How To Hate Everything

Another Shit-Tastic Holiday Video To Remind You That Although January Seems Anticlimactic, It's Actually OK In The Grander Scheme of Things

2012-01-27T15:01:00.000-08:00

I know it's not the holidays anymore.

THANK SATAN FOR THAT.

But I found this little gem and I had to share. It's no RuPaul, but it's a whole handful of DAVID BOWIE AND BING CROSBY'S SCHOOL OF ACTING.

Wither and rot,

Luce

PAINTING BLOWS. Also, it's 2012.

2012-01-12T21:33:00.000-08:00

Did you know that this will be How To Hate Everything's 120th post?!

HUZZAH! SOUND THE TRUMPETS, OH YE FERAL WOMBATS!

Do you know what I hate?

Painting walls.

Like, house walls. Or, more accurately, the walls of my FESTERING POTHOLE.

Let me start out by saying that I'm not one for entertaining. I didn't start painting the walls of my FESTERING POTHOLE because I wanted to have a pothole-warming party or anything like that.

That sounds funny. Pothole-warming party. It sounds like pot-holder. Or pot-warmer. Like a candle-warmer, but for a pot. A hot plate. Those are called hot plates. They warm pots. Also, stoves warm pots. Things you should be aware of.

No, I wanted to paint the walls of my FESTERING POTHOLE because in my pea-sized brain, I thought it would preoccupy my sociopathic mind. I also thought and continue to think that my sun room needs an accent wall.

So I decide to go out and buy a gallon of paint.

I decide that I want to paint this accent wall gold, because I'm a luxurious person. This paint looks pretty gold. The swatch looks gold. It would appear as though this paint would turn out to be an OPULENT and condescending hue of gold.

And this is what I get:

Now, if you're still a little confused, this is most definitely not an OPULENT and condescending gold. THIS IS ORANGE.

ORANGE.

I DIDN'T ASK FOR ORANGE.

ORANGE IS NOT OPULENT OR condescending.

ORANGE DOESN'T SAY, "I'M FINANCIALLY WELL-OFF AND THEREFORE BETTER THAN YOU".

WHICH IS WHAT I WANTED MY ACCENT WALL TO SAY.

BUT IT DOESN'T SAY THAT.

IT SAYS, "I'M ORANGE AND I CLASH".

I hate this wall.

Painting an accent wall is most likely the closest I'll ever get to playing Russian Roulette. But not Russian Roulette in the glamorous sense, where you're standing in a warehouse full of stolen Renoir paintings and a Slavic Bond girl is pointing a gun at you and whispering.

EDGY.

No, it's like REAL Russian Roulette. In a creepy little hut with old dudes.

Like these old dudes. These ones are HARDCORE.

When I went in to buy my paint, I didn't realize how big of a commitment paint really is. For starters, someone has to mix it for you.

This is obviously a huge buzz-kill for me because I'm a sociopath.

So I have to go through the pain of interacting with a human. WHICH SUCKS.

Also, all paint swatches look the SAME. I think there's some biological abnormality that makes every color look the SAME after you've been staring at little colored papers for thirty minutes straight. So at some point, I'm not sure if the paint I'm getting is going to be an OPULENT and condescending gold, or tie-dye jazz paint.

I don't think tie-dye jazz paint actually exists, but I just thought of it. Tie-Dye Jazz Paint. It's catchy.

IT'S ALSO A COLOR THAT WOULD MOST LIKELY LOOK WAY BETTER THAN ORANGE DOES ON MY ACCENT WALL.

Back to my Russian Roulette comparison. After spending over thirty minutes staring at little colored papers, I pick the gold that looks to be the most OPULENT and condescending gold of them ALL!

And then I go up to the counter and I get it mixed.

But in that moment of getting my paint mixed, I realize how big of a commitment I'm making. I think this gold is the gold that best expresses my OPULENT and condescending personality. I'm rejecting all other golds in favor of this gold, this tiny fragment of OPULENT and condescending gold that will make my pothole appear more OPULENT and condescending.

This gold and I have entered a commitment, like a common-law marriage but scarier because this OPULENT and condescending gold could quite possibly outlive me. If I die on my dining room floor right next to the Iron Maiden by choking on TGI Friday's Spinach and Artichoke Cheese Dip, the coroners will be bombarded with this OPULENT and condescending hue of gold while stuffing my lifeless corpse and any Pokemon cards that I may have lying around into a body bag.

And they will judge me. They will judge my OPULENT and condescending paint choice. They will decide whether or not the hue of gold I picked is, in fact, OPULENT and condescending, or just OPULENT, or just condescending, or NEITHER.

But I bury this fear deep down in my psyche, and I buy the OPULENT and condescending gold.

Then when I get back to my pothole, I realize something awful.

I HAVE TO PAINT MY OWN ACCENT WALL.

Ugh. I hate moving my limbs, so this is going to BLOW.

And it honestly did. My tricep is sore and now my left tricep is going to be more defined than my right tricep, so I'll be an asymmetrical FREAK with fucked-up triceps.

FIRST WORLD PROBLEMS ARE REAL PROBLEMS, EVERYONE.

So after an hour of brutal blue-collar work, my accent wall is painted. It looks sort of strange and slightly orange, but I'm thinking, "Hey, paint dries a different color". But this discrepancy makes me nervous, so I literally sit in my living room and watch the paint dry.

Yep. I watched paint dry.

And it was serious shit. My neck is still a little sore from staring at my accent wall for approximately one hour and twenty-seven minutes. But who's counting?

Me. I'm counting.

And guess what?

MY FUCKING OPULENT AND condescending gold PAINT TURNED INTO HEINOUS JACK-O-LANTERN CONSTRUCTION CONE ORANGE.

So now my neck is sore, my left tricep is huge and my shirt sleeves barely fit around it, and my accent wall is GARISH AND ORANGE.

Unhappy New Year, beached whales.

Luce

What Lucy Got For "Anti-Christ" mas

2011-12-26T19:31:00.000-08:00

Look at what I got.

Yep. A SHITTY BATH SET.

Typical.

RuPaul Sings "Little Drummer Boy". Yep.

2011-12-19T12:04:00.000-08:00

I've been trying to gift you with a shit-tastic holiday song.

I thought of Mariah and Bieber's "All I Want For Christmas Is You".

But that's too mainstream.

No, my indie 93 FOLLOWERS! I looked long and hard, and found this little gem for you. Presenting the one and only RuPaul, singing "Little Drummer Boy".

Yep. This is how dedicated I am to you and YOUR NON-DENOMINATIONAL WINTER HOLIDAY NEEDS.

Lucy

Holiday Chain Mail

2011-12-11T10:48:00.000-08:00

This holiday season, I decided to accomplish one of my most coveted dreams.

You might stop reading this in a bit if you believe in this shit like I do. Which is why I'm telling you right now, IF YOU DON'T SEND THIS TO TEN PEOPLE BY MIDNIGHT TOMORROW, YOU WILL LOSE ALL OF YOUR FINGERS AND THREE OF YOUR TOES AND THEN YOUR SOULMATE WILL MARRY KEANU REEVES AND THEY'LL MOVE TO THE HOUSE RIGHT NEXT TO YOU AND THEN ALL OF THE CATS WITHIN A FIVE-MILE RADIUS OF YOUR CAR WILL ATTACK YOUR TIRES SO YOU'LL HAVE TO GET NEW TIRES EVERY THREE DAYS AND YOUR CAR WILL CONSTANTLY BE COVERED IN CAT HAIR AND BLOOD AND WHEN YOU GO TO WORK YOU WON'T BE ABLE TO GET ON FACEBOOK SO YOU WON'T HAVE ANYTHING TO DO AND YOUR FAVORITE MUG WILL GET STOLEN BY YOUR BEST FRIEND AND THEN YOUR BEST FRIEND WILL BECOME BEST FRIENDS WITH KEANU REEVES ND YOUR SOULMATE AND THEY'LL ALL HANG OUT AT THE HOUSE NEXT DOOR AND WHENEVER YOUR BEST FRIEND GOES OVER TO THEIR HOUSE, THEY'LL BRING YOUR FAVORITE MUG SO YOU'LL HAVE TO SEE YOUR BEST FRIEND AND YOUR FAVORITE MUG AND KEANU REEVES EVERY DAY BUT NONE OF THEM WILL TALK TO YOU, EXCEPT FOR MAYBE KEANU REEVES BUT IF HE TALKS TO YOU HE'LL ONLY TALK ABOUT BILL AND TED'S EXCELLENT ADVENTURE AND THAT'LL SUCK REALLY BAD AFTER ABOUT THREE MONTHS. SO YOU'LL SEE THEM A LOT AND YOU'LL BE SUPER JEALOUS AND WHEN YOU TRY TO OPEN A SODA CAN, THE TAB WILL CUT YOUR THUMB UNDER THE NAIL EVERY TIME, AND THAT'S A HORRIBLE PLACE TO GET A CUT BECAUSE IT HURTS LIKE A SON OF A MOTHER. ALSO, A CLOWN WILL HIDE UNDER YOUR BED AND IT'LL SQUEEZE LEMON JUICE INTO THE CUT UNDER YOUR THUMB EVERY NIGHT UNTIL FOREVER.

So, if you're still a little foggy about what I'm making, I AM CREATING CHAIN MAIL.

Here goes.

Once upon a time, a pretty girl and her boyfriend lived in an apartment. The apartment wasn't very nice, but they loved eachother a lot and they had a sofa set from IKEA so life was good.
The boyfriend loved his girlfriend, but one night they got into a fight about Keanu Reeves and he went out to a bar. He ended up meeting a skank named Vuluptua and they had sex. When they were done, Vuluptua told him that since they had consummated their love, they would have to meet every Tuesday at 11:28 pm in front of a RedBox machine. The boyfriend agreed.

When he met her the following Tuesday at 11:28 pm in front of a RedBox, she gave him a seashell and told him that he had to bring it with him next Tuesday, or else something awful would happen. He was a little freaked out, but complied with her wishes and met her next Tuesday at 11:28 pm in front of the RedBox with a seashell.

This time, she gave him a T-Bone steak. She told him to cook it in a pot of boiling water for three hours, then put it in a shoebox and bring it to the RedBox next Tuesday at 11:28 pm with the seashell. He agreed.

The next Tuesday, he came in tow with the T-Bone steak and seashell. This time, she gave him a goldfish and told him that he had to color the fish purple with a marker, then bring it with him to the RedBox next Tuesday along with the steak and the seashell.

At this point, the boyfriend started to get super frustrated. He was like, "OMG, wat a weird-o. We had sex, lyke, one tyme! Dis is SOOOOOO dum. Eye don't want 2 cullurr dis fish wif a markrrrrr".

So HE DIDN'T. He didn't show up to the RedBox at 11:28 pm the following Tuesday. He threw away the steak and the seashell, and flushed the fish down the porcelain throne.

That night at 11:29 pm, Vuluptua called his phone.

"Hello?" said the boyfriend.

"Oh hai," replied Vuluptua. "Wherrr r u?"

"Ummm... I'm not cuming," snarled the boyfriend. "I'm super buzy and I don't want 2 cullurr dis fish wif a markrrrrr."

"Y?" questioned Vuluptua.

The boyfriend replied, "Cuz it'z weird."

Vuluptua took in a sharp breath. "Well then, you must SUFRRRRRRR."

That night, the boyfriend and the girlfriend went to bed. At three in the morning, the girlfriend woke up and decided to get a snack. When she went into the kitchen, she saw.....

THE REFRIDGERATOR.

She opened the refridgerator and discovered that.....

THE MILK WENT BAD ON SUNDAY.

She poured it out into the sink, and when she went to throw away the carton......

THE TRASH WAS REALLY FULL.

So when she went to empty out the trash...

A GIGANTIC TRASH MONSTER CLOWN ATTACKED HER!

It was really gorey. Really, really bad. I'd show you a picture of it but it's REALLY gnarly.

Anywho, the reason that this happened was because the boyfriend didn't follow Vuluptua's wishes. So now, because of his foolish mistake, Vuluptua's wrath lives on in this chain mail.

Yep. You're very welcome.

Lucy

P.S. This is the trash clown.

Rudolph the Red-Nosed LEPER

2011-12-06T12:55:00.000-08:00

It's nearing the end of the year, misguided trolls.

In this month of December, I think about our little empire here at How To Hate Everything. Over a few years, we've cultivated 91 followers, 91 little beacons of hope for a hateful future.

I must say that I'm quite proud of myself! Although you little bastards have been stingy with the comments. I guess haters can't be choosers....

In this time of retrospection, I've realized that something is off about the holiday season.

Namely, SHIT-TASTIC EARLY 2000'S DEPARTMENT STORE CHRISTMAS SONGS. Namely, Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer.

As a group of beings, the world has made some extremely impressive societal advancements. We discovered fire and that was cool. Then we discovered how to make flameless candles that flicker like real candles but don't catch my hair on fire. This was an even more exciting prospect. We created the InterWeb, so we could blog about ex-boyfriends and yogurt hair masks. We discovered that if we put grapes in a barrel and let them sit there for a really long time and then mash them up with our feet and drink the remnants, it could make us feel more attractive and funnier and all around better.

Yep. We figured this shit out.

We decided that perhaps this world was not enough for the likes of us, so we invented spaceships and flew to the moon. Well, maybe....

On a side note, is that a sheep in the middle? I can't tell. Moon sheep are fucking scary.

Then we decided that we wanted to be creative. We created beautiful colors with mashed-up berries and perhaps a few of the grapes we stomped on because we were most likely drunk and bored and there were lots of rotting grapes around, and we smeared these colors on pieces of papyrus paper and cloth to create art.

Brilliant artists, wordsmiths like William Shakespeare, Truman Capote, those dudes that wrote the Bible, the dudes that translated the Bible into a comic book series, and me (Lucy Beelz), used a primitive form of communication to mold whole landscapes, to tell stories and fables and gossip about Brangelina.

Did you know that she beats her kids with heated coat-hangers? They're like wire hangers, but heated like a curling iron. The best of both worlds. This is just speculation. Don't quote me on this.

Then, we took these magnificent words and decided to add intonation and rhythm to our voices to create song.

