Streeter Seidell's Article Archive
10 total in January 2005Arrogangsta
Arrogangsta
"Listen up, y'all. I, George W. Bush, am the dopest prez in the history of dis bitch called America!" That doesn't sound right. Let's try something else. "Check it, nobody can touch my dentistry skillz cuz I be Herman Shwartzman, DDS, SON!" Nope, that doesn't sound right either. One more: "I'm the hottest MC in da game, bitch!" Now that's more like it.
It strikes me as a bit odd the amount of arrogance we tolerate from rappers. There isn't another profession in the world where we allow the people practicing it to go on endlessly about how great they are. When Oasis said they were the best rock band in the world, we lost any respect we had for them. When an athlete claims to be the greatest of all time, we are quick to point out a slew of others who are certainly better. Generally, arrogance is considered a negative personality trait, but when a rapper proclaims that he "got the tightest rhymes," we just accept it.
According to my own research, there are one hundred and twelve rappers who are the all-around best, ninety-eight whose tracks are "tight," sixty-four who have the most "bitches," and fourteen who are hated by other rappers for their "skillz." Hip hop lyrics used to be about things - war, poverty, urban blight, parties, anything - but now rappers just seem to talk about themselves. I can picture an MC sitting down, paper and pen in hand, and racking his brain to come up with just the right lyric to convey his talent for writing successful records. "What sounds better, "I drop these hits like Bush drops bombs,' or "I'm droppin' hits like cows drop shit'?"
Yes, Snoop Dogg, we know you're a pimp and we know how to spell your name; there's no need to keep telling us. I get it 50 Cent: you're adored by the ladies, but that's enough for now. Ok, Ja Rule, you're from New York; good for you.
There seems to be a lot of confusion about all of this. You cannot have two people be the best at something, and yet we hear tons of rappers claiming to be the best everyday. They need to sit down and figure out exactly what each rapper is allowed to say about himself. "Aight bitches, listen herrre: I, Jay-Z, call this mizeeting to order. Snoop, you are hereby elected most pimp. Luda, your rhymes is the hottest. Mase, you da most fly," etc. Then, when I hear a certain rapper claim to be the biggest playa, I can say with confidence, "Yes, Big Boi, you are the biggest playa and everyone else agrees. I'm glad we've finally cleared this up."
That, or they could start rapping about something interesting instead. There's only so much you can hear about someone else's bling before you just distance yourself from it. "It's very nice that you have a million dollars in diamonds, P Diddy, but I can't really relate to that, can I? Forget about relating to it; I'm not even learning anything useful. All I've learned from your song is that you have a lot of jewelry"¦oh, and that you're a "playa.'"
I think it's time we take a stand against arrogant rappers! I think we need to speak up and say, "Hey, use your rhyming talents for something other than your own glory!" We will decide who has the hottest rhymes and best bitches! Tell me about the ghetto and racism, not about your Navigator and hot tub escapades. I may not have the best flow, I may not have the flyest bitches, I may not even have rims that spin for days, but I do have a limit on my patience. So, to all the rappers that enjoy proclaiming their mastery of a given life skill - whether that be pimpin', hustlin' or just plain rhyme-slingin' - get over yourself.
"Listen up, y'all. I, George W. Bush, am the dopest prez in the history of dis bitch called America!" That doesn't sound right. Let's try something else. "Check it, nobody can touch my dentistry skillz cuz I be Herman Shwartzman, DDS, SON!" Nope, that doesn't sound right either. One more: "I'm the hottest MC in da game, bitch!" Now that's more like it.
It strikes me as a bit odd the amount of arrogance we tolerate from rappers. There isn't another profession in the world where we allow the people practicing it to go on endlessly about how great they are. When Oasis said they were the best rock band in the world, we lost any respect we had for them. When an athlete claims to be the greatest of all time, we are quick to point out a slew of others who are certainly better. Generally, arrogance is considered a negative personality trait, but when a rapper proclaims that he "got the tightest rhymes," we just accept it.
According to my own research, there are one hundred and twelve rappers who are the all-around best, ninety-eight whose tracks are "tight," sixty-four who have the most "bitches," and fourteen who are hated by other rappers for their "skillz." Hip hop lyrics used to be about things - war, poverty, urban blight, parties, anything - but now rappers just seem to talk about themselves. I can picture an MC sitting down, paper and pen in hand, and racking his brain to come up with just the right lyric to convey his talent for writing successful records. "What sounds better, "I drop these hits like Bush drops bombs,' or "I'm droppin' hits like cows drop shit'?"
Yes, Snoop Dogg, we know you're a pimp and we know how to spell your name; there's no need to keep telling us. I get it 50 Cent: you're adored by the ladies, but that's enough for now. Ok, Ja Rule, you're from New York; good for you.
There seems to be a lot of confusion about all of this. You cannot have two people be the best at something, and yet we hear tons of rappers claiming to be the best everyday. They need to sit down and figure out exactly what each rapper is allowed to say about himself. "Aight bitches, listen herrre: I, Jay-Z, call this mizeeting to order. Snoop, you are hereby elected most pimp. Luda, your rhymes is the hottest. Mase, you da most fly," etc. Then, when I hear a certain rapper claim to be the biggest playa, I can say with confidence, "Yes, Big Boi, you are the biggest playa and everyone else agrees. I'm glad we've finally cleared this up."
That, or they could start rapping about something interesting instead. There's only so much you can hear about someone else's bling before you just distance yourself from it. "It's very nice that you have a million dollars in diamonds, P Diddy, but I can't really relate to that, can I? Forget about relating to it; I'm not even learning anything useful. All I've learned from your song is that you have a lot of jewelry"¦oh, and that you're a "playa.'"
I think it's time we take a stand against arrogant rappers! I think we need to speak up and say, "Hey, use your rhyming talents for something other than your own glory!" We will decide who has the hottest rhymes and best bitches! Tell me about the ghetto and racism, not about your Navigator and hot tub escapades. I may not have the best flow, I may not have the flyest bitches, I may not even have rims that spin for days, but I do have a limit on my patience. So, to all the rappers that enjoy proclaiming their mastery of a given life skill - whether that be pimpin', hustlin' or just plain rhyme-slingin' - get over yourself.
Bad Term Papers: Lewis and Clark
Bad Term Papers: Lewis and Clark
Karl Tucker
Mrs. Greenstein
4th Grade History
7th period
The Lewis Clark Exspedishun
For thousands of yeers Americans have wondered what was over the misisippi river. Peopul had been been living in america for a long time but noone ever though that there mite be land past the river. So, a long time ago President Clinton sent this guy to find out. His name was Lewis Clark and he really liked to wear raccoon.
Becuz Lewis Clark went west so long ago, he had to walk. They didn't even have cars or planes or the wheel back then but luckily they had shoos. Plus, there was lots of dangerus stuff back then to. There was lots of Indians who liked to sculpt white people and make them gamble at there casinos. My dad goes to Foxwoods.
Luckly, Lewis Clark made friends with an Indian who didn't like sculpting people. His name was Squatro and he taught the pilgrims how to make corn on the cob befour he met Lewis Clark. He also had a baby on his back that he carried everywhere becuz thats what Indians do with their baby on his back which he carried everywhere becuz thats what Indians do with there babies. He was really cool and told all the sculpting Indians not to sculpt Lewis Clark.
It took a long time to get to the misisippi river but when he got there he found that big arch thing that's in that movie with Chevy Chase where he drives to an amusment park and sticks a gun at that fat guy that died. When Lewis Clark and Squatro crossed the river they were in unchartered land. He had to rely on his skills that he had from the Oregon Trail and hunt but not shoot too much becuz he couldnot carry it back to the wagon. That was my favorite part of the game.
After a really long walking lewis Clark made it to california. That was befour they made movies there but it was still there even though they didn't make movies. I went to disneeland there one time but it wasn't that fun to go to.
He saw a lots of stuff and then he came back and told the president all about it. Lewis Clark was the first person ever to see claifornia and the other side of the misisippi river and he invented the raccoon hat. Lewis Clark was the best person ever to wear a raccoon.
By Karl Tucker
Karl Tucker
Mrs. Greenstein
4th Grade History
7th period
The Lewis Clark Exspedishun
For thousands of yeers Americans have wondered what was over the misisippi river. Peopul had been been living in america for a long time but noone ever though that there mite be land past the river. So, a long time ago President Clinton sent this guy to find out. His name was Lewis Clark and he really liked to wear raccoon.
Becuz Lewis Clark went west so long ago, he had to walk. They didn't even have cars or planes or the wheel back then but luckily they had shoos. Plus, there was lots of dangerus stuff back then to. There was lots of Indians who liked to sculpt white people and make them gamble at there casinos. My dad goes to Foxwoods.
Luckly, Lewis Clark made friends with an Indian who didn't like sculpting people. His name was Squatro and he taught the pilgrims how to make corn on the cob befour he met Lewis Clark. He also had a baby on his back that he carried everywhere becuz thats what Indians do with their baby on his back which he carried everywhere becuz thats what Indians do with there babies. He was really cool and told all the sculpting Indians not to sculpt Lewis Clark.
It took a long time to get to the misisippi river but when he got there he found that big arch thing that's in that movie with Chevy Chase where he drives to an amusment park and sticks a gun at that fat guy that died. When Lewis Clark and Squatro crossed the river they were in unchartered land. He had to rely on his skills that he had from the Oregon Trail and hunt but not shoot too much becuz he couldnot carry it back to the wagon. That was my favorite part of the game.
After a really long walking lewis Clark made it to california. That was befour they made movies there but it was still there even though they didn't make movies. I went to disneeland there one time but it wasn't that fun to go to.
He saw a lots of stuff and then he came back and told the president all about it. Lewis Clark was the first person ever to see claifornia and the other side of the misisippi river and he invented the raccoon hat. Lewis Clark was the best person ever to wear a raccoon.
By Karl Tucker
Snowed In
Snowed In
Winter, it's just like your girlfriend; you're excited when she arrives, but after a little while you can't wait for her to leave. When the first snowflake touches the ground an air of elation invades your body. You dream of Rockwell-esque winter landscapes and sipping hot chocolate by a roaring fire. You remember your innocent days - the ones before you knew about wars and drugs and your Mom's "friend," Uncle Tyler - and how much you loved building snowmen and hurling gravel-infused snowballs at your friends. You remember your Mom instructing you in the art of "layering" and trying desperately to pull your gloves off with your teeth. Hats with pom pom balls on top and the kid with the eternally frozen snot-stream running down his face. Yes, that first snow of the year truly brings you to a wonderful place. But, like sex or a fresh pizza, nothing that good can last.
Just as the snow on the ground turns from pristine, untouched beauty to muddy brown sludge, so goes your feelings about this, the cruelest of seasons. As a child, the joy of winter never faded. You treated each coming snowstorm as an opportunity to celebrate because, if God and the weatherman heard your prayers, you would be released from the hell that was school for a day. We all had the same routine when it came to the possibility of a snow day: you woke up half an hour early, turned on the TV and waited patiently for your town's superintendent to announce the glorious news. If it started snowing while you were at school cruel children would often spread rumors that "the busses were outside," building up your expectations of an early dismissal. These days however, it only seems to snow on the weekends.
Living in New York City, winter is an especially rough season. The wind seems to cut you in half and the snow never falls so much as it streams sideways, stinging your face. Also, the city - which, remember, is rumored to be the toughest in the world - shrinks in the face of a snowstorm that most Canadians would hardly notice. An inch of snow sends the city into a panic: the buses stop running, people stock up on water and food and the local weathermen speak of the storm as if God Himself was punishing us for our transgressions. Of course, in reality, it's just a little snow and will melt in a day or two, but panic is the new status quo in this country and the weathermen must comply.
Which brings me to the subject of winter in college and why we, as a student population, bemoan the season. To begin, the possibility of a high school-style snow day is remote, if not unheard of. Every now and then you may have a class or two cancelled, but for the most part a snowstorm just means your walk to class is going to suck more than it usually does. There are no parents calling the school board and complaining about you waiting for the bus in the cold. Nobody is fighting for your right to stay warm and play videogames when you get to college.
Also, the snowy section of winter lasting from January to early March is just another obstacle standing in the way of spring. With spring comes all that you built college up to be in your mind: skirts, parties and, of course, Spring Break. It's almost as if winter is your punishment for all the sins you plan on committing when spring arrives. In order to enjoy the drunken revelries that will surely come in April and May you must first spend your time in purgatory watching Animal Planet for lack of anything better to do.
Winter also means you will be spending more time inside your almost certainly tiny dorm room or apartment. There you will sit eating microwaveable food, watching movies you've already seen and hating your roommates more than you ever thought possible. As exiles from the elements, you and your roommates will begin to notice little things about each other, little personality quirks that seem to get increasingly annoying as time goes by. Where you would have hardly noticed your roommate's tendency to tap his fingers a few months ago, you now dwell on it. It consumes your soul, your very being. You see him sitting there tapping away and your mind begins to warp until you feel like chasing him with an axe Γ la Jack Nicholson in "The Shining."
However, winter is not without its upsides. Many students around the country enjoy the fine art of sculpting snow into a wide array of shapes. With our inventive and probably intoxicated hands, we mold snow-couples fornicating in many positions and giant snow-penises (with veins!). Still more students seize the opportunity of a fresh snow to show off their high tolerance for cold and run around in it sans clothing ("sneaking" = "snow" + "streaking"). Of course, those of us less artistically inclined and more concerned about how we represent our genitals in the cold weather will opt for the old fashioned joy of slamming an unsuspecting person in the face with a ball of ice. That, no matter what anyone tells you, never loses its thrill.
So, as I sit here now watching the elements bury my beloved city, I can only hope this storm passes quickly. I have eaten three Tina's Burritos, watched three basketball games and thought about killing my roommate twelve times since I started writing this sentence"¦thirteen times. However, I know that with a little perseverance, a smidge of courage and a lot of rum I will make it through this winter as I have so many before. Soon I will go outside without a jacket, I will drive without fear of black ice and I will wish it was winter again as soon as someone says, "Hey, let's go to the beach today!"
Winter, it's just like your girlfriend; you're excited when she arrives, but after a little while you can't wait for her to leave. When the first snowflake touches the ground an air of elation invades your body. You dream of Rockwell-esque winter landscapes and sipping hot chocolate by a roaring fire. You remember your innocent days - the ones before you knew about wars and drugs and your Mom's "friend," Uncle Tyler - and how much you loved building snowmen and hurling gravel-infused snowballs at your friends. You remember your Mom instructing you in the art of "layering" and trying desperately to pull your gloves off with your teeth. Hats with pom pom balls on top and the kid with the eternally frozen snot-stream running down his face. Yes, that first snow of the year truly brings you to a wonderful place. But, like sex or a fresh pizza, nothing that good can last.
