Hatchet Piece (101 Things | Hate)
I wake up on the wrong side of the bed and smoke my last three cigarettes. I know it’s going to be a bad day. My hair hurts. That cloying voice of the FM disc jockey (1) has already gotten on my nerves subconsciously. I smash down the alarm button and realize the very air I breathe is not good enough. I’ve had it with being nice, understanding, fair and hopeful. I feel like being negative all day. The chip on my shoulder could sink the QE2. I’ve got an attitude problem and nobody better get in my way. Before showering, I kick the furniture. I’m in a bad mood and the whole stupid little world is gonna pay!
I’m not even going to make the bed. The one rotten, suffocating set of polyester sheets (2) I still own is thrown in the garbage. I happily destroy the ozone by spraying on my favorite aerosol deodorant and sneer at the dumbbells who use the nauseating roll-on brands (3), the kind that retain stray underarm hairs from past use to remind you just how imperfect the human body really is. I get the newspaper from out- side the door, hoping I’ll catch the creep who sometimes steals it (4) when I oversleep, but throw it down in disgust when I see color photos (5) that never reproduce properly and look like 3-D comics without the benefit of glasses. Then the goddamn light bulb (6) burns out. Does General Electric think I’m made of money? I gotta get out of here. I think I’ll just drive around town yelling insults at pedestrians.
On the way down in the elevator, ’m confined with an unattractive neighbor and his slobbering dog (7). I look away, grumbling, knowing that every time you make direct eye con- tact with these creatures, your IQ drops ten points. I don’t see any cats (8), thank God. I assume they’re all in other apartments sucking the breath out of babies or, worse yet, in heat, forcing you to use a Q-tip on their private parts to shut them up.
I check the mailbox, but naturally the mail’s not there yet. I hate it when the mail is late (9)! Lazy bastard mail carriers are probably reading my postcards and leafing through my magazines at this very minute. At least it’s not one of those stupid holidays (10), like Washington’s Birthday or Columbus Day, that bring any work you might have scheduled to a screeching halt.
Outside it’s hot and muggy. I buy a carton of cigarettes, ever bitter that I’m taxed so highly (11) on the one purchase that actually brings me happiness. They ought to tax yogurt (12); that’s what causes cancer. A neighbor, who always seems too familiar for her own good, passes me and makes the mistake of saying, “Good morning.” “Shut up!” I snap, making a mental note of her hideous patch-denim maxi skirt (13) and ridiculous ape-drape hairdo (14), so popular with fashion violators. And then I see it, a goddamn ticket on my car, even though the meter (15) has only been in effect ten minutes. I have to take my rage out on someone! I run toward this fashion scofflaw as she gets into the most offensive vehicle known to man, “Le Car” (16), and yank her door open as she frantically tries to lock it. “Not so fast, miss,” I bark. “There’s a certain matter of this ticket you’ll have to take care of —$16 for gross and willful fashion violations!” She gives me the finger and peels out, turning up the radio so I hear the voice of the worst-dressed man in music, Stevie Wonder (17), ringing in my ears.
Glaring at anyone who dares look at me, I get into my own car (an American sedan) and purposely ignore those ridiculous seat belts (18) that make you look so stupid, so overprepared, so paranoid. Who wants to be trapped in an overturned car about ready to explode, fumbling for the buckle? Oh Christ, I need gas! What else can go wrong? I pull into a g£as station and, wouldn’t you know it, they only have “selfservice” (19) pumps. I don’t want to know how to “fill ’er up,” thank you. Humiliated at having to perform this unavoidable task, I see another motorist, who has tried to disguise his bald head by stretching his one remaining strand of hair over his skull in a misguided camouflage attempt (20). Ha! Does he think he fools anybody? “Have a nice day, baldy!” I shout as I sign the credit card slip and hop into my car. Pulling out, I swerve to miss a slightly overweight jogger (21). “It’s not working!” I scream at this sweaty hog. I make the mistake of flicking on the radio, but all I can get are those awful talk shows (22) that feature lonely, militantly stupid listeners calling up professionally obnoxious hosts to vent their idiotic opinions. Don’t they have friends to bother with their inconsequential views?
