Tuesday, April 03, 2007

When the Antichrist arrives, and marches into town with his throngs of mindless minions, carrying the corpses of the just and righteous behind them as trophies, corrupting with every movement, gleeful in their carnage... they will be playing this song on loudspeakers as a herald of the end of all things good.

Monday, March 12, 2007

Daylight Saving Time.

Enough said.

Friday, March 09, 2007

Movie Critics

You pasty fucks! Your comeuppance is coming!!

You sit there in your padded chair, clacking away at your 20-lbs. Compaq Laptop, feeling the familiar rush you get when you fool your brain into thinking you're being clever. I've got your number, you fuckturds!
I shall be dedicating this space to critiquing critics and reviewing reviewer's reviews. You've had this coming for a long time now, so stop crying. I'm calling you out on your shit, you no-talent rape-holes!

First up, A. O. Scott of the New York Times... haha.. oh, I'm sorry, I know picking on a New York Times columnist is like playing keep-away with a retarded kid's hat, but fuck that and fuck "A dot O dot". Get a name, douche!

This reviewer did not think Scott's review of 300 contained the same passion we've come to know from her...or him...or it (using initials in place of a name leaves the sexuality of the critic in a purposefully dubious position, thus alleviating their schlock from sexual bias. This also could be the designation for some sort of reviewing robot/algorhythm where the "A" stands for Artificial, the "O" for Obfuscation and Scott being a designation for the programmer who developed this self-aggrandizing piece of critiquing software). Where is the passion?? Where is the alliteration? Where are the $100 words extracted from her dog-eared Thesaurus sitting on the corner of her desk, waiting ever-patiently, to be used in a flimsy attempt to bolster her hack writing to a significant level of pseudo-sophistication which veils Scott's eyes from seeing her own failed and clumsy attempts at actual creativity. That manuscript you just can't quite seem to finish? You know the one, Scott, it's in a .txt file right next to your vague, pedantic, boorish review files. That manuscript is never going to be finished because you're no good. Your writing is sub-par, your vision myopic. You don't even understand the creative works of others, how can you expect that you would miraculously develop a coherent work of art all on your lonesome?? Honestly. Give it up.

I think all reviews should be limited in word count.
Here are some examples for future reference:
If you like a movie, but didn't think it was a truly moving or unique experience you can simply state: "It was pretty good."
If it was sub-par, but you didn't hate it: "Wait for the DVD"
If it was truly a shitstorm terrible film, like Big Momma's House or something: "Fuck you, movie!!"
And if you as a reviewer, like A. O. Scott and the film 300, if you just DON'T GET IT, the movie is just above and beyond your limited capacity for art, well, just don't say anything. If you have to, and I"m sure your editor requires something in the way of words, let's keep it clean: "I didn't get it. Instead of wasting your time trying to disregard something I don't understand and never will, I'll just say that I didn't like it. If you're retarded like me, you won't like it either"
Oh, and if you actually like something: "Put down whatever your doing and GO SEE THIS MOVIE!! NOW!!!"

You guys suck.
Fuck you and fuck your "critiques".

Tuesday, March 06, 2007

Blow This, Jackass!

Every Tuesday at our office is landscape maintenance day. Since we don't have any grass to mow, this generally means the landscape crew is busy tending to the many patches of gravel and ground-covering greenery in and around the complex, as well as cutting off palm fronds so I have to trip over them as I go to check the mail.

Mostly, though, they busy themselves blowing dead leaves about with what is possibly the most useless, annoying invention EVER - The Leafblower. I'm continually perplexed by this contraption. It's basically just a plastic gas can strapped to a guy's back, hooked by a plastic hose to a giant reverse vacuum tube that blows shit everywhere...which is rickety in and of itself, if you ask me.

I guess I just don't get it. What progress do you make with one of these stinky, loud pieces of shit? How can you measure your day's progress by the amount of dust and dirt and crap that you merely move from one place to another? It's not like any of this debris goes AWAY...it just goes out to the parking lot! And all over ME, as I'm innocently trying to walk to my car!

I can't even decide what offends me most about The Leafblower. Is it the loudness? Does it bother me most that I'm trying to have a telephone conversation and it sounds like there's a merry band of hillbilly teenagers riding around outside on their muddy dirtbikes? Or is it the "I just stuck my face in someone's tailpipe" smell that lingers about everywhere within 100 yards? Perhaps it's the blank, mouth-breathing expression on the guy blowing...like he actually might just understand the useless irony of his task.

Or not. He's probably just dumb.


Drinks are on me!
Lemme see what you're twerking with
Look at those hips, make me smile..
Go 'head child and get your hate on!!

