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.