. And yet, Bob is still unemployed, his wife left him, and he gained forty pounds eating homemade Hamburger Lo mein every night for dinner. He's also hooked on Vicodin and a black hooker named "Big Momma" he found on Craigslist. But the "reformed" druggy shithead with a rap sheet that reads like a Riker’s Island inmate? Well, he's still employed. And paid handsomely.

As I’m sure you already know, life, poetically, is a motherfucker. Ex-athletes are granted a lot more lenience than your average "Bob" is. Irvin’s been employed several times over - for different companies mind you - even though he continually does dumb shit to prove he is just your garden-variety, old-fashioned asshole. Just typing these words makes me want to scream, because I know that if he gets caught lighting an orphanage on fire tomorrow, in a year or so he’ll be working again, and for some reason, everyone will be okay with this.

ESPN is to blame, the NFL Network is to blame, you're probably to blame too. For what? I don't know, but I bet you had a Michael Irvin Starting Lineup or some shit as a kid. Fucking loser. But what really drives me nuts is, if you replaced him with any other ex-athlete, nobody would care. Nobody. Let me repeat one more time...NOBODY WOULD CARE. At first you would probably say, "Hmm, Irvin's gone - he was probably high as fuck and drove his car into a ravine." A week later, you would say, "Hmm, I wonder what happened to Irvin." A week after that you would say, "did I leave the stove on?" because YOU'RE AN IDIOT.

Hopefully, one day soon, karma will catch up with Irvin and those stupid fucking 1996 lines he has shaved into his head. And hopefully he will pay for all the wrong he's done in his life. Oh, and let's all hope Bob pulls out of this tailspin he's in, after all he's a good guy - he recycles!

I Hate Your Email Etiquette

As a corporate society, we've officially become over-reliant on email as the main form of business communication. I'm guilty, you're guilty, even your mom is guilty, and she types with two fingers like a fucking orangutan. But there are so many things wrong with email - mainly the etiquette involved - that almost 90% of the emails I receive make me want to put my foot through my monitor.

For example...

- Smiley faces. Fuck you, smiley faces. Sending me a dick-ish email, whining and moaning about some fucking document you didn't get (or more likely deleted because you're a fucking idiot) and then adding a little smiley face at the end of it does not make it forgivable. In fact, I'd rather you just added a threat to the end of it instead, something like, "I'm going to murder you in your sleep if you don't send me this shit in exactly one hour." If you did that, I would like you much, much more. But no, you use a fucking smiley face instead of idle threats. And every time I see one, I want to sew my eyelids shut, because you fucking suck. I once had a man put a smiley face at the end of his email. A MAN. So, so, so gay. Oh, and a huge, ripe, triple "fuck you" to those of you who use winking smiley faces. This is work, when the fuck did this become okay? What if I signed my emails, "8==========> - - - -- " Would that be okay? No, I would be fired, and so should you.

- Salutations. Don't say to me, "Best" when you finish an email. What the fuck does that even mean? Best what? You're the best? No, you're not. You're fucking balding and you're fat and you smell like italian dressing, so you are not the best. And "Regards". What are we, fucking World War II pen-pals? Are you worried my face might be melted by a canister of mustard gas? Just write "Thanks", it makes you sound like less of a fucking nerd, if that's possible.

- People who sign their names with just one character. Really? Okay, 'T', see if you can decipher this message: Suck my C, you B, I hope you fall off a B and D. REGARDS :) A.

- I can't fucking stand replying to something that is easily solved via a phone call. God forbid we fucking use our fucking voices to speak to each other to work out a fucking issue. No, let's send a one sentence email so I can respond with just one fucking word. PICK UP THE FUCKING PHONE AND ASK ME WHETHER OR NOT I FINISHED THE FUCKING DECK FOR VOLKSWAGEN!!!!!!

- People who turn every email into an art show. Honestly, if you think I can't figure out which words are important, then why the fuck am I working here? Oh, I appreciate you bolding the word "Urgent" but because you patronize me, I'm going to do the complete opposite and make is less of a priority now that you decided to treat me like a fucking three-year-old, Picasso.

- People who use the Outlook "High Importance" button on every single email. These people are the fucking worst. When I see that exclamation point, I want to vomit. OH MY GOD, CHERYL JUST EMAILED ME WITH HIGH IMPORTANCE TO LET ME KNOW THAT THE COPIER IS DOWN! WE'RE ALL GOING TO FUCKING DIE! These emails get the old Shift-Delete, out of spite. You are no more important than the next person, dickhead, so get over yourself.

- People who ask for email receipts. I know this isn't common, but there are actually people out there who do this, and it couldn't be more fucking obnoxious. Oh, you want to keep track of me because I never respond to your dumb fucking ideas? SHIFT DELETE - NO MOTHERFUCKING RECEIPT FOR YOU!

I Hate You, Hipsters

Image courtesy of here

I don't consider myself "hip." In fact, you could say I am the complete opposite of hip: I cut my own hair; I routinely re-use clothes from the hamper; I like to wear cargo shorts and put tissues and napkins and other shit in the lower pockets so they bulge outward like a fat man's love-handles stuffed in spandex. Needless to say, I am an abomination to anything labeled "chic" or "in." Why? Well, mostly because I don't give a fuck. There are more important things in life to worry about (i.e. why does Javy Vazquez suck so bad? Why is there no more toilet paper? Who greenlit a remake of "The Karate Kid" starring Will Smith's stupid scientologist kid?) than what I plan on wearing to go and get a slice of pizza.

But I am smart enough to know when someone looks ridiculous. Case in point: Hipsters. There is just something about coke bottle glasses and fedoras and flannel shirts and jeans that are so tight they can give an unwanted sex-change that makes me want to start hurling Molotov cocktails in the general direction of the stoops in which they inhabit. You idolize Allen Ginsberg? Well, then go write shitty poetry and take it up the ass, but just stay the fuck out of my way - CAN’T YOU SEE THAT I’M TRYING TO BUY LOTTO TICKETS?

And what the fuck kind of hairdo is this? Dunk your head a piss-filled toilet and flush? You look like an asshole. Actually, you look like a fucking soccer mom in full mid-life-crisis mode...is that the angle you're going for? Every single douchebag (both famous and common) who wears his hair like that can go fall into an open sewer filled with Chlamydia and molten lava. If I ever have a kid who one day decides to look like this, I'm going to shave his head with a broken Budweiser bottle and force him to watch “The Wild Bunch” until he can recite the entire script word-for-word, and then make him reenact it for me and my friends. Why? Because "The Wild Bunch" fucking rakes, and it's the farthest from hipster ideology possible.

And what about guys who wear skinny jeans? ARE YOU FUCKING SERIOUS? Skinny jeans were invented for women, not for you, dickless. The fact that I have to look at you as you mosey into the subway like a fucking cowboy on your way to Urban Outfitters is grounds for castration. STOP IT RIGHT NOW. You are not a part of an Indie Rock movement. And if you were, you'd be double-fucking-dead, so be happy you're not.

This speaks more to growing plague of pansies in this country. Whiny cry-babies who would rather smoke American Spirits, watch a shitty French movie, and listen to terrible bands from Williamsburg, than go out to a real dive bar, listen to brain-melting rock, punch someone in the fucking face, then go home at the end of the night and bang a waitress like a real man. But this is beside the point. We need to start the de-pussification of men somewhere, and I think it starts here. So go home, grab a pipe/baseball bat/axe, head out to the streets, and start prowling for anyone wearing a fedora and Buddy Holly glasses. Just make sure it's not an 80 year old senile man who still thinks it's 1957.

