Tuesday, June 28, was the anniversary of the famous Ear Bite Fight between Evander Holyfield and Mike Tyson.  Surely, you remember the scene.  Tyson was getting whupped so he bit off a piece of Evander’s ear and spit it out.  Ptuiii!  Too salty.  And then he bit him again- presumably because Tyson didn’t want to be a quitter.  Plus, how do you eat an Evander Holyfield?  One bite at a time.  One bite at a time.

You will be pleased to know that Evander and Mike have since made amends.  In fact, Tyson is helping to sell Evander’s BBQ sauce.  (As a sidebar, why are former heavyweight champions so into grilling?  It doesn’t really make sense.  Perhaps it affords them a sense of normalcy after living the life of the paid gladiator.  Maybe they are just hungry after years of starving themselves.  But this is just speculation.  The real reasons remain a mystery.)

“Ear Licking Good,” Tyson says about Evander’s sauce.  Hahahahaha.  Biting pieces out of people’s ears is the joke that never gets old.  I’ll bet cannibals laugh all day long.  Though they probably don’t eat the ears.  Too much cartilage.  It would be like chewing on a shoe.  I think a nice, tasty quadriceps would be much more appealing.  With a little picante sauce.

Speaking of ear mutilation, I read that the story of Van Gogh’s ear mail is really apocryphal.  Apocryphal is a fancy word for bullshit.  (I’m here to entertain, not to send you scurrying for the dictionary.  Does anybody ever scurry for a dictionary anymore?  I suppose not.  I lament the loss of book scurrying.  But time marches on.)  You say you knew what apocryphal means?  There is a prevarication if ever I heard one.  I sound like Steven A. Smith or Howard Cosell.  I should cut off my own ear.  Anyway, I digress.

So Van Gogh didn’t cut off a piece of his ear and send it to a woman.  He was still crazy.  All the Dutch are.  Who else would wear wooden shoes?  Can you imagine the chafing?  That’s why little Dutch girls are crying all the time.  But there is a silver lining to their misery.  For it is the salty tears of discomfort that bring forth the mighty tulip.  Little known fact.  That is why tulips only grow in Holland.

Another little known fact is that Evander Holyfield has eleven children by eight mothers.  Tyson only has eight kids.  Once again, Holyfield defeats Tyson.  No wonder Mike bit a piece out of that guy’s ear.  He wins at everything.  I am sure that all 19 of these children will be Rhodes Scholars.  One of them might, anyway.  The more you have, the better the odds.  One of them might be an eater of people as well.  Yin and Yang.  I suppose that another one might have Dutch ancestry.  She would be a very good neighbor to have if you wanted to grow tulips.  Or if you needed someone punched in the face.  Pow Pow Pow.

“I’m a little Dutch girl, with a tulip growing tear.  If you screw with me, I’ll bite off your MFing ear.”  The Dutch.  So droll.

June 28 is also my parent’s anniversary.  What a coincidence.  Happy anniversary, Mom and Dad!

I wonder if my parents were watching when Tyson bit off Holyfield’s ear.  Talk about a mood killer.

I hope.

 

The British are not coming.  Ever again.  They opted out of the EU.  Technically, they really didn’t.  They merely held a referendum of the people on whether they should leave the EU.  Basically no one thought they would actually leave.  It is kind of like the guy who tells his wife that she knows where the door is if she wants out of the marriage.  And then she finds the door.  In this example, the wife is very pallid with not very good teeth.  So maybe the husband is happy she left.  I don’t know.  Some people are into crooked teeth.  Pretty much the whole of Appalachia.  Reportedly.  I haven’t been there.  Since watching Wrong Turn I have no desire to do so.

The movie Wrong Turn could, now that I think of it, be a metaphor for the Brexit.  You see, all of the United Kingdom is in a car (imagine a Prius with a bunch of heads sticking out the windows).  And this car is driving along a rural road and not really paying attention to much other than checking their cell phone to see what the Kardashians are up to when all of the sudden they are on a gravel road and their cell phone service is gone and a bunch of giant inbred cannibals are chasing them through the woods.