I pull up at a red light and am pissed you can’t go “left on red” (23). There isn’t anybody coming, is there? | do it any- way and just miss a grown man on a bicycle (24) who deserves to get hit for holding up traffic. and then I see it! Something I loathe more than anything – a walkathon (25)! Block after bloc of dreary dingbats in unattractive athetic outfits, patting themselves on the back for supporting a good cause and blocking my right-of-way, “Hey, stupid,” I yell to a yuppie with a walkman (26), “time is money. You owe me $20 for holding me up”. Naturally he doesn’t hear me, lost in some awful music, probably that pretentious midget Prince (27). Trapped, I park the car to get a little breakfast. ‘Join us,” says some monster in “camel-toe” slacks (28) as she kisses (in public yet) (29) her lame boyfriend, who has the audacity to wear those awful leather sandals (30) left over from the sixties. “I hope you die,” I seethe as I rush to what I hope will be a decent restaurant.
But ooooh noooo! It’s been gentrified (31), and the first thing I see on somebody’s plate is an apple (32). Now, I have never eaten an apple. I did take a bite of one once, I’ll admit, but I spat it out faster than a snitch turning state’s evidence. Do I look like a horse? Don’t they have doughnuts or any normal foods, for God’s sake? And then it happens. A waiter, I can’t help but notice, who is featuring the most offensive shoe known to man, the clog (33), approaches and makes the mistake of actually sitting down at my table and chirping, “Hi, my name is Bill. Can I help you?” (34) Momentarily stunned, I fantasize pulling out a Denver Boot and snapping his ankle to the table leg. “Get up!” I scream. “And what makes you think I want to know your name? I came here to eat, not make friends! Just give me eggs and bacon and hold the biography!” He looks pleased as punch when he tells me, “We don’t serve meat.” Oh, great! A rotten vegetarian (35) restaurant. How could someone not eat meat? The waiter’s liberal attitude is beginning to cool, I see. He’s the type who goes to Chinese restaurants, makes a big deal out of eating with chopsticks (36), and then pompously demands, “Hold the MSG” (37). [wish I could order a huge bowl of red dye #2 from this cretin. “Just the eggs, then,” I holler, feeling a snit of royal proportions about to explode.
Sitting at my table, waiting, WAITING for my order, I feel the bile of my rage rising and decide I have to do some- thing. I can’t waste valuable bitching time. It’s time to call the police and report every single thing that gets on my nerves. They have to listen—it’s their job, isn’t it? I go to a public phone and prepare to deal with the despised phone company (38). Oh God, it’s the old-fashioned dial kind (39), the ones that make MC] impossible. Remembering that I hate MCI (40), too (they sometimes mistakenly charge you for unanswered-ring calls), I move on to more important subjects of Contempt. “Yes… hello, officer… I’m a citizen and I’d like to report the following things that are getting on my nerves: break-dancing in public (41), obnoxious mimes who think they’re poignant (42), nude beaches (43), where unattractive exhibitionists insist on baring their sagging bodies, all in the name of health . , . and, oh yes… . hello? Hello?” I slam down the receiver, enraged that a public servant has dared to hang up on me, and vow to write a letter of complaint later in the day. I get back to my table just in time to see the dreaded “Bill” serving my breakfast.
I start trembling. My eyes feel like they might burst from their sockets. They have dared to put sprouts (44) on my eggs! Oh God! It’s not fair. What next? Filthy iceberg letuce (45), the polyester of greens? Or even worse, obscene brussels sprouts (46)—those little balls of hell, limp and wilted after 4 lifetime of being pissed on by birds and other contaminated creatures! “I hate you,” I say to the startled “Bill” and slam down eight pennies (47), which have no earthly use in today’s economy except for insulting waiters.
Maybe I should go to the movies. At least it’s dark there. If only I can get there without stabbing someone. I dare to look out my car window, but immediately wish I hadn’t. There, in all its naked amateurish glory, is another one of those outdoor “art” murals (48). If this alarming trend can’t be nipped in the bud, there’ll be an eyesore on every corner. Did they ask ME if I wanted to look at jt? How about the poor neighbors who can hardly ignore the public doodling of these no-talents every time they step out of their houses?
