I HATE THE LAKERS

I hate the fat and ugly Shaquille O’Neal, whom I will not refer to as “The Big Aristotle,” because I refuse to connect the man who wrote Poetics with the man who starred as the rapping genie Kazaam. I hate the smarmy little pretty boy Kobe Bryant who routinely scores 40 points a game because he refuses to pass the ball to his fellow pretty boy teammates. I hate Rick Fox, who is married to Vanessa Williams. I hate how NBC finds it necessary on every Lakers broadcast to scan the crowd for celebrities. I hate how only at the Staples Center are people like Dyan Cannon still considered celebrities. I hate the Lakers’ purple and yellow uniforms. I hate how they remind me of the rich, snooty popular kids in junior high you pretended to like so they wouldn’t make fun of you. I hate that they are cheating, flopping, violent ball-hogs, rivaled only by Karl Malone and John Stockton. And then there’s Phil Jackson, who is such an amazing prick that I hope Michael Jordan does stage a comeback just so the ridiculous Wizards can beat the living hell out of Phil Jackson and his Nietzsche-reading, yoga-practicing ass.

I HATE FLOWERS

Flowers are not pretty or romantic. They contain pollen. which stings my nose and makes my throat itchy and eyes water. and sometimes if you smell a flower, a bee jumps out and stings you in the eye or flies into your mouth and goes apeshit and stings the hell out of your tongue. And flowers are the symbol of love. but flowers are expensive and then they die all of a sudden before you even have a chance to do anything about it. Flowers wilt and leave you heartbroken. Just like Tricia did on prom night. Don’t think I’m over it yet, honey. It’s gonna take me a long time to forgive what you did to me. He was my best friend? How could you! Everytime I close my eyes, all I think of is you and him, writhing around naked together, screaming out incomprehensible words in the throws of unimaginable ecstacy. And what do I have to remember you by? Just that damn orchid corsage that’s still in my fridge! Flowers be damned.

I HATE YOU

I may not know you, but chances are I hate you. At one point or another, you probably did something that pissed me off. You could be that moron in my economics class that insists on holding things up by asking questions about math you should have learned in fourth grade. Hey, genius, maybe you should learn how to do multiplication before you get to college. You could be the person that thinks it’s funny to relieve yourself on the stairway of the residence hall. If you are reading this, you sick bastard, did it ever occur to you to use the toilet? Despite what you think, I do not like going to class while your vodka-laden piss fills the air. You could be that asshole that decides to honk your stupid horn at three in the morning while waiting for your equally noisy and idiotic friends to get downstairs. Then you gun the engines as you drive away. Yeah, if you’re reading this, I hope your goddamned car blows up and you die in a flaming ball of debris. And you, the guy who likes to jump on his motorcycle at ungodly hours and run laps around the residence hall: I hope you run head first into that other guy’s car just as it explodes. You could be that self-righteous prick who takes all the Commentators out of the box, thus forcing me to restock the stupid thing. Hey, ever heard of free speech, you stupid enviro-nazi? Why don’t you just go back to Suite One and stick a tree in your pie hole instead of making my day harder. Hell, you could be any one of thousands of people, through stupidity or blatant asshole tendencies, who keep me in a constant state of hatred. From you, the prick that nearly runs me over while crossing Agate street, to you, the moron in the laundry room who takes my still wet cloths out of the dryer and throws them into the dirtiest corner, I truly hate you. Even if you haven’t done anything to me yet, sooner or later you will. You are a stupid, selfish, annoying waste of flesh, and I hate you.

I HATE IT WHEN MY ROOMMATE ASKS, “CAN I HAVE SOME OF THAT?”

By Raechel Sims

No, you cannot have “some of that.” I went to the store to get it. I paid for it. I prepared it, and now I’m going to eat it. Tell me what it looks like to have a good meal, since I can’t watch myself chew. Jerk.

I HATE THE METER MAID

By Sam Wampler

That goddamned meter maid. This woman is worse than a KGB officer. She cruises Moss Street in her pretentious little Pope Mobile like an out-of-town John, looking to violate your car with her Holy Ghost, if you know what I mean. Then she marks your tire with paint, (FYI: you can wipe it off) magically to return exactly when your time is up and writes you a ticket. Try to get away? Ha! She’ll remember your license and mail you the ticket. She has a goddamn crew cut (very becoming) and wears those cheesy, tinted cop glasses, for Christ’s sake. I wouldn’t doubt if there’s a mustache above that evil grin. But don’t cross the bitch or the tag hag will give you the boot - literally.