Just as the snow on the ground turns from pristine, untouched beauty to muddy brown sludge, so goes your feelings about this, the cruelest of seasons. As a child, the joy of winter never faded. You treated each coming snowstorm as an opportunity to celebrate because, if God and the weatherman heard your prayers, you would be released from the hell that was school for a day. We all had the same routine when it came to the possibility of a snow day: you woke up half an hour early, turned on the TV and waited patiently for your town's superintendent to announce the glorious news. If it started snowing while you were at school cruel children would often spread rumors that "the busses were outside," building up your expectations of an early dismissal. These days however, it only seems to snow on the weekends.
Living in New York City, winter is an especially rough season. The wind seems to cut you in half and the snow never falls so much as it streams sideways, stinging your face. Also, the city - which, remember, is rumored to be the toughest in the world - shrinks in the face of a snowstorm that most Canadians would hardly notice. An inch of snow sends the city into a panic: the buses stop running, people stock up on water and food and the local weathermen speak of the storm as if God Himself was punishing us for our transgressions. Of course, in reality, it's just a little snow and will melt in a day or two, but panic is the new status quo in this country and the weathermen must comply.
Which brings me to the subject of winter in college and why we, as a student population, bemoan the season. To begin, the possibility of a high school-style snow day is remote, if not unheard of. Every now and then you may have a class or two cancelled, but for the most part a snowstorm just means your walk to class is going to suck more than it usually does. There are no parents calling the school board and complaining about you waiting for the bus in the cold. Nobody is fighting for your right to stay warm and play videogames when you get to college.
Also, the snowy section of winter lasting from January to early March is just another obstacle standing in the way of spring. With spring comes all that you built college up to be in your mind: skirts, parties and, of course, Spring Break. It's almost as if winter is your punishment for all the sins you plan on committing when spring arrives. In order to enjoy the drunken revelries that will surely come in April and May you must first spend your time in purgatory watching Animal Planet for lack of anything better to do.
Winter also means you will be spending more time inside your almost certainly tiny dorm room or apartment. There you will sit eating microwaveable food, watching movies you've already seen and hating your roommates more than you ever thought possible. As exiles from the elements, you and your roommates will begin to notice little things about each other, little personality quirks that seem to get increasingly annoying as time goes by. Where you would have hardly noticed your roommate's tendency to tap his fingers a few months ago, you now dwell on it. It consumes your soul, your very being. You see him sitting there tapping away and your mind begins to warp until you feel like chasing him with an axe Γ la Jack Nicholson in "The Shining."
However, winter is not without its upsides. Many students around the country enjoy the fine art of sculpting snow into a wide array of shapes. With our inventive and probably intoxicated hands, we mold snow-couples fornicating in many positions and giant snow-penises (with veins!). Still more students seize the opportunity of a fresh snow to show off their high tolerance for cold and run around in it sans clothing ("sneaking" = "snow" + "streaking"). Of course, those of us less artistically inclined and more concerned about how we represent our genitals in the cold weather will opt for the old fashioned joy of slamming an unsuspecting person in the face with a ball of ice. That, no matter what anyone tells you, never loses its thrill.
So, as I sit here now watching the elements bury my beloved city, I can only hope this storm passes quickly. I have eaten three Tina's Burritos, watched three basketball games and thought about killing my roommate twelve times since I started writing this sentence"¦thirteen times. However, I know that with a little perseverance, a smidge of courage and a lot of rum I will make it through this winter as I have so many before. Soon I will go outside without a jacket, I will drive without fear of black ice and I will wish it was winter again as soon as someone says, "Hey, let's go to the beach today!"
Goodbye Me
As I enter my final semester of college, I find myself no longer worrying about partying or papers. Most of my serious thinking time - when I sit on the toilet - is occupied with the terrifying reality that I will soon have to be an adult. In no more than four months, the money from Mom and Dad will stop, the bills will pile up and I will find myself homeless for a time; that being a design of my Dad's construction called the "You're-not-moving-back-home" plan. Adulthood, once a vague notion in the back of my mind, seems to be inevitably on the horizon and getting closer by the minute.
Anyone at this age knows what I mean and if you don't, count yourself lucky. Slowly words you were convinced only your parents understood start creeping into conversations between you and your friends. You'll hear yourself say "W-2 Form," "insurance package" and "dental benefits" without a hint of sarcasm. Where has the carefree kid you were a few months ago gone? Where is the guy that used to list lighting farts on fire as one of his hobbies? Where is that girl whose idea of going out was to get dressed up, drink half a bottle of "99 Bananas" and pass out on the floor? Where, in short, have you gone?
I don't know, but what I do know is that I am a little scared of the new me: this adult me that shows himself from time to time. This version of myself makes to-do lists and hangs them in his room. When I see them, I wonder what kind of strange person would be so uptight that they needed a constant reminder of why they should be stressed. The adult me thinks things like, "I could work an office job for a few years - ya know, just for some breathing room - and work on my writing and comedy at night." All the ideals and plans I had laid for myself in High School and College seem to evaporate as the adult me considers rent, insurance, car payments, bill consolidation, medical coverage, homeowner's insurance and Levitra. I think it's safe to say that I'll have to put off my plans to own a beach bar in Hawaii for a few years.
What I really mourn though is the loss of my childhood wonder; that sublime, surreal notion that you actually can be anything you want to be. I blame my parents - and all the parents of the boomer generation - for this crushing loss. They raised us to believe we had the talent, natural skill and dedication to accomplish whatever goals we set for ourselves. In turn, we all grew up truly believing that we could be astronauts, presidents, superheroes and pirates because our parents said we could. I remember a time - probably between the ages of six and eight - when I felt if I tried hard enough, I could become a dinosaur. What they didn't tell us is that we can't be anything we want to be. I cannot be the president and neither can you. I can't be an astronaut or a pirate or even - cry - a dinosaur. They never told us that things like wealth, background and reality will hold us back from accomplishing most of our dreams. A few million kids graduate from college every year; we can't have that many presidents (or dinosaurs). They never told us that someday, if we work really hard, we can all be twenty-two year-olds with no direction and mounting student loan payments.
All dreams of reptilian metamorphosis aside, growing up is really serious business. The only problem with that is not one person I know is really a grownup. Even people who have been supporting themselves for a decade or so still laugh at the same stuff I do, still eat pizza in front of the TV and still think college girls are hot - I suppose that's something you never grow out of, although it becomes sadder the older you get. Maybe nobody is really as mature as they seem. Maybe inside every buttoned-down business man beats the heart of a frat guy. Maybe behind the facade of every schoolteacher hides the girl that won a wet t-shirt contest in Cancun sophomore year. Maybe we have reached the peak of emotional maturity without even knowing it? Maybe, but that still doesn't help me find a job, does it?
At least I won't be alone. Everyone I know is going through the same thing I am. They woke up one morning and it hit them: "Oh shit, I have absolutely no plans." Suddenly everything got too real and their four year vacation from life was cut short by four months. In some ways it's a good thing; it forces us all to start thinking about things other than whether the caf will serve tacos tonight and focus on things like investing money and planning for our futures. But, at the same time, it hurts to be that rational and you long for the days when the most important choice you had to make was Bud or Bud Light.
My Dad always says that every big change in life - marriage, children, death - is just the start of a new journey. College graduation, according to him, is no different. Although for this journey, I wish I had packed a little better; my supplies are running low and I haven't even left yet.
Anyone at this age knows what I mean and if you don't, count yourself lucky. Slowly words you were convinced only your parents understood start creeping into conversations between you and your friends. You'll hear yourself say "W-2 Form," "insurance package" and "dental benefits" without a hint of sarcasm. Where has the carefree kid you were a few months ago gone? Where is the guy that used to list lighting farts on fire as one of his hobbies? Where is that girl whose idea of going out was to get dressed up, drink half a bottle of "99 Bananas" and pass out on the floor? Where, in short, have you gone?
I don't know, but what I do know is that I am a little scared of the new me: this adult me that shows himself from time to time. This version of myself makes to-do lists and hangs them in his room. When I see them, I wonder what kind of strange person would be so uptight that they needed a constant reminder of why they should be stressed. The adult me thinks things like, "I could work an office job for a few years - ya know, just for some breathing room - and work on my writing and comedy at night." All the ideals and plans I had laid for myself in High School and College seem to evaporate as the adult me considers rent, insurance, car payments, bill consolidation, medical coverage, homeowner's insurance and Levitra. I think it's safe to say that I'll have to put off my plans to own a beach bar in Hawaii for a few years.
What I really mourn though is the loss of my childhood wonder; that sublime, surreal notion that you actually can be anything you want to be. I blame my parents - and all the parents of the boomer generation - for this crushing loss. They raised us to believe we had the talent, natural skill and dedication to accomplish whatever goals we set for ourselves. In turn, we all grew up truly believing that we could be astronauts, presidents, superheroes and pirates because our parents said we could. I remember a time - probably between the ages of six and eight - when I felt if I tried hard enough, I could become a dinosaur. What they didn't tell us is that we can't be anything we want to be. I cannot be the president and neither can you. I can't be an astronaut or a pirate or even - cry - a dinosaur. They never told us that things like wealth, background and reality will hold us back from accomplishing most of our dreams. A few million kids graduate from college every year; we can't have that many presidents (or dinosaurs). They never told us that someday, if we work really hard, we can all be twenty-two year-olds with no direction and mounting student loan payments.
All dreams of reptilian metamorphosis aside, growing up is really serious business. The only problem with that is not one person I know is really a grownup. Even people who have been supporting themselves for a decade or so still laugh at the same stuff I do, still eat pizza in front of the TV and still think college girls are hot - I suppose that's something you never grow out of, although it becomes sadder the older you get. Maybe nobody is really as mature as they seem. Maybe inside every buttoned-down business man beats the heart of a frat guy. Maybe behind the facade of every schoolteacher hides the girl that won a wet t-shirt contest in Cancun sophomore year. Maybe we have reached the peak of emotional maturity without even knowing it? Maybe, but that still doesn't help me find a job, does it?
At least I won't be alone. Everyone I know is going through the same thing I am. They woke up one morning and it hit them: "Oh shit, I have absolutely no plans." Suddenly everything got too real and their four year vacation from life was cut short by four months. In some ways it's a good thing; it forces us all to start thinking about things other than whether the caf will serve tacos tonight and focus on things like investing money and planning for our futures. But, at the same time, it hurts to be that rational and you long for the days when the most important choice you had to make was Bud or Bud Light.
My Dad always says that every big change in life - marriage, children, death - is just the start of a new journey. College graduation, according to him, is no different. Although for this journey, I wish I had packed a little better; my supplies are running low and I haven't even left yet.
People You Hate XXVII
People You Hate XVII
Hot damn, it's been a while. I apologize for the wait. I've been working on my website and, since I'm completely computer illiterate, it's taken me a while. But not to fear, the hate list lives on. Welcome to the twenty-seventh edition of The Famous Hate List.
*Remember, you can submit hate yourself. Just email me at suxatlife@hotmail !
MINE:
Laura Late Call: Do you remember when you were in middle school? If you wanted to call a friend, you had to make sure their parents would allow them to talk at that time. Everyone had a specific cutoff time for incoming calls. Mine was 10 PM. Somewhere, this notion of not calling after a certain hour has vanished. Leave it to Laura Late Call to put the final nail in the coffin. You lay in bed at 5 AM, sound asleep, when your phone starts ringing off the hook. Who could it be at this hour? It must be an emergency or they wouldn't call so late. Not so, it's just Laura calling to ask some insanely irrelevant or unimportant question. "Hi, sorry to wake you, but did you get the bio homework from last Thursday?" What the hell is wrong with you that you feel the need to find out this information in the middle of the night"¦on a Monday?! The next time you feel like calling me at an hour like that, stick a knife in your ear instead, because that's how I feel when you call. Learn some fucking etiquette, you annoying loser"¦I Hate You!
Bumpy Bob: We all wobble a little bit when we're drunk, but this asshole takes it to the next level. The bar is crowded as it is and Bob here just can't seem to steady himself. He pitches and heaves like a boat on a rough sea, knocking into smaller people all along. It doesn't help that he's 6' 10" and 290 Lbs. His friends all think it's funny to watch their buddy knock into people as he tries to navigate his way to the jukebox. But the 110 Lb girls he's slamming to the ground along the way don't find it so amusing. And neither do I. Bob, you fat slob, stop wobbling around. Why can't you just steady yourself on a wall or something? Or, better yet, kill yourself. You make me spill my beer, you make me knock into other people, but most of all, you make me Hate You!
YOURS:
Reader Lou at UW really hates: I truly hate Badass Lindsey. I just hate her. She's the one who you were friends with for a little bit in high school. When you come home for the holidays, you know you only hang out with her because she knows all the good people for the drug hookups. However, she always feels the need to be badass and one-up you. So you're walking somewhere with her, and she says, "My best-EVER friend in second grade died two months ago," and then she just waits for you to drop everything in your life, fling your arms around her, and cry for the salvation of her friend's soul. Fat chance, bitch! Three of my best friends from high school were murdered, and all you could talk about was where the best place was to redo your fake tan. You always try to be sooo badass, and try to impress me. "Omg omg omg! I totally came to class after I had been drinking, so I had a *pause* hangover!! Omg!" Oo, watch me care! You think you're the only one under the sun who drinks. By the way, I have a question: if you drink so much, and are around so many 'truly badass' people, why the hell are you still a virgin?! Yeah, I thought so. Another thing - you try SO FUCKING HARD to look pretty. You even take offense when a guy says you're not "the hottest girl ever." All of my guy friends say that you would be hot IF you had a better face, didn't tan so much, and didn't dye your hair blonde. I'm naturally blonde, and it looks way better than you could ever hope for, you cunt. You look like you try too hard. You look like one of those fake, shallow bitches from some sorority that we used to bitch about. You are EXACTLY like those 80's bands that were SO AGAINST something, only to eventually turn into the thing they hated. So now you're in with the 'cool crowd'. Do I care? No. I just care about my drugs. But you HAVE to tell me EVERY FUCKING THING that your other friends are doing. You whine and complain about how they whine and complain. YOU'RE A FUCKING HYPOCRITE!!! I hate that. So you're fake, you're shallow, you try too hard, you think I care, you're a fucking hypocrite, and you're still a virgin because you want "everything to be perfect." Jesus. I FUCKING HATE YOU, BADASS LINDSEY. Please go give yourself a sandpaper enema, you fucking cunt.
