I HATE DOG-LOVERS and CATS DON'T COUNT

Okay, forgive me for skipping cats. Cats have no useless function in this world. Why don't you kick them to the curb. I know, because they're gonna climb right back into the window and sulk around your house like a furry little crackhead until you give em some food or a little bit of cash and then they're gone for 3 days. For now I'll chalk up your fondness for your whole life smelling like piss to the Toxoplasma that has commandeered your brain function. No one likes cats.

Dogs on the other hand. A dog is a sympathetic and loyal. A dog likes to play. A dog is basically like a 3-year-old that you don't have to read to ever and you're allowed to leave in the car when you go shopping. Dogs can help you in an emergency if you are eight and a character on tv. But here is one thing I want you dog-lovers to know. Dogs don't love you. They are loyal. It's not the same thing. If Hitler had a dog, that dog would have "loved" Hitler. It's co-dependency at best. So as much as you think your dog's love for you proves your worth in some way. It doesn't. Your dog would "love" a tree if the tree had a can-opener and a tennis ball.

I Hate Huffington Post Porn

Okay, a liberal-news-blog-compendium.  Clearly I am not an intellectual juggernaut if I am getting my news from paranoia-fueled news-rumors and Sean Penn editorials.  But I am a liberal, and there is not much else for us to do with our surf-liesure time, now that the post-2008-election drudge returned to its fascist roots.  Don't say The Guardian UK.  I do not care about british things.  But that doesn't mean I want to see Tiger Woods's nineteenth mistress's porn tape cover art or Giselle Bunchen's accidental limosine-entering crotch shot.   If I wanted to jerk it at work, I'd go across the street to the Seattle's Best's bathroom, but I don't do that (except once) because I have a modicum of self-control. When I am surfing at huffington, my mind goes into a pre-natal state.  I can't control when I click on the article of the leaked photos of the new PETA ads.   Anyone moron can boost their readership with nudie pictures.  But that doesn't mean I want an erection on a weekday at 10 AM. Let me read my bullshit news in peace.

YOU ARE A RACIST FOR ENJOYING THE BLINDSIDE

Here is the synopsis of the movie.  Benevolent white christian lady turns semi-retarded gentle giant into a loveable athlete.  Is this an inspirational story of hope and love, or a condescending, self-serving masturbational wish-fulfillment for white people who fear black people but would love to save them from themselves.  Trust me. You are a racist.  Did you cry at the end of the movie?  Double racist.  Don't worry though, plenty of people lead a long and happy life unconsciously racist and loving schlocky uplifting dramas. Oh, and FYI, Jack Bauer is a fascist so you probably are one too if you like that dumb show.  

I Hate Avatar

Dear reader,

Perhaps you can help me with something. I would like to understand why Avatar is not one of the worst movies of all time. Did it not feel like a cutscene from a Halo-type game that I couldn't skip no matter how many buttons I pressed? Did it not resemble a laminated fantasy painting of fairies and waterfalls that I might otherwise see hanging on the ceiling above a bed of a drama/computer/goth kid with parents arguing loudly in the other room? Poorly written characters, trite eco-political messages, and glaring plot-holes are not, for me, inspiring filmmaking. Although, to be fair, I have always wanted to fuck a dragon.

-Ricky

I Hate Your Drink Order.

What do you want to drink?  Oh you don't know? And then you ask for a drink menu.  A drink menu?  Are you a 17-years-old girl on a weekend visit to a regional college? Have you never seen a bar before? There are only 12 drinks at a bar, and all bars in the world have EXACTLY the same 12 drinks.  If you have ever been to a bar, you can feel confident ordering your preferred drink at any bar, and therefore your facetious giggle and hair flip serve only to hasten the erosion of my lower teeth enamel as a grind them in an attempt to squelch my rage.  

Any of 12 drinks are more amusing to me than you who does not even have a single preference in this world but who floats through life unaware like we were all part of your hallucinatory dream sequence . Does it amuse you to waste  what may be the last 10 minutes of yours or my life before you say: "Hmm, I dunno... What's good here?" and settle for a Sour-Apple-Tini or some such abomination.  With clenched fist, I will proceed to order what I always order, a Rob Roy.  And the feckless bar-matron will say, "What is that?"  I guess as a bartender she's never come across Scotch? Vermouth? Bitters?  Allow me to make one for myself. AT HOME!!! Which is where I'd rather be anyway. The only thing I will order in a bar is a condom from the bathroom dispenser, which I will use as a protective sleeve for my wallet so that you can't spill your bullshit drink and ruin the leather again!

I Hate Blogs

I hate blogs.  So I haven't posted to this blog for 2 years.  What do you care? In that time you've probably been playing some farm animal simulation on facebook and you've twittered your merry way from the brothers Jonas over to Justin Bieber, but you're basically the same pathetic tick, sucking your portion of lifeblood out of a world that doesn't care.  If there is a god, which there isn't, you maybe should go pray for an earthquake or some identity theft, or maybe a re-run of that ridiculous Adult Swim show that you think is clever, all for a bit of respite from the gaping chasm of mediocrity that your life has turned out to be.  In the meantime stick around.  Maybe I'll post again in another 10 years.  

I Hate the Fat Barrista at Starbucks

So there is this one Fat Barrista at my local Starbucks who tortures me with a ridiculous exchange each time I order a drink.

Here’s the exchange as it has taken place, the last TWO times:

Fatty: Next! (smiling)

Me: I will have a Venti Iced Tea Lemonade, with Black Tea, Unsweetened.

I hold my exact change ($3.22) in my outstretched palm, so she knows I’m a serious customer, (not loitering or pranking).

Fatty: An “Arnold Palmer”? (still smiling daftly)

--There is no mention of “Arnold Palmer” on their menu, so why does she insist on correcting me? Clearly she thinks her connecting the nickname to the drink is an amusing footnote. I am not amused.--

Me: Yes.

Fatty: Black Tea or Passion? (still smiling)

--Let’s enumerate the ridiculousness of this question: 1) Who would want passion tea mixed with lemonade? Someone who as a child was allowed to order Bubblegum Ice Cream at Baskin Robbins. 2) Did I not already specify my choice of Tea? --

Me: Black Tea.

Fatty: Your name? (still smiling – ridiculous!)

Me: Ricky.

At this point, her nubby sausage fingers manage to scribble out the word Ricky on the cup. I can see clearly she hasn’t denoted my “syrup” preference in the “syrup” box. Both she and I know that this means the other barrista will put three squirts of sugar syrup into my Iced Tea Lemonade – a concept so absurd – Is lemonade no longer the operative sweetening agent in this drink? Are we living in a developing country that equates sugar content with monetary value? I can only imagine she wants me to catch diabetes so we will have something to bond over in ten years while she is still smiling like an idiot.

Me: I said UN – Sweetened!

Fatty: Un-sweetened. (not smiling)

I stare at her with daggers. She acts as if I didn’t already specify “un-sweetened” when the whole world knows I did.

Fatty: Okay. Your drink will be ready in a minute, Ricky. (she smiles)

Does she think that smiling would cause me to overlook her gross incompetence and give her a tip? If the other patrons who had filled the square plexi tip jar to this point knew what kind of service she had just given me, they would certainly rescind there gratuities. That is what I suggested on my comment card anyway.