Weekend Reprieve : 4/23, 4/24

I don't like Sean Penn. I think he's an asshole. Even if he wasn't famous and given a soapbox to preach from, I'm sure that I would still dislike him (although I do love seeing him punch and kick Paparazzi, because Paparazzi are worse than AIDS). But in "State of Grace," Sean Penn is fucking awesome. And since I respect awesome, I tolerate his shit and still watch some of his movies.

Then there's Gary Oldman. Well, watching Oldman play Jackie Flannery is like watching God stretch a double into a triple. Magic, I tell you, pure magic.

I Hate You, Urban Daredevil

More than once a week I'm forced to wait while some embarrassed douchebag breathlessly apologizes as he struggles to get his paunch through the closing doors of a subway car. And he sweats, and he apologizes, as I silently pray that a short in the electrical system tells the conductor that the door is actually shut and off we go, the man screaming, the passengers horrified, and me dancing and clapping like I'm Arnie Grape. But that never happens. Eventually the doors reopen, the guy gets in, and another day goes by without any bloodshed.

Now, these urban daredevils do not limit their theatrics to an underground stage, oh no, they take that shit to the streets, too. And it's not that I care about their safety - I'm indifferent to whether or not they make it across the road or get splattered across 45th street* - what I hate is if their moves delay me, or if there is gloating afterward. Walk/Don't Walk light about to stop blinking? There will always be some dummy that goes sprinting out into the street like he's carrying a heart transplant for the King of fucking Mongolia, no matter if there's 78 Beeline's bombing down 7th Avenue. It doesn't matter. There could be a fleet of fucking Sherman Tanks filled with Nazi Cannibals and someone will still say, "Fuck this, I can make it," and boom, they're pumping their arms like Usain Bolt testing out a fresh cycle of that sweet, sweet juice.

But one thing I don't get is, most of the people that go barreling down a subway platform like they're a fat, bald, mediocre version of Jason Bourne, they're on their way to work. Let me repeat this in caps so you can hear and visualize me yelling - THEY ARE ON THEIR WAY TO WORK! And this impromptu daredevil-ism doesn't end in streets. Fuck no. You get them on the elevator in your building. You're minding you own business, agonizing over the presentation you have to give in the afternoon that you blanked and now have to improvise, and just as the doors almost fully close, someone sticks a shoe into the six inch gap. The door pings and then reopens. Jerkoff with the shoe gets in and smiles. While I'm trying to not bludgeon him over the head with my cell phone, he smiles, and maybe winks at someone he recognizes in the elevator, like he just disarmed a nuclear fucking bomb. I fucking hate this guy. It is never okay to stop an elevator door from closing. NEVER. I don't care if you're using a tray from Burger King to hold in your guts after getting knifed, you wait until the next elevator comes. And again, more importantly: you're going to work - WHO THE FUCK IS IN A RUSH TO GET TO WORK???

How about fucking dummies that run seventeen blocks to Grand Central/Penn to catch their train home? These people are the same ones that come into work the next day and fucking BITCH about their wife, their kids, their dog that won't stop shitting in the sandbox. I don't understand why this fucker rushes to get home if it sucks so hard? Go plant your fat ass at a stool in one of the seven billion bars around GCT/Penn and catch a nice buzz while you wait for the next train. Terrible situations are much more tolerable after you've downed seven pints of beer, anyway. If you complain about home and then rush to get their, you deserve every minute of misery, because you are a fucking ASSHOLE.

In Manhattan, you always have to be on the lookout for some dickhead sprinting down the street or through a lobby, eyes bulbous, heart teetering on coronary. And it's never to save an old lady from bums attacking her with tin cans, or a man rescuing a baby from a Kodiak Bear - nope, that would be too cool - it's just some awful shithead trying to make his bus/elevator/train/car/airplane/rickshaw. I've had my shoulder bumped so many times by people rushing around that I've lost count. And what makes it worse is, when I get checked, I always assume that when I look up to see who did it, it will be a seven-foot-tall black man with hands the size of Toyota's, and I will immediately lower my head and hope he doesn't decide to tear me into two equal parts of cowardly-white-man. But no, it's always a balding dork in a suit. And I'm always a second too late to throw a shoulder into his chest and pretend I'm Steve Atwater and he's Christian Okoye.

*I saw a guy get hit by a taxi once. It was fucking awesome. He was, of course, on his cell phone, across the street from me, not paying attention to anything, and wandered into traffic. I think I was on Columbus Ave. Everyone near me kind of froze, because they saw him babbling away, stepping out into the street. Then, BOOM, he goes flying into the air, the taxi screeches to a halt and the guy's shoes went soaring into the intersection. When his briefcase finally landed and his the cement, it opened up and papers went EVERYWHERE. He laid there for a second or two and then sat up and started yelling at the poor cab driver, who was not at fault, whatsoever. Then the guy who got hit started yelling about suing the cab driver. But the weird thing was, he was still on the phone. Shoeless, but still on his fucking phone. He had held onto it even after he got hit by a fucking car. This is probably why nobody helped him out and left him sitting in the street and I accidentally walked all over his shit and gently nudged it into a storm drain...

Fireside with Beautiful: 4/22/10

Beautiful - a.k.a. The Nine Fingered Fellow - is The Hate Parade's surly field reporter, forever stuck on the road, hidden behind tints, eyes glazed with sticky, ear's only able to understand the words of Eazy-E, but fluent in Sean Price. I send him topics at random. He responds back with hazy confusion and twisted anger.

2012 aka "End of the World"
So what? Maybe it is, maybe it isn’t, maybe go fuck yo’self. But if it is the end of the world, I hope we get at LEAST a month in advance notice, because there’s some people I’d like slap the fuck out of before I go. Personally I find it extremely hard to believe some ancient civilization predicted the end of the world to the exact year. I saw on the History Channel, or some porn site, that their fucking calendar doesn’t even end in 2012. But so what if it did? Maybe the Mayan guy in charge of making the calendars got all boogered up one night and fell asleep with a big Mayan joint still lit in his mouth, and set part of the “Future Calendars” on fire? Who the fuck really knows what went down back then? All I know is, I’m not believing these motherfuckers. Did they know Doc Brown? If the Mayan King or whoever ran shit back then did hit 88mph and saw some serious shit, then why be illusive about it? That’s a valuable piece of info you wouldn’t want to leave open to interpretation. What is a Mayan anyway? My high school history teacher looked like a Muppet with open sores on his head, so he got harassed, and we learned nothing.

Kate Gosselin
Who is this broad, Cheetarah? She’s got to be half Thundercat or something; it’s not normal for humans to have eight kids all under the age of two. Then again, it’s not normal to want your life on display for the whole world to see. I’m happy for her though, really, I am. It’s every little girls dream to grow up, get married, give birth to a flag football team, then go on TV to show your family off, which in turn, eventually ruins your family. TADA!

iPhone, iPod, iStore...

“Fuck em, up against the wall, with handcuffs on em and crazy glue on they lips” –Bernie Mac

For the record, I’m anti "i". I’ve never even owned an iPod. Come to think of it, I’ve never bought anything made by Apple. Fuck that company and fuck all of you out there who brag about owning more than one “i” device.

