Another Open Letter To Sting

Dear Sting,

It has come to my attention that you play a lute. What the fuck, Sting? Are you fucking trying to ruin manhood for men? Seriously. Are you? Because it looks to me like you are.

Holy fucking fuck. You've grown a beard. You glib, Limey son of a bitch. Stop. Just fucking stop. I haven't shaved in a month and nine days now because I am a man and I love that as a man, I can grow a sick, fucking brutal looking beard. Seriously, Its like the unibomber and Captain Nemo smoked meth in an unlit basement for six months while pregnant with each other's bearded children and my face is the burly afterbirth. And here you go, sullying beards with your namby-pamby namby-pambiness. So now, instead of looking like the swarthy embryotic sack nestled on Nemo's hairy uterus, my face looks like a douche bag.

Start respecting your gonads, you baked beans for breakfast enjoying, royalty revering, lute playing, Adventures of Baron Munchausen ruining asshole.

Fuck you.

-Matt C.

An Open Letter To Sting

From MSNBC: Sting Says Obama 'Sent From God' To 'Fix This Mess'

Dear Sting,

Please do not comment on anything ever again. While I definitely like President Obama, knowing that he has your endorsement makes me feel like I should be slightly embarrassed for liking him because you are a massive tool.

Like, remember when you boasted about how you and your wife have 9-hour tantric sex marathons? And then you attempted to clear up the story and ended up boasting about it again? Yeah, well now I associate liking Obama with boring marathon douchebag sex. Thanks a lot, ass.

I hate you.

-Matt C.

Chapter 14 (redux): That's Entertainment!

Dear Cyclops,
Nice outfit! I can only assume it is to keep THEM from finding you. That or you are afraid of your stepdad Chet cross-kicking you for bringing such great shame to your family. Is that cologne you're wearing? No? Oh, its just mountain dew and basement stink.

CHAPTER 16: Awareness Marches

CHAPTER 16: Awareness Marches

This morning, I found myself trapped on the wrong side of Congress Street, unable to get off Munjoy Hill because of a Breast Cancer Awareness march. Well intentioned or not, this was incredibly obnoxious and self-serving.

(Much like me.)

As a Hateful Man, I feel it is my responsibility to ask the following hard-hitting question; why does breast cancer awareness need a march dedicated to it?

Are there people out there who actually support breast cancer itself whose minds need to be swayed by a massive, public nuisance? No. Breast cancer is universally regarded as horrible. There is no opposition to breast cancer awareness. When you say the words breast cancer, people immediately perk up at the word breast, then are immediately shot down by the word cancer. No one is sending money to support the spread of breast cancer. Osama Bin Laden, Glenn beck and Tom Cruise probably would all agree with you in describing breast cancer as shitty.

Did that march directly help ease the suffering of anyone afflicted with breast cancer? No. Did it actually help bring about advances in breast cancer treatment? No. Did it allow a bunch of busy people to pat each other on the back for being "involved" with something without having to dirty their hands by accomplishing something meaningful? Yeah, but that's about it.

In terms of getting the actual message across, it was only sort of effective. Sure, some people were wearing pink, but not everyone. Signs were printed up on sheets of 8.5x11 paper, in fonts so small that they couldn’t be read by anyone who wasn’t directly in front of them, then taped to poster boards. People were chatting on their cell phones while marching. The Hateful Wife and I were only able to figure out what they were marching for when we saw a sign with a big pink ribbon on it.

Here. I will be just as effective as that breast cancer march. Watch. Just watch.

FUCK BREAST CANCER! THAT SHIT IS HORRIBLE! WE SHOULD OBLITERATE IT!

Wow. I’m not going to lie, people. That. Was. Awesome. I feel really good about myself for doing something sort of public to raise awareness about the awfulness of something that is intrinsically awful.

And here's the rub, folks. Did that inconvenience anyone? No. Was my message clearly stated? Yes. Guess what? I win. Marchers lose.

Far more appropriate for breast cancer awareness would have been a rally or a concert. Maybe they could have set up a massive garage sale, the proceeds of which go to support breast cancer research. That way, when I think about breast cancer awareness, I don't immediately start grinding my teeth and muttering obscenities. I really don't want to be that guy.

Just to be clear, I am not knocking breast cancer awareness, nor am I knocking exercises of free speech that inconvenience motorists. However, I think that when you inconvenience a motorist, you probably should be doing so for reasons that are more combative than simply showing the world that you hate atrociousness. Critical Mass rides, for example, are excellent uses of inconvenience to get a point across. They piss people off for wasting gas when they could be riding bikes or utilizing mass transit - people who are not me.

