Today was for shit.  Hate.  So much hate.  I am getting tons of shit from people inside and outside of work for varying degrees of bullshit.  I was, and still am, a walking pile of fat and rage.  Then I get home and literally get shit from my dog in the form of a sloppy pile of diarrhea.   It was right in the center of the carpet, and boy, did it ever soak in deep. 

With that, I end this post.  Fuck my work, fuck my coworkers, fuck the world, fuck my dog and fuck you!  Have a nice day.

Welcome home, Daddy!

Edit:  I took a nap and I feel better.  Never mind!

You make me sick. The thought of you is affecting me in irrational and alarming ways. When you are near I can smell the stink of your sweat, and my mind races while I try to understand why everyone else doesn't feel the same urge to rid you of the odor by forcefully drowning your pathetic, kicking frame in the nearest stagnant gutter.

I hope your mother knows how much worse the world is with you in it. I hope she walks into the path of some slow-moving farm equipment with the full realization that the backseat display of obese lust with an anonymous vagrant all those years ago was her greatest mistake. A problem that would have been best solved by falling down a few flights of stairs during the third trimester.

Sometimes I daydream about watching you die. But not in any grand, dramatic, or cruel ways. Just embarrassing and pathetic ones. I think about your family finding your corpse hanging in a closet after a cut-corners auto-erotic session with your tiny, limp penis in hand. I think about how devastated they would be when the coroner's photographs are leaked to the public and become a particularly popular internet meme, complete with cheap, mass produced t-shirts and even an award-winning iphone app. And how your wife and kids would be so ashamed that they would change their names and deny your existence for the rest of their lives, making sure that your memory would be completely extinguished.

I want to be there when you fail. But not the gradual path of poor decisions and bad luck that lead you to a final state of disgrace and despair, but only after achieving great success. I hope you get everything you ever wanted, professionally and personally, then lose everything after a false accusation of being a particularly prolific child molester. I want you watch it all slip away and go from the happiest you have ever been to suicide in a matter of weeks. And after making that dark decision to put a final end to your suffering by slobbering on the end of a shotgun, I hope you fail at suicide. I hope you wake up disfigured but mentally acute. I want your recently estranged family to be forced to pay for the cripplingly-expensive medical care so they grow to add contempt to the short list of feelings they have for you, just after shame and pity.

Fuck you.

The broncos lost a heartbreaking game tonight, so I have been drinking and stewing in anger. Am I going to ever forget the (at least) five plays that were bullshit calls for the ravens? No. Am I going to forget the 70 yard touchdown pass to tie the game with seconds remaining? No. So I would like to take a moment to list some things I fucking hate.

I hate children. People tell me "Oh, but Hamtackle, the children are the only innocent humans on earth! They are guilty of nothing, and represent the purity of human nature before the corrupting influences of society!" Exactly. That's why I hate them. How fucking boring are children? The have zero insight and are single-minded and selfish. Besides the fact the our faults and mistakes are the only thing that distinguishes us from each other and makes us interesting. Tell a story about the most altruistic thing you have done, or the greatest temptation that you were able to overcome, and watch the room empty. Now tell a fucked up story about when you set you dick on fire during a coke binge. Mr. Popular.

I hate the people I work with. I hate the ones who try to relate to me and be my friend. I hate the ones who try to impress me with their knowledge about work-related subjects. I hate the ones who hate me back, and only wipe the mean look off their faces when they want me to approve time off or help with their time card. And I hate the ones that are always pleasant, who smile and greet me at 6 AM and ask me how my morning is going, the same ones who would judge me if they ever heard five seconds of thought running through my head, even when I am sleeping.

And I hate good weather. I hate the brightness of the sun, the warmth and fresh breezes. I hate how they remind me how much time I spend trapped in rooms that I would rather burn down than continue existing within, but am too cowardly to lite the matches myself. I hate how much others enjoy it, and the way they can't stop talking about it like it somehow enhances their lives when they spend just as much time as I do baking under the florescent bulbs, rotting away in front of a monitor.

And I hate the Baltimore Ravens, the Broncos, and the NFL. Until next season.