“I have the big one for my car, the nano for jogging, the shuffle for...when I don’t want to listen to the tracks in order, I guess?"

But it doesn’t matter what it’s called, because no matter how many "i" products you own, when the new one is released, certain members of the public just have to have it. Cut to a bunch of assholes waiting on a line for hours, sometimes days, to buy a device that pretty much does the same shit as the other shit they already bought from Apple. Are you fucking serious? Don’t you shitbags have jobs? Now we have the iPad. Oh cool, a gigantic iPhone that costs $30,000 or whatever asshole-price the asshole-public is willing to pay, assholes. How many motherfucking devices do you need to play music on?

Americans always wonder why the rest of the globe hates us. Well here's your answer. The "i" obsession - that's your fucking answer. People in some countries can’t even FIND steady work to afford a motherfucking breadcrumb to eat, but we can call in sick and wait in line for two days for the Apple store to open so you can waste money and buy the newest hi-tech Walkman.

Quick Hits:

1. Black Licorice
I got nothing to say about this so called “candy.” It’s completely ridiculous to produce something that tastes like a mixture of car tires and medicine and sell it to the public. Good n’ Plenty should be ashamed of themselves. Pricks.

2. Reggaeton
If I wanted to here someone scream “Fuego” over and over again, I’d set a house on fire in Spanish Harlem. I hate this music, I HATE IT!!!!

3. Cigarette Prices
I hate it when people complain about the rising price of smokes. Quit motherfucker, what the fuck do you want from me?

I Hate Your NFL Mock Draft

NFL mock drafts were spawned directly from a pile of Satan's dog's shit. I can't stand seeing them pop-up on every goddamn website I visit. I came to Amazon.com to buy "Children of Men" on Blu-Ray, not read about Taylor-fucking-May's vertical. Unfortunately, this time of year, mock drafts are harder to avoid than Peter King's tits on a crowded elevator. It's just another sad fact about life that we all have to accept, like your hairline. Now, I'm fine with the draft itself. In fact, I used to love the draft. In college, we would wake up bright and early and be blacked-out by the time Mike Tice forgot to phone in his 1st round pick. Now I'm an old loser and don't do that anymore, and the 1st round is actually on a Thursday night, but again, I'm fine with the idea of the draft. It's the lead-up that fucking sucks.

And even when I do come across a draft that I'd like to scan over quickly, I always find out that I have to pay to read it. Actually money to read on the internet? Are you kidding? It's like a stat-nerd's peepshow. Do I really have to sign up for a 12 year subscription just to see carbon-copy blurbs from scouts who are so fucking drunk on whiskey that they think they're relaying messages to the Pope? Give me a break. I will never pay to see a mock draft. I'd rather give money that Asian guy who plays the plastic recorder on the F train. And he is the most untalented musician I have ever met.

Even worse, none of these mock drafts are even remotely accurate past the first two or three picks of the draft. Some are wrong from the get-go. Every sportswriter in America thinks he's a fucking cowboy and starts getting bold with his selections so that once the actual NFL draft is over, if one of his random picks happens to come to fruition, he can boast about it to his colleagues as he shoves that third piece of Italian combo into his fat-fucking-face. It's more of a waste of time than paying your taxes is.

Also, mock drafts have burned me way too many times in the past, and I was forced to learn a lesson the hard way. You see, I am a Jets fan. Up until a few years ago, draft day was a day of absolute fucking misery. Actually, pretty much the whole year was an never-ending repetition of ball-kicks. But right before every draft, no matter how awful the Jets prospects were, I'd still jump online, click through a mock draft, see the Jets getting someone awesome, and start to believe it could happen. Then, draft day would come, and we'd draft some fucking loser like Dwayne Robertson or trade our 1st round pick for Doug Jolley, and I would flirt with taking up a heroin addiction but instead drink until I was blind for 36 hours and maybe cry a little bit in the bathroom of the bar.

But back then I deserved it. Now, I know better.

Honestly, if you're that intent on putting college players on paper and seeing where they land, you might as well create your own mock draft. Don't know any of the player's positions? It doesn't matter! Don't know the NFL team's specific needs? It Doesn't matter! Don't like football? It doesn't matter! Don't speak English? It doesn't matter! Because your guess is as good as any of these morons is, so go nuts! You will be as accurate as the other Monday Morning Quarterbacks, only you won't be suffering from congestive heart failure.

I Hate The State of Robert De Niro's Career

Robert De Niro's agent should be skinned and then rolled through a sandbox filled with crumbled salt and vinegar chips. No, no, no fuck that - he should be bound with electrical tape, water-boarded with bum urine, then skinned, and then rolled through a sandbox filled with crumbled salt and vinegar chips. Because what he's done to the career of one of the greatest actors in history is an absolute fucking travesty. And yes, I know, the agent's agency is really to blame (CAA, which De Niro, believe it or not, finally wised-up and fired in 2008) but still, I'm blaming this one particular agent, one who I'm sure has wispy $20,000 hair-plugs and one who wears douchey sunglasses indoors with a big stupid DG insignia on the side and silk-slacks that perfectly highlight his balls to the disgust of everyone who is forced to sit and look at his fat ass as he downs a salad coated with Ranch dressing and crumbled bacon, because it's easier to channel all my hatred toward one person than an entire company.


(sobs under a table)

The decline of De Niro's career since the end of the 1990's is scary. It went from a 10 to a 2.5 in less than a decade. His performances over the past ten years have been cringe-inducing and borderline embarrassing. It's like watching an old divorced man re-released upon the single's scene, frequenting bars and hitting on a bunch of hot chicks who want nothing to do with his Wrangler jeans and comb-over and scent of approaching death that trails him. You know at one point in his life, this guy could have had pretty much any girl he wanted. Now, he's just a fucking creep with cheap-gin-breath and a warped perception of what's "cool." And that sums up what De Niro's career has become. It's so lost, it's not even mockable anymore. But I don't blame De Niro entirely. No, no - I mostly blame his agency, because they're the ones who should have been steering him away from the nonsense he's been marqueeing over the past decade. Let's be honest - if you had the track record De Niro had, and someone gave you $10,000,000 to be in a shitty movie, you would take it. Because, why not?

But just as a reference, here are most of the gems he's starred in from 2000-2009:

2000 - "Men of Honor"; "The Adventures of Rocky and Bullwinkle"
2001 - "15 Minutes"; "Showtime"
2002 - "City by the Sea"; "Analyze That"
2004 - "Godsend"; "Meet the Fockers"; "The Bridge of San Luis Ray"
2005 - "Hide and Seek"
2006 - "The Good Shepherd"
2007 - "Stardust"
2008 - "What Just Happened"; "Righteous Kill"
2009 - "Everybody's Fine"

Aside from "Meet the Parents" and "The Score" (both of which hit theaters before the end of 2001, which, for those of you keeping score, was almost nine years ago), he has wasted ten fucking years making heaping-piles of unwatchable dogshit. "Stardust" is the worst title in the history of film; it sounds like the biopic of Clay Aiken. And what the fuck is, "The Bridge of San Luis Ray"? And “Rocky and Bullwinkle”? Are you fucking serious? Robert De Niro in a live-action cartoon? Just writing that past sentence makes me wish I had a pistol. Someone must have been blackmailing him with photos of him strangling a drifter with piano wire, because it's the only excuse for such an abysmal run.