“Holy shit!” the wayward islanders scream.  “This is a bit of a kerfuffle.”

Kerfuffle, indeed.  Too bad for you, Percival.  Your head has just been lopped off by a strategically strung strand of barbed wire.  (As a side bar, did you notice the alliteration?  Literary genius, I tell you.  What?  You don’t know what alliteration means?  Are you from Liverpool? Loser.)

Mary runs through the forest.  She is dressed like her favorite Spicegirl.  I don’t know- Posh Spice, let’s say.  And now her leg is caught in a bear trap.  And here comes old Lester Turnbuckle, salivating at the thought of an exotic meal.

Right before Mary gets it, she yells out, “I didn’t even know what the fucking EU was!”

This scene provides a segue back to the Brexit vote.  For, you see, the day following the vote to leave the EU was dominated a Google search.  What was the search?  You guessed it.  What is the EU?  Apparently, many of the people voting for the Brexit didn’t even know what the European Union was.  They just voted Leave.  It seemed like a good thing to do and they were bored.  Hahahaha, United Kingdom.  You might be even dumber than Americans.  You are the lowest of the low.  USA!  USA!  USA!  In your buccaneer face, Brits.  Pow.  Pow.  Pow.

Yes, I know Trump is the presumptive Republican candidate for President.  I’m just trying to provide a distraction.  Like Penn and Teller.  If only they could make Trump disappear into the ether.  What a trick that would be.  Poof!  And only his hairpiece remains.

Anyway, people in the UK are starting to panic a bit.  I’m talking about the ones who knew what the European Union was before the Brexit vote.  The other ones are drunk and lamenting the loss of England to Iceland in soccer.  Did you watch that match?  Mighty Thor did.  And he was pleased.

“Icelannnndddddd!!!”  Thor roared as he slammed his mighty Hammer into the ground.  The earth and heavens shook.  The Icelandic crowd did a cool, clapping them.  And said, “Ommm, Ommm.”  With an Umlaut.

Meanwhile, back in the United Kingdom, the good people were Googling on their phones.  Where is Iceland? 

And How do I escape from a backwoods cabin in West Virginia owned and operated by inbred cannibals?

I do not understand your question, says Siri.

“Goallllllllll!” says Thor.

 

 

A woman in New Mexico was running a marathon.  If you have ever run a marathon, you know that it is not that much fun.  Anyway, she was at mile 24 when she noticed a black bear coming at her.  The bear attacked (it had a cub with it) and pretty much tore half her face off.  She laid there for a while until another runner found her and she was airlifted to the hospital.  The woman survived.  The bear, I am sorry to say, did not.  By any measurement, this bear was incredibly unlucky.  If only she had gone up the hill or decided to sleep in or was just a little more neglectful mother, she would still be around eating berries and shitting in the woods.  And that’s the problem with life.  You make all of these decisions and you can never be sure if you are making the right one or not.

Say you are going to get married.  You like the guy- even love him- but you have some trepidation.  Perhaps he is a little shorter than you’d like or doesn’t make quite as much money as your father does.  You think you can look past those things, but you aren’t sure.  And there is no real way of knowing.  To make matters more complex, your old boyfriend from high school is trying to contact you via Facebook.  He is both taller and more successful in his career than your fiancee.  Conundrum for sure.  But momentum rules the day and you take the plunge.  Three years later you are getting divorced.  “Why did I make such a stupid decision?!” you cry out when you realize you could have a house twice the size of your current one if you had only gone with the old boyfriend.  It seems so obvious now.

But you are wrong.  The high school boyfriend was only contacting you because he was on the rebound from another woman he liked way more than you.  You were never more than a consolation prize.  He would have dumped you in three months.  Additionally, the man you did marry would have decided to move to Chicago (instead of staying close to your family at your behest) and would have written a screenplay that would have been eventually made into a blockbuster film.  He would have been rich- if it wasn’t for you.

