Awhile ago I got sick and tired of doing a blog because they became a pointless distraction in my life. I grew tired of logging on, writing a blog, and then not having anyone respond to it. Then everyone started responding to it. I grew tired of logging on, writing a blog, and then having everyone responding to it. It was a vicious cycle, much like life and death, or that season of Good Times, where the dad died and we finally found out that it was actually JJ we all hated for his retarded “Dyn-O-mite” catch-phrase and lack of character depth. Speaking of cycles, am I the only one who noticed that the Danny Boyle horror film, 28 Days Later, is actually a metaphor for a woman’s menstrual cycle? That’s why I’m smarter than you.
Now while I was sick and tired of doing these blogs, I noticed an increase in anger. Many will argue that writing does not relieve pent up rage, but I beg to differ. Men like to get rid of any and all stressors with their hands or their penis, and sometimes (read: usually) both. This is where writing comes in. Well, minus the penis. Guys get angry and like to beat on things. Punching bags, walls, women, children, each other, and they kick animals, but only because they are too lazy to bend over and punch the cat. Well, typing is the same thing. You concentrate all your emotions, all your anger, all your love, all your hate and push it way down into those little punches. Essentially, you’re punching ten times as much. Okay, so that’s a crappy number based on the fact that you have ten fingers; some people don’t.
This new blog will be a list of 1001 things I hate, ambiguously titled, 1001 Things I Hate. It will focus on 1001 things I hate. Upon completion of it, I will have listed 1001 things I hate. It will be ongoing, and probably followed by a trilogy. Notice I didn’t say sequel. If you did, you’re smarter than I thought. Stop lying to yourself, you didn’t. So let us begin the first thing I hate.
The first thing I hate is 1001 of anything. There is no greater offender of the first thing I hate than books, one of the things I happen to like. Notice the foreshadowing up there when I mentioned the vicious cycle.
Everyone has heard of the book “1001 Arabian Nights”, or Alf layla wa layla in Arabic, which literally translates as The War On Terror. You have magic carpet rides, genies, Arabs, the Beastie Boys, and not one funny, furry, fucking alien that eats cats and hunts down giant, blue-eye cockroaches. False advertisement should be the name of this volume, being as it doesn’t even have that many stories, or pages, or nights. To add insult, it is subtitled Abridged, but doesn’t have a bridge anywhere in it.
Other books are even more worthy of my hate: “1001 Pelargoniums”, by some guy who’s never been laid, “1001 Animal Quacker Jokes”, by someone whose attempt at humor has already failed, “1001 Ways to Relax”, by Go Fuck Yourself and read my new blog instead, and my personal favorite, “1001 Things To Spot In The Sea”, by a dick who didn’t put sharks on the first page, found in all ocean floor bookstores.
Some even greater offenders are “1001” books of something you must do “Before You Die!” The biggest error is that not one mentioned living in any of them. Instead we are bombarded with sad attempts at entertainment. “1001 Books You Must Read Before You Die” excluded the revised second edition of “1001 Things To Spot In The Sea Including Sharks.” As a general rule, I never listen to anyone’s list of top books without an issue of “Tomb of Dracula” on it. This tome also featured ten books by J.M. Coetzee. While he wrote that awesome “Bad, Bad Leroy Brown” song, he never got famous for writing shit else.
“1001 Albums You Must Hear Before You Die” will kill you as soon as you learn it features an album from Christina Aguilera. I guess I can stop writing now. But how can I before mentioning “1001 Gardens You Must See Before You Die”? Celebrate coming out of the closet by visiting 1001 gardens across the world and have your picture taken with a rainbow in the background.
Since it is late and I am preparing for bed, I will conclude with the biggest offender of all “1001” books: “1001 Golf Holes You Must Play Before You Die.” I’m pretty sure that, using my club and two balls, I am still attempting to play 1001 holes, none of which involve golf. Now if you’ll excuse me...