Below are the 8 most recent journal entries recorded in I HATE EVERYTHING!!!!!'s LiveJournal:

Monday, May 16th, 2005
10:54 pm	Not the regular Star Wars geeks who have seen Star Wars 457 times and have masturbatory fantasies of Princess Leia in chains. Not the supreme Star Wars geeks who can quote episodes 4-6 verbatim and get together in their mother's windowless basements on a Saturday night to do just that. No, not even the extreme Star Wars geeks who play dress up as their favorite characters, traveling the country from convention to convention hoping one day that God Lucas himself will pick their Dorito-stained hands as the next to wield the light saber in what they desperately want to believe is a real universe. No, not even them. Who I hate are the uber Star Wars geeks. The ones that have been lining up outside theatres since early April for the opening of Episode III. I'm as geeky as the next person. I strive to live long and prosper. I know there is no spoon and yet I'll use it anyway to eat supper and dinner and second breakfast and even an afternoon tea. I have come to the realization that the only way to win is not to play. And of course I bring my towel everywhere I go. But captain, I fail to see the logic in six weeks of showerless, sexless, jobless, mindless, saneless waiting. One could ask how they got the money for such an endeavor but such earthly concerns are beyond them. One might even ask how many changes of clothes they bring but anyone who has wandered into a high school's Dungeon's and Dragons club knows those guys seem to forget even on days when they do walk by their closet. No, what concerns me the most here is really the saddest fact of all: Episodes I and II sucked hard. If a line is determined by two points then we'll need to increase the number of logical plot points by at least four to comprehend Star Wars' storyline because I'm pretty sure it started off in the negative. The love scenes were written by the experimental rhesus monkey with the pipe cleaner mom. The graphics were created by kid with ADD who has an IV of LSD and caffeine pumping into his veins. The movies were horribly acted, horribly written, horribly directed and if they didn't have the name Star Wars attached to them the first one would have been the red headed stepchild of Heaven's Gate and Ishtar. Yet these uber geeks are lining up for six weeks to see the third one. They couldn't have thought 1 and 2 were that good. They just couldn't have. And that's really the most infuriating thing of them all. These are poser uber geeks. They enjoy the fact that others consider them this geeky. They're the nerd versions of Paris Hilton. Thankfully, sans hotel videos. But like Paris Hilton, they need to be eradicated from this planet. Does anyone have a photon torpedo I can borrow? (7 Comments |Comment on this)
Saturday, October 11th, 2003
2:01 am	I hate puppies! How in the world can you hate puppies? They're so cuuuuuuuuuuute. Yeah. For me to poop on. But my incontinence isn't really the problem here folks. It's theirs. Puppies poop on everything. Your brand new carpet? Shit. The research project you were working for five months on? ploooop. The first edition Huckleberry Finn? Diarrhea city, baby. For the first six months of a dog's life you might as well be growing tomatoes in your living room. And that new puppy smell? Yeah, that goes away about the time the dog starts rolling in its own shit. Twenty five thousand years of breeding and inbreeding so we can turn the savage wolf into the wolf's chew toy, complete with a pretty pink bow and a cranial capacity so impaired it doesn't realize that its master's leg has no genitals to insert itself into. It licks itself. I admit, this trait does have some advantages. But dogs never stop at the crotch. The fact that they can give themselves a rim job better than a coked up $5 hooker just weirds me out for some reason. Oh sure, we can get to the dog owners if we wanted to. The poor deluded souls who believe a Terrier in a kilt looks adorable. I, however, fully believe that anyone who does this has automatically lost any rights to breeding. That's it. Pull your card. You're not getting anything higher up on the evolutionary ladder. You can have June bugs until you learn to be better "parents." Puppies yap at dust molecules. They run headfirst into walls for fun. They suck all attention to them like a neutron star trapped inside a black hole surrounded by a Hoover vacuum cleaner. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Time to play? Time to play? Me. Me. Me. Are you looking at me? Are you looking at me? Why don't you pet me? Pet me here. And here. And here. Did you stop petting me? Let's play! Hmm...no wonder they're man's best friend. We're so much alike in a way. Current Mood: crappy (1 Comment |Comment on this)
