It's happened.

I have reached total and complete saturation of hatred of everyone and everything. Please, hate with me as I list the things that have annoyed me since last I wrote.

1) As though anyone needed a reason to hate New Jersey.

Soon, I will be free from Jersey. I will no longer have to go there for sex, to have dinners bought or made for me, or to feel superior (though I may return from time to time for the latter)

Allow me to give all a reason to truly and finally hate The Garden State.

Uggs.

What? 2001 called? It would appear so. While touring the mall of Redbank, NJ, the boy and I were shocked…nay, appalled, to see that every single girl over 15 and under 22 was wearing Uggs. Fucking UGGS!! It’s like you walked into Macy’s Herald Square and everyone has stirrup leggings and New Kids On The Block heat sensitive color changing half tops on.

And not only were they Uggs, they were all filthy! Every last horrible pair of them. Presumably because they paid $100 bucks for them 3 years ago, and daddy made them promise to “Wear ‘em every winter til your 30."

I can’t even go on. Zach Braff, where art thou?

2) A Girl putting Makeup on. ON THE M TRAIN.

Not lipstick and a bit of gloss. Not mascara and a pinch to the cheek to give the illusion of health. Full on makeup. RIGHT NEXT TO ME.

She began with foundation, and I mean full on spackle, and moved over to several shades of blush. Though ‘blush’ would imply a dewy rose, not a racing stripe. I was mildly shocked in my Queens-native kind of way. Until she pulled out an eyelash curler. This is a contraption that most men, all children, and many women would say looks like a torture device for elves. It is metal, has a scissor like movement, and is put one millimeter away from your moist and trusting eyeball, so that your lashes can achieve full Bambi-ness. Though the sick minds to give birth to this product surely never conceived of its use on, in or around a moving vehicle.

It was at the curling point that I giggled with hate, if such a thing has ever happened. After that she was done, but my right arm was dusted with varying shades of orange, and she looked kind of like a porcelain drag queen. Which, by the way, is an awesome bandname. DIBS.

3) The M Train.

I hate the M train. If you’ve spoken to me in the last month you have learned this, or at least guessed at it as you try to keep me from climbing it’s trestles with explosives strapped to my head and neck. It comes once every 10 minutes DURING RUSH HOUR. I do not feel rushed. It stops at desolate and empty places like “central ave” where no trains connect, no one gets on or off, and I weep. It is often stopped for 5 minutes at a time to let the uber ghetto yet ultra efficient J train pass. It hates me, I hate it, and I am moving almost for the sole purpose of escaping it.

I'm serious, my commute is worse than yours, and I implore you to comment and try to make me believe otherwise.

4) People who don’t eat anything.

Now, I don’t want anyone thinking I’m racist but…I hate white people*. I do. And for one reason only (though you’ve done many a bad thing).

You cannot eat. Rather…you eat yourselves to death with less than opulent ingredients.

You think pork chops should be put in a frying pan until they reduce to half their size and 2% of their original flavor, and enjoy dipping them in mustard and not finishing it. You think pizza looks like it does on Dominos commercials in every country, including Italy, and that people die when they eat sushi. In the pizza vein, you believe nothing can go on it besides “chicken” “pepperoni” and/or “7 types of cheese at once”. Ever had a roasted red pepper? A sun dried tomato? A fucking olive, you bland race of capitalist pigs?

And now Christmas is coming, and I brace for the wrath of the boy, as I tell the world: “His family had plain egg noodles as their side dish last year…and loved it.” They are soooo white.

*Note: on college applications, when asked my race, I always checked the “other” box. As an Italian, swarthy. theivish and facist as we have always been, I could never be mistaken for someone "Caucasian" from Iowa, Germany or Scotland. And people hated us in the 19th century. Even the Irish should get their own damn box just for that.

5) Moving

I don't actually hate moving, as my worldly possessions can fit in my wallet, but it is this forum I have chosen to finally alert the masses that I am moving to Greenpoint, that Matt will be there with me in sin, that Greenpoint is awesome, and can I borrow your van?

Thank you for the vent.

How. Did this. Happen.

I enjoy electronics. Things powered by batteries and ac adapters and three pronged wires. Things that would frighten someone brought here from the distant past in some kind of machine. (Delorean, Phone Booth, what have you). Things that, it seems, stupid fucking Americans can't even BEGIN to live without.

Now, I include myself in this. If my iPod dies on the 5 train today, I might actually remove my own eyes with a chapstick tube. But the subject at hand is this:

Playstation 3.

Last week, PS3 made it's American debut, and the Running of the Douchebags commenced with such nerdy voracity, there is video of a gentleman running directly into a pole, such was his fervor. Seriously.

