Screw Sundays: Some Things I Hate
I hate rich people who pretend to be environmentally conscious via driving Smart Cars. If you have the money for a nice, regular automobile, then why the fuck invest in a glorified go-cart? The 5,000 square foot home at which you park it does away with any notion of the neo-hippy energy conservation movement, which really means that you’re an absolutely hopeless poser. So be true to yourself and buy that over-sized Mercedes, because the next fur-coat-wearing asshole who cuts me off in a street legal golf cart, will find themselves screaming while I push the damn thing over. And believe me, I can.
I hate poor people who pretend to be rich by driving well-polished p.o.s. cars with rims and stereo systems that are worth more than they make in three months. What they want the world to think: “I’m a baller, ‘aight…” What the world is really thinking: “Ballers are fucking stupid. But those who are faux fucking stupid ballers are incomparably worse.” So save yourself the embarrassment and go buy a Smart Car.
I hate overly plump, fake-baked, mid-40’s housewives who, beyond tired of their traveling businessmen husbands, look for affairs, walk .1 miles per hour on their treadmills, never miss “Desperate Housewives,” and love talking over the various cabbage-based diets they’ve failed. You haven’t looked good in spandex since “Jaws” was in theaters, the boob job did nothing for you, and there’s a damn good reason your husband is never around.
I hate reality television. No one is who they are when someone sticks a fucking camera in their face, let alone one that’s broadcasting their stupid, attention-starved mug all over the world. And since the viewer is merely watching from a living room, how the shit can they know if the “reality” they’re watching is real? I bet that between takes on “Survivor”, contestants binged on spicy Cheetos and Cherry Garcia, while producers scared away lions and used make-up to make everyone appear emaciated.
I hate people who take themselves seriously while smelling their wine as they twirl it around in a fancy crystal glass. It doesn’t make you cultured or refined to act as if understanding the essence of what is, ultimately, alcoholic grape juice, lends you any sort of instant class.
I hate Harry Potter. Real-life nerds are not able to escape the harsh realities of their lives (abusive family, bullies, awkwardness in front of females, etc) via traveling to imaginary fantasy worlds where dealing with their problems is as easy as casting black magic spells with custom-made wands.
I hate people who are rude at the drive-thru. When you’re ordering food from a hormonally-challenged, pissed-off teenager who makes minimum wage at a job he hates, the last thing you should do is have an attitude. This young man has the power to wipe shit in your tacos, and anyone with that sort of authority deserves a nice, sincere, “I’d like extra cheese, please, sir.”
I hate emos. Just because you listen to shitty, depressing music, wear entirely too much eye makeup (boys and girls alike), and fake-slash your wrists for attention, doesn’t mean you know shit about life, death, or anything in between.
I hate all people who go to the gym to socialize. If you want to make friends or find someone to fuck, visit a bar or walk in to a church. But quit talking about golf in front of the dumbbells.
I hate Sundays. They remind me that all good things – such as this article – must come to an end. I think I’ll go swirl some wine in a glass.
By Jon Neralich