Approaching movie cliche saturation

I saw Wanted recently. It was arguably one of the worst films that I've ever seen, and I have been forced to watch a video of myself as a young child, playing with a cup. The cup, you see, gets played with. In act two, it gets played with some more, but this time I drool a little bit and grin like some cup deprived prisoner who's been kept by the insidious coffee mug people in a cupless prison for untold eons.

The big twist is that at the end, I drop the cup on its ass and go chasing after a bug.

This was so much worse than that it's hard the explain. It's like a really fat, sweaty guy who wants to hug you. As he approaches, you can see the sweat stains underneath his cleverly emblazoned squirrel t-shirt ("Oh, I get it, they're talking about testicles, not actual nuts. Huh. That, that was. Huh. I did not see that coming") and the slightly darker circle of perspiration around his bellybutton. In an instant, the entirety of his life is visible in your mind, before it collapses into a meaningless jumble of images as he embraces you, and you're sinking down, sinking into the wet and the comforting knowledge that, yes, you can cry now. It's OK.

The sweat stains are the narration of the movie. They're sort of the give away that yes, this will be disgusting. Each little pore of this movie is leaking out a fine mixture of angst, poorly written attempts at some sort of pseudo-Nihilistic world view, and dialogue attempting to tie you more closely to the main character. They operate on the premise that most people who'll see this movie are losers in some way. Which, really, I can't fault them for; I'm a loser in some ways, so are most people. The problem is that they insist on forcing this into your popcorn munching gullet so forcefully that any sympathy or understanding is swept away by the gag reflex against shit.

The action sequences are the actual flesh. It's... well, no offense fat guy who is hugging me, but it's a bit much. A bit, well, overdone. Remember how The Matrix was a decent film, and then by the third one it was a guy erotically fondling the controls of a mech suit and screaming for about an hour? It's like somebody saw those movies and was never informed that the first one was the good one. A tip.

Don't use slow mo on a terrible scene. That does nothing good.

If I'm slowly vomiting up the remains of a four course meal, I don't want to slow down the moment. I don't want to savor the sensation of food slowly rolling out of my acid coated mouth and into the toilet. Oh, look. There's that chunk of spicy apple tart. Coming up. Coming up. Still coming up. Oh, there it is, falling out of my mouth. Plop. Wow. That was so much better than just puking in real time.

The kicker to this movie is Angelina Jolie. Returning to the fat guy hug, imagine that, as he's hugging you, some naked, beautiful woman appears over his shoulder. Now, as you hug this behemoth, a slight erection begins to form in your pants. You can feel his confusion as this small mass balls against his sweating leg, and your eyes close slowly in disgust and horror. He pulls away and looks sideways at the ground, blushing furiously. You manage to stammer out a, "Uh, it was, uh good to see you again, uh, man."

The rest of the night night is spent punching your dick in rage and confusion.

I sleep on dogs now.

YEAH

YEAH THAT'S RIGHT

I HAVE A DOG PATTERNED BED PILLOW NOW. YEAH.

What do you sleep on? I bet it sucks. I got all kinds of dogs. You want to know how many dogs I've got on this thing?

Like five dogs. They're all happy, too. They look like they've just discovered that they won the lottery, but then they gave the money to orphans or something, because they've realized that true happiness lies in quantity of experience in the world or some shit. Maybe they'll join a monastery and spend the rest of their lives wearing these really cute little monk robes and calling puppies grasshopper and stuff. It'd be like kung fu panda, only without Jack Black and with a lot more dogs and no martial arts and also occasionally a dog would die and that would be depressing for small children who want to see cute animals performing martial arts, and then those children would grow up to have a crippling self confidence complex, like maybe they can't eat shrimp if there's a Jewish man around.

Anyway, it's pretty damn comfy. My mother caught me making snuggly noises at the pillow the other day though, so now apparently she feels the need to ask me if I'm, "OK." I tried to explain to her that it's just the pillow is so damn awesome now, but she just looked concerned. She mentioned that we had some real dogs, and that sort of took me by surprise. I mean, when the pillow came along, it sort of blew the less important stuff out the door.

