K Loves David Cross

What?
Love?
What kind of blog is this???

Ok, so back in May, I wrote an article about Larry the Cable Guy. You can find it here if you haven't read it before.

I hate Larry the Cable Guy, but I love David Cross. Why?

Because of this.

Talk amongst yourselves.

K Hates Poker

“And we’re back at the 2007 World Series of Poker, where people just sit around and don’t do shit for fifteen hours a day.”

Oh man, do I hate poker. I hate all forms of it. This is a game (not a sport) for which I have absolutely no patience. Poker is boring, the people that play it are all huge nerds, and I don’t understand why people find it interesting.

Texas Hold ‘Em is stupid. Internet Poker is stupid. Websites about poker are stupid. The “turn,” “flop,” “river,” and “nuts” are stupid, and if you know what those mean, you are probably a gigantic dork.

Professional poker is stupid. I remember when ESPN started playing the World Series of Poker on weekday nights in the summer back when I was in college. It was kind of interesting, for about ten minutes! You basically have a group of degenerates who have no lives but to sit around and try to make money on cards. They’ve forsaken their careers (if they ever had one), their health (you try to sit around in a smoky card room and sip on a Mountain Dew for over 12 hours a day), and most importantly, their dignity. And for what? Take this asshole for example:

This guy used to be a successful patent lawyer. He probably used to not be such a fatass, too. Worst offense by far though is the glasses. Can ANYONE TAKE A GUY SERIOUSLY WHEN HE’S WEARING SHIT LIKE THAT? It’s like watching ultimate players in skirts; anything positive they might be doing gets ignored because they look like idiots.

I can get over all of that stuff though. The thing that really gets my goat is hearing a poker player recount a certain good or bad hand, like I give a shit. Blah, blah, blah. NO ONE CARES - IT’S A GAME OF CARDS! Share things with the world if you’ve made an amazing discovery or cured some disease, or if you write a sweet blog about stuff you hate... Just please don’t bother me with a story about the order of some little pieces of paper and how it changed your shitty life. I don’t care and I never will. Your story makes you sound like a douche bag. I’ve heard too many of them, and they all go like this:

“Hey… hey! My poker game was so sweet last night! So I’m sitting at the (casino poker table / frat house / computer by myself at 3 AM), playing a sweet (no-limit / limit / penny) game of ( Texas Hold’em / Stud / looking at porno). I’m holding two (awesome cards / terrible cards ), so I (raise / call / bluff / touch myself). The (hot chick / clueless schmuck in high school / player named “BlzDeep69er” on PokerDouche.net) to my left takes my bait and plays the hand. Next card that comes up is a (awesome card / terrible card), so I (raise / call / bluff / touch myself) again.

“Dudebro, you won’t believe what happens next! I had (a pair of kings / absolutely no cards at all / a chub from watching “2 Girls 1 Cup”). So I (went all in / re-raised and then called / watched it again). Fortunately, this (hot chick / clueless schmuck in high school / guy “BlzDeep69er”) went ahead and (called / folded / asked me what I was wearing). Can you believe it?? They actually (called / folded / asked me to meet for “drinks”) in that situation!! So here comes the last card, and I need ( a queen / a miracle / some more lotion), and by golly I (get it / don’t get it / made a mess on my keyboard)!!! How cool am I?”

Son, you are not cool. Poker is not cool, nor are the people that play it. It is, at best, nerdy, and at worst, going to make you look like this:

I bet no one wants to go “all-in” with this guy, hey-oooooo!

Candice hates Starbucks cups

So, Starbucks is supposed to be good for one thing, right? Drinks, particularly of the coffee variety. So you think they would have figured out by now that their coffee cups absolutely stink to holy hell and can singlehandedly ruin a morning, afternoon or entire day.

If your specialty is coffee, can it really be so hard to design a freakin' coffee cup that doesn't drip around the rim and ruin whatever shirt/pants you're wearing that day? Coffee stains and the persistent smell of coffee on your clothes are obnoxious. Yet every day it's a crapshoot about whether or not little drops of coffee will decide to sneak out of the recycled-paper cup and into the plastic Solo rim. Once the drip path has been created, there is no way to stem it, either. That cup of coffee will continue to drip all over the recycled-paper sleeve, your hand, and probably your cup holder and clothes with reckless abandon. Your day is ruined.

If your cup decides not to do the drippy thing, however, it still has other ways to get you. Most notably is the inane hole in the top of the cup (that's not where you drink out of) that is guaranteed to allow drops of coffee to come spurting out the top, probably scalding your hands but also resting around the upper rim of the cup for the duration of your coffee experience. It seems to serve no functional purpose, unless that functional purpose is to burn my hand and piss me off.

On the other hand (haha), Starbucks' competitiors in the coffee business, namely Dunkin Donuts and McDonalds, have brilliantly designed cups that include just one opening on the top (for sipping, obviously), and a sturdy, resealable flippy lid to prevent spillage (especially in cars). These cups are strokes of genius and guarantee a positive coffee-going experience, especially if that experience is supplemented by an Egg McMuffin with Sausage. Drool...

To the Starbucks executive out there who spilled coffee on his/her clothes today as a result of the drippy cup, maybe you should check out that persistent stain on your pants as a subtle reminder of your company's lack of understanding of a basic concept. Oh, and your breakfast items suck as badly as your stock price. Bam!!!

Janelle hates the people who work for IPASS

So, all this time, I've been quietly reading these blog posts and thinking, "those things sure are terrible, is there anything that I really hate?" no... surely not. And then it hit me in the Jewel bread aisle ten minutes into my shopping trip. Why has no one written about the IPASS people? I knew when the sickeningly sweet voice of an overly cheerful woman came over the loudspeaker, "Attention Jewel Shoppers , Have you recently received a warning or ticket from your IPASS account? Don't fret! You may be able to sort everything out" that there must be more people than me who are ready to go postal on the IPASS system's lack of foresight to make the system work. Don't fret my ass.
Notice that I don't hate IPASS. The idea of cruising right through the fast lane without pausing to frantically scramble for change is awesome. I love that I don't have to pay for every other out of town driver clogging up the lanes and causing pot holes. But someone seriously didn't think the IPASS through. Last November (four months into my marital bliss), I get a ticket for $1,500 from IPASS with a picture of my car: there was no mistaking my "official harp transport vehicle" bumper sticker. Freaking out aside, I calmly called the IPASS hotline thinking "what did I do? Did I hit a construction worker or something?!" FORTY-FIVE minutes later (FORTY-FIVE minutes of that sickeningly sweet voice announcing that I could take care of paying fines online when I really didn't want to pay $1500 online without knowing what I did first). I was finally able to talk to someone. They explained that someone had been using my car and driving through a lot of tolls. This was a joke right? I had clearly driven my car every day since the honeymoon... I explained that that could not be the case. I finally realized with the person on the phone that even though I had remembered to change my license and address and car registration and car insurance, and passport, and harp insurance, and student loans, and bank accounts, and business cards, and (you get the picture), I had forgotten to change the name on my IPASS to my new married name and they charged me a fine every time I went through. Alright. My mistake. They reversed the fines and all was well. This sounds like no reason to hate right?
May 6th, 2008: My mother calls me absolutely infuriated. It is her birthday. Shit. What did I do? She informed me that she had received a ticket for $3,200 from IPASS!! (complete with official harp transport vehicle bumper sticker). I tell her about my previous IPASS situation and all is patched. She later calls... all is not patched.
After holding for two hours, the man on the phone told her that even though the ticket was in her name, he could not take care of anything because the IPASS is now in my name and he needs both of us. She reminds him that when the "offences were committed," (IN 2006-2007, two years ago!), the car was in her name. Apparently that doesn't matter. So, I spent ANOTHER TWO HOURS on the phone with my mother and my husband and my father on mother's day when we were all together trying to take care of the stupidest thing I had ever heard of. Would anyone really be dumb enough to try to get away with driving through the IPASS lane for two years and think that they wouldn't get ticketed? And why did it take them two years to wrack up all of my tolls and then decide my IPASS wasn't valid? (It was valid and it was linked to my credit card for replenishment). For two years worth of tolls, the phone representative had to confirm each one and then get his supervisor to sign off on it. There has to be a better way!! If I was as rich as Dees, I probably would have just given them the $3200 in frustration.
While on the phone for two hours, my family got to know "Mike" the customer representative who helped us with IPASS. We learned all about the private company of IPASS (and you thought the money went primarily toward the roads.. HA! have you seen those pot holes? and why isn't the construction going to get finished this year??) We learned that Mike loves his job because he "doesn't have to do anything." Those were his words!!!! IPASS, seriously you need to get some people who do something besides waste my time and send out the most threatening, heart-stopping tickets. I won't be surprised if I get another $8000 ticket because my tolls were paid for Karen Jansen, and Janelle Jansen, and Janelle Jansen Lake, but not for Janelle Lake. Father's Day is coming up, perhaps this year, our family can get to know another IPASS representative.

