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chairWarning: This has nothing to do with nutrition or training, and is not meant for kids under 3.

This is the first installment of a brisk three part senseless rant. Next installments: Things I Don’t Understand, and finallyThings I Like. I’ve orchestrated the content into a train of ascending positivity, so while the first couple might leave you feeling combative and depraved, you’ll finish the series with so much optimism embeded deep down in your loins that Oprah will be jerking you off and bottling your ejaculate as perfume.

Things I Hate

  • Huge sunglasses on girls. If one of the lenses is big enough to replace a cracked Miata windshield, don’t wear them. I understand that during last night’s blow job circus one or more of your eyes may have taken in a stray, but you can still cover them up with normal sunglasses. Or stay inside and re-evaluate your life.

You can’t hide from me.

  • When people say “travelling is amazing”. Its not. People running ultra marathons barefoot with gunshot wounds are amazing. Nine year old kids doing trigonometry drunk are amazing. Travelling is like soup; there’s good soup and there’s bad soup, but soup itself not amazing, its just soup. If you’re lucky you might see something amazing while travelling, but it’s not the travelling that was amazing, it was the part when you stumbled upon your great-grandmother finger banging a semi-conscious bum behind a dumpster in the brown-light district of Prague.

A delicious lobster bisque; truly an amazing soup.

  • Girls that watch Sex and the City. Guess what, I’ve done the research, and Sex in the City is not just like your life. Aside from the fact that this show has blown a gigantic hole in the bottom of the modern female morality row-boat, and redefined the termslutty as socially acceptable, it’s delivered in a vehicle of unapologetic asinine writing, nauseating overacting, and elementary plot lines. What the hell is the appeal? Is your life really not any more interesting than this? If it isn’t, I certainly don’t want to be around you.

It’s like Entourage, but with more STD’s.

  • Status Updates about your shitty life. Why must people constantly Facebook about the mind-numbingly boring shit they’re doing? I don’t care if your cat just knitted you a sweater out of the pubic hair it licked off your pillowcase, unless you’re going to use that sweater to practice hanging yourself from the ceiling fan. Can your cat call 911? It can’t after I wrap scotch tape around its dialing paw, which I’m doing right now.

I’m coming for you, kitty.

  • Affliction. What would happen if Hypercolor shirts got drunk on Jager Bombs and had sex with a pair of Z. Cavaricci  jeans? The demon spawn inanimate child would be the first born of a clothing company called Affliction, that’s what. With all of their marketing efforts to become a “hard” clothing line by sponsoring MMA fighters and various washed up rock ‘n rollers, they’ve only proven to embarrass themselves further and have rapidly solidified a leading spot as the ostentatious joke of the fashion industry.  The handy thing is, when you spot a guy wearing an affliction shirt it may as well be a crayon scribbled sign around his neck stating “If you’re looking to make friends with a super-douche sporting an IQ slightly higher than his resting heart rate, I’m your fucking guy, bro!”. If you’re really lucky you may even spot a full douche-suit, i.e. an Affliction shirt with Affliction jeans. This is the Holy Grail; I’ll need you to immediately send pics if spotted. Everytime you wear Affliction clothes, Mark Nason cries a little inside.

If you’ve seen this in your mirror, do the world a favor…stay indoors and watch Real World.

Coming soon: Things I Don’t Understand