Reader Jeff D. really hates: Uneducated liberals who bash Bush, capitalism, and so on when they don't know shit. They watch one Michael Moore movie and they think they are frikin political activists. Most of them are those geeky people who wear emo glasses, or the people that are really rich, and went to private school, and think the world is such a horrible place, and say stuff like "We shouldn't have attacked Iraq," or "9/11 was our fault." I hate those fags, and I hate Michael Moore.
Reader Helen from England really hates: Americans who know nothing about Canada (other than that if they go north they will eventually get there), but continually slag it off because they think unwell, homosexual, poor people should die even though they live in the richest country in the world. Also, I hate fucking politicians who ignore the people who put them in power and go to war, sending my peers off to die. Then they make me pay a fortune for my education because they've spent all the taxes on bloody wars.
Reader Janice S. really hates: Perky morning DJs - It's bad enough to have to rise before the sun emerges on this vast, primitive, wasteland of a campus; for being a vamp, I loves the nightlife. And the nightlife loves me. But the morning, well, let us say that the morning and I do not get on so very well. And the vamp that had so much fun yestereve, now despises me. So, as I am buttoning and zipping and shitting my damned luck in preparation for my arrival at the prescribed destination precisely five minutes after the beginning of class (since 80% of success is showing up), I am stuck in traffic listening in my car to two people so perky that they have GOT to be on perk-0-dan or sumpin. How I would love to throttle, just once, these two - yeah, they have to double team you - pesky chimps. This morning zombie girl has no time to fool with CDs, knobs, buttons or other devices to technically obliterate these oppressively effervescent robots (do not try and tell me that they are human). So, yes, I do hate, despise and abhor these merry morning radio ch-imps.
Reader Mary at College of Charleston really hates: Relatives that every time you see them the first question they ask is, "When are you and (insert every good male friend they know) going to get married?" Why are you waiting for me to get married and have kids? Am I not good enough to buy presents for? Do you have to have a screaming, crying two year old to be happy? Because I know that I have no desire whatsoever to spawn in the next year, yet for some reason, you think it's a great idea. For god's sake, I am 22; I do not need to get married, and I do not need a kid. What the hell are you guys thinking? Just because you guys all got married at 14 does not mean that I need to settle and just get it over with. Let's just get one thing straight: unlike you, I am not waiting for the big white dress to "do it." I know, I am such a whore Grandma, but I just couldn't do it; blame the tequila, but well, I AM NOT A VIRGIN. I do not have to get married to do it, and once I get married I do not plan on popping out little mes in the next 7 months (I mean 9 months). In fact, I plan on being on birth control for a while....just like I am right now. Oops. So I guess, what I mean to say is: I hate you Grandma, and all you other old people. I am not getting married anytime soon; my last boyfriend, whom you loved so dearly (just because you were shocked that someone liked me), and I broke up six months ago and now I am hooking up with a whole bunch o' boys. I HATE YOU.....I mean I love you, please don't write me out of your will, but for now I HATE YOU, I HATE YOU, I HATE YOU.
Reader Sarah C. at LA Harbor College really hates: Mr. "I only listen to underground shit that no one else has heard of." If your music was so damn hot, more people would have heard of it. Obscurity does not equal greatness, you jackass! Stop snickering at my Beatles CD, you dickless piece of shit, because I don't care that you "only listen to great music" and no, I've never heard of "we're so emo we wet ourselves". Fuck off, you asshat, I hate you!
Sarah also hates: Mr. "ex-boyfriend who wants to keep in touch but only calls when he's having girl trouble." You know what? I don't care what your girl trouble is. My concern with your girl problems ended when we broke up, you bastard. If you want to keep in touch, try calling more than once a semester. Actually? Why don't you do yourself a favor and grow the fuck up, sprout some balls, and leave me the fuck alone, you gibbering simp. I hate you!
Reader Jenna G. of Cornell University really hates: Pretentious British asshole. You know, the exchange student who came from Britain two years ago and still bitches about how stupid America is. Oooo, we're Americans, automatically we suck because our president is retarded and half the world hates us. We're so "immature" and "wild" and shit like that. We're so much more "disrespectful" here or something. Yeah, get over yourself and your fucking proper heritage. This is the girl who thinks she's so proper and mature because she has a fat ass and big boobs. And she says people think she's "so much older" when she goes to her stupid clubs and makes so many 60 year old, masturbating, online friends. Newsflash, bitch: don't trust everyone you meet online, or at your stupid clubs. They probably think that even though they haven't gotten any in a while, they can at least score with a fat chick. And since they think she's so much older, she thinks she has a right to chastise us about how we live our lives. Then, when we're in a bad mood, she's all, "get over it" etc. and when we get mad she always says we're "overreacting." Fuck, if I'm upset, I'll act however I want. I won't change the way I react just because you disapprove, bitch. And on the topic of how people act, whenever anyone makes remarks about her accent, she starts getting all moody and shit, saying how everyone's "racist." What the fuck ever, bitch. Maybe if you didn't make so many remarks on how people are so much better in Great Britain, people would actually like you. I'll laugh when you get raped by your fucking internet friend who's 40 years older than you.
Jenna also hates: Apathetic Friend. This is the girl who loves to talk about herself. You always try and make her feel better and shit like that, and stay with her when she gets piss drunk over some stupid boy-trouble, but when you feel like shit, she doesn't help you; she just leaves to go fuck some guy. This is the girl who doesn't care if her friends are upset, as long as she gets what she wants. I want to go somewhere, but there's this guy she NEVER sees and she HAS to hang out with because she REALLY wants him, and shit like that. No BITCH. Get over yourself, he has a fucking girlfriend! He shamelessly hits on everyone, you're not special! And then because, OH MY GOD she hasn't a boyfriend in 2 months, she starts complaining. "Is it because I flirt too much? I think it's because I'm friends with too many guys"¦" You're complaining to the girl who just got dumped 4 days ago by her first boyfriend since high school?! MAYBE YOU DON'T HAVE A BOYFRIEND BECAUSE YOU'RE SUCH AN APATHETIC WHORE! This is the same girl goes to parties and lies across 5 guys, while they're all feeling her up at the same time and trying to come up with ways to score with her. Fuck you, apathetic bitch-whore.
Reader ActionKym of UNR, Reno, really hates: My car battery. Any other battery would have stayed charged while I took a nap on my way home New Year's morning, but no - you had to go dead while I was fifteen miles away from anything. And thanks to you, I had the pleasure of walking through a northern Wyoming snowstorm while it was five below zero at five in the morning, all the way home, with a shirt tied around my head as a scarf. When I have time, I'm changing you out, setting you on my driveway, and unloading every fucking rifle I have into your sorry casing. Then I'm going to drag you back the way I had to walk that night and leave you there for the birds to shit on you.
Reader Jeff H. of UT, San Antonio really hates: Mr. "I Paid 16.99 for a 18pk of Horse Piss in a Can." Hey, nobody gives a shit how much you paid for your beer. Just because you pay more and don't know how to shop for beer that tastes good and costs less, doesn't make you any better then me. You're the one that walks around the party, parading your beer box around like you want everyone to know that you paid too much for your beer; you know who you are! You're the one that makes us have to put up with those fucking Bud Light commercials. Here's to you, Mr. "I buy a beer because it costs more money than most can afford." That should be the next commercial; did I already say I hate you? If you would stop buying all that crap, I wouldn't have to watch a Rolling Rock, Bud Light, or Heineken commercial every 3 minutes. I can buy two sixers of Lone Star Light Tallboys for 6 bucks; what do you say to that? Not only am I gonna have 16 beers, but I've only spent like, $6.47 (including tax) and I'm gonna enjoy it. Wake up and realize I hate you, and I hate your expensive beer!
Reader Boston John of Temple University hates the following:
1. Yankees fans. Yankees suck.
2. Stuck up bitches. You know who you are, bitches, and if you're too cool or hot to talk to me, I'll just go find some girl who isn't.
3. People who brag about how much they can drink. Maybe someday you can use your amazing skills to become a professional drinker. Oh wait, there is not such thing.
4. People who bitch about the cold. Yeah jackass, I know it's cold; deal with it.
5. Canadian Geese. Next time you cocky fucking birds stroll through the street, I'm not stopping for you.
6. Motorists who bitch about me riding my bike on the road. How selfish of me for slightly inconveniencing you because I need to get around too. Go ahead and fucking honk. It'll just make me get more in your way and go slower.
7. People who publicly call me out on looking/smelling stoned.
8. Fat chicks who think they are hot. You aren't hot, you're fat.
9. People who leave half full beers. What the fuck is your problem, lightweight? Finish your fucking beer.
10. Frat guys who think they are the coolest fuckers on the planet, and talk about their frat constantly. Have fun roofying freshman bitches, asshole.
Reader Dave S. really hates: Captain America. Wow, good for you, you're American. This is particularly directed at that Canada-hating jerkoff from list XXV. I'm so glad you feel superior you redneck, Yankee, zealot fuck. What's that? You think free health care is stupid? Have you never been sick, never been hurt? Never had to fork over thousands of dollars to get that broken arm looked after? Too bad you don't have free health care, maybe your HMO is feeling generous today. What's that? Half your population believes God created man in our present form 10,000 years ago? Boy, it must be nice to walk around in some delusional, clearly infallible fantasy-land, where science is some kind of bane on your religious freedom. Boy, I wish I hated gays enough to refuse them basic civil liberties because it would clearly cause your perfect little backyard hotdog and apple pie patrio-fest to collapse in on itself, creating a black hole so powerful, only ignorance can escape. By the by, thanks for the whole 'rebirth of Islamic terrorism' thing, nothing I like more than being a target by association because you feel you need more oil. Hey, missiles in space, that sounds like a good idea! Instead of convincing North Korea to discontinue its nuclear arms program, let's dare them to test it out by telling them we can block missiles. Nah-na-na-na-na, you can't hit me... Good thing all that fallout is going to land in Canada...kinda like all that pollution you keep spewing into our airspace...sure is better than reducing emissions. Too bad Toronto is a disease-infested wasteland. Also, too bad you can't turn off your fucking reality shows to watch the news once in a while. "Oh good, "Who's Your Daddy' is on, no need for me to switch on something intelligent and find out SARS was news more than a year ago," or were you so busy with that whole ignorance thing you didn't notice? Maybe you were too busy fighting back the killer bees and trying to keep your streets free of guns that everybody is guaranteed the right to carry. Newsflash, the British aren't coming back to get you; there's no need to have everyone over the age of five packing a fucking Uzi to church. Wasn't slavery in your constitution once? I wonder why there's so much crime in the US of A. Yeah, Canada sure does suck; what's with that Prime Minister NOT trying to weasel out of bad press by claiming the Geneva Convention doesn't apply to him? Nothing makes our troops safer than telling the world the defenders of freedom are going to torture you if you don't submit. Sure is nice of you to try and spread democracy...maybe democracy is something that should be taught, not spread like some god-damned viral infection. I'll bet the whole world is elated to hear how much the US disapproves of everything we do that doesn't directly benefit them. Even more so, my dear American, I hate having to rebut like this because you are infuriated by the nicknames we use for our currency, maybe it's okay to be different, maybe we're stuck together, maybe - just maybe - we should work together for a change. Maybe then all those people who immigrate to you from the 3rd world countries you create and maintain, will stop using you as a thoroughfare to the great white north (that includes a few of your beloved marines). Also, for future reference, your hateful rantings don't need to be punctuated every third word with some nonsensical derivative profanity, all you need is a simple I HATE YOU!
Reader Ashlee of Creighton University really hates: All of the arts and sciences school kids who like to give us business students shit for our comparatively less rigorous curriculum requirements. The reason bio and chem are hard majors is because you actually have to be fucking intelligent to be a doctor, dumbfuck. I mean, come on, who wants Dr. Dumb-as-motherfucking-rocks cutting their body open or prescribing them pills? Not me, and probably not you either. (I take back that pills part, it might be nice to be prescribed OxyContin or Ritalin whenever I want, but still, you get the point). Yeah, that's what I thought, you arrogant fuckhead prat! Hey genius, here's a brain-buster for ya, chew on this one: we're both gonna graduate with degrees - mine's just gonna be a hell of a lot fucking easier than yours to get, and is going to look just as good to potential employers, so who's the smart one now? Eat shit and die, assclowns! We business kids are learning the true real-world skills: procrastination, bull-shitting, ass-kissing and most importantly, networking with all of the people who will one day be YOUR bosses. Fuck, I could be your boss one day, so while you're busting your ass after umpteen years of med school and residencies, I'm going to be schmoozing and double-dealing with all of my other CEO friends in the Hamptons. Go jerk off to your bio diagrams because I HATE YOU!
Ashlee also hates: All of you thirsty bitches that ruin it for the rest of us girls who actually have money and don't mind chipping in for booze every now and then; we are a rare breed but we DO exist. (No, you cannot have my phone number, sorry...) Anyway, back to my hate: you greedy, gold-digging bitches make guys all hyper-sensitive about their booze inventory because they've been taken around the block by your scheming, booze-stealing ways so many fucking times. They let you into the party anyway, hoping for the love of god that you put out, which you never do (but that's another story"¦). I see you grab the bottle when the party host goes to the bathroom or to play beer pong or whatever, and slip just a little more "happy juice" into that stupid Nalgene bottle that's permanently attached to your evil, moochy fingers. I also see you grab 3 beers at once and "hide" the two you're not drinking yet behind the couch/table/bed/whatever so that you can continue to drink in secret when the case is long gone. You also make it increasingly hard for a self-respecting girl to ask for a drink from a friend without feeling like a total asshole. I don't have a liquor stash 24/7 to drink from, sad as it may be, so a friendly favor is sometimes necessary to keep the alcoholism at bay (but I always pay back, that's the difference between me and you, you white-trash frat whore). Grrr.... I hope you die of alcohol poisoning, you moochy, greedy, selfish, sneaky bitches, because I HATE YOU!
Reader Steph at SHSU really hates: Girls who have never worked a day in their lives. I'm glad that your whore of a mother just married her fifth husband and has enough alimony to buy a small island; stop talking about it already! You want to tell me about how hard it is for you to keep up with your schoolwork? Try taking 15 hours AND playing sports AND working a full-time job! (Not that I'm complaining). Then you can barge into MY room and tell me how hard life is. The hardest thing for you to do is get into Le Spa to get your ugly ass a massage. Get over your drama of a life! Oh, and stop eating my groceries and drinking my beer! You have enough money to buy your own damn chef! Get the fuck out of my apartment! I hate you!
