Being Born

I hate being born. Not the actual process, because I don't really remember that, though I'm sure it was traumatic and generally hate-worthy as well. I mean being born as in, like, existing. Think about it. We have no choice in the matter. It's totally unfair. Our parents decide they want to have kids, our moms pop us out, and we have absolutely no say. And there we are, against our will, having all these annoying responsibilities thrust upon us. "Clean up your toys before dinner." "You can't go outside 'til you're done with your homework." "Get good grades so you can get a job and work in a cubicle for the rest of your life." Fuck you! I didn't ask for this! You clean my shit! And if you're reading this on a computer, with Internet service, you're one of the lucky ones! Think about all the kids who don't ask to be born who are born into infinitely shittier situations than us. Think about how pissed they must be. Or would be, if they actually had time to think and weren't so damn busy struggling to survive in a world they never asked to enter.

That's why I get so annoyed when I hear people say things like, it's so selfish not to have kids because you're only living for yourself. No. The opposite is true. Maybe some religious freaks say and actually mean, "I need to have children to fulfill The Lord's wishes and bring another life into this blessed world," but normal, rational, non-delusional people's thinking probably goes something a little more like, "I want a kid so I can rectify all the mistakes I made, through him." Subconsciously speaking. And that's assuming that there was any thought given to it in the first place.

Seriously, you need licenses and permits for everything. Fishing, construction, filming, marriage. But any jackass can have a kid. And there are A LOT of jackasses out there. And these ignoramuses choose to breed and burden everyone with their idiot children, who then grow up to be idiot adults, who don't signal when switching lanes and pay with checks at the supermarket, who then spawn more ravenous, moronic consumers who further burden our planet's diminishing resources, ad infinitum.

Having kids is selfish. If you want to have kids, fine by me . . . well, not really. But can we at least agree to drop this whole charade where we pretend like producing offspring is some amazing accomplishment/selfless act? Even brainless, amorphous amoebae can reproduce. So if you do have kids, remember, they didn't ask to be born; give them a goddamn break.

The Big Crapple

I know a lot of people (if a lot of people actually read this) are going to disagree with me on this, but I think New York City is severely overrated. Yeah, I said it! Don't believe me? Here's a list . . . Sorry. I just had a Sting-ian internal orgasm knowing that I'm about to create one of my beloved lists about why New York kind of sucks. Anyway, here's a list of reasons that will hopefully help you see the proverbial light:

--It's crowded. I'm not talking a little busy. I'm saying it's really really stuffed. You can't take a leisurely amble around town without making physical contact with hordes of finance douches, kafia-donning facial-haired hipsters, and bacteria-laden vagrants. The population is over 8 million now, and after doing very little research online, I found that in Manhattan itself, there are almost 67,000 people per square mile! Do you realize how insane and unnecessary that is?! The City's full. Move somewhere else. Branch out.

--Tiny apartments. Due to such absurd crowding, you get shit for your money in terms of real estate. If you want to live alone, you will probably pay well over $1,000 per month for even just a box of a studio. And I do mean a box. Like, if you try to open your refrigerator door all the way, it will touch your toilet...which just so happens to double as your sink. If you want to live with annoying roommates who don't clean up after themselves, piss on the toilet seat, and make too much noise that can be heard through the paper-thin walls that were only installed to create a three-bedroom apartment from what used to be a one-bedroom, then you will still probably pay over $1,000 per month. Have fun with that.

--Concrete jungle. Enjoy the lush flora and exotic fauna of scenic--oh, wait, there isn't any. It's all steel and concrete. I forgot.

--No beaches. The Jersey Shore and Long Island don't count because you have to drive really far to get to them (in a car you won't have because you live in New York City), and because they are the Jersey Shore and Long Island.

--The weather. This cannot be overstated. The weather in New York City sucks. Winters suck. They're cold. And rainy. And dark. Sure, the occasional snow is beautiful when it's falling, but see how you feel about it the next morning when it's black and melting into shin-deep puddles at the corner of every block. Summers suck...unless you enjoy the constant stench of warm urine and garbage, or getting dripped on by random air conditioners, or having your balls perpetually stuck to your inner thigh. The days it doesn't rain in the Fall and Spring, however, are amazing. So, by my calculations, if you live in New York, you get about three months' worth of beautiful weather. On those days, New York is kind of unbeatable...but those sound like pretty crappy odds to me.