Tuesday, September 23rd, 2003
1:36 am	I hate HP Print Cartridge Brochures! Sit down boys and girls and let me tell you a story. It's a suspense story. It said so right there on the pamphlet that came with the cartridge. "Peter loves books, especially mysteries, so it was somewhat ironic that his bookstore, Chapter One, was dying. People simply didn't know it existed." Lets just stop right here, pull Alanis out of whatever maple leaf flavored mothballs she's hiding in, and figure out the definition of ironic. This ain't it. See, what *I* find ironic is that you used ironic incorrectly when referencing a person who works with literature. But since the intended audience of this "suspense story" is somewhere on the evolutionary ladder between mollusk and stale cheese, I can only assume that this is merely unintentional irony. "So Peter set about to solve the problem. He began by paying a call to the HP Idea House website." I like how they use the term "paying" in reference to a call to their business. Assuming you're still talking to the same audience above who doesn't grasp irony, I'm thinking an alternate definition of the word paying would go right over the heads of most. "der...paying? I ain't gonna shell out my lotto money on some of them there HP iders." But really, The Idea House? Wow. Is this like the Rand Corporation? Is it an advice hotline? Can I call up and ask for suggestions on how to bag the office secretary? Maybe this is like the McDonald's House, except people with low self esteem go there to hide from the ideas of the world. "Peter uncovered simple ways to make and print his own brochures, flyers, and business cards. He even printed customized bookmarks with Chapter One's logo and slipped them into every purchase." So, basically, your "Idea House" is called advertising 101. This is the most brilliant suspense story I've ever read. "The plan worked." Wow. There's the money shot. That's what I've been waiting a paragraph and a half to read. "People came," Not on the books I hope. "they read," after unsticking the pages. "they purchased." They also forgot to put semi-colons in this sentence. But what the hell do we care, right? We're only talking about the professional publication from a company dealing in printers. Proofreading by someone with at least a high school education probably wasn't in the budget. "Was it because of the bookmarks or just coincidence? Suffice to say Chapter One was saved from Chapter Eleven." HAHAHAHAHAHHAHAHAHA! Chap...HAHAHA get it? GET IT? It's funny because it's stupid. But here's what makes it even more stupiderest. The footnote: while the names and events of this story are entirely fictitious... Wait a second. This crappy excuse for a suspense story was entirely made up? You mean after selling your products internationally for decades to millions of people you couldn't come up with one, not a single solitary true to life example of a business benefiting from your product? I weep for you. Clearly your staff is composed entirely of stroke victims and helper monkeys. Current Mood: enraged (2 Comments |Comment on this)
Wednesday, August 27th, 2003
10:09 am	I hate Milk Cartons! Who decided that folded over cheap cardboard would be the best way to store perishable items? Let's all go down to Mailboxes Etc. and make our own milk cartons! It'll be fun. If I were running the show, I'd promote the hell out of the whole milk carton mileau. "Free paper shavings with every cupful!" the billboards would proclaim. Or how about "Milk. 1% fat, 30% fiber." But milk cartons do have a few things going for it. Take, for instance, the missing child picture. Isn't it cute? I guess the marketing people figured you'd see milk, think of children, see a child, and think of milk. It's convoluted, but it's the type of daisy chain logic you'd get from marketing. I have a few more suggestions, how about pictures of murder victims on packages of meat? Prostitution rings on Tampax? Known practitioners of bestiality on that large bag of Puppy Chow? The possibilities are endless. Let's be honest here, has a picture of a missing child on a milk carton EVER helped find a missing child? Unless the kid is sitting across the table from your bowl of chocolate frosted sugar bombs, I'm gonna go with a big fat no. What's really amusing is the times they try to use computer software to age the child to what he or she would look like today. Invariably it ends up looking like Max Headroom and Dorian Gray's lovechild. Hey, at least the milk cartons are lighter than bottles. Now the milkman won't throw his back out, spasming all over the customer's front porch like an epileptic with heat stroke and Tourette's. Not that we actually have milkmen anymore, which is what I really should be complaining about. Going to the grocery store is for losers. It should be my god given right to be a lazy bastard and just open my door every morning to a fresh bottle of cow excretion. But no, no milkmen anymore. Which is a shame because I miss my dad. Current Mood: numb (3 Comments |Comment on this)
