Songs where more than 10% of the words are “baby”.
Songs which dispense shout-outs — not just to homies; to anyone.
Songs instructing me to praise Jah, Jesus, or simply “him”.
- Songs featuring women who wear lots of make up and jewelry and play no instruments making horrible wailing noises at the beginning.
Songs declaring something to be “the new sensation”.
Dear People Who Sit In Front Of Me On Trans-Atlantic Flights,
Reclining your seat will not make you any more comfortable. It will only make me less comfortable.
I’d like to have some folk era-style tall tales about myself.
You know, like Paul Bunyon or John Henry.
Like maybe get the rumor going that I can paint a whole building without a ladder, or drink a gallon of Bartles & Jaymes in 20 minutes.
Well those are kinda crappy, but I haven’t put much thought into it. You get the idea.
Post your suggestions in the comments. I’ll write and record an authentic original folk song based on the winning idea. Bonus points if you include some lyrics. I’ll check back here in one week. Go!
Dear WBR LeoP,
You keep posting spam comments on this website. While we do officially discourage that here at thingsihate.org, I want to alert you to the fact that your spamming technique could use some work. The URLs in your comments consist of only a few words separated by spaces. While we do appreciate your specifing the HTTP protocol in “http://Health Care Institute”, clicking on this link will not take the reader anywhere.
If Captchas had been reliably cracked, then I believe every spammer on earth would be back in action ’round there parts. Since you are the only one posting spam comments here these days, I am forced to assume you are a real person, or persons. Why do you do this? Where do you get the time? What do your spam comments even mean? our grasp of the English language often seems minimal, at most. All I can figure out is that you seem to be very passionate about the subjects of health care and dental hygiene.
Searching for your name on Google returns several pages of hits, all of them your signature baffling comments, invalid links, and name. I confess that I do like your name. WBR LeoP. It’s one of those classy, non-standard format names, like F. Scott Fitzgerald, or George HW Bush. The “P” in “LeoP” demonstrates a technique of abbreviation with which I’m not familiar, but do plan to incorporate into my own name in the near future.
While I generally do not like spammers, it seems to be that you are the most inept spammer on earth, and have therefore earned a special place in my heart, dethroning the Gouranga guy. I hope you read this, WBR LeoP, and please do contact me. I’d love to get in touch and perhaps feature some of your work here on the website.
I’m going to talk to you about my feet. If you do not have a strong stomach, close your web browser. If children are present, send them out of the room.
My feet produce an astounding amount of heat. They radiate heat. In most shoes, they begin to swelter after just a few minutes. I try to wear shoes with little metal eyelets, to facilitate a nice cool breeze. Even then, they get sweaty. Wet and sweaty. Real wet and sweaty, like the clammy, sticky hands of a small child. When wearing shoes my feet are always just a tad bit moist. At the end of a long day, my socks are wet. When doing laundry, socks that I’ve worn throughout the week are stiff — stiff like cardboard.
So you can imagine that my feet don’t smell no like rose garden. I’m generally a smell-free guy. Nine years ago, Annna complimented me on never having an offensive odor. I don’t wear deodorant; my underarms have the fragrance of a spring morning. But my feet are a whole ‘nother story. All the odors a normal human body produces are, for me, concentrated in my feet. And then some.
My feet started smelling when I moved to Germany. My first week in Germany, I was living out of a suitcase, and unable to do my laundry. The company had a washing machine in the basement, which you could reserve, but mankind’s civility and decency disappears around free washing machines, apparently, since it was always full and in the middle of a wash cycle whenever I went down to use it during my scheduled time. I wound up having to recycle socks. Yes, aforementioned stiff-as-cardboard socks. I was just as horrified doing it as you are reading it. My stench in the workplace was powerful. Sticking my feet as far under my desk as possible did not help.
You can imagine, then, my terror whenever I heard: “Would you mind taking your shoes off? We don’t wear shoes in the house.”
People who don’t allow shoes in their house are also the ones who clean so often that they need such a rule the least. If plastic on furniture hadn’t become synonymous in the collective vocabulary with “anal-retentive” you’d be sliding right off their sofa, too.
Here I am, dressed like a slob in jeans and a t-shirt — people with a no-shoe rule are never dressed in jeans and a t-shirt — and I hear it, the no-shoes rule. Panic. How late in the day is it? Have I been doing a lot of walking? Which shoes? Have I washed the shoes recently? Oh fuck, oh Jesus. I nervously slip out of my shoes. If I’m lucky, they’re not bad, and nobody will bend down to pick something up off the floor near me. If it’s bad, well, then there’s no point in being polite to anyone, ’cause I’ll never be back; they’re going to check the walls for boogers after I leave. You can imagine what a nerve-fest Japan was. Fucking clean-freaks.