--The people. Sadly, one of the worst parts about New York occurs when you leave it. Because any time you run into someone from New York outside of New York, they won't shut the fuck about it. "Oh, in New York we have so much art and culture." "Oh, in New York people are so much more real." "Oh, in New York the public transportation is so amazing. I get to nauseatingly rock back-and-forth in a rickety subway car while some depraved frotteur rubs his boner against my rib cage."

So in conclusion, just because the founders of this country landed in the North East first, doesn't mean that we have to stay there. It just means that their starting point was east of there. Back then, it may have been a more difficult and treacherous journey to head west on land, but fortunately, we've invented a few things since then to ameliorate that situation. Don't get me wrong, New York City is incredible in a lot of different ways, and I highly recommend visiting regularly, but it's severely overrated. It's full. There's no more room. Let's move on and create a New New York, but in a better climate. No?

Bathroom Attendants

I hate bathroom attendants. Not the attendants themselves, everyone's gotta make a living, but the fact that this position exists.

First, there's the awkward chit-chat, a discomfort that's exponentially exaggerated when it's just the two of you in there. Then, there's the tipping for shit I can do myself, and am expected to do myself during daytime hours. I mean, pressing the soap, turning on the faucet, handing me a paper towel?... Eh. I'm not impressed. If you want to impress me, unzip my fly and aim it for me while I take a piss; then I'll tip you (no pun intended).

But the truth is, I feel bad that the guy has to sit in a bathroom all night ingesting microscopic particles from drunk douchebags' piss, shit, and vomit, so I usually do tip the guy...but you can bet I grab a few of those awesome, individually-wrapped, Wint-O-Green Life Savers on my way out.

The one benefit that comes from the presence of these be-vested gentlemen, is that just by virtue of being there with soap and a smile, they put enough social pressure on pretty much every disgusting human being who would otherwise exit the restroom without washing his hands to wash his hands. See, I can be positive.

Lists

I love making lists. Shopping lists, to-do lists, music lists. Whatever. I don't know why. Something about organizing my thoughts and collecting them all in one place. And don't even get me started on the joy I get from consolidating several lists into one.

Now I'm going to admit something that I haven't admitted to many people before: every once in a while, when I'm running around completing the tasks on my to-do list, I'll do something that I had forgotten to put on the list. Then, later, when I'm crossing off the things I did that day, I'll add the thing I already did but had forgotten to put on the list, just so I can then have the pleasure of crossing it off. Is that weird?

Sweet Shit

I hate that MTV show, My Super Sweet 16. Yes, I've seen it. No, I'm not proud of it. Every episode features a different, severely excessively spoiled, waste of teenage space, who essentially spits in the face of every individual who has ever suffered throughout the entire history of (wo)man. If I lived in an oppressed, third-world country, and I managed to glimpse even just five minutes of just one episode of this show, I would hate America so much that I would instantly volunteer my services as a suicide bomber. I'm a fellow spoiled American, and I even considered blowing myself up while watching it on my big-screen TV in my air-conditioned living room! Seriously. This show contributes to terrorism. Every time an episode of this show airs in another country, at least one new terrorist is born. Way to go, MTV.

Reply to All

I hate people who Reply to All on emails. Either these people are too stupid to figure out the difference between Reply and Reply to All, or they think that what they're saying is so fascinating that everyone on the list, even people they don't know, needs to hear it. Let me let you in on a little secret: you're not that funny and you're not that interesting. That's like someone starting a blog because they think other people will... Wait. Nevermind.

Also, use some discretion and check the recipient list. It's fine to Reply to All when it's a few friends on an email, but if my mom or boss is on there, it's probably not a good idea to joke about the time we got The Clap from Mexican hookers in Cancun...hypothetically speaking...

