I Hate Space Aliens

I have always had this quirky idea that if aliens came down from the stars to find our bacteria-ridden little rock that they would stick around a while to observe us. They would hang, discreetly peeping with high-powered telescopes, checking out the patterns of our behavior, laughing at our Jew jokes, commiserating with the tribulations of our poor, besieged slumdog-millionaires, face-palming to the horrors of American network-television, fleering and jeering at our economic policies, and, finally, convening amongst themselves to work out the best way to vaporize all the stupid, hairy bipeds without doing too much damage to their new colony.

"The missus said don't come back without a souvenir, so uh nobody eat this one, OK?"

And that's just fine with me. If they really took the time to check us out and, in the end, judged the human race not worthy of its place in the universe, well then, who are we to disagree? But I hope they will be fair in their judgement and not dicks like you might expect. I mean we have much to offer, don't you think? I hope they will not eat or enslave us without considering our achievements as a civilization. So to enumerate just a few:

First off, our advanced mathematics and understanding of the logical consistence of the universe - resulting in some pretty ballin' technology, not to mention some killer Sudoku. When it comes to calculating up to nine integers, you can't beat the humans!

Then there's our bitchin' grasp of science and medicine. We are constantly making breakthroughs in these fields, leaping ahead with a rare, brutal force, thanks to our insatiable love of blowing shit up and waging biological warfare.

"Great, now I don't even have time for my midday espresso!"

Similarly, our art really reveals our intelligence and inherent speculative, spacial, and emphatic reasoning. Our ability to collect and synthesize thousands of years of thought and practice and then just toss it aside in favor of some regressive, reductive garbage is, in my opinion, a distinguishing factor of our cultural genius. Like the cave scratchings of 35,000 years ago, which told the story of a pre-linguistic society - revealing their histories, innovations and habits  - the scratchings of today really speak to who we are as a people:

Art imitates life, or something to that effect.

Then we have our music. There are few things more telling about a history of a culture, a history of the evolution of mankind, than music. From medieval minstrels to Victorian composers through today, you can really see how music has evolved our minds, enriched our souls and left an everlasting mark on our identities as humans:

There is no way we will ever regret this.

It's all about betterment and brotherhood, you know? And that is, I would have the aliens understand, the defining factor of our race. The oneness, the spiritual and physical uniformity of man. But also individualism and diversity. Yeah, we've got all that crap.

Which brings us to our faith - and this is really at the crux of what we are - the thing that keeps us going through all the constant war, famine, economic distress and alien invasions. Nowhere else will you find a stronger willingness to believe, a more unyielding, headstrong, stubborn-to-the-grave vision than in mankind's capacity for faith:

Seriously, we'll believe in anything.

It is a large part of how we can persevere through it all: Natural disasters, genocides, Emmy award ceremonies. We have the faith and conviction to overcome these tribulations. And this is what, it seems to me, our alien visitors will come to understand by their observations. You just can't fuck with the human race. I mean it. No one can screw us over any worse than we have already. Just try to top us, we dare you!

The only possibility that gives any real cause to panic is, as some would have it, that the aliens are already among us. This is the theory: that the aliens have been with us from the beginning. Watching, waiting, judging and biding their time until the swarm descends to deliver the final rapture, as it were. Don't take it from me. This theory has been making the rounds for years and, if I may say so, it seems to carry some weight:

Spandex is the new Mantel.

If this turns out to be the case that aliens have always been among us then - call me an optimist if you will - I just hope they have learned from us. I hope they have seen these things that make us incontrovertibly human and experienced the great overwhelming joy of being alive: the sophistication, the grace, the monumental beauty of a sunrise, the excitement of a dolphin-poaching; this is my hope - that the aliens will empathize with us and feel for the first time ever a little human emotion called love:

"Sure toots, of course I'll marry you!"

 
And, in seeing the light of our achievements, the exhilaration of our perseverance, in living amongst us as humans and playing that sweet game called life, I am confident that the aliens will spare us. In fact, I am so confident that we can just go ahead and drop our long-inundated preconception that these space aliens are here to be assholes and extinguish the human race. No. The judgement's in our favor, people. And that, dear reader, is my guarantee or your money back!

