Post # 5: Come se dice... Shut Up!

I hate people who have a deep seeded urge to learn another language but instead of purchasing Rosetta Stone or enrolling in a foreign language class, they ensnare the one person in the office who speaks Spanish and coerce that person to teach them the most basic of nouns and pronouns. You know what I am talking about. Listening to some idiot trying to roll their "R"s is like nails on a chalkboard to me. In my head I'm screaming "You sound retarded! No legitimate spanish-speaking individual would ever take you seriously!" In fact, if I were a legitimate spanish-speaking individual, I would probably punch that nerdy middle-class white lady trying desperately to convince herself she is worldly. Ma'am... you're 55 years old with a pitiful career and rapidly decreasing skin elasticity. It's called a mid-life crisis. You are never going to commit fully to learning that language and I would bet my life on it. One day, maybe a year or two from now when the economy grows slightly more stable, you may book yourself a weeklong getaway to Cancun in a forlorn attempt to feel young again. You'll round up the girls in the book club, pack up your one-piece Sag Harbor bathing suits, your SPF 90 (don't want the wrinkles to get any worse) and spend the entire six months prior cornering and harassing that spanish-speaking employee at work to maybe... just maybe... develop the ability to speak a comparable quantity of Spanish words that a child could learn from one single episode of Sesame Street. So to practice what you've learned you stand in front of the mirror in your SlimSuit and Spanx and envision a Ricky Martin-esque latin lover complete with an open button-down shirt and exposed chest hair sweeping you off your feet into a world of passionate besos... you tilt your chin down... bat your eyelids.... and say in your most seductive decibel... "Donde esta la biblioetca?"

What she doesn't realize is that from the moment an American steps off that plane at the Cancun International Aerpuerto, there will not be a single time...at all.... even once during that trip when Spanish is spoken as the primary language. Everyone in Mexico speaks English.

Hater Point: If you are white and are trying to speak Spanish in public, there is a 99.5% chance you sound like a moron.

I HATE EVERYONE

I hate everyone. You know what I am talking about. It's just one of those days where not even world peace could cure my hateritis right now. I can't even explain how a feeling like this begins to manifest, but in every blink of an eye my hatred for mankind grows excruciatingly less tolerant. I even just gave the dude who walked by my desk, not with intention to address my existence, but merely to arrive at the location of his pursuit, a death stare for the mere fact that he chose the path that crosses my workspace as his most direct and efficient route. FUCK YOU!

I hate phone calls, I hate emails, I hate people who are less intelligent than I am, yet seem to be recognized for their incomparable contributions to the company. I hate birds, I especially hate horses, I hate rye bread, I hate cold weather, and I most definitely HATE being cold and sweaty at the same time. I hate it when people make a big deal out of their own birthdays. I hate it when I see the obese order a Venti Mocha Frappacino with Whip at Starbucks. I hate Matthew Mcconaughey. I HATE EVERYONE.

Extreme hatred occurs when the brain approaches the threshold of implosion. The stimulus - most often in the form of your boss, your coworkers, or in my situation, any given person passing me by at any given time- activates your inability to concentrate on anything else but the current source of dismay. The anger encroaches and begins to captivate all of your functional systems (respiratory, digestive, endocrine etc..) at which point you begin to lose feeling in your fingertips and cheeks. Suddenly, your face gets warm and your vision narrows as if your peripheral senses have gone out of business.... this is it: you are about to explode with rage. Congratulations and welcome to my life. I seriously hate everyone.

Hater Point: If you ever feel the way I do in the manner suggested above, I suggest you start your own blog.

Post #3: Petty Conversation

I hate petty conversation. But because this topic includes such a broad spectrum of hatred, you may not know exactly what I am talking about. This post will focus specifically on painfully long and pointless petty conversations into which people like myself are uncomfortably forced. Feel free to post comments on forms of petty conversation that you hate... I know the possibilities are endless.