I understand when comedic actors hit their apex and then start making bombs (i.e. Steve Martin, Chevy Chase and more recently, Jim Carrey), because unfortunately society adjusts to what is currently considered "funny." But how does this happen to a perennial Oscar contender like De Niro, who, up until 1999, was nominated about 8,000 times for best actor? It doesn't make sense.

So, in short, fuck you, ex-De Niro-agent, I hope you end up contracting gonorrhea from Susan Sarandon and go blind. You ruined a whole decade of potential movie magic. And since Bobby is not getting younger, I now have to re-watch "Raging Bull" for the 700th time in order to remember how great of an actor he was, and try not to kill myself by the end of it.

I Hate Coffee Shop Junkies

Nerd Alert

I'm not big on spending time in random places. There are too many people around and too many singing homeless men who can't hold a fucking tune (I blame it on the school system). But if I was to become suddenly wealthy, or hold a job that doesn't require me to be baked by halogens for nine hours a day, I may spend more time away from home. I love the beach, so I would probably go there a lot. Or to a lake. Lake's are pretty cool. You can fish, you can boat, you can lay in a tube and get drunk. But I know that in this fake reality of mine, with all that time spent drinking in stagnate water and removing sand from my shoes, I will not be spending any of my free time at a fucking Starbucks. Those places are the fucking WORST.

Why people choose to do this, I will never know. I would rather drink prune juice from a toilet tank. It's louder than an airplane hangar and it's always fucking PACKED, and it stinks like burnt coffee grounds. That's a recipe for terribleness.

Now, I get it when I see an elderly gentlemen sitting around, sipping coffee, people-watching, because I know that he's there to get away from his sad little apartment and brush up against young, healthy people, because it sure as shit beats hanging out in Washington Square Park with the bootleg peddlers that smell like Lo mein and the assholes dressed up like robots and the Statue of Liberty. But why in the fuck are their so many young adults hanging out in Starbucks? Do they sell heroin in the bathroom? Are they giving away free shit to nerds wearing Ramones t-shirts? Look at the guy who brought his computer - holy shit, that thing is HUGE, he dragged it all the way down here just to play brick-breaker?

And the people reading books at the coffee shop tables, I mean, c'mon, give me a break. I love to read, but I there's no way I'm concentrating on anything unless the real world is completely tuned out. Now, you tell me how in the fuck can someone sit there and pleasantly flip through Nabokov while the barista is threatening the cashier with a kitchen knife and the woman at the front of the line with the baby carriage that's big enough to haul seven bales of hay is screaming like a drunk person giving directions to a bar? I can barely think hateful thoughts in these situations, let alone attempt to digest some deep, theoretical shit. Maybe they can concentrate while a lunatic eats discarded tuna from the garbage seven feet away, but not me, I treat Starbucks like it's a morgue during the Bubonic Plague.

And it never fails that I almost get in a confrontation with one of these dickheads every time I step foot in the place. Now, some of the blame goes to the shop for packing seventy four tables into a eight-by-ten foot shop, but most of it falls on the douchebag who has seven chairs flanking his table, his skateboard, his scooter, his fucking remote control airplane and his LL Bean jumbo book bag with peace signs drawn on it, all spread out around him in every direction possible. Oh, I'm sorry I knocked over your Tony Hawk replica board, what are you 30 years old? Grow the fuck up.

I have no problem with Starbucks coffee. It's fucking coffee, the coffee is fine. But the people. And the place. Hell, pure unfiltered hell. Honestly, forget the beach and forget the lake, I'd rather spend the day with Jay Leno painting his porch plaid in the Sahara Desert, that's how much I despise each and every one of these dumpsters.

I Hate Adult's Who Ride Scooters

A few months back, I was walking the four blocks from my work to the subway, eyes fixed intensely on the sidewalk, making sure I didn't accidentally wander into that puddle of puke that's always outside of Applebee's on 50th street*. While I was studying the various piles of garbage strewn about the street, something caught my eye - a flicker of light, a quick flash of something metallic. I looked up, and coming at me was a man in a suit riding on a scooter. Right there on the sidewalk! And the scooter wasn't motorized or anything, it was just a regular scooter. He was pushing away with one foot and steering with both hands, zig-zagging his way through pedestrian traffic.

Needless to say, I was SHOCKED. A man, a grown man, on a scooter. Why? Why was he riding a scooter? How far did he ride it? Did he ride it in from the suburbs? Did he bring it on the train? If some fucker sat down next to me with a scooter, and this person wasn't six-years-old, I would tell him to take a fucking hike, because that would be just too ridiculous for me to process.

I couldn't get past what I just witnessed. It was like seeing Jesus playing wiffle ball with Pat Morita. Slowly, the shock wore off and the anger flooded in. I wanted to grab the guy by his lapels, shake him violently for a few seconds, and then scream in his face until I passed out and began weeping hysterically. WHY? WHY? I NEED TO KNOW WHY YOU ARE RIDING ON A SCOOTER THROUGH MIDTOWN MANHATTAN WEARING A SUIT. YOU BETTER HAVE CRIPPLING SAMURAI SWORD WOUNDS TO YOUR LEGS OR ELSE...

This sort of thing is not acceptable. Not under any circumstance. Unless you're fucking Hansel from "Zoolander", you have no business, as an adult, riding a scooter. Do you think you're helping the environment? Well guess what? YOU'RE NOT. Walk. Walk like every other asshole. And you know what, fuck that, this is NYC, the concrete jungle, kids shouldn't be riding scooters on the sidewalk, either. Go ride in the park, or the MOMA, or the Great Kills Landfill, I don't care, just make sure you know that if you bump into me, I'm throwing that thing down a sewer, you spoiled little shit.

I tried to put myself in the scooter guy's position, get into the mind of a man who went out and bought himself a scooter to zoom around on, but I just couldn't. I wouldn't be able to look my family in the eye ever again. My friends would literally make fun of me until I commited suicide. I'm not even joking.

Since the first time I saw the guy on the scooter, I've seen many more people riding these things. One guy in his 60's holding a briefcase; a younger guy in a blazer smoking a cigarette; a woman wearing a helmet - A HELMET! You are literally rolling three-fucking-miles-per-hour down the street, what could you possibly be afraid of? Is your skull made out of graham crackers? Now barely a day goes by where I don't see an adult riding a scooter. I'm convinced it's all a big conspiracy to make my heart explode. Or it could just be one big ridiculous fad that will pass, sort of like the guy who barfs of 50th street each day and my wishes that one day I will not have to see someone's regurgitated Big Mac.

*Just FYI, this is completely true, someone vomits outside of Applebee's almost bi-weekly. Now, I will gladly pay someone $20 to find out who throws up there, and for what reason, because the puke is there at least 5x-8x a month, in the exact same spot. I will gladly fork over cash to speak to someone who is so upset with Applebee's that he/she feels that vomiting outside their door on a regular basis is a solid form of payback. Amazing.