I Hate Adolf Hitler

No I mean it, I really do. Sure he's sweet, wholesome and everybody loves him, but that just peeves me more. Everywhere I go people are talking about this Adolf Hitler person. "Why are they being so hard on Adolf Hitler?" they say. "Why can't they just leave Adolf Hitler alone and let him live a normal life like everybody else?"

Well let me tell you something: People should be prosecuted for their beliefs. Even if those beliefs are actually incidental and have nothing to do with who they are. You might be innocent; you might even be the greatest thing since Manga Liz Hurley, but I want you to know I do not approve and, by the way, even if I am alone in saying so, screw you Adolf Hitler!

Now, you may have read the story in the news a while back about this kid. It's a real hard-luck case when some airhead bureaucrat forgets to stamp the papers to "volunteer" your parents for compulsory sterilization, and then this happens:

"In case you don't get the hint, we're not here for candy."

But then, luckily, providence shines down and your deadbeat parents ostensibly renounce their Neo-Nazi roots, announcing that the swastikas adorning your house and their bodies from top to bottom are a form of expressionist urban-chic. Which, admittedly, makes it OK. But it's too late 'cause guess what? Your name is still Adolf Fuckin' Hitler!

Sure, the best thing about my nitwit religion is you get absolved every time you confess to the pedo in the box, so, you know, pretty much license to kill, right? But even so, everyone blames the parents for their own sins and it's difficult - as a nation of insatiable consumer- cum- auto-fellators- to live that kind of thing down.

Still though, why does everyone love this kid and hate the parents? I say, give freely to this kid the same hate you so generously afford his parents. Or don't you think he might live up to his name?

Come on, inhale! Don't get all G.W. Bush on me.

The fact is this kid is going to grow up with a serious superiority complex. And that's just unhealthy. He's going to want birthday cakes with his unholy name on it and I am pleased to report that at least one openly trailer-trash-friendly supermarket is standing up and saying "No thank you, Mr. Hitler:"

[The ShopRite also refused to provide a blank cake for the parents to place little Adolf’s name on the cake as well, saying only that they “We believe the request … to inscribe a birthday wish to Adolf Hitler is inappropriate.”]

I firmly believe that every American has the right to a reality-check, such as: many professional journalists flunked grammar, also as well as in addition to: most newsroom editors don't actually do anything. Furthermore, as an American, you should get used to disappointment. And that begins at an early age with the proper societal reinforcement:

Just one bun-in-the-oven short of the American Dream

But perhaps I am being to hard on the poor kid. By this point he is just about old enough to understand a thing or two about how royally fucked he is. Unfortunately for him, as a dependent, he cannot yet legally change his name to John Wayne Gacy Campbell. It's a hard-knock life, you know? All the other kids at the foster center school are teasing him behind his back and the rare brave one goes and tells him to his face, spilling the beans. How is it going to be for this kid when he reads his name in the "dickhead" section of the history textbook or finds himself playing Wolfenstein on the wrong side. Will he a be a sad-sack, lonely-heart, searching endlessly for his Eva Braun? Will he be feared and despised forever?

"Daddy, why are people always saluting me?"

Yes, it is tough when your name is Adlof Hitler. Your name will be censored in every yearbook, and you may have to leave that space blank on job applications. You will never be able to get your taxes done by a professional. And good luck trying to purchase that engagement ring. You will never make it to MTV's top 10 countdown or get approved for a car loan or sign your name for that co-op apartment in Williamsburg. Your life will be a hard one. I should have been more considerate. Thank you for showing me the error of my ways, Adolf Hitler. You have my apologies, little guy. 

I Hate When Futuristic Movies Go Too Far (Or Not Far Enough)

These days futuristic movies are all fast-forward, high-tech, next-level-nightmares. Packed with intrigues, explosions, "clever" one-liners and, consequently, steamy sex-scenes. They keep you exited, amused, queasy, and help affirm, by contrast, the fact that you are living in a wonderful Oz-like world where nothing bad, such that might result in nuclear war or white-slavery, ever happens. Each new movie tries to outcock the last by touting a harsher dystopia, a more oppressive government, a more complete nuclear wasteland, an ever more strange and dangerous society of people with false forms and noxious minds:

Won't you join us, human?

In the face of all this it is comforting to see that as late as thirty years ago Sci-Fi flicks depicting a wild unlikely future world still contained chintzy domestic scenes in which wallpaper was still all the gaudy rage, fashion was ass-backwards and the woman question was treated with the same subtlety and finesse as, say, the colorful world of Disney characters.

