Fat Scooters

Sure, I can nosh a bag of Cheetos with the best of them. And I tip the scales well onto the heavy side, but I swear if I ever get so fucking fat that I qualify for a "medical" scooter and an excuse to be a lazy prick driving 15 miles an hour down the snack aisle at Wal Mart, I will put a fucking icepick into the wobbly fleshroll of my neck and wiggle it around till my giant bloated corpse falls to the ground and registers on the Richter scale three states away.

Hey you. In the motorized seat. You do not need a wheelchair. You are not sick.

You are fat.

And If you are sick, it's only because you are so goddamn fat. Knees ache? Yep fatty, that's why. Diabetes? Gee Lardass I wonder why.

This isn't about pure laziness either - I'm actually a big fan of doing as little as possible. But how did the cure to fatty fatness become even LESS exercise?

Providing complimentary go carts at grocery store entrances so these bloody pustules can get their Ding Dongs and Mountain Dew without even moving their fucking bodies may have been the most brilliant marketing move in history.

And now any fatty fucktard with a sore back or the inability to see their genitals can just get a medical scooter for free. At least in years past the only option was a wheelchair, which at least meant you moved your arms to get from one fucking point to another. But these monstrosities require nothing more than a flick of the thumb or a gentle twist of the wrist to send 800 pound of festering flesh hurtling down the sidewalk, blocking the path for every normal size human being and once and for all cementing America's reputation as the ugliest, stupidest fucking people on the planet.

Of course, there are a few people out there who really benefit from these things. Like the 80-year-old WWII vet who left an arm and leg in Normady, Sure, give the guy a scooter. Odds are he'd look around at the company he's in and choose to keep hopping down the fucking road.

Hammer Pants Comeback

This the-'80s-were-awesome retro bullshit has gone far enough.

Mullets, leg warmers and mall hair are perfectly rad to 15-year-old kids trying to look like their parents when they were in high school fucking other people and snorting meth when it was still called crank.These kids are also fucking retards, but they're not really hurting anybody.

But lately there's been a resurgence of the low-crotch drawers, genie jeans – otherwise known as Hammer Pants.

This is in no way OK.

Really. Why would these things make a comeback? Is it that the I-just-shit-my-pants-and-have-crap-smeared-asscheeks look is just so fucking sexy? Are thighs that rub together and create a bloody, painful rash near the genitals suddenly an indispensable fashion statement?

If you're helping to bring this trend back you deserve both. Stop now.

Unless you're hiding a midget in your pants to warm your crotch (which would be really fucking awesome) there is no earthly reason to be wearing these.

Look. Even Hammer, the shitburger who started this in the first place, has moved on. He's still a douchebag, but at least he's a douchebag in normal pants.

But you? A douchebag who also wears hammer pants? The death penalty still exists for people like you.

Celebratory Headgear

"Wow. That hat is funny! You're so crazy and original! Wanna have sex in the men's room?"

How many times has this phrase been uttered? In the entire history of the universe? Exactly less than fucking never.

Wearing headgear to let everyone in a 10-mile radius know that you are out on the town and having a crazy time screams, "I am an insecure, self-loathing twatsquatch! Look at me, Please! Notice me!"

Like we have a fucking choice.

And drawing attention to your head doesn't mean we don't notice that you're fat, ugly, sad and/or alone in the world. Just that you're all this and pathetically lacking every single rudimentary skill needed for any type of life or simple social interaction.

I don't care if it's a holiday, your best friend's bachelorette party, or just good-old-fashioned alcohol induced doucherry, you're still a loser. Man, woman, tranny... doesn't matter.

All those people are laughing at you. Not with you.

Chad Kroeger

No words needed...

But since you asked.

Chad is the founder and front man for the shitstorm from Canada known as Nickelback. The band that may actually succeed in destroying rock and roll — and perhaps all of humanity as we know it.

With skin tight shirts and permed hair Chad and the boys sing lyrics so trite and play music so ass-numbingly void of anything resembling emotion that even Scott Stapp is embarrassed and Fred Durst feels physical pain (OK, so that's one good thing).

Consider this lyrical brilliance for example:

S is for the simple need.
E is for the ecstasy.
X is just to mark the spot,
Because that's the one you really want.
(Yes!) Sex is always the answer, it's never a question,
'Cause the answer's yes, oh the answers (Yes)
Not just a suggestion, if you ask the question,
Then it's always yes. Yeah!

I'm pretty sure I wrote that same exact song when I was 13 — and the ripped it up and burned it before anyone could see it and did penance by listening to Slayer nonstop for a week.

Honestly though, it's difficult to muster enough hatred for Chad or Nickelback to be witty or even motivated to try too hard. And that's the problem. Rock and Roll doesn't even have to be good. It doesn't require musical ability (KISS) or good looks (Lemmy), but it has to make you feel something. Excitement. Hatred. Even sadness. Fuck — just anything. When I hear Chad and the band I can't even muster up the strength or energy to take a shit or do my taxes.

Chad has succeeded where many others have come close, but failed. And for finally and completely removing all emotion, integrity, originality and feeling from rock and roll, Chad is guilty of crimes against humanity.

Simply being himself is punishment enough I think.

Country music

Is it even necessary to point out how vapid and soul sucking country music is? This isn't referring to the likes of Johnny Cash of course. Despite his re-found, wormfood-induced popularity he is still a Bad Ass.

No. This is about the Kenny Chesneys, Toby Keiths, and Rascall Flatts of the world. I'm not anti-queer in the least, but the pure gayness of Kenny, Toby and their cowboy friends offends me. Not because they are gay (which they most certainly are), but because they sell their macho, hairy chested, leather daddy act as all-American wholesome manliness to homophobic housewives and the drunken, impotent men who beat them. These flag-waving, Ford-driving shit fer brains would choke on their chicken nuggets if they knew their real American heroes engaged in regular bouts of slap-and-tickle with eachother backstage at the CMA.

And all this might even be OK if only the "music" weren't, well, what it is... Whatever it is.

And to be fair, these urban fairies are only following the lead of others who came before them to prove that Wal-Mart shoppers everywhere love queer cowboys and are willing to shell out the cash to listen to them — all the while secretly wishing they could beat them up and fuck them. Not necessarily in that order.

Consider this example from 1985:This Village People get-up and Yee-haw ode to the American workin' man earned these monkey dicks their 17th number one hit — three more than Johnny Cash had in his lifetime.

Nuff said?
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Elf Shoes for grown fucking men

"Why am I such a misfit?"

It's your shoes asswipe.

Really? You paid actual money for these to complete your work-at-the-mall-in-green-tights-in-December persona? You could have taped a hand-scrawled "I am a douche bag" sign on your back and achieved the same result.

When you're out tonight sipping an Appletini and toasting your manliness with skittle vodka shots, realize that the laughter you hear is directed at you.

You are not Fonzie. You are not even a drop of sweat on Fonzie's pubic hair. Lose the pointy shoes and slip back into your work loafers. At least the tassels prove you're a corporate douche who gets a paycheck. These prove only that you're a fucktard even in your spare time - because that's who you really are.