When I was a kid, I came across the infamous “Shit List”, in which the author proceeded to humorously and accurately describe all incarnations of human stool. Because I was 15, I howled and claimed it for my own. And because I was 15, and my mother’s office was in our house, and it had a copy machine…well, you know where this is going.
Piles of copies mysteriously appeared in random classrooms at my junior high school. I don’t know how they got there. And I don’t know anything about the B-3 bomber; honestly I don’t know how these rumors get started, and bonus points to anyone who caught the movie reference.
Can you tell I’ve put in 12 hours of fruitful-but-mind-numbing work today and I’m just a little cabeza frita?
When I became an adult (at least, physically), I realized that my priorities and values were…different…than most people (at least, those people who think they run things). People hang their hats on concepts that in the grand scheme of things, don’t really matter. And after years of enduring some of these obnoxious tards and their equally retarded drivel, I got a little fed up.
So in trademark Hello Rant Kitty fashion, I bring you…
…The Who Gives A Shit? List
Who Gives a Shit…
…that you drive a BMW/Mercedes/Jaguar/Audi/Escalade/Other huge SUV/etc? The clothes might make the man and all that, at least in some cases, but unless you’re a real estate agent or otherwise someone who carts around the people from whom you make your living, the car sure as hell doesn’t (make you, that is). The car means nothing, and no, you do not own the road because your car happens to cost more than most. Yes, the rules of the road (and everything else) still apply to you and no you’re not better than I am because your motorized box on wheels carries a bigger price tag than my truck.
A luxury car isn’t all that impressive anymore, either. Some of those people with gigantic bright shiny new Cadillac Escalades–follow them home. Home to the trailer park, where they’d be living paycheck-to-paycheck if they weren’t dealing drugs or operating a high-end stereo theft ring. And with BMW’s affordable leasing plans and all that, anyone can get their grubby hands on an A-list brand car these days. So please, can the pretentious I’m-better-than-you-because-I-have-a-Lexus Act; it’s not like you’re special.
…about global warming? Okay, the earth’s temperature might’ve risen one degree in the past 30 years (a claim that even its advocates are having a tough time proving); it’s not like we’re going to liquefy and become one with the pavement or spontaneously combust. Will that one degree (if it actually exists) even be noticed? Will it really be catastrophic? Will the winter snow up north really melt that much earlier in the year?
Now mind you–it’s not that I’m not convinced that the climate is changing, nor is it that I’m not concerned about that. It most certainly is, and I most certainly am. I’m just not convinced that it’s actually getting all that much warmer, per se. There is just as much evidence that the earth’s temperature might actually getting cooler.
Which begs the question: if some data show an increase in temperature while others suggest a decrease, don’t they cancel each other out? Why don’t we call it a draw? And before anyone starts in with the gas company conspiracies (which I believe to a point, by the way), shut it, because there are less-than-scientific agendas with subzero integrity on both sides, and anyone with two eyes knows it.
…about sports? Not to sound cliche, but despite my best efforts (and believe me, I tried), I still can’t wrap my head around the fascination with what usually amounts to chasing after a ball, interrupted frequently by lots of equally obnoxious commercials. Let’s call a spade a spade, shall we? The Cliff’s Notes: Football, basketball, etc (arguably two of the most Neanderthal sports out there) consist of a mosh pit of overpaid, broken-down, Vicodin-hooked guys brawling over a ball. And as if the games and their related traffic and noise aren’t bad enough, there’s enough peripheral merchandise to make you choke. Since when does a simple hobby get its own section on the radio, the news, or the newspaper?
If you’re a sports fanatic and you’re scoffing at what I’m saying (“how could she? everybody likes football!”), to get an idea of what the rest of us (non-sports fans) endure, just imagine that “sports” was suddenly swapped out in favor of, say, “knitting”. You’re bombarded with it every day, 5-10 minutes on your newscast every night about how so-and-so made the coolest blanket or sweater, and a knitting contest every Sunday that lasts 3 hours. And you get to watch the whole thing, in full HD crispness, a play-by-play of each. And every. Stitch. Complete close-ups and instant replays, the same stitch shown in slow motion 4 or 5 times before moving on.
And don’t forget about the Facebook posts, and the little flags that clip to the sides of car windows, and all that jazz. (Because if you don’t care about knitting by now, well, we just haven’t inundated you enough with it, and if we bulldoze you some more, you’ll eventually see the light and become a raging fan, right?) Sounds as interesting as watching cracks form on the desert floor, amiright? Yeah, thought not.
…about celebrities? Honestly, sometimes I feel totally gypped. When we were kids, enduring chaotic, confusing, tumultuous teenage angst, trying to fit in with the cool kids, my mother promised us that when we grew up and left K-12, that all-important in-crowd would disperse and with the sunset on adolescence, no one would care who was up to what. I got the impression that people would be too busy working and raising families to gossip about other people, their clothes, makeup, hairstyles, 72-hour marriages, and fashion faux pas, but I was devastatingly disappointed when I realized that they were not (too busy).
I had failed to factor in the proverbial office water cooler and the conversations held–and the careers made or broken–around it. Honestly, I couldn’t care less about the Royal Baby, Britney’s 3-day marriage, her teenage mom sister, or Kim Kardashian, whoever-the-fuck she is.
And to think they have entire magazines, websites, and TV shows whose sole purpose is to follow them around, jumping out from behind the bushes to snap yet another non-consensual picture of them, the fact that they have no makeup inadequately covered by their oversized–and likely overpriced–shades. For a split second I do feel sorry for them. But see, I can sleep at night, because since I don’t give a rip, I’m not adding to the fury that torments them so.
Wow, I haven’t ranted like that in a long time and…it felt kinda good. I should make it a point to do that more often.