Reader Seth H. really hates: "Cant let it go Liberal" - This is the douche bag liberal who can't let go of the fact that their Democratic candidate LOST THE ELECTION. "If John Kerry had won, we wouldn't be in this shitstorm, blah blah blah." Get over it, you fucking wastes of life. America voted, and you saw the results. There isn't shit you can do except move to gay ass Canada, who decided to protest our president despite the fact that they would be nothing without us. Trust me, most of us who voted republican don't think Bush is the smartest guy either, but hey, the polls are in. Wait, they were in 3 fucking months ago!! John Kerry lost and at least he was graceful in his loss; we haven't seen his face since. Too bad we have to hear about it from all the sore losers that are living in the past and aren't doing shit about the fact that Bush won the Electoral and Popular vote as well. Shut the fuck up about the fact your guy lost, and get active then! Or get a fucking life, or go straight to hell. And when you get to hell, I hope Satan pokes you in the eye and fucks you in the ass with a 12 inch black dildo, you fuckin pieces of shit. I hate you!
Now, for our Hater of The Week, we go to Aaynr of the US Navy, who hates all of the following: I really hate people who tell me I'm too serious. So what if I don't happen to think that duct taping somebody with cerebral palsy and way of defending himself to the floor is funny. So what if I refuse to become a whore like 99 percent of the navy population because I would rather avoid the "STD thing" and save some self dignity to tell my children about? So what if I actually study the material the Navy is training me with so I don't screw up and let a troop of soldiers die because I didn't know how to work the fucking radio because I decided to go get drunk instead of studying for my test that I would barely scrape by, and end up going into the fleet as a complete idiot, therefore wasting taxpayer's money? I'm sure the people who rely on me getting their information about where the enemy is don't really care if I know what I'm doing or not.
I also hate people who point out my flaws in front of others. Next time somebody points out any imperfection I have, no matter how slight, I will rip off his head and eat it, which should show how much I hate you considering I'm a vegetarian.
I also hate all the chiefs here who tell me that my hair is "unsat" because I can't put it in a proper military bun. Well Chief, you can blame the jackasses at boot camp who took sheep shears to my head while being blindfolded and made me pay the eight dollars to have what little femininity I had left "cut" off. I also hate the chief who keeps telling me to get another haircut. Fuck no, jackass. My hair will never be within military regulations ever again.
I also hate my roommate who tells me to be more girly. I really don't think that if my belt and shoes don't match my shirt, it's a federal crime. Also, boots go with anything, no matter what you say. And no, I'm not buying another pair of shoes. If you suggest it to me once more, I'm going to bludgeon you to death with those Ugg boots you have. Also, it's not manly to voluntarily to go running and exercising, it's called taking care of yourself. This is the girl who went running with me once and wanted to go to McDonald's afterward. I wanted to strangle her.
I hate the McDonald's on base. I wish it would catch fire, and go up in a thirty-foot ball of flames that would hopefully take out the guys who think "what's your rate?" is the best double-ended pickup line ever.
I hate guys who think that their girl/boyfriends are going to stay with them forever. Last time I checked, staying away from your significant other for more than two days or moving to another "zip code," gives them full reign to cheat on you. Nobody has morals anymore; that's reality, my friend. S/he (it is the navy) is not going to wait for four years until your slavery with the US Government has ended.
And lastly, I hate not being able to murder all the idiots in the world, or at the very least, the ones who cross my path, without having to go to jail, pay endless fees for legal defense, and possibly waiting years to get a shot that will kill me instantly. Somebody who thinks that their I.Q. is 20/20 should not be allowed to live. (true story, by the way).
READER-ON-READER HATE
It seems that one reader in particular pissed a lot of people off. Look out Karl, you have some haters on your tail.
Katie W. Hates Karl: I, Katie W., hate Karl, who hates all of the "assmonkeyfuckwhore" canucks to his northern side. I want to make it clear that I don't hate him because he hates Canada, plenty of people do that already. I just hate him as a person. I don't really have a good reason; he just strikes me as a guy who's worth hating, you know? Like one of those obnoxious, really annoying, loud guys who get really overexcited about really mediocre things, and may or may not spit when he talks? I could be wrong, but I'll take my chances.
Eric D. hates Karl: Karl who was ragging on Canadians. First of all I'd like to say that I do enjoy many Americans (such as Streeter). I love your country too, especially New York and New Hampshire. But Karl, you have done it now!!! Windsor isn't the jewel in the Canadian university crown Karl, but you know what, many people who have gone through there in business and automotive engineering now sit on the board of directors for Chrysler. So it looks like Windsor is at least holding its own. I don't know why Canadians would go to a U.S. university, seeing as the perk of being a Canadian is that university here is FREE, and on average, offers a better education than U.S. universities (actual fact, look it up, if you can read). This is because there is no great divide between Ivy League schools and community colleges. It's all good up here.
Then there is healthcare. If you're too moronic to see free health care as a good thing, I'm surprised you breathe on your own. Free health care is entitled to all Canadians and puts us ahead as a society in the world. You will realize the importance of free health care when the Canadians at your university find you and break your legs, and your hospital bill is more than your first house.
Now this next one is too easy. I'd say it is a pretty good argument that Canada is holding the upper hand when you admit your most powerful representative, one who actually has the power to destroy the world, is a retard. That's pretty bad. These are not my words but yours, remember that. Also, what does that say about the Americans who elected him; are you hating on them too?
Now the line about Canada being No.1 at being North of America: didn't I just see that on a t-shirt from urban outfitters, you unoriginal, plagiarizing hack. Get your own material.
Naming five U.S. presidents is easy for most Canadians, because we aren't totally ignorant of other cultures. On the other hand, there is a very funny show up here called "Talking to Americans" that exploits how ignorant you guys are about us. One of your senators actually thought our parliament building was an oversized igloo, and your president thought our prime minister was named Jean Poutine.
BTW, Kennedy, Taft, Adams, Jefferson, Washington, Truman, Ford, Nixon, Bush, Bush, Jackson, Lincoln, Harrison, Reagan, Eisenhower, Quincy Adams, and this is just off the top of my head. I bet I could own you in your own history.
And who cares what we call our money, your president is retarded. We know we have funny money, for god sakes, it's different colors. But dammit, it's cool. And I guess calling our change loonies and toonies is just as unoriginal as making all bills the same color.
Last but not least, don't threaten us. The only sport that still allows fighting, hockey, is our sport, and when the Olympics, world juniors and any other hockey event rolls around, we whup your ass. Plus, 60% of the NHL is Canadian. Also, Lennox Lewis was the recent heavyweight champion of the world, and guess what he had? That's right, Canadian citizenship.
I could put lots of other things in here, but I'm not here to start a fight with anyone, especially any other Americans. Like I said before, lots of you guys and girls are cooler than ice, but Karl is a douchebag and I HATE HIM.
That's all the hate for now. Remember to submit your hate to suxatlife@hotmail (please include your first name, last initial and school).
Hot damn, it's been a while. I apologize for the wait. I've been working on my website and, since I'm completely computer illiterate, it's taken me a while. But not to fear, the hate list lives on. Welcome to the twenty-seventh edition of The Famous Hate List.
*Remember, you can submit hate yourself. Just email me at suxatlife@hotmail !
MINE:
Laura Late Call: Do you remember when you were in middle school? If you wanted to call a friend, you had to make sure their parents would allow them to talk at that time. Everyone had a specific cutoff time for incoming calls. Mine was 10 PM. Somewhere, this notion of not calling after a certain hour has vanished. Leave it to Laura Late Call to put the final nail in the coffin. You lay in bed at 5 AM, sound asleep, when your phone starts ringing off the hook. Who could it be at this hour? It must be an emergency or they wouldn't call so late. Not so, it's just Laura calling to ask some insanely irrelevant or unimportant question. "Hi, sorry to wake you, but did you get the bio homework from last Thursday?" What the hell is wrong with you that you feel the need to find out this information in the middle of the night"¦on a Monday?! The next time you feel like calling me at an hour like that, stick a knife in your ear instead, because that's how I feel when you call. Learn some fucking etiquette, you annoying loser"¦I Hate You!
Bumpy Bob: We all wobble a little bit when we're drunk, but this asshole takes it to the next level. The bar is crowded as it is and Bob here just can't seem to steady himself. He pitches and heaves like a boat on a rough sea, knocking into smaller people all along. It doesn't help that he's 6' 10" and 290 Lbs. His friends all think it's funny to watch their buddy knock into people as he tries to navigate his way to the jukebox. But the 110 Lb girls he's slamming to the ground along the way don't find it so amusing. And neither do I. Bob, you fat slob, stop wobbling around. Why can't you just steady yourself on a wall or something? Or, better yet, kill yourself. You make me spill my beer, you make me knock into other people, but most of all, you make me Hate You!
YOURS:
Reader Lou at UW really hates: I truly hate Badass Lindsey. I just hate her. She's the one who you were friends with for a little bit in high school. When you come home for the holidays, you know you only hang out with her because she knows all the good people for the drug hookups. However, she always feels the need to be badass and one-up you. So you're walking somewhere with her, and she says, "My best-EVER friend in second grade died two months ago," and then she just waits for you to drop everything in your life, fling your arms around her, and cry for the salvation of her friend's soul. Fat chance, bitch! Three of my best friends from high school were murdered, and all you could talk about was where the best place was to redo your fake tan. You always try to be sooo badass, and try to impress me. "Omg omg omg! I totally came to class after I had been drinking, so I had a *pause* hangover!! Omg!" Oo, watch me care! You think you're the only one under the sun who drinks. By the way, I have a question: if you drink so much, and are around so many 'truly badass' people, why the hell are you still a virgin?! Yeah, I thought so. Another thing - you try SO FUCKING HARD to look pretty. You even take offense when a guy says you're not "the hottest girl ever." All of my guy friends say that you would be hot IF you had a better face, didn't tan so much, and didn't dye your hair blonde. I'm naturally blonde, and it looks way better than you could ever hope for, you cunt. You look like you try too hard. You look like one of those fake, shallow bitches from some sorority that we used to bitch about. You are EXACTLY like those 80's bands that were SO AGAINST something, only to eventually turn into the thing they hated. So now you're in with the 'cool crowd'. Do I care? No. I just care about my drugs. But you HAVE to tell me EVERY FUCKING THING that your other friends are doing. You whine and complain about how they whine and complain. YOU'RE A FUCKING HYPOCRITE!!! I hate that. So you're fake, you're shallow, you try too hard, you think I care, you're a fucking hypocrite, and you're still a virgin because you want "everything to be perfect." Jesus. I FUCKING HATE YOU, BADASS LINDSEY. Please go give yourself a sandpaper enema, you fucking cunt.
Reader Jeff D. really hates: Uneducated liberals who bash Bush, capitalism, and so on when they don't know shit. They watch one Michael Moore movie and they think they are frikin political activists. Most of them are those geeky people who wear emo glasses, or the people that are really rich, and went to private school, and think the world is such a horrible place, and say stuff like "We shouldn't have attacked Iraq," or "9/11 was our fault." I hate those fags, and I hate Michael Moore.
Reader Helen from England really hates: Americans who know nothing about Canada (other than that if they go north they will eventually get there), but continually slag it off because they think unwell, homosexual, poor people should die even though they live in the richest country in the world. Also, I hate fucking politicians who ignore the people who put them in power and go to war, sending my peers off to die. Then they make me pay a fortune for my education because they've spent all the taxes on bloody wars.
Reader Janice S. really hates: Perky morning DJs - It's bad enough to have to rise before the sun emerges on this vast, primitive, wasteland of a campus; for being a vamp, I loves the nightlife. And the nightlife loves me. But the morning, well, let us say that the morning and I do not get on so very well. And the vamp that had so much fun yestereve, now despises me. So, as I am buttoning and zipping and shitting my damned luck in preparation for my arrival at the prescribed destination precisely five minutes after the beginning of class (since 80% of success is showing up), I am stuck in traffic listening in my car to two people so perky that they have GOT to be on perk-0-dan or sumpin. How I would love to throttle, just once, these two - yeah, they have to double team you - pesky chimps. This morning zombie girl has no time to fool with CDs, knobs, buttons or other devices to technically obliterate these oppressively effervescent robots (do not try and tell me that they are human). So, yes, I do hate, despise and abhor these merry morning radio ch-imps.
Reader Mary at College of Charleston really hates: Relatives that every time you see them the first question they ask is, "When are you and (insert every good male friend they know) going to get married?" Why are you waiting for me to get married and have kids? Am I not good enough to buy presents for? Do you have to have a screaming, crying two year old to be happy? Because I know that I have no desire whatsoever to spawn in the next year, yet for some reason, you think it's a great idea. For god's sake, I am 22; I do not need to get married, and I do not need a kid. What the hell are you guys thinking? Just because you guys all got married at 14 does not mean that I need to settle and just get it over with. Let's just get one thing straight: unlike you, I am not waiting for the big white dress to "do it." I know, I am such a whore Grandma, but I just couldn't do it; blame the tequila, but well, I AM NOT A VIRGIN. I do not have to get married to do it, and once I get married I do not plan on popping out little mes in the next 7 months (I mean 9 months). In fact, I plan on being on birth control for a while....just like I am right now. Oops. So I guess, what I mean to say is: I hate you Grandma, and all you other old people. I am not getting married anytime soon; my last boyfriend, whom you loved so dearly (just because you were shocked that someone liked me), and I broke up six months ago and now I am hooking up with a whole bunch o' boys. I HATE YOU.....I mean I love you, please don't write me out of your will, but for now I HATE YOU, I HATE YOU, I HATE YOU.
Reader Sarah C. at LA Harbor College really hates: Mr. "I only listen to underground shit that no one else has heard of." If your music was so damn hot, more people would have heard of it. Obscurity does not equal greatness, you jackass! Stop snickering at my Beatles CD, you dickless piece of shit, because I don't care that you "only listen to great music" and no, I've never heard of "we're so emo we wet ourselves". Fuck off, you asshat, I hate you!
Sarah also hates: Mr. "ex-boyfriend who wants to keep in touch but only calls when he's having girl trouble." You know what? I don't care what your girl trouble is. My concern with your girl problems ended when we broke up, you bastard. If you want to keep in touch, try calling more than once a semester. Actually? Why don't you do yourself a favor and grow the fuck up, sprout some balls, and leave me the fuck alone, you gibbering simp. I hate you!