K Hates Cedric Benson

As the fourth overall pick in 2005, to one of the proudest franchises in the NFL, Cedric Benson entered the NFL in tears. Ced was one of the greatest running backs in Texas Longhorn history, the biggest of big dogs at one of the nation's most famous football factories. The dude runs for over 5000 yards in his college career, wins the Doak Walker Award, and fucking cries when he gets drafted!

Right then and there, the Bears should have gotten out. Less than four years later, Cedric Benson is a former Bear. Do I hate that? No, I don't hate it, I love it. I hate that I had to cheer for Benson for the past three years, and all he did was disappoint the organization, his teammates, and Bears fans.

Benson held out for the entire 2005 training camp in an all-too-common rookie contract dispute. Once he starting playing, he had no idea how to pass block and was quite ineffective his rookie year. While other top running backs like Ronnie Brown and Cadillac Williams were performing for their teams, Benson was sulking behind Thomas Jones and his season ended prematurely due to an MCL sprain.

2006-07 was a much better year for #32 as well as the entire Bears franchise. The Monsters of the Midway rode on the back of a dominant defense and strong dual-attack running game to make it all the way to the Super Bowl. Benson actually played somewhat decently during this season. In penultimate contest, however, Ced got lit up on his first carry, fumbled the ball away and did not return to the game due to a phantom leg injury. The Indianapolis Colts claimed the Super Bowl title, leaving Bears fans to wonder what could've been.

So getting to the Super Bowl is a pretty nice accomplishment for an organization and a second year running back. Being the prima donna that he is though, this was not enough for Ced. The Bears decided to trade their workhorse back, Thomas Jones, to the New York Jets and give the highly drafted, expensive, and unproven Benson the starting running back position. Benson started the season by leaving a pre-season game early, pissing off all the vets. He then got hurt and was ineffective, losing his starting spot to Adrian Peterson (the journeyman from Georgia Southern, not Purple Jesus).

After the season, Benson got arrested twice in five weeks for alcohol related crimes. First he gets a BUI, then a DUI, both in Austin. You're a million-dollar athlete and you can't even find someone to drive your boat or limo?

Today, June 9, the Bears finally cut Benson's ass to the curb after three tumultuous seasons. The running back cupboard is pretty bare too, with Garrett "Mini-Me" Wolfe, AP, and rookie Matt Forte as the few guys left. Here's hoping Forte is nasty. At the very least, Cedric Benson is someone else's problem now.

Anna Hates Customer Service

Customer. Service. I am paying you, I am your customer. It is your job to serve me. I'm not asking for something ridiculous, here. I don't call Apple, for example, and ask the service representative to fold my laundry, make me dinner and wash my feet with her hair. I'm starting to think though that those kinds of requests might get better results since the people who work in customer service seem to know the least about the company they work for of anyone ever.

My brother works in customer service, actually, and he's pretty good at it. But that's probably because he ACTUALLY HELPS PEOPLE. I spent over an hour on the phone with Sprint today, and talked to three different people in various "departments" before they could tell me that they couldn't, in fact, help me over the phone. This seems like something that should have occurred to any one of these three people at some point during an excruciatingly long conversation, but no, it didn't. So then I went to the store, where the Sprint employee "helping" me called, I presume, the same moronic employees, and this time, was able to tell me they couldn't help me within 30 minutes. So at least that's an improvement.

Perhaps more unnerving though than the fact none of the three people on the phone, the one being consulted by the third, the guy at the store, the person HE was on the phone with, or the other 7 people working at the store doing nothing -- a total of 13 useless employees -- could help me switch my current phone number to another phone, was the series of inane questions they asked me. No, I don't know how long my new boss of 2 weeks has had this cell phone plan, we don't tend to chat about things like that. And no, oddly, I don't know the password my dad set up seven years ago when he bought my brother and I our first cell phone to keep in the car. Fine, ask these ridiculous questions, as long as they don't get too personal, I don't really care. But what bothers me is that when I said "I don't know" to every irrelevant question I was asked, it wasn't a deal breaker! It wasn't, oh, sorry, then we can't help you. The fact that I couldn't answer these questions DIDN'T SEEM TO MATTER AT ALL. Maybe that computer screen in front of you, useless Sprint employee #5, says: "If that question didn't get 'em, type a little bit more, then ask a fourth time for the number they're trying to switch! Sucker!"

Unbelievable. I was given a similar run around by US Airways last week, and a Genius Bar employee once showed me how to give my iBook the computer equivalent of the Heimlich maneuver in order to pop its video chip back into place. This is unacceptable. At least the Genius Bar employees know a thing or two about Macs and why worthless iPod version number eleventy billion has mysteriously died again; in the case of every airline I have ever utilized and this new endeavor with Sprint cell phone plans, however, I would settle for an "Only Half Retarded Bar." Then at least I could use my douchebaggy Blackberry that I don't even want. Ugh.

K Hates Larry the Cable Guy... What's a stronger word than hate?

So Cy, when you posted that article about Indiana, you linked to a picture of a big man with a cutoff shirt, who some may know as “Larry the Cable Guy.” Larry is a “comedian” who plays a redneck and says stupid things like “Git-R-Done” and “I don’t care who ya are, that there’s funny!” and has been a staple of the Blue Collar Comedy tour. Larry’s down home, country-cookin’ style of comedy resonates with real hard-workin’ Americans a.k.a., the NASCAR watchin’, fun-lovin’ kind who voted for Hillary in West Virginia. I’m going to let that description stop that right there, but you get the point. I, unlike Sen. Obama, am going to leave guns and religion out of this.

