More Hate

by Jimmiez

My little buddy Butthead asked me to write a guest column for his hate blog. I hate this shit. Why don’t I just wash his fucking soccer mom-mobile for him or cut his Goddamn grass—and both of those are jobs I really fucking hate. My girlfriend loves to mow lawns or I wouldn’t even have a fucking lawn. Fuck lawns. What the fuck are lawns good for? For your neighbor’s fucking dog to take a shit on is about all. These assholes who love lawns, have you ever seen them doing anything with them other than watering them and mowing them? How fucking stupid is that shit?

And what’s up with that Goddamn soccer-mom vehicle of Butthead’s anyway? This is a kid who once owned a GTO muscle car for Chrissakes. A car you could lay rubber with in all four gears. A car that would make a redneck chick wet her cutoffs. How can he stand to drive a vehicle that once he gets into it, you can’t tell him apart from about a million other geeky assholes who are driving kids around and are totally shut off from the neck up cause they fucking hate their lame-ass existence where they have to kiss ass all day long cause they got so fucking many bills to pay that if they thought about it they’d have to stick a shotgun in their mouth and take the big exit.

Man, that’s some hate. I’m thinking that’s why Butthead drives that mom-mobile. Cause he hates it. And that’s what I like about the boy. He knows how to hate. He hates long and he hates hard. Don’t get me wrong; the boy knows how to turn off the hate—like when it’s gonna get his ass fired, maybe, or kicked, usually. I’m guessing he also can rein it in when his wife has had enough of his hatin’ and she might hand him the big D, or at the very least bitch slap him senseless.

He tells me his dog helps him cope with life when his hate has become too much for even him to deal with. And I fucking hate that shit the most. He’s a Goddamn bike racer for fuck’s sake. Will someone please explain to me how a Goddamn bike racer can not hate dogs? In this Goddamned tree-lined, yard-growing, shithole of a town we live in, you can not ride a bike far enough to puke without getting fanged by some yelping, yard-shitting piece of shit K-9 on a regular basis. No one who has ever thrown a leg over a bike hasn’t at one time or another wanted to totally empty a revolver into some dog’s head until they were just clicking empty chambers and then throw the gun at the lifeless piece-of-shit carcass. But the thing that pisses me off the most about Butthead’s dog, Bubba, is that the little fucker will come over and lay down next to your leg when it knows Goddamn good and well that you feel that way. I hate that.

So here’s my “guest” column, Butthead. Now go fuck yourself.