Reader Jenna G. of Cornell University really hates: Pretentious British asshole. You know, the exchange student who came from Britain two years ago and still bitches about how stupid America is. Oooo, we're Americans, automatically we suck because our president is retarded and half the world hates us. We're so "immature" and "wild" and shit like that. We're so much more "disrespectful" here or something. Yeah, get over yourself and your fucking proper heritage. This is the girl who thinks she's so proper and mature because she has a fat ass and big boobs. And she says people think she's "so much older" when she goes to her stupid clubs and makes so many 60 year old, masturbating, online friends. Newsflash, bitch: don't trust everyone you meet online, or at your stupid clubs. They probably think that even though they haven't gotten any in a while, they can at least score with a fat chick. And since they think she's so much older, she thinks she has a right to chastise us about how we live our lives. Then, when we're in a bad mood, she's all, "get over it" etc. and when we get mad she always says we're "overreacting." Fuck, if I'm upset, I'll act however I want. I won't change the way I react just because you disapprove, bitch. And on the topic of how people act, whenever anyone makes remarks about her accent, she starts getting all moody and shit, saying how everyone's "racist." What the fuck ever, bitch. Maybe if you didn't make so many remarks on how people are so much better in Great Britain, people would actually like you. I'll laugh when you get raped by your fucking internet friend who's 40 years older than you.
Jenna also hates: Apathetic Friend. This is the girl who loves to talk about herself. You always try and make her feel better and shit like that, and stay with her when she gets piss drunk over some stupid boy-trouble, but when you feel like shit, she doesn't help you; she just leaves to go fuck some guy. This is the girl who doesn't care if her friends are upset, as long as she gets what she wants. I want to go somewhere, but there's this guy she NEVER sees and she HAS to hang out with because she REALLY wants him, and shit like that. No BITCH. Get over yourself, he has a fucking girlfriend! He shamelessly hits on everyone, you're not special! And then because, OH MY GOD she hasn't a boyfriend in 2 months, she starts complaining. "Is it because I flirt too much? I think it's because I'm friends with too many guys"¦" You're complaining to the girl who just got dumped 4 days ago by her first boyfriend since high school?! MAYBE YOU DON'T HAVE A BOYFRIEND BECAUSE YOU'RE SUCH AN APATHETIC WHORE! This is the same girl goes to parties and lies across 5 guys, while they're all feeling her up at the same time and trying to come up with ways to score with her. Fuck you, apathetic bitch-whore.
Reader ActionKym of UNR, Reno, really hates: My car battery. Any other battery would have stayed charged while I took a nap on my way home New Year's morning, but no - you had to go dead while I was fifteen miles away from anything. And thanks to you, I had the pleasure of walking through a northern Wyoming snowstorm while it was five below zero at five in the morning, all the way home, with a shirt tied around my head as a scarf. When I have time, I'm changing you out, setting you on my driveway, and unloading every fucking rifle I have into your sorry casing. Then I'm going to drag you back the way I had to walk that night and leave you there for the birds to shit on you.
Reader Jeff H. of UT, San Antonio really hates: Mr. "I Paid 16.99 for a 18pk of Horse Piss in a Can." Hey, nobody gives a shit how much you paid for your beer. Just because you pay more and don't know how to shop for beer that tastes good and costs less, doesn't make you any better then me. You're the one that walks around the party, parading your beer box around like you want everyone to know that you paid too much for your beer; you know who you are! You're the one that makes us have to put up with those fucking Bud Light commercials. Here's to you, Mr. "I buy a beer because it costs more money than most can afford." That should be the next commercial; did I already say I hate you? If you would stop buying all that crap, I wouldn't have to watch a Rolling Rock, Bud Light, or Heineken commercial every 3 minutes. I can buy two sixers of Lone Star Light Tallboys for 6 bucks; what do you say to that? Not only am I gonna have 16 beers, but I've only spent like, $6.47 (including tax) and I'm gonna enjoy it. Wake up and realize I hate you, and I hate your expensive beer!
Reader Boston John of Temple University hates the following:
1. Yankees fans. Yankees suck.
2. Stuck up bitches. You know who you are, bitches, and if you're too cool or hot to talk to me, I'll just go find some girl who isn't.
3. People who brag about how much they can drink. Maybe someday you can use your amazing skills to become a professional drinker. Oh wait, there is not such thing.
4. People who bitch about the cold. Yeah jackass, I know it's cold; deal with it.
5. Canadian Geese. Next time you cocky fucking birds stroll through the street, I'm not stopping for you.
6. Motorists who bitch about me riding my bike on the road. How selfish of me for slightly inconveniencing you because I need to get around too. Go ahead and fucking honk. It'll just make me get more in your way and go slower.
7. People who publicly call me out on looking/smelling stoned.
8. Fat chicks who think they are hot. You aren't hot, you're fat.
9. People who leave half full beers. What the fuck is your problem, lightweight? Finish your fucking beer.
10. Frat guys who think they are the coolest fuckers on the planet, and talk about their frat constantly. Have fun roofying freshman bitches, asshole.
Reader Dave S. really hates: Captain America. Wow, good for you, you're American. This is particularly directed at that Canada-hating jerkoff from list XXV. I'm so glad you feel superior you redneck, Yankee, zealot fuck. What's that? You think free health care is stupid? Have you never been sick, never been hurt? Never had to fork over thousands of dollars to get that broken arm looked after? Too bad you don't have free health care, maybe your HMO is feeling generous today. What's that? Half your population believes God created man in our present form 10,000 years ago? Boy, it must be nice to walk around in some delusional, clearly infallible fantasy-land, where science is some kind of bane on your religious freedom. Boy, I wish I hated gays enough to refuse them basic civil liberties because it would clearly cause your perfect little backyard hotdog and apple pie patrio-fest to collapse in on itself, creating a black hole so powerful, only ignorance can escape. By the by, thanks for the whole 'rebirth of Islamic terrorism' thing, nothing I like more than being a target by association because you feel you need more oil. Hey, missiles in space, that sounds like a good idea! Instead of convincing North Korea to discontinue its nuclear arms program, let's dare them to test it out by telling them we can block missiles. Nah-na-na-na-na, you can't hit me... Good thing all that fallout is going to land in Canada...kinda like all that pollution you keep spewing into our airspace...sure is better than reducing emissions. Too bad Toronto is a disease-infested wasteland. Also, too bad you can't turn off your fucking reality shows to watch the news once in a while. "Oh good, "Who's Your Daddy' is on, no need for me to switch on something intelligent and find out SARS was news more than a year ago," or were you so busy with that whole ignorance thing you didn't notice? Maybe you were too busy fighting back the killer bees and trying to keep your streets free of guns that everybody is guaranteed the right to carry. Newsflash, the British aren't coming back to get you; there's no need to have everyone over the age of five packing a fucking Uzi to church. Wasn't slavery in your constitution once? I wonder why there's so much crime in the US of A. Yeah, Canada sure does suck; what's with that Prime Minister NOT trying to weasel out of bad press by claiming the Geneva Convention doesn't apply to him? Nothing makes our troops safer than telling the world the defenders of freedom are going to torture you if you don't submit. Sure is nice of you to try and spread democracy...maybe democracy is something that should be taught, not spread like some god-damned viral infection. I'll bet the whole world is elated to hear how much the US disapproves of everything we do that doesn't directly benefit them. Even more so, my dear American, I hate having to rebut like this because you are infuriated by the nicknames we use for our currency, maybe it's okay to be different, maybe we're stuck together, maybe - just maybe - we should work together for a change. Maybe then all those people who immigrate to you from the 3rd world countries you create and maintain, will stop using you as a thoroughfare to the great white north (that includes a few of your beloved marines). Also, for future reference, your hateful rantings don't need to be punctuated every third word with some nonsensical derivative profanity, all you need is a simple I HATE YOU!
Reader Ashlee of Creighton University really hates: All of the arts and sciences school kids who like to give us business students shit for our comparatively less rigorous curriculum requirements. The reason bio and chem are hard majors is because you actually have to be fucking intelligent to be a doctor, dumbfuck. I mean, come on, who wants Dr. Dumb-as-motherfucking-rocks cutting their body open or prescribing them pills? Not me, and probably not you either. (I take back that pills part, it might be nice to be prescribed OxyContin or Ritalin whenever I want, but still, you get the point). Yeah, that's what I thought, you arrogant fuckhead prat! Hey genius, here's a brain-buster for ya, chew on this one: we're both gonna graduate with degrees - mine's just gonna be a hell of a lot fucking easier than yours to get, and is going to look just as good to potential employers, so who's the smart one now? Eat shit and die, assclowns! We business kids are learning the true real-world skills: procrastination, bull-shitting, ass-kissing and most importantly, networking with all of the people who will one day be YOUR bosses. Fuck, I could be your boss one day, so while you're busting your ass after umpteen years of med school and residencies, I'm going to be schmoozing and double-dealing with all of my other CEO friends in the Hamptons. Go jerk off to your bio diagrams because I HATE YOU!
Ashlee also hates: All of you thirsty bitches that ruin it for the rest of us girls who actually have money and don't mind chipping in for booze every now and then; we are a rare breed but we DO exist. (No, you cannot have my phone number, sorry...) Anyway, back to my hate: you greedy, gold-digging bitches make guys all hyper-sensitive about their booze inventory because they've been taken around the block by your scheming, booze-stealing ways so many fucking times. They let you into the party anyway, hoping for the love of god that you put out, which you never do (but that's another story"¦). I see you grab the bottle when the party host goes to the bathroom or to play beer pong or whatever, and slip just a little more "happy juice" into that stupid Nalgene bottle that's permanently attached to your evil, moochy fingers. I also see you grab 3 beers at once and "hide" the two you're not drinking yet behind the couch/table/bed/whatever so that you can continue to drink in secret when the case is long gone. You also make it increasingly hard for a self-respecting girl to ask for a drink from a friend without feeling like a total asshole. I don't have a liquor stash 24/7 to drink from, sad as it may be, so a friendly favor is sometimes necessary to keep the alcoholism at bay (but I always pay back, that's the difference between me and you, you white-trash frat whore). Grrr.... I hope you die of alcohol poisoning, you moochy, greedy, selfish, sneaky bitches, because I HATE YOU!
Reader Steph at SHSU really hates: Girls who have never worked a day in their lives. I'm glad that your whore of a mother just married her fifth husband and has enough alimony to buy a small island; stop talking about it already! You want to tell me about how hard it is for you to keep up with your schoolwork? Try taking 15 hours AND playing sports AND working a full-time job! (Not that I'm complaining). Then you can barge into MY room and tell me how hard life is. The hardest thing for you to do is get into Le Spa to get your ugly ass a massage. Get over your drama of a life! Oh, and stop eating my groceries and drinking my beer! You have enough money to buy your own damn chef! Get the fuck out of my apartment! I hate you!
Reader Seth H. really hates: "Cant let it go Liberal" - This is the douche bag liberal who can't let go of the fact that their Democratic candidate LOST THE ELECTION. "If John Kerry had won, we wouldn't be in this shitstorm, blah blah blah." Get over it, you fucking wastes of life. America voted, and you saw the results. There isn't shit you can do except move to gay ass Canada, who decided to protest our president despite the fact that they would be nothing without us. Trust me, most of us who voted republican don't think Bush is the smartest guy either, but hey, the polls are in. Wait, they were in 3 fucking months ago!! John Kerry lost and at least he was graceful in his loss; we haven't seen his face since. Too bad we have to hear about it from all the sore losers that are living in the past and aren't doing shit about the fact that Bush won the Electoral and Popular vote as well. Shut the fuck up about the fact your guy lost, and get active then! Or get a fucking life, or go straight to hell. And when you get to hell, I hope Satan pokes you in the eye and fucks you in the ass with a 12 inch black dildo, you fuckin pieces of shit. I hate you!
Now, for our Hater of The Week, we go to Aaynr of the US Navy, who hates all of the following: I really hate people who tell me I'm too serious. So what if I don't happen to think that duct taping somebody with cerebral palsy and way of defending himself to the floor is funny. So what if I refuse to become a whore like 99 percent of the navy population because I would rather avoid the "STD thing" and save some self dignity to tell my children about? So what if I actually study the material the Navy is training me with so I don't screw up and let a troop of soldiers die because I didn't know how to work the fucking radio because I decided to go get drunk instead of studying for my test that I would barely scrape by, and end up going into the fleet as a complete idiot, therefore wasting taxpayer's money? I'm sure the people who rely on me getting their information about where the enemy is don't really care if I know what I'm doing or not.
I also hate people who point out my flaws in front of others. Next time somebody points out any imperfection I have, no matter how slight, I will rip off his head and eat it, which should show how much I hate you considering I'm a vegetarian.
I also hate all the chiefs here who tell me that my hair is "unsat" because I can't put it in a proper military bun. Well Chief, you can blame the jackasses at boot camp who took sheep shears to my head while being blindfolded and made me pay the eight dollars to have what little femininity I had left "cut" off. I also hate the chief who keeps telling me to get another haircut. Fuck no, jackass. My hair will never be within military regulations ever again.
I also hate my roommate who tells me to be more girly. I really don't think that if my belt and shoes don't match my shirt, it's a federal crime. Also, boots go with anything, no matter what you say. And no, I'm not buying another pair of shoes. If you suggest it to me once more, I'm going to bludgeon you to death with those Ugg boots you have. Also, it's not manly to voluntarily to go running and exercising, it's called taking care of yourself. This is the girl who went running with me once and wanted to go to McDonald's afterward. I wanted to strangle her.
I hate the McDonald's on base. I wish it would catch fire, and go up in a thirty-foot ball of flames that would hopefully take out the guys who think "what's your rate?" is the best double-ended pickup line ever.
I hate guys who think that their girl/boyfriends are going to stay with them forever. Last time I checked, staying away from your significant other for more than two days or moving to another "zip code," gives them full reign to cheat on you. Nobody has morals anymore; that's reality, my friend. S/he (it is the navy) is not going to wait for four years until your slavery with the US Government has ended.
And lastly, I hate not being able to murder all the idiots in the world, or at the very least, the ones who cross my path, without having to go to jail, pay endless fees for legal defense, and possibly waiting years to get a shot that will kill me instantly. Somebody who thinks that their I.Q. is 20/20 should not be allowed to live. (true story, by the way).
READER-ON-READER HATE
It seems that one reader in particular pissed a lot of people off. Look out Karl, you have some haters on your tail.
