Posted in comedy, humor, humour, writing

If Music Be The Food Of Hate, Play Nickleback #whatiwrite #nanowrimo #haters

‘Pffffft. Most of that is Photoshop. I saw an advert for Dove once. I know stuff.’

 

Hate is kind of like love. You have to feel pretty strongly about someone to love them (well, unless they’re your kids. That love is just a genetic trick to stop you killing them when they’re two years old and think that repeating ‘Mum’ four hundred and seventy times when they don’t even have something to tell you is acceptable behaviour.), and it’s the same with hate. Someone has to have done something inspire your rage. These days, with social networking and Heat Magazine and rolling twenty-four hour Celebrity News, it’s become even easier to hate people; especially ones you’ve never met.

Why do people deserve our hate? Because they’ve done something wrong? Well, sometimes yes. I mean people hate Ian Huntley, or those James Bulger Killing kids who are now grown ups. (People still hate them when they were kids. They send their hate back through time, to retroactively hate them, and wish that they were hanged back then. Kids hanged in the street in front of baying Scouse crowds. That’s how we’ll fix Broken Britain. Hooray!) When someone does a Bad Thing, especially to a child, the hate flows. That’s understandable. But people hate Peter Andre too, almost as much. And he’s really never done anything bad. People hate Lady GaGa. What did she do? Wear a meat frock? That’s hardly Pol Pot territory.

No, the main reason to hate anyone is because they’re more successful than we are, they have more money or stuff than we have, or they’re getting more laid than we ever will be. And we don’t think they deserve it, or they’ve earned it, so fuck them. It boils down to jealousy and a sense of injustice. Mainly jealousy though; the injustice part is just us pretending that it’s not all about jealousy. Look at lottery winners: If some scrounging dolehound who has never worked in her life scoops sixty million on the jackpot, are other scrounging dolehounds happy for her? Nope. Are people who work hard to scrape a living happy for her? Nuh-huh. How about the rich? Do they think Mary Girocheque done good, and fair play to her? Do they fuck.

And how about when someone who is already rich wins the lottery? Yeah, fuck them too. I think that the only people who win the lottery and manage to get away with it are the terminally ill and the severely handicapped. Then we’re all like ‘Awwwww, bless!’ Secretly though, we’re thinking ‘What a fucking waste…’ And it’s not just the lottery, a completely unearned windfall. It happens when people actually earn their dough too. The Fifty Shades of Grey lady is a multi-millionaire now from writing books, despite being unable to write books. Do we think ‘Hahaha! Nice one, love. You beat the system there. Rise of the underdog!’ Nope, we think ‘Fuck you, you fucking fuck of a fuckity, fuck. I could have done that! I could have done better! Fuck you! Grrrrrr! Fuck!’

Of course, if you like what someone does, you rarely think about how rich they are. Jk Rowling isn’t that good of a writer either, but if you’re a Harry Potter fan, you don’t think ‘Fuck you, you fucking fuck of a fuckity, fuck. I could have done that! I could have done better! Fuck you! Grrrrrr! Fuck!’ Stephen Fry probably has a few quid in the bank, but no one ever goes on youtube clips of QI to wish him a slow and torturous death. Well, apart from the Westboro Baptist Church, probably. Richard Branson! Everyone loves Richard Branson, and he has a beard. I don’t mean a cool, nu-rave, trendy, Hoxton beard. I mean a full on, Noel Edmonds, Christmas cake crumb-catching, no brakes on the Rape Train, RIP Robin Cook, 1980s sex offender beard. No one gives a fuck, because he’s Richard Branson.

So, my fellow writers/self-publishers/bloggers: someone probably hates you, if you’re lucky enough to be that interesting. And the more interesting and successful you become, the more complete strangers will feel the need to write public essays about how they don’t like you, other people shouldn’t like you, and how you probably fingered a bunch of kids backstage after filming on your 1980s TV show. It’s a sign that you are doing well; that you’re someone people would love to be, even if they don’t admit it. Like when unattractive girls (or their brown nosing forever friendzoned betamale cronies) see a picture of Angelina Jolie and scream ‘LOL HAVE A SANDWICH BITCH!’ Like when they see someone famous has lost shitloads of weight and scream ‘LOL I PREFERRED HER WITH A BIT OF MEAT ON HER!’ Or when they see a girl with a 23 inch waist and natural 30G breasts and scream ‘OMG SHE’S GONNA HAVE REAL BAD BACK PROBLEMS IN A FEW YEARS!’

I doubt she’ll have any back problems, seeing as she’ll be perpetually surrounded by salivating males willing to carry stuff for her, drive her places and pay for fucking everything. She’ll probably have no problems at all, until she gets old and unpretty. But with those genes, she’ll probably age really well. And anyway, she’ll have all that money in the bank, from everyone falling over themselves to give her stuff. Still though, she’ll never achieve real happiness. The happiness you have, while screaming at people in magazine pictures to eat more carbs, tweeting about Selena not being gud enuf 4 Justin, or rubbing your fat clitoris to the Vampire Diaries.

Happy Thursday, everyone!

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Author:

Self proclaimed author, cynic, saviour of humanity.

5 thoughts on “If Music Be The Food Of Hate, Play Nickleback #whatiwrite #nanowrimo #haters

  1. I hate people but not in any active I’m going to do something about it way. Although I do have recurring dreams about climbing to the top of a bell-tower with a high powered rifle in tow.

    I do have a reason for hating them though, because they are the ones who make the people famous for doing fuck all by putting so much effort into complaining about them. Apathy is much more hurtful than hate. Love or hate means people have an opinion on you. Indifference is a true reflection of our ultimate meaningless in the Universe. But that’s okay because to ourselves we mean the universe… I’ll shut up now.

  2. I can only assume this is your way of telling me you hate me, which is okay because I hate you, too. Be aware, though, that your desire to tell me you hate me is clearly masking what you really want to tell me, which is that you love me. This works out nicely as I also love you.
    Glad that is sorted.
    Yours, Agatha
    Everyone Needs an Algonquin

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