While I personally find narrow-mindedness refreshing, my lawyer-monkey advises me that I am walking on eggshells here with regards to potentially getting sued back into the stone-age (copyright: I am already writing the screenplay for that one, people). In compliance, I will make no further reference to the woman question:

I'm freaking out here! Is this how Buzz Lightyear felt on his first mission?

But and so, the question you might be asking is: did filmmakers simply not have the foresight to predict all kinds of crucial developments our current society has the luxury of taking for granted? Were they so preoccupied with the good old tropes of nuclear-winter, robot-apocalypse and doomed space-adventure that it did not occur to them that there might come a time for radical advancements including, but not limited to, home decor and the evolution of the modern domicile? 

You want I should raise my kids in this house?

No. It is clear now that those filmmakers knew exactly what they were doing. We can look back on their visions of endless white glass surfaces, psychedelic blinking lights, dials and wigwams as far as the eye can see, girls in plastic dresses, ludicrous robot helpers, oddly anachronistic language and  improbably futuristic architecture with smug sagacity, but I believe they were telling us something vital about ourselves. Namely, no matter how progressive, original, heroic or urban-cool you regard yourself you are nothing but a slapdash, backwards, poorly conceptualized tool:

I bet you're wondering were I holster this puppy!

But that is the way of the modern world. We want and need to fool ourselves. We do it every day when we roll out of bed, tamp out our Clove on the vintage armoire, beat it to the sound of Ra Ra Riot, gaze lovingly into the mirror, smile and brim with confidence at the complete package: bed-head, Elvis Costello glasses, vintage Twisted Sister t-shirt, checkered suspenders, denim cut-offs and suede wingtips; grab the Mac, our 'rents bought as a gift for moving to New York on our mission to become an "independent person," and head over to the local Starbucks where we proceed to not purchase anything and agonize for six hours about how to complete our most profound blog-post ever.

It seems to me that futuristic movies of the past have attempted to alleviate our modern minds - help us to forget the stress we feel upon realizing that we accidentally wore socks with our loafers or showed up to Occupy Wallstreet after all our friends have already grown bored and given up - and distract us from the really depressing problems of the day:

"I sicken myself?"

At the same time you might wonder if some of those movies went too far. Was it too optimistic to expect that by now there would be flying cars stuck in flyway traffic-jams, blocking out the sun's rays, robo-Jews selling us diamonds or doing our taxes, clones running amok, or a co-op of space-yuppies kicking it old-school on a Martian golf-course?

Has our society begun to stagnate since right around the advent of the interweb? Have we been too anchored in politics, war and silly hairstyles to make that long-promised push into the future? Or has it always been this way? The research, technology and funds always lacking because there were more important things in which to invest? Hell, had they not landscaped just one of those artificial archipelagos in Dubai you'd be trolling space-blogs in space-Starbucks right now. Am I right?

This is gonna really hurt once gravity kicks in!

No. It is clear to me now that we are right where we need to be. And so, dear reader, I hope you have learned the crucial lesson here is do not ask too many questions. Just be happy with what you have to be happy with. Thanks for listening. I will leave you with this: my final thought.

I Hate Toothpicks

Have you heard of these pointy mouth-prophylactics? Seems like everyone and their mothers are walking around with these internal-injuries-waiting-to-happen hanging from their gobs. Now, if you happen to be one of these winsome mouth-breathers, don't get upset - you should be relieved to hear that this season getting rushed to the ER after a fine meal is totally in. It's the new digestif.

It's just that when this sort of practical-seeming implement becomes an accessory - a veritable facial-appliance, if you will - that I feel it is my duty as a seminal bloggeur to declare that humanity is officially gotten out of hand. Are you going for some kind of look here? As in "look here, just in case you haven't noticed, I've got some half-masticated beefsteak in my mouth. Wanna bone?"

Plus, just think about how many trees are felled each year to help you make yourself look like a douchebag in public. Why not get with the times and invest in a sustainable resource: 

 Scorpions are nature's toothpicks.