Katie W. Hates Karl: I, Katie W., hate Karl, who hates all of the "assmonkeyfuckwhore" canucks to his northern side. I want to make it clear that I don't hate him because he hates Canada, plenty of people do that already. I just hate him as a person. I don't really have a good reason; he just strikes me as a guy who's worth hating, you know? Like one of those obnoxious, really annoying, loud guys who get really overexcited about really mediocre things, and may or may not spit when he talks? I could be wrong, but I'll take my chances.
Eric D. hates Karl: Karl who was ragging on Canadians. First of all I'd like to say that I do enjoy many Americans (such as Streeter). I love your country too, especially New York and New Hampshire. But Karl, you have done it now!!! Windsor isn't the jewel in the Canadian university crown Karl, but you know what, many people who have gone through there in business and automotive engineering now sit on the board of directors for Chrysler. So it looks like Windsor is at least holding its own. I don't know why Canadians would go to a U.S. university, seeing as the perk of being a Canadian is that university here is FREE, and on average, offers a better education than U.S. universities (actual fact, look it up, if you can read). This is because there is no great divide between Ivy League schools and community colleges. It's all good up here.
Then there is healthcare. If you're too moronic to see free health care as a good thing, I'm surprised you breathe on your own. Free health care is entitled to all Canadians and puts us ahead as a society in the world. You will realize the importance of free health care when the Canadians at your university find you and break your legs, and your hospital bill is more than your first house.
Now this next one is too easy. I'd say it is a pretty good argument that Canada is holding the upper hand when you admit your most powerful representative, one who actually has the power to destroy the world, is a retard. That's pretty bad. These are not my words but yours, remember that. Also, what does that say about the Americans who elected him; are you hating on them too?
Now the line about Canada being No.1 at being North of America: didn't I just see that on a t-shirt from urban outfitters, you unoriginal, plagiarizing hack. Get your own material.
Naming five U.S. presidents is easy for most Canadians, because we aren't totally ignorant of other cultures. On the other hand, there is a very funny show up here called "Talking to Americans" that exploits how ignorant you guys are about us. One of your senators actually thought our parliament building was an oversized igloo, and your president thought our prime minister was named Jean Poutine.
BTW, Kennedy, Taft, Adams, Jefferson, Washington, Truman, Ford, Nixon, Bush, Bush, Jackson, Lincoln, Harrison, Reagan, Eisenhower, Quincy Adams, and this is just off the top of my head. I bet I could own you in your own history.
And who cares what we call our money, your president is retarded. We know we have funny money, for god sakes, it's different colors. But dammit, it's cool. And I guess calling our change loonies and toonies is just as unoriginal as making all bills the same color.
Last but not least, don't threaten us. The only sport that still allows fighting, hockey, is our sport, and when the Olympics, world juniors and any other hockey event rolls around, we whup your ass. Plus, 60% of the NHL is Canadian. Also, Lennox Lewis was the recent heavyweight champion of the world, and guess what he had? That's right, Canadian citizenship.
I could put lots of other things in here, but I'm not here to start a fight with anyone, especially any other Americans. Like I said before, lots of you guys and girls are cooler than ice, but Karl is a douchebag and I HATE HIM.
That's all the hate for now. Remember to submit your hate to suxatlife@hotmail (please include your first name, last initial and school).
The Grosser, The Closer
Love Is A Gas
As the victim of many relationships, I know a thing or two about the joys of love. I also know more than two things about the unfortunate side of love: the ugly, shameful and even disgusting side of a relationship. To outsiders, the gross things that begin to happen between a man and a woman are a sign that maybe it's time to find some new friends. To you though - the one actually in the relationship - they are signs that things are getting serious and a bond is forming between the two of you.
It's strange how we behave in this way: you do your best to impress someone and once you have them, you turn gross. Normally it's the man that goes downhill first. The charming guy that wore J-Crew and took you out to nice dinners three months ago is now scratching himself in a bathrobe and eating Lucky Charms on the couch. But the women aren't far behind. Your sweet little girlfriend - the one who bought expensive lingerie to impress you four months ago - now sports dirty, torn boxers to bed every night and can't be bothered to close the door when she pees.
The day will inevitably come when you can no longer pretend to be something you are not. The ruse is exhausting: shaving daily, washing yourself, holding your gas, it's impossible to maintain over time. Eventually, you will let yourself become the dirty, nose-picking, mayonnaise-eating, scratching, burping, farting, and generally unclean person you are. When one half of the relationship deteriorates into this state it is a sign that it is acceptable for the other half to deteriorate as well. Come with me now as I take you back through your relationship as it goes from divine to dirty, sweet to smelly and nice to noxious.
The transformation from dream couple to double-trouble gas machine is not made in one quick move; it is an evolution. It is a series of small transgressions that you and your significant other perpetrate on each other. It is sticking your toe into the water before jumping in. It may begin with any number of small infractions to the initial relationship code. "Will she notice if I don't shower today?" "Will he care if I kiss him with morning breath?" You ask yourself these questions and, inevitably, you will answer "no" one day. Thus the decline begins.
From your initial display of grossness, you gain confidence. "She didn't care that I peed with the door open, why would she care if I wipe my nose on my sleeve?" She will care, but she will overlook it because, Mr. Snot-Sleeve, that means she can now do the same. As I said before, men move quicker than women do in this area, so there is always a period - perhaps a month or two - when Carrie Clean is dating Freddy Farts-a-lot. Men tend to glorify toilet-related activities more vocally than women and are, therefore, much more comfortable with them. But that does not mean that she will not catch up to your amazing "Fart Symphony in F" someday.
As you build more trust in your partner, you get bolder. Soon, skid-marked boxers are strewn about your room and soiled tampons are regularly placed on the top of your garbage instead of their usual wrapped-in-toilet-paper-and-placed-at-the-bottom-of-the-can state. You say things like, "Can you take care of this zit for me?", and "is there lint in my belly button?" You test each other's limits daily, knowing that if you ever cross the line, you can always scale it back once the dry heaves are over.
Within three months of the initial transgression, the two of you are regularly burping and scratching yourselves in front of one another. But in four months your man will summon the courage - nay, the bravado - to quit taking steps and start making leaps. Your man - your sweet guy, your good-natured bundle of caring - will let one rip. Everything is different now.
A burp may be an expulsion of gas, but a fart is something personal. It has your signature on it and, unlike a burp which has a small amount of odor, your farts have been known to clear rooms and kill insects. This momentous display of trust normally occurs on the couch while watching a movie and believe me, he will be nervous. He will laugh to hide his dread that your opinion about this new and slightly nauseating twist to your relationship will be negative. Too many good boyfriends have been shamed or worse for committing this show of gastrointestinal talent, but there is a way to avoid a bad reaction. The key to making this awkward yet rewarding moment bearable is timing. Let one out too soon in the relationship and she will think you're a nasty pig. Hold it in too long and you'll regularly be excusing yourself to the bathroom for you seventy-eighth piss of the night. If you time it just right - right at that point when you're positive she will continue to like you after you suffocate her cat with your gas - she should react as a friend would. She'll smile a little, say, "Damn, that was bad," laugh for a second, and forget about the whole situation.
Or will she?
Now that you have crossed that gaseous threshold, she will begin to plot your introduction to her bowel wind. Secretly, she's been letting them out in the car when the windows were down for months, but now is the day of reckoning. Now is the day that she must show you her least pleasant side as you have done for her. When she finally lets rip, you must remember the good treatment you received when you introduced her to your signature scent, Eau d'Mike. Through your actions, let her know that while you don't necessarily love it, you can live with it. With the female fart out of the way, only one very troubling and dangerous threshold remains to be crossed: the over-their-house dump.
We all shit, it's a fact of nature. Sometimes it smells, sometimes it hurts and sometimes it's just so amazing that your roommate feels that he needs to show it to you. But most of the time, it is done privately within the confines of your own home. But when you date someone for long enough the need to empty out while at their home will eventually arise. You might think, "If I already fart in front of her, why's taking a crap at her house such a big deal?" My friend, listen to this cautionary tale.
There once lived a man named Brian. He was dating a girl named Kim for some time and he really liked her. One day, he was at her house when the urge to use the bathroom became unbearable. He excused himself and slipped off to the toilet where he quietly did his business. When it was all done, he flushed. But what's this? The water is rising! As the water approached its critical mass and the meniscus, so kindly keeping the dirty water confined to the bowl, bulged, Brian searched for a plunger in vain. Not finding the tool her needed, Brian was faced with the ultimate new-boyfriend dilemma: ask her for a plunger or take the dive. Rolling up his sleeve, Brian did what only a desperate man in his situation would; he used his hand.
You see, when you're talking about number two, there are risks that aren't associated with farting. Clogs are only one of the seriously embarrassing fates that can befall you: you have tiger-striping, missing air fresheners, wet farts and the dreaded knock on the door-slash- "are you OK in there?" question. But you two are solid. You two are a great couple. And you two can get by even this. And, trust me; once you scale this mountain, it all gets much easier. You'll both finally accept each other for the flawed, smelly, pooping humans that you both are. You have made it, congratulations.
The odd - and slightly disturbing - thing about this whole process is that you don't really mind it. Sure, it would be nice if your boyfriend stopped stinking up your bathroom and it wouldn't kill you to see your girlfriend in something other than your t-shirts and stained underwear, but you don't like them any less because of it. In some strange way it's charming to see someone so comfortable around you. It's odd to think about, but she may find your "Dutch ovens" kind of cute and he may sort of enjoy that burp-in-the-mouth kiss you are so fond of pulling on him. I would go so far as to say that when a relationship ends, it's not the sexy things you miss the most; it's the sweetly disgusting things you look back on with a smile.
There you are: two people so trusting and comfortable with each other that you will share all of you, and some stuff that used to be a part of you but is now somewhere in the sewers, with each other. There will be no more "excuse me-s", no more holding it in, no more worrying about the pee-drip on your underwear; just two people who care about each other enough to be honest about who they really are.
Just don't ask them to wipe you"¦you have to save some things for marriage.
As the victim of many relationships, I know a thing or two about the joys of love. I also know more than two things about the unfortunate side of love: the ugly, shameful and even disgusting side of a relationship. To outsiders, the gross things that begin to happen between a man and a woman are a sign that maybe it's time to find some new friends. To you though - the one actually in the relationship - they are signs that things are getting serious and a bond is forming between the two of you.
It's strange how we behave in this way: you do your best to impress someone and once you have them, you turn gross. Normally it's the man that goes downhill first. The charming guy that wore J-Crew and took you out to nice dinners three months ago is now scratching himself in a bathrobe and eating Lucky Charms on the couch. But the women aren't far behind. Your sweet little girlfriend - the one who bought expensive lingerie to impress you four months ago - now sports dirty, torn boxers to bed every night and can't be bothered to close the door when she pees.
The day will inevitably come when you can no longer pretend to be something you are not. The ruse is exhausting: shaving daily, washing yourself, holding your gas, it's impossible to maintain over time. Eventually, you will let yourself become the dirty, nose-picking, mayonnaise-eating, scratching, burping, farting, and generally unclean person you are. When one half of the relationship deteriorates into this state it is a sign that it is acceptable for the other half to deteriorate as well. Come with me now as I take you back through your relationship as it goes from divine to dirty, sweet to smelly and nice to noxious.
The transformation from dream couple to double-trouble gas machine is not made in one quick move; it is an evolution. It is a series of small transgressions that you and your significant other perpetrate on each other. It is sticking your toe into the water before jumping in. It may begin with any number of small infractions to the initial relationship code. "Will she notice if I don't shower today?" "Will he care if I kiss him with morning breath?" You ask yourself these questions and, inevitably, you will answer "no" one day. Thus the decline begins.
From your initial display of grossness, you gain confidence. "She didn't care that I peed with the door open, why would she care if I wipe my nose on my sleeve?" She will care, but she will overlook it because, Mr. Snot-Sleeve, that means she can now do the same. As I said before, men move quicker than women do in this area, so there is always a period - perhaps a month or two - when Carrie Clean is dating Freddy Farts-a-lot. Men tend to glorify toilet-related activities more vocally than women and are, therefore, much more comfortable with them. But that does not mean that she will not catch up to your amazing "Fart Symphony in F" someday.
As you build more trust in your partner, you get bolder. Soon, skid-marked boxers are strewn about your room and soiled tampons are regularly placed on the top of your garbage instead of their usual wrapped-in-toilet-paper-and-placed-at-the-bottom-of-the-can state. You say things like, "Can you take care of this zit for me?", and "is there lint in my belly button?" You test each other's limits daily, knowing that if you ever cross the line, you can always scale it back once the dry heaves are over.
Within three months of the initial transgression, the two of you are regularly burping and scratching yourselves in front of one another. But in four months your man will summon the courage - nay, the bravado - to quit taking steps and start making leaps. Your man - your sweet guy, your good-natured bundle of caring - will let one rip. Everything is different now.
A burp may be an expulsion of gas, but a fart is something personal. It has your signature on it and, unlike a burp which has a small amount of odor, your farts have been known to clear rooms and kill insects. This momentous display of trust normally occurs on the couch while watching a movie and believe me, he will be nervous. He will laugh to hide his dread that your opinion about this new and slightly nauseating twist to your relationship will be negative. Too many good boyfriends have been shamed or worse for committing this show of gastrointestinal talent, but there is a way to avoid a bad reaction. The key to making this awkward yet rewarding moment bearable is timing. Let one out too soon in the relationship and she will think you're a nasty pig. Hold it in too long and you'll regularly be excusing yourself to the bathroom for you seventy-eighth piss of the night. If you time it just right - right at that point when you're positive she will continue to like you after you suffocate her cat with your gas - she should react as a friend would. She'll smile a little, say, "Damn, that was bad," laugh for a second, and forget about the whole situation.
Or will she?
Now that you have crossed that gaseous threshold, she will begin to plot your introduction to her bowel wind. Secretly, she's been letting them out in the car when the windows were down for months, but now is the day of reckoning. Now is the day that she must show you her least pleasant side as you have done for her. When she finally lets rip, you must remember the good treatment you received when you introduced her to your signature scent, Eau d'Mike. Through your actions, let her know that while you don't necessarily love it, you can live with it. With the female fart out of the way, only one very troubling and dangerous threshold remains to be crossed: the over-their-house dump.
We all shit, it's a fact of nature. Sometimes it smells, sometimes it hurts and sometimes it's just so amazing that your roommate feels that he needs to show it to you. But most of the time, it is done privately within the confines of your own home. But when you date someone for long enough the need to empty out while at their home will eventually arise. You might think, "If I already fart in front of her, why's taking a crap at her house such a big deal?" My friend, listen to this cautionary tale.
