I HATE YOU by Brian Roper

Posted: March 2, 2007 in The Roper Files

I’m just kidding; right?
Maybe.
How could I hate YOU? Let me count the ways…

It starts in the morning when I turn on my TV. The television used to be my best friend, but it too like all the others has let me down. When I was younger I would turn it on and it would fill my room with strange and wonderful characters like the Ricardos and the Mertzes and the Munsters and the Three Stooges. Now I turn it on and it’s like a toilet backing up; it fills my apartment with Britney Spears  and other people I don’t want to know about. What happened here? Why is TV my enemy now?

My anger continues to simmer when I get on the freeway and I’m instantly on the receiving end of someone else’s road rage. People driving their 50,000 dollar cars like they’re on the NASCAR track. Five in the morning and the freeway’s already full of these idiots; look at us, we’re turning Japanese!

I gotta take the Fifth about my job; let’s just say it’s a veritable Petri dish for hatred and leave it at that.

The traffic in the afternoon is even worse; at least in the morning everyone’s half-asleep and that puts somewhat of a damper on the road rage. But by mid-afternoon, after their eight-to-ten-hours shifts, everyone’s good and pissed and more than happy to transfer their frustration via the steering wheel. Not one smiling face on this freeway, no sir! One angry turd after another flows through this urban sewer.

Pulling into my driveway, the anxiety begins to lift. The Kitty Calvacade gathers; food, food! Oh, Brian, we love you so! Fumbling with the keys to my Fortress Of Solitude, I catch a whiff of myself. Pee-yew! I need a shower but the cats have other plans for me, such as “where’s our food?” On cue, the phone rings and stops as I lift the receiver. After feeding the cats, I dive in the shower. Once again, on cue the phone rings. Dammit! I ignore it; it’s very seldom if ever anything important anyway.

While I’m in the shower the glass in the bathroom window begins to tremble and vibrate. Are we having an earthquake here in Fort Worth? No, it’s the teenager across the street, sitting in his low-rider smoking a blunt and broadcasting 400-watt gangsta rap to the neighborhood on his car stereo.

 It should be legal to lynch the blockbuster real estate agent who sold that house to a family that’s not even supposed to be here. Why does this situation exist? This family ( I won’t use their real name, let’s just call them the Chupacabras) have run off the neighbors on both sides of them four times in the last eight years. As soon as the moving van pulls away, Mrs. Chupacabra is out in the ex-neighbors’ front yard transplanting all the plants in the yard into theirs; this alone should give you some idea of the level of the examples they set for their children.

Mr. Chupacabra (who looks just like Saddam Hussein) doesn’t work. I’ve seen him so wasted his kids had to help him up the two steps on their front porch. He stands (when he can) on the front porch and drinks beer and chain-smokes cigarettes and stares at the neighbors. It’s a two bedroom, one-bath house and there must be twelve people living there at any given time. They’ve always got some tattooed-from-the-neck-down parolee relative staying with them. None of them have a job as far as I can tell, (they’re all there 24 hrs. a day) and yet they all get new cars every six months. People pull up and honk and park facing the wrong way and run up to the house, and then back to the car, and then leave. This goes on 24 hours a day, seven days a week. They constantly decorate the street (as well as the neighbors’ yards on both sides and across the street) with broken bottles, beer cans and fast food debris. They’re always parked in front of at least two or three of their neighbors houses because their driveway doesn’t have room for their half-dozen cars. The local police have made multiple arrests there, but they’re still there. Why is this?

I wish our government would act like the United States Government and at least PRETEND to enforce the immigration laws, especially after 9/11. This isn’t racism, it’s just common sense. But because the Democrats and the Republicans are completely sold out to the corporations who fund their campaigns, it’s never going to happen. Those corporations want minimum-wage labor, and this is why I hate them and our sold-out politicians equally. Immigration has turned the neighborhood I grew up in into a SLUM.

Anyone who calls me a racist or a bigot should have to live across the street from these pricks for a month or so. It would be interesting to drop in on you after a sleepless month or two and see if you still feel like holding their hands and buying the world a Coke.