OK, so toothpicks are handy on the go. I know what a bother it is carrying dental floss around in your pocket. If only someone would come up with some sort of carryall to conveniently store it in a visually appealing and secure way alongside your iPad, novelty glasses (when not in use) and maybe a hook for your fedora or other urban accessory. Until that great day dawns, however, you can always tuck it inside your oversized Euro-hipster neck-shawl.

Certainly, as with any great invention, the wunderkind who first mind-farted this whole toothpick concept probably figured he hit on something revolutionary, something to change the world and make life worth living. But he did not foresee this:

Would you fuck me? I'd fuck me! 

The wonderful thing about dental floss is that you use it once and throw it away. Or, barring that, toss some Cheerios on it and sell it as an artisinal urban accessory. Fortunately I don't have to deal with this toothpick dilemma personally since, due to my authentic Euro-style grille, the spaces between my teeth are large enough to allow easy access via my very own 'Converse' brand shoelaces.

This approach may not work for you but it works wonders for me as I have discovered the secret to cool: look like a goddamn slob. In fact I have removed all laces, zippers and buttons from all my clothing, footwear and neck-shawls. Exit mature-looking, well-groomed, well-adjusted loser; enter urban-chic slanty-haired, retro-douche winner. The future is looking outa'-sight!

I Hate Leaders (Follow Me)

It takes a special brand of ruthlessness to become a leader. A certain reckless egotism - and a disregard for the natural balance of the world in which most liberal-minded forces tend towards a kind of sublime chaos wherein everyone follows the herd and leaders are interchangeable from migration to migration - a certain je ne c'est quoi - an unyielding confidence that your precious-ivory horns will always be bigger and sharper than, not only the guy's you deposed (read: impaled), but the next guy who comes along to depose you.

Now we just need to push your nomination through the House, Mr. Humphrey.

Never was there a leader who attained his or her position by being honest, selfless, a straight-shooter (cowboys excluded). At least not one who wasn't promptly assassinated by a much more literal straight-shooter. Woe to those who have demonstrated unambiguous conviction in truth, liberty, justice and other such sentimental nonsense. To be a modern-day leader one must be bad-assed, hard-hustlin', unforgiving, often irascible and always a dickhead:

Can you spot the Fag Hag?

Our leaders aren't what they used to be. Truth be told they never were. But in the old days, at least, we idealized our leaders and gave over to them our faith and freedom willingly. Even when they were bad guys, we followed them into battle for a cause, an ideal, or some other righteous bullshit like that, in the hopes that they would deliver the goods. Hell, Napoleon was a jerk-off and a dwarf but he was serving up countries left and right like delicious southern-style flapjacks. When he said to his generals "I'm taking over the world, bitches," they knew he wanted it not for some pompous, made-up war on terror, but because he was a greedy little bastard. And so were they, and that was OK.

All I ever wanted was more land to plant my petunias.

Pretty much no-nonsense stuff, right? "I want all the land from Anglo-America to the South Pacific. You lot get dibs on all the lobsters you can eat. Sound good? Great!" But today's leaders are way more sinister and shifty. They snake their way in to power not with great deeds but via wheel-greasings and bum-pattings and other processes the technical terms for which I cannot just now recall. Matter of fact, politics seems to work much the same way as Pop music. In a way, the people of today's world have done themselves a disservice by legitimizing the leader-making process. It reeks of self-deception. All we can hope for now is a more benevolent dictatorship:

Absolute power, or whatever.

Back in the day a leader had to provide for his people in a very real way. Such as ensuring protection from barbarian hordes and throwing down spectacular festivals of blood and booze (I guess they didn't have video games yet). And the people, in turn, had certain obligations to the king. A duty to till the land and harvest the food; help wage war against barbarian hordes, etc. The king usually had to keep his people safe and contented because, divine right or no, there was always a danger that the serfs would storm the walls or his own advisers and other influential bros would get dollar signs in their eyes and off him. Best of all: there was never a need for any kind of long, boring impeachment process.

I, for one, would like to see a resurgence of an earlier system. There is something to be said for kings and their feudal ways. It wasn't always fun and games but, for the most part, it worked. Society actually advanced and one horseshoe at a time the world grew. When someone was made The Man of this or that county with a Yorkship or Governorship it usually resulted in change and progress.

I will civilize this land henceforth to be known as: Bitchofshofen!