And then SOME EFFING DOUCHEBAG IN 2003 DECIDED TO REMAKE "RUDOLPH THE RED-NOSED REINDEER" FOR THE EIGHTH TIME WITH A SYNTHESIZER AND A DRUM MACHINE.

Don't get me wrong. Sometimes, and I say SOMETIMES because it's literally once every five or so years, I get all masochistic and pull up a CHRISTMAS station on Pandora for about twenty minutes before realizing that most CHRISTMAS music SUCKS.

Why does CHRISTMAS music suck?

1. They all have morals and shit. Let's dissect "Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer".

Let's talk about this little fuck-knob.

(On a side note, don't you love this picture? I think it was a picture taken shortly after he got mugged outside of Bel-Air for police records. I may or may not have been involved....)

The story of Rudolph, in song form, is that he had a fucked-up nose and that it radiated light and shit. All of the other reindeer were understandably freaked out by it because a flashing, glowing appendage is something that any animal would find threatening. Also, Rudolph's friends are all reindeer. They're not civil rights figureheads, they're not prone to understanding the deep inner-workings of acceptance and unconditional love because THEY'RE REINDEER AND THEY'RE FUCKING ANIMALS THAT YOU CAN HIT WITH YOUR CAR IF THEY JUMP OUT IN THE MIDDLE OF THE HIGHWAY.

So these other reindeer harass Rudolph and call him names. The song doesn't go into specifics as to what names he was called. I'm guessing that they most likely called him "Chernobyl" and "Cancer Face", but I wasn't there so this is purely speculation. They also wouldn't let him play any reindeer games because HE HAD A FUCKING GLOWING PUSTULE ON HIS NOSE.

We skip a great portion of time in the song, and suddenly it'sCHRISTMAS Eve and the weather is FUCKED UP. It's presumably foggy, but we all know that means ACID RAIN. In this time of dire straits, the show must go on. And Santa, being the crude businessman he is, approaches Rudolph and asks him if he can lead the reindeer because his canker emits light. But if you read in to this a little more, you can see that this wasn't Santa's only rationale. Couldn't he clip a bike light to a reindeer's collar?

No. He chose Rudolph solely because Rudolph was disposable. No one liked the deformed deer freak, and no one would have been sad if he plummeted from the sky to his untimely demise. Santa chooses Rudolph with the belief that he will most likely sacrifice his life for the greater good. But the really fucked-up part is that RUDOLPH LIVES. Rudolph defies the odds and saves CHRISTMAS and all that shit.

At this point, the other reindeer are like, "What the fuck?" They sit around the water cooler and they bitch about it, and then one of them says, "Dudes, let's just let it go. He's fucked up, but he's like Terminator and he's not going to die ever."

Then they decide to be kind of nice to him, but "love" is a really strong word. And Rudolph isn't used to the other reindeer being cool to him, so I suppose that the circumstances didn't get way better just because he saved CHRISTMAS. The other reindeer may have stopped gang-raping him for a few nights whenever he dropped the soap, or maybe they let him drink some of the Gin that they bought with what pocket change they could scrounge up.

Honestly, they probably sat in their electric cages at the end of the night and ate the shredded pieces of plastic that Santa feeds them on special nights, and fell asleep in the remnants of their excrement.

But this story has a moral, which I guess is something along the lines of, "Don't pick on the deformed kid because he'll become really powerful and you'll look like a douche when people write songs about him."

Which is a really shitty moral.

Does Britney Spears sing about moral dilemmas? NO. No she doesn't. Do you know what she sings about? Threesomes and making out with Madonna. Who makes more money: Britney Spears, or Rudolph? Enough said.

I think we can all agree that CHRISTMAS music SUCKS, especially Rudolph. So instead of visiting your neighbors and singing carols, maybe try a little Lady Gaga or, my personal favorite....

CHER!

Lucy

Gift Ideas (a.k.a. What To Get The Sociopath That Already Has Everything)

2011-11-28T12:49:00.000-08:00

This post is dedicated to Weissy at the Meme Diary, for being so crafty!

Greetings sludge puddles!

Are you surprised that I'm posting?

Me too!

The status update is that I STILL have no internet at the hovel I sleep under. So I've gotten into the habit of camping out at the local Starbucks for egregious amounts of time and nursing Grande Cinnamon Dolce Lattes while getting reconnected with the modern world.

The Zen Buddhist inside me says that this is a refreshing lifestyle change that forces me to do more productive things with my time. The raging sociopath inside of me says, FUCK YOU. I HAVEN'T SEEN THE SEASON PREMIERE OF KIM AND KOURTNEY TAKE NEW YORK.

Anywho, the holidays are swiftly approaching and if you've gone into any major department store, I'm sure you've been bombarded with poorly composed 90's remakes of non-denominational winter holiday serenades. Mind you, it's still November. Yep. I can stomach this shit on December 1st. But it's still November, everyone. IT'S STILL NOVEMBER. We're barely done celebrating the genocide of American Indians, for those of us in the land of opportunity and Kevin Bacon.

The question on most of your pea-sized minds is, what do I get my loved ones for my non-denominational winter holiday of choice?

Let me help you out.

*For the receptionist/second cousin that you really don't care about at all/your step-grandchild*

Simple.

A BATH SET.

Nice and cheap. Mostly made from high-fructose corn syrup and silica gel. The PERFECT gift for the people that could die anytime they wanted to, without you caring.

*For Your Significant Other*

This always seems to be difficult for people to figure out. It's SO easy, everyone! Get him/her/it...

MANE 'N TAIL! Or, any personal hygiene products. For the difficult-to-shop-for female lover in your life, get her...

CHEAP ASS MAKEUP!

The cheaper, the better. This gift says, "You look like shit most days, so I want to give you something that makes you look better. But I'm not dropping more than three bucks on your ass, because that's how much you're worth to me."

Sheer PERFECTION. How did I become so smart? Not with my useless degree. That's for damn sure.

*For Your Parents*

If you're anything like me, your parents are very hard to shop for because they never tell you what they want. This is most likely different for me because my parents are SATAN'S PERSONAL ASSISTANTS.

So, when in doubt, a marvelous gift idea for them is...

A SNUGGIE!

Here's my logic. Snuggies, in theory, pretty much suck. They're ugly and they make you feel old and sleazy.

But let me tell you something. I had the utter misfortune of being near a Snuggie while I was pothole-sitting for a sworn enemy of mine. 'Twas a dark and stormy night, with only twenty-seven minutes remaining until re-runs of Friends started playing, and I was EXTREMELY COLD. In my time of need, I had nowhere else to turn. So I sought shelter in the fleeced arms of a Blue Plaid Snuggie.

Truth be told, it was actually kind of nice.

So here's why I think it's a good gift idea for your parents.

1) They're old and most likely cold all the time because the icy breath of death is crawling down their necks.

2) They come in lots of different colors. You can even get sports team-themed Snuggies.

3) They're supposed to be worn with the long part in the front, but if you turn it around, you can wear it like a SATANIC RITUAL ROBE.

4) It's machine-washable.

I hope that my brilliant gift ideas have made your holiday shopping experience much more heartless and methodical that it already was. And that's saying a lot, because it was pretty heartless and methodical to begin with.

Lucy

Too Legit. Too Legit to APPLY FOR A JOB.

2011-11-23T14:51:00.000-08:00

Hello fledglings!

My apologies for the long, uncalled-for hiadas in posting. Truth be told, the hovel I'm currently residing in has NO INTERNET.

I know. It's like I'm a cave-demon. Get it? Instead of caveman. Cave-demon. OK...

So in my time of need, I've had to resort to pirating WiFi out of Starbucks and Burger King parking lots.

I have never felt less human in my entire hellish existence. And that's saying a lot because I'm not a human.

Anywho, do you know what I HATE?

Interviewing for jobs.

Yeah, I know. Pretty tame hate. Everyone hates interviewing for jobs. BUT I HATE IT MORE THAN ALL OF YOU.

As you've probably guessed, my recent relocation means that I'm turning over a new leaf, so to speak. Making my way in a foreign land. Embarking on a whole new rip tide down the River Styx.

So a natural part of this process is finding a job. Now here's a little snack of self-disclosure for you: my degree is pretty much USELESS. Seriously. A lot of people say this and most of them are lying and/or trying to get you to compliment their creativity and poor life choices. I'm not fishing for either response. MY DEGREE IS USELESS.

But of course, when I was in college, no one told me this. The matriarch of our family certainly FLIRTED with the idea of flat-out telling me that I was a dumb ass, but she didn't because she doesn't know how to pump gas and I do. So she had to walk on eggshells with my emotions, because one ill-planned move and she'd have to push her car to the senior center every Wednesday.

I get my degree and I'm STOKED. Finally! I can prove everyone wrong and get the well-paying, 401k and dental coverage job of my DREAMS!

I WAS MISTAKEN.

I go in to my first interview for a receptionist job, and I think I'm going to KILL IT AND BURY IT TEN FEET DEEP UNDER A PILE OF ROCKS AND COMPOSTED ORANGE PEELS BECAUSE I AM THAT WELL-QUALIFIED. So I go in and the current receptionist, who is about nine months pregnant and HATES ME because I'm still skinny and aggregiously attractive, seats me in an empty conference room and tells me that I'll be doing a Skype interview. So I have to talk into this microphone and look at this black dot on the wall, and I'll see my interviewer in a flat-screen TV to my right.

So this is basically what it looks like. And what I'm basically supposed to do is talk into the mic so the interviewer can hear me, angle my head towards the camera so he can see me, and look at the screen occasionally so that I know he's still watching me and breathing.

I look like this:

Yep. The face of a WINNER, ladies and gents.

So I'm sitting in this conference room, scared shitless because I've never done a job interview IN MY ENTIRE LIFE. Well, except for my morgue job. But all they asked me for that was if I got queasy at the sight of blood and how I felt about formaldehyde.

I'm waiting. And waiting. And waiting.

Finally, after about ten minutes, a woman comes into frame on the TV. She looks like this...

JESUS CHRIST.

So without even thinking, my knee-jerk reaction is to say, “Oh dear lord.”

She croons, “What did you say, dear?”

Thankfully, my mouth was nowhere near the mic because I was too busy looking at this swamp monster. So I say, “How are you today?”

She and I have completely dry and boring banter about weather and makeup for about five minutes. And, don't you worry, I took extensive notes about what brands of makeup she wears so I will NEVER BUY IT EVER.

So we're chatting and I'm starting to wonder if this is some sort of test. Is this going to be my boss? Do I want to work for a swamp monster? If so, is our office in the bottom of a swamp? If so, are there some luxe pothole lofts nearby that I can look into renting?

Then, as if she can read my dark and corrupted mind, she says, “Your interviewer will be in momentarily. I just thought I'd make you feel a little more at ease before he comes in.”

To which I respond, SERIOUSLY? Who thinks that the swamp monster is capable of putting me and/or anyone AT EASE?

Without even thinking, I begin to laugh nervously. Not a fake laugh, but that little titter that nurses in optometrist's offices give you. Kind of a, “Tee-hee-hee...”

So I do this without thinking and all of the sudden, she starts nervously laughing, too. “Tee-hee-hee...”
And then we find ourselves in an awkward nervous laughter battle because we have nothing else to say.

We do this for longer than it's funny or endearing. My cheeks start to hurt and her eyes glaze over. Then, as if God himself was intervening on my behalf, (hard to believe but possibly true!) the interviewer comes in.

PRAISE SATAN!

When he comes in, swamp monster is still "Tee-hee"-ing, so he says, "Do you girls have a case of the giggles?"

The truth is, sir, I'm not sure. But I'm afraid and I really need a decent dental plan.

Finally, swamp monster leaves, but ends up walking backwards while still staring at me and "Tee-hee"-ing. At this point, I've stopped "Tee-hee"-ing entirely and swamp monster looks like a total FREAK.

But now the interviewer and I are completely on our own. One on one. Uno por uno. I don't speak Spanish. I'm trying to be more ESL friendly. Yep.

So he and I are going to sort out our brass tacks. And, for the record, this is what he looks like on the TV screen....

Yup. He looks like a straight-up Q-Tip. But this actually works for me, because I can't see his washed-out face so I'm feeling pretty confident that I won't pick up on his haughty social cues.

We discuss the weather and how I'm feeling today. Truth be told, I feel as though the inferno is burning through my esophagus and consuming my spinal cord. But this is how I always feel, and people don't respond too well when I say that in social situations. So I say, "Oh, I'm just great!" with my crazy eyes.

Then we get down to business and he starts asking me questions, but weird ones. He calls them "behavioral response inquiries". So the gist of it is that he asks me about situations that I've been in at work and how I responded to them.

What they don't tell you about these questions is that they're super-easy to lie about and you can make yourself look like a much better person than who you actually are if you have half a brain.

To give you an example, he asks me, "Tell me about a time that you were doing one task, then had to abruptly switch to another one."

(On a side note, I'm at the supermodel Starbucks. Literally every supermodel within a 50 mile radius is in this Starbucks. COME ON.)

OK, back on task. I could feasibly tell this man the truth about my multi-tasking ability. So this is the truthful answer...

"Hmmm. My job is pretty simple. I embalm bodies and drive them to the cemetery. Once I was embalming a cat, and suddenly this trash bag of cats was delivered to the mortuary and my boss told me that I had to embalm them all in two hours. So I waited until he left, and then I put the bag in my trunk, drove home, and buried them in my backyard under a pile of flat tires."

But this response most likely makes me look like more of a sociopath than I actually am. So this is what I really said...

"Hmm. At my RECEPTIONIST job, I spend a great deal of time entering invoices and doing payroll. I also created an electronic filing system by hand in twenty-six minutes. So when I'm entering these invoices for thousands of dollars, I also have to answer the phone. So when I have to answer the phone and make business transactions worth thousands of dollars, I'll put a Sticky Note on the invoice I have to finish so that I'll remember to finish it as soon as I'm done making my company FIVE TRILLION-MILLION DOLLARS. I also love babies and old people."

NAILED IT.

Every single one of my answers is awesome like this, because they can't fact-check me. I'm unstoppable. I'm like Anna Nicole Smith!

Wait... Umm....

So at the end of my interview, Q-Tip man tells me that he'd like to schedule a secondary interview. AWW HELLZ YEAH!

Fast-forward to Friday, and I'm coming for my secondary interview. I go in with an aura of cockiness, because I'm a bad-ass and no one can stop me. I'm like Heath Ledger!