So, I'm planning on sharing this thing with the other people of the world. Imagine, if you will, a rather cold, dreary farm scene. Old Tater, or some other rustic and elderly named gentleman, is out in the moonlight of the cold Oregon/rural Texas/Martian (for variety) moon. His hands tremble slightly, a tremble that wasn't there year ago, when he was still a young cattle rustler/store operator/tractor driver/Martian (for variety) as he lays a bouquet of roses down on his dead wife's grave. A single tear, though one with an ad in the personals section of the local newspaper, which isn't getting any action due to its lack of self esteem and halitosis, rolls down his cheek. Suddenly, he hears a whooping, hollering noise.

"FUCK YEAH LOOK AT THIS PILLOW CASE HOLY SHIT," he hears, coming from over a ridge. Suddenly, a huge repainted tour bus/jumbo jet crests the hill. A rogueishly handsome young man stares down at Old Maize. "Yo," the guy would say, "Get a load of this, old man," and he'd throw the man a freshly ironed pillow case. Suddenly, Old Beet's heart soars. Damn, he realizes, I've been throwing my life away, putting these roses on graves. "Thank you, young feller," he shouts after the departing sex beast extraordinaire.

Afterwards, he goes and joins a surfing community in California. He meets up with some young folks, teaches them the ways of the world in exchange for humor filled surfing lessons, and eventually shows everyone that the old can still be young at heart by winning some surfing/boxing/Martian fucking competition. He dies at the age of 120, while rocking out to Bang Camaro.

Anyway, I guess I'm just trying to say that, yes, I have plans for the weekend.

Man, these last few days sucked

When I say sucked, I mean sucked with the vehemence and conviction that a five or six year old saying the word would have. The kind where they thrust out their lower lip and scrunch up their nose and say, "That sucked," and they don't know what fellatio is yet so you have the urge to correct their word usage but damn they are angry.

I am attempting to convey that these days sucked majorly, bro/broette.

First off, last weekend wasn't a good time for my stomach. I ate in quantities both large and small, and I did so continuously. In the future, a nuclear war will wipe out most of the population of earth. The few remaining will live primitive lives, dominated by praying to Gods that will not hear them and fucking the shit out of things that were never intended to be fucked.

The huge monuments that these scared, frightened mutants will build to their gods will resemble what passed from my intestinal tract and into the realms of legend.

So, I wake up on Monday and, due to this horrific consumption fit, I fart. I do not like to fart when I wake up, because then I'm trapped by my own laziness. The few seconds before any odor reaches me are the worst. The anticipation is terrible, and in my mind, there's a little voice saying get up get up you idiot why are you throwing your life away maybe someday you'll get a microwave with accuracy down to .5 seconds so that you can evenly cook something that has a recommended cook time of 2:30-3 minutes oh jesus. As the stench finally rolled over me, all I could think was I am the worst man that ever lived. I am satan.

It happens to be my last week of high school, so I had to get up, go to school, sit in class, and be bored for a while. Then, I go home. Ah, blessed relief. Unfortunately, instead of taking a nice, long, cooling shower, my drain backs up. So I take a nice, short, room temperature foot soak in filth instead, and that's all right, but you know. It's not really ideal. It is by no means what I would choose for myself, given God like powers over matter, time, and free will.

The next day, no gas, no horrible stomach cramps. The worst, I feel, has passed, and so I set out jolly and comfortable on my bicycle for school. On the way, a delightful man decides that traffic signs are outdated modes of communication, and their existence must be protested. In a show of solidarity with his political uprising, I get hit by him. The crumpled wheels of my bicycle are a brilliant, dazzling message to the fat cats in Washington: Whoa, dudes, some guy, like, is not obeying traffic signals.

To summarize: a bloo bloo bloooh

A Romantic Vignette

As we stood upon the dock, the setting sun leaned in gently to kiss and caress the gently breaking waves. Slightly embarrassed, I looked around the see if there were any young children around who would see this rather blatant display. Dimly, I wondered where the sun had learned to be so flagrantly sexual in public. Rock music, whispered a voice in my head, or maybe those cartoons from Japan that have robots that are of an unreasonable size. The soft, soothing sound of Barry White began to roll across the ocean's blue green expanse, and as the sun began a sloppy makeout session, I was finally forced to look away. Christ, I thought again, fucking robots will do it every time.

Beside me, Bob stood unmoving, simply taking in the scene with her eyes. They were totally normal eyes, actually, there weren't limpid pools of anything, really. Seriously, really normal eyes, like on most people. Going into detail to describe them would be silly, as it would be in most cases.

Really, normal eyes. No shit.