Weekend Reprieve - April 16-17

Growing up, I was obsessed with boxing. Now, not so much, but in the 80's and 90's, I couldn't get enough of it. I would buy seventeen magazines a week and read them cover-to-cover. OMG, ANDREW GOLOTA LIKES HAMBURGERS TOO. I would draw pencil portraits of boxers and show them off to classmates who had no fucking clue who Harry Greb was. I boxed for the Yonkers PAL, and I did so willingly, albeit poorly. I used to create my own rankings for every division, and stress for hours over where to rank losers like Oliver McCall, like I was fucking Jose Sulaiman or someone of equal corruptness. I would also write fantasy matches between Mike Tyson and Riddick Bowe and Lennox Lewis and other heavyweights (nerd alert) who I severely overrated. Obviously Tyson won each of these contests by viscous KO, because at that point Tyson was still in prison and I imagined him being released and killing everyone upon his return to the ring (FYI - didn't happen that way). My first America Online screen-name was "Battling38" named after Battling Siki. Don't know who that is? Well, most normal white suburban kids don't either, but like I said, I was a huge dork when it came to the sport.

Anyway, in my opinion, there is no other boxing movie that captures the essence of 'real' boxers like "Raging Bull" does. De Niro should have retired from acting right after he made this movie, because his portrayal of Jake LaMotta was flawless. Most boxers are not good guys. In fact, most of them are bad guys. Fuck "Rocky" - I love the movie, but that shit is fantasy. These guys are fucking insane. MMA is very tough, but imagine standing in a ring for 36 minutes getting punched in the fucking face. PAINFUL I tell you.

Anyway, watch this clip, and if you don't laugh and cringe at the same time, then you're a communist.

I Hate Your Public Display of Hygienics

Image courtesy of Getty

I never expect a pleasant experience when I use the work bathroom. It’s the size of a gym locker, has random stains that make me think it's been the scene of several rapes/murders, and reeks of stomach viruses and shame. It’s also filled with certain assholes (no pun intended) acting as if they’re in their own personal bathroom, more comfortable and at home than Tom Cruise in a gay bar. They turn the place into their own fucking private sanctuary, carrying along a cute little bag that's bursting with supplies, sure to keep them healthy and happy forever and ever.

Well, I hate these fucking people, because brushing your teeth in public is flat-out fucking gross. And flossing is even worse. If public brushing is Pol Pot, then flossing is Josef Stalin. When I walk into the men's room at work and come across someone brushing and flossing away with their disgusting mouth wide open and shit flicking onto the mirror and their little baggy of hygienic tools sitting on the sink ledge, I often times have to fight off the urge to sap them with a push-broom.

Why do I care if some douchebag decides to take extra-special care of his body, you ask? I don't know—I guess it has something to do with me being CRAZY. But the hate exists, so let’s run with it. Brushing? Flossing? Gargling? Nail-Clipping? What's next - whipping out your dick and doing some hedge-trimming? Why not install a fucking shower? Let's turn this place into a fucking gym locker-room. You and your good-time buddies can whip each other with towels and make racist remarks about the cleaning lady. It will be a fucking blast!

And these assholes always act so nonchalant while in the process. Sometimes they try to talk to me while they're flossing. What? I can't understand you, you fucking asshole, you have a 2x4 sticking out of your throat and it sounds like you’re deaf. Oh, I'm sorry, you wanted to discuss the Mets rotation woes? Okay, let me stop pissing so we can chat, because nothing is more pleasant than watching you clean your fucking mouth with a toilet-brush while we’re surrounded by the smell of paint-peeling shit.

There’s nothing more awful than being forced to watch someone remove decomposing steak from his teeth while you wash your hands. I don’t ever want to see you brush your teeth—what am I your fucking wife? And if you can’t find five spare minutes to cut your nails at home, then please do us all a favor and walk into traffic, because you are the worst person ever at time management.

Here's a stern warning for all you fucking champions of cleanliness: stop subjecting me to your fucking grooming habits or else I'm going to steal your toothbrush, use it to clean all the dog shit off my shoes, the floor, and the entire run of 48th street, and then return it to your little fucking baggie while you're out having a blast chomping through some spare-ribs and asparagus.

I Hate Your Facebook Profile

Facebook is great tool with many enjoyable and practical uses for daily entertainment. You can stalk random people you barely know, see who's gained the most weight since college, tag friends in photos that will hopefully get them fired, and link your poorly-scribed blog to increase traffic from 10 people to 20 people a day. But like any good thing, people tend to take things too far. By becoming obsessed with Facebook, people reveal things about their persona that should be kept tucked away, hidden in shame. for starters, self-absorption. And an absolute need for attention. If you're so obsessed with attention, why not start writing a blog full of swears and weakly constructed arguments? Trust me, it will make you will feel very important. But if you choose not to create a blog, then please, please stop letting me see that you became a fan of "the sun." It makes me die a little inside.

Here are a few other things that drive me fucking insane on Facebook, and hope that soon they will become offenses punishable by caning in front of every single person you know.

Weather Statuses
I am not stuck in solitary confinement, I can see out my fucking window. So can every other fucking person you’re friends with. Nobody likes the rain, I get it, you share the same sentiment as EVERY OTHER PERSON ON THE FUCKING PLANET. Wah wah wah when will the rain stop? Wah wah wah, when will I see the sun again? I know when, right after I KILL YOU.

Veiled Statuses

These are posted by assholes that would suck poison from a syringe found at the bottom of a homeless man’s garbage bag if they were promised social attention in return. Oh, you can’t believe you did “that” last night? Well, I will naturally assume that “that” is being gang-banged by thirty Ecuadorian immigrants, so if I ever see you again and don’t happen to make eye contact, well, at least you know why.

Page Suggestions

Let me explain something, and I’m sure I speak for every other fucking person I know: I am almost thirty-fucking-years old, I can decide which websites I like all-by-my-fucking-self. So no, I do not want to click through your independent marketing page. It fucking sucks. And it looks like it was designed by a four-year-old. And you have gotten fat and gone bald since college. So stop sending me this shit.

Requests to Do Shit
I haven’t seen your ugly face since elementary school. Even then, I wasn’t friends with you. I don’t think I’ve ever said a word to you. I only accepted your friend request so that when you eventually go on a murder spree, you will hopefully spare my life. But seriously, why in the holy fuck would I ever want to see pictures from your Farmville game?

Mass Event Invites
Oh, sweet, a fucking birthday party! Open bar? Even fucking sweeter. Wait…9,763 people are invited? Where is this party being held, the Javits Center? Should I really expect to see our 6th grade English Teacher and your Aunt Sally there, or did you send this out to every motherfucker that you’re friends with?

Status Junkies
You are driving home…You are watching “Dancing with the Stars”…You are ready for bed…You are having coffee…You are hating work…You are excited to leave work… You are driving home…You are watching “Dancing with the Stars”…You are ready for bed....

You know what? Do me a favor, let me know when you’re about to thwart some would-be-robbers with a flare gun and a butcher knife, because I DON’T GIVE A FUCK ABOUT YOUR LONELY, BORING, MONOTONOUS FUCKING DAY!

Fan Pages
Just once, I would like someone become a fan of “diarrhea” or “murder.” Then, and only then, will my opinion on this matter sway. Because fan pages are just another way for someone to cry for attention. “Hey look at me, I like the ocean! Do you like the ocean too? Holy shit, we both like the ocean! We should let people know on Facebook about our collective love of the ocean. We’re definitely not like the other 459,000,000,000 people on the earth that like to look at the fucking ocean!”

This last one was brought to my attention by a keen-eyed reader, and I just had to add it in.

Status Updates while on Vacation

You are in one of the most beautiful places on God's Green Fucking Earth, and you're updating your status? Really? REALLY??? You know what? You don't deserve a vacation. What you deserve is to be kidnapped and shackled to a boiler in a basement and then forced to watch Rosie O'Donnell take a dump for three weeks.