Ironically, there’s a “No Littering” sign (49) on this very corner. Running to the trunk of my unit, ignoring the blast of horns honking behind me, I retrieve an industrial trash bag from my apartment that I save for just these occasions. Proudly and unashamedly, I dump the contents directly onto the street. Take that, no-littering nitpickers! I feel virtuous, confident that I have created a job. Every time I throw some- thing down, someone will have to be paid to pick it up. It’s only common sense.
Cruising along once again in this cesspool known as life, I realize that it is too late to make a detour. I will have to pass the anti-abortion pickets (50) outside of Planned Parent- hood. Nothing gets on my nerves more than these pro-lifers. Not even astrology enthusiasts (51), Hermann Hesse (52), or computer games (53). Look at these fools parading up and down! “Mind your own business,” I yell. When one of these busybodies (a man, yet) approaches my car with literature, I lose control and scream, “I wish I was a girl so I could get an abortion!” Trembling with rage, I realize I’d better calm down before I get beat up, but can’t resist one last taunt—“I hate the pope” (54), I yell to no one in particular.
I have to escape human beings, so I rush into one of those awful twin theaters (55), figuring I can sneak into the other side if this one feature is as awful as I imagine. At least they’re not showing boring classics (56), such as The African Queen or The Philadelphia Story, or, even worse, science fic- tion (57). I get an overpriced tub of popcorn and forget to tell the lummox behind the snack bar to hold the nuclear butter (58) that ruins a perfectly good snack. I never order a Coke (59), because they smell bad. I take my seat, take one bite, and throw the whole mess on the floor. More jobs. I paid my admission, how dare they ask me to use the trash can? Some short subjects (60) come on, but at least they aren’t arty computer films (61) that could drive me to theater vandalism. Where are film censors when we need them? Oh, good. Here come the previews, which they ruin by showing an upcoming film with the most offensive star in the world, Sylvester Stallone (62). I bet he has pimples on his ass. The feature is Witness (63), and the two elderly ladies behind me start talking (64), of all things. “It’s gotten great reviews,” one says. “Yes, I bet it will be up for Academy Award nominations,” the other opinionates. “Would you SHUT UP!?” I scream as I turn in my seat with a menacing look in my eyes. “You’re not in front of your TV, you know,” I add smugly. It does the trick. They are so appalled at my outburst that they don’t even dare to clear their throats for the next half hour. But as the film unfolds, I begin to wish the entire audience would start screaming. It’s about Amish people (65). Why on earth would Hollywood make a film whose heroes are a group of people whose religion forbids them to attend the movies? Halfway through this cinematic abomination, there’s an Amish barn-raising scene, backlit with a sunset, that is so nauseating I feel projectile vomiting is a distinct possibility. “Beautiful,” says the satisfied ticket buyer to her companion, and I finally reach the breaking point. Leaping from my seat, I rip off her wig, throw it in the aisle, and rush from the theater, screeching vague threats into the darkness.
I hide in the other side of the twin, but not for long. Mask (66) is playing. It stars Cher, who was great in Chastity, but under the direction of that whining Peter Bogdanovich (67) seems to be getting good reviews for not wearing Bob Mackie outfits. It’s about a kid with a deformed face who is not only ugly, he’s an asshole to boot. His mother is supposed to be a biker, but her Hell’s Angels friends are about as threatening as the Seven Dwarfs. Naturally, this Elephant Man, Jr., falls in love with a gorgeous blind girl and, in one scene, tries to tell her how beautiful the sky is. “But I can’t see. I don’t know blue,” she protests. Never at a loss for a sickening solution, Old Ugly heats up rocks to different temperatures, puts them in her hand and says, “This is blue!!” “I see it! I see it!” the girl moans, and I went temporarily insane, slashing six different movie seats with my car keys.
Escaping the theater just before the police arrive, I hop into my car and turn on the radio, hoping to hear news of World War II—anything to get my mind off those films— but instead hear an oldie but baddie by those honky Beatles (68) who ruined rock ’n’ roll. It’s all too much. How much can one man take? I pull over to the side of the road and start sobbing. Uncontrollably. Please, God (69) (I hate you, too), let me get back to my apartment without being committed.
