More things that I hate that everyone else seems to think are so fucking wonderful

If I were a positive person, I would not have anything to write about.

Fortunately, I am an irritable malcontent, which enables me to churn out thousands of words each week.

Last summer, I decided to write a list of things that I despise.  I soon realized that such a list would be incredibly expansive, as there are very few things that I actually find enjoyable; notable examples include sex, drugs, rock & roll and rainbows.

To pare the list down to a more manageable size, I focused on areas where my opinion is at odds with conventional wisdom.  The final list was titled Things that I hate that everyone else seems to think are so fucking wonderful.  The list was far from comprehensive, so I proudly present the second installment in what will likely become a lengthy series.

 

Mayonnaise
Mayonnaise is the ubiquitous scourge of American cuisine.  In my opinion, very few foods compare in terms of sheer wretchedness to the thick and creamy paste that finds a home in the vast majority of sandwiches.  While writing this paragraph, simply thinking about mayonnaise has triggered my gag reflex.

Working in an office has its perks, such as when the company decides to order catered lunch.  Nothing is worse than spending the morning hoping for pizza, only to discover that the food was ordered from Jimmy John’s or Corner Bakery.

Every single sandwich is slathered with copious amounts of the evil condiment, rendering the food inedible by my standards.  While my coworkers joyfully nosh on the sandwiches, I turn to potato chips and pickles for midday sustenance.  Inevitably, I struggle with starvation while my coworkers question whether than I am un-American for refusing to ingest sandwiches covered in a disgusting condiment that looks like semen, only thicker.   

The condiment is composed primarily of oil, egg yolks and vinegar.  I do not understand how someone invents a concoction with this combination of ingredients, but he or she was clearly not striving for a tasty creation.

I believe that the inventor of mayonnaise inadvertently stumbled across the condiment as a result of another experiment.  Perhaps he or she was an avid scrapbooker seeking to develop a better adhesive for photographs.  Alternately, it is possible the culinary innovator was a fervent introvert who sought to repel fellow humans by applying the mixture to his or her skin after the eggs had spoiled, resulting in an unattractive stink.  Mayonnaise may have been intended to be the antithesis to Spanish Fly. 

Clearly, whoever discovered mayonnaise was a maniacal individual.  There is no other rational explanation for the decision to mix vinegar and egg yolks.   Combining acid and chicken fetuses is the work of a mad scientist, not of a culinary savant.

My wish is that we find the descendants of the person that invented mayonnaise, try them in international court on charges of chemical warfare and execute them all live before a pay-per-view audience. 

 

Pushing a shopping cart
Grocery shopping is an absolutely abhorrent experience.  I hate comparing pieces of produce, searching for an illusory vegetable that embodies biological perfection.  I cannot stand comparing the “sell by” dates on packages of meat, hoping to gain a one day edge on freshness.  Waiting in the checkout line is a tortuous ordeal that culminates in the plundering of my checking account.  Yet the most contemptible element of a trip to the grocery store is the interaction with my fellow shoppers.

Grocery stores possess a mystical power that transforms regular humans into mindless zombies.  These creatures stagger through the store aimlessly, obstructing my path at every turn.

In order for me to successfully navigate through the hordes of imbeciles, I must remain nimble.  A shopping cart is too large and cumbersome for this task, so I have a well-defined strategy for traversing through the aisles.  After finding a location to park my shopping cart, I will venture out into the aisles to retrieve the items that I need.  Once I have gathered several items, I place them into the cart, move the cart to a new location, then set out on a new adventure through the aisles.

In order to make the process more enjoyable, I pretend that my shopping cart is the Starship Enterprise and that I am a one-man away team exploring the aisles.

My system is highly efficient.  Unfortunately, my fellow shoppers employ a different system, choosing to push their carts up and down every single aisle of the store, pushing items into the cart as they find them.  This leads to gridlock in the aisles as dozens of shoppers gingerly push their carts, carefully examining each box of instant rice or instant popcorn, in hopes of discerning a cosmic secret from the packaging. 

The average grocery store aisle is narrower than the urethra of a fetal pig, yet most shoppers are oblivious to this, choosing to position their carts in a manner that completely obstructs the aisle. 

Other shoppers strive to set a new benchmark in ignorance by pushing their cart down the center of the aisle, weaving to and fro in order to occupy as much space as possible.  The menacing cart full of groceries bears down on me, like a guided missile made of metal mesh with a large, fleshy propellant.  This leaves me no choice but to retreat to another aisle.