Two Day Hiatus

Be back Thursday, until then, watch this until your eyes bleed.

I Hate Your Birthday Dinners

image courtesy of Getty Images

You know what my favorite thing in the whole world is? Getting together with a bunch of friends, maybe six or seven or eight of them, and then getting their spouses together too, and then going out and hitting the town and grabbing dinner at the newest, trendiest, most exciting one-syllable restaurant in town. I fucking live to sit in a seat built for a Guatemalan dwarf and drink “house” wine that’s actually vinegar and piss. These situations make me smile and clap and say, "It is a great time to be alive."
I mean, what's more fun than only being able to speak to the people within six inches of your mouth because the designer of the restaurant decided to make the acoustics similar to the fucking Sydney Opera house? And who fucking doesn't love the sound of pots and pans banging for two hours at a time and the feeling of blood seeping from my ruptured ear-drums because my seat is a foot away from the open kitchen?

You know what else is great - when some asshole at the table orders lobster and crab claw appetizers and filet mignon and a bottle of wine and a digestif and an assortment of dessert samplers and then suggests the bill be split evenly. That guy is the best! He's so cultured and so charming. I bet he also cheats on his wife and berates minorities while in the confines of his own home. At no point during his performance do I want to twist a broken wine glass into his eye.

Oh, and who doesn't love eating 3oz of steak and five string beans? What, you don't think this is filling? You don't enjoy the fact that the meat was flown in from Brazil and the cow was slaughtered with a 7,000 year old samurai sword? Well, you should, because all of this makes the food more filling! And I never want to take my plate and throw it through the window out of protest and then weep on the dirty tiled floor of the bathroom after I shell over $100 for half a chicken breast and spoonful of corn.

But you say that you really do enjoy going out to dinner? Well that's just fucking great. There are times when I do too. Most of these times it's at a wonderful place called, "Chipotle." But if it's not just me and the wife going out to dinner, I prefer to keep it to six people at the absolute max. Unless everyone at the table is best friends with one another, and you all can have equally stimulating conversations without wanting to stick bamboo shoots under your fingernails, then there is no need to go out with a larger group and not be able to talk to anyone you like. Nothing sucks harder than being stuck with strangers at the far end of a table. I'd rather eat at Long John Silver's with a band of Islamic extremists than sit at the very end of a long table and have no one to bullshit with, while watching as the group of people at the other end shit their pants with laughter. But I'm the guy who always gets stuck next to the new guy who nobody knows, and he always hates sports, and he isn't a drinker, and loves Christian Rock or some other shit like that. Just thinking about it gives me hives on my eyeballs.

And I know I’m not alone here, I know there are many, many more people out there who fucking hate these dinners. How about birthday dinners with 75 people? What the fuck is that about? Why is your cleaning lady sitting across from me eating an endive salad? If people still feel the need to have parties in honor of their birthday, then they should have it at a bar, so people can come and go as they please. They should have it at a bar so I can buy the birthday boy/girl shots until they piss and puke a little bit, and then laugh at them as they fall asleep on a park bench. That’s the way it should be. You have birthday dinners with 900 people when you’re the President of the United States, not the manager of a bank.

Weekend Reprieve - April 9-10

Because I spend all week hating the fuck out of everything, here's a short break from it all. Weekends deserve no hate, unless you have to go to an engagement party or a kid's birthday where they will not be serving alcohol or some other shit like that. Then your weekend deserves to die.

Anyway, this Friday the reprieve comes in the form of Miller's Crossing, one of the best movies of all time. If you haven't seen it, you need to remove your head from your ass.

I Hate Your TV Show Suggestions

There are reasons why I watch what I watch on TV. My mind is warped and exceptionally biased. I can't help it, this is just the way it is. I sample, and I decide if I like something or not. I also do not promote my favorite shows to other people. Unless someone asks me, 'got any shows you may think that I might like?', I keep that shit to myself. And regardless of how much I enjoy "Parks and Recreation", not in a million years will I EVER force it upon you.

Contrary to my approach in this area are those people who take it upon themselves to promote a TV show like it was written, directed and produced by their fucking mom. And even when I explain that, yes, I have seen this show a dozen times already and don't really care for it, they still insist that I watch it again. This mentality drives me to drink more than I already do. I can't fucking stand when people look at me and say, "Hmm, you know what? What this guy needs is for me to recommend 'The Mentalist' again, because I think it's a great show, and even though I already know he doesn't like it, I'll suggest it again, because he may like it this time around."

No, I will not. I will not love your show. "The Mentalist" fucking sucks. But the only reason I'm relaying my opinion on "The Mentalist" is because you feel it necessary to push me to watch it. Did my coarse response hurt your feelings? Tough shit. I do not want to fucking listen to you sales pitch. I don't care. My lifestyle is sedentary enough, I don't need anyone to fill me in on what's been on the air for multiple seasons already. I read 7,000 different websites a day, and most of them hate the same shit that I do. THEY ALREADY TELL ME WHAT I SHOULD AND SHOULD NOT LIKE, SO YOU CAN STOP!

The only thing worse than people like this are those people who like to tell me that the shit I watch and enjoy is no good, mainly because it's without prompt.

Asshole: What are you guys talking about?
Asshole: LOST? That show fucking blows!

Oh it does? Holy shit, is that why I've been watching it? Thanks for letting me know, BECAUSE I ASKED FOR YOUR FUCKING OPINION!!

(takes out flamethrower)
(melts Asshole's face)

Normally, these people are also the same ones that, after telling you how bad your taste is, then try and push their favorite shows on you. And, as I mentioned earlier, it's never anything good. It's never something that I haven't heard of or seen yet, gone and checked out, and then ended up loving. It's always something that's lame, and is more mainstream than Michael-fucking-Jackson, like "24" or something.

Oh, what is this "24" you speak of? I've been trapped in a P.O.W. camp in Cambodia for the last fucking twelve years, being beaten with bamboo reeds and eating field mice, so please, please inform me about this show, because I've never heard of this show called "24."

To all of you out there who do this, I assure you, it's a very easy habit to ditch. I know that if I ever ask someone if they watch a certain show, and they tell me that they don't, I move on. It makes life so much more enjoyable. I get it, your wife/girlfriend/boyfriend/husband/cat/dog won't listen to any of your television suggestions. I GET IT. But what in the fuck makes you think that I will listen to you? What is it about me that makes you think that I'm taking ballots for new shit to watch on TV? Let me give you a hint: NOTHING. So stop. Now. Before I come over to your house and take a hammer to your LCD.

I Hate Surly Sandwich Makers

image via here

I tend to get unreasonably angry at minor nuisances. Like socks losing their elasticity. I fucking hate that shit. It's like wearing a floppy cotton garbage bag over your foot. But instead of tossing the socks away and putting on a new pair, I act like it's the end of the world. BECAUSE IT IS! Same goes for butterflies, I always get mad when someone compliments them. Oh, you think they're beautiful? Fuck that, they are CREEPY!

But there is one group of people in this city who, and I strongly believe this, actually overreacts to more minuscule shit than I do. These people are deli sandwich-makers. Holy shit, talk about acting as if all is lost when you tell them you'd rather have provolone than Swiss. These guys are some of the meanest motherfuckers on the planet. They should be hunting down Al Qaeda operatives in the Afghan mountains. The way they look at me when I ask them to add sweet peppers to my sandwich, I assume, is similar to the look a serial killer gives a prostitute before he chops off her head with bread knife and makes a toupee out of her scalp. Where did this transaction go wrong? Did I spit on your wife? All I wanted was Swiss-fucking-cheese, pal, not your first-born child.

