Mondays Are For Letting The Hate Flow

NOTE: I've got a sunburn, a headache, and a lot of work to do that, quite frankly, I don't feel like doing. As I sit here at my desk, the surliness within me grows and grows. I need to vent that shit, stat, or I'm going to flip out and start trashing the place and nobody wants that. Because when I get going, I'm like an AK-47 loaded not with bullets... but with tornadoes. Bring it world... fucking bring it!!!

FLOWERS - Whatever, pretty flowers. I get that you have to grow and produce oxygen and give food to bees, but you know what? I think you're full of shit. Oooh, look at me, look at me... I'm a variety of colors and I smell good all the time and if you give a whole bundle of me and my brothers to your girlfriend, you'll probably get some sweet, sweet lovin'. Yeah, well, fuck you and your visually appealing, good-scent having, thoughtful present-being selves. Sometimes you make me sneeze and if I'm going to keep you around my house, I've got to give you a shitload of water and sunlight so you don't die. Dude, I have enough to worry about with keeping my cat alive; like I have time to deal with your allergy-aggravating, floral butts.

BABIES - Ugh. Yeah, it's not your fault, but when I'm on the subway, trying to avoid making eye-contact with the homeless while still looking studly enough so that all the ladies on the train go, "He's so handsome; I bet a smile from him is like a death-row pardon," your crying is really distracting. Also, with the pooping and the peeing and the puking all the time...? We get it, okay. You're an unformed human who hasn't learned how to take care of his-or-herself yet. There's absolutely no need to make a big hairy deal about it constantly. Seriously, could you be more of an attention whore?

COOL RANCH DORITOS - You sneaky fucking backstabbing liar motherfuckers... You taste so good; like a liberally seasoned dream that I never want to wake up from, and just when I think I've found the snack food I want to spend the rest of my days with... BOOM!!! You stab me in the back with a fucking broadsword made up of my suddenly-fat ass and my stinky Doritos breath. How could you do this to me, a guy who only wants to love you? I settle down with a bag of you, ready to commit myself fully to the act of enjoying your deliciousness, and when it's all over, all I've got is the inability to move because I'm too stuffed with grease and also, I can't talk to anyone because my mouth-fumes are so toxic I'd melt their faces like I just shoved them head-first into a blast furnace. I'm so sad because of you and I hope you feel awful about it.

PEACE - Hey, go ahead and happen, Peace. I mean, sure, if you show up, you'll put a lot of people who manufacture guns, bullets, tanks, gas masks, bomber planes, bayonets, and nuclear weapons out of work, but I guess you probably don't care about that. You just want to stride across the planet like a big shot, making everyone "happy." Well, hopefully the employees of Lockheed Martin can find some of that "happiness" on the unemployment line. But don't let that bother you. I'm sure they'll be fine living out of their cars and dying cold and lonely in an alley behind a strip club.

LIQUOR - You and cigarettes are both murders that get advertising space in national magazines. Don't know how you did it, but congrats, you organ-destroying, life-ruining, buzz-inducing, so, so, tasty.... god, I want a glass of you to drink right now... oh god... Aw, hell. Liquor, I can't hate you. You're just too good. Still a murderer, yes, but a murderer I'd love to have my liver process right about now.

NOTE: Whew! Man I feel great now! Why's everyone crying?