Larry the Cable Guy has found his comedic market in A-merr-ica. His shtick works for him. Larry’s not as good as Jeff Foxworthy or even Bill Engvall, but he’s made a name for himself and made some good money off of it. Just because he’s successful doesn’t mean I have to like him. In fact, I hate him, and hence why I’m writing this. Larry’s act is stupid, banal, and unintelligent, and every time I see him on TV it pisses me off. For example:

Christmas Carols that talk about immigrants, "retards," and farts; awesome! I’m not going to get on a high horse about being insulted and whatnot, but come on, that’s just a terrible excuse for comedy. You gotta make fun of "retards" twice??

And then, the worst part is the stupid ass catch phrase. Seriously, “Git-R-Done?” What the fuck does that even mean? Are you cooking a steak? Cleaning all those old tires from your front yard? Making sex to your sister? Wait, you’re not doing any of those, you’re telling a joke! Worse off, when your joke is not funny, you say something stupid like “Git-R-Done” to make people laugh. And then they do! Is every single person in every one of your audiences drunk?

At least Larry’s fellow Blue Collar cronies Foxworthy and Engvall have a point to their stupid catch phrases, “…You might be a redneck” and “Here’s your sign.” Those are almost as trite, but at least they have a point, like “If you get your nipple bitten off by a beaver, you might be a redneck.” “Git-r-done” has absolutely no point, except people laugh at how stupid Larry sounds when he says it. What does that translate to in English, “It is completed?”

You know what makes me hit the hater-ade even harder? Larry the Cable Guy is not even a real redneck! He spent most of his teenage years in West Palm Beach! Some of his earliest comedy is shitty standup under his real name, Dan Whitney! Don’t believe me, watch this:

Wow, Dan Whitney is not funny. Neither is Larry the Cable Guy. You fake being a redneck, make fun of defenseless minorities in front of an audience of red state NRA-ers, and sling around three syllables that make you sound even more uneducated than the people you mock. Larry, you suck, you are not funny at all, and I hate you.

K

Candice hates people who wear Bluetooth headsets all the time

Don't get me wrong, I think bluetooth headsets are great for particular purposes. Sitting in traffic, for instance, is a great time to whip out that earpiece with the blue flashing light and jabber away while simultaneously cursing the people who stopped to stare at the accident ahead.

However, WHY THE HECK is there this entire breed of cyborgs (HA!) that insist on wearing the stupid things everywhere they go? While shopping, during lunch, during dinner, during meetings... while taking a dump. Honestly - who are these people that think that a) they are so important that they are going to get that many calls in a day and b) they are incapable of holding a phone to their ear? It is one of the most annoying things to see people talking to themselves, or think that they're talking to you, only to find that they're just letting their friend know that Kenny Chesney doesn't believe in marriage (true statement). Do these people wear them to bed? While they're "getting intimate" in the bedroom? Why-oh-why do your hands need to be so free exactly?!?


And, it looks totally stupid. Do you really want to be known as "Bluetooth guy" for the rest of your life? If there's one way to up your douchebag appeal, may I humbly suggest this route.

Candice hates most people on planes

So Monday mornings suck for me. I mean, they suck for most people, but most people don't generally have to go to the airport at an ungodly hour, get verbally abused by angry, angry security personnel ("CONSOLIDATEEEEEEEEEEEE"... which means put your purse inside your backpack before I'll check your ID, but then when I'm not looking just take it back out and go through security as per normal), and then sit in a tiny seat on a wobbly plane with a bunch of other angry Monday morning travelers.

Now, most of the the time I just sleep through the flight. I'm asleep before takeoff and I wakeup on landing. However, there are the days where you need sleep the most - these are the days where you are guaranteed to get none at all.

Let me introduce you to the categories of people on planes who make my life miserable.

1) The oh-I-didn't-know-about-liquids cave dweller.

Seriously, it's been 2 years, there are signs EVERYWHERE in the airport, and your five year old can tell you the rule. Quit bringing economy-sized bottles of Nair and antifreeze on the plane! For every second that elapses while they have to re-run your bag, explain the liquids rule to you, and tear your neat packing job apart while they investigate every bottle that is over 3oz... I am envisioning making you drink a concoction of every liquid you attempted to smuggle on board today as a punishment.

2) The behind-your-seat toucher.

The behind-your-seat toucher is that person who sits behind you who is constantly grabbing your seat when they get up or sit down, putting things in the seat back pockets, raising and lowering the tray table, and occasionally digging their knees or feet into the back of the chair. The worst kind of behind-your-seat toucher will even have the gall to take their shoes off and wedge their stanky foot up on your armrest, thinking you won't notice. Well guess what - I NOTICE EVERYTHING YOU ARE DOING BECAUSE THAT SEAT YOU'RE TOUCHING IS ALSO MY SEAT THAT I AM CURRENTLY SITTING ON, AND TRYING TO SLEEP ON. THANK YOU.

3) The gawrsh-darnit-I've-never-been-on-an-airplane-but-I-sure-love-vacations traveler.

These are the people that just LOOOVE to talk to you even though you clearly have a book in hand, or headphones in your ears, which indicates that you have something better to do than hear about your trip to Aunt Betty's house with the rest of your loopy family who makes great carrot cake because they grown their own carrots. Seriously. STOP TALKING TO ME... I DON'T CARE! I would rather listen to radio static than talk to you, which is why my eyes are closed... and yet you continue to talk...

4) The seatbelt-extension-required traveler.

Self explanatory. Armrest invasion and loss of personal space ensues.

5) The Spring Break vacationer.

OMG I'm like soooo totally excited for Cancun! I'm gonna like, lie on the beach and tan myself all day, and then go to Senor Frogs , Fat Tuesdayand a foam party at night! I can't wait to hook up with a random dude and not remember it the next day all while romping around in pits of foam with drunken strangers who release strange liquids and solids into it! Wahoo!!!! Spring Break 2k8!!!

6) The learn-your-seating-area-goddamnit hapless traveler.

I don't know how many times it needs to be said, or how freaking obvious the "large bold number on the front of your boarding pass" is, but people - seating areas are there for a reason! If airlines didn't pander to the needs of snooty business travelers they'd actually have to compete on other factors, like low prices or quality of service. Please! Since we can't have those, just let us have that one advantage of boarding first and taking up all the overhead space before you lowly non-elite members board. Either you honestly don't understand the concept of seating areas, or you're that asshole that tries to board anyway hoping that the gate agent doesn't publicly humiliate you for trying to board with the 1K fliers.

Once in a while this happens, and it annoys me. When it happened this morning with a tour group of 20 old people dressed in matchingly clashing Hawaiian print shirts, mom jean shorts and socks with sandals, I just about punched somebody. Instead, I rolled my suitcase over one of their feet as they stood scorned to the side of the boarding line. And then I wrote a blog post.

Cy hates that he grew up in the stone age

I was checking out hulu.com during my lunch hour today (because I didn't feel like actually talking to anyone), and much to my pleasant surprise, they added the first thirteen episodes of Exosquad, one of my favorite cartoons from when I was a kid. Nerd time: Exosquad tells the story of an interplanetary war between humans and neosapiens, a genetically engineered slave-race that eventually overthrew their masters, conquered Venus, Earth, and Mars and then became the very oppressors that they had once sought to overcome. This show was the balls. And despite being a cartoon for kids, it also tackled mature themes like racism, politics, and the horrors of war. But mostly it was awesome because of all the sweet mech-on-mech combat action.