Oh, I should just move, huh? Move where? I’ve been right here for 46 years, why should I have to? If I was rich, I suppose I could move to one of the numerous condos that now circle downtown Fort Worth like a big, expensive moat, but I can’t afford it. Guess I better get used to MC ShitHead in the meantime.

Like a dog returning to it’s vomit, I turn the TV back on. The news regurgitates the hateful mugs of Bush and Cheney sneering and unregretfully defending torture. Ads for movies you couldn’t pay me to sit through. Reality TV you couldn’t pay me enough to watch. Unfunny sitcoms. Uninformative news shows. I used to be a couch potato; now I’m ashamed to admit I own a TV.

The phone rings again. This time I pick it up; “Hello.” “Yo man, whut up?” “Say what?” “Who am dis?” “Whuffo you be dialing the wrong number fo, bitch?” I ask right before I slam down the receiver.
I lay back down and put up my feet. The phone rings again on cue. This time I check the caller ID and for once it’s actually someone I know: “Hey man, what are you doing?”
“Oh, just getting up to answer the phone.”
“What are you doing for dinner tonight? ”
“I don’t know.”
“Me neither. Bye!” click! Thanks for wasting that sixty seconds for me!

Especially with a rude reminder that I haven’t had dinner yet. I’ve got a moldy jar of peanut butter and a four-year old bottle of salad dressing on the shelf, so I guess I’m eating out tonight. Everything in this one-horse town closes at eight, so I’ve got to hurry or else I’ll be forced to insult my digestive system with fast-food swill.
As I drive, I fight a yawn while trying to decide on dinner. Choice A has a line out the door, forget them. Walking into Choice B, the help are wiping down everything, obviously getting ready to go home, and give me the international “Oh shit, a customer” look. Forget them. My third choice is (name omitted ) ; there’s only one other car in the parking lot, perfect!

 I assume the “ready-to-order” position at the window. I can hear the cook in the kitchen fixing an order for the one customer ahead of me, so I stand patiently at the window and wait.
All of a sudden, cars file down the street and line up side by side in (sorry; gotta cover my ass)’s tiny parking lot. Some white-haired yuppie who looks like Mr. Peterman on Seinfeld climbs out of his SUV and walks up behind me, sees no one at the window waiting to take HIS order and rudely reaches past me and hammers on the window. The cook in the back comes out and wearily shoots ME a look that says: “I’m coming, I’m coming!”
Thanks, Mr. Peterman! He’s probably going to be back there spitting in my food because YOU’RE such an impatient dick!
This has me breaking every traffic law in the book to get home and away from people. You probably think by now I’m a hateful, anti-social person. Well, guess what; you’re right! And it’s all your fault, too!

Years and years of being on the receiving end of “me-first’ behaviour, watching the lows people stoop to for whatever means to whatever ends it takes to get what THEY want and who cares about anyone else. Our society today is totally devoid of any sense of community whatsoever. No one cares about historical preservation, or the environment, or anything at all anymore other than their own big fat pimply behinds! What a bunch of swine!

Calling the world I live in society is holding back. Way too complimentary; it’s morc comparible to a pack of feral dogs.

I see no social redeeming value in a society that refuses to redeem itself.
My contempt of man and humanity has been cultivated over the years like a garden. Carved chip-by-chip like a multi-faceted gem. Like an artichoke, there are layers and layers to pull back and examine. A mystery within a riddle within an enigma. It burns and rages within me, my own eternal flame. You can’t extinquish it. The harder you try, the more you fuel it by your very existence. Gas on the fire, if you will.

Am I a physical danger to society? Not hardly! I’m five foot six and I weigh 125 lbs. when I’m soaking wet. Even if I WERE to pick up a gun and start killing everyone I see, (and this will NEVER happen,there’s just too damn many of you) it would only make CNN for a day or two anyway; I’m only one soundbite in the big scheme of things.

So in the meantime, File23 is my machine gun. My mind is the chamber. My fingers are the trigger. My keypad the barrel. And life is an endless source/provider of ammo. So either stand behind me or beside me, they’re the safest places to be. Otherwise, you’re just a target; another silhouette for my amusement.

BR

originally posted 7/17/2005

re-posted because I felt like it; it’s been that kind of a week.

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