The Ultimate Hatelist

There are many things in this world that are inherently difficult; for example running a marathon, checking your fantasy team at work without getting caught and learning to use the mouse with your left hand so you can continue to beat off while seamlessly navigating through several different pornographic website free trials. Changing the channel of a TV, however, should not be one of them. It seems no matter what bar I am at changing the channel is always a huge ordeal. The bar has seven TVs playing a muted episode of PTI while you are begging them to put on the playoff game you bet your prized Rocksteady and Bebop action figures on. 15 game minutes later, three bartenders start fumbling around with 12 remotes searching on a piece of paper for what channel FOX is while changing every TV except the one you are sitting by. It’s kind of like when I awkwardly prod my fingers around the inside a women’s hoo-ha while constantly searching for a facial expression that doesn’t look pissed. Then, five minutes after they finally get the game playing on the non-HD channel with the closed captioning blocking the score, the channel starts randomly changing again because the same bartender is trying to find a high school soccer game that some douche came to watch. I swear, this exact sequence of events happens literally every time. If I ended up on the news for murdering a bar full of people, do you think the bar you were at would be able to put it on? And for the record, the Stanley Cup finals take priority over a June Devil Rays game.

Honorable Mention: The fact that so many bars have flat screen TVs that aren’t in HD. I know I make a big deal out of HD stuff a lot, but why the hell would you buy the HDTV and not the get the service? It’s like a level 70 Call of Duty Player buying condoms. Why don’t you just stop by my grandma’s house and take her ‘93 Zenith instead?

The small, rudimentary bliss one extracts from a blow pop is so awesome it can only be measured in rainbows and sunshine. The moment your tongue caresses that oddly circumcised looking, artificially candy flavored pop of goodness like a virgin’s nipple, is just unbeatable. I love Blow Pops more than J.J Abrams likes time travel. I love Blow pops more than Cat Stevens hates America. I even love Blow Pops more than tweens and sex offenders love MySpace. They might even be as good as the soundtrack to Dazed and Confused. But don’t think for a second that the greatness of the blow pop can negate its hated attributes. The thin, plastic covering that lies between me and my daily serving of fruit and immediate gratification is an epic nuisance, made only more unbearable by the delicious sweetness it conceals and stubbornly defends. The Blow Pop cape is essentially the chastity belt of the candy realm.

I used to get so excited when the Blow Pop wrapper didn’t stick directly to the pop, only to get B.I.G. “Hold Ya Head” depressed when, through some anomaly of physics, it got stuck on the stick, forming pretty much the only uncool cape in history. All I know is that it gives the lolly pop the super power of being really fucking annoying and that any of my sorry attempts to remove this covering were more pathetic than AT&T’s rebuttal to Verizon’s new add campaign. Why is this wrapper so hard to get off the stick? If hymens were made out of blow pop wrappers, then all women would still be virgins. I’m also pretty sure they used knotted blow pop wrappers to strangle that guy in The Godfather Part II. If only New Orleans had the foresight to build their levy system with a nice, solid blow pop wrapper foundation. There was only one way to successfully remove the excess Blow Pop material and that was wedge your teeth between the pop and the stick and pull until either the wrapper slides off, your teeth chip or you accept your horrible fate of having to essencially give a blow job with a condom on. Now, that’s a blow pop’s (say from Charms).

Honorable Mention: The lie that if you bought a Tootsie Pop with the Indian shooting a star on the wrapper you would get a free one. Who made up this rumor and why do you hate me?

I don’t hate the Middle East as much as I’m just tired of hearing about it. Okay, that’s a lie. I hate it as I hate hell all Montagues and thee. But I really am tired of hearing about it. Why are these guys so mad? Your life doesn’t seem so bad. If my scholastic knowledge serves me right, you probably have a pet monkey, a slamming hot bottom bitch named Jasmine with a pet tiger, a flying carpet and your own comical genie. I mean, lighten up. Abuse some prescription pills, grab a bud light and watch some football or something. Maybe take off some of those clothes, you’re in the desert, r-tard. Get a tank top and lawn chair and bask in the tropical sun and privilege of being able to legally beat the shit out of women. Now maybe it’s because I don’t fully understand your culture, maybe it’s because every country there is pretty much the exact same place to me, but blowing up building just seems like a little more work than it’s worth. Plus, if you keep blowing up all these cafe’s where are you supposed to get your iced caramel macchiatos from? I would think those would really hit the spot in the desert.