But here's my problem: When I was a kid, this show was on at 2:30 in the afternoon, and I didn't get home until 3:30, which meant that I never got to watch it. I saw six episodes during my entire childhood, and still remember how much I loved it to this day. That's how good it was. And every time I successfully pretended to be sick (there were a lot of times that were unsuccessful) just so I could stay home and watch it, I got so excited that, had I been capable of it at the time, I probably would have climaxed the second the opening title sequence started. This was the case with a lot of my favorite shows. Well, not the climaxing part, but me not being able to watch them. Conan the Adventurer was on at 9:00, long after I left for school, and Highlander: The Animated Series was on right after it. The live action Highlander series wasn't on till 11:30 on Sunday night, and I used to get in trouble for sneaking out of my room in the middle of the night to watch it.

This never would have been a problem if technology wouldn't have been so retarded and progressed just 15 years faster than the leisurely pace it set for itself. That's right science, I blame you. If my parents would have had a Tivo or if I could have watched all of these shows on my computer, do you have any idea how happier my childhood would have been? Do you think I'd have a blog where all I did was complain angrily about inconsequential trivia?! Fuck no! Actually science, just thinking about this has made me so angry, I'm this close to joining Bush and declaring war on your ass. You better pray to whatever god will listen that 10 years from now I don't discover that I could have been teleporting around this whole time if you'd only had your act together. Because if that happens, your free ride is over.

Caley Hates Sweeping Generalizations about States

I must admit I’m a Hoosier (meaning: I’m from Indiana), and yeah, I went to Northwestern with you Cy. I got out. I was born and raised in a small “suburb” of Indianapolis, and I think I just reached my limit of being told I’m from the “South of the North.” Northern state pomposity gets a bit tiring, especially when I recall William Faulkner or Mark Twain. Though I live in Ireland now while I am working on my master’s dissertation, I recall with fondness the wide open spaces of my home state, apart from the chaos of Chicago and the inevitable urban/liberal elitism you so succinctly represent.

Have you spent any time in Indiana apart from pit stops along I-65? You can pick up some nice fireworks and pornography along the highway, but that’s hardly representative of the entire state. I suppose we should all prefer your Midwest state, Minnesota, which boasts former governor Jesse Ventura. Also, Gary is the well-known armpit of America, not Indiana, and that’s basically south-side Chicago isn’t it? Indiana cannot be held responsible for the actions of underpaid steel workers.

I’m a strong advocate that only people from Indiana can mock Indiana. I certainly do, as when pointing out the subtle naming of neighbouring “Whitestown” to visitors or marvelling at the size of our churches. But, intelligent people have come out of Indiana and a good number of Democrats too. Kurt Vonnegut is one of our own (RIP). Sweeping generalizations, while certainly your speciality, seem especially ironic when applied to our supposed racial prejudice. So lay off Indiana will you? I’m scared for Obama too (with the other Democrats Abroad).

Cy hates the fact that Indiana has a say in who gets to be president.

This election year, thus far, has been the most irritating and frustrating period of my adult life so far. It's been way worse than looking for a job out of college, actually working at that job, and then trying to get out of that job, combined. And if your name isn't Brit Hume or Wolf Blitzer, then you probably agree. From the blatantly shifting media bias that celebrates certain candidates, then demonizes them, then celebrates them again, to the complete disregard of actual, substantive issues in favor of petty personality-based political reporting, it's all been so infuriating that I've been having trouble pinpointing the one thing that bothers me the most. Until now: Indiana.

Most presidential primary seasons, this is never an issue for me. Usually, by this point everyone I could possibly imagine wanting as my president is gone, some pompous douche nozzle has the nomination wrapped up, and we're just waiting three months for what could pretty much pass for the worst episodes of "My Super Sweet 16" ever: The Republican and Democratic National Conventions.

This year, however, things have taken a disturbing turn. It looks like Obama is going to win North Carolina, but Indiana is a different story: Either he wins and Hillary loses a great deal of steam, while support for her remaining in the race dwindles; or (the more likely outcome) Hillary wins and this continues ad nauseum while John McCain cruises by in the background, taking potshots at both candidates while they're still focused on taking down each other. Either way, Indiana's outcome today will have a massive impact on the shape of the presidential election, and its effects will likely be felt all the way into November. That scares the shit out of me.

Aside from Indianapolis, which has it's own problems (as do all major cities), Indiana is pretty much a cesspool of ignorance, racism, cut-off flanel shirts, camouflage hats , and really bad facial hair. So, basically, it's a state full of Larry the Cable Guys. And if that doesn't horrify you, I don't know what will. What's worse is that Indiana doesn't have the excuse of being in the South. I expect that kind of crap from Georgia and Tennessee, but not a fellow northern state! They were one of the first states to respond to Abraham Lincoln's request for volunteers to fight for the Union during the Civil War, and now look at them: they're shamelessly aping the exact same people they helped defeat. If you're going to act like a wanna-be state, pick a state worth ripping off like Minnesota or Oregon. Don't pick Arkansas, you idiots.

Alas, here we are, and regardless of how I feel about the armpit of America, they pretty much hold the fate of our country in their hands. And if things turn out the way I'm hoping they do, I know that I will owe at least a small debt of gratitude to Indiana, and that thought might disturb me even more than the alternative.

K Hates Kerry Wood... wha happened???

Ten years ago.
May 6, 1998.

A young Mike Kinsella was probably sitting in Geometry or Latin class during his freshman year at Benet Academy in Lisle, IL. Like most other fans of the Chicago Cubs, the spring of 1998 was more of the same. Gracie was getting old, Sammy had yet to go nuts with Big Mac, and the Cubs were somewhat of an afterthought. The Bulls were marching along to the three-peat repeat, led by the greatest player in the history of the NBA, this planet, and all universes.

That's right, Scottie Pippen.

On May 6, 1998, a paltry 15,758 people decided to go to Wrigley Field and watch the Chicago Cubs take on the mighty defending NL Central Champion Houston Astros. As Lee Elia had said fifteen years prior, "The fuckin' nickle dime people that show up? Those mother fuckers don't even work! ... Eighty five percent of the fuckin world is working, and the other fifteen come here. A playground for the cocksuckers..." Well on that day, Lee, those cocksuckers would see something that they could talk about on the playground for the rest of their days at the teeter-totter.


The Astros had quite a lineup that day. The Killer B's (Biggio, Derrek Bell, Jeff Bagwell) were at the top, with Moises Alou, Ricky Guitierrez, and a young studly catcher named Brad Ausmus smattered throughout.


We all know what happened next. 27 up, 27 down. 20 strikeouts, 0 walks. The only glitch was a shoulda been error on Kevin Orie that was ruled an infield hit. Cubs Win, Holy Cow! Kid K was born, and the Cubdom got excited. Really excited, like stupid over the top excited as only Cub fans know how to do.

Next thing you know, Sammy hit 20 dingers in June, Steve Trachsel and Gary Gaietti help the Boys in Blue take down the Giants in game 163, and the Cubbies make the playoffs.

This however, was about the best it got for the Cubbies, as well as the Kid K.

The 1998 playoffs were over before they started. The Atlanta Braves, a.k.a. the Buffalo Bills of MLB, treated the Cubs like a bully to their cocksucking fans on the playground; stealing their lunch money, giving them a black eye, and sweeping Riggleman's boys home with a 3-0 series win.

1999 was lost to Tommy John surgery, and 2000-2002 was marred with the failures of Don Baylor and Bruce Kimm, as well as Kyle Farnsworth falling asleep in the clubhouse. A new voice was needed; enter Dusty. In Dusty We Trusty!