That last bit is especially important.

CH. 15: Off the Grid

CHAPTER 15: OFF THE GRID
(Inspired by a conversation with Boo)

Living off the grid in Manhattan and blogging about it does not constitute actually living off the grid.

Let me break this down to you:

1. You are living in one of the largest cities in the world. Even if you are not plugged into the electric grid in your own apartment, you are reaping the benefits of the electric grid because you are surrounded by a million other people who are. You enjoy the ambient light, the ambient heat, and the ambient douche-baggery of living in MANHATTAN.

2. YOU ARE THEN FUCKING BLOGGING ABOUT IT!! That negates what few "off the grid" claims you had going for you.

You really want to live off the grid? Fine. Move to the woods, so far out that you cannot see any ambient light from civilization. Split your own wood. Grow and hunt your own food with hand made tools and weapons. Harvest your own natural fibers and sew your own clothes. Build a shelter only using materials you harvested yourself.

When the park rangers find your corpse next spring, they will appreciate appreciate your sacrifice for the environment, assuming tehy don't just wreite you off ass an eco-yuppie jackass.

Chapter 13: Planned Parenthood

CHAPTER 13: PLANNED PARENTHOOD

Male hateful men, at some point in your life, you will probably have to go to Planned Parenthood with that certain, special female hateful man. I can assure you, this is a truly awkward experience.

As a male, you are only sort of welcome there. There is nothing in the waiting room for you to read. Your very presence may make some of the other visitors there uncomfortable. If you don't look especially clean cut, they'll think you're probably a jerk pressuring your hateful lady for an abortion. If you look too clean cut, they'll suspect you of being a born-again suicide bomber.

Despite all your hatefulness, you're just trying to be a decent, supportive mate. What are you supposed to do in this situation?

Frankly, I don't know. To the best of my knowledge, there is no established protocol for male Planned Parenthood waiting room behavior. Maybe you are just supposed to sit there, uncomfortably pondering the end of your post-adolescent immaturity. Maybe you should just wait in the car. If you feel like testing the waters for the rest of us, here's a list of 25 fun activities for you to do while your significant female friend is being attended to. If any of them get you kicked out, please blame Glenn Beck.

1. Say "Hi" to every person who comes through the door.

2. Occasionally spray yourself with a thick cloud of Axe body spray.

3. Bring a bag of popped microwave pop corn, a box of candy, and a large fountain soda. Continue sipping on the soda, even after its down to just ice.

4. Don't bother getting dressed. Show up in your bathrobe and slippers. Read your paper and drink coffee. This is especially effective if it is 6 o'clock at night and you haven't shaved in 2 weeks. Alternately, you could wear a smoking jacket and fez.

5. Put on a shower cap and walk into the bathroom. Yell "Dammit!!" at the top of your lungs then calmly walk back into the waiting room. Fold the shower cap up neatly and place it in your pocket.

6. Wear as much "World's best dad" clothing and flair as you can. Sob quietly.

7. Put on one of those conical birthday party hats and leave a noisemaker dangling from your lips. Stare blankly up at the ceiling, shaking your head.

8. Run into the bathroom and change into a shitty Dracula costume as soon as your lady friend leaves the room.

9. After about five minutes alone, start applying lipstick. Look around the room. Mutter "oh shit...", then quickly wipe it off.

10. Offer everyone in the waiting room a Penrose Firecracker.

11. Crop dust the abortion protesters as you walk in.

12. Go into the bathroom and shave your beard into a mustache. Leave a mess of shaving cream and hair in the sink.

13. Play "Papa Don't Preach" with armpit farts.

14. Start drawing caricatures of other people in the waiting room. Make sure the words "Planned Parenthood" are clearly visible in every picture. Offer to sell the drawings to the subjects.

15. Look around the room furtively, then eat a packet of dry ramen noodles. Look at the person sitting closest to you and hiss "Don't tell people how we live!"

16. Approach the abortion protestors outside and ask the following question:

"Look, the moon and stars are not in the right position. The Master demands I either abort or sacrifice it. Which do you prefer?"

17. Organize a wholly misguided counter-demonstration to the abortion protesters. Hold up signs that say "Do it!", "kill babies, not boners" and "Chances are you'd just raise another freeloader."

18. If your significant other is there for a pregnancy test and the results are positive, try to pass out cigars to everyone in the room. If anyone accepts, tell them that they are monsters.

19. Bring a pair of hulk hands.

20. Three words: human beat box.

21. Wear a pair of tap shoes for no apparent reason.

22. Obsessively apply antibacterial lotion to your hands. Mutter things like "unclean" and "so much uterus". I actually recommend doing this everywhere.