There is a certain type of person who, despite the fact that you’ve just walked under a tree which is dumping pollen all over the ground, will see flecks on your shoulders and shout “Oh my God, you’ve got dandruff!” People who are unable to describe a zit as being anything other than “big and yellow.” People who can only describe any physical ickiness in the most extreme of terms. Of course, with my feet, it was always “Oh my God, fungus!” The fact that sweaty things stink doesn’t matter. To some, any kind of foot ailment always equals fungus. These people bug the piss out of me. But It’s hard to get too defensive when windows need to be opened in your presence. It’s like fat people having to listen to nutrition and exercise advice from someone who has to eat to keep his weight on, or having to listen to money-management advice from someone who won the lottery. The ends wins them the argument, despite the means being bullshit. I’ll bet these people have no-shoes rules.
Epilog: The solution came from a quick search on Google: Anti-bacterial soap. “Wait,” you ask, “isn’t all soap anti-bacterial these days?” Well, in the U.S., yes, it pretty much is. In Germany, no, not at all. I searched high and low and eventually found Palm Olive Anti-Bacterial Hand Soap, available only in some stores of one particular drug store chain. Now I use it, daily, on my feet, and my only regret is that you can’t fire it out of its nozzle hard enough to hit the twerps who diagnosed it as fungus right in the eyes.
Dice up two strips of bacon on non-wooden cutting board, and place into pan over low heat. Stir around with spatula to cover entire pan. Throw cutting board and knife into sink. Wash raw meat germs off hands.
While bacon cooks, slice up three to four mushrooms with new knife and on second cutting board. Wood is OK.
Check on bacon. Wonder if, for only two stips of bacon, it’s really supposed to have gotten this goddam greasy in the pan. Remove bacon from pan, set on saucer. Curse self for trying to save the planet and having no paper towels to place under bacon and absorb grease.
Put mushrooms into pan. Stir around with spatula. Get sudden, terrified chill that there may be lingering uncooked-meat germs on spatula from initial bacon-stir. Choose to ignore.
While mushrooms cook, break three eggs into coffee cup. Retreive milk from fridge, open and try hard not to wretch from spoiled milk smell. Go to bathroom and pour milk down toilet. Add three tablespoons water to eggs. Beat with fork.
Remove cooked mushrooms from pan, use spatula to place on same saucer with bacon. Ignore back-of-mind fears about spatula.
Pour egg-water mixture into pan. Swirl to get it up on inside walls of pan, to form upward-curled crust for easier folding-and-removal later with spatula. Do not think about spatula.
Salt and pepper egg mixture. Stare at egg mixture. Wonder why egg mixture does not seem to be cooking at all. Curse audibly in response to egg mixture on inside walls oozing back to bottom of pan. Wonder why egg mixture still doesn’t seem to be cooking. Turn up heat and remind self that a watched pot never boils. Attend to cutting of two slices of swiss cheese from block in fridge.
Check on eggs. Wonder why they still do not seem to be cooking at all. Remember pot and watching and boiling. Go play piano for a few minutes, then check on eggs. Discover that they’ve completely cooked. Apply sliced cheese, bacon and mushrooms to top.
Attempt to slide spatula under and around outside rim of what can now be called an omelet. Curse audibly at failure. Attempt to fold omelet, creating large tear in perfect roundness of said. Decide to “fuck it” and make scrambled. Use spatula to wreak terror and destruction upon eggs, bacon, mushrooms and cheese, too enraged to worry about spatula.
Scrape mess onto clean plate. Curse audibly in response to shit stuck to bottom of frying pan. Run frying pan under hot water, scrubbing with rough-side of sponge, to remove thin layer of burned egg which will just not fucking come off, removing dime-sized bits of teflon in process.
Eat shitty eggs while looking up symptoms of trichinosis on internet.
- “You’re not Irish, you’re American.“ Weirdly enough, I’ve seen more English than Irish get upset about this one. Why? Do you honestly think Americans who say it are claiming to be ethnically Irish? Or, maybe, just maybe, do you suppose they say “Irish” to mean “of Irish descent”? I suspect you know exactly what they mean, and choose to ignore it because this is one of the particularly tendy ways to point out Americans being idiots, despite it making no sense and being retarded.
- “One thing you don’t realize until you get there is how big America is.” Oh really? Have you looked at a map? Hey, let’s move the conversation to the recurring favorite topic about how bad Americans are at geography.
- “America’s aggressive foreign policy can be explained by its youth as a nation; hundreds of years ago, European nations were all warring with each other at the drop of a hat too!” Wow, it’s as simple as that! Christ you’re intelligent! Yes, I’ve actually heard this from people. Also: hundreds of years ago? Try up until the late 1950s. Some might say that losing control over global empires, two new superpowers on the block, and massive war debt prevented them from having the means to be the bullies they once were, but that’s just American baby-speak, as we shout “You, all right! I learned it by watching you!” eastward, then storm off to our rooms to blare some Metallica. Anyone who’s not a moron can tell it was a sudden flash of enlightenment and goodwill in the hearts and minds of European nations. Americans should hope to one day evolve so highly.
- “Americans are so culturally self-absorbed, they don’t bother to learn any other languages.” And neither do the English; why don’t we ever hear that about them? Maybe if English was as useful in the global marketplace as, say, Flemish, we’d have to study up too. But at this moment in time, English is the lingua franca, probably due to England’s colonial days spreading the language far and wide, and its and now America’s position in the world. It wasn’t always English, and it won’t be English forever, but right now it is. There’s nothing about being born in Norway that makes you smarter or less lazy; you learn English because, unless you want to be isolated from the rest of the world, you pretty much have to.
