This is by far the toughest column I’ve ever written. Far worse than the column that I began writing on Tues. July 13 at 5:33 a.m., the one that was hampered by a hangover the likes of which the world had never seen before.
My eyes were redder than all the rednecks on both sides of my family. My tongue was so dry and rough a carpenter could have used it to sand a wooden table, that is if he hadn’t already lost his job to a more qualified and far less stoned illegal. As for my head, it throbbed like Glenn McConnell’s historically accurate sabre at a Civil War re-enactment. And the throbbing went on for hours. I wondered if that was Aleve I had taken or Viagra?
That was a dark, dark day for this columnist, arguably the most challenging day in my career. Until now.
As you are all aware, this year-end issue has a bit of a theme, and that theme is “What’s Your Beef?” Now, most of you are probably thinking that writing yet another column about something that pisses me off should be easy. It’s what I do week in and week out.
Over the past year, I’ve bitched about Nikki Haley. I’ve bitched about Will Folks. I’ve bitched about Sarah Palin. I’ve bitched about Alvin Greene. I’ve bitched about Vic Rawl. I’ve bitched about Jim DeMint. I’ve bitched about Lindsey Graham. I’ve bitched about Robert Ford. I’ve bitched about Wendell Gilliard. I’ve bitched about Glenn Beck. I’ve bitched about Erick Erickson. And I’ve bitched about Rocky D. To be honest with you, I’m all bitched out.
Now, I’ve got my gripes, ones that I’ve never shared with you. But they really aren’t the kind of things that make up a good column. Nope. And as the folks around the City Paper office can attest, this hairy haole is on a nonstop bitchfest from the time I stumble into work until the time I sneak out of the office for a pau hana pint on Aloha Friday. And really none of those are suitable for print.
Who am I kidding? Here are my biggest bitches in no particular order.
Lists. Only slackass hacks write ’em.
The ending of Lost. Pure New Age hokum that had no impact on the ongoing story line.
People who include poetry or song lyrics at the end of their e-mails. No, I don’t read Twilight. No, I don’t swoon over Justin Bieber. No, I don’t pad my training bra. So, no, I do not choose to include a line from Sylvia Plath’s “Daddy” at the end of my e-mail.
Critics who are afraid to be negative. Look, bub, you don’t become a journalist to make friends with scenesters. You become a journalist because you want to tell it like it is … and drink a lot.
First-time writers who think they have a voice. You don’t. Not yet.
PR agents who want to return to journalism. Once you join the dark side, you can’t come back.
Any columnist who starts a column with a quote. And that goes double for anybody who uses William Shakespeare or Mark Twain.
White-nose syndrome. Look, I’m scared of bats. Like skid-my-britches scared. But come on, a fungus that has killed up to 90 percent of bat populations in Vermont and New York state? That’s just evil.
The Huckabee Report. The undeniably partisan Mike Huckabee is a piss-poor replacement for Paul Harvey, an old-school radio host whose political affiliation didn’t get in the way of calling a fool a fool.
Tweets from porn stars. I was expecting blow-by-blow reports, not advertisements for strip clubs and Fleshlights.
Daycare workers that don’t wash their hands. Seriously, gal, you just wiped that baby’s behind. I saw you do it. I know you may not wash your hands each and every time. Fine. But at least do it when paying customers are around.
Hipster boys in tight jeans. Really, dude? You want to walk around with a wedgie? No wonder you’re so uptight.
Cancer. If God was more like Rod Serling, the world would be a just place.