Looking at her now, I remembered sitting at a little cafe with her in Italy. A tall, handsome Italian bartender had served us delicious, home brewed coffee, and talked at length with us.

"Italy, eh," I had said to him, attempting to pick up some local flavor, "Nice place."

"This is Mexico," he had said to me, eyes twinkling as we shared this private joke. Two strangers in a cafe, laughing at one of life's little absurdities.

"Of course," I had chuckled, glad that I could put him at ease. He simply looked away and began sweeping, but every arc of the broom bristles seemed to scream, that dude is pretty cool. Satisfied, I broached the subject of Bob's name. Surely, I had suggested, it was rather odd for a woman's name? Particularly one of her beauty. She had merely looked uneasy and plucked out another of her odd little knuckle hairs, a habit I had grown to love.

Now, staring at her on this dock, I wished desperately that I could just take her in my arms once again, whisper to her that the knuckle hair was probably nothing, that we could live forever in a little cottage by the water and raise either children or lobsters, or possibly both. How I wished I could simply describe my dreams of our future to her plainly; the two of us, old and gray haired, contentedly watching our children and lobsters fight inside a makeshift gladiatorial ring. The long pole we would use to prod the lobsters into a fighting fury would be gently, lovingly grasped in our hands.

The dock was our place of comfort, to watch the horny sun, the locals fishing, and small, overly affluent American children slowly slip into the mixture of ennui and contempt for their wealth that would dominate their lives. An old man returned with his fishing net, glancing at me compassionately. The old, in many ways, are more perceptive than the young, their lifetime of experience enabling them to read meaning into the smallest of clues. My eyes met his, and saw the sympathy there. As he passed, he let out a strong, meaty belch, as if to say, "With the wisdom of the ages, I do see your situation, oh young one." The heady, pungent odor of falafel that accompanied it lent it the weight and gravitas it needed.

Turning, I took her by the shoulders. I'd realized long ago that there was only one way to go about this business, and that was with honesty. The rest of the time, I was merely steeling myself for the coming storm.

"Bob," I said, the corner of my mouth twitching desperately, like a fish that has realized its own mortality, "I forgot to tape Seinfeld. I think it was a rerun of that one episode, with the hot tub? Yeah, that one." In my mind's eye, I could see how clearly the furrows on my brow would give away my turmoil to her. As if sensing my thoughts, her eyes dropped from my face, glancing to the side. The light they reflected back at me was very ordinary. There was nothing special about the way her eyes reflected light. "Oh," she said.

Realizing all was lost, I pushed her over the dock. Someday, I thought bitterly, we'll watch that episode together in heaven.

Medium Sized Man On Campus, pt.1

There's a time, I guess, when everyone realizes that there's more to life than just sitting around watching I Love Lucy and hoping that there's a nip slip that hasn't been caught yet. The need to better oneself becomes almost crushingly strong; you gotta do something, man. This is around the time that people go to college, or slowly replace their body parts with bionic components. For me, it's the former.

In my case, I've decided to settle on a nice little school that caters somewhat to my intended major. Now, the only appropriate thing to do when you've settled on a college is to visit the place, just to make sure you haven't accidentally signed up for a Japanese school with the same name where there are thousands of nubile young women in school girl outfits starved for male attention and who are, as Sartre once said, "Cock hungry."

That would be terrible.

So for those of you unfamiliar with the time honored tradition of college tours, there's apparently some jism stained piece of binder paper lying under Plexiglass somewhere that details the etiquette for the tour guides. It goes something like this:

1. Don't speak loudly. Despite our protestations to the contrary we, like all American colleges, hate the hearing impaired, deaf, and the even more ghastly "those who are not within two feet of the tour guide."

2. Diversity should be important to us. Therefore, there must be no native English speakers within our selection pool for guides. Rather, someone who is ambitious, foreign, and preferably has the speech habits of a racial caricature from an early Disney cartoon is the preferred guide. If you do speak unaccented, fairly normal English, stuff your mouth with the smallest member of the tour. This will both assert your dominance over the herd and render you "ethnic" enough to lead people around.

3. Reading is a sign of weakness. Do not read about what you're guiding people through, they'll only sense fear. Stare blankly ahead if asked a question you don't know the answer to and, if possible, drool.

