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?

CAN YOU LIVE WITH THIS???

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

I Hate April Fools Day

I’ll be the first to admit that I have an odd sense of humor. Dry as sandpaper, weird like that friend of yours who goes to bed wearing a turtleneck and dress socks. Run of the mill stuff does not make me laugh, not even a little. When I'm at the movies watching a marginally funny movie and the rest of the audience is hyperventilating with laughter over unfunny, hokey jokes, I have the sudden urge to napalm the theater. I just don't get how dumb, predictable shit is funny. Maybe I'm the asshole and I'm missing something, but honestly, I doubt it. On the other hand, you show me videos of drunken people talking about famous historical events in between bouts of puking and passing out, and I'm fucking convulsing.

The reason I'm telling you this is that I fucking loathe April Fool's Day. It is one of the most unfunny, stupid "holidays", in existence. If I ever invent a time machine – and believe me, I will – the first thing on my list is to go back and shoot the “inventor” of this fucking day. Oh hey, the newspaper says that it rained frogs in Seattle today! Wucka-Wucka! Watch me honk my fucking hand-held horn and shoot water in your eye from the fake flower pinned to lapel!

(chugs Drano)

A few years back, someone referred to me as a 'Scrooge' because I didn't want to join in on some unoriginal joke where my coworker was going to tell our boss that another coworker quit unexpectedly. I listened to his pitch, but then suggested that we say this same coworker was seen prancing around the East Village wearing a pink boa, a cheetah pattern halter-top, seven inch heels, waving a gun at tourists, and offering $5 HJs, but all I got in return was a blank stare. So, instead of agreeing to his awful idea, I told him I thought it was stupid, and wanted nothing to do with it. Then he called me a 'Scrooge' and huffed off.

Police found his body six weeks later floating in the East River. They have no leads and no suspects...

...

So to sum it up, I hate today, and I probably hate you for not hating today as much as I do, so go take your lame-ass fucking jokes about two-headed cats and computer viruses and fake resignations and go have a lame-ass fucking party with fucking shitty cake and watch "Wild Hogs" or something else equally suicide-inducing. You suck and so does today.

I Hate Bill Belichick

It takes a special kind of human-being to not only perk my interest - I am lazy, thus, I do not care - but to also force me to put the time and effort into hating them. And not just, "Oh, yeah, him, pshhh, yeah, he/she fucking sucks."

NO. I mean really, really, HATE.

Most of the time, when someone falls into this category for me, he/she/it needs to have done something truly scarring to reach such a high level of abhorration. There must be some connection that makes me shiver with rage when I think of this person. My stomach must boil. Upon hearing this person's name, I must seek out a poor set-of-ears to listen to me as I bitch and moan and verbally-castrate said person until I'm reduced to tears like a sleep deprived three-year-old.

One such person who does this to me is Patriot's Head Coach Bill Belichick.

A while back, I put all of my hatred into a letter that ended up being used in this Drew Magary column on Deadspin. For those of you unable to click through, here's a summary (or the whole thing, with minor OCD edits):

I fucking hate Bill Belichick. I hate his stupid fucking child-molester-haircut. I hate his stupid fucking sweatshirt that probably smells like an unwashed taint. I hate him and his fucking infidelity and the Long Island trash he fucked to establish this infidelity.

But none of this seething hatred comes from any sort of envy of the New England Patriots organization. While, yes, I do hope Robert Kraft loses all of his money in Ponzi scheme and ends up sucking-off truckers for loose change in the bathroom of a highway rest-stop, this is beside the point. I fucking hate Bill-fucking-Belichick because of the way he resigned from the New York Jets back in 2000 - my team.

Don't get me wrong, I understand that the Jets (minus one year of their existence) have exhibited retardery at its finest - a band of losers hell bent on doing dumber and weirder shit than what happens in Charlie Kaufmann's wildest fever dreams. But Belichick's ambush? Not cool. Who - besides, I assume, Pat Summerall - resigns from a job by handing in a cocktail napkin? It was humiliating. And cowardly, might I add. I was seething. If I had access to a hatchet and a penchant for violence, I would have gone down there that day and scalped that stoic fuck right in the middle of his resignation press conference. But nooooo, I'm too much of a pussy, so instead I stared at the TV in disbelief, and then drank myself into an alcoholic coma.

So, in short, fuck Bill Belichick - I hope he drops dead on his birthday while assembling a bicycle for one of his illegitimate kids.

Sooooo, I think that just about sums it up my feelings for the son-of-a-bitch. Could I go on? Could I draft a 7,000 word essay detailing each and every way I hope his body fails him in the twilight years of his life? You bet your fucking Toyota Corolla I could! But I'll save you the time and just let the above rant suffice.

But I do have one hope, and it's that he slips quicker and quicker each season that goes by, tarnishes his legendary status, turns to heroin for relief, blows his bank account, contracts Hepatitis C, develops dementia, and ends up eating vegetarian jambalaya at a shelter by the time he's 65.

That's not too much to ask, is it?

The Mission Statement

The Hate Parade exists only because my therapist says I need some sort of mental release, something to help vent the anger that will eventually boil my blood and force my heart to tap-out in melodramatic fashion. Meditation is stupid and acquiring a new hobby is too time-consuming. And since using a chair leg to destroy my computer monitor or torching my desk with gasoline and a Zippo lighter are not viable options, well, here you go, you jerks.