I really don't have the energy to go through the Dusty Era of the Cubs. Too many bad memories, too much heartache. Too many towel drills for Woody and his rehab pal, Mark Prior. Too many "he's out for two weeks" turning into three months. Too many sore forearms turning into torn labrums. Too many pop fouls turning into too many tantrums, followed by too many phenoms imploding and too many Gold Glovers booting too many double play balls. Too many expectations turning into too many hopeless situations. Too many #34 jerseys turning into #25's, #16's, and now #1's. Too many toothpicks, too many Todd Hundleys showing up and turning into too many busts. Too much pain, too much hurt.

Wow, this has really been somewhat cathartic for me. Just in the past ten years, the number of times the Cubs have broken this fan's heart and will is too many to count. Twenty-five years of joyless Octobers is enough, I can't imagine how an older Cub fan must feel.

What I'm realizing as I write this piece is that no, I don't hate Kerry Wood as a person or a pitcher. I actually really like him. What I hate is the fact that Kerry Wood has become synonymous for the struggles and the disappointment that goes along with being a Cub fan. He deserved better than this fate; he deserved to be mentioned with Nolan Ryan, Tom Seaver, and Steve Carlton. I just hope he's on the Cubs when they win a World Series; he and Ron Santo embracing will be on my wall and in my heart forever.

Yea, that's a pretty wimpy way to end a column on a "hate" blog, but you know what, I don't care.

K Hates When NO ONE WRITES NEW STUFF ON THE BLOG!

Ok listen up people, the point of a blog is to write stuff. If I wanted to continuously look at something crusty and unchanging, I'd go to a museum or look at Ice Cold's backhair. This is a blog! A web log! A journal of some type... right? No one likes a journal/web log/blog without any entries. When I steal a look in my girlfriend's journal tonight after she goes to sleep, if there's not a new entry, I'm going to be pissed!

Let's think about everything that's been going on since April 18, when Ace made a lame-ass attempt to talk about motivational speakers. Jeremiah Wright became the most notorious minister since the Archbishop of Boston, the NBA playoffs rule, baseball has gotten going, and Hillary Clinton put money on the only female horse in the Kentucky Derby who decided to crap out and die.

Seriously, there's gotta be something you can all write about, right? Dees, write about how high school girls just don't listen to you - it's been a problem for you since 1997! Candice, I don't even know where the hell you've been. Are you burnt out from travelling all across the world too much? Your fucking elevator all of a sudden stopped transporting fatties one flight of stairs? Anna, how about you, what is your excuse? Your car is all of a sudden just fine? Your office doesn't have any more pervasive smells? DAMNIT FOLKS, THERE'S GOTTA BE SOME ANGER LEFT IN YOU! I know it's springtime, season of love, season of the birds and the bees, season of college ultimate, but come on, give me some vitriol. I need it. Please.

Cy, my dear friend, you are the most disappointing. Think about all we ever talk about when we're playing ultimate, or watching the NBA, or making fun of Mike D. You are such an untapped resource of pseudo-hatred, it just kills me to see you silent like this. This blog NEEDS you, Cyatollah. This blog IS YOU.

Anyways, I hate the fact that no one writes shit on here anymore. Just because it's nice out doesn't mean you can't take fifteen minutes to vent your shit on a blog that gets about 15 reads a week. Seriously, you can say whatever you want because NO ONE READS THIS.


Maybe this guy is right. Maybe you all are just full of shit. But the fact that we know how to use a computer means that we can write and publish whatever we want. Give me something, at least something about Buzz Bissinger...

Love,
K

Ace hates motivational speakers (unless they're Chris Farley)

We had a motivational speaker come to work today. Now I will admit before I start ranting, I didn’t go in with the best attitude. I was questioning, in general, motivational speakers’ credibility. Do they get where they are because they have done something extraordinary, or is it just because they know the right words to say to the right people? Regardless, I reflected afterwards and still determined that motivational speakers must be stopped.

First of all, in these 2.5 hours of my life, I didn’t learn a thing. It’s called common sense people! Wait, if you want to get someone to like you, you’re supposed to ask them about themselves!? People actually like talking about themselves? That’s an incredible observation. Oh yeah, now I remember . . . I used that in junior high to talk to girls. The speaker then preached about being genuine when getting to know others, then proceeded to give us a recipe of questions to ask in order to do be genuine. I usually refer to my “How to be Genuine Handbook” when I need answers, but I guess this will work just as well. What ever happened to just asking questions from the heart if you really are interested in getting to know the person? Instead he gives us a formula to get to know everyone and then, according to the speaker, they will want to help you all the time once they like you. Yeah that sounds genuine and not devious at all. Oh, and just to prove his point, (I kid you not) he brought about 30-40 people on stage to ask them these 5 questions. No, seriously, go right ahead. I don’t mind sitting here for 45 minutes while you interview these people that I have no interest in getting to know and will probably never see again.

A few minutes later, he gets everyone (~1,000 people) to stand up and shake hands with someone near you and tell them, “I’m happy that you’re here.” Positive thinking he calls it. I only wish Cy was there with me to bring the total protesters sitting down to 2.

Later, he discusses how to make pain go away with positive thinking. He brings a volunteer up on stage that has back pain. After walking though a ridiculous mental scenario, the girl magically says her back hurts less. This guy’s like Jesus! It should probably be noted that it seemed like the girl was just appeasing him to get off stage. Regardless, what he’s basically telling me is that if I imagine the pain to go away or distract myself enough to forget about it, all is well. It seems to me like he’s forgetting one little thing . . . I can’t quite place it . . . wait, that’s right, pain is our body’s way to tell us something is wrong. If I follow this guy’s technique with my shoulder/knee injuries, ignore them and keep pushing myself to workout and run and play ultimate, well I think I may just be crippled down the road. Is that what you want Mr. Motivational speaker? TAKE SOME TIME TO REEVALUATE WHAT YOU ARE SAYING.

I could keep going, but I won’t. I’ve made my point . . . and that point is that motivational speakers must be stopped! (unless it’s Chris Farley)

Candice hates people who take the elevator up or down one floor instead of taking the stairs

You know who you are. You get into a crowded elevator, especially during the morning rush, and you boldly (with no sense of shame whatsoever), press "2". The next closest floor that has been pushed is 5, but you don't seem to care. You get in, maybe push a person or two out of the way with your arms full of a Starbucks triple vanilla latte with whipped cream and one of their terrible bread/pastry items, and then either push the button yourself or have the audacity to ask someone to do it for you. You arms are full, so therefore your legs aren't functional either, apparently.

Everyone else on the elevator is cursing you every second the elevator takes to get to 2, open the doors, pause, then close the doors as excruciatingly slowly as possible. You get off and go on your merry way, blissfully unaware of the hatred that's teeming inside the elevator as it continues its journey upwards. They all hope you burn yourself on your latte and choke on that apple fritter.

Then, then, fifteen minutes later you decide to go back downstairs to the lobby to get some snacks... maybe a bag of Combos because you're feeling adventurous. You get back on that elevator and there are 3 people inside. They glare at the back of your head with that same intense hatred as you get on and don't press something farther down, something like B1 or B2. That would be the only case in which this situation would be acceptable, but you just whistle happily while watching the elevator lights switch from 2 to L and get off.

