Today's Stuff I Hate by Harms

Axe Body Spray

Oh, my. What is that undeniably sexy smell? All of a sudden I have the intense urge to tear off all of my clothes and rub myself all over you, dude in the black button-up shirt who has indulged in copious amounts of hair gel. I can hardly tell that you purchased your fragrance of choice at the local CVS, most likely along with a sixer of Bud and yet another economy-sized box of condoms (it’s sad when those suckers expire, isn’t it, dude?). My nose is not at all burning with the slightly acrid scent emanating from your furred chest—and it’s kind of awesome that I can smell you all the way over on the other side of the bar, where I am currently huddled, sneezing. And the fact that, even after I exit this bar, leaving you to wend your merry way to Midtown, your manufactured man musk lingering in my nasal cavity will only make me want you all the more. I would send you an impassioned Missed Connection, oh sensuous stranger, but your utter manliness is just too much for me. Until I can gather up the moxie to make you mine, I believe I will persist in pursuing soft, pale dudes who carry the scent of grass, cigarette smoke and unwashed clothing. It’s probably better this way. Good luck breaking in those ‘doms, man.

Today's Stuff I Hate by Harms

Initials Used as Names

TJ, JP, AJ, KD — all synonymous with douche.

Today's Stuff I Hate by Harms

Baby Hipsters

Hello child, currently masticating a chocolate croissant in my sight line—the brown-stained pastry whirling around in your gaping mouth like horrifically soiled sheets—I do not find you amusing. Although you are cleverly disguised so as to look “hip,” what with your tiny Replacements T-shirt and artistically disheveled hairdo, I recognize you for what you are: a wailing, whimpering, slightly damp excuse for a human being. Yes, your parents may be attractive in an I’m-way-too-fucking-old-to-live-in-Williamsburg-but-I’m-gonna-rock-this-sleeve-tat-anyway kind of way, but their tragically fading hotness is not enough to overshadow the horror that is you. Please remove yourself from this eating establishment. Brunch is not for fucking kids.

Today's Stuff I Hate by Harms

Pimped-Out Cars

I’m sorry about your penis.

Today's Stuff I Hate by Harms

Apparent Hair Product

Who the fuck uses hair gel? That neon-colored shit with the little bubbles suspended in it? Do you really think I would walk into a bodega and buy myself a bottle of L.A. Looks or whatever the fuck that is? My signature coiff is all ozone, cigarette ash and natural musk, thank you very much. (And a little bit of overpriced styling paste. But that’s between me and God.)

Today's Stuff I Hate by Harms

Biceps

No. I would rather not touch that. I would sooner go to an actual gun show.

Today's Stuff I Hate by Harms

U2

I choose “without you.”

Today's Stuff I Hate by Harms

Bump-Its

Oh, hello there, girl with teased, hairsprayed, protruding cone-like mass atop her head. What are you hiding in there? A litter of baby mice? A baseball? More bronzer in case your face loses its shimmery tanned glow? Maybe a small snack for later after you’ve slammed back your cosmos and vodka cranberries? Or maybe it’s the plastic “Bump It” insert *as seen on TV!* that you bought from your local drug store—yes, they actually fucking make those. Or perhaps your head is just actually shaped like a cone.

Today's Stuff I Hate by Harms

Jager Bombs

You know who likes jager bombs? That guy who shows up at the relatively nice bar/restaurant, finds his understandably uncomfortable “friends” at a table, loudly orders them all their own jager bombs, flips his fucking shit when the drinks aren’t done right with the shots atop the glasses and the balancing and the Mousetrap-style bullshit, makes a huge ass of himself trying to slam on the table to get the shots to fall in, hoots often, stands up at points, attracts a lot of attention, spits while he talks and then stumbles into the night. That’s who fucking likes jager bombs. They’re the national drink of Douche Island. Now somebody get me a beer.

A gift

A gift to my pretend french child.

Dreams really do come true

I knew Jesus died for more than our sins!

Let's pretend this didnt happen

Do you know this girl? You probably do. She not too long ago was strolling into one of your college classes wearing fucking sweat pants, as if she had no time to get ready for school. But she did. She was wearing a full face of make up and hair that took longer to do that you probably took getting ready. I hate this girl, and I hate her friends. You know why? Respect. Why can’t you just wear jeans? They take the same amount of time to put on, but no you decide sweatpants show the same amount of respect for my peers and teachers as real clothes. Would you wear sweatpants to a job interview? Didn’t think so! (now for the case if people who actually got up and rolled out of bed, unkempt and came to school, that is fine. Because you weren’t trying to trick everyone into thinking you might have. You didn’t need to, you were too hung over.) I digress. Like I was saying sweatpants tell me and the world you hate yourself and you are forcing us(me) to hate you as well. And just when I didn’t think things could get any worse, come these girls dreams. Click the link for details and meet me back here… GO…

FUCKING JEAN SWEAT PANTS! I want to slap the person who invented these right in the neck. If there is a god he is puking all over heaven right now. The angels are literally covered in bile. And its all because somebody wants to wear fucking sweats disguised as jeans. I won’t even go into how in real life there is no possible way they even look like jeans. I understand sweatpants are comfortable, (i hear, i actually do not own any) but come on. Respect yourself and those around you by taking a little bit of pride in the way you look, and never wearing sweatpants unless in some sort of hostage situation.

Thank you.

Things that Rule: Buying a Lighter

Lighters are good for all kinds of things. Lighting stuff on fire, popping open beer bottles… umm… hmm. Let me start over.

Lighters are good for exactly two things. I can never seem to hold on to one for very long, but I think I’ve finally figured out why: I never actually buy them.

There’s always a lighter coming your way if you can wait long enough. Maybe it’ll be in the couch cushions. Maybe it’ll be under the couch. Maybe it’ll be at a friends house and you’ll be like “whose lighter is this?” and nobody will respond and then BAM – new lighter. Other than those weird Zippo people, lighters don’t really mean much to anyone. They come and go. Big deal.

But sometimes you might have to wait a little longer than you thought. Sometimes you end up spending a little more time than you’d like to asking people for a light, or using matches, or rubbing two sticks together because you know that paying a dollar for a lighter is ridiculous. You know if you just wait a little longer, just a little longer, that magical free lighter is gonna drop out of the sky and you’ll be good to go for another few months until you lose it again.

If you have never been a smoker, none of this means anything to you, does it?

Waiting around for a free lighter is great and everything, but sometimes you have to be more proactive. Sometimes you have to grab life by the horns, walk into the gas station and say “One lighter, please.” Then the guy behind the counter will say “Which one you want?” and you’ll say “I don’t know… the cheapest one,” and he’ll say, “You want a mini?” and you’ll say “No – the cheapest full-size one,” and he’ll hold up a plain blue Bic and be like “This one?” and you’ll be like “Yeah, that’s fine.” You’ll be a dollar poorer, but it won’t matter. You’ll have your own lighter, one that you actually paid for, and you know what?

You’re totally not gonna lose it this time.

Buying a lighter rules.