Not only that, but after getting dumped by your high school boyfriend, you would have started dating a man named Tom.  Unbeknownst to you, Tom would have started dealing drugs out of your house.  Eventually, Tom would have gotten caught and you would have been convicted along with him for running a drug house even though you didn’t know what he was doing.  Do you see now?  The decision to marry- while seemingly bad- saved you a prison sentence.  Your husband is the one who got screwed.  He is the mama bear in your story.

On that note, back to the marathoner who was attacked by a bear.  You see, she started running because her husband casually mentioned that she had gained a few pounds after having the children.  Before that, she was a yoga/ take a walk kind of girl.  But she joined a running club to lose the baby weight.  There, she met a lesbian who she was interested in (though she would never act on it).  Instead, the woman split the difference and made sure she was always at running club.  Eventually, the hot lesbian suggested running a marathon together.  The woman agreed.  Halfway through the training, the lesbian developed an IT band problem and couldn’t train anymore.  The woman wanted to beg out, but she was already committed.  And she didn’t want to disappoint her lesbian crush.  So, she ran the race solo and the bear who should have been sleeping in ended up mauling her.

However, if she hadn’t run the race she would have been killed in an accident on the way to the store to buy some donuts.

All’s well that ends well.

 

I thought it was a commercial.  But I was wrong.  So utterly wrong.  In fact, there were two guys on ESPN 2 playing Madden football.  With commentators who questioned both of them at halftime of their fake football game.  What in the Flying Spaghetti Monster is this abomination?  Did I mention this is a fake football game?  Ronnie Lott doesn’t play for the Raiders.  He is a man in his fifties with bad knees.  Tony Romo doesn’t play for the Bears.  That is just wishful thinking on the part of a bunch of overweight people with Polish names.  The worst part is that they were analyzing the “play” is if it were something that was actually occurring with actual human beings playing an actual game.

For a little perspective, the “combatants” were known by their nicknames “Problem” and “Stiff.”  (No, I am not making this up.)  If only the commentator’s nickname was “getting” or “keeping.”  Alas, no one has a sense of humor this week.  It is probably the sense of impending doom wafting over from the upcoming election.  Pow Pow Pow.  Hell hasn’t frozen over yet, but the devil has been given his frost warning.

Anyway, I thought it would be cool to put my own team in the MFL (Madden Football League) next year.  Starting at quarterback will be Zeus.  Flash will be my halfback and the Hulk will play fullback.  The professor wearing Flubber shoes will be at one wide receiver slot.  I am thinking Riddick will play safety.  I can imagine the halftime interview now:

Commentator:  Maximus (my nickname), you seem to have run up a substantial lead in the first half.  What was your strategy?

Maximus (me):  Well, Keeping, early on we kept giving the Hulk the ball.  His life mantra of smashing puny humans really gives him the drive to put that ball in the old end zone.  Of course, Flash can’t really be seen when he runs fast, so that fly sweep has been pretty effective as well.  Defensively, Darth Vader has really controlled the game from his middle linebacker position.  The Jedi mind trick has resulted in four consecutive interceptions.  Not to mention the time where he choked the running back to death with his Sith powers.  Fum-bllleeeee!  Whowhee, Keeping.  Things are going well.

Keeping (commentator):  What do you plan to do in the second half, Maximus?

Maximus (me):  You know, I’m thinking of putting Bilbo Baggins in for the second half kickoff.  He has that invisibility ring you know.  Now you see him….now you don’t.  And we might move the Hulk around a bit on offense.  I’d like to get him the ball in a position where he can run down Ronnie Lott.  I always hated that guy back in the 80’s.  I also have OJ on the bench for a little change of pace.  Young, good looking, Hertz plugging OJ.  Though I do have murdering OJ over on defense in case things get ugly.  He and Riddick make a hell of a one-two punch at the safety position.

