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| I Hate Everybody and That’s Okay |
| by chumwater |
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People who know me will recall how when I get irritated, pissy, or when I'm anywhere within smell of beer, that I’m fond of saying that I hate everybody. This is when I usually explain how I’ve broken my world into two groups; there's my ex-boyfriend, who I hate, and there's everybody who isn’t my ex-boyfriend, who I also hate. And the conversation usually degenerates from there.
I used to experience a remote nagging concern about my hate issues, some people were amused by this (ha ha, listen to the pathetic drunk guy) while others respond to that word 'hate' with internal guilt or visions of nazis and racists and so forth. Hating is bad, we say, our culture frowns on that stuff. Folks today don't look too kindly at the Hitlers, bin Ladens, and Falwells. The word 'hate' conjures up a mild squeamishness that causes the nosy little editor in your brain to ask "Is that too strong?" But it's actually okay, now I know it is. Bear with me here and I'll demonstrate why it's both cool and acceptable to feel and express your hatred at will.
Once upon a time there was a popular musician. His name cleverly sounds like the name of a popular chocolate-filled, colorful candy-shelled treat. We know this guy's a real badass motherfucker because in the recording industry the silliest names are reserved for only the most tough-ass bitches (see Snoop Dogg, P.Diddy, Cher, etc). So this guy rises to fame on the merits of songs about killing his wife and raping his mother and what he’s gonna do to the "fags" and the "lezzes" when he gets his hands on them.
Music fans, public advocacy groups, and members of the media react badly to the hate lyrics and act swftly to condemn not only the singer himself but the promotional machine that supports his success. Meanwhile media outlets smelling cash, angry males aged thirteen to twenty-four, and music television networks that are normally rewarded for pro-social programming jump on board this guy's steaming gravy train, with all the bitches and benjamins in tow.
But hey mister singer guy, say the managers and spin doctors and image consultants, you could make even more shitloads of cash money if we cleverly do a 180 on a couple issues. So you're gonna duet with this English gay dude, see, and we're tossing a couple clever lines in your movie about your pal the faggot and then everyone will see you're really just a sensitive momma's boy at heart and we'll all be much richer. Champagne and hos all around. That cool with you America? Hell yes says America, thanks for relieving our collective guilt so we can get back to our favorite national pastime: liking what we're damn well told to like without having to think about it.
This is all very exciting for me, as I’ve got a whole shitload of people that I hate and it's great to be alive in a time when I can say whatever the fuck I want because, even if I've pissed off and alienated half my audience, I can always pull it off later as a misunderstanding, a joke, or some kind of brilliant post-modern metaphor.
I can finally spout off with impunity about various assholes I've dated, ex-boyfriends (mine and other people's), stupid people in general, and how when the pope dies I'm gonna laugh my ass off and then I'm gonna crack open that bottle of Perrier-Jouet I've been saving. Man that guy is one evil old fuck.
Some might think these rantings could have adverse effects on this site, or society, but I say don't give it another thought — I don't. If it gets to be a problem I'll deal, and then I'll admit that I was talking about the pope of Greenwich Village — didn't Mickey Rourke look good in that? What happened to that guy anyway, it just hasn't been the same since Harley Davidson and the Marlboro Man. |
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| November 20, 2002 |
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