Wait... Umm....

But this time, it's different. No TV screen and camera and mic. This time, it's real. And my interviewers are two fat chicks.

FUCK.

So I sit down and they ask me the same questions, so I give the same responses. But I'm slipping. They're staring at my hands and I realize, about halfway through the interview, that I have blood and tufts of fur stuck under my fingernails...

Then I make a fatal mistake. FATAL. One of the interviewers, we'll call her Tubby #2, asks me, "Describe a difficult situation that you had with a co-worker. How did you deal with it?"

To which I respond...

"Hmm. Well at my job as a RECEPTIONIST where I make millions of TRILLIONS of dollars for my company and I don't sleep because I love my company so much so I want to make money for them instead of sleeping or eating, I work with lots of older men-"

FUCK.

"And by older men, I really don't mean "older" men. Like, in their late thirties-"

FUCK.

They both drop their pencils and stare at me.

I forgot to mention that the two fat chicks that are interviewing me are both probably in their mid-forties.

FUCK.

So they retort, "Oh, are we "old"? How "old" do you think we are?"

FUCK.

How do I know this shit? Obviously I'm young, and I don't know what old people look like because old is a disease that I don't want to catch. So I avoid old people.

FUCK.

I blew it. But not really, if you think about it. I mean, I'm way too young and attractive to be working in a stuffy office building full of old people and Rogaine fumes.

Phew. Glad I dodged that bullet.

It's so nice to be able to bitch to you again, my 90 FOLLOWERS! Be thankful for NOTHING this Thursday. Or don't be. Whatev.

Lucy

CANDY PANTS

2011-11-01T09:13:00.000-07:00

Good job, AMERICA.

Halloween Costume Ideas!

2011-10-26T12:08:00.000-07:00

I know you, pagans.

You're all super stoked about the Devil's birthday, coming up on October 31st.

Not going to lie. I TOTALLY AM TOO.

But what are you going to dress up as? Are you going to go to Spirit, a.k.a. the Wal-Mart of Halloween super centers?

Mmmmm... CAPITALISM.

The correct answer is NO! No you will most certainly NOT be going to the Wal-Mart of Halloween super centers! You are one of the few, the proud, the 89 FOLLOWERS that hate EVERYTHING!!!

So here are a few ideas for Halloween costumes that don't include "slutty bumblebee".

UNREALISTIC. COME ON.

An idea I had was to dress up like the country of Greece.

This is a good costume if you're kinda political and you want to feel smarter than the slutty bee.

But if you want to get laid, here's a better version for you...

I went more for the Greek protester approach in the sex kitten version.

You could also dress up like Netflix.

This is the legit version.

This is the version you'll want to wear if you want to find a husband.

One of my favorite ideas for a costume is to go as a piece of satellite debris. More specifically, that satellite that fell from space a little while ago that no one could predict where it would land. So that way, you don't have to tell anyone if you're coming to their party or not because YOU DON'T KNOW WHERE YOU'LL LAND. You can also pick up the chicks by saying, "There's a 1 in 3200 chance that I'll land on you TONIGHT."

Here's the realistic version.

This is the SKANK version. Pick your poison.

I hope that I've inspired you to go as something cool for Halloween. But, hey, if you want to go as SPAM, KNOCK YOURSELF OUT.

Luce
P.S. Tell me what you're going to be!

Bathroom PIX

2011-10-21T13:07:00.000-07:00

Do you know what I hate?

Simple.

BATHROOM PIX.

I know you've seen one.

Not like this.

No. That's marginally acceptable. I'm not really digging the metal horse head on the toilet, but whatev.

No, comrades. I speak of THIS.

You know you've seen them. You know you've taken a couple, during those dark times where you had no friends or perhaps you just wanted to know how your hair looked and had no one that would give you an honest opinion about your Bump-It BEEHIVE.

I used to be friends with previously-pictured DOUCHE on Facebook. I'm not sure if it's illegal to throw him to the metaphorical dogs by posting all of his gnarly bathroom pix, but I've been to juvie and I'M NOT AFRAID TO GO BACK, PREMATURE MUSKRATS.

So here are some of his greatest hits.

Or...

And my personal fave...

So if you're still confused as to what a "bathroom pic" is, it's a self-portrait taken in a bathroom mirror. It becomes embarrassing when said subject decides to post their "bathroom pix" on a social networking website.

Does anything about THIS picture...

Make you think, "Damn, this chick is REALLY cool" ?

Do you know what it makes me think?

It makes me think that she is under the false impression that she's EFFING HOT and all that anyone would want to to when looking at this picture is masturbate until the Rapture comes, which apparently is today.

So HAPPY RAPTURE, SIN-STAINED WRETCHES!!!

Anywho, bathroom pix say a lot about a person.

1) Bathroom pix are screaming, "I have no friends that like me enough to take a picture of me". Therefore, the subject must take pictures of themselves to remind its minimal amount of Facebook friends that they are, in fact, still alive and free to go to coffee on Friday night WHENEVER you have time.

2) Most likely, if not 100% of the time, bathroom pix are AWFUL. Don't quote me on the statistics, I still have to do some research before I publish my doctorate dissertation. However, the subject ALWAYS looks like shit. More often than not, there's a duck face involved.

This is the "duck face" as evidenced in its breeding grounds, the bathroom pic. Also, your malformed bones creep me out.

Why do you think you're hot? If you have no friends that will take a picture of you, then why would you think that you're even mildly attractive? Shit, I don't even know my neighbors but if I were to approach them with a can of bear mace and ask, "Would you take a picture of me?" (and by ask I mean MACE THEM AND PUT MY KODAK IN THEIR SHRIVELED HANDS,) they would TOTALLY take a picture of me. If I can get someone to take a picture of me, ANYONE CAN. Which is why I don't understand how non-sociopaths can't figure it out. IT'S SO SIMPLE GUYS. SO SIMPLE.

3) When viewing a bathroom pic, you get an impromptu tour of a person's bathroom. Do they decorate? Is it simple? Beige paint? Monogrammed towels? Blood on the walls?

Everything I needed to know about THIS gentleman is revealed to me in this bathroom pic. I see he enjoys Western doctor's office art. I also see that he doesn't use his towel rack, which leads me to believe that he doesn't do laundry or shower. I also see that the wall tile is yellowed or yellowing, so I've discovered that he has a fear of Clorox.

BOOM. I know everything I need to know about him.

So thank you, bathroom pix. Thank you for giving me one more thing to hate. And thank you for making it much easier for me to figure out the floor plan of a person's house so I can ROB THEM BLIND.

Lucy

P.S. For legal reasons, I've never "robbed" a house, per se. I have borrowed things from the residences of strangers that I may or may not have Tazed. And I may or may not have returned said things.

My conscience feels light.

SEGWAYS

2011-10-13T12:33:00.000-07:00

No words. Just segways.

I hate segways.

One of my favorite things to do, other than listen to Cher's Greatest Hits, is to watch people falling off of segways. Because THEY DESERVE TO.

Lucy

The Gift That Keeps On Giving NOTHING To Society

2011-10-05T10:23:00.000-07:00

Do you know what I HATE?

SHITTY SPA GIFTS.

If you're a little foggy about what I'm talking about, here's an example.

Yep.

Shitty spa gifts are what I like to refer to as cheap ass chick shit. If you go the shittiest cheap ass chick shit store you know, there'll be an entire aisle of these bath sets.

These craptastic sets always have a few things in common.

No-name shower gel, made out of silica gel and red lake #5. LUXURIOUS.

Bath salts.

On a side note, have you ever used bath salts? It's really unpleasant. They take FOREVER to dissolve so when you get in the tub, you have to sit on these sharp, jagged pieces of rock for twenty minutes. Plus it makes your tub all filmy and I HATE THAT SHIT. But I have so many tubes of bath salt because the ONLY GIFT THAT ANYONE GETS ME IS SHITTY SPA SETS so I feel obligated to use them.

But then a friend of mine that I'll refer to as Pigpen for legal reasons suggested that I could do THIS with my bath salts...

So I'm feeling WAY better about the situation. I digress. Also, the typical shitty spa gift includes...

A FUCKING LOOFAH.

On a side note, who actually uses a loofah? They just look gross to me. I know they're full of small animals and dust mites and shit. So the only logical thing I would want to do with it is rub it ALL OVER my clean body.

Shitty spa gifts may or may not include...

Bizarre bath CONTRAPTIONS, like the cylindrical thing up there. What the hell is that?! Why would my grandmother give this to me? Bizarre bath contraptions cross the line from shitty to a little creepy.

Sometimes a shitty spa gift is EXTRA shitty because IT'S SO CHALK-FULL OF SHIT that it's junky. Like this. There's at least six containers of perfumed liquid that we can see in this shitty bath set. What do you need all of that perfumed liquid for? Also, half of the perfumed liquid isn't labelled, and there's no way of knowing what it is exactly. So I spend about twenty minutes standing in the shower, opening these little bottles of perfumed liquid and rubbing them on my arms, because there's no real way that perfumed liquid from a shitty spa set can fuck up my arms. Unless it's that Taiwanese battery acid shower gel. You can never be too sure....

The best part about shitty spa gifts is that it's always the same people that give them out.

The List of People Most Likely To Give You A Shitty Spa Set

1) Secretaries

2) Old People

3) Estranged Grandparents

4) HEARTLESS SOCIOPATHS

The next best part is which holidays I receive shitty bath gifts for. This is a trick question. When are you most likely to receive a shitty spa set?

Any thoughts?

WRONG!

I'm just assuming you're wrong. It's my nature. THE WAY I IS.

You are most likely to receive a shitty spa gift anywhere from a few weeks to a month after any major holiday, like Christmas or Hannukah.

Do you know why this is the time you are most likely to receive a shitty bath set?

Because if this person actually cared about your feelings, you would have seen them ON CHRISTMAS OR HANNUKAH.

They don't even care about you enough to give you your present a few days after your denominational winter holiday of choice. It's a few weeks after that the pangs of unfounded guilt begin to strike them, like miniature baseball bats pegging a tiny metaphorical 1987 Chevy Impala in their cerebellum.

Shitty bath sets are like vermin, or the kid sleeping in your basement and eating your Ben and Jerry's night after night when you paid for it to GO TO COLLEGE. They're ALWAYS AROUND. Always. And even if you throw them out, they never truly leave. They'll be back next year, believe you me.

At least you can snort bath salts. That's what Pigpen told me.

Lucy

Lucy's HATEFUL Advice!

2011-09-30T11:39:00.000-07:00

It has come to my attention that the world is a truly screwed-up place.

Did you know that the Loch Ness monster decided to move to Alaska? What the fuck, Nessie?

In this time of need, I have decided to do the unthinkable: BECOME A HELPFUL PERSON, (and by person, I mean DEMON SPAWN). And how will I go about being helpful?

Perhaps volunteering at a soup kitchen?

Eew. No.

Buying new clothes for less-fortunate strippers?

Maybe. But I'd have to go to the mall.

No. I have found the perfect way to help out all of mankind by not leaving my pothole.

I WILL BE BE DISPENSING ADVICE.

Let's face the facts, squeegee kids. I'VE GOT MY SHIT FIGURED OUT. I live in a rather pleasant pothole, I have 85 FOLLOWERS, I'm in the know about most reality TV shows on E! Don't you wish you could be just like me?

Go ahead. Answer me out loud, even if you're at the office. DON'T YOU WISH THAT YOU WERE ME?

I could hear you through the screen. Of course you want to be just like me! Also, you're a little shorter in person.

Here are some of my first questions.

Lucifer, I have some troubles with my parents. I just can't seem to get along with them! How can I get them to accept me?

Miss Understood

To Miss-

They most likely don't accept you because you're unattractive. And whose problem is that? Not mine, Burlap Bag. Or theirs, really. So I think the real question is, how do you become more attractive? Simple. Trash facials! Put trash on your face and leave it on for ten minutes. Squeegee it off and you'll be a little hotter.

Lucy, My boss and I get along really well. But lately, our relationship has been bordering upon flirtatious and slightly romantic. How do I keep our relationship professional?

Business Romantic

Dear Business,

Two words: KILL HIM. Problem solved. How you couldn't figure this out on your own is beyond me.

I have a problem with bugs, Lucifer. How do I get rid of an infestation problem?

Bugging Out

Dear Bugging Out,

Eew. OK. You'll need some thick thread and a tape recorder.

1) Find a bug in your house.
2) Kill it in a VERY gruesome and sadistic manner. I like spraying it with hairspray until it can't move and playing John Cougar Mellencamp's "Jack and Diane" on loop until it's fully dead.
3) Make a miniature noose with your piece of thread and hang the bug in a highly visible place in your home.
4) Record yourself saying, "Do you want a piece of this? If you mess with the bull, you'll get the HORNS." on your tape recorder.
5) Put your recording on loop and set your tape recorder next to your hanging bug, then leave for work. Come home and there will be no bugs EVER AGAIN.

If the problems persist, rent a hotel room and blast John Cougar Mellencamp's "Jack and Diane" in your house for two days.

There you have it. The start of my brand-new advice column! Do you have a question or a dilemma that I could EASILY solve? Feel free to leave your question in the CBox, as a comment, or if it's personal and highly embarrassing, you can e-mail me at ihateeverythingsomuch@yahoo.com.

Don't be shy. I want to hear all about your PATHETIC LIVES.

Lucy

Mornings Are The DEVIL. And I Would Know, Because The Devil Is My Friend... So Mornings Are Like The Widespread Opinion Of The Devil, Which Is Mostly Negative

2011-09-28T11:33:00.000-07:00

I'm feeling very inspired by MY INCONVENIENT LIFE, so I am postponing the WYSNLYBTG to bitch about being upper-middle class.

Do you know what I hate??

Getting up in the morning.

Me and this guy. We have problems.

I, like every other upper-middle class demon I know, have a job. In order to maintain my job at the Blue Sky Mortuary, I have to show up at a reasonable hour. Lifeless bodies don't embalm themselves!

So every night I set my alarm to about 8:10 am because I don't believe in waking up at 8 in the morning, but I have to get to work at 9.

And every morning, it's the same.

IT'S PHYSICALLY IMPOSSIBLE FOR ME TO GET UP.

