Good Lord! I, too, hate.
Could this be the sort of intimate connection... visceral kinship, if you will... that I require to begin the process of healing all those decades of ulcerous embitterment that have shriveled my soul into a caustic fist of contempt for all of life and humanity?
Is this the feeling Joe Mama gets when he finds a McDonalds with a populated PlayLand? Is this... love?
Oh, that was Elisa? Never mind. That reminds me, though... I need to pluck my eyebrows. And my butt cleavage.
I read your two other posts and thought that the hate was dying and you were just going through the motions, but this post has me relieved. Not the same relief you get when all that government cheese and baloney you live on finally passes through, you broke-ass Don Magic Juan wannabe. Similar to the relief any woman feels when King Snarf finally takes the hint and goes away. It's good to have you back, Silky. You were away too long - I guess your trip to Africa for more green monkey AIDS took longer than expected.
My goodness, it's Joe Mama. Although it is reassuring to see some constants in the universe, your attention - if I may expand on your metaphor - remains as welcome as Snarf's when he singles out a girl from the karaoke bar to serenade with "I Touch Myself".
Rest assured, my rivers of hate will never run dry, Joe Mama. ...Not unlike the saliva from the corners of your mouth when you hear the music from the ice cream truck and the delightful squeals of sticky-mouthed children in its orbit.
I hope you get stuck in an elevator with Jeremy, Joe Mama, and that he feels the need to strike up a conversation. I hope Pariah thinks you're Catholic. And, most of all, I hope rex makes your Red Sox crusty.
P.S.: The green monkeys told me to tell you, "Come home. All is forgiven."