Maybe I should get out of town. I could go to New York, but I know I’ll have a breakdown seeing those liberals ostentatiously holding their ears in the subway station (70) every time a train pulls in. And get into fights with rude cabdrivers who can’t even speak English (71). How about the beach? Are you crazy? What would I do, go sailing (72)? Look at convertibles (73)?—those showboat vehicles that scream, “Look at me,” and accomplish nothing but making your hair tangled and filthy. I can’t even go to the local park for fear of seeing third-rate academicians puffing on pipes (74) and playing the most boring game of all games, chess (75). Maybe I just better go home.
I run from my car to my apartment and double-bolt the lock. I’m shaking, but I’ll try to relax. The mail is finally here, but it’s always a trauma to open it. What makes me think today will be any different? Oh my God! Someone has sent me a dreaded greeting card (76). Can’t those stupid relatives ever think of one sentence to write instead of running off and giving Hallmark 75¢ for a line that they’ll never have the nerve to say out loud? Of course, there are bills. But none so annoying as American Express (77), the worst credit card of all—highest yearly fee that gives you the privilege of an end- less supply of junk mail. And, to top it off, you have to pay the entire balance every month, so what’s the point? All credit card bills stink, because you have to tear off the change-of-mailing- address flap (78) before sealing the envelope, and it’s yet another second of your day wasted on forced tasks. I even try to look through a magazine I subscribe to, but immediately toss it aside when I see articles about that big slob, Mr. T (79), who hangs around child-molester trials and poses for pictures, and Bette Davis’ fat, Jesus-freak daughter (80), who thinks we’ll be scandalized that her mother mistreated her, Ha! It’s a wonder she didn’t kill her! I notice that one of those nerve- tacking subscription cards (81) has fallen into my lap and rip it to shreds, vowing to cancel this magazine, but decide to continue mailing in bill-me-later orders to foul up their subscription department.
I should know better, but I turn on the TV (82), where the dots are too big for proper viewing. I hear a laugh track (83) and actually scream in the privacy of my own home. Frantically switching the dial, I catch the tail end of the news and glimpse the local weatherman (84), the only public-service announcer who, for some unfathomable reason, feels he must act like Bozo to hold my attention. At least it’s summer, so he doesn’t mention the ridiculous term “wind chill factor” (85), a hype to disguise the fact that the temperature is exactly what you’d expect for that time of year. Must I commit suicide to escape this drivel?
I call a fellow “hater” and he, too, has had an awful day. I make the mistake of asking him if he’d like to go out for a drink. “Are you kidding?” he rants. “We’d probably go to a bar and order a martini and they’d put it in the wrong kind of glass (86). Then some creep with a bi-level haircut (87) would give us a coke-rap (88) on some boring subject like experimental theater (89). “You’re right!” I scream, picking up the bitch ball while it’s firmly in my court, “where hambones actually go into the audience and try to involve mortified ticket buyers in their nonsense.” Continuing on his tangent, my fellow griper starts shouting, “I hate wrestling (90), that one OK sport now ruined by middle-class acceptance, but even more I hate folk music (91), and street fairs (92).” Foaming at the mouth, I drop the phone and, in a frenzy, start hollering so loudly the neighbors begin banging on the walls. “I hate strobe lights (93), rotten performance artists (94), and”— remembering my buddy on the other end—“to be honest, I HATE YOU, TOO!” I know he’s hung up on me because I vaguely hear the dial tone in the background of my harangue, but fuck him. Friends (95) are all assholes! I stagger around the apartment, flailing my arms, screeching like a banshee for the whole world to hear. “I’ll get you, Jon Voight (96), and you, too, Henry Jaglom (97), and all the other public jackasses who are plotting at this very minute to get on my nerves!” I collapse on the bed, and, to top it off, I get a nosebleed! And I hold directly responsible Bo Derek (98), The Hobbit (99), Rod McKuen (100), … and… gag… oh my God, I’ve actually regurgitated from the mere act of thinking of these subjects. Finally, spent, I manage to fall asleep for a minute or two, but is there any relief? Of course not. I have some stupid dream. But I’ll never tell you what it was. Because more than anything in the whole world, I HATE people who confide, “I had the weirdest dream last night . . .” (101).
