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Thursday, July 06, 2006

Things Zombie Hates Thursday

Welcome to a new feature here at Deus ex Machina. We're going to call it Things Zombie Hates Thursday. And it will happen on...Thursdays. And it will be about...things I hate. Because I am clever and subtle.

Because, now, this may come as a shock to you, but I hate things. I hate a lot of things. And I thought Thursday would be a good day o' the week to talk about these things (also 'Thursday' creates a slight-but-not-really alliteration with 'things' and that allows me to pretend I am poetic and good at thinking up catchy titles for things, which I'm not, but WHATEVER. MY BLOG.) and stuff.

So, on with it:

1.) Bicyclists.

In the car, coming home from work yesterday, I was thinking about how I hate bicyclists. Because I do. In fact, even the slightest glimpse of a bicyclist causes me to immediately be consumed with rage.

This is a problem, considering where I live. Everywhere you look up here, there's someone on a fucking bicycle. This happens for one of two reasons:

A.) You live in Ann Arbor and are consequently a tree-hugging, patchouli-loving, vegan-sandal-wearing, organic-vegetable-consuming, refined-sugar-suspicious hippie whose Benz happens to be in the shop, or

B.) You live in Ypsilanti and are too poor to afford a car.

I guess we could throw in C.) You live in Ypsilanti but desperately want to be the hippie from Ann Arbor so you throw on some fair-trade-handmade-by-oppressed-midgets-in-New-Guinea-culottes with your plastic-I-hope-no-one-notices-plastics-are-made-from-dead-animal-parts-fake-Birkenstocks and hope someone mistakes you for an Ann Arborite.

Whichever letter you bicyclists belong to, however, I hate you.

I hate seeing you pedal furiously down the side of the road with your stupid helmet and water bottle. I hate it when you are wearing a skirt and I have to see your pasty thighs churning around like fleshy, disgusting egg-beaters. I hate when you casually walk your bike across the intersection as if you owned the world because you have a BMX and your El Camino or whatever is up on blocks in the front yard.

But most of all, I hate it when you are in front of me while we're driving somewhere, and you're acting like you are a car, because HELLO, you are not a car. You are too slow to be a car and you are holding up traffic.

I hate seeing you waiting at red lights, in the middle of the lane, poised and ready to rocket off at negative 5 miles per hour as soon as the light turns green.

I hate when you are not using the fucking bike lane and instead are hugging the little white line that marks the edge of where the cars can go, making it impossible for anyone to pass you and thusly leaving us all to crawl along slower than snails until you get the fuck out of the way.

In summation, bicyclists cause me to be consumed with a fiery fury that will only be sated when I one day snap and tell Roommate to floor it while I open up my car door and whack some asshat on a mountain bike with it, causing, hopefully, severe bodily harm.

2.) Tomatoes.

I do not just hate tomatoes: I loathe them. The mere thought of a tomato being in my mouth makes me shudder with unholy dread.

It is not the taste of tomatoes that I dislike. No, I quite enjoy ketchup. I also enjoy tomato sauce, as long as it is smooth. It's the chunks that get me. I cannot eat chunks of tomato or I will skeev out entirely and perhaps vomit on my shoes.

Attention Burger King Workers: When I say "no tomatoes" on my Whopper, Junior, I fucking mean it. Do not, ever again, let my burger get all the way back to the office only for me to bite into it and discover you have put a fucking tomato on it. Ever again. Because if you do, I will figure out where you live and hunt you down and cram whole tomatoes down your throats until you die. I will.

Don't try me. I'm dead serious.

3.) Tim Horton's.

So I have been on a diet and this means I have cut out most of everything that I hold dear, including baked goods. This is what has allowed me to drop four jeans sizes in the past few months. I am proud of myself, and that means I give myself a treat now and again, just so I don't go postal for lack of baked items and shoot someone in the neck.

So yesterday morning, I woke up with a severe urge for a blueberry muffin and I decided I would give in to this urge because I have not had a blueberry muffin in ages.

I go to the Tim Horton's, Maker of Fine Baked Goods and Not-Too-Shabby Sammiches. I ask for two blueberry muffins and then proceed to take them to work with me. I will have one for the breakfast and one for the lunch, I decide. Ah, life is good.

I get the first muffin out of its little paper bag home. The top of the muffin is golden and delicious-looking, just as the top of a muffin should be. I crack it off, as I like to eat the top of the muffin first, since we all know that is the best part, and...what?

The middle of my precious muffin is raw. I am holding, in my poor little hands, a shell of a muffin. A shell of a muffin filled with blueberry goo.

"What the fuck!" I exclaim, and grab the second muffin.

I crack the top off of that one and it, too, is full of raw blueberry batter.

Tim Horton's did not cook these muffins properly! Tim Horton's wants to give me salmonella! Tim Horton's must burn to the ground!

That is why I had a Whopper, Junior, today. Because my muffin treat was ruined and full of unhealthy, disease-causing blueberry goo, and even then, I was not happy, because of tomatoes.

It is much easier to pick a slice of tomato off of a burger than it is to remove a bunch of batter from the middle of a muffin, so I guess it will have to do.

But it should be known that Tim Horton's now causes the hate, so if I ever go in there again and ask for a muffin, I will make the girl behind the counter crack the muffin top off to check for disease-causing batter before I will pay for it. And if I spy even so much as a trace of uncooked muffin parts in there, I will promptly grab it from her and throw it to the floor, shouting, "TAKE THAT, MUFFIN OF DEATH!" Then I will stomp on it and walk out.

