Eh, Why not? I Hate, take 4 (I think)

I hate that my snot nose has turned into what appears to be bronchitis, judging by the color of the mung I've been hacking up over the last few hours.  This is also why I am laying here, whining (which I also hate).  Since I'm laying here, I thought I'd gripe.  I need to humor myself, and hopefully you, too.  Enjoy...or not.

I hate that every stereotype I hear about crappy trailer park residents is true.  Guys-where do all your shirts go?  There must be some mechanism in the aluminum threshold entering the trailer that either removes your t-shirt completely, or just rips off the sleeves.  I guess it depends on which model Airstream you rent. Most parks must include the (un)dress code in the lease.  I'm pretty sure it reads something like this:  "Tenant shall obey dress code at all times.  Denim shorts, no longer that 3 inches above the knee, must be worn.  Shirts are prohibited.  In the event that a shirt must be worn, i.e., to go on a beer run, the sleeves shall be removed.  Noncompliance may be grounds for eviction".  I'm pretty sure it's also mandatory that these men not shower for a week prior to removing their Dale Earnhardt shirt.  Women-why is it okay for you to wear a bikini top when you're 500 pounds and 8 months pregnant?  Is it to divert attention from your three teeth and mustache?  Also, why can't you save the money you're spending on your Virginia Slims and put a down payment on a newer (1983) Camaro?  It would save your bare feet from being permanently stained black if you actually drove to Wal-Mart.
With enough Marlboro miles, I'm pretty sure you're eligible to upgrade to the mobile home with the gym included (aka the weight bench under the car port).  This always amazes me, because the occupants of these upgraded models are always the twig-armed meth-heads that weigh all of 71 pounds.  These are the units that always smell like the combination of ammonia, cat shit, and greasy hair when you walk by them.  If you look under the unit, you will always see insulation and the subfloor caving in.  When talking to these occupants, as I frequently do (again, everyone has a story), they almost always ask me for a handout of some sort.  You are capable enough to walk out here (barefoot), holding two slimy kids (which you were physically able to produce).  You are also capable enough to get a job.  I will listen to your story and converse with you; however, I am a civil servant, not a money-bags philanthropist.  I am not going to give you a hand-out...Unless you are a veteran who has served our country, then I will do whatever I can to assist you.

I hate cockroaches.  I deal with them on a daily basis, as I have for the last six years.  I should be desensitized to them by now.  Nope.  Still hate 'em.  Makes me shiver just writing this.  Ew.

I hate wet paper.  Of any kind.  It makes me gag.

I hate close talkers.  You're creepy.  Nobody should be in my bubble.  I may have a terrible reflex and punch you in the throat.  Just sayin'.  I have been accused by co-workers of having personal space issues.  It's no issue.  I just don't want you close to me. 

I hate people who creep up on me and try to scare me.  Reminder:  I am trained to defend myself.  Legally.  You're not funny or original.  You'll be less funny with a .38 shell lodged in your jaw.

I hate cars with bass.  Hey, if you didn't have that shitty stereo, you could probably afford four matching rims for your 1988 Caprice with fake Louis Vuitton tuck-and-roll upholstery.

I hate hair on a wet bar of soap.

I hate hair on the bathroom counter that sticks to my wet hands while I'm trying to clean.

I hate stale ice cubes that make your glass of water garlic flavored, even though you have never kept garlic anywhere near your ice, let alone in your freezer. 

I hate that I know what the inside of most ice machines in food service establishments look like.  It's not pretty. 

I hate tartar on teeth of a person I'm conversing with.  Really?  I see 413 floss picks on the ground a day...None of them are yours, obviously. 

I hate tartar. Period.

I hate finding stray eyelashes on table surfaces.

I hate finding holes in the plastic bags I use to pick up Moose's poop.  Usually because I discover the holes a few seconds too late. 

I hate too many lawn decorations.  One Virgin Mary is plenty.  I get it.  You're Catholic. 

I hate fake flowers planted in window boxes.  Really?  Who are you fooling?  Do you also pretend to water them?  They look tacky.

I hate owners of Assisted Living Facilities (ALFs) who drive brand new Mercedes-Benz and dress in Armani suits, yet the residents of the ALF are living in filth and squalor because the owner won't pay for quality staff, or to have anything fixed or cleaned. 

I hate that I form a bond with many of the residents in these ALFs, because it breaks my heart when I go in to see them, and they have passed away. 

I hate that so many people were so pissed off about the NFL lockout.  Who cares?  It's a sport, not the end of the God Damned world.  Those assholes make way too much money anyways.  Suspend the season and give their salaries to those who need it, like our teachers and those serving our country.  Better yet, bring our troops home and send the NFL players to Afghanistan and Iraq.  They can run fast, and most of them carry guns anyway.  Let them do something helpful for once.

I hate monkeys.