- “They call them ‘French Fries’ to make them sound fancy; they’re actually Belgian.” French… Fries… From… Belgium… cannot reconcile these two facts… Think hard about it. Consult a history book.
- “Their money is all the same size and color!” I have no idea why this one riles up so many Europeans so much. See it’s got these numbers printed on it that say how much it’s worth, and somehow the even blind survive. While people who have this complaint are apparently less capable than those born without vision, somehow the fact that none of our coins say how much they’re worth on them is A-OK.
Lest you think I’m anti-European, see my previous post: Dumb Things Americans Say About Europe.
- “The service is just so bad everywhere.” It’s just different. If you want to get the attention of your server, you have to speak to them as they go by, or possibly wave at them. You can’t expect to make subtle eye-contact and have them rush over to see what you need, like back home. Why Americans, who are usually quite bold when it comes to speaking to strangers and asking for help, suddenly become timid as chuch mice in restaurants, I do not know.
- “It’s like coming home!“ No it’s not. Your home is America. You have no genetic predisposition to feel at home within political borders that were probably completely different when your ancestors left. What you mean is that it looks the way you expected it to, which means you’re in the tourist district.
- “The French are rude and snobby.” I just don’t understand this one; I’ve been to France several times and locals have been polite and friendly. I suspect it’s a case of people running across the rude Frenchman and letting him confirm what they already knew, despite the previous 10 friendly locals who made no impression at all. (To be fair, Europeans do this too; not only regarding America, but also their neighboring countries.)
- “The pace of life here really makes you realize what a hurry we Americans are always in.” Well, guess what, you’re on vacation. Check out rush hour London, or Paris, or the massive traffic jams around Cologne. And when you get home, take a day off work and spend it at cafes and museums. Does anyone look like they’re in a hurry? No, because they’re not at work, just like the people you saw out and about in Sienna at 3 o’clock in the afternoon.
- “There’s such a history here that the US doesn’t have.” The US has thousands of years of history, but it belongs to poor, marginalized people that you don’t feel any connection with.
- “If it wasn’t for us, they’d all be speaking German.” That’s probably true, but it’s even more so the case for other countries. World War II had been going on for over two years before the US joined, and we suffered fewer casualties than France, England, the Soviet Union. Also, if you refer to the WWII-era America as “we,” unless you’re my grandfather’s age, you’re an asshole.
Lest you think I’m a turncoat, stay tuned for Thursday’s update: Dumb Things Europeans Say About America.
Hissyfit. Never tell someone who is in a fit of anger not to have a hissyfit. Trivializing their rage by using the word “hissy” is like throwing gasoline on their fire. Plus if you’re a man, it makes you sound like a lady.
“Crushing on”. What’s that, Jenny? You’re crushing on Zack? You’re crushing on Zack, you admit, nervously blushing and all a-giggle? Christ, I’d like to smack you. You’ve got a crush on Zack. What the fuck is wrong with fifteen-year-olds these days?
“Hating on”. Same as above.
Pussy. I’ve been accused of being a prude because I don’t say it. It’s not because I’m a prude. It’s because there’s nothing funny about the word. There’s a pretty much endless list of funny names for the male genitalia. How did this one catch on? [Etymologists: I don't actually want to know; I'm pretty sure it caught on because people are morons.] There’s something wrong when the real word is funnier than the slang. Another benefit of the real word is that you can use it to describe anything exhibiting invagination — have fun pointing out all the vaginas that cover every day objects to your bewildered and disturbed co-workers.
Fanny [North American usage], including “Fanny Pack”. The only people I’ve ever known who use the word “fanny” had such aversions to certain words that, when they really wanted to show they were serious, they’d use the word “butt,” always preceeded by a nervous and involuntary pause.
Rhyming euphemisms for masturbation. Jerkin’ the gherkin. Five-knuckle shuffle. Beat the meat. It’s about whacking off, and it rhymes! That’s pure comedy gold, if you’re some kind of inbred.
Would you look at this?
That god damned Wiki’s-pedia has gone too far.
You know, there actually is a real cheese called “American,” you wiki-loving, general public assholes; you people who use the word “cheddarly” in what’s supposed to be an encyclopedia entry.
I hate how the rest of the world has damned american cheese to by synonymous with “fake, plastic-wrapped, individually-sliced cheese.” Stupid rest of the world. They think they’re so hot.
I’ll tell you who it is. It’s those god damned Europeans. Just because when they order a coffee they still get a coffee cup and spoon instead of a paper cup and plastic stirring-stick, they think they’re so high and mighty. Euorpeans who think anything they didn’t see on the menu at TGI Friday’s on that trip to the Grand Canyon last summer doesn’t exist in America.
This is the only time you’ll ever hear me divide the world up into “US” and “other”. “Other”, I’m not speaking to you on behalf of Americans; I’m speaking to you on behalf of one of our oldest and dearest friends what never done any wrong to anyone: Don’t let your perception of America as being a land of cheap, disposable crap tarnish the good name of any cheese, anywhere, ever.