Ok, how can I make it any more clear that I do not wish to speak to you? In fact, let it be known that unless I verbally clarify the enjoyment of your company, there is at least an 80% probability that I hate you and don't want to waste my good lines on you. Case in point: the elevator vs. the stairs. To reach the stairs, one must bypass the elevator. If I, or anyone else for that matter, sees you and continues to pass to knowingly climb 7 flights of stairs, common sense implies that no one wants to talk to you. Unfortunately sometimes, you just have to take the elevator. You know- your legs are tired, your heels are too high etc. And the choice to take the elevator means you're stuck standing next to someone whom not only do you not like, but with whom you have nothing to talk about! The situation starts as you both enter through the open doors. You know you are both going to same floor so there is no need to politely ask "What floor?" The uncomfortable silence usually begins around floor 2. They look at you... as if to say something, but nothing comes out. Then they mumble something about the weather or "Can you believe Thanksgiving is in 2 weeks?" In your head, you are thinking "No kidding bozo, stop talking to me." But, you work together and, even worse, if this person makes more money than you, you feel compelled to respond. I like to draw it out... floor 4... floor 5... but in my building, the elevators move at 1962 pace. In fact, I think these elevators were actually installed in 1962 and I HATE THEM for all of the petty conversations I've had in them. Anyways, I respond by saying "Geez you're right, it's cold out there and I just plum forgot my gloves today!" The doors open but the conversation isn't over yet... there is a hallway. A long freaking hallway. The bathroom is at the beginning of the hallway... you can escape behind the private doors of the toilet sanctuary... unless they follow you in! AND! I am not even going to get into bathroom petty conversation- that is an entirely different post- so, to keep this theoretical situation going, let's just pretend we can't use the bathroom as the escape route (say it's closed for cleaning [not like the cleaning woman does a stellar job because I walk in immediately following her visit and there are still traces of urine on the floor, leading one to ask 1) how does a woman allow herself to pee on the floor? Seriously we either sit down OR hover, both allowing for the pee to seamlessly flow into the bowl and 2) How could you just leave the piss on the floor, seat, or anywhere else it doesn't belong? Urine is, to me, this most disgusting smell I could ever imagine {again, an entirely different post} so for Hater's sake, AIM!]). So, you are walking down the hallway that seems 8 miles long alongside the person with whom you do not wish to speak carrying on a petty conversation about god-knows-what when all of a sudden... you sense the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow: your desk! It's in sight- you're almost there! But to save face and retain your reputation as a real people-person in the company you reach the conclusion of the convo with coups de gras finale that always leaves that person feelin' good. You wind up, you turn, you make eye contact... and at that one moment, you smile, for the first time all morning (whether it's genuine or not does not matter) and you say...

"Just 2 more days 'til the weekend!"

The person of dissent gives a fist-pump implying enthusiasm for the oblivious, yet invigorating, statement and proceeds on to their own cubicle so you can ignore them for the rest of the day.

Hater Point: Don't talk to me, especially in the morning, unless you have something insightful to discuss.

Post #2: Green Freaks

I hate the "green" trend. You know what I am talking about. Those canvas tote-carrying hippies are quick to point a finger at their every interpretation of environmental neglect. But what really blows my smokestack is the fact that these bozos are full of their compost. A trend is short-lived, no different from tight-rolled jeans and Boyz II Men. Various media sources have speculated (and I am paraphrasing here) that going green is not just a fad... it's a way of life for those who have realized the errors of mankind. I, however, feel the need to hate. The only reason why Green Freaks recycle is so that they can shun those who don't. They add "Think before printing this e-mail" to their e-mail signature to be recognized by others for their attention to such earth-friendly detail. They shop at Whole Foods with reusable bags and pay $3 more per gallon of milk because it lacks BGH. Where has this gotten them? The prevalence of diseases such as autism have continued to skyrocket in the United States. Looks to me like that BGH-free milk is simply a waste of your hard-earned paycheck.

Personal story #1: I happen to belong to a certain website community dedicated to foods and the like. A month or so ago, a thread came up about 100-Calorie Packs and I openly shared my adoration for these convenient little marketing gimmicks. Marketing gimmick aside, 100 cal packs are seriously awesome. Anyways, some Green Freak responded with CAPITAL letters (as if I didn't already get her point) textually admonishing me for purchasing these tasty treats because "the packaging is such a waste," it made her sick. Packaging? When I'm strolling down the aisle of the grocery store, the least of my worries is how much packaging is used for food. The Freak went on to inform me that she "can count" and that she manually measures out 100 calories worth of Goldfish or almonds etc. I then went on to congratulate her on her counting abilities but, in fear of being kicked off the site, refrained from telling her where to stick her home-made 100 calorie granola bar.

Personal Story #2: Recently, I was chastised for tossing a cigarette butt onto the ground. Apparently, as I was informed, it takes 7 years to decompose. Fortunately for me, I don't care how long it takes to decompose. I have a lot of things to hate this world and adding "self hatred for littering" would overextend my hateration. Don't get me wrong- I'm not tossing water bottles or plutonium test tubes out my car window (mostly because I AM a law-abiding citizen). But, I'm not going around smelling my own farts because they taste like self-improvement either.

Hater Point: Keep your tree-hugging ideology to yourselves, ya damn hippies.

Post #1: Halloween Skanks

I hate Halloween skanks. You know what I am talking about. You can't walk into a party store this time of year without the overwhelming pressure to dress like a skank on Halloween. The choices usually consist of sexy pirate, sexy devil, Elvira, sexy hobo and the like. Or, if you happened to be blessed with the natural ability to creatively always look skanky, you could design your own. All you need is a few simple items most likely found within the home: Some black booty shorts, a lacy top, stripper heels, a headband with ears and... poof! You're a cat.

Hater Point: You don't need Halloween to dress like a skank. If you do, you are most likely disguising yourself the other 364 days of the year.

*Costume pictured includes herpes