That's right, bitches, I'm bringing Hate Back!!

This fucking wet-sop masturbation fest of internet self-aggrandizement has gone too long with out my pure, unfiltered, never-diluted brand of unbridled, smooth, straight-up-no-chaser HATE.
It's become a social wasteland spattered with Blog-mines waiting for the trip wire to send off the blast of meaningless opinion-ship and fucking WHINING bullshit hucksters lamenting their favorite comic book movies. All you shitheels would've been kicked out of the highschool newspaper room with your ill-conceived drivel. You're embarrassing yourselves. Get off your computer, your mom needs to use America On-line, you fuck.

What happened to the internet that was hard to use and, therefore, weeded out the annoying fucks that we were all trying to get away from by GOING TO THE INTERNET? Now it's all reflected, bright-colored, Web 2.0!! Logo bullshit with "user-created" fuckall. I long for he days of clumsy HTML coding, blue underlined and often broken links against a repeating back ground of a 10x10px rock texture made in MS-Paint. I long for the Thought Police to shut down your blogs for expressing dissent. I long for an intelligent conversation.

Let's just sum this all up then: I fucking hate you.
Shut the fuck up.

Peace out,

Saturday, August 05, 2006



Actually. I love dogs. Especially when they eat 75,000 dollars worth of teddy bears.

Monday, July 31, 2006

I hate things

I hate that no one ever updates this thing.

I hate that it's so stupid hot outside. 103 degrees in MN, for eleventybillion straight days? Hate it.

I also hate people that are rude for no reason. I answered the phone nicely, and said I woud fix the screwup on your credit card. Why do you need to get snippy with me?

Spiders. I hate spiders too.

Wednesday, May 31, 2006

Hating the Word "Hate"

“I hate to use the word ‘hate,’ because it’s such a STRONG word, but I can’t stand it when…” You fill in the rest. I encounter these fucking morons ALL THE TIME. Like your crazy, “out there” semantics are going to confuse me into thinking you’re a nicer, better person than me because you refuse to use the word “hate.” First of all, by “hating” to use that word, you’re using it anyway. Perhaps that’s okay since the negative energy emanating from that horrible, horrible word is aimed right back at itself, but it’s the same as “hating” anything else. Brown people, polyester, sweaty cheese…it doesn’t matter. If you “dislike” it, or “can’t stand” it, you’re saying the exact same fucking thing. Call it what it is.

Anyway, who cares? Would my ramblings on about societal retardation really be that much more palatable to you if I water it down and simply say “Gee, I really can’t stand…” (again, fill in the blank). If so, I hate you too, asshole. You’re undoubtedly a hypocrite and a loser, and you’re probably trying to pass on a lot of other stuff in your life for something that it’s not. Like your sad excuse for a social life, your horribly empty, void relationship with your fat, ugly spouse, or your stupid, drooling, sticky children who you secretly know will never amount to anything except doe-eyed, accepting victims of the lowest common denominator that is the American psyche. Although you probably don’t even get that. You hate it when things are too hard to understand.

Tuesday, May 30, 2006

Bono- In the Name of Fashion

U2 used to be my most favoritist band in the world. Back in the ‘80s, when they were still Irish, and cool. At some point between then and now, they turned all New York and self-important, kind of like Madonna. I blame Bono. I should have known not to trust someone who decided at some point in his life that he was enough above the rest of us to simply go by one name, like Cher, or Sting, or again, Madonna.

But whatever, he’s a rock star…I don’t care. What I do care about is how he has now brought it upon himself to save the entire planet, meeting with all the important world rulers and whatnot, all the while NEVER TAKING OFF HIS PASTEL SUNGLASSES. Jesus Christ, what a tool.

I know, Bono, you’re a radical, cause-loving fucking poet of a generation, increasing our awareness of important world issues like civil war, and bloody massacres and assassinations of people like Martin Luther King, Jr. I get it. But can’t you just stick to that? SINGING about it? And as a singer, which is all that you are, can’t you just fucking ENTERTAIN us like the rest of them? Must you use your celebrity status to start preaching to us all, and get your stupid picture in all the papers shaking hands with President Moogumbo McDooziwat of some random country in Africa…IN YOUR SUNGLASSES?

Hey, I know, it’s all noble and crap, wanting to help these poor nations by shooing the flies off their bloated, malnourished national bellies, helping them escape debt and poverty and junk. Seriously, I believe in this. I think it’s fucking great. But in doing this, one would assume that if you have enough clout – albeit self-important, arrogant, faux celebrity clout – to meet with the leaders of ENTIRE NATIONS, you would have enough respect to at least look these people in the eye as you exploit them for your stupid, retarded celebrity status instead of through the lenses of your pansy, girly, rose-colored sunglasses. You just look like a creep.