Now, when the king gave his uncle-in-law a piece of land that bro may or may not have done anything to deserve it - and that is nothing new...but it did signify that something would have to be done. At the very least, the bro would have to build a bigger, more impressive castle than the one that was there before. And that meant jobs! Sometimes the previous castle was razed to the ground and that meant starting from scratch. There you have it again: jobs!

So more often than not, he had to build his new castle on that land, and around that castle a new township, and around that township ramparts and other high walls to keep out the Jews. Eventually those walls would fall and a new bro would rebuild and out-cock the previous bro by building a bigger castle, and for that castle, a bigger township and bigger walls. And onward in that manner, bigger and bigger, until eventually someone would let the Jews in and the population would explode like acne on a crackhead's face and then you have yourself the beginnings of a real city. Progress, civilization. It's a wonderful thing.

Now, what was the point of all this? Oh yes:
Don't be a leader. Take a stand against supreme authority everywhere and just say "No!" And don't be sheep to the slaughter. Carve out your own pointless, directionless destiny.

So I just snap the neck...like so?

So I ask you: won't you follow me? Just navigate over to the the top-right-hand side of this very page to find the tab labeled "Followers" and click on "Join this Site." By following me you are taking that first step towards interdependence. And I make this promise to you, my dear reader, I will in not attempt to influence, educate or lead you in any way, ever! Be great: follow me now!

I Hate Sundays

I know what you're thinking: "What can you possibly have against sundaes?" But look again. Sundays. We think of it as a day of rest; a day when The Big Guy In The Sky, tired of sweating his goblets off creating all of creation, went ahead and said "today is my goddamn day," turned off his cellphone, grabbed a sixer of ice-cold Buds, and just effin' planted his Holy Hindness down to watch like twelve consecutive hours of Battlestar Galactica.

Plus, sometimes you just got to boogie!

So, you ask, what the hell is wrong with that? But there is an ugly side to Sunday you may not have considered:
Firstly, for those of us that actually go to church, we can just go ahead and consider this as part of the work week. Not that worship is a chore. But, inevitably, wasting your entire day with your loved-ones sort of is. Unless you are Jewish, in which case you are always with your people. No If's And's or Tuchases about it. Your day of worship begins Friday night and for the next 24 hours you are praying and swaying like it's your job. You can't even buy a pack of gum on Saturday without breaking a host of ancient laws. Then, the greater part of Sunday is spent strolling dutifully behind the curliest of the men in your father's cabal while they discuss the profound mysteries behind biblical typos.

I am beginning to think Brooklyn isn't the promised-land, maybe?

Secondly, Sunday is the last-minute-everything day. Because, as we Americans all know in our hearts, what is the point of ever doing anything before it becomes an absolute life-or-death necessity? Did you want to go to the store today? Well have a great time spending half your day there, because so did everyone else. This is the day when everyone and their mothers do their weekly shopping. Since, no matter if you are a Hassid or Hipster, the day before was more often than not squandered recovering from that Red Bull & Vodka hangover and then getting around to finally cleaning the house from top to bottom.

The 49ers game better be worth all this shit...Oy, vat a koptvaitic I am having!

So come Sunday morning you can bet the line to the deli is going to be epic. Once you do get there you realize you should have just stayed in bed. Because it is just a zoo in there. All the hysterical, Sunday-cart-drivers with their carts stacked to the ceiling, scrambling like chickens to the express check-out lane. You'd think they were throwing down a day-long Supermarket Sweep up in there. Also, come to think of it, what is the story with guys in business-wear at the supermarket on Sunday? You know the ones I mean. And no, that's not a church-suit, it's a smug-suit.

The real question is: can I afford the calories?

And at the end of it all you aren't even left with the feeling of time well spent. You are not well rested, only nerve-wracked. Because the worst thing about Sunday is that you know you've wasted your precious weekend and somehow, Big Guy In The Sky-willing, you'll have to live through another week of brown-nosing, dirt-dealing and coffee-stained paperwork just to do it all over again the following weekend. You can't really make plans for Sunday night because bright and early Monday morning: the whistle blows again.

I Hate This Economic Downturn

It's funny, don't you know, this economic downturn. Notice I am using the term 'downturn'. I have heard the term 'meltdown' being thrown around. But 'meltdown' is so final, so irrevocable-sounding - like 'dead-baby' or 'global-warming' - you can't just take that kind of thing back. You can't play it down by hiring a clever lawyer to spin it (or so I am told). So I'll just go ahead and say downturn. I mean we don't need to cause a panic here, now do we?