Similarly, there's a guide for the those being toured. Different, yes, but nonetheless important. I guess I was left off the mailing list, but all the other people present met the criteria perfectly:

1. If you're the parent of a prospective student, make some jokes about drugs to lighten up the tour. Also, chortle loudly whenever an enrolled student passes by you, remarking loudly, "Oh, he's stoned," preferably to your wife or children.

2. If you're the actual kid, make sure to top off your angst before you come. Remember, this tour is bo-ring, and you don't want a stupid education anyway. Look at your feet, practice mumbling, and glare at everyone around you until someone looks back. Then, blush and look at your feet again.

Terrible, the way society is going down hill these days. On the other hand, I left the tour group after about fifteen minutes, and liked the campus just fine. Plus, there was a guy that passed me who was wearing a hammer and sickle emblazoned shirt, and if there's two things I like, it's carpentry and harvesting wheat.

Imitation of popular wealthy black rapper

That kind of stuff is humorous, and plus it's not racism because Bill Cosby doesn't like those guys either, and he's probably black, I guess.

When I started this blog, the furthest thing from my mind was money. My thoughts were purely focused on the betterment of mankind. Also, Johnny Depp. Maybe it was the betterment of mankind through Johnny Depp, or the betterment of Johnny Depp through mankind's ritual sacrifices to Him.

Either way, it was pretty damn noble.

However, like all well intentioned people, I'm secretly a huge slut for money. So when I absently clicked through the formatting options and saw the availability of google ads, dollar signs in a font that properly conveys capitalistic greed and humor, maybe comic sans, popped up in my pupils. After a trip to the optometrist, I quickly set up as many of those little fuckers as I could at the bottom of the page, because I figured that way I'd be cheating the system and squeezing a bunch of ads into a place where no one looks anyway. It's like smuggling arms in the anus of a poor, starving child, but painting the child fun colors to confuse border patrol.

Christ, I could barely contain my excitement. I mean, these things pay out, right? Like, big time. Those youtube guys didn't even have ads, and they made money. This page has to get at least as many views as youtube. Hell, if it doesn't, I'll just pay a twelve year old to butcher a classical piece of music on his guitar and watch the page views rack up. I quickly became lost in contemplation of the things my new riches could buy me. Hookers, probably. Chocolate. Gold.

Gold plated hookers carrying chocolate. Oh, yes. Yes.

It turns out, though, that I was in for the biggest disappointment of my life, aside from finding out that women are not attracted to full body Chuck E. Cheese tattoos. After ten days, I hadn't made any money. Apparently, a thousand page views are required before google will fork over their huge piles of search engine scented cash. And, when they do finally pay, it's about three dollars.

Google, I've known you a while. I kind of like you, in the sense that I don't really, but I'm saying that so as to avoid social awkwardness. However, let me make this perfectly clear.

I would make more money off of this thing if I meticulously collected the finger sweat from my keyboard after every post, saved it in a jar, and sold it to some Taiwanese guy named Lucky who sits around in a lime green bathing suit all day purchasing primo quality finger sweat for his nefarious uses. Like, twice as much money.

On an unrelated note, feel free to contact me about killer deals on, uh. Bottled water. Yeah.

Pretty in purple

I'm interviewing for a job tomorrow. Well, technically I've already had a phone interview, an internet submitted interview, and then a second phone interview, and then a scheduled interview tomorrow. You know, I'd be annoyed with all the red tape, but at this point in my career, I'm so far advanced along my path that it's only natural for employers to want to verify that I'm really the one. It's a complicated position, the one I'm interviewing for. It requires quick thinking, fast reflexes, nerves of some metallic substance that is slightly less over used than steel.

The job is called, "Courtesy Clerk." There's no required degree, previous job experience, or really any requirement except for the fact that you're actually alive and not just some sort of reanimated super corpse. Hell, they'd probably even let that slide if you were hot and not too decayed.

Fine. Fine, I can live with that. So I have to interview a bunch, take up some time from my life. I've got plenty to spare. That's all acceptable. What is not acceptable is the fucking purple polo shirt that I am required to wear for my job.

Somewhere along the line, some well intentioned guy with a degree in psychology and a sweater vest with wood buttons decided that purple is non threatening. Purple, it seems, is the quintessential color, the be all and end all of the visible spectrum. It's the color that the Germans would be studying in a lab sometime during World War II, they'd be exclaiming things that sound funny, like "ACH" and "BITTE, MEIN FRAULEIN."

Those guys were a crack up.

