Random Things I Hate

Spiders
Yes, I still fucking hate spiders. I've mentioned them on this blog before. Below is a photo of a spider that was recently in my house. There was a bigger one last week that I wish I got a photo of, but it ate my camera. And it's a big camera.



My favoured method of getting rid of spiders that are large enough to withstand a thong attack (thongs are best for killing things that are crawling on walls) is to employ a multi-pronged offensive. First, you have to drown the fucker in bug spray. If you don't have a can of Mortein handy, improvise with Mr Muscle, Rexona or Airwick. It's all about the same. This will confuse the spider and it will drop to the floor. This is a good time to think about another attempt with the double-pluggers, but personally, I like to rev up the vacuum cleaner. I recently made the mistake of only using the fly spray on the spider and left it on the floor as a warning to all other spiders who enter my abode. I don't know if he was rescued by other spiders, eaten by the mouse who lives under my oven or miraculously recovered in some kind of Spider-Jesus Easter-trick of rising from the dead, but when I came back home, the body was gone. So now I vac the fuckers up and then put some thumb tacks and drawing pins and shards of glass and knives and ninja stars down the tube as well, just in case they survive the initial ride into my trusty Dyson. These stupid spiders aren't even getting rid of the moths and bugs and shit that haunt my house, and I figure there's only room for two useless things in my place - one of them is me, the other is my ironing board.

DVD menu loops
When a DVD ends, and you don't turn it off, it will go back to the original menu screen that has options ("Play movie", "Subtitles", "Special Features", "Select a scene" etc...) and is usually accompanied by a 20 second loop of film dialogue or music. Occasionally, you might find yourself plonked out on your couch with a bucket of popcorn and a DVD, keen for a "quiet night in." With the lights down and the slow realisation that Demolition Man is nowhere near as good as you remember it to be, your eyes may become a bit heavy, and you'll be fighting the urge to yawn every 4 seconds. You close your eyes just for a moment...

The next thing you know, your dreams are being disturbed by goats playing bad guitars. Then the goats' music fades out. Then it comes back. Then it fades out. Then it comes back. Then it fades out. Then it comes back. Then it fades out. Then it comes back. Then it fades out. Then it comes back. Then it fades out. All of a sudden, you're bolt upright, ready to kick the shit out of the goats who keep playing bad music for 20 seconds at a time. There are, of course, no goats; you've just been fucked by the DVD menu loop. Upon realising that it's now 4am, you trundle off to bed, but can't get that fucking music out of your mind, and then you realise that you only made it about halfway through Demolition Man (not even to the bit where you see Sandra Bullock's boobs for about a second) and you'll have to do the whole fucking thing again tomorrow night.

Parking inspectors
There's nothing quite like returning to your car after a day of work, a night at the movies, a drink with mates, a few hours of standing in the bushes outside someone's house or a mad dash into the shops to grab a bag of chips, sherbert and cheese spread (my grocery shopping is fucking awesome), and finding that beautiful yellow envelope stuck underneath your windscreen wiper; its contents revealing that you've been booked for a dodgy park, outstayed your welcome or didn't feed the meter enough coin. The next five minutes or so are spent swearing at yourself inside your car and bashing your head on the steering wheel for being so fucking unlucky.

"Dear Parking Inspector,

You may have noticed that there's nowhere else to park around here. I am normally a law-abiding citizen (other than the usual pillaging that goes with my pirate/viking heritage), and would appreciate you cutting me some slack for parking on the side of the road instead of in a parking bay. I draw your attention to the amount of cars vs the amount of car spaces provided within your car parking facility. If I didn't have to invent a carpark here, I wouldn't; it's as simple as that.

I don't have any money, but feel free to stick $72 worth of my car up your arse at any stage.

Sincerely,

Mister Evil Breakfast"


Chupa Chup wrappers
Chupa Chups are great; there's no denying their awesomeness (especially the strawberry ones, regardless of how girly they are). However, they are fairly impossible to unwrap. I have tried to open them when I'm walking, driving, standing still; when I'm drunk, sober, slightly pissy, shattered, hungover; in the light, in the dark, in artificial light, in a nightclub, in a pub, in a house; with friends, when alone; when I'm happy, when I'm sad, when I'm angry, when I'm thoughtful, when I'm tired and when I wake up. My fingers aren't what they used to be, granted, but there's no need for me to have to fire up the blow-torch and scalpel just to get into my Chupa. What if I was giving this lolly to a child? They'd look up at me with their cute eyes and say, "Unca Bweakfast, can you pwease open my wowwipop?" And I'd try and try and try to unwrap that fucking thing, and would end up breaking the stick off instead... and I'd have to look down at that child and say, "No, Uncle Breakfast can't open it. I have failed you. I have failed you as a provider and kidnapper." And then I'd probably just let the kid out of my van and not even collect ransom money. Fucking Chupa Chups.

The prick at work who keeps stealing my milk
Seriously fuckbag, buy your own. Easy as that. Also, whoever keeps stealing my pens can go get fucked as well. Just so you know, I've been chewing them, so if you chew it as well, it's like we're making out... and I'm not a pretty man.