23. Repeatedly ask the receptionist if she has those condoms from Juno that "make your junk smell like pie". Trust me, she hasn't heard that one a million times by now.

24. Remain uncomfortably quiet and still for the first twenty minutes, then stand up and say "I knew we shouldn't have gotten a Great Dane" and walk out to the car. Make sure to crop dust the protesters as you walk by them again.

25. Blurt out "More like 'Unplanned Parenthood'! Am I right, bro-ham? Am I right?!" at the next guy who enters. Try to get a hi-five.

On second thought, it's probably best that you just wait in the car.

About the Author

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Sir Maxwell Edmund Carlisle III is a self-described, full-time super-patriot and part-time self help guru. In addition to "The Hateful Man's Handybook", he has written 27 other books including "Affirm Your Inner Child by Stockpiling Guns", "Fight Complacency to Socialism Through Home Dentistry", "Feelings: A Collection of Soothing Poems About the Benefits of Supporting Central American Dictators", "My Inner Monologue Says Its Time For the Left To Be Fed to the Jackals" and "Only Commies Pronounce the A in America: My Thoughts on Non-Regional Diction". To date, none of these books have actually been published.

A former soft serve stand operator who lost his right eye on September 13th, 2001, Sir Maxwell lives at his compound, high in the rolling hills of rural New Hampshire with his third wife, Bambi, their two children, son Orell Patriot and daughter Juniper Rose Flag Day, and several dozen followers known as The Eagle of True Sovereign Christendom. When not composing volumes of firebrand rhetoric or encouraging his followers to bring automatic weapons to bake sales, this messianic figure enjoys paint-by-numbers and developing new after shave scents that don't remind him of "them soddymites at the Costco Salon ".

Chapter 12: Timeliness is Hatefulness

CHAPTER 12: TIMELINESS IS HATEFULNESS

On Monday, September 14th, I posted a long list of hurtful, insensitive things I would enjoy hearing Bob Dylan say. Among these statements was the following phrase:

49. "Peter, Paul and Mummy, man. That's all I am saying about those has-beens."

I check out several news websites every morning. Not only does this keep me informed, it keeps my hatefulness topical and fresh. This morning, I ran across this story.

Did I call that shit or what?

Now, a more sensitive person might consider taking down or modifying non-quote #49. Being a hateful man, however, I will do nothing of the sort. A large part of being a hateful man is being completely unapologetic when a situation like this comes up. In fact, the truly hateful enlightened will bask in the rare opportunity to be extra-hateful that moments like this present. As such, I give you the following anecdote;

I remember being about five years old and thinking how pretty the young girl chosen to represent Mary Travers on the cover of "Peter, Paul and Mommy" was. Actually, being a typical five-year-old dumbass, I thought that was Mary. You know how stupid kids are.

A few years later, while watching the Peter, Paul and Mary 25th Anniversary Concert on PBS, my head exploded. Instead of a pretty young thing and two dapper dudes, there was this dumpy, middle-aged woman and two creepy old men singing. I'm pretty sure I looked at my five year old brother and said, for the very first time, "Dude. What the fuck is this shit?"

I've never been able to deal with Peter, Paul and Mary ever since. In fact, it may have been one of my earliest instances of hippie hatred.

CHAPTER 11: Bob Dylan (1)

CHAPTER 11: PROFILES IN HATEFUL - 50 THINGS BOB DYLAN HAS NEVER ACTUALLY SAID

Bob Dylan has not said any of the following things to the best of my knowledge.

1. "Go on an' tell. No one's gonna believe you, man."

2. "I'm Bob Dylan, man."

3. "I'm the Badger, man. I'll claw your innards out and eat your young."

4. "I'm Bob Dylan. I know what's good , man. And you suck."

5. "Jack White and I, we may not be friends, but we both have one thing in common; Our mutual hatred of the Wallflowers, man."

BEFORE I CONTINUE, ALLOW ME TO REITERATE THAT BOB DYLAN HAS NEVER SAID ANY OF THESE VILE, HATEFUL THINGS.

6. "Shut up man."

7. "You can't cage The Badger, man. He'll bite you."

8. "I'm the Badger, you're the Walrus, man. Goo goo guh-go fuck yourself, Paul."

9. "Slag off. I'm Bob Dylan, man!"

10. "Bob Dylan is a complicated man, and no one understands him but his women, man. And they're really only grasping at straws. That's why Jakob's music doesn't even compare, man."

AGAIN, NONE OF THESE STATEMENTS WERE EVER MADE BY BOB DYLAN.

