I Hate.
Chris

I Hate...
Flies in my ointment.
People taking the jam out of my doughnut.
Bees in my bonnet.
Ants in my pants.
Rain on my parade.
Thingamajigs, Whatchamacallits, Dohickies, Gizmos, Doodads AND Thingamabobs.

And those godawful 'Swap houses with your neighbors for the day, and
see how much of a disaster you can make of one of their house' TV
shows.
Those wanky hosts make me sick with their wanky ideas for making crap
look like something you'd want in your home. "See, it looks like a
retro-styled ornament display unit." ... NO IT FUCKING DOESN'T! It
looks like some crappy bit of junk you've hawked from some old shop
and glued together with some other rejected crap and then painted it
.... BADLY, which surprise surprise, is exactly what it is.
GET A PROPER JOB.
And then they do their waste of time, 'makeover' of some poor idiots
room, which usually involves taking everything out, painting it all
silver and putting it all back again, the sum effect of which is even
more hideous decor than before, the only consolation being the fact
that because it was all thrown together in 4 hours, he only has to
wait a day before everything starts falling apart again.
Fucking poons.

I also hate line dancing.

Whenever I've seen it on TV or in movies etc it turns my blood cold.
It's nothing more than a badly synchronized puppet show of idiots in
oversized hats capering about like their shoes don't fit properly.
Every dance looks EXACTLY the same, meaning you'd have to be a fucking
moron to forget it, but forget it they do because there's always some
gap-toothed, slack-jawed hick stood at the front telling everyone what
ridiculous move to perform next. Where's the fun in that? If you want
to get ordered around with a bunch of badly dressed losers, be a Nazi.

I'd love to set fire to the floor in the middle of one of these so
called 'dances' and just see how many of them actually 'get' that
slapping their fake rhinestone boots is actually useful for something
other than making them look like complete tools.
And worse still, they do it in England. Which I find criminally
laughable. Imagine if you will, a group of overweight, woefully
under-drugged pensioners lumbering up and down the village hall to
Garth Brooks' latest non-hit, wearing cringeworthy replicas of their
Yanky cousins' already cringeworty costumes. Go and play bingo or
scare small children like old people are supposed to and stop
pretending this deranged hobbling is giving some meaning to your
existence!

Oh and then there's pigeons.

I hate pigeons.
This is no humorous dislike for them either, I really, really, REALLY hate them.
I seriously believe they're a blasphemous waste of DNA.

I hate them so much it gives me headaches sometimes.
If you were to get into one of those tiny exploration submersibles and
wend your way down to the bottom of the Mariana Trench where the rays
of the sun will never reach and the pressure would crush you to the
size of a murry mint in a nanosecond (should you be foolish enough to
venture outside), you still wouldn't come close to being able to
compare your experience to the depth of my hatred for these creatures.

My complete contempt for them as a species is so all encompassing, so
absolute and so vehemently categorical, it has actually blossomed into
a bizarre religion in some of the poorer, developing countries in
eastern and central Europe. Here you may find my followers piously
sacrificing pigeons to me, their wrathful god, who's utter loathing
for the aforementioned retarded animals has driven them fervently into
this sacred slaughter.

Well, perhaps not, but I DO hate them very much. Mostly cos they shat
all over my balcony. Bastards.