Getting home from work to a hot-ass apartment? Check. Going to a math class and staring with glazed-eye confusion for two hours while the teacher talks about numbers so hard that it sounds like she’s summoning demons? Check. Coming home and being forced to park across the street because the parking lot is full? Check. Finding a huge-ass cockroach waiting in my kitchen for me? Check. Mixing a drink and taking that first sip and getting some weird crusty who-knows-what? Check.
Ready to write another Hate Week rant? Check and check.
“I’m trying,” I told my princess when I got home from school. “I’m trying to stay positive about things, but the world is making it hard.”
“Like what, what?”
“What are your positive thoughts? What’s your happy place? Your affirmations or whatever.”
“Whu…well, I don’t know, exactly. Like…well, like when I’m telling myself, ‘Don’t punch that bitch in throat, because the cops around here will taze you without asking questions.’”
“That’s what you consider a positive thought?”
“Or like, ‘Don’t follow that guy home and run over him when he steps out of his car.”
“I’m going to go get the clothes out of the dryer.”
So I took the clue and left her alone.
I don’t really believe that life gets harder for me during Hate Week. I don’t believe that Karma is out to get me any more than normal. But I do notice it a lot more, and I think a lesser person would totally abandon the idea of spreading hate.
But not me. Instead, I came home, drank my chunky, grainy drink, and sat down to write a list of things to hate:
What the hell is it with these guys? They’re so slimy and shifty and gross. It doesn’t even matter if you’re trying to buy a car from them. I talked to a car salesman the other day, and as I left, I swear to you, he did that gun-finger thing, winked, and made a click sound with his mouth. I almost lost it. If I hadn’t been at work, I would have totally unloaded on him, and even knowing that I would lose my job if I attacked him, I still had to fight to keep myself in check.
Seriously, I just wanted to slam his face onto his desk and scream into his ear, “That is not how people relate! It doesn’t make me feel like I’m your buddy, it doesn’t make me want to trust you! It makes me want to burn your house down and hurt your loved ones. It makes me want to jack-hammer your greasy chunk of hair helmet until your brain is a nasty pile of goo! FUCK! OFF”
But I didn’t. Because I’m a professional.
I think that’s why I hate Joe Biden so much, is he has that look about him. I could totally see this jerkwad getting out of office and using his political fame to hawk cars. You know, like how football players do? “Hi, Joe Biden, here! Come on down to Joe’s Car-a-torium, where you’re the V.I.P of the ex-V.P.! Back when I was right-hand-man to Barry O., we already made you buy these cars once, so why not come on down and get your money’s worth!”
Two words, Joey: Suck my dirty hole, you greasy son of a bitch. You and all of your car-shilling clan.
These are the laziest freaking birds I have ever seen in my life. You can chase them, and they’ll barely fly. They’ll shuffle away just enough to make sure they’ll out of reach, and then they just chill. I hate these dirty little bags of shit with wings.
They are to the bird world what those fat bastards who drive around Walmart in the little scooters are to the human world. I guarantee you that if you made cigarettes and wife-beater shirts small enough, pigeons would be all over it. Just thinking about them makes me want to go out and kick some.
If there is one bright side to the apocalypse, it’s that survivors will have to resort to eating pigeons, and maybe we’ll finally be rid of them. I met a guy once, he would capture them and sell them to hunting clubs. So instead of using clay pigeons, these guys would go out and yell “pull” and they would release two real birds. BAM! BAM!
I asked the guy how much money he made, and how he got into the business. “I only make three bucks a bird, but they’re so stupid and lazy that I can usually catch about 500 on a good day. I started out catchin’ ‘em because they were everywhere in my barn, shittin’ all over the place and gettin’ in the way. I wanted to kill ‘em all, but you go killin’ that many birds, people think you’re crazy. So I asked the local gun club if they wanted to buy ‘em.”
The bird so despised that its genocide is a profitable business.
Man, I hate pigeons.
Kind of a silly thing to hate, right? To tell you the truth, I used to like bumpers stickers. Not on my car, of course, because why the hell would you want to vandalize your own stuff with…well, with any of the stupid shit people put on their cars.
I had been taking camera-phone pictures of all the dumb shit I’ve seen, but when I downloaded them tonight, I realized that you can’t read any of them. Which takes a lot of the steam out of this section of the rant. So screw it.
Instead, I just made a bumper sticker of my own.