11. "Look. Maybe I ruined Halloween for your kids and maybe I didn't. I'm Bob Dylan, man. My kids ruined Halloween for me."

12. "They say a lot of unbelievable crap about me, man. But I'll tell you something - I lay the tracks, they ride the train. And the ticket sure ain't free, man."

13. "I briefly considered adopting him. Then I realized no orphanage is going to take someone as lame as Jake, man."

14. "What are you talking about? My DNA pretty much constitutes child support, man."

15. "Fuck Iceland, man."

IN CASE YOU MISSED THE DISCLAIMER 5 STATEMENTS AGO, NONE OF THESE THINGS WERE ACTUALLY SAID BY BOB DYLAN.

16. "I'm your father, man. That doesn't mean I care."

17. "I'm not the tooth fairy. But I'm here to steel your teeth, man."

18. "I hate you."

19. "Seriously, man. Try to rat me out. I'm Bob Dylan. No one's gonna believe you, man."

20. "Don't make me cut you, man."

BOB DYLAN NEVER SAID ANY OF THIS. PLEASE DO NOT TAKE ANY OF THESE FAKE QUOTES TO HEART. BOB DYLAN PROBABLY IS A WONDERFUL, PLEASANT MAN WITH MILLIONS OF GOOD THINGS TO SAY.

21. "Screw Ringo, man. I'm Bob Dylan."

22. "It's Bob Dylan's now, man."

23. "Stop crying Jake. I'm commandeering this waffle, man."

24. "I'm Bob Dylan, Sean. I slapped you mother for being a strumpet, man."

25. "Bob Dylan ain't some kind of emotionless cyborg, man. I just don't care."

FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, PLEASE DO NOT ASSUME THAT THESE ARE THINGS THAT BOB DYLAN ACTUALLY SAID. HE DID NOT SAY ANY OF THESE THINGS. I'M JUST A HORRIBLE HUMAN BEING WITH A BLOG.

26. "Who are you trying to fool, Bono. I'm Bob Dylan, man. I don't have a conscience."

27. "I stole Robert Johnson's soul before I was even born, man."

28. "I'm just saying John John should have worn a seat belt, man."

29. "Pfft. Clapton, man. Father of the year."

30. "Of course I'm cold-blooded, man. I'm Bob Dylan."

ONCE AGAIN, THE STATEMENTS IN THIS BLOG ENTRY WERE NEVER EXPRESSED BY BOB DYLAN.

31. "I seen 'em come and I seen 'em go, man. People die. I don't care, man."

32. "You're gonna rent me a car, man. You're gonna fill the trunk with snakes, man. I'm Bob Dylan. Now give me all the money in your wallet, man."

33. "We are the world, man. That was Bob Dylan's Jam. Those nobodies just rode my coat tails, man. That's why I sabotaged USA for Africa. I personally gave the money to warlords, man."

34. "I'm the cause of all human suffering. I can make it rain, man. I choose not to."

35. "Get a real job, man. Jake can't be paying you much, I cut him off."

SERIOUSLY. THESE THINGS WERE NOT STATED BY ANYONE BESIDES THE NASTY LITTLE MAN WHO WRITES THIS BLOG. IF YOU TAKE ANY OF THIS SERIOUSLY, YOU ARE AN IDIOT.

36. "I stopped by the studio during the recording of Thriller to plant some evidence, man."

37. "Yeah, I rigged the election. This country needed some character, man."

38. "Look. I'm not some kind of super villain, man. I just hate mankind, have a lot of money, and like to cause trouble."

39. "Keith and I took turns slapping Mick, man. Disco revival my ass."

40. "I used to laugh and sneer at my son when he was breast feeding, man. It was like, 'Keep suckling, piggy. Keep suckling.' Man..."

THESE ARE NOT REAL STATEMENTS BY BOB DYLAN. THEY ARE NOT MEANT TO BE CONSTRUED AS SUCH.

41. "Jimmy Carter knows why he ain't welcome on my property, man. Or maybe he doesn't. I don't care, man."

42. "It's like clubbing a seal, man. I should know."

43. "I took the boy to the Disney Land parking lot. Told 'im they wouldn't me in. Then we went to John Phillips house so I could belittle his daughters, man."

44. "Your placenta was runny, Jake. Now mow the damn lawn, man."

45. "I'm Bob Dylan, man. My crap has more talent than you."

BOB DYLAN NEVER SAID ANY OF THESE THINGS. THEY ARE MERELY THE INFANTILE RAMBLINGS OF A BORED RECORD STORE EMPLOYEE. THEY SHOULD NOT BE ATTRIBUTED TO ANYONE BUT ME.