Friday, August 22nd, 2003
12:22 pm	I hate Absinthe! The subject for today was supposed to be "cheap Absinthe" but I decided that that sounded like something a lisper would say about a girl not in class. I'm an equal opportunity loather. I hate all Absinthe. What the hell is Absinthe anyway? Using my trusty Dick&Jane Dictionary for the mildly retarded I have discovered that Absintheis a green liqueur having a bitter anise or licorice flavor and a high alcohol content, prepared from absinthe and other herbs, and now prohibited in many countries because of its toxicity. Actually, I already knew what Absinthe was having drunken a vile vial of it over in Germany. It's just that I didn't wish to call all of you retarded (mildly or otherwise) because by reading these entries you've proven that at least one synapse is firing in the otherwise vast wasteland of dust you call a cranium, and that's good enough for me. So let's go through this definition, shall we? It's a green liqueur. It's green. This is what you want to order when you go out to a bar with your friends? "Hi, bourbon on the rocks." "Vodka, straight up." "Yes, I want whatever is in that lime colored bottle over there? Doesn't it go well with my eyes? I think it does. If it's possible, could you be a hon and add in some Midori, a splash of pina colada mix, and one of those pretty pink umbrellas? That would be FABULOUS!" But you wouldn't want to add it to midori. Why? Let's look at the next part, shall we? "aving a bitter anise or licorice flavor." Say it with me now. Quaaaaaaaaaaa? Licorice? bitter licorice. THIS is your drink of choice when you choose to get drunk? "Gosh, I can't decide, should I get the Fat Tire Pale Ale or the puke colored reject from Mr. Bulky's bargain bin?" Hey I have an idea! Let's create bubblegum flavored scotch! Lysol infused Whisky! Oh hell, just mix up the dog crap & tonic and get it the fuck over with. But none of this compares with part #3, folks. It's toxic. TOXIC! Oh sure, even Pabst Blue Ribbon can be toxic if you drink, say, seventy five of them. But you can get grain alcohol in the States whereas Absinthe is nowhere to be found. Why? It's toxic! I don't think you're fully comprehending this. Allow me to futher clarify. Hairy palmed, slackjawed, eleven toed, three toothed, rednecks who play the banjo all day and suck applesauce through a straw can still manage to distill a moonshine that probably won't blind you but the makers of Absinthe don't seem to even have that level of confidence. This concerns me greatly. It's why I've decided that I hate ALL Absinthe, not just the cheap kind. Current Mood: frustrated (1 Comment |Comment on this)
Thursday, August 21st, 2003
10:13 am	I hate Brittney Spears! I know what you're saying. "You hate Britney Spears? Wow. That's such a groundbreaking concept. One day I strive to have an opinion as daring and original as you, Doxosohoi." To that I answer "fuck you and the horse your mom rode, you centaur freak. I hate you too, but this isn't about you. It's about Ms. Spears." I could rant about Britney's intro to the world of television through the Mickey Mouse Club. While she never quite had the breasts of Annette she still learned from The Rat the key lesson of whoring herself out to the lowest common denominator. But that's not why I hate her. I could talk about her choice of clothing and actions in videos and on stage. She dances around on stage in outfits even a paedophile would be embarrassed owning, touching herself in places even God didn't know were accessible by human hands, all while maintaining a Holier-than-the Pope's outlook on life. But that's not why I hate her. I could rave madly about her abysmal lack of singing ability. How she makes the rejects from American Idol look like Luciano Pavarotti and Natalie Merchant's lovechild. How she gets by on her "never ever ever ever surgically enhanced body" while mewling in tones even cats would be disgusted with. But that's not why I hate her. No, the reason why I hate her is that I'm not her. Look folks, if I were Brittney Spears I could plan her life a hell of a lot better than she is right now. It's good to be Brittney, E! says? It would be downright orgasmic if I were running the show. First of all, we're talking 48 HH breasts. I would hire two other girls whose sole job it was to hold them up while I walked around. Meanwhile, I would continue to put out press releases saying I've never had plastic surgery. Second, we're going to lose this whole "I'm a virgin" crap. The only question would be how much money I would get