My alarm goes off, which is an string-accompanied version of Cher's "Song for the Lonely", because I like to keep my mornings zen. At this moment when I realize that the night is over and that REAL LIFE BEGINS.

MY BODY REJECTS THIS NOTION.

In the morning, the world outside realistically looks like this....

Peaceful enough. Do you like my artsy sun? I got kinda carried away....

But when I wake up in the morning, this is what my body thinks that my day will hold....

NOOOO WHY GOD WHY???!!!!

Then I play this fun little game with my snooze button that I like to call:

"SHUT THE FUCK UP."

8:10 am: Alarm goes off, Cher's digitized voice croons, "This is a soo-"

So I hit snooze. This is the most accurate representation of what I look like in the morning. GARISH AND SCRAWNY.

My snooze is only for five minutes, which I think is FUCKED UP. You can't do shit in five minutes. Well, that's a lie. I could open a chip bag in five minutes, if it was one of those fancy zip-open bags. But a normal bag, FUCK NO.

I digress. So my alarm clock goes off again. Cher wails, "This is a soooo-"

I hit the snooze.

This goes on for about 30 minutes, and then I start getting mad. As the soulful stylings of Cher blast into my ear canal every five minutes, I begin to wonder...

WHY DOES CHER HATE ME SO MUCH WHEN I'VE DONE NOTHING BUT LOVE HER?

Suddenly, my alarm clock changes into...

WHY.

This is when I realize that Cher doesn't really hate me after all. She just wants me to go to work and make more money so I can buy more Collector's Edition Cher memorabilia.

OK Cher. OK.

This is why I hate waking up in the morning. But I sure do love my edgy new Cher poster!

Lucy

Survival Kit: One Hairbrush, One Bobby Pin

2011-09-22T12:20:00.000-07:00

I interrupt the regular programming of WYSNLYBTG, (my most wildly popular segment YET!) to bring you HUGE NEWS.

I'M A CELEBRITY.

Check it. My FIRST INTERVIEW!!!!

Not only was this interview done by someone that is actually ALIVE, but it's done by one of my favorite bloggers in the ENTIRE WORLD! And I would know about the ENTIRE WORLD because I travelled to Nepal, but NO ONE CARES SO WHATEVRRRRRRR.

Now that this interview has propelled me into insta-STARDOM, I decided that it's time I write some quality content.

That was a pretty funny joke, because I'm a TERRIFIC writer and God asked me last night IN PERSON if I'd rewrite the Bible in vernacular.

What did God ask YOU last night?

That's right.

NOTHING.

Do you know what I HATE?

When people don't tell you REALLY IMPORTANT THINGS that will directly affect you.

Yesterday, I got up at around eight thirty and proceeded to do my morning routine. Sacrifice a lemur at my Cher shrine, Swiffer the kitchen, the usual. I'm sitting in my bathroom shooting myself with the makeup gun when I hear the doorbell ring.

Yes, I do have a doorbell for my pothole.

Doesn't everyone?

Continuing.

I hear the doorbell ring and, as always, I don't answer it. Not because I HATE EVERYTHING, which I do, but because anyone who dares to ring my doorbell before 2 pm is worthless to me. It's either a mailman, a disgruntled neighbor inquiring about the recent disappearance of a pet lemur, or one of my pothole mates who forgot their key. Any way you cut the cake, YOU'RE NOT GETTING IN, fools.

So I ignore the doorbell and reload my makeup gun with more blush. As I pop open the chamber, I hear this horrible ripping sound.

Like, door ripping off of its hinges sound.

I'm a little scared. I wonder if my neighbor knows that I stole her lemur. But, come on, it's just a lemur. You can get them at Pier One, right?

Then I hear footsteps above me. My pothole has a main floor and a basement, and I'm in the basement.

FUCK.

Someone broke in to my house and THEY WANT TO TASTE MY BLOOD.

Remarkably, this is the first time that my life has ever been threatened. Hard to believe, but 100% TRUE. So in my panic, I start looking around for things that could potentially help me in a crisis situation. I run to my bedroom and stare at the fully functional Blackberry laying in the middle of my crumpled-up newspaper bed.

In this moment of dire straits, do I grab my cell phone? Do I decide in this adrenaline-pumped moment that I will grab the one item in my general vicinity that could help me contact the police and anyone that I care about?

Well, I don't really care about anyone. Except Cher. And she has my number blocked.

So do I grab my phone?

NO. NO I DON'T.

Do you know what I grab instead? When faced with potentially being mugged and murdered by a door-ripping criminal, I decide that the only two things I need to survive are...

A HAIRBRUSH AND A BOBBY PIN.

So I run out through my basement door, (yes, my pothole has a basement door because it's LUXURIOUS,) and I hop the chain-link fence in my backyard, (yes, my pothole has a backyard and it's DECADENT). I run out to my front driveway, (yes, my pothole has a front driveway and comedy comes in threes, so the parenthetical statements are OVER,) and I see two work trucks. But then I think about the scary segments I see on the news about home invasions and people posing as contractors and plumbers and shit to break into your house and ROB YOU BLIND!

You can't fool me, home invaders. I SUMMON THE POWER OF THE HAIRBRUSH AND THE BOBBY PIN FOR POWERS OF GOOD!

But then. I realize that my pothole mates were bitching about how the roof leaks, and how they were going to call a roofer to fix it.

Oh.

Oh.

...Oh.

So I scuttle off to my basement hovel and I have to climb the fence AGAIN. For the record, I hate climbing chain link fences. Also, I am barefoot. So the wire is digging into my skin and when I reach the top, I get this feeling of vertigo where I feel like I'm going to die when I jump down.

I climb the fence and walk barefoot across my pothole's lawn only to discover that my basement door locks whenever you shut it. Lo and behold, I've locked myself out of my pothole.

FUCK.

I climb back over the fence, barefoot, and have to ask the roofer assailants if I can borrow one of their phones so I can call my pothole mate and get a key into our Fort Knox POTHOLE.

After I make my lifeline call, I climb back over the fence (God damnit) and I realize that WE HAVE A DOG DOOR. So after about fifteen minutes of contorting myself, I manage to break into my house in the most shameful way possible.

Of course, all of this could have been avoided if SOMEONE HAD EFFING TOLD ME THAT OUR POTHOLE WAS GOING TO BE TORN APART AT NINE IN THE MORNING.

But hey, my hair looked RIGHTEOUS.

Lucy

WYSNLYBTG Day One Continued, Or: Flying SUCKS SERIOUS BALLS

2011-09-20T08:42:00.000-07:00

So, for those of you who don't know about the Why You Should Never Leave Your Basement Travel Guide, (or, WYSNLYBTG, GOD DAMNIT that acronym is clever!) it's a new segment that I've started that details why you should never leave your basement. Let's continue.

I catch my flight in Minnesota because I have a FOUR HOUR LAYOVER. In this time, I ride all of the moving sidewalks because moving sidewalks ROCK. Which leads me to my first piece of travel advice, considering that you decide to leave your basement, which I recommend not doing.

1) When at the Minnesota Airport, ride the moving sidewalks. That's pretty much the only entertaining thing you can do in the Minnesota Airport. It might also be the only entertaining thing you can do in all of Minnesota.

I successfully board my plane and, before we go any further, let me tell you something about myself.

I LOVE sleeping on planes.

Mostly, I just love sleeping on moving things. I think it comes from being a child of the 90's, where everyone five and under was obsessed with water beds. I can sleep in cars, buses, the back of police cars, the back of SWAT vans, in prison community service buses, pretty much anywhere.

So I board this plane and I'm stoked because I plan on sleeping for the entire 9 hours of this flight and occasionally waking up to drink as much of the complimentary box wine as they are legally allowed to pour in my tiny plastic cup.

But guess what, dregs?

I AM SO WRONG.

The man next to me is EFFING CHATTY CATHY and wants to talk to me for the entirety of our NINE HOUR FUCKING FLIGHT about his pastoral lifestyle in Wales as a child. So I eat my Kid Cuisine dinner in my cardboard airplane seat and nod pleasantly because even I know that pissing off middle-aged people on a nine hour flight is a HORRIBLE idea.

But after about three hours of listening to this man, I'm nodding off. Literally nodding off, where my eyes close and my head gets heavy and falls to one side, which makes me wake up and jerk my entire body in a terribly violent way because I'm freaked out, so I end up making a huge scene and drawing attention to myself, which makes CHATTY CATHY want to soothe me with his melodic Welsh voice. You are WRONG, Wale.

I somehow manage in the midst of the melee to fall asleep for maybe an hour. I have unspeakable dreams because I'm Lucy Beelz DUH. I wake up out of my unpleasant slumber, shift in my seat...

And CHATTY CATHY IS STARING AT ME.

Like this man, only imagine him REALLY close to you. And Welsh.

So I startle, (I tend to startle pretty easily when people are EFFING STARING AT ME WHEN I WAKE UP,) and he proceeds to pick up where he started, telling me about a game he used to play in the Welsh fields with his Welsh brother where they tagged each other with their tiny Welsh hands and laughed with their quiet Welsh voices.

Will CHATTY CATHY ever stop talking to me? Will I ever meet up with my travel buddy? Where the Hell am I going anyways? Sierra Leone? Bangladesh? Manhattan, Kansas?

Tune in next time for another nail-biting edition of...

WYSNLYBTG!

That acronym still BLOWS MY FUCKING MIND.

Lucy

Hating Everything ABROAD/ The Start of the WYSNLYBTG- Day One: Minneapolis is for Demons

2011-09-15T09:46:00.000-07:00

Hey.

Guess what?

THIS ISN'T A CANNED POST!

Aren't you stoked? I know I am. Because there is SO MUCH to hate about my travels!

So I would like to formally introduce you to a brand-new segment of How to Hate Everything, entitled...

The Why You Should Never Leave Your Basement Travel Guide, a.k.a. WYSNLYBTG!

Do you like my acronym? YOU'RE GODDAMN RIGHT YOU DO BECAUSE IT'S THE BEST FUCKING ACRONYM IN THE WORLD.

So at the start of my travels, I went to the airport bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, ready to expand my horizons and affect the world in a HORRIBLE, TERRIBLE WAY.

I'm waiting in line to get my ticket at the check-in desk because I'm flying overseas and they presumably know that I have a few warrants and a knack for carrying explosives and cane toads onto international flights.

I get in line. But not just any line. THIS LINE.

WHY.

I'm waiting in this line against my own will, in front of a woman who has this sketchy-ass dog in her laptop case. But hey, whatever! I don't judge freaks.

As hour one passes by, I hear one of the Delta line lackeys, (you know, those middle-aged people in white polos that are paid to walk around the line,) telling someone in the line that my flight to New York, which is where my connecting flight is from, has been CANCELLED.

Rock on, Delta. You know what you can do for me? Maybe when I call to confirm my flight a few hours before, you can TELL ME THE EFFING TRUTH AND NOT LIE TO ME ABOUT MY FLIGHT BEING ON SCHEDULE. Unless that was some sort of sick joke, and you meant that the flight was "on schedule" because the schedule was that it wasn't going to fly. In which case, WELL-PLAYED DELTA. Well-played, indeed.

So as I'm going to work out another flight, I have ample time, meaning TWO MORE HOURS, to stand in line and listen to the Delta people give everyone that checks in an AWFUL TIME. One woman asked if she was in the right line to change her flight and the man tells her, "No. I think that's the conga line." Guess what, Delta guy? You need to EFFING CONGA BECAUSE YOU'RE BALDING AND YOU NEED TO LOSE SOME WEIGHT BECAUSE YOU ARE A WALKING MANATEE AND EVERYONE HATES YOU.

They re-schedule my flight to go through Minneapolis. Minneapolis. Nuff said.

I get there and my layover is FOUR HOURS. Four. Four hours in Minneapolis. Would you like to know something about the Minneapolis airport other than the fact that it's an airport and therefore designed to make you miserable? All of the chairs there are REALLY uncomfortable.

What happens next? Do I get on the plane? Do I catch my flight? Do I break a window in the Minneapolis airport and wreak havoc on Minnesota?

You'll just have to tune in soon, for a more timely installment of....

WYSNLYBTG!

God damnit, that's the best fucking acronym EVER MADE.

Lucy

P.S. Can't wait to catch up on your blogs ASAP!

I'M BACK FROM THE DEAD!!!

2011-09-07T01:04:00.000-07:00

Guess what, my legion of 79 strong?

I'M BACK.

I can't lie to you. Truth be told, I've missed the EVER-LOVING SHIT out of each and every one of you. Even Lepak, you C-Box spamming weasel.

I apologize for totally lying to you about scheduling posts while I was away. That being said, I don't quite understand the concept behind an apology and how I should feel because I apologized. Remorse? Is that like heartburn? I'm not sure. I had take-out last night, which could also explain that feeling.

Anyhow! In preparation for my absence, I asked my idol, Rafa from The RudeBlog, to write a guest post for How to Hate Everything. And I think today is a primo day to use it because I watched Bridesmaids and Rio a few too many times on the flight back to my home sweet pothole, so my eyes hurt. FEEL SORRY FOR ME AND MY UNBEARABLE LIFE.

Here goes! Many thanks to Rafa for saving my ass. Regular posting to start soon. I'm tickled black to know that I'll be tainting your slightly pure souls once again!

Hi, I'm Rafa from The RudeBlog.

You know what I fucking HATE?

This KEYBOARD I'm currently typing on!

WTF? WHO decided that the correct placement of my fingers should be on keys "ASDF" AND "JKL;:" Why the FUCK does ";:" get to be one of the primary keys? It's not even a letter! This is EXACTLY the kind of shit that frustrates me to the point of shoving HANDFULS of "Capn' Crunch" cereal into my mouth and ears! Do you have ANY idea how DANGEROUS that is? Capn' Crunch cereal is made of tasty shards of GLASS! Sure you can get a sugar-high if you snort it, but if you choose to EAT it you suffer lacerations on your tongue and gums. It's a well-documented FACT that Cap'n Crunch Cereal is a main ingredient in CRYSTAL METH.

You know what else I fucking hate? EVERYBODY!