46. "Yeah, so he says 'It's on the Godzilla soundtrack, Dad.' So I paused for a moment, took a deep breath. Then I said 'You finally made me proud, boy.' I could hear him choking up for a second, then I farted into the receiver. Best damn moment of my life, man."

47. "I called her petulant and repugnant in my eulogy song. They went with Elton John instead, man."

48. "Of course I'm despicable, man. I'm Bob Dylan. Now stop bitching and kill that fucking canary, man."

49. "Peter, Paul and Mummy, man. That's all I'm saying about those has-beens."

50. "I couldn't wait to bury his pets, man. He was that kind of kid."

FOR THE LAST TIME, NONE OF THESE THINGS WERE EVER ACTUALLY SAID BY BOB DYLAN. THESE ARE STATEMENTS I HAVE MADE WHILE DOING A BAD IMPRESSION OF A BOB DYLAN-LIKE FIGURE.

Chapter 10: Scrapbooking

CHAPTER 10: SCRAPBOOKING: HOW TO MAKE AN AWKWARD MOMENT LAST A LIFETIME

Scrapbooking. For the last twenty years or so, uncreative, family-oriented people have whittled away their hours, pasting photos of their kids and grandkids onto overpriced paper, along with a few stickers of puppies and a font vaguely related to the photos subject matter and called it a wholesome activity.

As a hateful man, I see great potential for hatefulness in this process, both in the areas of demoralization and subversion.

Preparation

Before you begin undertaking this mission, I highly advise you to read up on scrapbooking at your local library. I am by no means an expert and cannot provide you with anything more than a general knowledge of the hobby that I have garnered from observation at craft stores while my fiance shops for fabric, overheard discussions of the activity and wikipedia. Wear an unconvincing disguise when you do so and speak with a bad cockney accent in order to make other people you encounter extremely uncomfortable. You get bonus hateful points if you are asked to leave the library for being totally creepy.

From what I understand, scrapbooking can get ridiculously expensive, so be prepared to fork over a couple hundred bucks for supplies and equipment. If you are attempting to subvert a scrapbooking group, you'll need to appear serious about the hobby, and that means having the essential gear. If you are attempting to demoralize, you'll need to put a lot of time and resources into the project to make it sincerely hateful.

Subversion

Do you find your neighbors annoyingly wholesome? Do their family game nights and frequent outbursts of hugging strike you as eerily Osmond-ish? Chances are that someone living under that roof is a scrapbooker, and if so, you need to infect them with your dysfunction.

Maybe they'll host a neighborhood barbecue or invite you to one of their children's birthday parties. Use this as an opportunity to case them out. If you find any signs that someone is a scrapper, let it slip that you do a little scrapbooking, yourself. Being an overly friendly schnook, there is a good chance that your neighbor will invite you to scrapbook along with them and their boring friends.

So now, you're in.

You need to make this circle of biddies incredibly uncomfortable, and the most important way is with the context and subject matter you choose for your scrapbook. Photos of your child's first bath should be presented with the phrase "Bad, filthy baby!" and coupons for cleaning products. Snapshots of your child napping should be accompanied by a blurb "We fornicate while it slumbers". The layout for a photo of your offspring playing soccer should be titled something like "Steve likes sissy-ball" if its a boy or "Looks like we'll be renting a tux for the senior prom, after all." if its a girl.

Of course, you could also completely fuck with your fellow scrappers and use photos of an entirely different family or families that you pulled from the internet. Do not provide them with any clues to your relationship to these people, beyond the occasional sigh.

Beyond the uncomfortable subject matter of your scrapbook, your behavior needs a bit of an uncouth flourish. Refreshments will probably be served at this get-together. Hard liquor probably wont be, so you want to appear to bring your own. If you take this route, I recommend going to your local liquor store and buying a jug of the cheapest, shittiest looking whiskey or scotch that you can find - all the better if it comes in a plastic jug. Empty the bottle out and fill it with apple juice or water, then place it in your bag of scrap booking supplies. While getting black out drunk would definitely ruin the the party, it will be far more traumatic to your fellow scrapbookers if you appear to be unfazed by drinking an entire jug of cheap bourbon. Don't break the jug out right off the bat, either. In fact, you should excuse yourself to use the bathroom several times in the first hour or so before the jug actually makes an appearance. Once the bottle actually does come out, you'll immediately become unwelcome. I recommend taking a long, brutal swig, slamming the bottle down on the table, glaring at everyone and hissing something to the tune of "You're all dead inside and you don't know it!", then storming out.