Drunk Retards

I hate these new beer bottles/cans that turn blue when they're cold. (I won't even say the company's name because I don't want to give them the free publicity--for all 12 of you who actually read this.) Does this strike anyone else as a completely unnecessary invention? How about this invention: a law that says, if you're too drunk or stupid to be able to figure out the temperature of your beverage without a color-coded receptacle, then you get dragged out into the street and shot in the face.

Mac People

I hate Mac people. I'm a PC guy, and the number one reason for that is because I find Mac people so annoying. Mac people are like right-wing, fundamentalist, Evangelical Christians (don't worry; I'll get to them in another post), always trying to convert you to their way of life, whereas PC people are laid back, just minding their own business. You never hear PC people telling you you have to get a PC. They have a quiet confidence that says, "whatever you want to do is your choice. I happen to prefer PCs." To me, Mac people are like those bitter people who subconsciously overcompensate for their bad decisions by trying to convince you to make the same bad decisions that, deep down, in places where they're actually honest with themselves, they know are wrong. Screw your single-button mouse and Safari browser. But also, to be fair, screw Windows for designing Vista to mimic Macs. That was a serious show of weakness. Maybe the insecurity paradigm is shifting after all...

Try-ers

I hate people who try too hard. I don't mean trying as in the opposite of being lazy; I applaud effort. I mean trying too hard as in, today, I saw a guy at Starbucks, and on his laptop (because, of course, he was on his laptop at Starbucks), in big sticker-letters was written, "Space Cowboy." Really? Big Steve Miller fan? Maybe it was his fraternity pledge name? Most likely, it was what kids used to call him as they mercilessly beat him every day after he got home from space camp. And, while it was 75 degrees outside, he was obviously wearing a wool hat, which had long strings hanging down from the ear-flaps, or something, and two prominent red horns on the top. Now that I think about it, he may have even been wearing an armband, too, though I might just be retroactively injecting that element because in my mind it perfectly completes the picture. Anyway, that guy was trying way too hard.

HJ's

I didn't have a very hateful weekend (probably because I spent most of it splayed out on the couch, removed from general population), so I'll take this moment to mention another thing I love: hand jobs. That's right. I said it. I think hand jobs are underrated.

Centuries ago, some guy, certainly a genius and pioneer in his time, was trying to convince his chaste girlfriend to give him a blow job, and introduced the line, "I can give myself a hand job." It worked, and this guy told his buddies, who told their other buddies, and so on and so forth. Over time, this notion gradually permeated the collective Jungian conscious of women to the point where I feel that after, like, high school, hand jobs are almost totally rejected as a viable step in the hook-up process. I've heard girls themselves repeat that same logic about not giving hand jobs because guys can do it to themselves.

So, in summation, the first guy to say, "I can give myself a hand job," in order to convince a girl to give him a blow j . . . bravo. But, the complete rejection of hand jobs as an acceptable form of hooking up . . . not so great. Feel free to disagree. (Curmudgeon's note: blow jobs are still amazing, I'm just sayin' . . .)

(Special thanks to EJSM and MFM, who also like handies...)

Aldo

Here's something I love, for a change: Aldo. The effeminate, Mexican gentleman who works at my local Subway. Like I said, I like when someone gets it right. He's always very friendly, but the cherry on top was when, a couple weeks ago, I came straight from playing basketball, as I often do, and I only had a credit card. My sandwich was already made and ready to go, but when I got to the register, their credit card machine had broken. The person at the register was turning me away, when Aldo stepped in. What did Aldo do? He vouched for me to the manager, putting up his own money, knowing I'd be back soon to pay it back. Thank you, Aldo.

Sluts and the City

I hate Sex and the City. Hate. I hear that Sarah Jessica Horseface Veiny Parker voice-over, and I break out in hives. That show, and MySpace, are double-handedly responsible for the increasingly profligate promiscuity of the American woman. It just makes girls feel better about being insecure and sexually indiscriminate. Now, some guys might champion this cultural impact, which I understand, but call me old-fashioned, I still prefer a girl who's confident and doesn't sleep with every guy she meets out because she overvalued some minor coincidence and thinks their encounter is fate and he must be The One.