And don’t even get me started on that Angelina Jolie whore. She’s just gross.

Friday, May 26, 2006


I'm hatin' on this tamed-down, bland, non-offensive "Mexican" food that certain restaurants are trying to pass off as authentic. I mean for fuck's sake, they have MEXICAN in the name of their restaurant, can't they at least PRETEND? Are they even aware of the the existence of the Country of Mexico and it's long and rich history of savory dishes and zany television programs? Are they aware that "Mexican" is more than a sombrero and Piss-water Corona beer?
No, I'm guessing not. They should change the name of their restaurants to Mexi-CAN'T.

They should be forece by laws and men with guns to call their food "American Crap slathered in cheese to hide our foul meats with a loosely interpreted influence from a region that may or may not be Latin". This is not Mexican; this is not Mexican-Amercian; this is not Amercianized Mexican... this is a copy of of a copy of an interpretation of a rumor from a guy who used to live down the street from this other guy who had a mexican gardener once when he was a kid and that guy would sometimes mention that his wife was a good cook.

Plastic beans, rubber rice, and tomato soup salsa... good god. Not to mention their special sauces of sour cream and broken dreams... it's awful. They've never heard of spice and wouldn't want to offend the pasty-white patrons with anything bordering on ethnic flavor or actual taste. Of course I see why they wouldn't want to wake the taste-buds that have been in a coma since mom's tuna-casorole tried to kill them in the late 60's and everything - you'd probably kill the poor people with shock. And when food that sat in the same room with a bus boy who had a jalepeno once about five years ago is too spicy for them, I can understand the "bland." But, fucking honestly, you should have opened a goddamned "Bland Ooze in swarthy cheeses" Restaurant and disguised yourself with free balloons and free parking and called it a day.

You fucking morons.

Thursday, May 25, 2006

Desperate Housewives

No. Not the TV show by the same name. I've only watched it enough to know I hate it, and the people that watch it. I'm talking about the real life women that really LIVE that life. The ones that come into the spa, and bitch the whole time about how much their husbands work, and how much money they just spent on redecorating the basement. Or that they just spent over $2,000 on trees to plant in their yard. TREES! Tress can't cost $2,000! Holy crap people! So, after listening to them bitch for an HOUR about their tough life, while the whole time I have their dirty, nasty feet 3 inches from my nose, they then leave me a five dollar tip, on a seventy dollar service.
Well crap. Maybe you should get a job, and stop sponging off your husband, and while you're at it, most people are tipping 15% now bitch. If I have to pretend to feel sorry for one more over-privileged, over-bleached bitch, I swear I'm going to stab them in their beady little eyes.

Bluetooth Headsets

It used to be that when you saw someone walking down the street talking to themselves you'd either get the hell out of the way or start stoning them. Not anymore! Thanks to modern technology you can now communicate with people directly by speaking into the air....or really just into the little dongle on your head.

I'm all for safety and the ability to have a screaming match with someone while barreling down the highway at 80 MPH in a 2 ton piece of metal. What I hate are people that wear them all the time. You are not so self important that you have to take that call right this instant. You can tell the person to hold while you switch to your hands free device.

You sure as hell can't be expected to hear your calls when you're in a club or bar. You look like an idiot. Especially you guys in the shaved head crowd. The Empire Strikes Back was filmed a long time ago and Lando already has his assistant.

Myspace Idiots

I'm taking the first real post on this blog to spew my hate at myspace idiots. No, not everyone on myspace. I use it to keep up with people, let them know about events, etc. I mean the idiots. The people that live on the thing. The ones that insist that if you repost a bulletin Tom will descend from the sky through a hole in your ceiling like Emma Thompson in Angels in America to bestow a superpower on you of immense strength....or maybe just a top sixteen. Or people that have running conversations in the comments section. Just send me a message for christs sake or, here's an idea, pick up the phone! I don't need everyone looking at my page to know you're going to be late for your colonoscopy. Shit, no pun intended, I don't need to know that to begin with.

Also, stop with the myspace editors. Change a color or two? Fine. Putting ten thousand pictures of you and your boyfriend in one of those flash montages is annoying as fuck. I shouldn't need to upgrade the memory on my computer to look at your profile.

P.S. Myspace trackers don't work and how anal are you to want to know whose looking at your profile in the first place? If you don't want people looking then press the delete profile button.

Where's the love?

The world needs a little less love - a little less worrying about people that don't give a shit about you, or me, or anybody but them; a little less coddling of the weak and the below average and a little more pointing out of the truth and the obvious - and a lot more HATE