For cheerleaders, I will have some of those Japanese anime women.  From the PG Japanese comic books, not that other stuff.  You know, what is it with those Asian guys and cartoon women?  Weird.

They could just look at real women on the Internet.

This reminds me that I could put a couple of Ninjas on my team.  And Godzilla.  He would make a great D-lineman.  Go, go Godzilla (sing the Japanese cartoon characters).  And then Godzilla eats up a bunch of Smurfs that have been stuffed into a giant Blue Gatorade bottle.

There goes Tokyo… Smurf.  Go, go Godzilla.

Hulk Smash.

They decided to have a Fitbit contest here at work.  It is part of our Wellness initiative.  If you don’t know what a Wellness initiative is, let me define it for you.  Wellness initiative is code for “you people are too fat and are likely to cost us money due to future health problems so we are trying to goad you to lose some weight.  Lardos.”

Prior to this contest, I had no Fitbit.  I was happy in my ignorance.  Sure, I knew what a Fitbit was, but I didn’t really understand what it meant to be Fitbitted.  On the first day, I did 27,000 plus steps.  Not too shabby.  And pretty cool.  My team was in the lead.  This was good.

It did not take long for me to realize the dark side of the Fitbit.  First of all, you must wear the Fitbit everywhere.  You don’t want to miss any hard-earned steps, do you?  It is like a tiny, blue remora.  And, like the shark, you must keep moving.  When you wake in the morning, you go scrambling for your Fitbit.  Those steps to the toilet cannot be recovered.  If you forget to put on the Fitbit, they are lost forever.  Gone to step purgatory.  Meanwhile, the engineers in Building 2 are stepping away, trying to erode our lead.

I crested the 30,000 mark on day three.  Not only had it become a contest between Buildings, it had also become a contest with my coworkers.  I began to get suspicious of them.  How did they manage to get that many steps during the day?  They aren’t in that good of shape.  Did they tie the Fitbit to their dog?  I’d check my status after supper.  In fourth place?  Unacceptable.  Time to walk some circles around the house.  Must get steps.

At the end of the week, exhaustion had set in.  The Fitbit was a succubus, draining the life from me.  Yet I managed to run 8 miles on back to back days.  Pow.  Sons-of-bitches.  You can’t defeat me!  The problem, however, is that all steps are not created equal.  Walking a mile is equivalent to 2000 steps.  Running- only 1500 or so.  Being a runner was punishing me.  It seemed so unfair.  A conspiracy, led by fat, walking-oriented people.  Short legged, reasonably conditioned bastards.

I trudged on despite the unfairness.  The numbers were all that counted.  Seven thousand by lunch.  Seventeen thousand by the end of the workday.  Need at least 25,000 before I go to bed.  And how in the hell did Deb do 34,392 steps?  How is that possible?  One more lap around the house.  Out of my way raccoon.  The Fitbit must have its pound of flesh.  I thought about putting the Fitbit on the raccoon.  After all, the masked bandit doesn’t seem to mind eating my bird food.  I wondered how many steps a raccoon takes in a day.  Probably more than you think.  They have short legs.  Those tiny footfalls would add up.

The Fitbit went with me everywhere.  The Constant Traveler.  It became a kind of moral compass, coaxing me from my inherent laziness.  The steps became all.

After 15 days, the challenge came to an end.  I awoke a free man, suddenly unchained from my Fitbit.  As I got ready for work, I looked at the Fitbit.  It was lying on my dresser.  It seemed to mock me.  I picked it up and put it into the change jar.  “Pussy,” I thought the Fitbit said.  I didn’t bother to respond.

On the bright side, our team won the contest.  In your buccaneer face, engineers.  And people in California and Minnesota.  Suck it, Remote workers.  Tough break, Building 4.  You tried to mount a challenge, but failed.  Pow.  Pow.  Pow.

