I Hate You, Mr. Uninformed


Be honest with me for a moment. Be honest with me and stop telling people that you made-out with Alexis Bledel at 1Oak one night last summer. Stop telling people that you are being recruited by Viacom to be the new Director of Media Sales and that they are enticing you with a brand new SLK. Stop telling people you can do 100 push-ups without a break when we all can clearly see your bitch-tits through your sweat-stained shirt. Stop being a liar and come clean with me here, just once, just for a moment...

Do you know who Che Guevara is?

I bet you don't. Most people don't. They know his face, but not who he was or what he did. And that's perfectly okay. But somehow, he still remains an icon for counterculture Americans and anti-government movements. And that's fucking annoying. Because 96% of all people involved in counterculture movements are scraggly-haired douchebags with trust funds and silver spoons shoved up their ass.

I know a little about Che. I know that some people love him, and people hate him. And then there's me. I don't give a shit about him. Because he is dead. But I do care about his image, and the assholes that use it to say: Yeah, I may be eating a turkey club here at this cafe, but I am so against our country's foreign policy, and you know what? That cop over there better not come over here and tell me to stop smoking cigarettes even though it's banned because this is a free country and I'll fucking sue that pig and take his house because my dad is a lawyer and even though I hate him for not this I'll use it to fall back on when I eventually get thrown out of whatever small, piece-of-shit liberal arts college I go to.

I don't get involved in the politics behind Che Guevara. I don't want to. But I don't particularly like counterculture. It's just too much of a hassle, you know, to care, because I realize that I'm powerless. But some people live to fight shit the government wants to implement. Not me, it just becomes an inconvenience. Ever get caught in protest traffic? It takes all the might in my dark little heart to not punch the gas and drive over these chanting dummies at 60 mph. Manslaughter would never have tasted so sweet. Oh, you hate the government? Go fucking move to North Korea and abide to that shoe-lift-wearing, Dolce&Gabbana-clad lunatic's laws and see just how fucking fun other countries governments really are. Now, I'm not in agreement with everything the government does; who is? But what I hate more than paying sales tax on a fucking soda are rich, whiny nerds who throw on a Che t-shirt and go protest the building of a fucking reservoir dam. Yes, yes, yes, taxes suck. Nuclear weapons suck. Our country's unquenchable thirst for oil and power sucks. But is it all really that bad? No, it's not. If you prance around city hall with posterboard, do you honestly fucking believe that it will change anything? If you do, you need to have a date with oncoming traffic, because you're more worthless than a woman's Armani powersuit in Iran.

You are privileged. Get-fucking-over-it. You have been given the gift of financial stability. There are literally a billion other people in this world who would chop off their foot with a paper cutter to be in your position. OHHHH, YOU THINK THAT THE MAN IS OUT TO GET YOU BECAUSE YOU HAVE TO ANTE UP SOME EXTRA MONEY PER MONTH FOR YOUR STUDENT PARKING SPOT??? Try wandering through a Sudanese desert, naked, while your government tries to wipe you out by dropping bombs on your fucking head and sicking Arabic murahaleen with swords on you. Oh, and YOU'RE ONLY FUCKING SEVEN YEARS OLD!

Read David Eggers, "What is the What" to really feel good about not being born in a war-torn country.

Want to help someone? Study to be a doctor. Or a scientist. Join the Peace Corps and go build houses for people who lost their home to a tornado. Have you ever even seen real tornado damage? It's shit-your-pants-scary. Maybe do something noble and teach inner-city youth? Don't like any of these options? Go do heroin in an abandoned box factory. I promise you that if you take this route, no government official will ever bother you. Yes, you may end up on the painful receiving end of a romp with Harold the giant homeless rapist, but at least no one will be taxing the money you make cleaning windshields near the highway overpass.

Unless you're someone cool like Banksy, you have no business strutting around in a Che shirt. You are not special. You are not going to change the world. Pretty soon you're going to knock-up that hippie chick with the dreds named Starlight and have a kid and end up buying a mini-van. And one day while you're on your way to play golf with some other financial swindler, you will get just as pissed off as I do because you will be caught in motherfucking traffic caused by a bunch of 23 year old losers picketing the government's ban on travel to Turkmenistan. And I GUARANTEE that at least one of them will be wearing a Che shirt.

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