To be more specific though, I hate everybody that walks into MY office at work. Yes, yes I am your supervisor, but let me assure you that I have nothing but a COMPLETE and UTTER HATRED of EVERY BONE IN YOUR BODY AND ALL THE USELESS CRAP THAT COMES OUT OF YOUR MOUTH! The only reason I don't carry a whip to keep you hamsters in check, is because I LOST IT when I was visiting your MOTHER at the ZOO! Unless you're coming to my office to bring me some "Popeye's Fried Chicken" or some nude pictures of "Bea Arthur" I have no use for you! If you're trying to KISS my ASS, the best way to do that is to LEAVE ME ALONE! I don't want to talk to you and whatever I did on my weekend is WAY too extreme for you to handle, so DON'T ASK!

You wanna know what ELSE I fucking HATE? SMALL TALK! Just because we are sharing this elevator to hell, it doesn't mean I need to hear you say "well, another day in paradise!" or anything else your little brain is telling your soup-hole to say. Small talk is for small people. I am GOD-LIKE! I'm not interested in discussing the weather. You think it's hot now? Keep talking to me about it and you'll find out how HOT it is under my CAR!

Hear Ye, Hear Ye! CBox HATE MAIL! Huzzah!

2011-07-18T09:01:00.000-07:00

Today, my flawed side tables. Today is a HUGE day for you and I.

Because today I got my first HATEFUL COMMENT!

Check the CBox to your right.

Woo-ee!

It's pretty good, yes?

You may find this hard to believe, but this is the first negative CBox comment that I've gotten! Usually it's just good ol' Lepak that spams the EVER-LOVING SHIT out of it in a foreign language, possibly in parcel tongue but one can never be too sure....

But do you know what this means?

It means...

That I'M MAKING MYSELF AN AWARD!

Isn't it GLORIOUS? I have been looking forward to this day ever since I was a wee imp! I don't know if you know this, but getting hate mail makes me a CELEBRITY. So much so that someone actually wants to interview ME! I decided to post my first BIG-TIME INTERVIEW right here.

(Let me start out by saying that my interviewer was a corpse at the Blue Sky Mortuary, where I work. I wrote out his questions for him because he's dead and he can't write. Oh, and I asked myself all of the questions because he's dead and he can't talk, either. But he's really a very talented interviewer and once he's cremated he'll be much more mobile and able to travel for future interviews!)

Horace (my interviewer): It's such an honor to be sitting with you, Lucifer Beezlebub, even though I'm not literally sitting with you. I'm lying down, because I'm dead. Thank you for making time for me!

Me: Yes. You're quite welcome, swine.

Horace: Tell me about your childhood. Where do you come from?

Me: Well, I come from the BOWELS OF HELL, but I'm sure you've heard all about that! So, let's see... I was raised by a COVEN of witches (not a "band", DUH) and contrary to popular belief, they did NOT abuse me. They showered me in Beanie Babies and fed me TGI Friday's Spinach and Artichoke Cheese Dip, thus making me intolerant to all other less exquisite foods. Well, now that I think about it, maybe I was abused a little. A tough life, indeed. But I prevailed and decided to HATE EVERYTHING anyways.

Horace: That's quite a rags-to-riches story. Now you're quite a fan of Cher and you're pretty vocal about it. So how can you hate EVERYTHING if you love Cher?

Me: Cher is quite simply air, musical air. Without Cher, there would be no music, there would be no golden ideal to compare everything else to. Because Cher is so perfect, I hate EVERYTHING that is not Cher. I believe the real question is, do you believe in life after love? NO. There is no life without Cher.

Horace: So it sounds as though you equate Cher to a Christ-like entity.

Me: OK, let's just say that if Cher and Jesus Christ were in a cage fight, Cher would kick Christ's ass with her astounding vocal range ALONE. Christ turned water into wine, but you know what Cher did? She was in The Witches of Eastwick. Have you seen that movie? Kicks every other movie's ASS. Did Jesus do movies? No. You name one movie that Jesus is in, not Mel Gibson Jesus. Yeah. Jesus didn't even get CALLED BACK for The Witches of Eastwick, and I heard that he even sent in a demo reel and really wanted to be a part of it. I think that it's a more accurate statement to say that Christ has posters of Cher ALL OVER his cave because she's THAT AWESOME.

Horace: Couldn't agree with you more, Lucy. I've had the pleasure of talking to Christ since I'm dead, and all he talks about is Cher's riveting performance in Burlesque. What do you like to do in your spare time, when you aren't hating EVERYTHING?

Me: Oh geez! Well, hating EVERYTHING takes up most of my day. I do go to the morgue from 9 to 5 because a demon's gotta make a living. Cher CD's don't buy themselves, although they probably would if they could because they are MASTERFUL PIECES OF ART. So I do the morgue thing, then I like to stop by Safeway after work to pick up a few packages of TGI Friday's Spinach and Artichoke Cheese Dip for dinner. Then I sit in my pothole and I dip any cockroaches and small insects I find into my TGI Friday's Spinach and Artichoke Cheese Dip. Then I listen to Cher's "Believe" until I curl up into a little ball and fall asleep. But I multi-task, so I continue to HATE EVERYTHING during my entire routine. It's hard, but it's a rewarding life that I live.

Horace: Sounds like. Your pale and nearly translucent skin is really quite ravishing. How many hours of sun exposure do you think you get a day?

Me: NONE. Well, probably about an hour or so. I have to go outside to cast spells, you know. Also I drive my maroon hearse to work. And I go to the mall to check for new Cher memorabilia. So an hour.

Horace: I think the question on all 74 of your followers' minds is, how do you feel to have received your FIRST HATEFUL COMMENT?

Me: Frankly, I'm a little miffed because I didn't get one sooner! I've been blogging on and off for nearly two years, and I dropped off during the summer of 2010 only because Cher was born on May 20th and I like to celebrate her birth through August, which left me little time to HATE EVERYTHING in that span of four months. I guess I'm just a late bloomer. But I am so honored to receive this first hate, and I hope that this will be the first of many hateful comments to come. We can only go up from here, and that is perhaps the most rewarding aspect of ALL-CONSUMING RAGE.

Horace: I think it goes without saying that the public has truly rejected your lifestyle. Congratulations! I'd love to shake your hand, so if you could put your hand into my cold and lifeless one, that would be great.

Me: The displeasure is all mine. Keep the hate strong, finchlings.

There you have it. My FIRST professional interview! Congratulations to all of my 74 FOLLOWERS for following my blog before everyone else will once it goes mainstream, because I'm now a FULL-BLOWN CELEBRITY WITH HATE MAIL and everyone will want a piece of my pie of BLINDING SUCCESS. But you, you have the honor of being able to say, "I hated everything before it went mainstream" and you don't even have to drink PBR or wear faded Passion Pit band t-shirts to get that indie cred.

YOU'RE WELCOME, 74 followers! We've hit the BIG TIME!

Lucifer a.k.a. The Artist Formerly Known as Lucy

Buy a Beanie Baby, Get a CONDO IN HELL!

2011-07-15T09:08:00.000-07:00

This has been inspired by several comments received after I posted a rant about BEANIES.

Do you know what I HATE?

BEANIE BABIES.

GROSS.

I am a child of the nineties, meaning that I was brain-washed from a young age to believe that Beanie Babies were actually a hot commodity, something that every sensible tween should want to HOARD because they'll be worth FIVE TRILLION DOLLARS EACH in roughly ten years.

WRONG.

Beanie Babies AREN'T WORTH SHIT AND THEY WILL NEVER BE.

So now Generation Y has nothing to show for years of devout collecting, of pounding the pavement in front of Hallmark stores across the nation to get the the 1998 Holiday Teddy.

I'd be lying to you if I said that my family didn't buy me every new cat Beanie Baby that came out. They did. I literally had every cat Beanie Baby because I, like every other nineties tween, LOVED cats AND Beanie Babies. But, of course, this was the sensible present, because in ten years every Beanie Baby will be worth FIVE TRILLION DOLLARS EACH and there will be an infinite number of Beanie Baby collectors that will want to buy my mud-covered tiger Beanie Babies for FIVE TRILLION DOLLARS EACH because they're that AWESOME.

Wrong again.

What really sucked about Beanie Babies is that they would sometimes get holes in them. So I'd be tooling around on my bike through the neighborhood with a cat Beanie Baby in my sweaty little palm. But then I'd look down and it would be all deflated and flat-looking, and SURE AS FUCK there would be a little hole under its neck where all of the silica gel balls had leaked out of its head. It was almost graphic, like my cat Beanie Baby was rapidly losing blood and little pieces of its skull through the hole under its neck. NOT COOL TY.

So fast-forward to today, where I no longer own Beanie Babies because I'M NOT A LOSER. And then I see these people roaming the Earth...

And THESE misguided souls...

JUST LET IT GO, BEANIE BABY ADDICTS.

I think that collecting Beanie Babies for any reason is an underground form of HOARDING. Sure, you're not tunnelling yourself in a house full of pizza boxes and old issues of Teen Vogue, but you're collecting little overpriced stuffed animals on your dining room table.

I call for a full-scale intervention and I need your help. Your instructions are to steal every Beanie Baby you see and burn it with a Bic lighter until it is a pile of ash in your benevolent hands.

Our mission begins NOW!

Lucy

Satan's Outsourced Call Center

2011-07-12T09:00:00.000-07:00

Do you know what I hate?

Outsourced call centers.

Don't get me wrong. I do, in fact, hate EVERYTHING. But this hate is perhaps my strongest hate. BECAUSE IT'S P'OWNING ME.

Here's a little taste of what I'm dealing with today, only imagine that the hold music is this weird techno flamenco guitar and that it lasts for TEN MINUTES.

I'm sorry. I feel this need to drag you down with me. Listen to it at least eight more times. Let's bear this pain together.

This is MY DAY.

My occipital lobe hurts.

Cher needs to come out with a new album.

I think that's all I've got for today.

I'm writing this while listening to the horrible hold music on speaker phone because my wrist is sick of being so close to my ear.

I think I need to look at some LolCatz. Not because I'm a huge fan of LolCatz, but because it numbs the pain of knowing that NO ONE IN MY OUTSOURCED CALL CENTER CARES ABOUT MY WRIST OR MY FEELINGS.

Encroaching on minute eleven. I think this would be the perfect time to channel my feelings into haiku-writing.

Answer my call, please.

I just need to change my flight.

It's not that hard, guys.

I know you, call center.

None of you can speak English.

Why does this happen?

Buy Rosetta Stone.

It will improve your English.

My wrist is throbbing.

I'm good at haikus.

I'm glad I realized this.

I rock you, haiku.

I wish I had a

a decent end for this post.

Wet ducks tread lightly.

Lucy

I Have No Veins... OR A SOUL

2011-07-08T10:47:00.000-07:00

Do you know what I hate?

GETTING BLOOD DRAWN.

NO.

Let me start off by saying that I've only given blood once, and this was because they were offering free t-shirts and water bottles. And who am I to refuse free t-shirts and water bottles?

So I show up to the place, which is conveniently located in the basement of a dorm. I take a wrong turn and end up here...

YEESH.

So after about ten minutes of aimlessly wandering around the basement of a dorm, (and fitting in because I am ridiculously young and attractive, of course,) I find the blood-donation place, which looks remarkably like this...

Only full of old people and those gross college guys that donate sperm, too.

This guy knows what I mean.

So I walk up to the desk and ask the attendant, "Where are the free t-shirts and water bottles?"

She gestures behind her and I see a GLORIOUS TOWER OF FREE WATER BOTTLES.

Blessed be!

So in my splendiforous sublimity, I mutter under my breath, "How do I get them ALL."

And the attendant, who has a phenomenally acute sense of hearing, replies, "You have to give blood."

She guided me to a dingy tan fold-up metal chair and gave me a form to fill out, full of extremely thought-provoking questions.

Are you above 17 years of age?

Do you have any form of hepatitis?

What are your thoughts on the presence of God in regards to Nigeria's oil crisis?

So I answer them all in a flurry of one-word responses. I JUST WANT A WATER BOTTLE. I hand it to a nurse and she takes me to the darkest corner of the basement to ask me a few questions. For the record, the sperm donors are in earshot and they can totally hear my confidential interview. THANKS A BUNCH RED CROSS.

She asks me if I've been out of the country and I tell her that I've been to Hell, meaning the actual fire and brimstone HELL and Hell, Grand Cayman.

Yep. I've totally been here.

She checked my pulse and had a little hissy-fit when she discovered that I DON'T HAVE A PULSE BECAUSE I'M A DEMON/DEMIGOD INFUSION.

After the initial shock, we made a little deal that I'd give some blood for research in exchange for FIVE FREE WATER BOTTLES.

She takes me back to my dingy tan fold-up metal chair and puts a plastic arm belt just below my shoulder, which really pissed me off because I have a perfectly good leather belt that I got a lot of mileage out of during my dragon faze in the early 2000's that they wouldn't let me use. WHATEV.

Then she rubbed down my arm with an alcohol wipe, which burned but not as bad as a HOLY WATER WIPE would have! Har har har! Someone should really look into making those....

Anyhow! She plunges the needle into my arm and searches for a vein.

No vein.

She takes it out and tries again.

NO VEIN.

At this point, she switches arms because my left arm is now numb and PISSED THE FUCK OFF FOR BEING RAPED TWICE BY A STERILE NEEDLE.

She tries for a vein.

NO. EFFING. VEIN. AGAIN.

At this point, she's smiling and laughing uncomfortably. "Boy, this hasn't happened to me before! Are you sure you have veins, miss?"

But then I think about it.

And guess what?

I'm pretty sure I don't.

Whoops.

Why didn't they ask me that on the form? Isn't that an important part of the blood drawing process?

So there's this awkward moment where she's staring at me like I could kill her. And she's right. I totally could. But so could most people. It's physically possible for everyone to kill someone. But that's getting all philosophical and that's not my point.

My point is: WHERE'S MY FREE WATER BOTTLE?

I ask her and she scurries over to the tower, grabs one from the very top and throws it to me while she screams, "The power of Christ compels YOU!" Which never really works, for the record. Imagine me going up to a priest and saying, "The Devil's not your friend!" Does that affect the priest? Not really. He knows the Devil's not his friend. We're stating the obvious here.

Donating blood was a real boner-kill.

But look at this SWEET-ASS WATER BOTTLE!

Lucy

Sign-Holders and The Redeeming Powers of PONG

2011-07-04T11:19:00.000-07:00

Do you know what I hate?