Meanwhile, my Fitbit is waiting for me at home.  I know it is bad for me.  Yet, I can’t stop thinking about it.  How many steps have I taken today?  I don’t know.  I just don’t know.

Those steps are gone forever.

It was raining.  A dark and stormy day, if you will.  Everything is green, the river is up, flowers bloom in the fields.  So, what does some clown say?

“We need the rain.”  Goddammit, we don’t need the rain.  In fact, unless you are a farmer, you never need the rain.  What do you think, that the aquifer will run out in your lifetime?  I’ll resolve that little bit of uncertainty for you.  It won’t.  It’s not like you live in a desert.  And even if you live in a desert, do you really need the rain?  It’s a desert.  Cacti don’t need rain.  In fact, too much rain kills them.  You will never hear a Saguaro cactus say, “we need the rain.”  Unless he is a suicidal cactus.

Saying you need the rain is just a vestigial artifact from an agrarian lifestyle long past.  Farmers nowadays irrigate.  They make their own rain.  You don’t have to make it for them.  All the rain does is force me to mow my grass every week.  But people like the old time talk.  It makes them happy  to imagine themselves leaning on a fence post, timothy dangling from their mouth, while they watch the tumbleweeds rolling across the dusty field.

“We sure enough need the rain, Clem,” they say.  Clem nods.  Clem don’t say much.  He’s from down Enid way.  He had a wife and son and little place down by the creek before the dust came.  But the dust choked off the farm and his son got the TB.  His wife said she couldn’t take it living out there.  The Big Lonely she called it.  So she moved down to Dallas to live with her sister-in-law and brother.  The brother was in oil.  Last Clem heard, he was making money hand over fist.

“I hate those damn tumbleweeds too!” screams the suicidal cactus before resuming his rain dance.  “Hi hi hi hi, hi hi hi hi.”  The dance is difficult to perform without legs.  But the cactus has nothing to live for.

Interestingly, tumbleweeds are not native to the West.  They are actually Russian.  Ha!  Trump was right.  There are interlopers everywhere.  Did you ever see what happens with those tumbleweeds?  They roll up into a giant tumbleweed ball next to a fence.  What a mess.  Plus, they provide a handy, Russian-made ladder to any shifty Mexican who wants to come to our country and ruin our way of life.

“Shoot that there Russian spy, Clem.”  Clem nods, then squints over his Springfield.  It is an old gun, but reliable.  His grandaddy had used it during the Civil War.  He’d given it to Clem on his eighteenth birthday and told him to take care of it.  Clem pulls the trigger and drills the tumbleweed dead on.  But the illegal alien continues to roll.  Soon the dust obscures it.  Clem spits and wonders if he should move to Dallas.

“We need some rain,” he says before heading back to the bunkhouse.

“No shit,” says the dancing Cactus.

 

 

Did you ever wonder what happened to Jeff Gilloly?  Well, a guy named Jeff Stone killed him.  I mean this in the figurative sense.  Jeff changed his last name in order to start a new chapter in his life.  I guess you could say he is kind of like Darth Vader and I am kind of like Obi Wan Kenobi.  And you are a Jawa.  With a limp and coke bottle glasses.  It would have been extra cool if Jeff would have changed his name to Anakin Skywalker.  I guess he didn’t think of it.  Then again, how smart can a guy who dated Tonya Harding be?  (Before you go picking on Tonya, you should know that she saved an 81 year old woman in a casino by giving the old lady mouth-to-mouth. Pow pow pow.  Right in the kisser.  Literally.)

Anyway, I watched a Tonya Harding documentary the other day.  It turns out that I am glad Gilloly had a henchman hit Nancy Kerrigan’s knee.  He should have clubbed her in the mouth and helped her with that overbite.  “Why?  Why?  Why?”  Shut up, rich chick.  Power to the people.  Say what you will, but Tonya Harding is the one and only trailer park girl to ever be a nationally known figure skater.  She was a poor boxer, however.  I would have figured otherwise.