The part that kills me most is the people that decide to take the stairs when going up or down 1-2 flights of stairs are the people that are most in shape - the ones that probably need the extra exercise the least. It's the Combos-munching, latte-drinking, oblivious monkeys that I hate the most. The stairs are right next to the elevators! In case of fire take the stairs? Pshaw, you are probably the type to hide under your desk and hope it's just a drill, just so you don't have to walk down that one flight of stairs (and God forbid, the return trip back up). One of these days, it's not just going to be burnt popcorn in the microwave... and then you'll be in trouble. Come to think of it, you're probably that person that keeps burning the popcorn to begin with.

Cy Hates Prom Night (the movie, not the night itself, though he has some fairly strong opinions on that too)

(Perhaps a more accurate title to this post would be "Cy Hates Himself for Seeing Prom Night." Or maybe, "Cy hates having such strong feelings about a horrible movie that he feels compelled to write extensively about it." I'm going to try to restrain myself here, but I make no promises.)

I went to see Street Kings on Saturday with a friend, with the tentative plan to sneak into another movie after it was over, since I couldn't rightly justify shelling out full price for such an obviously mediocre movie. After looking over what was playing and seeing such a god-awful array of "films" (except for In Bruges, which was awesome, but I've already seen), I let my friend decide. And she chose Prom Night. Little did I know what a horrible mistake I had made...

Street Kings, despite its many, many flaws, was decently enjoyable, but what followed next was not. A brief synopsis: During Brittany Snow's freshman year of high school, her mother, father and little brother are brutally murdered by a science teacher who is obsessed with her. He is later committed to an insane asylum. Three days before Snow's senior prom, he escapes, then on the day of the prom, sneaks into the hotel where it's being held, murders about half of the hotel staff and just about all of her friends. She's taken home to her Aunt's and Uncle's in protective custody, but the teacher manages to murder all of the police protecting her, her boyfriend, and is about to kill her when the main detective (Idris Elba, Stringer Bell from The Wire, in a wasted performance) finally arrives and shoots him. Then she hugs the cop, and you know that everybody's happy because the "Everybody's Happy" music starts playing and the credits role.

What?! This is supposed to be a happy ending?! Idris Elba should have just put a bullet in her brain, because there's no fucking way she doesn't live the worst life imaginable for the next five years before she kills herself. At least in movies like Texas Chainsaw Massacre everybody that gets killed (and even the ones that survive) are shitty people to begin with, and you get the general impression that none of them are going to be missed. Even in the original Prom Night the victims were the unwitting cause of a death years earlier, and you can understand why somebody would want revenge. In this version, everyone is an idyllic human being except the bad guy, all of the most horrible things happen to random people for no reason, but there's a happy ending because the cute white girl lives. Bullshit. This would have at least been tolerable if the movie actually had some of the things that one usually finds in horror/slasher movies: gore, nudity, something that is actually scary. I think you see blood actually coming out of someone once, and the scariest part of the movie is probably when Brittany Snow runs into a lamp. I'm not kidding, that's about it. About the only thing that this movie got right was its depiction of annoying, rich, spoiled high school kids, and if I wanted to see that I'd just watch "My Super Sweet 16".

Oh my God, there's so much more to complain about... How did a nerdy high school science teacher become an unstoppable killing machine?! What's with the awkward, tacked on Prom King/Queen subplot that went absolutely nowh--Agh! Restraint!

I guess my real complaint about this movie is that I couldn't yell at it while I was watching it. I dream of a day when certain theaters showing horrible movies are designated as free heckling zones and I can get all of this (and much, much more) off my chest while I'm watching the movie, then never think of it ever again.

Sorry if I spoiled the movie for anyone, but I figured it wouldn't matter; I can't imagine anyone actually paying to see this. What's that you say? #1 at the box office? $22.7 million? Ugh... Anytime anyone criticizes me for not paying for movies, this is all I need to show them. Thanks to people like you, we're going to have to live in a world where Prom Night 2 exists. I hope you're happy.

Candice hates college basketball players who wear t-shirts under their jerseys

Ok,

So this might not seem like a big deal, but it has bothered me forever. What is with college hoops players who insist on wearing t-shirts under their jerseys? It looks ridiculous, no one in the NBA does it (so it's clearly not cool), and it has got to hinder their play somehow, to have these billowy poof sleeves flapping about all the time (like a Cinderella dress or something... Kira, what would the correct term be?)

I tried to be reasonable and come up with some reasons as to why this is the case:

1) It's cold - okay, no one else on the court is cold enough to wear a t-shirt... deal with it.

2) You have skinny/flabby arms - this is like the girl's equivalent of not wearing shorts/swimsuits because you don't like your thighs, except you are playing college ball. You spend countless hours a day in the weight room or at practice. Get over it.

3) You want to be different - congrats...

4) You have hairy armpits - shave.

I feel like when I'm watching them play all I focus on is the flap flap of their sleeves against the flap flap of their arms. It's like an ultimate player wearing a cape that attaches to their wrists so that when they hold their arms out on a mark the cape becomes some sort of armpit webbing that obscures your view of down-field.

Who needs the armpit webbing/odor and sweat repository anyway? Maybe there's a rule that you can't wear the t-shirts in the NBA so players bite the bullet and stop. Or maybe as a rookie you'll get razzed so badly and forced to carry so many bags, shine so many shoes and lick so many gym floors that you'll put the t-shirt away and hit the weights. Or maybe there's a fashion police to the likes of Amare Stoudemire and Shaq who will threaten you with punches to the kidneys if you dare humiliate their team like that. Who knows, but either way, the flappy sleeves have got to go.

Matt Hates Cab Drivers

(Click for big version)

Anna Hates Her Car

It worries me a bit to talk smack about my car. Maybe doing so sets myself up for some horrific crash/explosion/freak accident/etc. But at this point, it just has to be said: I hate my car. Its only saving graces are that it somehow miraculously still has all four doors, and is often an answer in crossword puzzles, as both “Kia” and “Rio” have that awesome two-vowel combo.

My parents bought me this little she-devil from my friend Jon two summers ago. For what we were looking to pay – the used car equivalent of shopping at Forever 21, I think – he gave us a good deal on a nice little car that would get me to the grocery store, my summer job, and back and forth from Milwaukee for a variety of family events involving cake. Great. She still does all that. And she had a huge advantage over the ’91 Honda Civic I had at the time because she can drive in reverse without being pushed.

The advantages, however, effectively end there. My Kia is a featureless car. Though 12 years newer than the KANU – our nickname for the Honda, after his Kansas public radio bumper sticker – the Kia actually regressed in automatic features. The Kia does not have automatic windows. The Kia does not have automatic locks. If you want to adjust your right side passenger mirror while driving, you have to wait until you hit a red light or a stop sign so you can awkwardly reach across the seat and try nudge the little knob just enough to get some semblance of visibility.

The most glaring and most laughable lack of a standard car feature, however, is clearly the absence of a trunk-popping lever inside the vehicle. This means that if I am driving with others and they need to get something out of my trunk (which they invariably must since the two cubic feet of space inside the car barely accommodates five people much less five people AND their cell phones AND their wallets AND their KEYS!), I have to put the Kia in park, turn the Kia off, get outside and open the trunk for them with the key. Seriously. This is not something I thought to check while the Kia was still on the lot, because what the hell kind of car doesn’t have a trunk popper?? Most cars now, in fact, have glow in the dark trunk poppers INSIDE THE TRUNK in the highly unlikely event that you are carjacked and put in your own trunk, yet are daring enough to make an escape. In the likely event, however, that someone should want to use my trunk from the outside, I am put at a grave and, to others, an unceasingly hilarious inconvenience.