SIGN-HOLDERS.

No, not THESE sign-holders.

THESE sign-holders.

Sign-holder: (n) A lower-class individual of questionable sanity/financial stability that is paid minimum wage to stand on the side of a main thoroughfare and hold a sign to advertise a business.

There are two types of sign-holder. The first, as pictured above, is the morose sign-holder who stands on the side of the road with a vacant, soul-less expression. This type of sign-holder actually harms their employer. When driving by this soul-sucking sign-holder, potential customers are hit by a wave of crippling depression where they see the world through the sign-holder's eyes in the way that it truly is: A NEVER-ENDING, BLACK ABYSS OF INCONSOLABLE PAIN.

Then there's the other type of sign-holder.

Usually employed by struggling and thoroughly uninteresting businesses, these lower-class urchins were seemingly spawned to be none other than ELITE SIGN-HOLDERS. Whereas any normal, sane person would freeze in fear and humiliation at the thought of having to shake a cardboard sign at passers-by and indefinite heckling, the ELITE SIGN-HOLDER grabs the metaphorical bull (meaning the cardboard sign) by the HORNS.

They dance, they sing, they yell and chant ancient Navajo mantras for wealth and prosperity with their eerie, lower class voices. I often find myself stopped at a light that will NEVER CHANGE, (as evidenced HERE,) and suddenly entranced by the ELITE SIGN-HOLDER. I stare at them with my mouth gaping slightly open. I even turn down the Cher's Greatest Hits CD I've blasted in my maroon hearse for the past thirty minutes. Time stands still for the ELITE SIGN-HOLDER.

But, as I said, all sign-holders really creep me out. They're doing this truly dehumanizing thing on the side of the road. With a hooker, they're just advertising their bodies, which is basically what every skanky college girl does on Thursday night at a sports bar because it's ladies night and they drink free. No, I can accept this, because hookers don't carry around OBNOXIOUS AND BRIGHTLY COLORED CARDBOARD SIGNS ADVERTISING SOME FORGETTABLE BUSINESS THAT IS MOST LIKELY BEE-LINING FOR IMMINENT FORECLOSURE.

Sign-holders stand there with their sign, acting as if they personally love tax refunds SO MUCH that they'll wear a lice-infested Statue of Liberty costume and dance, because possibly getting a tax refund will make you SO HAPPY and that's all they want!

FALSE.

It's all a sham. There's never a happy medium, a sign-holder that can make me feel good and/or want to attempt to get my taxes done even though I haven't paid them since the golden year of '72, when Pong was introduced into my life and I decided to forgo paying the government and since have paid taxes to my Pong shrine, conveniently located in my closet.

So give it up, sign-holders, and start donating your hard-earned tax dollars to a cause that cares: Pong.

Lucy

BEANIES

2011-07-01T09:55:00.000-07:00

66 FOLLOWERS?! Say it isn't so!

Do you know what I hate?

FUCKING BEANIES AND THE PEOPLE WHO WEAR THEM.

YOU. YOU ARE A DOUCHE.

Let me tell you something about the beanie: the beanie is a hat that should be worn when snowboarding, or hunting deer, or trekking up the side of Mount Everest.

Let me also tell you something about the beanie.

YOU SHOULDN'T WEAR AN EFFING BEANIE IN THE MIDDLE OF SUMMER.

Oh, I'm sorry, is it winter in this picture? Huh, well that's funny, BECAUSE IT LOOKS LIKE EFFING SUMMER AND YOU'RE WEARING A WOOL CAP BECAUSE YOU'RE TOO LAZY TO ADMIT THAT YOUR HAIR LOOKS LIKE SHIT TODAY.

I don't get this trend. Don't get me wrong, I have a few beanies in my possession. But 1) they're all sadistic gifts from people that know how much I EFFING HATE BEANIES and 2) because when I go outside in WINTER and it's 20 below and the door handles of my maroon hearse freeze shut, I need one because I don't want my ears to fall off because I'd rather die than be an EARLESS FREAK. (On a side note, someone just informed me that "hurse" is actually spelled "hearse". FUCK).

It's the douchebags that wear beanies all day, every day. I see these people in the winter and I think, "Ahh, another person that refuses to be an EARLESS FREAK. Saluations, comrade!"

Then I see this person in April still donning a beanie and I ponder, "Is that person still afraid of becoming an EARLESS FREAK? Well, better safe than sorry, I guess."

Then I see this person at the end of June and I walk up to them, rip the beanie off of their head, expose their hideously misshapen mass of unwashed hair, light the beanie on fire and throw it into a clowder of rabid bobcats and then BEAT THE BEANIE OFFENDER WITHIN AN INCH OF ITS USELESS, INSIGNIFICANT LIFE.

I understand that most people are disgusting. Most people don't like to take showers. Most people have HORRIBLE HAIR. And instead of being able to make the connection that taking a shower usually makes your hair look better, these people decide instead to put a floppy yarn hat on their heads and ignore a very pressing problem, WHICH IS THEIR UGLINESS. So here's a lesson: IGNORING YOUR PROBLEMS WILL NOT MAKE THEM GO AWAY. Especially in regards to ugliness. And here's the catch-22, beanie-wearing imbeciles: wearing a beanie hides your heinous hair, but your heinous hair helps to block out small sections of your MALFORMED FACE. When you wear a beanie, those sections of MISSHAPEN FACE are exposed to the public for the first time in several months. AND IT IS SO BAD.

My advice to you is: if you're wearing a beanie RIGHT NOW and you aren't in the bowels of Antarctica, I'd suggest you hide and you hide VERY well. Because I will find you. And I will light your beanie on fire and throw it into a clowder of rabid bobcats and then BEAT YOU WITHIN AN INCH OF YOUR USELESS, INSIGNIFICANT LIFE.

Lucy

Going to Hell in a DISGUSTING, USED CAT CARRIER!

2011-06-27T13:56:00.000-07:00

Greetings garden slugs!

This globe-trotting bullshit is really killing my mellow. I've been psychotically researching flights to try to find the absolute best deal that rapes the ever-loving shit out of my airline of choice. I'll find a pretty good deal for a round-trip flight that's $1053. OK. But then I go to another site and there's a deal for $1049. That's $4 in my pocket that I could hoard and/or spend on pot and hookers in Amsterdam. But then! I go to ANOTHER site and there's a deal for $1024. I'M ON FIRE AND THE SMOKIN' DEALS ARE FEEDING MY SWEET SWEET FLAME!

On Tuesday I finally decided to commit to just ONE red-hot smokin' deal, and it's been HARD. Now I'm taken, shackled down by the old ball and chain. This must be what marriage feels like.

Today I dug my passport out from under a pile of half-finished Sudoku puzzles and an empty carton of TGI Friday's Spinach and Artichoke Cheese Dip, (that one's for Violet! SOAK IT IN!) and I was reminded of just how good I look in my passport photo. DAMN. I sure am glad that I shot myself with the makeup gun at least three times before that picture was taken!

Anywho, do you know what I HATE?

JUNKY GARAGE SALES IN MY NEIGHBORHOOD.

I live in a decent neighborhood. So imagine my surprise when I drive up my street and see THIS:

Seriously?

My neighborhood is the sort of neighborhood that isn't covered in any sitcom and should be. Whenever I drive my maroon hurse down the street, this is what happens....

What you're supposed to be getting from this image is that this guy is TOTALLY IGNORING ME while I'm waving at him.

I know you do the "courtesy wave" too, so don't even scoff at me under your breath in your cubicle. I know where you are. The "courtesy wave" doesn't mean you're bffl's, it just signifies the mutual understanding that you have with the people you live around. The "courtesy wave" translates to: "Don't key my car or knock over my mailbox and we'll be just fine".

But the best part about my neighborhood is that NO ONE believes in the "courtesy wave". Just this fact alone is amusing, but tack on the fact that they know they should return my "courtesy wave" but they don't. And I know that they know what they're doing is wrong when every wretched soul I pass who foolishly decided to be outside between the hours of 9 am to 8:30 pm does unnatural things to make it seem like they can't see me driving up the street. They'll stare at the sky, they'll look down at the keys in their hand quizzically, they'll bend down and pick at pieces of withered dandelion peeking out of sidewalk cracks, ANYTHING to avoid the "courtesy wave".

So it shouldn't come to me as a surprise that my socially inept neighbors would throw a yard sale, assuming that anyone in the tri-state area would want to buy eight used cat carriers. Honest to Satan. EIGHT. Eight gross USED cat carriers for sale in their driveway. Boils (my least favorite cat) would NEVER stand for that.

Continuing. They have a junky garage sale this weekend. From Friday to Saturday, I'm awoken by people driving over my pothole and trapping me inside. Not like I care, I refuse to go outside until at least three in the morning. So on Monday, I crawl out of my pothole to go to work. And what do I see?

My lovely neighbors have decided NOT to clean up the remnants of their yard sale. They've left it all.

OK, maybe today they'll clean up the rest of their USED TRASH. But I wake up the next morning...

AND IT'S STILL THERE.

We're now on DAY EIGHT of the abandoned garage sale. Cat carriers and all. Don't I have a neighborhood association? Don't they throw barbeques in the park and force me to pick the weeds out of cracks around my pothole?

This problem is extremely real to me. But if anyone needs a DISGUSTING, USED CAT CARRIER, I can hook you up.

Lucy

Globe-Trotting and INEVITABLE COLD-BLOODED MURDER

2011-06-20T12:23:00.000-07:00

My apologies for being a hermit... More than usual, that is...

Truth be told, my muzzled tamarinds, I'm being massacred by an upcoming trip abroad that I've been obsessively planning for the last week. But one thing I've discovered that I HATE is that the ONE person I've told about my trip because we were both sitting in the DMV and whenever I'm in the DMV I get really nervous that they'll pull up my criminal record and see that I have a warrant out for attempting to knock down a "Deer Crossing" road sign because they piss me off (deer don't need the luxury of a "Crossing" area, mostly because they don't abide by the rules and also because they're RABID ANIMALS THAT WOULD KILL YOU IF THEY COULD,) and so I hope that they don't arrest me. And when I get nervous about potentially being arrested, I talk to strangers to calm myself down. It's a rather painful coping mechanism. Back to my point! When I told that one person, it asked me, "Are you going with anyone?"

To which I said, "Maybe. I pretty much hate everyone, and all the other demons decided to go to the Cayman Islands, and that's SO not my scene. So probably not."

Then it clicks its repulsive tongue and replies, "Oh. That's a little scary."

And I'm like, "Why?"

And it's like, "Aren't you afraid of getting killed?"

Huh.

I didn't really think about that.

UNTIL NOW.

Just because I hate everyone doesn't mean that I think everyone wants to kill me. So call me crazy for slightly trusting people enough to not try to kill me everywhere I go. It's not like I'm going to the Human Trafficking Bazaar in Thailand, though this wouldn't be a half-bad idea....

Also! I'm a demon, and I assume that this is a turn-off for potential murderers because I have a time-share in Hell that I'm pretty excited about. Which could be a buzz-kill for a murderer since I've always found more pleasure in killing innocents. Which would be the reasoning behind my second and third warrant. Shit. I'm getting nervous again and I say,

"Not really. I'm pretty scary and I emptied out a fire extinguisher and filled it up with pepper spray. So I don't think I'll have any massive problems with serial killers."

It scoffs and comments, "I'd be afraid. You're far away from home and in some strange city by yourself. So if you died, no one would know about it."

To which I retort, "Yeah, well I have a SUPER successful blog with 64 FOLLOWERS and they're all obsessed with my use of hyperbole and colored text for emphasis, so at least 20 of them would leave comments in the CBox, (check it, to the right! Go down in history along with Brenda! Look for the insightful comment by "Penis Extenders"!) Plus MY HOUSE SUCKS because there's this bug that's been decomposing in my bedroom doorway for over two weeks and NO ONE will pick it up for me. Two points DEBUNKED. Next."

On a side note, STILL THERE. This is funny because it's 100% true and it grosses me out so bad. I might put up a Craigslist ad for someone to pick it up for me. I'm very serious. To all of my pot hole-mates, YOU SUCK SO HARD FOR LETTING THIS HAPPEN TO ME AND THE NEXT TIME I BUY A BAG OF STRING CHEESE, NONE OF YOU CAN HAVE SOME.

But this DMV freak really has me tweaked out now. Will I really get killed? Does everyone want to kill people that may or may not be traveling alone? I see lots of people that are alone at public places. I am a RAGING SOCIOPATH and I HATE EVERYONE, but I usually won't go out of my way to kill these people. Well, most of the time....

Is the world really THAT bad of a place? I mean, I hear about people dying all the time on the news, but there's tons of people that live on Earth. And most times people die on bus crashes, which sucks. But I don't ride buses because they're DISGUSTING and I have a rather dapper maroon hurse that I much prefer to tool around in for my late-night TGI Friday's Spinach and Artichoke Cheese Dip runs, (tangent, thanks for not sponsoring me yet, TGI Friday's. You're damn lucky that I love your Spinach and Artichoke Cheese Dip so much, or else you'd be CUT OFF).

Thank you for bearing with me, my malformed and socially awkward pets. I'll slowly start re-introducing myself into the cyber super-highway this week.

Lucy

Lucy's Beauty Tips

2011-06-13T16:29:00.000-07:00

This one goes out to all of my lady followers.

Most people stop me on the street to tell me how INCONCEIVABLY BEAUTIFUL I am. Honestly, this is a nuisance because I'm a SOCIOPATH and after a while, I just get sick of hearing about it.

IT'S REALLY HARD BEING DEVASTATINGLY ATTRACTIVE AND SYMMETRICAL.

But instead of wallowing in my own self-pity and wishing that people could just treat me like a normal moderately attractive wretch, I've decided to do the unthinkable...

I AM GIFTING YOU WITH MY BEAUTY TIPS.

1) Bathe in fresh blood every day, preferably the blood of small children and/or stray animals. The more of a struggle that your victim puts up, the better.

2) Live in a pothole. I've mentioned this before, but I don't get too much exposure to the sun partially because I'M A SOCIOPATH and maintaining any contact with the sun means that I'll probably have to interact with or be around living things. But also because if you spend a single second in the sun, you'll probably get skin cancer and DIE A SLOW AND PAINFUL DEATH. So along with sustaining my pristine porcelain complexion, living in a pothole will prevent me from getting skin cancer and thus LIVING FOREVER TO SPREAD THE DOCTRINE OF HATE.