If you are still curious, Jeff “Anakin Skywalker” Stone is an used car salesman.  He also shaved his mustache and is pretty bald.  Honestly, he isn’t very menacing.  It makes you wonder what would happened if someone had stolen into Hitler’s room in 1938 and shaved off his mustache.  “Why? Why? Why?” Hitler would have said.  “Who has shaven my mustache?  Whoooo?”

I always wondered if Charlie Chaplin could have sued Hitler.

Speaking of things past, it turns out that the Smurfs came from a Belgian comic book.  That explains much.  First the waffles and then some little blue spritelings.  I hate waffles, too.  Maybe if they were sprinkled with blue bits of Smurf I would find them more palatable.  Get me some Smurfyrup and some Smurfeggs and bacon.  A right tasty meal.  I could take a tire iron to the leg of that cartoon artist, though.  Whack!  Whack!  Nice mustache, Waffle Boy.

Sometimes I get nostalgic.  What can I say?  Kato Kaelin is still alive.  And he is still an asshole.  Some things never change.  Perhaps he should change his name to Gilloly.  And get a sex change.  Kay Kay Gilloly and Caitlin Jenner host Whatever Happened to Them?! on Fox.  That show would get some undies in a bunch.  So to speak.

I also don’t understand why O.J. didn’t take care of Kay Kay while he was decapitating people.  At least that would have been a mitigating circumstance.

By the way, if you don’t know who Jeff Gilloly or Kato Kaelin are, I dislike you thoroughly.  Ask Siri.  I’m not explaining it to you.

Stupid coke bottle glasses wearing, limping, waffle eating Jawa.

 

When children are young, it is common for adults to tell them they can be anything they want.  There is some stupid advice.  Guess what, kids.  You can’t be anything you want.  Not even close.  President?  Forget it.  That is for rich people.

How about being astronaut.  Are you good at math?  Like, really good.  And do you think you will get an advanced degree in something like medicine or physics?  You might, you say?  No.  No you won’t.  Give it up now.  Plan on being a plumber or electrician.  You might watch some astronaut movies.  If you are an electrician you’ll probably find the parts where all the module electronics go bad more compelling than the average person.  That’s something.

You will also not be a theoretical physicist or a ballet dancer or a Formula 1 racecar driver.  Actor?  Doubt it.  Unless you have a close relative already acting or directing.  Which you most certainly do not.  Especially if you are reading this blog.

Perhaps you could be a cartoonist, say for the Smurfs reboot.  Once again, get real.  You are the third best artist in your grade.  Do you think the other two kids are destined to be cartoonists?  Because they aren’t.  The one will have emotional issues and develop a drinking problem and the other will be an accountant.  Who daydreams of being a cartoonist.  This is called irony.  (As a sidebar, apparently Smurfette was created by Gargamel.  Some geek pointed this out.  Heh heh heh.  And in episode four Smurfette is wearing a purple bow but when they cut back to her the bow is blue.  Heh heh heh.  Scandal.  Or Smurfandal, if you prefer.  God, I hate the Smurfs.  Stupid little blue things.  You also can’t be a smurf.)

Of course, you could be a blogger.  After all, anyone can be one of those.  You would suck at it though.  You think this is easy?  I’m a damn literary genius.  You think you can compete with the MO?  Maybe you are slated for Apollo 215.  Dream on, little girl.

Every kid dreams of being a professional athlete.  This is even more ridiculous than your astronaut dream.  Have you taken a good look at LeBron James lately?  Let me solve the mystery for you.  You don’t look anything like him.  You are short and chunky and have bad hands.

Teacher?  Why bother?  Doctor?  The school loans will bury you.  Evening news anchor?  Is your name Brick or Storm or Sage?  Probably not.