OMG! Can we still return that caviar-filled swimming pool?

A downturn means it's just a matter of time before things are looking up again. It's just like one of those roller-coasters at Millionaire-Six Flags. You can consider what's going on right now a minor nuisance, a bit of a jostle, really, and nothing more. As when the roller-coaster dips and all of a sudden your breakfast of truffle-swathed quail eggs with the 24k gold-flake garnish suddenly jumping-jacks up into your esophagus, but before you can re-appreciate all the subtle flavors of that marvelous meal, the car is rising again.

This is how I feel about the current economic downturn. But seriously, guys, a lot of less-fortunate people out there are really hurting! And, would you believe it, some sensationalists are even drawing comparisons to the Great Depression!?

So I am just doing my part, pleading to the nameless masters of national economy here: please stop joshing around, guys! I know, you never thought I would be down on my knees like this, but here I am - literally my very own personal knees - bent and comfortably prostrate on the mink carpet in the sunlit outer foyer- pleading for an end to this charade.

Also, a sacrifice to the gods wouldn't hurt.

 
Now: Granted it's a pretty good way to kill time until the Rapture, messing around with the economy like a game of Jenga, but don't you realize the less fortunate are looking down on you every time you take your private jet to the the mall? Don't you miss the good old times when no one cared?

The quaint downtrodden looked up to you, coveted your good fortune, your wives and the pair of prize-winning Friesian show-horses you had dipped in gold and mounted on a pedestal in your courtyard, the good time you used to have publicly guzzling Crystal while rappelling down the side of your crystal palace:

I make this look good!

Right? Those were the good old times. And all scot-free. Breaking rules like a boss. Like the boss of Goldman-Sachs. Even your wife lol'd when she found out about that wild orgy in Charlie Sheen's hot tub. No one called you out on your little extravagances. The private island, the stretch-monster-truck limo that drives your kids to school (in Dubai), the MI6-sourced bodyguard, the portrait you had commissioned of yourself picked out in 65,000 Swarovski crystals and which you ended up donating to some grimy inner-city high school, the diamond and gold grille you replaced your lower teeth with, and the F-1 go-kart you maybe sort of dinged:

Also, kinda stepped in some gum :(

And all the rest of it. No judgements. Wasn't that the best? You can have it all back. Guilt-free decadence, baby! Just won't you cool it with this bad economy stuff, please? People are beginning to take it seriously.

I Hate Euphemisms

The American language is the most euphemistic language ever conceived of. There seems to be no end to the ways in which semantic tools are used in America to substitute, soften, mislead, mask, vagar, validate, confuse, complicate, downplay, distort, evade and generally bullshit the true and authentic reality.

As time passes we are constantly inventing novel, clever, ways to divorce ourselves from real life (you know, that thing that happens when the power goes out or Verizon blocks your internet connection for downloading copyright materials).

I will make no attempt to enumerate the endless muckeries and schmuckeries, spin and wordplay (Swordplay), that get tacked on year in, year out, to our dear and dying language for, in truth, better men have tackled the topic before me and said all that needs to be said:

"Smug, greedy, well-fed white people have invented a language to conceal their sins." -George Carlin.

  

My only intention here is to think out loud and ask why? Why must we delude ourselves into believing we live in some sort of utopia? Why dwell in this made-up, unattainable, inauthentic world where no one can die, only pass away, no one is poor, merely economically-disadvantaged, no one is crippled, only handicapped, no one is stupid, only academically-challenged, no one is fat, just overweight, no one is killed, only neutralized.

A professor of mine once told a story of an encounter I now recall as relevant. He was at a dinner party for the wealthy work-acquaintances of his "Caucasian" wife and some smug intellectual asked him "what challenges he faced as an African-American writer." He, being a black man of Irish decent, answered only, "I wouldn't know; I'm black."

In fact I think back to that story whenever I am forced to fill out any kind of spurious document such as a census or voting form. Sure I check the box marked "Caucasian," because what choice do I have? I cannot even begin to fathom what unheard-of muckery is implied by checking "Other." Not that it matters for the vote, which barely matters in the first place; but I wouldn't want to misrepresent turn-out numbers of the "Caucasian race" in my age group. Don't get me wrong: I want to do everything I can to perpetuate the lie.