How could you, hiking boot wearing single man with 25 extra pounds and a Michigan State hoodie, wait on a line for days..DAYS...for a thing. In a box. That is fake.

Oh, the console itself is of course real, but..and I date myself...Sonic the Hedgehog does not love you, you're not actually KOing Mike Tyson there, and you did not just win the 150cc Gold Cup..because you are NOT The Princess.

What gets me really, are the atrocious people that will wait in line for things that will be available FOR YEARS TO COME.
I am looking directly and deeply into your eyes, Harry Potter fanatics.
Do people wait on line for days for the milk truck? The condom delivery? Heavens no. The milk will be there. The condoms are waiting for you to not use them (idiots).

Does it not occur to you, fat kids standing outside of Best Buy at 2am in order to blow Mommy's money she gave you for your graduation from DeVry, that there's something...else? A movie with a pretty girl in it? A different kind of coffee? Diet Dr Pepper that tastes just like regular?

I am already disturbed by the low levels at which humans in this world are willing to exsist:
putting nothing on your pizza, not taking the subway anywhere because it's "gross", having sex with only one person at a time for your whole life, etc. But games that appear to me to be "Wow, I'm a Drug Dealer", "Hey, I Play Basketball Professionally" and "Did I Kill That Ninja Alien Cowboy? Or Was That A Different One?" Do not seem worth anyone's time.

I am old, and out of touch with most things nerdy not involving the forest moon of Endor, but I assure you, even as I write this on company time, refreshing Myspace, Best Week Ever and Perez Hilton to no end, I will accomplish more today than you, grown man living in your mom's garage wearing Metallica tshirts to "dates" and eating nothing but Cheetos dust instead of buying new bags lest your memory card malfunctions or you have to experience a HUMAN to get more, will finish in the next 6 weeks.

Settle down, dorks.

Ugh.

Oh, old people.

I often joke that I am old (and then run to the mirror to inspect every pore in my face, satisfied only when I conclude that "joking" did not cause any "wrinkles")
But people, some ya'll are OLD.
It's not your fault really, it's ME who loves the things so many OLD people love.

Case in point: Duran Duran

Being the Luckiest Duran Duran fan is....easy. I'm last to get a wrist band before they sell out, have pictures and autographs, and most recently, won tickets to an Atlantic City show on Myspace.

God that sentence reeks of old. I must soldier on lest I create a frown line.

So. AC. Seedy. But we knew that. It was the clientelle of this particular show that got me. And the amounts of leopard skin lycra it wrought.

Of course, DD was at its peak of fame in 1984, and the flushed Capezio wearing Tab drinking teenagers of then are the Soccer moms of now, full on mid 30s, havn't had a night out in, like, a year. And never has it been more evident than in...New Jersey. (God...another wrinkle..) The cast of characters was nothing short of astonishing.

Standing directly in front of my line of sight, was a marginally pretty, Milf-ish sort, and her friend. Now, I don't know how many of you have been to Jersey, but a phenomenon is more evident there than anywhere else, a condition know as Huge Asses on Ladies (or "HAL".)
The Milf's friend did not seem that heavy, a curvy size 14 at most...from the waist up. But her HAL was ginormous. I'm talking, my head is 3 feet away from hers, and I'm somehow still grazing her HAL with my thigh. HOW??

Then there was a "drunk gentleman" (I use both words loosely) who spent most of the pre-show on his cell, telling people how "HOLY FUCK JIM'S HAVING TWINS". Congrats to Jim and his strong swimmers, surely, but DG went on to loudly slur, "FUCKER THINKS HE CAN GO OUT NEXT WEEK AND I'M LIKE YOUR LIFE IS OVER BRO.....WHAT?...DURAN FUCKING DURAN...THE HUNGRY WOLF GUYS....WHO? ....SHE'S RIGHT HERE....THE KIDS?...ARE WITH HER MOM...."

This...is someone's father. Or guardian. Or something. *a wrinkle forms*

And of course, as at every DD show, there was the 40 year old convinced she was 24. Fake blonde, bumping into guys all night "accidentaly" and crowing about how many drink's she's had. At one point, her coat was on the floor..and so was her drink...which she then kicked...onto her coat...

But it is not all this oddness that gets me, its that when the show started, these people...stood...stock... still. For all their character, drink, and girth, they song not a line along. Why?

OLD!

And what makes you old?

CHILDREN! Be you a teacher or a mother.
A recurring theme in my blogging, for shiz.

So, things not to do: Get fat; marry a drunk; get knocked up with twins.

Oh, the concert was awesome by the way. Those 80s icons were SO DRUNK!