As to the Rio’s durability, I’ve blown one of its tiny tires, had a front axle replaced and had to re-weld the back right tire into place. In the last year. (FYI that back tire was moving “left and right and up and down and left and right” while I drove. So that wiggle you all were feeling in the back was not so much endearing or strange, but in fact incredibly dangerous.) And I don’t even want to talk about how much I have spent on these kinds of repairs because I don’t make nearly enough money to joke about how much of it I waste on the Kia.

Maybe I like torturing myself this way. Maybe I need the Kia for more than weekend trips to Milwaukee and the grocery store. Maybe I need something to complain about, something to worry about, and something to waste my money on. In fact, when I get rid of this car, every six months I will take $300 and set it on fire. Then I will walk to the grocery store and take the train to Milwaukee and stop worrying about all four wheels falling off simultaneously when I hit 60 mph as the Rio explodes into a fiery mess of willow green.

Cy hates whatever the hell those seats on the El are made of

It's night, long after rush hour has ended. You hop on the Red Line to head home, one of maybe 10 people in a single car; everyone has a row to themselves. You notice that the seat facing the priority seating is open, the most comfortable spot on the train. You'll have plenty of leg room and a place to put a foot up if you want it. Before you sit down, however, you check with your hand to see if the seat's clean. The seat covering seems cold and maybe a little damp. Is it wet? Did some vagrant just excrete some bodily fluid onto it? Is it just your imagination? You decide not to take a chance and move on to another row, checking to see if this one is clean. Nope; damp again, maybe a little warmer than the last one. You check another. Something's not right about this one either. "Fuck it," you think, gingerly lowering yourself into your original choice, all the while dwelling on what revolting substances are undoubtedly seeping into your jeans from the contaminated seat cover.

Sound familiar? OK, maybe not. Maybe you don't worry about other people's urine and other various excretions getting all over your clothes. I do. And this happens to me every time I ride the El. The seat covers are disgusting feeling, looking, tasting, and the worst part is they don't even make any sense in the first place! Why would you put any absorbent fabric on something where everything from homeless people to wasted college kids are going to be sitting? I've witnessed three people urinating on the El (one was a girl, which I have to admit was kind of impressive) and have heard of at least one incident of public masturbation. Really? We should put something on the seats that'll soak everything up?! This is a good idea?!

What purpose do these things even serve? They don't provide any cushion, contrary to what any rational person might expect from a seat cover. They don't provide any decoration, unless you think seventies and eighties style color schemes, stained and faded beyond all recognition, really add something to the fluorescent-lighted ambiance. As far as I can figure, their only goal must have been to equally distribute as much semen, urine, vomit, and ass sweat as possible, until everyone is equally contaminated. This way, those of us who are able to control our bladders and colons can no longer look down upon those who can't; now all of our pants smell like pee. It's a pretty ingenious social experiment if you think about it, but I'm pretty sure we haven't learned anything from it in the last twenty years (and judging from the patterns on the seat fabric, it's been going on at least that long).

The CTA needs to rip those disgusting cesspools out already, and replace them with solid plastic seats. That way, when I get on, I can just see the fluid pooling in the bottom of the seat and move on to the next one without playing the touching/feeling/guessing game. Then, at the end of the run, you can just hose the whole car down and it'll be good as new; ready for another day of carting Chicago's disgusting and apparently incontinent population around the city.

Anna Hates Facebook

Sure, there are things we all love about Facebook. It keeps me busy at work, for example, and allows me to keep tabs on people I knew in high school who have since gotten fat. It’s like people watching, except instead of the general populace, I am able to thoroughly judge people I actually – or at least vaguely – know.

But really, Facebook, I have to draw the line somewhere, and it’s here: at the fourth degree of separation that you have suddenly decided to bring to my attention via a “People You May Know” feature on my sidebar, right under the birthdays I will not be celebrating, the events I don’t care about and will not be attending, the decidedly unfunny, uninteresting and more often than not grammatically incorrect status updates, and the literally 28 other requests I have been ignoring as they are completely irrelevant to my life (though I’m sure you’re all dying to know if I were a drug, just what drug I’d be, how fast I can type and whether or not I support an end to the Cuban embargo).

What the hell, Facebook? If I cared about the whereabouts of my high school boyfriend’s little sister’s annoying best friend, my fondest memory of whom was four years ago, when she told on me to the Genius Bar at the Apple store after I flirted with the guy next to me so that my dad and I could take his position in the two-hour queue, I would have Facebook-stalked her on my own long ago, and without your encouragement to do so. But she’s annoying, and I have never spoken to her, so I didn’t.

It turns out, Facebook, the three people you have chosen to highlight as people I may know based upon my already established Facebook clan o’ friends are either complete strangers, or I do know those people. And like my aforementioned high school boyfriend’s little sister’s best friend, that guy from my German class, and the girl I may have played soccer with but I can’t quite remember, most of them are annoying. And I certainly don’t care enough about any of them either to have previously asked them to justify my existence by accepting me as a Facebook friend, have them featured prominently on my sidebar, or – horror of horrors – actually call them to get together for a drink and find out through an actual face-to-face conversation what they have been doing since I last saw them three to seven years ago. I don’t care! And I am offended, Facebook, at your suggestion that I do, or should.

In fact, I’d boycott you entirely, but then how would I ever know that that girl in my freshman seminar had a baby, someone I studied abroad with married that skeezy Mexican man she was dating, and holy shit, that guy is still alive?!

Candice hates meat eaters

Carnivores are just gross.

When I see people sitting around eating huge steaks dripping in bloody juices, or worse, eating pre-processed meat that was probably inhumanely slaughtered, I want to vomit on them, their food, and their offspring. How could they enjoy the taste of cooked flesh - an animal that did no harm to anyone except be born and bred to feed greedy humans. Foie gras? Poor geese are fed fat and wine in order to pump their livers so full of "flavour" that they become three times the normal size. Veal? Poor baby calves! They are so cute and little! How could you?!!? They are cute like puppies, except they're cows! You wouldn't eat a puppy, right?!

Who died and said "Hey, you humans, go ahead and exploit all the animals you see - they don't have minds and spirits of their own, anyway!" We should love all creatures great and small (cute and cuddly, and ugly ones too), not eat them because we can. Have you ever seen a meat processing plant? That knowledge alone can turn most meat eaters into vegetarians on the spot. The cruelty exhibited towards animals who have lost all sense of dignity, purpose and life at the hands of torturous murderers is more revolting than the texture of medium rare wagyu itself. Add to that the antibiotics that are added to the animal's feed to protect them from disease (which is a result of their cramped quarters and inhumane treatment to begin with), and you've got a global crisis in drug-resistant bacteria developing every day - we're all going to get SARS.

We should let all the animals be free to roam the earth as they were intended to do! Let the lions eat the cows if that is what nature intended - no matter that cows have no defence mechanisms to speak of, and that they would be butchered en masse by a bunch of hungry rabbits if it came down to it. At least it wasn't humans that did it. We could use a few fewer cows, anyway - their flatulence alone accounts for 16% of the world's greenhouse gases!