for the Hustler pictures. There would be no "did she? Didn't she? How far has she gotten with Justin?" because there would be a live, 24 hour a day cooter cam to continuously track my progress and online voting to rate my various studs' techniques. Yeah, I know she's not a virgin anymore and she and Justin are broken up. Again, if I were Brittney, Justin would be lying in a ditch bleeding slowly to death while I went on a shopping spree on Rodeo Drive. Third, money. I'd give it to everyone. Everyone and anyone! I'd pay people to be my personal monkeys for a day. Dance for me? $500. Roll around in a mudhole while making pig noises? $2000. Dress up like a Furby and dry hump my leg? You fucking freak, get the hell out of my clique. The point is that Brittney could do so much more to make this world a better place and she's just failing miserably. This is why I hate her. Current Mood: grumpy (4 Comments |Comment on this)
Wednesday, August 20th, 2003
12:35 pm	I hate rainbows Who in their right mind could hate a rainbow, you ask? You're looking at him! Well, through your computer screen. If I had a webcam. And you had a dedicated T-10 line or something. The point is that I hate rainbows. It's a well known fact that they're the #1 subject of 13 year old girls angsty poetry the world over. "oh rainbow rainbow after the rain/won't you come here to take my pain/I sing about you with my flute/why doesn't Gregory Martin think I'm cute? :( " You see? It's crap. And rainbows, by merely being associated with this crap become defacto crap. Crap by proxy. Res ipso loquicrap (The crap speaks for itself). But rainbows by themselves suck the warts off a toad's testicles. Oh look, they're so pretty! They're so lovely. Look at all the cooooolors. You know what has more colors? White light. That's right folks. White as Michael Jackson light. It travelled 93 million miles over the course of eight minutes bearing every color conceivable and that wasn't good enough for you. No one seems to appreciate THAT. No, no, no, it has to break apart into seven distinct colors for your enjoyment and edification before you deem it worthy of acknowledgement. What else should it do? Dance a jig? Cook your dinner? Hand you the damn lucky charms on a big ol' pot o' gold platter? Unlike the rain itself, which serves the useful purpose of drowning stray kittens, rainbows have nothing, NOTHING, to offer the world. Oh, some of you may get upset that rain kills a kitten, but I don't hear you complaining about it. "oh sure," you say "they may die a horrible death choking on a torrent H[2O, but it's well worth it to see Mr. Roy G. Biv smiling down upon me." Guess what folks? That's not a smile that's a frown. God hates you because you took pleasure in feline fatalities and the rainbow is your personal one way invitation to Hell. Have a nice day. Current Mood: cranky (4 Comments |Comment on this)
12:58 am	I hate Rice Krispies Treats Variety Pak Not Pack. Pak. Because in the English vacuum that Kellogg's lives in, it's ok as long as it makes the snack fun and festive. I'll tell you what would make this box more fun and festive. If you stopped treating the world like it's your personal fucking l33t playground you dropouts from the school of hard knocks. I might also suggest to you that "chocolatey" isn't a word either but adding one more thought into your marketing department's shared 12.4 grams of gray matter would take precious air away from the hamster running around inside your heads. So I get this box of 16 bars. Four marshmallowly flavors in each box. Simple math and logic even a bonobo monkey could follow would tell you there would be four of each type in the box. Four double "chocolatey" chunk four rainbow four "chocolatey" drizzle four original. Four fours. That's a square. Rice Krispies are squares. If only there were four of each, the world would suddenly be in harmony, planets would align, Jesus would come down and breakdance in front of a bowling alley. But no. That can't be. There are seven originals and three of the rest. Look you fuck bitchers, if I wanted that many plain marshmallow/rice krispie mushes I would have bought a goddamned box of originals. I didn't. I bought the SUxx0r pak of ch0c0l@t3y goodness n00b!!!1! I don't want to have to add on rainbow sprinkles like some fucking 14th century peon. I'm not about to start my own chocolatessen to drizzle some Snap, Crackle, & Pop anal leakage onto my square. I paid good money for these and I have every right to be a lazy bastard and expect full value for my money. I want one more double chocolatey chunk one more rainbow and one more chocolatey drizzle. I want them now and if I have to shove the entire Merriam-Webster dictionary up those little elves' asses to rectify this situation, I will. Current Mood: bitchy (Comment on this)