4.) That Fat Lady at the Mall.

Yes, Fat Lady at the Mall, I'm talking to you. You with the cropped halter top that is barely containing your breasts and certainly not covering your stomach. You with the tiny, tiny spandex shorts whose seams I can hear screaming for mercy every time you shift your bulk there on that bench. Yes, you. I hate you.

I hate that you are not wearing adequate clothing and are therefore subjecting me to the sight of your impossibly wide ass trying to keep its square mileage suitably compressed into that black spandex. I hate that your stomach is hanging out all over the fucking place and it is wobbly and gross.

I hate it that you think you look good. Because really, does anyone get dressed in the morning and say, "Wow, I look fucking atrocious in this! That means it's perfect to leave the house in!"? Does anyone do that? No, they don't. People get dressed in the morning and say, "Fuck, I look HAWT" and saunter out the door.

So yes, I know you think you look good like that. Perhaps you think you look sexy. Perhaps you are under the impression that the siren song of your monstrous thighs rubbing together will lure some poor, unsuspecting redneck truck driver to his untimely demise in your bed. Perhaps that was your goal this morning when you assembled this sartorial disaster, put it on, and actually left the house in it.

And for that, you cause the hate. Because you are hurting my eyes and the eyes of everyone around you. Because, as a big girl myself, you are hurting the reputation of big girls everywhere. Because from the moment someone sees you until they die, every time they see a big girl, they will see your ghastly visage superimposed over her image, no matter how well-dressed and attractively-attired said big girl may be.

But most of all, Fat Lady at the Mall, I hate you because you appear to have consumed all of the pie in the tri-state area. And I really like pie.

So next time, leave some for me. k, thanks.

5.) Capri Pants and Their Evil Male Counterpart, the Man-pri.

You, Pants That Are Not Pants But Not Quite Shorts Either, you cause the hate. Why are you in existence? Do you not realize that no one looks good in you? Do you not understand that no matter how thin the woman wearing you, you will cut her off at the exact part of her calf that will immediately render her stumpy-legged and oddly-shaped? And if she's wearing those bastardly ballet flats at the same time, woe is her, as Fashion Disaster has descended and taken up residence on the lower half of her body.

So, Capri Pants, I do not care how trendy and awesome you are or if Vogue told me you are hot this summer. I know that if I put you on, my lower half will somehow take on the appearance of the Pillsbury Doughboy in heels and people will tsk and the neighbors will talk. And don't think that every time I see a woman wearing you, Capri Pants, I don't want to grab some scissors and hack away at her legs until you become proper shorts or she loses a limb for daring to leave the house wearing not-pants.

And as for you, the Manpri, can someone please explain to me what it is you think you are doing? Hmm? If I see another man wearing shorts so long they are very nearly pants, BUT STILL NOT PANTS, I will cause some sort of a ruckus that will distract everyone long enough for me to grab the Manpri from its victim, set up my sewing machine, fashion some sort of extension that will turn the Manpri INTO PANTS and put them back on the victim without anyone noticing. And immediately, women in the vicinity will swoon and want to have sex with the man, because he is no longer wearing the Manpri, and Not Wearing the Manpri = Hot and Fuckable. Let that be a lesson to all you men. Wear shorts or wear pants, but don't wear something in between, or you'll never get laid again, except for Cheeto-dust covered Britney Spears (K-Fed is a big fan of the Manpri) or maybe Fat Lady at the Mall.


And that is all for now. Stay tuned for next week's installment where I'm sure I'll have more things to hate, because, hey, the well never runs dry when you live on Planet Earth and I am always hatin' somethin.'


link | posted by Zombie at 3:51 PM |


Anonymous c commented at 5:27 AM~  


I am a bicycle rider at heart, but I do ride in the bike lane when there is one. I love the bike lane. May bike lanes be everywhere soon. I like riding my bike. It makes me feel good---I don't mean healthy---I mean high.

I love tomatoes. Big, deep red, and juicy ones. Which slice in to
disks as big as my hand. Yummy.

Tim Horton's? Is that a regional thing? We don't have Tim's. We have Spaldings and McGees and they are done and yummy.

I HATE THAT FAT LADY at the mall, but I see her everywhere. I think they clone her in Kentucky. I am a fat lady, too, but I keep it covered in as tidy and neat attire as I can. I hate being fat, but I hate that fat lady in the mall even more---because she makes me look bad.

Anonymous cynlee commented at 5:27 AM~  

that was me

Blogger Zombie commented at 7:21 AM~  

Tim Horton's is a regional thing, yeah. Actually, Tim Horton's is a Canadian thing what we in Michigan also happen to have.

Tim Horton's has lovely donuts and other baked things - with the exception of the raw muffins - and really good coffee. Also soup and sammiches.

And EVERYBODY knows Fat Lady at the Mall. There are at least 2 in every town. Probably more.

Anonymous Hunter commented at 8:23 PM~  

Is this the same fat lady that has The Nails. You know, the ones that are super-long and curly?

Anonymous cynlee commented at 11:40 AM~  

Now I'm looking at everyone one in capris/manpris with such a critical eye. For the capris least those cropped types above the ankle...maybe it's a comfort thing. I see them wearing them in the office (usually the khaki looking ones) and I'm thinking they're cooler than regular pants, not shorts (which they most likey can't wear in the office) and with sandals they must be really cool.

manpris...idunno...i don't see them wearing those to the office...

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