3) Kill at least one thing EVERY DAY. This could be a bug on the sidewalk, someone's childhood dream, or perhaps an unsuspecting Wal-Mart security guard. It's entirely up to you but you'll see more results if the kill is more devastating.

4) This is a little recipe that I like to call:

Everything That You Can Find in Your Trashcan Facial

You could look like this: Liquid SEX.

Instructions: Empty out your trashcan on the floor. Take a handful of your trash and put it into a blender. If you don't have a blender, just squeeze your handful of trash REALLY hard. Once the trash is liquid-esque and/or easily spreadable, SMEAR IT ALL OVER YOUR FACE. Leave on for about 10-15 minutes and rub off with a piece of steel wool. I do this every morning and my favorite part is the unpredictability. Pretty much all trash will work well, with the exception of batteries. Don't put batteries on your face. This is mostly common knowledge, but it helps to say it just in case.

I hope that my humble guide will help you lead your most attractive and VENGEFUL week yet!

Lucy

Why You Should Make Sure That When You Die, You'll Die in a Convenient Place Where You Won't Get in Anyone's Way

2011-06-10T10:18:00.000-07:00

Good mid-afternoon, 61 FOLLOWERS! Just typing it makes me all light-headed, like I'm huffing spray paint. But it's high-quality spray paint, so I'm good.

Frankly, MY WEEK SUCKED. More than usual, dregs of society. You ask, "Why, Lucy, why?"

THIS IS WHY.

You're confused. What is that? A miniature black hole? A cigarette burn in a piece of speckled carpet? A Raisinet?

No, slightly close, and NO.

It's some bug thing.

Ahhhhhhhhhhhhh isn't it gross? I HATE IT.

A few nights ago as I was slithering to bed, I crossed the threshold of my bedroom and saw this little rapscallion, a martyr for peace that died as soon as it encroached upon my lair.

THAT'LL TEACH ALL THOSE "EARTHLY BEINGS" TO STAY THE HELL AWAY FROM ME.

So I look at it, take a few pictures and gloat about my supreme power over all that is good. Then I go to sleep.

I wake up the next morning, open my door, and see THIS.

Damnit.

I don't like animals. You probably assume it's because I hate anything that is capable of experiencing joy. You're 49% right, but the main reason as to why I hate animals is because THEY CAN DIE IN INCONVENIENT PLACES AND GET IN EVERYONE'S WAY.

So now I'm stuck with this minature martyr corpse sprawled out in front of my door. And I'd pick it up, but I can't because if I pick it up, my face will be relatively close to it. Also, if I were to pick it up with a Kleenex, I'd most likely feel its crunchy little exoskeleton against my fingers and I HATE THAT. So I did what anyone in my position would do.

I hid it under a Home Plate.

So this worked for the next two days and I guess you could say this was a little schticky but I'm a huge believer in ignoring your problems until they go away, so I did! Until this happened.

WHO WOULD DO THIS TO ME?

To be 100% honest with you, (on a side note, I'm hitting the percentages HARD today!) I probably would have left that Home Plate insect carcass buffer there for at least a few weeks, maybe even a month or two. Then I would lift it up in the hope that my insect martyr foe had decomposed into the carpet or perhaps had been dissolved and lifted into the cosmos. But alas, something or SOMEONE thwarted my usual coping techniques.

Now I'm forced to do something that I usually refuse to do: be creative.

I don't know if you're aware of what these are, but they're pretty much a staple in my life. They're these little tadpole-like bag things that you can throw at hard things and/or people. And when they make contact with a surface, they usually explode. It's a little pop but it gets the job done, especially during Girl Scout season when I don't want to buy another eight packages of Samoas. A few Pop-Its will buy me about twenty seconds so that I can limp out of Hy-Vee and back to the comforts of my maroon hurse.

So I figure that if they work on Girl Scouts, which are exponentially larger than my insect martyr, they'll sure as CHER'S talent work on my insect martyr's inconvenient corpse. I open the box...

And this is what happens to me.

FUCK YOU POP-ITS. YOU EXPLODE ALL OVER THE JEWELRY HUTCH IN MY TIME OF NEED.

Of course, I haven't cleaned this up yet. I think I may move my Home Plate to my jewelry hutch and see if it can clean up sawdust.

Anywho, I throw a couple of Pop-Its at my insect squatter and what happens?

They don't explode because my carpet is too plush and luxurious. So now I have to pick up the unexploded Pop-Its that are sprinkled about the insect vessel because I'm sure as hell not wasting five perfectly fine Pop-Its. My face was so close to the bug corpse that I could hardly stand it.

FUCK.

Now I'm running out of options. So I do the unthinkable.

I found this wreath in a dumpster behind the Blue Sky Mausoleum and, in a desperate attempt to avoid touching my arch-nemesis, I framed it. This is my logic:

The people that I live with have stopped humoring my phobia of picking up things off of the floor. I can't ask them to pick up the dead insect martyr for me because they'll give me a speech about how I need to grow up and start caring for my living quarters, even if we are living in a pot hole. Sufficed to say, I can't actually ask them to help me. Also I'M A SOCIOPATH so I'd prefer non-verbal communication.

This is where the wreath comes in. My pot hole-mates will look down at the floor in front of my bedroom and see a wreath. They'll think to themselves, "Why does Lucy have a wreath? Does she believe in Christ now?" They'll inspect the wreath and discover the insect martyr's bedraggled corpse. They'll then muse that since I'm pious, it would be a good idea to pick up this bug carcass for me just in case I turn out to be super holy so that I won't condemn them.

Damn I'm freaking smart.

So now it's a waiting game.

I wait.

And wait.

And NOTHING.

No one cares. No one can be BOTHERED to care about how hard it is for me to walk in and out of my bedroom for fear that I might slip and fall and my face might touch the now week-old bug body.

But then I woke up this morning.

And IT'S GONE.

I don't know why or how. Maybe the wreath ate it. Maybe the Home Plate decided to step up to the plate (har har) and get rid of it in the night. Maybe one of my pot hole-mates did the right thing and picked it up for me.

Or maybe, just maybe, God saw that sign of Christmas cheer in front of my door and saw the beauty in my doctrine of hate. Maybe God did me a solid and dissolved my bug martyr into the speckled carpet below.

Maybe this insect vessel has made me a believer.

Lucy

P.S. False alarm. I moved the wreath and the insect martyr was underneath the bow. FUCK.

The Upcoming Week

2011-06-06T09:19:00.000-07:00

I still have lots of things to hate, 59 FOLLOWERS! But I happened to promise someone (ahem... SCOTT at A Day is Worth 100 Words!) a severely manipulated picture of Keanu Reeves.

As you can see, it took me a REALLY long time and it's extremely well-done.

Also, I have something I'd like to share. Yesterday I was browsing the "Missed Connections" ads on Craigslist (one of my favorite things to do, along with switching peoples' doormats in my neighborhood,) and I found a post entitled "I Know You Saw Me" which goes a little something like this....

"I was walking my komodo dragon in Acacia Park on Wednesday when I saw you washing your dog in Uncle Wilburs Fountain. I like your rebellious style. We locked eyes for a moment but when I tried to talk to you a school bus full of disadvantaged children from wyoming pulled up and obscured my view. When it finally moved, you were gone and I was left alone... again. Please email me if you remember me, I miss you... "

I think I've met my SOUL MATE. After we get married (and WE WILL), you're all invited to the reception in my POTHOLE.

Let's see what mind-numbingly repulsive things this week brings to us, shall we?

Lucy

Why I Hate An Alternative/Pop Band Comprised of Ageless Boys

2011-06-03T09:43:00.000-07:00

This will be a rather odd hate.

Do you know what I hate?

I hate a boy band. Well, kind of. An alternative/pop band comprised of ageless boys. I really don't want to get sued and seeing as hating everything is becoming UBER POPULAR with 58 FOLLOWERS, (Hi ho cheerio, mutated periscopes!) I figure we've got to keep this puppy going!

Back to my point. I have a 100% legitimate reason to hate them. I don't even need my usual hyperbole or vibrantly colored text for emphasis, because this happened in a public venue. And about 300 tweens can back me up on this. Let me explain with my usual hyperbole and vibrantly colored text for emphasis.

A long time ago, I really liked this said alternative/pop band comprised of ageless boys. I saw one of their music videos on MTV back when it wasn't the Jersey Shore network, and let me admit to you, I DUG IT.

I know I just lost a substantial number of groupies with that last sentence. But you have to keep in mind that I was young and impressionable and SUPER EFFING INDIE. So this angsty dude singing in front of an empty pool surrounded by SUPER EFFING INDIE kids really spoke to me.

So for my birthday, I got tickets to see this alternative/pop band comprised of ageless boys play at the State Fair. To give you a taste of this fair, here's a clip...

Yep. A whole lot of THAT.

So I'm sure that the alternative/pop band comprised of ageless boys are STOKED about this gig. You know you've hit the big-time if you're performing at the Colorado State Fair.

Anywho, I get these tickets for my birthday so I start trying to find someone to go with me.

NO ONE WILL GO WITH ME.

I ask my friends (yes, I have friends, readers, I'm a highly charismatic person and I can tap dance which are the two key components of a lasting friendship), I ask my second-tier friends, I ask my cousin, I ask my biology lab partner who wears Kenny Loggins t-shirts every day. NO ONE WILL GO WITH ME.

Finally I sucker my then-boyfriend to come with me, (YES, I am capable of being loved for fleeting stints of time, cellulite bag!) and we head on down to Pueblo for the fair. When we arrive at the arena and find our seats, we realize that we're surrounded by TWELVE YEAR-OLD GIRLS.

But I'm not swayed. I'm pretty brain-washed at this point, plus we got a funnel cake so life was good.

Finally the concert starts and as the band comes out on stage, the TWELVE YEAR-OLD GIRLS start losing their shit. But me, I was a die-hard. Damnit, their songs spoke to me. I wasn't going to let some emotionally-stunted tweens get in my way of truly connecting with the rhyming dictionary lyrics that the alternative/pop band comprised of ageless boys would most likely croon to me because I applied my makeup with a paint roller and I was looking fly and legal in my Oasis concert tee. I'M SO EFFING INDIE I CAN'T EVEN HANDLE MYSELF.

So they started their set and they're doing pretty well. I'm waving my cell phone around as my boyfriend is licking left-over powdered sugar off of the styrofoam plate of the fourth funnel cake we anhillated within an hour. Remarkably, I'm enjoying this. Keep in mind, these were simpler times.

At this point, the lead-singer of the alternative/pop band comprised of ageless boys, presumably high off of the crowd's energy combined with the fumes of Limited Too glitter body spray that over 89% of the audience was wearing, decided to get off of the stage and into the crowd to be amongst his fans. As he parted the Red Sea of pre-pubescent girls with his SUPER EFFING INDIE bony wrist, the crowd went into a euphoric mutiny. This is just as creepy as it sounds. Luckily, we were sitting in the balcony with a group of four parents and a couple of gay guys.

Suddenly, the lead singer rushes back to the stage and tells the band members to stop the music. He leans into his mic and says, "One of you took my necklace, so would you please give it back." The girls are recovering from standing on the same floor as the lead singer of the alternative/pop band comprised of ageless boys and his SUPER EFFING INDIE bony wrists.

He says, "It's very important to me, so if you could return it to me, that would be nice."

The crowd is unresponsive. My boyfriend just came back with funnel cake number five.

A moment of awkward silence goes by as the lead singer scans the crowd and then explains, "Look, my mom gave me that necklace. I wear it for every show because it's my good luck charm. And it's not cool to steal, so give it back now."

Now it's real uncomfortable. Another moment of painful silence goes by.

Now he's PISSED. "OK, here's the deal, I'm not coming back onstage if you don't return the necklace. So I'm going to sing this song offstage because one of you jerks stole something REALLY important to me and if you're so selfish that you have to ruin a concert for an entire arena of people, then you're a real loser. I can't believe you. I hope you're really happy about screwing up everyone's night because you're a pathetic klepto and you have to take other people's stuff just to give yourself a cheap thrill...."

This goes on for about five more minutes. At this point, my boyfriend and I have stopped mid-bite of funnel cake and our white powdered sugar-engulfed mouths are gaping open.

So the lead singer finally finishes guilt-tripping us and goes offstage. The band plays and he's singing but we can't see him, so we just stare at the other members of the alternative/pop band comprised of ageless boys. For the record, they're not very attractive, but they sure are ageless....

Suspicion creeps in. The audience uncomfortably shifts and eyes everyone else. At this point, anyone could be the culprit.

WHO'S THE JUDAS, GIRLS. WHO'S THE JUDAS AMONG US.

I lean over to my boyfriend and ask, "Are you the JUDAS?"

He shakes his head stoically, a few puffs of powdered sugar flying off of his lips. There's a moment of thoughtful silence between us.

Then he asks me, "Are YOU the JUDAS?"

I shake my head, "No". Then passes another moment of calculating quiet, where we eye eachother and wonder if the other is the JUDAS, if our whole relationship is a sham, smoke and mirrors, a twisted funnel cake of flavorless lies.

The song ends. The crowd is silent as the lead singer enters from the wings.

The moment of truth.

But, lo! The necklace has been returned! A cheer erupts as he puts it on and begins to sing again. All is well in paradise. My boyfriend isn't a good-for-nothing klepto liar after all! Not like this would be a deal-breaker for me, as you could imagine. So the lead singer finishes the set, and all is well.

But you see, the sting of fowl words still hovers over the crowd of tweens. A special bond was broken. We all feel guilty for something we didn't do. We feel used and cheap, like our "Dirty Litttle Secrets" are out in the open. The concert lets out and there's that stiff kind of silence, the silence you encounter when you know people just want to get out of earshot so they can talk MAD SHIT about what happened.

So that sort of made me mad, but not entirely. I applaud the lead singer of the alternative/pop band comprised of ageless boys for getting his necklace back LIKE A BOSS. He wasn't afraid of pissing off an entire concert hall full of TWELVE YEAR-OLD GIRLS that admired and respected the alternative/pop band comprised of ageless boys' heartless and deliberately vague Top 20 rock ballads.