So many choices, but only one feels right.

                                           

To further relate the idea to everyday life: You have your all-too-common relationship euphemisms. The greatest of which may be the "let's just be friends" phrase. Such a phrase is all but empty of meaning, as empty as a cliche (see future post) because it's been so used, abused and rung dry of any real meaning that more often than not it leaves the recipient, or 'heart-breakee,' literally speechless - if not maniacally enraged - at this senseless dung-dropping of the soul. Not that "to hell with you" is any better or more comforting, but since you know ["let's-just-be-friends" = "to-hell-with-you"] any way you slice it, the euphemism seems infinitely more brazen - how false! - how unapologetic that is - such an insult-to-injury type case is sure to leave you so hollow that it's difficult to imagine how you ever loved that bitch in the first place:

"I thought you said we were just going to be friends."

                                          

There is more to say; so many more grievances to let air. As a pre-prominent member of an elite, satisfaction-challenged bloggener-matrix of post-Caucasian, upper-middle-right-vertically-impaired-socio-economic, culturally-bereft strata, I am struck with a joy-deficit and, not to mention, somewhat saddened that for now our time (America) has run out.

I Hate Knowing Nothing (Beginnings)

In doing "research" on how to begin a blog, the one piece of advice I came across everywhere I looked was: write what you know. Now, firstly, there are a surprising number of blogs out there on the topic of blogs. I must assume that these constitute a post-modern movement of meta-blogs, which theoretically devote themselves to my favorite thing in life: self-perpetuity. So if bloggening is all about writing what you know then I am assuming these people are experts on..blogging? Now: even though I have resisted for the longest time this first step into the "future" (aka your "present") and managed to remain relatively happy in tech ignorance (read social networking=fail) I do know this: if you believe yourself an expert on bloggeuring, you are cool and I like you.

                                                I mean I really like you..in that way

Secondly, this turned out to be a sort of rude awakening for me. I had to realize and come to terms with the fact that I know nothing. I mean it. Everything I ever learned, read, saw on the tube, in "real life," everything. Sure it's all floating around in there in a sort of soup. But it's a murky sort of soup. Beef Stroganoff. That sort of thing. You kind of know what's in it but you can't really pick and choose. You just get whatever your spoon comes away with. And that is somewhat the way in which my memory functions. Its all there, I guess; in the soup. And every now and then some half-cooked gritty morsel (I'm also not a very good cook) floats to the top and I bring it to my mouth. OK, not the best-made metaphor, but as I said, I know nothing:

                                             That's where I keep my spare socks!

So where does that leave me? With no real grasp of anything modern day: politics, economics, business, sports, fashion, beard-growing competitions, not even a well-formed sense of humor, how am I to draw the readership and senseless devotion of the masses I so crave? I mean what can I possibly bloggenate about if I know nothing? Well I thought about it while sitting on my man-throne:

                                                         This is my kingdom.

And, after many man-hours, came up with this. The only thing I know is that which I hate. Living in New Jerk City has given me at least this brand of expertise. And this is what I wish to share. And maybe in the process to learn something here. Something I can hang on to. Something about myself and why I do what I do, say what I say. But fear not: I stand by my vow to offer no insight, no wisdom or revelation, no creamy morsel of life value to you, my dear reader.

I Hate First Posting

Welcome to my newest blog. This is my first foray into bloggering since, my largely buried and ignored, digital adaptation of the Urban Annotated Bible  (oh yes, its a real thing, actually). To all those who read it, I am sure the authors are surprised, pleased, and adequately smug.

I will also endeavor to bring you news that I hate. News can be uncalled for, unnecessary, unprofessional. As any of you who read yahoo news on the job well know. The news sometimes exposes things that no one ever wanted to know, things that cast a dim view on humanity, even life, the universe and everything (with breasts). As in this utter gem which I expended absolutely no energy in finding via yahoo today.

I will also attempt to bring you politics and expound on my views on same. Fortunately I know next to nothing about this topic so you will be in next to no danger at all of learning something new.

So I invite you to stay tuned as I introduce my panelists, guest writers, split-personalities, delegates and reporteurs, who will be helping me bring you the world of I Hate You (The Blog).