And don't even get me started on the fashion choices that women justify using that show.

And, every girl loves to talk about which one she is. "Oh, I'm Carrie because I like clothes and write in a journal!" "I'm Miranda because I'm a fire-crotch!" "I'm Samantha because I'm a whore!" (I think I got the names right. That's sad. I hate myself now.) The funny thing is, if you ask a guy, we think they're ALL just AWFUL! Trust me, you don't want to be any one of them. Just stop. The only one we want to bang is an OCD, anal-retentive prude. Way to aim high, ladies. I feel bad for your fathers...

Sausage Fest

I hate that there's no equivalent term for "sausage fest," so I'll suggest one: "clam bake." As in, you call your friend from the bar and say, "dude, this place is a total clam bake. You need to get here immediately!" (Curmudgeon's note - I'm aware this never really happens.)

Anyway, I ran this by my friend the other day, and he said, "yeah, but that has a smelly connotation." And then I thought, yeah, but they often do . . . smell . . . vaginas, I mean. And clams. So it works on a whole 'nother level. Clam bake. Pass it on.

Tyler Perry Has A Tiny Penis

Who the hell is Tyler Perry? Where did this guy come from and why is the inclusion of his name in the title of something supposed to be a selling point? Seriously, how insecure is this guy? If his product were so good, wouldn't it be able to stand on its own without his name? "Tyler Perry's House of Payne," "Tyler Perry's Meet the Browns," Tyler Perry's Madea Goes to Jail! You don't see other producers/writers/directors putting their names on everything they do. You don't see Herschel Goldberg's Dinosaur Adventureland, or Saul Weinblatt's Rocket Destroyers, or whatever. That would be ridiculous!

That's why the only conclusion I can come to is that Tyler Perry has a tiny penis, which had to have been especially damaging growing up in the African-American community, given the prevalent stereotypes to the contrary. Growing up with such a tiny, tiny, minuscule penis, while burdened by such weighty expectations of having a big one, must have crushed his nascent self-esteem. The only way he felt he could compensate for this was by over-posturing, and putting his name on everything with which he was affiliated.

Who knows? Maybe he does it at home, too, with household items. Like, when he gets ready for bed, maybe he uses Tyler Perry's Toothpaste, or at the dinner table, he asks his wife to pass the Tyler Perry's Mashed Potatoes. I don't know. All I'm saying is, that guy's got a small wiener.

The Clap

I hate when people clap at movies. Seriously. What the fuck? Who are you clapping for? You're really just clapping for yourself. Or, to what?...show other people that you understood and appreciated what the movie was trying to say? Are you that insecure? I can tolerate it on an airplane because at least the pilot is present to bathe in your adulation, but not at movies...unless it's the premiere.

Books on Tape

I hate the new book-on-tape craze. Mostly because I hate when people who listened to the book on tape talk like they actually read the book. Eh. That feels like cheating to me. That's like if you go to a Thai massage parlor, pay for the "happy ending," and then tell your wife you jerked off. No you didn't. You had someone do it for you. And that, my friend, is cheating.

Introduction

Hmmm... I don't really know where to begin. I'm kind of self-conscious and non-plussed about this whole blog thing, but then I decided that if I continued to keep my perpetually building rage bottled up any longer, I might actually murder someone.

So, consider this my outlet. Mostly, I'll probably be complaining about the absurdities of life. You know, the things I hate and that drive me crazy, as the title of the blog would indicate. Hopefully I'll even provide some solutions, even if it is just, "stop fucking doing that because you're an asshole."

When I first conceived of this idea, I started to jot down a brief list of the things I hate. It quickly grew, and with it grew my internal fury. So in the interest of my health and the sanity of those close to me, I may actually try to throw in an occasional post about something I love. I try to be fair. Most of my curmudgeonly...ness(?) stems from my frustration with people's pervasive retardation, so I guess it's only fair to acknowledge when people get things right, too, right? It just happens way less often.

I am Andy Rooney with less-bushy eyebrows. I am Larry David with hair. (I am way younger than both those guys.) I am: The Curmudgeon.

Testies...