To that end, I am swearing off meat forever. The thought of a big honking bone-in rib eye, succulent pork chop or a fall-off-the-bone lamb shank sure used to make me drool, but now I just want to reversal everywhere. Maybe after having eaten it first though... cause you don't want to waste it if someone already made it... like, if it's just sitting there then my mom always taught me never to waste food, and especially not meat because it's more expensive... Anyway, yay vegans! Yay vegetarians! Yay for the raw food movement! I'm going to go eat a salad now, and it's going to be awesome.

Cy Hates When Athletes "Say All the Right Things"

My comment made on the Tyler Hansbrough post raises another issue that really, really irritates me: Athletes being expected to "say all the right things" by the mainstream sports media, and all too often obliging. The problem is that by saying all the right things, they're never saying anything worth listening to.

Hansbrough is the perfect example. I can't fathom why the sports media keeps booking him for interviews when they already know what they're going to get: the same-old tired "gee-whiz, aw-shucks, we're just taking it one game at a time" routine. C'mon Tyler, be a man! Have an opinion! (Like this guy!)



This is why I'll never understand why so many people have such a strong dislike for Moss, TO, and Ocho-Cinco. How can you not love these guys? Sure they're dicks; but they're entertaining dicks, and aren't sports supposed to be about entertainment? Is Randy Moss threatening to shake his dick at fans not entertaining? What about TO doing sit-ups while he's being interviewed in his drive way? That was so surreal, there's no way anyone should have been able to not enjoy that. And if you don't get excited every time Chad Johnson does anything, from sending opposing DBs Pepto-Bismol to threatening to use a live deer during a TD celebration, then you should just stop watching sports right now.

From now on, I'm rooting extra hard for athletes that say all the wrong things. If you like your athletes milquetoast boring, then by all means, you can have your Hansbroughs and your Mannings and your Rices. Me? I'll take my Moss's and my Roenicks and my Sheeds. At least if one of my guys says something boring, he'll do it with style:

K Hates Psycho-T Baggers

Full Disclosure: I am a fan of Northwestern, probably the worst Division 1 basketball team ever. I have cheered way too hard for the likes of Davor Duvancic, Vedran Vukusic, and Timmy Doyle. I don’t like Carolina, I don’t like Duke; I don’t really prefer one over the other. If I had to choose, I’d pick Wake Forest. I appreciate good basketball, and good basketball players. That Davidson-Kansas game was great to watch, until the last possession.

Hey Davidson! If I’m really going to “Witness” anything, it should not be Stephen Curry shriveling up and passing the ball with a second to go on the biggest possession of his life. Nor should it be your go-to-guy not having the cajones to take it to the hole, but instead jacking up contested fade-away threes the entire second half. I love the way you played the first three rounds and you made me a believer, but that second half Sunday night was killer. But enough about teams that aren’t in the tourney anymore, let’s get to my thoughts…

Ok, so Tyler Hansbrough is pretty good. He’s the best player on the best college basketball team in the country. He’s the next great white hope, following in the footsteps of Christian Laettner, Eric Montross, Cherokee Parks, and Mark Madsen. He’s a college basketball player who “tries really hard,” has a “motor that never stops running,” and “always hustles.” He’s an All-American, player of the year caliber player, one of the best in the country this year. But he’s not the greatest college basketball player since Lew Alcindor, and all the talking heads out there should really shut the hell up about him.

People, get off his nuts! He’s the best player IN COLLEGE.

THIS.

YEAR.

Maybe…

You’re telling me that if Michael Beasley was at UNC, he wouldn’t be as good as Hansbrough? If Tyrus Thomas had stayed at LSU for a few more years (and this Bulls fan thinks maybe he should’ve), would he not eat Psycho T’s lunch? Tyrus Thomas is a stretch, but…

The only reason Tyler Hansbrough is getting the press that he’s getting this year is because he decided to stay in school. Why did he stay in school? Because HE’S NOT GOOD ENOUGH TO PLAY IN THE NBA!!!

“But he should be commended for getting an education,” you may say. Here’s a lesson from Economics 101. If someone offers you an eight-figure rookie contract GUARANTEED, you should take it.

Let’s look at the NBA, where real men play basketball. Let’s not even go that far. Look at the top ten picks in last year’s NBA Draft. Besides Yao Jr., every other player was an early entry candidate, and every other player would have been better than Hansbrough had they stayed around. Hell, if Brandan Wright had decided to come back, Psycho T would be have the ACC Sixth Man Award on lock! Seriously though, if one of the nine had decided to come back, Tyler Hansbrough goes from the Brett Favre of college basketball to Matt Schaub. Don’t believe me? Let’s see the names…

Greg Oden

Kevin Durant

Mike Conley

Al Horford

Jeff Green

Corey Brewer

Brandan Wright

Joakim Noah

Spencer Hawes

You know what sucks? If Hawes had stuck around, Hansbrough wouldn’t even be the best slow white guy! Regardless, it is what it is, and this is the NCAA this year. UNC is in the Final Four, Hansbrough is the POTY.

But he’s not the GOAT. He’s not NBA ready, nor will he ever be. You can have your SI Player of the Year, you can have your 23 and 12 every night. You can have your Carolina blue, your Tobacco Road, your Dean Dome. Enjoy “The Bro” mania while you can, because when he’s matching up against David West/Tyson Chandler and Tim Duncan on back to back nights, your All-American great white hope is going to taste it like he dropped the soap at Statesville.

Candice hates mandatory tipping

OK, what is up with America? Why do you underpay your waiters and then expect the customer to pick up the slack? Since when did 20% tipping become the norm, with anything under 15% being considered bad service?! Yeah, fairtip.org, I'm looking at you.

You know when you're a kid and you're told you have to do something that you don't want to do, like eat vegetables or turn off the lights. So you avoid it - you dislike like, nay, you hate it. It's not until your parents stop insisting you do it that you realize it's not so bad, and that once in a while, you actually crave a piece of broccoli or an energy-efficient light bulb.

That's how I feel about mandatory tipping. The more you tell me I have to do it, the less I want to. In most other places in the world, a tip is exactly that - a tip - a reward for good service. You actually want to recognize your sweet waiter for being able to take all 4 orders without taking notes, not mess anything up, constantly refill your drink and bring you things in a timely manner. You know, what a good waiter is supposed to do.

The catch-22 is that waiters aren't paid enough to allow for average tips below 15%, so people are forced to dole out the cash even to just plain old couldn't-care-less-but-didn't-pee-in-your-food service, while employers see no need to pay waiters more than the going rate because they expect America to tip enough to cover their wage costs.

I call shenanigans. Employers - yeah you, the one who's paying your waiters something in the range of $2-$3 an hour! Get a grip - learn how to run a business or go back to watching QVC. Other countries can figure it out - pay waiters normal wages and then have a 10% tip be a sign of good service. It's not that hard. Then again, other countries figured out the metric system too...

Ugh.

Oh, and as an addendum, this includes more than just waitstaff. Cab drivers, maids at hotels, bellhops, delivery men... aren't they getting paid to drive me to my destination, clean my room, carry my bag and deliver my furniture? If they do something extra special, then by all means, but I always get this awkward "Home Alone" feeling like when Macaulay Culkin gives the bellhop some ABC gum while he stands there waiting for a tip. Why don't other people get tips as well? I'm thinking salespeople, accountants, garbage men, professional athletes, ushers, shoot, even consultants... rant rant rant! I am so angry!