But on the other claw, he single-handedly pissed off an entire concert hall full of TWELVE YEAR-OLD GIRLS that admired and respected the alternative/pop band comprised of ageless boys' heartless and deliberately vague Top 20 rock ballads. Over a NECKLACE. I mean, I enjoy being angry but that's pretty dumb. I could see cussing out an entire concert hall full of TWELVE YEAR-OLD GIRLS that were Hungry Hippos fans. But dude, it was one TWELVE YEAR-OLD GIRL and she probably thought that it was a secret key to your fifth wheel that you dropped off specifically for her so that she could sit on your plastic mobile home mattress and discuss your heartless and deliberately vague Top 20 rock ballads.

My message to the lead singer of that alternative/pop band comprised of ageless boys is this: necklaces aren't that important. FUNNEL CAKES ARE. It's all about priorities. Ah well, I suppose I'd better "Move Along"...

Lucy

P.S. A shout-out to a kindred spirit from Stupid People Make Me Crazy for the most satisfying honorable mention that I have EVER received! I guess I should blog about potholes and maroon hurses more often!

How To Make Your Mall Experience More Violent

2011-05-30T11:00:00.000-07:00

Model your next shopping venture after this.

Lucy

Don't Stare At Me, Freak.

2011-05-23T12:26:00.000-07:00

Do you know what I hate?

I hate it when people stare at me when I'm in my car.

I know this has happened to you at some point in your insignificant life. You're waiting at a light and someone pulls up next to you. But they don't do the "courtesy stagger" where they stop just a few feet in front of or behind your front windows. They line their side mirror up with yours. So you look over, curious to see who could have the gall to hazard such personal space invasion, and there they are.

STARING AT YOU.

This happens to me quite a bit. It might be because I drive a maroon hurse, or because my least-favorite cat, Scabs, likes to throw his body at the back window in a futile attempt to break free and wreak havoc on Western civilization.

It happened to me on Saturday. I woke up at about 1 in the afternoon and discovered that I had not been "Rapturized", (and I'm supposing you weren't either, so WELCOME TO THE CLUB, sin-stained wretch!) At this point, I decided to go to Hy-Vee and get a few boxes of TGI Friday's frozen Spinach and Artichoke Cheese Dip.

On a side note, I LOVE TGI Friday's frozen Spinach and Artichoke Cheese Dip. It's my breakdown food. Whenever I get super-stressed out because I can't find the remote or I have to take a shower, I curl up in a ball in my living room and inhale it. The salt from my tears really brings out the traces of garlic that push TGI Friday's frozen Spinach and Artichoke Cheese Dip from good to GREAT.

Anywho, I decide to go to Hy-Vee because if all goes according to plan, all of the virtuous people will be gone. And let me tell you something about virtuous people: they LOVE TGI Friday's frozen Spinach and Artichoke Cheese Dip. Am I right or am I right?

(I don't know why I don't copy and paste "TGI Friday's frozen Spinach and Artichoke Cheese Dip" instead of typing out "TGI Friday's frozen Spinach and Artichoke Cheese Dip" every time. Just then I typed out "TGI Friday's frozen Spinach and Artichoke Cheese Dip" and it takes a while. After typing "TGI Friday's frozen Spinach and Artichoke Cheese Dip", I realize that I usually forget to put in the "frozen" section of "TGI Friday's frozen Spinach and Artichoke Cheese Dip", so I have to delete "Spinach and Artichoke Cheese Dip" to insert the "frozen" into "TGI Friday's Spinach and Artichoke Cheese Dip", so I end up with "TGI Friday's frozen Spinach and Artichoke Cheese Dip".)

I need to shake that off. Let me take five and I'll get back to you.

OK, so my reasoning for going to Hy-Vee on Saturday was that I wouldn't have to fend the masses of virtuous people off with my tattoo of an upside-down cross that I got back in '04 on my left scapula just so I could get some TGI Friday's frozen Spinach and Artichoke Cheese Dip. I'm also thinking in forward motion. Surely if I've had the idea to seize the opportunity of getting TGI Friday's frozen Spinach and Artichoke Cheese Dip, at least three other hopeless sinner SOCIOPATHS must have thought of this, too. So I decide to get at least four packages of TGI Friday's frozen Spinach and Artichoke Cheese Dip because, as we all know, TGI Friday's frozen Spinach and Artichoke Cheese Dip doesn't grow on trees.

So I'm on my TGI Friday's frozen Spinach and Artichoke Cheese Dip crusade when I pull up to a stop light. Sure as hell, all of the symptoms of a spacial intrusion are in order: someone pulls up next to my car, no "courtesy stagger", lines their mirror up with mine. Reflexively, I turn my head and look at them.

And this is what I see...

AHHHHHHHHH! What do you want from me?!

It's not enough that we're making eye contact. You have to smile at me like we're friends, or like we're both onto this inside joke that we've created in this moment of forced social interaction. Look, I get that you're about 12 days from buying a pine condo and that we've got a camaraderie based on the fact that we're both survivors of the Rapture, but I don't understand where this can go.

So I break eye contact and focus all of my energy on the red light, selling my soul and the souls of every B-List celebrity I can conjure up, willing the light to change.

Come on.

If this light turns green right now, I'll send $20 to a dying polar bear.

If this light changes right now, I'll turn the cock-fighting ring in my basement into a soup kitchen.

The next time I see a wounded animal on the side of the road, I won't prop my "FREE MANDELA" sign up against it.

Umm... And? And... I'll call the Humane Society?

The "FREE MANDELA" sign?

I didn't think it was that bad.

How so?

Since when?!

Dude, no one told me that!

GNARLOTRON. Well then I'll get rid of it.

All right.

So...

So in conclusion, I hate it when people stare at me in my car. But a little bargaining with the inanimate objects surrounding you can fix that right up.

Lucy

50 FOLLOWERS and Five Pictures of Ugly People

2011-05-20T10:17:00.000-07:00

Today is a momentous day.

HOW TO HATE EVERYTHING HAS REACHED AN INCONCEIVABLE 50 FOLLOWERS!

This is thrilling. It reminds me of that one time I was crowned prom queen, right before a bucket of pig's blood got dumped over my head...

Oh wait... I think that might have been Bill Murray....

So now the heat is on. With 50 followers to impress, this post better be hotter than a Totino's Pizza Roll.

But then we're adding on another layer. Because you see, judgment day is THIS SATURDAY. So I guess shit is going to go down or something. I don't know. But I'm a hateful person so if the Rapture does come, you can find me kickin' it in my bed watching Paranormal State on Hulu.

The fact that this will not be funny at all if shit really DOES go down on May 21st is not lost on me.

But DAMNIT, all this life-and-death shit is really getting in the way of what's important here: THIS POST HAS GREAT EXPECTATIONS.

So what do I do? What can I effectively spill my heart and soul into that will make YOU, my fifty caged turtle doves, understand how TICKLED BLACK I am that so many people have embraced their rage?

I'm not too sure.... but in the meantime, I can take pictures of ugly people and GIFT THEM TO YOU!

A good qualifier for this picture is that it was raining little pebbles of ICE that day. Something about projectile pebbles of ICE doesn't make me think khaki shorts, but hey, I'M A SOCIOPATH.

Those are slippers you're seeing.

All of this screams SEX. If you need ten minutes, a quiet space and a bottle of lotion, feel free to do what needs to be done.

This one was hard to get. Those antiques are darty.

This one has a little bit of a story. When I go thrift store shopping, I'm really aggressive. So when people get within a five foot radius of me and/or touch the same rack I'm touching, I GET REAL MAD. This trash bag was getting all up in my grill and hoarding the black sweater rack which was really pissing me off because the only thing I wear are black sweaters, preferably Tommy Hilfiger. So for revenge, I took a picture of her and will LOUDLY PARADE IT ABOUT THE CYBER WORLD until I feel justice has been served.

Plus the color combo is heinous.

I tip my hat to YOU, my 50 untrained pygmy marmosets, for embracing the rage and inspiring me to HATE ON! Hate can be a wonderful thing, if you HATE EVERYTHING.

Lucy

Hungry Hungry Hippos Are Hungry Hungry FOR BLOOD!

2011-05-16T09:45:00.000-07:00

Do you know what I hate?

HUNGRY HIPPOS.

I remember the first time I played Hungry Hippos. Now I don't know if you've seen the Hungry Hippos commercial, but if you go off of the commercial, Hungry Hippos is the equivalent of THE SECOND COMNG OF JESUS of board games. It's exciting, it's violent, it's like watching two hippos fight in the most epic battle of your entire life because it's right in front of you and you're controlling it, LIKE GOD. I hope all of my Biblical references aren't being lost on you, especially because they're in BOLD.

So I go into this game expecting hours of quality entertainment. I sit down with a few of my disposable acquaintances and hunker down with a few C-Rations and a Camelbak because we'll be here for a while.

"RELEASE THE MARBLES!"

We frantically scramble for the frazzled marbles, like islanders running from a ravenous stream of MOLTEN LAVA.

So we scrimmage, we push and pull, we smack and defeat and pillage.

We do this for about thirty seconds.

And then IT'S OVER.

COME ON.

Are you kidding me, Hungry Hippos? Seriously? In every commercial for Hungry Hippos that I've seen, it's all about this perfect melting pot of assorted PC ethnic kids who are kicking ass and taking names in the wood-paneled den of a one-level rancher house. But then you play the game and you realize that this perfect melting pot of assorted PC ethnic kids are EFFING SLOW when it comes to eating marbles and POWNING YOUR FRIENDS.

Anywho, you're done with Hungry Hippos in thirty seconds. Well OK. So let's count the marbles and see who's the REAL WINNER.

Frank has about 3 because he's LAME and the only reason we invited him was because we needed four players and we knew he'd say yes because the Tyra Show doesn't come on for at least another hour.

Murtle got one by accident because she's a PUSH-OVER WUSS and her name is Murtle because her parents wanted to make a joke out of her life. FINE.

I have about nine marbles.

Skyler has 23. 23 EFFING MARBLES.

I'M PISSED.

Here I thought that the name of the game in Hungry Hippos was strategy. But there is NO strategy in Hungry Hippos. The only way to win is to hit the little lever with your fist AS FAST AS YOU CAN. So Skyler wins.

DAMN YOU AND THE HIPPO YOU RODE ON, SKYLER. THERE'S A SPECIAL PLACE IN HELL FOR PEOPLE LIKE YOU, AND IT'S RIGHT BELOW MY TIME SHARE IN THE AFFLUENT REGION OF THE THIRD CIRCLE OF THE INFERNO.

Lucy

P.S. Cheers to Nancy for believing in the power of the CBox! Whoever doesn't know Bill Murray is a sociopath and/or Amish and/or an Amish sociopath.

Mozart for Dogs/My Grandmother

2011-05-13T11:59:00.000-07:00

Due to some issues, my latest post on Hungry Hippos is GONE! Gone like Punxsutawney Phil's short-lived annual fame. Gone like any hope Two and a Half Men had for restoring its tried-and-true audience by supposedly casting Ashton Kutcher in place of Charlie "Tiger Blood" Sheen (see my musings on Kutcher's fine craft here). Gone like the brand-new pack of Bubblicious gum that fell under the vinyl seats of my maroon hurse.

Gone, my pygmys.

But in place of that, I want to gift you with something I do on a startlingly regular basis, mostly at work. If someone calls me in an unpleasant mood (a.k.a. my grandmother) and I feel that they (my grandmother) need some time to calm down, I like to play this entire song for them. I feel that this song, (entitled "Mozart for Dogs",) gives any agitated and/or frazzled caller (a.k.a. my grandmother) a chance to take a moment and smell the roses and/or any interesting sections of grass and/or other dogs.

ENJOY!

Angry INSOMNIAC

2011-05-09T18:28:00.000-07:00

I saw this commercial the other day and it gave me a newfound appreciation for my normal pillow.

Let's do a play-by-play.

Starting with the name "Happy Napper".

What a horrible name with horrible hard "p" sounds.

HaPPy NaPPer.

Now I'll go into a bizarre personal fact about me. Whenever I see a sing-along video with the lyrics on the bottom of the screen and a little ball, my first impulse is to attempt to sing along. So when the sing-along portion of the Happy Napper jingle comes along, I have no choice but to try to sing it without any knowledge of the song.

So I try to sing along and I CAN'T. There are several reasons for this:

1) I've never heard the Happy Napper jingle before.
2) The Happy Napper jingle is not a popular song. It is most certainly not Cher's 1998 hit single "Believe".
3) The tune of the Happy Napper jingle is surprisingly tough to follow. It's not anything like the Pillow Pet jingle. Talk about a catchy jingle.

So I attempt to sing along and I FAIL. So let me tell you something else about myself: If I do not succeed in a sing-along, I will study the song until I can nail it PERFECTLY. So I do. I sit through the next ten minute sequence of Blue's Clues (I was sitting with youthful vermin at the time, I don't want to talk about it,) and the commercial comes up again. But it's such a quick sing-along sequence that it sneaks by like a Yeti and IT'S GONE.

Damnit.

I can't watch another episode of Blue's Clues without thinking about this one time that one of my professors told me about how he smoked pot with the actor who played Steve. But thankfully I captured the jingle on a tape recorder so I put it on my nightstand and played it all night on loop while I was sleeping.

So today I got up and turned on Blue's Clues, but I was smart about it and covered my TV screen with black construction paper so I wouldn't actually have to watch Shwag Steve talking to a green screen dog. I stare at the black construction paper and I wait for a commercial break. Then I hear the siren call of Happy Napper.

After NAILING the sing-along portion of the commercial, I arrange the black construction paper on the dirt floor of my charming pot hole and continue watching the Happy Napper sales pitch.

Now that I'm actually thinking about the concept of a Happy Napper, it's pretty graphic. The whole idea of a Happy Napper is that your stuffed animal can be taken out of a brightly colored pillow house by its face and played with all day. But at night, you rip open your ladybug's back and shove its house into its spine until tomorrow, where you rip it back out again.

I'm a violent person, but THIS IS BAD.

This is why I HATE HAPPY NAPPERS. On a side note, Happy Napper advertising executives, if you need a demon with the voice of an angel to croon your rather intricate jingle, I'm your Lucifer!

Lucy