Anyway, purple polo shirt is my future. Years from now, I'm that guy who used to be seen changing on the sly after every shift. I'm that guy who would have some purple piece of cloth sticking out of his bag, and when you asked about it, he'd run away.

On the other hand, I'll be making $9.50 an hour. These riches require some sacrifices.

All purpose phrases

I need to break my habit of wanting to pronounce purpose as porpoise. Man.

When I was about twelve, I started to notice that there were a few phrases that could be used for almost anything. They were ideally ambiguous, vaguely familiar to people (via pop culture, in the best case scenario), and short.

I first became familiar with this phenomenon after a trip to the doctor's for my yearly check up. Probably I was around ten at the time. When my mother left me alone in the waiting room, I noticed a series of "growing up" pamphlets, designed to help struggling parents explain to their kids what exactly dicks and ovaries and pissing fetishes are. Two in particular caught my eye.

The first one featured a paternal figure sitting on a couch, looking at his son, gesticulating into the air while he apparently talked to the kid. I say apparently because for all I know, he was just doing some kind of guppy impression or demonstrating what a nice set of fillings he had. In any event, on the inside it had such pertinent questions as, "What's a vagina?" and "Is my penis normal?"

"Well," I thought, "How timely. I've just begun to question my dick's normality, and I heard someone say vagina once in a dirty context."

I surreptitiously swiped the booklet, along with another one called, "What happens if I masturbate too much?"

Later, I was perusing them in my room when I heard my mother coming towards the door. As she was about to open the door, I frantically stuffed the reading matter under my bed, and shouted the first thing that came to my mind.

"CHECK IT OUT NOW FUNK SOUL BROTHER," I screamed, in a falsetto that, in better times, could have netted me a position in a band where the people look moody and wear things that are trendy, but not trendy enough to label them as sell outs. This is important to them, because they must retain their street cred.

Incredibly, my mother stopped. She didn't open the door. She'd heard, at some point, Fatboy Slim's Rockafeller Skank, and was trying to figure out what the lyrics meant in this context, coming from her apparently castrated son. In the time it took her to realize that it was just gibberish, I'd hidden my contraband naughtiness and taken out a copy of EGM. I just sat on my bed, triumphant, and replied to her inquiry, "Yes, I would like some super hero themed underwear."

I felt awesome. Deception was my world now, mother. Oh, yes. You couldn't see the sly fox that your darling son had become. I casually stared at her, pretending, in my mind, to be Sean Connery in James Bond, right before he ordered a martini or revealed to the world that under the suit, his chest had the appearance of a caribou fur draped maggot.

Since then, I've evolved in the way that I use these phrases. In the proper group of people, a well dropped, "RUNNNN! Get back to dah choppah!" can be a useful way to buy myself some time to explain why I'm wearing a Madonna t-shirt. I hunt for those phrases now, in magazines and movies and music.

I even managed to net the last available Mountain Dew at the supermarket the other day by stunning the obese man reaching for it with, "Can't step to this!"

Yes, the depressed middle aged woman in the aisle who was fantasizing about getting married to the cashier at register three and moving away somewhere romantic and maybe she'd finally get a foot rub that fucking pig at home never gives her foot rubs maybe she should kill him, yes she clutched her child closer and eyed me with the same suspicion she normally reserves for the waiters at Red Lobster when she thinks they've added things to the bill.

Dammit, though. It was worth it.

I'M MAKING COKE IN MY GARAGE

...by which I mean a home brewed batch of Coca-Cola imitation, of course.

I noticed a while ago that if I just stayed on my computer or read a book, only moving to go to school or to exercise, I'd get depressed. I'm the type of person who likes a good project, a good activity. I'm the guy who would run into a Boy Scout's meeting and laugh at them for being homophobic, and then come back later and steal their bird house building materials so I could make my own. It's just who I am.

When I'm not creating something manually, I can't help the feeling that I'm not doing anything. Logically, sure, I can tell myself, "You're doing something. You're writing that essay, you're masturbating at a frequency that is both record breaking and disturbing, you're reading that book."

However, it's like there's a part of my mind that refuses to believe that. It's a skeptic. If I'm not able to quantify my accomplishments occasionally, and do it quickly, it rebells.

So I make little projects for myself. Stupid things that don't take long most of the time, occasionally big projects. Last week I bought some coconuts from a market, shaved them and sanded them, and made little tropical glasses so that I could put on a colorful shirt and recline and feel like I was in Hawaii, if instead of a beach, Hawaii had a great view of one of my dogs licking his asshole.