It is unnecessary to maneuver through a grocery store in such a manner, though certain exceptions must be granted.  For example, if one is purchasing nine or more boxes of cereal, it is completely acceptable for this individual to push his or her cart down the cereal aisle, as transporting said boxes of cereal by hand would be difficult. 

However, one should not push a cart down an entire aisle in order to obtain one bottle of barbeque sauce.   Transporting 16 ounces of Sweet Baby Ray’s does not present many challenges from a logistical standpoint.  The use of a shopping cart in this situation is a symptom of laziness and a general apathy towards minor physical exertion. 

Furthermore, approximately 81 percent of Americans are morbidly obese, sweaty slobs who bathe themselves with a soapy rag attached to a long metal pole.  Simple activities such as “walking down a grocery aisle without the aid of a large metal shopping cart” and “carrying an economy-sized box of Hot Pockets a distance of 16 feet” should be encouraged in the interest of promoting physical fitness.

The fact that we are too lazy to walk through a grocery store without using a shopping cart like a rolling granny walker is terribly pathetic, and precisely why the terrorists hate us. 

 

The Toyota Prius
The Prius is an innovative and environmentally-friendly hybrid vehicle that is powered by a combination of traditional gasoline, hummus, wheatgrass and unicorn farts.  It is produced by Toyota, a Japanese company that manufactures fast-moving metal projectiles that cause horrific deaths.

The word “Prius” is derived from the adjective “pious,” reflecting the sanctimonious dispositions of the vehicles’ owners.  Prius owners champion their own willingness to purchase a grossly overpriced and underpowered vehicle in order to simultaneously save the whales, rainforests, ozone layer and the universe. 

I find it ironic that Prius owners take pleasure in “making the world a better place” when many of their vehicles have been recalled for problems which cause “people to die in ghastly accidents.”

The vehicles feature “Hippy Rainbow Mode,” a feature which significantly decreases consumption of petroleum.  In Hippy Rainbow Mode, a Prius will propel itself using the aforementioned renewable, sustainable, organic, biodegradable, recycled products. 

I am terrified of the vehicle because it is completely silent when placed into Hippy Rainbow Mode, much like a mime or a ninja.  I have had several brushes with death that have involved Prii, each encounter more harrowing than the last. 

To a pedestrian, the Toyota Prius is a silent killer, as there is no audible warning when a Prius in Hippy Rainbow Mode approaches.  This danger is compounded by the fact that self-righteous Prius owners are typically too enamored with the smell of their own flatulence to pay attention to the road as they enthusiastically imbibe a hearty whiff of their own rectal emissions.

In the past year, I have nearly been killed or maimed by a Prius on four separate occasions.  Typically, this occurs when I am walking on the sidewalk and the driver is pulling out of an alley.  I do not understand Prius owners’ affinity for alleys, though I assume that these environmentally-conscious individuals occasionally sort through the garbage cans of strangers to collect recyclables.

Each near-death experience ends with the driver slamming on their brakes, bringing their underpowered car to a quick halt.  The driver then proceeds to berate for my Neanderthal habit of “walking,” lecturing me about “carbon footprints” and how the Prius is actually a more environmentally-friendly means of transportation than walking, because the car excretes magic pixie dust from the tailpipe. 

When this happens, I am inclined to imprint my own “carbon footprint” on the buttocks of the Prius owner.  I immediately suppress my violent urges, realizing that Prius owners are peaceful pacifists, the direct descendents of tree-hugging hippies.

I would be pleased if the Prius were banned from American streets, and all owners of the vehicles were detained in labor camps.  I realize that this is somewhat unlikely, as we Americans place high value on energy conservation, recycling and other environmental nonsense. 

I feel that saving the lives of pedestrians is far more important than saving a few trees.  Trees are stupid, unless the tree is cut down and converted into something useful, like rolling papers.

It is quite disappointing to know that I may never be able to exact my revenge on the smug bastards that chose to drive the Toyota Prius.  Fortunately, I believe that these pompous individuals will eventually receive their comeuppance.  There is an area in Hell reserved for Prius owners, where they are forced into 24-hour jobs in the logging industry, using gas-guzzling, smog-belching heavy excavators to cut down rainforests.

Somewhere, an America Indian is crying, and his tears taste so very sweet. 

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1. Wow. I couldn’t agree with you more. Now if you will excuse me, I need to head over to Jewels in my newly purchased Toyota Prius so I can push a shopping cart and fill it with Miracle Whip, hummus, and bargain bin Sandra Bullock DVDs…

   Shak

   03.15.10 11:27 PM

    

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