Also, this whole virgin afterlife thing? Com’on, bro. What are you stupid? Have you ever had sex with a virgin? It’s terrible. They just whine the whole time, tell you to go slower and have no idea what they’re doing. Most of them are going to cry afterward and probably make you watch Glee. You can’t even really go at it unless you’re as small as I am….Wait, is that what this is all about? You complain that American society is a bunch of hedonists and infidels, like we even know what that means, but your heaven is something right out of late night Cinemax. Yea, what now? Thanks for hookahs and hummus, now go blow a xanex and type up all the things that you hate a put them onto a blog that no one will read. Maybe you should reevaluate your lifestyle and think about moving to a place with a natural water source. While you’re at it, why don’t you also consider just how annoying 50 virgins nagging you to turn on One Tree Hill can be.

Besides my dad’s Lady Gaga ring tone, Ghost Calls are quite possibly one of the most irksome exchanges one can have with a cellular telephone. To clarify, a Ghost Call transpires in the event of a missed call from an unknown number that doesn’t result in a voicemail. This hate presents a particularly unique brand of off-putting aggravation, which can only be compared to watching the vaginal crowing scene from “Knocked Up.”

Was that call important? And why didn’t they leave a message? Maybe it was my boss wondering why I missed that meeting? Maybe John Cusack called to tell me he lifted the restraining order against me? I don’t know, it could have been anyone. The whole ghost call situation is like being on the wrong end of a glory hole. And now my hate is just squirting all over the place because I don’t know who it should be aimed at.

While we are on the subject, I would also like to include the phenomenon known as the Phantom Vibe, which I guess falls under the same general category of haunted phone stuff. The phantom vibe is a result of the psychosomatic anomaly that causes you to think you’re receiving a call or text message when you’re actually not. You can be sure that you felt a vibe, but low and behold, you have an empty inbox. It’s like the inverse of sex with me. While you’re sure you didn’t feel anything, low and behold, my pathetic excuse for a preschooler’s schmeckle is swimming around in your inbox. Sometimes it’s hard come to terms with the fact that you’re continually the recipient of a phantom vibe. Maybe you’re just not as popular as you’d always thought. It’s okay; ‘I had a bad case of loser denial myself, until the lacrosse team shoved a parking cone up my ass.’

Honorable Mention: The Shadow Greeting – This is when someone’s voicemail greeting makes it sound like they are answering the phone. Assholes.

The act of taking off dress pants is the worst garment related situation an individual can find themselves in, short of taking off dress pants you just sharted in. To start, any scenario which would require such formal attire probably sucks enough to warrant its own spot on the hatelist. Whether it be work, a wedding, your cousin’s bar mitzvah or a court hearing for exposing yourself to a plastic sculpture of Ronald McDonald and then again to a group of children on a bouncy castle, getting up early and putting on uncomfortable clothing with a waistband that’s probably too small sucks enough as it is. But having to come back afterwards to tend to the very slacks that helped contribute to the shittiness of your day can make just wearing them seem as easy as beating your dad’s high score in brickbraker. It’s like an entire second job. Not only that, but the actual physical act of hanging up the pants sucks equally as hard. First finding the crease and then having to maintain it during the one handed transfer to the hanger, which of course is not a real hanger but a wire one from the dry cleaner, is more frustrating than trying to make or receive a call with an iPhone. Sure, you could just throw your dress pants to the floor, relax and go on with the rest of your evening. That way when you wake up the next morning to repeat your poor excuse for an existence, you’ll scrounge around for another pair that you won’t find before dressing yourself in the wrinkled monster you helped create. Then there is, of course, the subsequent impending dry cleaning bill.

This dry cleaner is going to sabotage you. He’s going to keep giving you a ton of free really shitty hangers, providing additional incentive not to hang up your slacks, which is sure to ultimately result in you throwing them on the floor and having to bring them in again. Not to mention the cost for dry cleaning pants is about twice that of a shirt. Conspiracy? I think so. See, what we need are some good, sturdy wooden hangers. I have a few, but hangers are the kind of thing you just kind of end up with and have no idea where they came from, kind of like STDs or umbrellas. Who is going out to a hanger store and wasting money on hangers? I mean, I would consider it if all of my money wasn’t currently tied up in booze and Ahh Real Monsters pogs.

Honorable Mention: Pleated Pants

I am beginning to lose faith in technology, as well as humanity in general, because as soon as we solve a problem by coming out with something totally fucking awesome, we really only create another problem.

I was nothing but a mere awkward adolescent when TiVo came to my town in January of 99. People traveled from miles in every direction to gather around the window at the local Wiz electronic store. No one could believe it. No longer would man be slaves to network programming. No longer would an individual be subjected to dozens of stupid Geico commercials featuring a stack of money that has eyes. It seemed like just over night that everyone got their own kind of digital recording device. It wasn’t too long after that before it began bringing out the worst in people.