Another possible angle to your flourish is to make increasingly less subtle hints that your are under the impression that this is an opening to a swingers circle. Make sure to let one of the milfier scrappers know exactly what kind of vehicle you drive and show her the keys. Attempt to play a little footsie. Refer to your spouse as your "open, but dedicated, life-choice partner". When one of the snack bowls is empty, throw your keys in and, if you are a male hateful man, reassure the other guests that at least one of them "isn't going to have to lez out when we're done". If you are a female hateful man, you should express your excitement about "getting to lez out after all this scrapping."

With any luck, you'll not only make your neighbor hate you, but you'll make your neighbor's scrapbooking peers hate them for bringing a deviant asshole into their wholesome hobby circle.

Demoralization

Demoralization is one of the central tenants to being a hateful man. Life has already slapped the taste of the sugary outer coating of existence out of your mouth, leaving you with a bitter reality pill to swallow. Why should your offspring be allowed to live in blissful ignorance of the cold, hard fact that life is a long chain of awkward moments, uncomfortable pauses and the occasional near miss? You're not demoralizing them early on to be hurtful, you're demoralizing to build a stronger, more resilient person. Scrapbooking is an excellent tool for this tempering process.

Picture the the following scenario:

You've spent fourteen years raising Steve. He was a cute kid. You had some good times together, took him on vacations, spent money on healthcare and video game systems. His teeth are finally straight after two years of expensive and frequently lost retainers. How does Steve reward you? He begins turning into a cocky little idiot who actually thinks a thirteen year old girl is going to overlook his double chin, surprising amount of body hair and mild acne because he slathers himself in Axe Body Spray, tilts his hat to the left and mouths off to his parents.

As a hateful man, you know all too well that Steve is on an inevitable collision course with crushing disappointment that will eventually lead to posting humiliating videos of himself crying on youtube. The girls will ignore him because he developed early and is too masculine. His mouthiness is going to get his ass handed to him because his comfortable lifestyle hasn't made him hard. You need to intervene. You need to temporarily crush his morale so that he'll be more open to your hateful guidance.

Gather a collection of 10-20 photos. The more humiliating the subject matter and the more poorly shot the photo, the better. This will be easy. Once the kid turns 10, the only photos you will ever get of them will make them bitter and uncomfortable later on in life. Trust me, I speak from experience. The only photos my parents have of me from about the age of eleven to eighteen depict me stuffing my face with food, deliriously ill, wearing my much hated scouting uniform, haggard from being at camp, pissed off about a bad haircut and fugly school photo clothes, moping, gawking or wearing long underwear in lieu of pants. Kids at that age generate four things; stink, drama, pimples and awkward.

Once you have chosen the images you want to use, you will want to set up layouts for each page. As stated earlier, I'm not an expert on this process, but from what I can surmise, there are five basic steps.

1. Arrange the photos into clusters that can be used to accentuate your child's innate awkwardness.

2. Choose a series of themes relating to uncomfortable moments in your child's early life, real or invented. Some recommend themes include;

"Nice mullet, Steve."

"In a just world, coach would keep you on the benches because you run like a girl."

"Boy, that was a good look for you, Steve! "

"Steve is 13 and still a Webelo."

"Way to Ruin Tyler's Birthday by crying, Steve!"

"Summer With Grandma. Awesome, Dude."

"That's the fifth fist fight you've lost to a girl this year, Steve."

"I Didn't think You'd Actually Wear Those When I Bought Them For You, Steve. Dammit."

"Gettin' husky!"

"The Retainer Years."

"She Doesn't Even Know You Exist, You Dweeb."

"You Lost the Pinewood Derby Because I Can't Be Bothered to Help You Cheat like Tyler's Dad."

3. Select the proper image for the layout's background.

I recommend going for something irreverently related to the subject matter in the photo or photos you are displaying. For example, if the photos depict Steve suffering from acne while attending his cousin's wedding, the background should have slices of pizza.

4. Compliment the images with stickers, labels, souvenirs and a caption.

Suppose you have an image of Steve learning to ride his bike and Steve sitting on the sidewalk next to his bike. A doting scrap booker might include stickers of bikes and motivational phrases like "Go, Steve, go!" and checkered racing flags or something. A hateful scrap booker should include bandages, stop signs, a small-font caption for the image like "For the love of God, Stop Steve!" or "Nice training wheels, ass."

5. Caption the image with a title in a font relating to the subject matter.

Suppose you have a page done up in a Christmas theme. The picture is of 12 year old Steve, half awake on Christmas Morning, holding the bottle of London Gentleman your brother gave to him as an in-joke between the two of you. He looks grumpy and confused and is still wearing his pajamas. You've decorated the image with candy canes, sugar plums and the caption "That wont cover the stench of shame, Steve." Now you need a title. Select a large, bold, Christmas related font, then choose a statement that makes it clear that Steve is worthy of ridicule. "Christmas 2005: Steve Still Believes in Santa, but is Losing Faith in a Merciful God."

