The following diatribe is a mere generalization. So, don’t get your four day old, crispy, Kobe just “raped” me in a Super 8 lobby but I’m too lazy to change my fuck-soaked, nine guy, Hudson Hawk, dirt nasty adventure panties for the sake of hygiene in a sheep shank. Nothing pisses me off more than when people think I’m “talking” about them. If I want to talk about you, I’ll name names. Otherwise, don’t flatter yourself.
Okay. Here we go.
I’ve noticed that people no longer get together for fellowship and an open exchange of ideas. Everywhere I go, some cocksucker has a goddamn 500 billion megapixel camera the size of Zesta just so they can take “candid” myspace pics. When did we become SO socially empty that we actually get together just so we have pics to put on fuckin’ myspace? A photograph used to actually mean something – three dimensional memories on a two dimensional canvas. We traded purity for vanity. Well, not me. Fuckin’ stupid, sack frosting, Dashboard Confessional fans who pretend to love jazz and clove cigarettes and think it’s cool to live as starving artists in some 5 ‘ by 10′ Harlem dumpster with a hot plate and an Abbey Road poster are the culprits. Guess what? I lived in a shitty apartment in Hollywood with helicopters flying overhead every single night for two years. I didn’t do it for the experience. I didn’t have any fucking money. Believe me, there’s nothing “cool” about it. The second I had money, I was all about the suburbs. So, take your bullshit fashion statement, My Chemical Romance conductor jackets, roll in gasoline, and human Molotov yourself into an already burning log cabin filled to the ceiling with Dave Matthews concert shirts.
It’s always these highfalutin, upper middle class chub chuggers who pretend to hate their loving and supportive parents as part of some rebellion against “The Man”. They only keep up with the current events as described in their local indie newspaper or Cosmo. They’re SO pretentious that they actually go to biker bars because dirty is “hip”. FUCK YOU. One day, when you’re in one of your many “natural” poses, I hope you fuckin’ OD on your designer drugs right when the flash goes off. Then, your equally uninspiring party friends can post your foam covered face on myspace and talk about how legendary and funny it was that time you almost died. And you won’t care as long as they shot your good side.