What started out as the slight inconvenience of having to watch other individuals fumble around trying to find where the commercials end festered inside for long enough before becoming full-on displeasure. For the first time in human history, people would stop fighting over who gets to hold the remote (remind me to write a hate on people who call it a ‘clicker’) and started fighting over who has to be the fast-forwarder during the commercials. This so-called ‘inverse remote demand’ gave birth to the Bad TiVo fast-forwarder, who happens to have several forms:

This is the asshole who fast-forwards 10 minutes into the show before their retard fingers can find the giant green button with the triangle on it.

Essentially the opposite of Bad TiVo fast forwarder # 1. These people press play entirely too early forcing you to watch two minutes of Axe Body spray propaganda.

More painful than numbers one and two, this fucktard watches two minutes of commercials before remembering the show is recorded, only to then fast forward 10 minutes past the show.
(myself) is a crafty individual and actually a great TiVo fast forwarder, perhaps one of the best in the world ever, but pretends like he’s bad just so he doesn’t have to be the designated fast forwarder guy.

Perhaps the most frustrating aspect of the entire TiVo system is that technology actually has the capability to fix this. You don’t think TiVo knows the duration of commercial breaks? Oh, TiVo knows. If she knows to record all of my favorite non-pornographic shows to jerk off, like Everyday Italian with Giada, Charmed, Law and Order: SVU and I Dream of Genie then she’s fully capable of skipping all the commercials entirely if she wanted to. But no, underneath her sexy beautiful, chrome exterior my TiVo is a corporate sellout. My harlot of a TiVo ensures I that I am exposed to every ad, even if it has to be in 1,2,3 or even 4 arrows of fast forwardness. It pains me to know that your allegiance lies with them, TiVo; after all the dramas and games we’ve been through. Heh, it’s funny, TiVo. All my friends have girlfriends and wives to come home to, and ya know, I always thought we had something special going on. I know I’ve been working a lot lately and we haven’t been able to spend the same amount of quality time together, but it made the time we did mean that much more. You don’t love me at all, do you TiVo? Your silence says it all. I guess not all of us were programmed to love.

Ailuropoda melanoleuca, more commonly known as the Giant Panda, is not only the furry embodiment of ineptitude, but evokes the misplaced compassion of women who probably have a huge bush, guys who want to bang chicks with huge bushes and people who are pretty much incapable of functioning on the same plane of existence as everyone else, who have nothing better to do than bitch about things that really have no impact on their lives. I’m going to go ahead and assume that any woman with a huge bush probably stopped reading by this point, so to all you individuals with either a penis or a well maintained ham wallet, let me explain to you exactly how Pandas made their way into the hatelist. I’ll also assume that after that ham wallet comment I just made I probably lost the rest of the female demographic.

To start off, pandas are as stubborn as they are stupid. They are omnivores, but are too lazy to hunt, so they resort to eating bamboo almost exclusively. They are so stupid that instead of finding a real source of food they just eat wood, which by the way only grows on 0.000001% of the earth at an altitude pandas refuse to live at. I like to think of them as a senior citizen at the grocery store trying to buy a single piece of fruit with an expired coupon before making a scene trying to return it. What’s black and white and red all over? A panda bear being killed by something because black and white are stupid fucking colors to be when you live in the jungle. It’s pretty much the worst camouflage ever, except for regular people wearing camo as part of their everyday attire. They stand out more than Joaquin Phoenix at a Chuck E. Cheese.

The retardedness of this creature does not end there, rather quite the contrary. Have you ever seen a panda porn? Probably not because these animals refuse to bone each other. I mean I have a panda porn, but I got it from Sotheby’s and it’s a collectors item. It’s kind of like the Mantle rookie card of my porn collection. And If through some miracle of modern science two members of the Dharma Initiative somehow get the female panda to give the male panda a quick boner-suck and they actually consummate their panda fuck resulting in an offspring, they are worse parents than the Lohan’s. Some panda with an Asian name had 17 babies over the course of her lifetime and every single one of them died. Another panda with an Asian name fell asleep on her cub and killed it. Someone call panda child services, get these pandas a more suitable parent like Courtney Love.

These animals may be useless. I mean, they don’t get shot out of trees onto trampolines and they were indirectly responsible for the making of the Kung Fu Panda, but these creatures, however, are merely just a symptom of a bigger problem. Pandas would not be half as vexing of a species if there wasn’t such a pretentious human effort to save them. Before you know it, they won’t let any pandas play dodgeball because it’s too dangerous. No one will be able to eat a peanut within 100 yards of a panda because they may be allergic. Jewish Panda moms will start calling up and complaining to panda teachers because their 4th grade panda’s Pokémon cards were allegedly stolen by a minority panda janitor. Maybe these creatures should just go the way of the Jackoffasaur. It makes me a sad panda, but sometimes dead is better. Sometimes, dead is better.