Once you have a collection of pages, place them in an ornate, faux-leather bound three-ring binder. Write the child's name on the cover of the album using a gold or silver calligraphy paint marker. If the subject of the scrapbook is a boy, trim it with lace. If the subject is a girl, hot glue rubber vomit and creepy-crawlers to the cover.

Present the scrapbook to them at a public event, marking a turning point in their life, and be sure to show it off to all their friends - especially members of the opposite sex.

Steve may think he's cock of the walk for graduating from middle school. He may be getting mouthy and trying to rebel against you. But wait until you bust out the collection of photos of him sobbing in the back seat of the family minivan after being rejected from the little league team or looking humiliated while waiting for the bus on his way to what you are calling fat camp.

Then make that ingrate mow the lawn and get a job.

CHAPTER 9: HOW TO GET RID OF YOUR OBNOXIOUS HIPPIE COLLEGE ROOMMATE

CHAPTER 9: HOW TO GET RID OF YOUR OBNOXIOUS HIPPIE COLLEGE ROOMMATE

Hippies. Popular media would have you believe that they are gentle, creative souls who care about the Earth and political causes. Real life experience will teach you that they are a bunch of smelly, self-centered drug addicts who like shitty music, never actually get around to doing anything about the Earth and don't care about politics unless it involves the phrase "legalize it".

If you are considering going to college, you should be aware that if you live in a dorm, it is entirely probable that you will either share a room with a hippie or live within close proximity of one.

You may consider yourself an open-minded, tolerant individual. I certainly consider myself open-minded, and at one time I considered myself tolerant of others. Then I lived with a hippie for a month and a half. This experience has left me with absolutely no tolerance for "grooviness".

Do you like to constantly smell another person's body odor mixed with pot smoke, sandalwood and feet? Do you like hearing someone play the bongos at 1:30 am when you are trying to sleep and/or study for exams? Do you like hearing the phrase "Nah man, It's cool." in the place of "I am sorry for stealing your food. Here's five dollars for your trouble." Do you enjoy the uninvited company of freeloaders and shiftless crumb-bums? Do you like coming back to your dorm room after a weekend at home only to find that someone has not only slept in your bed, but has also left a semen covered gorilla mask under your covers? Do you like smelling of second hand weed and sandalwood because someone's unwashed ass has briefly been in contact with your property? No? Because that is what it's like to live with a hippie.

If you find yourself paired with or placed near a hippie, you have to get rid of them. This chapter will help you do so.

KNOW YOUR ENEMY

Despite their colorful appearance, hippies are not magical beings. They actually derive this garb from a dated and inherently racist, 1960s view of Gypsies.

Hippies are omnivorous scavengers, but some occasionally claim to be herbivores. Being relatively spineless, many of these self-proclaimed herbivores have trouble holding onto their convictions, especially while high, and revert to their carnivorous ways when no one is looking.

The hippie sleep cycle is neither diurnal nor nocturnal. Their typical active hours are from noon until their presence becomes too cloying, even for each other. While they tend to have a favored den, they will not necessarily sleep on their own bed while within this den. As such, if you are sharing a habitat with a hippie, it is advised that you keep a broom, squirt bottle or rolled-up newspaper near your bed in case the critter passes out on it by mistake.

Hippies can be repelled by the following things:

Soap, water and shampoo; responsibility; manual labor that does not culminate in the possession of narcotics; political discourse that does not involve the founding fathers growing marijuana; hard work; expectations; social contract theory; assault weapons, steel batons, tear gas and rubber bullets;

Hippies cannot be repelled by the following things;

Holy symbols with the exception of holy water (but not because it is holy, and only when used in conjunction with soap); garlic; wooden stakes; pentagrams and hexes; vans with wizards on the side of them; jam bands; marijuana; noodle dancing; import stores; colorful scarves and crocheted winter hats;

Hippies will not drink your blood. They will, however, drain you of the will to live with them.

BE PREPARED

It is absolutely vital that you prepare yourself for a hippie infestation if you are headed for college. Even if you luck out and end up living with a normal human being, I strongly advise you to prepare. Trust me, a hippie will end up in your room at some point and you will need to deal with them.

1. Quit Smoking or Don't Ever Start

While there are few things as hateful as smoking a big, fat fuckin' cigar, your need to establish control of your living situation trumps the benefits of spewing smoke at bystanders and laughing like a mad man.

By quitting smoking, you have both future moral high ground and a compelling story.