Also, I like run on sentences. It's as close to stream of consciousness writing as I can get without feeling woozy.

In any event, I chose to make coca cola substitute this weekend, because that sounds fun (I have a warped sense of fun) and delicious.

Here's a link, if you're curious. I have the sneaking suspicion that that website is designed for middle aged women looking for things to cook, but I put a mustache and a fake set of testicles on my monitor to make it more manly, and now everything is just dandy.

Porn has the right idea

Yesterday, I was watching TV and a commercial came on advertising Bowflex. They had this huge, ripped guy exercising, and a voice over that was so enthusiastic it made my balls hurt.

However, isn't the point of advertising these days to get people to empathize with the fictional guy on TV, working on getting those sculpted buns? Having a huge dude proclaiming the efficacy of the system doesn't really give them anything to relate to. Unless they're deluded to the nth degree, they're probably going to realize that they don't look like that guy, and they won't ever look like that guy.

In porn, people have started replacing ripped, muscled guys with pudgy, pasty, middle aged white dudes with body hair that's somehow unsettling. The reason being, as far as I can tell, that they've realized their market demographic: pudgy, pasty, middle aged white dudes with body hair that's somehow unsettling. The last thing these guys want to see when they're watching porn is someone who'll intimidate them. It's just going to remind them that they're sitting at home in a dark room, holding their small dick and sweating unpleasantly while they try not the think about their wife's cottage cheese thighs. Having these big walking towers of cock and muscle is just a slap in the face to the poor man.

So, why hasn't this been extrapolated to normal advertising? The only downside is that the advertising corporations don't have someone to show off what could be, if only the viewer would get off of his ass and buy their shit. They've lost that.

However, they've gained the knowledge that all around America, there's out of shape guys who are still watching that infomerical because they haven't been scared away by the fact that their wife thinks of the guy on the Bowflex commercial during sex. Instead, there's someone they can relate to. He's got the same problems they do: hairy ass, no muscles, a filthy attraction to that girl who was on Jeopardy the other night. They can relate. Hell, if he can look stupid pulling on those rods while wearing a sweatband, so can they.

Oh, and if you're pudgy, pasty, white, and middle aged, but you have body hair arranged in an aesthetically pleasing way, just disregard this.

There's no one left who I can safely like

I was talking to someone yesterday, and they made a comment about how arrogant those guys who sat with baseball caps on in sport stadiums are. I thought, "Fuck, I thought I could like those people. Who's left?"

Environmentalists are all skinny hippies with art degrees, the salt of the earth is just old dudes who aren't educated or old dudes who are educated but pretend not to be. Liberals are hypocrites, conservatives are fascists, the left wing is turning into the right wing and the right wing is turning into those people you see on the bus who are reading a KJV and want you to know it.

The problem that I'm having right now is that, for whatever reason, I haven't been able to fit into any social group. That would be awesome, under normal circumstances, because not fitting into a social group is, in itself, a social group, and they're pretty cool and they have chicks who wear jeans and shirts that say things that they don't understand.

The real issue with my situation is that I don't mind most of these people, with their social groups. I don't (oddly) even think I'm better than them. So I have no sense of superiority I can share with a collective, I have no struggle I can bring up with people and say, "Man, look at this struggle. It's fucking hard. I wish other people had to deal with this stuff, maybe then they'd understand us."

Most people understand me. There's not much to it. The biggest struggle I deal with is normally the fact that when I shower, I knock over my bodywash container a lot, and it leaks out and then I have to buy new bodywash, and that sucks, because then my bodywash costs are excessively high, and that's terrible.

So it's always been a delicate balance for me, finding some social group who almost everyone can agree to dislike, and finding some social group that everyone can agree to like. When I was 12, I just got some Yu-Gi-Oh! cards and I was in with that crowd, and then I pretended to like WWF and I was in with that crowd, and that was pretty much it. Most recently, I actively proclaimed my distaste for people who like My Chemical Romance and advocated a reevaluation of American morals so they'd jive with the kids of today. That worked for a while, but then everyone started hating My Chemical Romance and too many people finally realized what relativism was, and I was back to square one.

So I'm out of people I can like, I'm out of people I can dislike, and I'm out of bodywash.

Which is terrible.