There once lived a man named Brian. He was dating a girl named Kim for some time and he really liked her. One day, he was at her house when the urge to use the bathroom became unbearable. He excused himself and slipped off to the toilet where he quietly did his business. When it was all done, he flushed. But what's this? The water is rising! As the water approached its critical mass and the meniscus, so kindly keeping the dirty water confined to the bowl, bulged, Brian searched for a plunger in vain. Not finding the tool her needed, Brian was faced with the ultimate new-boyfriend dilemma: ask her for a plunger or take the dive. Rolling up his sleeve, Brian did what only a desperate man in his situation would; he used his hand.
You see, when you're talking about number two, there are risks that aren't associated with farting. Clogs are only one of the seriously embarrassing fates that can befall you: you have tiger-striping, missing air fresheners, wet farts and the dreaded knock on the door-slash- "are you OK in there?" question. But you two are solid. You two are a great couple. And you two can get by even this. And, trust me; once you scale this mountain, it all gets much easier. You'll both finally accept each other for the flawed, smelly, pooping humans that you both are. You have made it, congratulations.
The odd - and slightly disturbing - thing about this whole process is that you don't really mind it. Sure, it would be nice if your boyfriend stopped stinking up your bathroom and it wouldn't kill you to see your girlfriend in something other than your t-shirts and stained underwear, but you don't like them any less because of it. In some strange way it's charming to see someone so comfortable around you. It's odd to think about, but she may find your "Dutch ovens" kind of cute and he may sort of enjoy that burp-in-the-mouth kiss you are so fond of pulling on him. I would go so far as to say that when a relationship ends, it's not the sexy things you miss the most; it's the sweetly disgusting things you look back on with a smile.
There you are: two people so trusting and comfortable with each other that you will share all of you, and some stuff that used to be a part of you but is now somewhere in the sewers, with each other. There will be no more "excuse me-s", no more holding it in, no more worrying about the pee-drip on your underwear; just two people who care about each other enough to be honest about who they really are.
Just don't ask them to wipe you"¦you have to save some things for marriage.
Truth.com
Truth.com
Every year 95% of people who try to quit smoking fail. Every 8 seconds someone in the world dies from tobacco use. 2000 teens start smoking every day. 80% of adult smokers started before they turned 18. And 100% of me couldn't give any less of a shit.
No doubt you have seen a commercial for truth.com; the website (which is actually "thetruth.com") that encourages the defaming of big tobacco. They are committed to exposing the awful truth behind tobacco companies and bringing all their lies to light. These teen street warriors will go to no end to help citizens understand the risks involved with using tobacco. They will also go to no end to piss me off.
To begin with, the "real life teens" in their ads are intolerable. They remind me of born again Christian teenagers - kids deluded enough to think that it's "cool" to follow the rules. You know them; "You don't have to have sex to be cool. Jesus was the coolest guy in history and he didn't have sex!" Shut up. This gang of do-gooders travels the country to let all the smokers out there know that they are merely pawns in big tobacco's evil game.
The teens always engage in some sort of sabotage act, whether it is stacking body bags in front of a tobacco company building or pointing out that dog shit and cigarettes share some of the same chemicals (you know what else shares some chemicals with dog shit? Dog food). They get on megaphones and shout facts to passersby about the evils of tobacco use. "Cigarette companies advertise to teenagers!" they scream. Of course they do; it's called capitalism, comrade.
Even the way their ads are shot is annoying. The grainy film makes their actions look dangerous, like they're taking part in Project Mayhem in "Fight Club." They want to give you the illusion that they're a guerilla army, spreading the renegade word of truth to the country by subterfuge. I'm surprised they don't wear black arm bands and drive around in beat up jeeps with .50 cal truth-guns jerry-rigged to the back. In reality though, they're just a bunch of holier-than-thou teens finding a way to get back at the smokers who gave them wedgies in gym class. "Ha ha, Randy Garson, I bet you're sorry you stuck my head in a toilet last year now that I have an army behind me...by the way, you're going to die of lung cancer someday." God, I hate these kids.
They word their annoying ads in such a way that it seems tobacco companies want to kill people. Now let me ask you a question: why would a company want to kill off its customers? Is the president of Philip Morris sitting in his office saying, "I just wish there was a way to make our cigarettes more lethal. Wait a minute, why don't we put some anthrax in them?" I don't think so. If there was a way to make a cigarette that wouldn't kill you, they would.
But the most glaringly obvious - and heavily over-used by comedians - fact that the truth squad ignores is that everyone already knows that smoking will kill you. Now, the fact that Levitra may cause anal bleeding and diarrhea"¦that's something I didn't know. But telling me that smoking is dangerous? What do you think I am? Everyone that thought smoking was harmless died in 1977 of lung cancer. It says smoking is dangerous right on the pack; how could you miss it? I'm looking at my almost empty pack of Parliament Lights right now, learning that if I ever get pregnant my smoking may cause my baby to be born premature. Shit. Sometimes I think the surgeon general is just making stuff up in these warnings. "Smoking may cause erectile problems in males." Really? I mean, I may be short of breath in the act, but the private is still at attention.
However, the truthy's greatest downfall is overlooking the fact that smokers really like smoking. We know the dangers, we know it's stupid, we know that our babies will be born underweight, premature and have flippers, but we don't care. It's our choice to smoke, just like it's their choice to be totally annoying douchebags. Telling a smoker that cigarettes are dangerous is about as useful as telling a pregnant woman that having unprotected sex may cause pregnancy.
If anything, this pack of assholes makes me want to smoke more just to spite them. I want to go to one of their "renegade" street gatherings and blow secondhand smoke at them in hopes of giving them a phlegm-y, hacking cough. I want to follow them around with a megaphone shouting, "Did you know that 100% of smokers find you all annoying, irrelevant and arrogant?" I want karma to bite them in such a way that they are harmed by their actions. I want them to be hurt by one of the other ten million things in this world that will hurt you. I want them to get mercury poisoning from eating too much tuna fish. I want them to destroy their testicles and ovaries from over-enthusiastic microwave use. I want brain tumors from cell phones and terminal bloody noses from Afrin nasal spray. Recurring acid reflux from coffee! UNSIGHTLY MOLES FROM OVEREXPOSURE TO THE SUN! But most of all, I just want them all to shut the hell up and stop telling me what I don't care to, and already, know.
Man"¦that was intense. I need a smoke.
Every year 95% of people who try to quit smoking fail. Every 8 seconds someone in the world dies from tobacco use. 2000 teens start smoking every day. 80% of adult smokers started before they turned 18. And 100% of me couldn't give any less of a shit.
No doubt you have seen a commercial for truth.com; the website (which is actually "thetruth.com") that encourages the defaming of big tobacco. They are committed to exposing the awful truth behind tobacco companies and bringing all their lies to light. These teen street warriors will go to no end to help citizens understand the risks involved with using tobacco. They will also go to no end to piss me off.
To begin with, the "real life teens" in their ads are intolerable. They remind me of born again Christian teenagers - kids deluded enough to think that it's "cool" to follow the rules. You know them; "You don't have to have sex to be cool. Jesus was the coolest guy in history and he didn't have sex!" Shut up. This gang of do-gooders travels the country to let all the smokers out there know that they are merely pawns in big tobacco's evil game.
The teens always engage in some sort of sabotage act, whether it is stacking body bags in front of a tobacco company building or pointing out that dog shit and cigarettes share some of the same chemicals (you know what else shares some chemicals with dog shit? Dog food). They get on megaphones and shout facts to passersby about the evils of tobacco use. "Cigarette companies advertise to teenagers!" they scream. Of course they do; it's called capitalism, comrade.
Even the way their ads are shot is annoying. The grainy film makes their actions look dangerous, like they're taking part in Project Mayhem in "Fight Club." They want to give you the illusion that they're a guerilla army, spreading the renegade word of truth to the country by subterfuge. I'm surprised they don't wear black arm bands and drive around in beat up jeeps with .50 cal truth-guns jerry-rigged to the back. In reality though, they're just a bunch of holier-than-thou teens finding a way to get back at the smokers who gave them wedgies in gym class. "Ha ha, Randy Garson, I bet you're sorry you stuck my head in a toilet last year now that I have an army behind me...by the way, you're going to die of lung cancer someday." God, I hate these kids.
They word their annoying ads in such a way that it seems tobacco companies want to kill people. Now let me ask you a question: why would a company want to kill off its customers? Is the president of Philip Morris sitting in his office saying, "I just wish there was a way to make our cigarettes more lethal. Wait a minute, why don't we put some anthrax in them?" I don't think so. If there was a way to make a cigarette that wouldn't kill you, they would.
But the most glaringly obvious - and heavily over-used by comedians - fact that the truth squad ignores is that everyone already knows that smoking will kill you. Now, the fact that Levitra may cause anal bleeding and diarrhea"¦that's something I didn't know. But telling me that smoking is dangerous? What do you think I am? Everyone that thought smoking was harmless died in 1977 of lung cancer. It says smoking is dangerous right on the pack; how could you miss it? I'm looking at my almost empty pack of Parliament Lights right now, learning that if I ever get pregnant my smoking may cause my baby to be born premature. Shit. Sometimes I think the surgeon general is just making stuff up in these warnings. "Smoking may cause erectile problems in males." Really? I mean, I may be short of breath in the act, but the private is still at attention.
However, the truthy's greatest downfall is overlooking the fact that smokers really like smoking. We know the dangers, we know it's stupid, we know that our babies will be born underweight, premature and have flippers, but we don't care. It's our choice to smoke, just like it's their choice to be totally annoying douchebags. Telling a smoker that cigarettes are dangerous is about as useful as telling a pregnant woman that having unprotected sex may cause pregnancy.
If anything, this pack of assholes makes me want to smoke more just to spite them. I want to go to one of their "renegade" street gatherings and blow secondhand smoke at them in hopes of giving them a phlegm-y, hacking cough. I want to follow them around with a megaphone shouting, "Did you know that 100% of smokers find you all annoying, irrelevant and arrogant?" I want karma to bite them in such a way that they are harmed by their actions. I want them to be hurt by one of the other ten million things in this world that will hurt you. I want them to get mercury poisoning from eating too much tuna fish. I want them to destroy their testicles and ovaries from over-enthusiastic microwave use. I want brain tumors from cell phones and terminal bloody noses from Afrin nasal spray. Recurring acid reflux from coffee! UNSIGHTLY MOLES FROM OVEREXPOSURE TO THE SUN! But most of all, I just want them all to shut the hell up and stop telling me what I don't care to, and already, know.
Man"¦that was intense. I need a smoke.
O.C. Can You See
O.C. Can You See
No doubt you are all aware of FOX's mega-hit "The O.C.", but what you don't realize is how it has ruined my life. I can recall my first viewing of this drama-drenched masterpiece. I was on an overnight vacation in Newport, Rhode Island with my girlfriend. Being that we were both Irish and had spent the entire day at the beach, the sunburns were blistering and popping by 8 o'clock. We smeared Aloe Vera gel on each other and argued about who was to blame for this debacle. Sex was out of the question as we both fear we would flay our skin off in the process. What to do?
The TV glowed to life and I sat and watched three episodes of the then-brand new show. I liked it; it had drama and skinny girls in bathing suits without pussing sunburns. But then I left for England and quickly forgot about the show. Upon my return, I came to find that all of my friends were deeply, emotionally involved with the show. On Thursday nights I had nothing to do but watch The O.C. since that was what every single person I knew was doing.
They say you get hooked on crack after your first puff. Well, The O.C. takes a little longer"¦like cigarettes. You watch one, you go, "Eh, it's ok." You watch two, you go, "I dunno, it's pretty good." You watch three and that's it, you're hooked. You start to get anxious at about 7 PM because you know that you need to finish all your business before 8. You rush calls with Mom, you leave unfinished sentences in papers, you don't even bother wiping yourself because if you did, you would miss the opening teaser. You know, the two minute little clip of action that precedes the theme song and always ends with a witty little comment.
Now, let me take you to Best Buy with me where I browsed alone clutching a $50 gift card I received for Christmas. What to buy, what to buy? Ah, a scanner. I've been wanting one and I could certainly use it. Oh wait, what's this? A new digital camera card with more memory? I could definitely use this"¦but, wait. Is that what I think it is? The O.C. season 1 on DVD! And that was it. I dropped all thoughts of buying something useful and instead opted for this 27 episode (with extras!) time killer.
Needless to say, the next three days and nights were spent sitting in my parent's living room watching the love triangles unfold. My trusty sister, Heidi, was by my side in the other La-Z-Boy and we would take post-episode breaks to discuss our feeling about various plot developments and character flaws. It was pathetic. I finished off all 27 episodes plus the season 2 sneak peek feature and immediately looked down into my pants to make sure I still had a penis.
Now look at me - a hopeless addict, emotionally entangled in the lives of people that only exist in pixels. If an episode ends on a depressing note, I become depressed. If an episode ends on a happy note, I'm on cloud nine. I ceaselessly worry about Marissa and the demons she wrestles with. I wonder what ever happened to Oliver and Eddie and Teresa. I wish, against all hope, that Seth and Summer get back together. I am, in short, a total wreck when it comes to this show.
But, at least I know I am not alone. My father tormented me for watching the show to know end. He used phrases like, "I have no son", "I hear that you're kind can still get married in New Hampshire", and "Thank God you're the mailman's kid." Well, he tormented me until he watched an episode or two. After that he was asking me to fill him on all the plot twists. "Who's that? Why doesn't he have a car? Where is that kid's parents? Are they related?" The questions abounded. I answered graciously as it gave me a chance to showcase my knowledge and make sure that knowledge was razor sharp.
The fact that my Dad got into the show - and this is a man who laughs out loud at Heineken ads - proves my theory that even if you don't like anything about the show, you will watch it. To this day I'm not sure if I think the show is good. But what I do know is that you better not call me on Thursday night from 8 to 9 or all hell will rain down on you.
Jesus, I need a life.
No doubt you are all aware of FOX's mega-hit "The O.C.", but what you don't realize is how it has ruined my life. I can recall my first viewing of this drama-drenched masterpiece. I was on an overnight vacation in Newport, Rhode Island with my girlfriend. Being that we were both Irish and had spent the entire day at the beach, the sunburns were blistering and popping by 8 o'clock. We smeared Aloe Vera gel on each other and argued about who was to blame for this debacle. Sex was out of the question as we both fear we would flay our skin off in the process. What to do?
