This one is especially annoying, since I frequently attend parties—events which contain a disproportionate amount of dancing. At some point, there is likely to be a group chorus of “Bohemian Rhapsody” or “Don’t Stop Believing”. I can live with that. I got sick of the latter ages ago, but for some people, it’s become compulsory, like playing “Hail to the Chief” every time the President does something or “Pomp and Circumstance” at graduations. (And “Bohemian Rhapsody” is a great song that I could hear at least a million more times before getting sick of.) The dancing, however, is a sticking point for me. I don’t like dancing. I don’t like it. That does not mean that I secretly love doing it, and that there’s a party animal inside me just itching to get out. People see me standing next to the dance floor stiffly moving my shoulders and start grinding against me in hopes pf getting me to “cut loose” and “quit holding back”. Fuck you. Ask me about why Deep Space Nine is my favorite Star Trek show sometime. Six hours later and a wealth of nerdy nitpicking later, you’ll be begging me to hold back. And then who will feel foolish?
4. Listening to People Sing “Don’t Stop Believing”
Parties are literally the only setting in which I can hear this song anymore and not immediately want to murder everyone. (Well, maybe the Sopranos finale, except I don’t watch that show.) Whenever I hear it elsewhere—like, say, in that one episode of Glee or the acting class that I’m about to tell you about—I am fighting the urge to rip off my pants and gnaw through my legs in hopes of bleeding to death and making the pain stop. I took an acting class a couple years ago. It was fun. We had a substitute teacher for a couple weeks (our regular teacher was on vacation in Asia) who was a very nice person. Too nice, perhaps. (Yes, there is such a thing.) On the last day, some people brought cookies and we sat in a circle talking about our hopes and dreams for the future. Sounds a bit like summer camp, doesn’t it? Then we stood up and took turns standing in the middle singing whatever song came to our mind. I went with “Imitation of Life” followed by “Veronica”. That the entire class did not immediately join in is proof positive that my tastes are superior to everyone else’s. Then, when it was time to go, we all sang “Don’t Stop Believing”. Well, everyone except me. All I could do was fantasize about being molested. It’s not something that I would expect to enjoy, just something that I would probably hate less than hearing that song again. “Don’t stop believing!” said our substitute as we filed out. I hate nice people.
3. Interacting With People
I really don’t want to give the impression that I hate only nice people. I hate bigots, fuckwits, dipshits, cuntfaces, cockwads, dickholes, and just about every other group of people who make my life difficult. Life would be so much easier if everyone were more like Nicolas Cage. See, he evidently forgot how to act like a human being a long time ago, and has spent the last ten years or so remaking himself into the perfect Internet meme generator. Seriously, I can’t get enough of this. Or this, or this, or this, for that matter. If everyone acted more like Nicolas Cage, we might have trouble keeping the roads paved or our children educated, but you have to admit that it would be pretty funny for the first ten minutes or so. Sooner or later, we’d all have to cut the crap and deal with our issues but for the rest of our lives, we’d all remember those few moments of perfect bliss when we stopped trying to understand each other and just started spin-kicking grown women into walls.
2. Going to the Gym
Exercising has its uses, among which is prolonging your lifespan and making you feel good about yourself. But the hardest part is always getting started. Why hop on the treadmill for a 20-minute run when you can just stay in bed? Why embarrass yourself by lifting tiny dumbbells when the jock next to you is bench-pressing 300 pounds? Don’t get me wrong—there’s usually plenty of eye candy—but that also has the effect of making me feel insecure as I realize that I’ll never look like that. No, not even when I push myself and hit the place up three times a week for several years straight. At a certain point, I’m going to the gym to provide myself with masturbatory fodder and for no other reason. (I should stress, by the way, that I would never take advantage of the fact that I share a locker room with the guys I’m attracted to. No, that would be wrong.) Porn gets pretty monotonous after a while.
1. Doing Something Out of Obligation
As a fanboy, I am contractually required to watch/read/listen to things that I know I’m going to hate out of solidarity. We all remember somberly attending Star Wars III: Revenge of the Sith even though the previous two movies sucked, knowing that even if it was leaps and bounds beyond the previous two, it still would never touch the greatness of the classics. In all fairness, it was a vast improvement over The Phantom Menace and Attack of the Clones, but still a deeply flawed film. Then a few years later, I swallowed my pride and saw Indiana Jones and the Jumping of the Shark, a movie that frankly didn’t even have much of a chance of being good because, as Mr. Plinkett points out, we just don’t need to see what Indiana Jones looks like as an old man. What if Spielberg, Lucas and Co. make another Indiana Jones movie? I’ll have to see that one as well. It doesn’t matter if the reviews are poisonous. If I don’t see it, I’m not a good fanboy. It’s that simple. “Fuck you, you’ll watch it anyway,” say the overfed fat cats as they sit on their piles of cash. Speaking of which, as much as I love Star Trek, I haven’t watched a single episode of Enterprise or Voyager. Come on, there’s no way either of them could be as bad as “The Outrageous Okona”, right? Right?
I have a bad feeling about this.