Ever have them mess up the order and then have to correct them mid-sandwich-making? I have. It's terrible. It's like defusing a bomb; you have to go about it in the most delicate way possible.

Me: Uhhh, no mayo. Please, no mayo.
(Specifically said ‘no mayo’ while ordering)

(Stares at me like I'm Hitler)

All of this could be in my head, but I doubt it. I've seen these guys lose their fucking mind on people. It's gotten to the point where I just let them do whatever they want, eat around the shit I don’t like, and go back to staring at my computer while on the verge of tears.

These guys are cowboys. They have more power than Bill Gates in their respective area of expertise, and rule with an iron fist. You want Onions? YOU GET SPROUTS! Sometimes these guys don’t even clean their knives while switching condiments. And I don’t care about this because of sanitary reasons (that bucket of water they swish the knife around in was dipped in the Fountain of Youth, so no worries), no, I care because when I bite into a turkey sandwich, I do not want to taste peanut butter. EVER. And who the fuck is going to the deli and ordering a peanut butter sandwich anyway? What are you five-years old? Go to the store and buy your own jar and make it yourself. Even I’m not that lazy.

But the sandwich makers will continue their reign of terror, because there is no one out there who can give them an attitude adjustment. Aside from physically fighting with one of them – not recommended, they are squatty and carry multiple knives - no matter what you say, no matter how much you shake your little white-collar fist, you will not have an affect on their attitude. It’s like global warming. And so we’re all eternally doomed to choke-down gobs of chipotle mayo when all we wanted was some spicy mustard. Oh, the fucking horror.

I Hate Office Culture

There is nothing fun about spending a nine-hour-day sitting in a cube staring at a computer screen that is not only destroying your retinas, but also slowly incinerating your soul. Nothing at all. Responding to banal emails blows, too. The same can be said about drinking piss-warm coffee and wearing uncomfortable clothes made from fabrics that tend to highlight any small condiment stain like a CSI halogen lamp. To be perfectly honest, I'd rather be a gravedigger than an office worker. If a career in grave digging paid more than what I do now, then I would be digging graves instead of sitting here bitching about my situation, because at least gravediggers feel a sense of accomplishment (I assume) at the end of the day, seeing that they shoveled all that dirt and stuff. The thing that I can think of that makes working in an office better than shoveling dirt is Pizza Day. And Pizza Day does not happen frequently enough to be a deciding factor in the timeless argument of grave digger vs. office minion.

And the debate rages on…

But regardless, I understand that I am trapped. Most people are. I'll go out on a limb and say that 75% of all people working in Corporate America would rather be doing something different for a living. So, I'm stuck., and you’re stuck, and that fucking blows. Now, cue the violin.

But, there are ways to improve day-to-day office life and make it tolerable. It’s not a lost cause by any means. Now, if we can improve on these few things that happen at work on a daily basis that I fucking hate more than hangnails and Susan Sarandon, it’s possible to live and see another day.

1) Painfully Unfunny Douchebags
All coworkers who make awful jokes should be driven up to the Catskills and shot. No questions asked, just get in the back of the fucking van and shut the fuck up. When I step onto an elevator and some douchebag says, "Hey, looks like we’re taking the local" because the elevator has stopped on more than one floor, I want to turn around and scalp them. It is not "the local" like the local subway trains. It is a fucking elevator. An elevator stops on multiple floors, that is its most basic function. I see what you did there, trying to sound clever, but please stop, it’s stupid, corny and hokey. And your unoriginal horseshit-commentary lets the girl standing next to you know (the one you've been trying to get drunk enough to lower her standards and hook up with you months now) that you're about as funny as a geriatric man shattering his hip on an icy sidewalk. So, either swallow your fucking tongue and stare blankly at the blinking lights like the rest of us sheep, or off to the Catskills you go.

2) Bathroom Talk
I am here to take a piss, not to talk to you. I don't give a shit that the fucking Knicks lost last night. I hate basketball, and now I hate you, so leave me the fuck alone before I accidentally piss on your gabardine pants, asshole.

3) Ignorers
Anyone who avoids eye-contact when passing me in the hallway is now fired. I'm not trying to fuck you, I'm just saying hello. Respond to me. Make me feel like a human-fucking-being. Am I smeared with blood and carrying a disembodied head around like it’s a lantern? No, I'm not - so what the fuck is wrong with you? Yeah, yeah, I get it, you're very important, you’re wearing expensive slacks and your glasses are adorned with trendy frames, and I am just a lowly rube, but the most basic thing that separates humans from motherfucking animals is our ability to interact through the art of motherfucking conversation, so when I say 'hi', you say 'hi' back to me, or I will take that blackberry you are pretending to look at and shove it up your puckered ass.

4) Scorn of the Sick Day
We live in a world where people are too terrified to stay home from work if they're sick, because they may be labeled with a stigma that says they’re weak and not willing to go the extra yard for the greater good of the company. I’m lucky, I have a strong immune system, and rarely get sick, but I’m not immune to shit, so if I have to listen to one more person who sounds like he/she has fucking SARS eating away at their face and throat, I'm going to lose it. If you're unable to function and need rest, STAY THE FUCK HOME, WHICH IS VERY FAR AWAY FROM ME! You are putting me at risk because your boss is a cocksucker, and now I have to wonder whether or not I'm looking at a couple of weeks of waking up with cotton in my lungs and a vice on around my temples. Well, no more of this shit. With the new rules implemented, if you come in to work sick, you're fired (or driven up to the Catskills). End of fucking story, end of problem.

5) Alma Mater Dropping
We are talking about the Yankees rotation, not the time you ran into a coked-up Chuck Knoblauch while enrolled at UPenn. So please, shut the fuck up, and start realizing that your education got you to the same exact spot that I'm in, HEYYYYOOOO!

I Hate Fat People on the Subway

True story, this woman bullied my 5'2'' wife out of THREE SEATS. Of course, the wife scolded her in front of the whole train car and then ran for her life. And I couldn't be more proud...BTW, please note the Big John Stud wrestling boots.

If asked, I doubt any of the 8,000,000+ people living in New York City will truthfully say that they enjoy riding the subway. You have to be certifiably insane, or you must genuinely enjoy hopping into a cramped box that's filled with putrid body odor and perverts and armed-maniacs and panhandlers spouting poorly executed sob-stories (you did not just lose your job, lady, you have three fucking teeth). It's just one of the many shitty aspects of living in NYC that you have to suck up and deal with (unless of course, you're loaded, and you can afford to travel around in your Bentley, living it up with your rich friends and laughing at assholes like me as we shuffle down oil-slick stairs into the pits of hell. I know that if I were a rich, entitled brat, I would definitely be laughing at your sappy puss as I leisurely caroused Manhattan, sipping 30 year-old Macallan's in between doing lines of cocaine off an anorexic model's bony ass. You may call me an asshole, because it's the truth.)

But there is one thing that makes riding the subway worse than anything, and that's fat people sitting down.