The TV glowed to life and I sat and watched three episodes of the then-brand new show. I liked it; it had drama and skinny girls in bathing suits without pussing sunburns. But then I left for England and quickly forgot about the show. Upon my return, I came to find that all of my friends were deeply, emotionally involved with the show. On Thursday nights I had nothing to do but watch The O.C. since that was what every single person I knew was doing.
They say you get hooked on crack after your first puff. Well, The O.C. takes a little longer"¦like cigarettes. You watch one, you go, "Eh, it's ok." You watch two, you go, "I dunno, it's pretty good." You watch three and that's it, you're hooked. You start to get anxious at about 7 PM because you know that you need to finish all your business before 8. You rush calls with Mom, you leave unfinished sentences in papers, you don't even bother wiping yourself because if you did, you would miss the opening teaser. You know, the two minute little clip of action that precedes the theme song and always ends with a witty little comment.
Now, let me take you to Best Buy with me where I browsed alone clutching a $50 gift card I received for Christmas. What to buy, what to buy? Ah, a scanner. I've been wanting one and I could certainly use it. Oh wait, what's this? A new digital camera card with more memory? I could definitely use this"¦but, wait. Is that what I think it is? The O.C. season 1 on DVD! And that was it. I dropped all thoughts of buying something useful and instead opted for this 27 episode (with extras!) time killer.
Needless to say, the next three days and nights were spent sitting in my parent's living room watching the love triangles unfold. My trusty sister, Heidi, was by my side in the other La-Z-Boy and we would take post-episode breaks to discuss our feeling about various plot developments and character flaws. It was pathetic. I finished off all 27 episodes plus the season 2 sneak peek feature and immediately looked down into my pants to make sure I still had a penis.
Now look at me - a hopeless addict, emotionally entangled in the lives of people that only exist in pixels. If an episode ends on a depressing note, I become depressed. If an episode ends on a happy note, I'm on cloud nine. I ceaselessly worry about Marissa and the demons she wrestles with. I wonder what ever happened to Oliver and Eddie and Teresa. I wish, against all hope, that Seth and Summer get back together. I am, in short, a total wreck when it comes to this show.
But, at least I know I am not alone. My father tormented me for watching the show to know end. He used phrases like, "I have no son", "I hear that you're kind can still get married in New Hampshire", and "Thank God you're the mailman's kid." Well, he tormented me until he watched an episode or two. After that he was asking me to fill him on all the plot twists. "Who's that? Why doesn't he have a car? Where is that kid's parents? Are they related?" The questions abounded. I answered graciously as it gave me a chance to showcase my knowledge and make sure that knowledge was razor sharp.
The fact that my Dad got into the show - and this is a man who laughs out loud at Heineken ads - proves my theory that even if you don't like anything about the show, you will watch it. To this day I'm not sure if I think the show is good. But what I do know is that you better not call me on Thursday night from 8 to 9 or all hell will rain down on you.
Jesus, I need a life.
What Now?
Every year on January 2nd college kids across the country mourn the loss of something great"¦winter break. They would mourn on January 1st, but that day is mostly spent leaning over a toilet trying to figure out how, exactly, the word "cock' came to be written on your face. It is not as if winter break is over; most of us have another two or three weeks left, but the fun portion of it is done. After the material joy of Christmas has passed and the debauchery of New Year's Eve is gone, what are you left with?
Nothing. You've already exhausted every possible entertaining thing to do in your hometown ("I dunno, we could hang out at the gas station"¦again?"). And, to be honest, your high school friends are wearing on your nerves. There are only so many times you can hear a sentence started with "Oh shit, remember that time"¦" before you just lose it. Yes, home has certainly lost its magic.
And there you are - a depressed, slightly heavier version of yourself wishing for a return to the normalcy of college life: the parties, the all-microwavable-food diet, the shower-sandaled joy that is your life away from home. However, you will not be back in that all-too-healthy pattern for a few weeks and you've got some time to kill. Let me help you fill your last weeks of break with exciting and entertaining diversions to take your mind off the fact that you wont be doing any keg stands till Martin Luther King Jr. says, "my day has passed, go back to school.".
Return all your gifts: You don't even like sweaters, but somehow you now own 32 of them. Plus, you're short on cash considering you blew it all trying to be a high roller on New Year's Eve ("Yeah, we'll have another bottle of Cristal over here!"). A-Ha! A simple solution to both problems - return all of your gifts. Yes, you'll hurt some feelings but you'll have plenty of cash in your pocket and a guarantee from all your relatives that next year they'll be writing checks instead of shopping for you. Hell, while you're at it you might as well grab some of your kid sister's gifts and take them back too; is she really going to notice her missing Barbie Doll?
Take a fake vacation (or fakation): While most of your friends are basking on the sands of Saint Tropez, you're shoveling snow in New Jersey. Damn. Fool those suckers by crafting a perfect Fakation for yourself. All you'll need is a tanning bed, Adobe Photoshop and a few crappy trinkets to give your friends. In a few days, you'll have all the evidence of a great vacation: pictures of you on the beach, little shitty presents of all of them and a nice dark-orange, melanoma-inducing tan. Yes, having leathery skin and dark, malignant moles on your back will suck, but at least nobody will know that you spent your vacation watching "The O.C. Season One" with your sister.
Call Your Friends: Here is a simple way to make all your college friends think you're having the time of your life; put on some loud techno music and call their cell phone. However, when they pick up, don't say anything into the phone. Instead, leave it lying on the bed while you talk to an imaginary person (preferably, make comments about their attractiveness, their helicopter, and how flattered you are that they want you to take them home tonight). Your friend will assume that you accidentally dialed their phone while you were out at some cool club and hang up in a jealous rage. When the ruse is through, go back to eating peanut butter and watching Conan.
There isn't much to do in these last few weeks of break and you'll just have to get used to it. Some of my past late-break activities include taunting my dog while he's in his cage, driving aimlessly around my town and making liberal use of my parent's On-Demand cable package. At least you know that just over the horizon, just beyond view, is your return to school and all the joy that it entails. Well, at least it's fun till classes start"¦then it sucks. I hate school. I wish it was break.
Matt has a new issue of Ah, College out, so check that. Also, we're now proud to feature the Stella videos from the guys who did The State on MTV and Wet Hot American Summer the movie. If you're into really good weird comedy, give them a look.
Now, hotlinks.
Nothing. You've already exhausted every possible entertaining thing to do in your hometown ("I dunno, we could hang out at the gas station"¦again?"). And, to be honest, your high school friends are wearing on your nerves. There are only so many times you can hear a sentence started with "Oh shit, remember that time"¦" before you just lose it. Yes, home has certainly lost its magic.
And there you are - a depressed, slightly heavier version of yourself wishing for a return to the normalcy of college life: the parties, the all-microwavable-food diet, the shower-sandaled joy that is your life away from home. However, you will not be back in that all-too-healthy pattern for a few weeks and you've got some time to kill. Let me help you fill your last weeks of break with exciting and entertaining diversions to take your mind off the fact that you wont be doing any keg stands till Martin Luther King Jr. says, "my day has passed, go back to school.".
Return all your gifts: You don't even like sweaters, but somehow you now own 32 of them. Plus, you're short on cash considering you blew it all trying to be a high roller on New Year's Eve ("Yeah, we'll have another bottle of Cristal over here!"). A-Ha! A simple solution to both problems - return all of your gifts. Yes, you'll hurt some feelings but you'll have plenty of cash in your pocket and a guarantee from all your relatives that next year they'll be writing checks instead of shopping for you. Hell, while you're at it you might as well grab some of your kid sister's gifts and take them back too; is she really going to notice her missing Barbie Doll?
Take a fake vacation (or fakation): While most of your friends are basking on the sands of Saint Tropez, you're shoveling snow in New Jersey. Damn. Fool those suckers by crafting a perfect Fakation for yourself. All you'll need is a tanning bed, Adobe Photoshop and a few crappy trinkets to give your friends. In a few days, you'll have all the evidence of a great vacation: pictures of you on the beach, little shitty presents of all of them and a nice dark-orange, melanoma-inducing tan. Yes, having leathery skin and dark, malignant moles on your back will suck, but at least nobody will know that you spent your vacation watching "The O.C. Season One" with your sister.Call Your Friends: Here is a simple way to make all your college friends think you're having the time of your life; put on some loud techno music and call their cell phone. However, when they pick up, don't say anything into the phone. Instead, leave it lying on the bed while you talk to an imaginary person (preferably, make comments about their attractiveness, their helicopter, and how flattered you are that they want you to take them home tonight). Your friend will assume that you accidentally dialed their phone while you were out at some cool club and hang up in a jealous rage. When the ruse is through, go back to eating peanut butter and watching Conan.
There isn't much to do in these last few weeks of break and you'll just have to get used to it. Some of my past late-break activities include taunting my dog while he's in his cage, driving aimlessly around my town and making liberal use of my parent's On-Demand cable package. At least you know that just over the horizon, just beyond view, is your return to school and all the joy that it entails. Well, at least it's fun till classes start"¦then it sucks. I hate school. I wish it was break.
Matt has a new issue of Ah, College out, so check that. Also, we're now proud to feature the Stella videos from the guys who did The State on MTV and Wet Hot American Summer the movie. If you're into really good weird comedy, give them a look.
Now, hotlinks.
Packing It In
Packing It In
In twelve hours I will set off for a week of sun, sand and possibly Sea World down in Florida. I've been working on my tan by making sure that the sun reflects off the snow at just the perfect angle to give me that oh-so-nice mid-winter New England tan. I've also been working out like a mad man in hopes that I could turn my far from perfect physique into a less than perfect one. Yes, I've certainly been getting ready, but one thing remains to be done: packing.
Here's the problem - when God created the sexes, he made sure to include enough ingrained differences to make sure the world homosexuality rate holds steady at ten percent. To the fairer sex he gave beauty and sexiness and an amazing ability to know about the latest hair products before they reach the market. To the hairier sex he gave competitiveness and rugged charm and the ability to ignite gas from our rectums. Yet, God did not see it wise to give men the ability to pack. So here I am, a few hours away from leaving my cozy Connecticut retreat without a thing to wear! What's a boy to do?
I'll tell ya. Over the years I have perfected a packing method for the confused and frustrated man. It has been tested on many occasions by myself and I swear by it. With this method you bring only what you need and nothing else. Let us begin with clothing because unless you're going to a Seidell family reunion, you're going to need to cover up.
Men wear one pair of jeans, one pair of shorts and one bathing suit. Therefore, this is all you should pack. It doesn't matter if you're gone for a day, a week, or a month, you're never going to wear more than that. When it comes to T-shirts however, feel free to indulge a little. The great thing about T-shirts - actually, any kind of shirt come to that - is that they are so easy to pack. On past occasions, I have packed as many as 14 shirts for a three day trip. They can be jammed inside of shoes, stuffed down by the toiletries or crammed into a backpack next to all that duty free liquor you'll be buying.
Oh yeah, you should probably pack some underwear and socks too, but that's all up to you.
Now, the most important thing to remember when packing your bag is your personal products. Every man, and I mean all of us, has some sort of deodorant, body spray, cologne, etc. that we really enjoy. This product (Axe for me) is to be given pride of place in your baggage. Fuck the digital camera, my Old Spice High Endurance has to go on top. Joining your scent of choice will most likely be a music playing device, a few "guy" magazines and your blanky"¦Snugglebug.
So, I suppose I should stop putting this off and get packing. To be honest, it's never taken me more than ten minutes, but it's the initial push that's so difficult"¦you know, like sex or moving a couch. I suppose you won't be hearing from me for a short while but don't fear; I'll be down in Florida wondering why the hell I packed myself twenty T-shirts and not one pair of socks. Oh well, I have more important things to worry about - like how my blister-prone Irish skin is going to get along with the Florida sun. Melanoma here I come!
In twelve hours I will set off for a week of sun, sand and possibly Sea World down in Florida. I've been working on my tan by making sure that the sun reflects off the snow at just the perfect angle to give me that oh-so-nice mid-winter New England tan. I've also been working out like a mad man in hopes that I could turn my far from perfect physique into a less than perfect one. Yes, I've certainly been getting ready, but one thing remains to be done: packing.
Here's the problem - when God created the sexes, he made sure to include enough ingrained differences to make sure the world homosexuality rate holds steady at ten percent. To the fairer sex he gave beauty and sexiness and an amazing ability to know about the latest hair products before they reach the market. To the hairier sex he gave competitiveness and rugged charm and the ability to ignite gas from our rectums. Yet, God did not see it wise to give men the ability to pack. So here I am, a few hours away from leaving my cozy Connecticut retreat without a thing to wear! What's a boy to do?
I'll tell ya. Over the years I have perfected a packing method for the confused and frustrated man. It has been tested on many occasions by myself and I swear by it. With this method you bring only what you need and nothing else. Let us begin with clothing because unless you're going to a Seidell family reunion, you're going to need to cover up.
Men wear one pair of jeans, one pair of shorts and one bathing suit. Therefore, this is all you should pack. It doesn't matter if you're gone for a day, a week, or a month, you're never going to wear more than that. When it comes to T-shirts however, feel free to indulge a little. The great thing about T-shirts - actually, any kind of shirt come to that - is that they are so easy to pack. On past occasions, I have packed as many as 14 shirts for a three day trip. They can be jammed inside of shoes, stuffed down by the toiletries or crammed into a backpack next to all that duty free liquor you'll be buying.
Oh yeah, you should probably pack some underwear and socks too, but that's all up to you.
Now, the most important thing to remember when packing your bag is your personal products. Every man, and I mean all of us, has some sort of deodorant, body spray, cologne, etc. that we really enjoy. This product (Axe for me) is to be given pride of place in your baggage. Fuck the digital camera, my Old Spice High Endurance has to go on top. Joining your scent of choice will most likely be a music playing device, a few "guy" magazines and your blanky"¦Snugglebug.
So, I suppose I should stop putting this off and get packing. To be honest, it's never taken me more than ten minutes, but it's the initial push that's so difficult"¦you know, like sex or moving a couch. I suppose you won't be hearing from me for a short while but don't fear; I'll be down in Florida wondering why the hell I packed myself twenty T-shirts and not one pair of socks. Oh well, I have more important things to worry about - like how my blister-prone Irish skin is going to get along with the Florida sun. Melanoma here I come!
Streeter Seidell
Fordham
About Me
About Me
Streeter enjoys many things, not least of which is being your front page editor here at CollegeHumor. In fact, he likes it so much he decided to get paid for it and make it his career. He spends his days making sure you have enough updates and hotlinks to keep you from your work for at least two hours. Streeter also likes to write; not well, mind you, but frequently. Please, enjoy his archive.
Thanks for being my Internet friend.
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