Perhaps you would like to be the national spelling champion.  And, let’s say you are home schooled for the sake of argument.  Sorry.  This will remain but a dream.  You are not of Indian descent and you cannot be no matter how hard you try.  Pow pow pow.  In your face, pasty-complexioned European mutt.

So children, you can plainly see that you have been repeatedly lied to.  You can’t be whatever you want.  Kind of like I can’t be young again by sucking your lifeblood from you.  Believe me, I would if I could.  The point is that you need to have realistic goals and dreams.  There is nothing wrong with being a shift supervisor at a retail store.  Somebody has to do it.  And it sure as hell won’t be LeBron James.

I forgot something.  You know that really cute girl in the class ahead of you.  Well, her dad is a lawyer and she is used to the high life.  Put her out of her mind.

Maybe her dumpy friend.

 

No list of hated fictional characters would be complete without the Smurfs.  So, I’ll start with them.  But I will ignore all the obvious and instead focus on science.  How in the hell do you end up with 42 males and one female?  Does that make any sense whatsoever?  What happens when the males feel frisky?  Family style with Smurfette?  And is that the kind of thing that we want to be teaching our children?  We teach children that it is cool to blow other people’s brains out.  Pow Pow Pow.  We don’t teach them about the sex parties of blue fairies.

Edward Cullen.  Dumb name, dumb writer, dumb premise.  Humans are prey (or potential fellow vampires) to vampires.  That’s it.  They don’t have love stories with people.  That would be like a person having a love story with a hamburger.  While I am sure that has happened, nobody wrote a book about it.  They filed it away under “shit that no one is ever told under any circumstances.”  Speaking of that, is Papa Smurf the father of Smurfette?  Just asking the question.

Jar Jar Binks.  Just die.  I want to see Jar Jar dried up and smashed flat like a three day dead frog in the highway.

Any character played by Jennifer Lopez ever.  You are not an actress.  In fact, when that kid was stalking you I was rooting for him.  That’s how bad you are.  I rooted for a crazed maniac to kill your character.

Santa Claus in Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer.  First, you blow Rudolph off ,but not before ridiculing him in front of everyone else.  This sets off a series of events where Rudolph is nearly killed by a Bumble.  Fortunately, Bumbles bounce.  And easily submit to dental work.  Regardless, Santa fucks Rudolph over royally.  Right until a storm comes up and it looks like there will be no Christmas.  And if there isn’t a Christmas then somebody has to wait a whole another year to get his ego stroked.  So, the fatass elf in the red suit decides that Rudolph and his nose are awfully important.  Dick.

Rudolph.  Show some self-respect.  If I was you, I would have speared Santa in his tiny Elfin testicles.  And then say, “Have Fireball get you through this storm, dick.”

Unicorns.  To be honest, I only hate you because of how you have been exploited by little girls everywhere.  In real life, you may be a charismatic, macho horse creature who does in evildoers by skewering them with your horn.  Giving them the ol’ corkscrew, you call it.  Instead, you come in pink and pewter and have glitter all over your body.  And you are always standing in front of a rainbow.  It might not be your fault, but I hate you anyway.

Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles.  I hate you because I had to watch your first movie like 73 times to placate my then small child.  I also hate you because the idea of mutant, pizza eating, crime fighting turtles whose Sensei is a rat is only slightly less stupid than a 108 year old vampire trying to get on a 16 year old girl.  And playing vampire baseball in a thunderstorm.  What?  The balls would explode if you hit them that hard.  Does physics mean nothing to Mormon writers?

Jesus.  What hero ever dies halfway through the book?  That’s like Cool Hand Luke dying in the box.  Or from egg poisoning.  And then blaming his dad.

Freddy Krueger.  I lost a lot of sleep when I was fourteen because of you.  Just so you know, I was rooting for Jason the whole time.

Pow.  Jason.  Now that is a cool name.  I don’t hate him at all.  If nothing else, I have never seen anybody walk that fast in my life.

Carrying a machete, no less.