And I'm not talking about slightly overweight people (/me). I'm not even talking about people that might benefit by shaving off, oh I don't know, 70 or 80 or 130 lbs. I'm talking about obese people. Walking Cholesterol. People who are hoovering Big Mac's and French fries and onion rings into their fucking face for lunch, and then blaming only the 64 oz. soda for their planet-sized gut. I'm talking about people who have thighs wider than my waist and torsos the size of Jersey City. And I don't care so much about myself not being able to find a seat (I obviously need to stand-up in case a suicide bomber decides to end himself in honor of his invisible-friend/god on my commute home so I can dive under a bench and save my sorry ass), no, I'm talking about the middle-aged people who are forced to stand and watch these fatsos stuff their fucking hole with Cool Ranch Doritos while pretending they don't see the frail elderly man who's one shove away from a heart-attack, staring down at them with doe-eyes, silently begging them for one of the three seats that their fat-fucking-ass occupies.

Obviously, unlike airlines, there is no way to settle this problem. For the most part, we are a fat, selfish population and given the freedom, fat, selfish people tend to get their way. Do I hope some of these people fall down the stairs and maybe learn a lesson? Of course. Am I a bad person because of this? Probably. Do I give a fuck? No. If I were mayor, I would install scales into the turnstiles and anyone who registered over 380 lbs and wasn't Andre the Giant's son or above 6'3'' would immediately be sent to the fat car at the back of the train and forced to bump fupa's with the rest of the gluttons.

But that's just one terrible man's terrible solution, friends...

So, this next statement is meant to be read by you, Mr. or Mrs. Gigantic Fat-ass: if there are seats aplenty, then please, enjoy the feeling of three seat-separators penetrating your doughy thighs. But if the train is crowded, and their is a 100 year old woman hanging onto poles for dear life while trying not to bump into the bumbling psycho with a machete tucked into his sweatpants, then do society a service and stand up, or opt for the fucking "Ranch-Lite" once and a while.

I Hate Meetings

For all of you who spend nine hours a day rotting in a fluorescent-lit cube while surrounded by people who, albeit tolerable, sometimes make you want to light your face on fire, I'm sure you'll all agree with me on one of the things that I find to be the most ridiculous aspect of corporate America. And no it's not the shallow banter with people you secretly despise, or the inability to tune out the asshole down your row who laughs like a fucking circus imbecile, or the monotonous routine that sometimes make you wonder what would happen if you suddenly threw a rock through the conference room LCD screen. No, it's much more petty and simple than any of that.

It's just the abundance of fucking meetings. The never ending rush of meetings. God, do I fucking hate meetings.

Maybe it's my adult ADHD, or my inability to focus on someone speaking without coarsely criticizing every word they say because they sound like they're reading from a buzzword handbook in order to sound intelligent instead of mediocre (which they probably are), but personally, I'd rather spend an afternoon having political debates with homeless people than spend my time in a meeting.

When I see a meeting invite appear in my inbox, I briefly flirt with the idea of smashing my computer screen in with my fist, smearing the blood on my face, and screaming at the top of my lungs until I either vomit or pass out. Extreme reaction? Fuck you. Nothing is an extreme reaction when you're faced with a potential sixty-minute slice-of-your-always-diminishing-life being flushed down the toilet because some higher-up wants to hear himself talk for an hour. I work in advertising sales. I'm sure some of you out there do as well, so you know the feeling when some dickhead wants to discuss an integration concerning their adult diaper product, or you're forced to click through a PowerPoint presentation that looks like it was constructed by a blind person. It's literally less fun than eating hot garbage. But for those of you who don't know what it's like, for those of you who are able to avoid this ritual privy to corporate slobs, well, I can't decide if I envy you, or hope your boss suddenly decides to force you to attend a one-on-one motivational seminar hosted by Andy Dick.

Hey look at this, what a coincidence, another meeting reminder!

/burns down building

Fuck you, meetings.

I Hate Your Blackberry

Mornings suck. Unless you’re wealthy and have a butler that spoon feeds you papaya and melon, mornings suck. And they suck even more in the winter. It’s cold, it’s windy, and it’s miserable. Anyone with a smile on his or her face from the hours of 7am-11am during winter months should be treated as an infidel and disposed of accordingly.

Confrontations add to the misery of winter mornings. At least in the summer, once a confrontation is over, you can get ice cream and not die of hypothermia. But no, no fucking ice cream party in the winter. It’s too fucking cold for ice cream – here, have some hot chocolate…Well guess what: I FUCKING HATE HOT CHOCOLATE!

Recently, before the warm weather came back to save us all from the frozen tundra of misery, I was subjected to a fun confrontation because of a stupid fucking person occupied by her stupid fucking blackberry. You know the way it goes; some asshole comes wandering out of a doorway, eyes trained on the tiny little screen cupped delicately in his or her hand, shuffling around the sidewalk like a coked-up blind person. Now, most normal human-beings would simply zigzag around this fucking idiot. Most normal human-beings just want to avoid confrontation and proceed into the solace of their office so they can weep quietly under their desks about how trivial their lives have become. But not me. No, no, I am stubborn. I am retarded. So, staying true to those personality traits, I stayed on course, and walked directly into her. On purpose. I don't know why I did this. In my twisted mind, she needed to learn a harsh lesson about life. You see, young lady, you must pay more attention while you're walking the streets of Manhattan. What if I was a murderer? What if you texting that guy from the gym who won’t call you back because he thinks you’re too clingy and look awful when drunk causes me to go on a rampage?


Of course, after rushing into her, her fucking blackberry dropped to the ground and made a crash that echoed off the streets and surrounding buildings like a howitzer going off, thus stopping about fifteen people around us, and causing a scene.

"Watch where you're going, asshole," she said.

Me? I am the asshole? Did she really call me, asshole? I should watch where I’m going?

"No, you watch where you're going instead of staring at your blackberry, asshole."

I fucking served her. Everyone around me knew that I fucking served her back to the Bloomingdales corporate-slut-suit rack. She called me an asshole, and then I called her an asshole back, but louder, and with a stronger accentuation. Like this: ASShole. I fucking win.

I know, I know, it’s ridiculous, my actions are those of a child. But you know what? Fuck people like her. This isn’t Des Moines. There are 60,000 people walking on any given block, moving a speed of roughly 700 mph, so how can you justify wandering aimlessly so you can read an email about expense accounts?

You can’t. There is no justifying this. So, fuck off.

Look, I have a blackberry, I get it, it has the ability to do interesting shit. It's so innovative! It's so sleek! Look at all the applications I have!

Well, I really don’t give a shit.

I keep mine in my jacket. I already spend nine hours a day staring at a fucking computer, I don’t want to spend my precious few hours of freedom staring at an even smaller screen…DOING MORE FUCKING WORK! Why would anyone want to do this? Why? Give me one fucking reason why - I demand it! The only time I break out the blackberry is during meetings when my four-year-old attention span keeps me from absorbing information past the ten-minute-mark. "Oh look at that, I have an email, let me pretend to use my blackberry so I can check MLB Trade Rumors...Holy shit, Miguel Cairo signed a minor league deal with the Mets?"

So, to save you all from any further incoherent rambling, here's some free advice: ignore your blackberry. You will live longer, it's a fact*. And besides, you're not that important anyway. Your email will be there for you…in five minutes…when you get to your office…and open your Outlook. If you do not heed to this advice, prepare to be ambushed by me, because I clearly have zero regard for the addiction you have to your stupid job and your blackberry and that new fucking application that tells you where every Banana Republic is in the city. You suck.

*not a fact