Country music - as if America didn't have a hard enough time convincing the rest of the world that we are actually capable if something other than blowing up things we don't understand or cramming enough big macs down our throats to clog up the mega maid form of Spaceball 1, our aural ambassador to everyone else are songs about loving shitty old trucks, fighting in shitty old bars, and getting left by shitty old people. I say we take metal from the Scandinavians. At least then, brutal neo- imperialism would have a soundtrack that makes sense.
Cursive - What the fuck is the point? The letters are about as authentic as those "dragoonball" Z action figures I bought from that Korean kid at the airport who couldn't stop laughing while insisting Vegeema has scorpion pincers and Froku performs the 'mekka-lekka-hai' wave. Fuck you, you fake pieces of squiggly shit. I'd rather masturbate with a cobra wrapped in sandpaper than use you.
People that don't believe in aliens - Watch Fire in The Sky. That's all I'm saying. Oh, and fuck you.
Dane Cook - If I could manifest my hatred for this fucking cock wrangler, it would be a 30 foot tall tank made of saw blades and barbed wire that shot flaming demon skulls propelled by the tears of starving children that also gave people stone cold stunners. Seeing him slowly drawn and quartered by 10,000 hamsters would not satiate my desire to see him in agony.
Jersey Shore - This swimming pool of concentrated, liquified stupidity magicked into a television show is what will cause Lord Xyl of the Andromeda Empire to disregard Earth as a valuable asset, turning it into a terrifying space sex colony where we are all violated in strange new holes created via 4th dimensional perv-o-rays. Scientists of future generations will cite the show as the start of what will be called the "Herpes and bad haircuts" age, and attempt to send a surly young assistant named Jon Bon Jovi back in time to destroy New Jersey. They miscalculated, sending him instead to 1980 where he was discovered for his stellar singing abilities on the hit track "R2-D2 We Wish You A Merry Christmas", and the rest is future history.
Those giant bug eye sunglasses girls wear - If you want to look incognito, just cut out the middle man and stay the fuck home. It'll save my ears at the bar when you and your friends over-react with foghorn level shrieks about which whore friend aborted which jock douche's baby.
Meth heads - They are dirtier than a turn of the century miner that just stepped out of a mud shower, their hands look like 5 year old asphalt, and their skin tone can only be described as "post-mortem leprosy". The sudafed isn't for your sick grandma, the cold pack isn't for your bum knee, and the lithium batteries aren't for your daughters camera that we both know got pawned months ago.
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