2. Quit Using recreational Drugs

Some people will tell you college is a time for experimentation and expansion of the mind. Those people probably have wealthy parents or do not understand the concept of student loans. Either your parents are paying thousands of dollars up front, or you will be in debt for the rest of your fucking life. Do you really want to be in debt for seven years of college, four of which were spent watching Thundercats while high?

If you don't want to be a victim, you need to grow up. You don't need to stop drinking, though it's a double-edged sword. On one hand, complete sobriety gives you more leverage and prevents your roommate from using the "well alcohol kills more people than weed, so I'm gonna smoke pot in the room" argument. On the other hand, drinking makes you more human to other people in the dorm and will help you cope with your living situation.

If you don't want to quit or you want to spend a few years partying after high school, do so. Spend a year or two working in a shitty, low paying job and do some growing up. When you are ready, get your shit together and then enroll in college. If you wait long enough, you wont even need to follow my instructions because you wont need to live in a dorm.

Being drug free gives you the right to establish that you will not tolerate drug use in your dorm room. This is like hippie kryptonite. They cannot abide by this rule, and when you catch them, you can narc them out to the RA and have them kicked out of the dorm.

Yes, I did just advocate being a narc. If you are still under the belief that being a narc is bad, you need to grow up and stop enabling people to fuck up their lives and walk all over you.

3. Get On a Normal Sleep Cycle

During your senior year of high school, you need to get yourself on a normal, adult sleep cycle and remain on it over the summer. This takes discipline, but it is crucial. Wake up at 6 am and go to bed at 10 most nights.

As established in the "Know Your Enemy" section, hippies do not have regular sleep patterns. They stay up late and sleep in until the last possible minute.

This will cause you two to clash, and when another party is called in to regulate, they will side with you because there is nothing more annoying to an adult than listening to some burnout complain about having to wake up at a reasonable time and being unable to play their bongos at 3 am.

4. Memorize These Useful Phrases

"No."

"No, it's not cool."

"No, I don't want to jam."

"No, its not okay to smoke in the room."

"No, it's not cool if you do."

"Yes, that includes pot and hash."

"No, I do not want to play hacky sack."

"No. This is not the dawning of the age of Aquarius."

"That's my bed. Please get your unwashed, sweaty ass off it."

"Nice crocks, ass."

"If you so much as look at those bongos again, I will castrate you."

"If your asshole friends eat any more of my food, I will gut the lot of you and use your skins as a slip-n-slide."

"Shut the fuck up, Spicoli."

"You make the room smell like alpo and ass, you filthy derelict fuck."

"Fuck you, hippie."

"This country needs a draft and soon."

5. Request a Non-Smoking Room

I speak from personal experience when I say that there's a good chance your roommate will lie about smoking on their housing application in order to avoid getting placed with someone who is a heavier smoker than they are. The first crunchy asshole I found myself living with did just that, and was completely shocked that I would think him a selfish prick for doing so.

Chances are, any dorm you live in will be smoke free at this point anyway. Regardless, your Trustafarian roommate will probably open a window and start puffing away. If they do, bust them.

6. Join a Wholesale Club

You will want to join a wholesale club. It's the only way you are going to be able to afford the amount of Lysol and Febreeze you will need to cover the hippie stink that permeates all hippie dorm rooms.

7. Arrive Before They Do.

This is critical. You need to move into the dorm before they do. If that dirty fuck drops his or her drug rug on your cot before you ever arrive, it marks you with their musk and legally makes you his or her willing victim in the drum circle of justice.

You need to be there when they arrive and you need to make it clear that you will not tolerate their Marlo Thomas enabled bullshit. When they come through the threshold, you need give them a five mile glare, making it clear without saying a word that you have boundaries, and if they cross those boundaries, you will cut them AND THEY WILL BLEED.

8. Establish Rules.

In general, hippies are not disciplined beings. They are self-centered and hedonistic and chafe when confronted by rules. As such, you need to regulate the fuck out of your living space.

As I mentioned above, you need to establish that you will not tolerate drug use or smoking in the dorm room. Even if you do not believe that smoking or drug use is wrong, you need this rule because they will not be able to follow it, and it can be a deal breaker because they are violating dorm policies.

You need to establish that your property is your property and yours alone. They, their friends and anyone that enters your room with their expressed or implied permission are not to touch your property without your permission. Make it clear that you will hold them accountable for anything that goes missing, and that you are perfectly fine with using "an eye for an eye" as a definition of justice. This especially holds true of your bed, because they will undoubtedly know people with scabies, crabs and other forms of bodily parasite due to their poor bathing habits and open attitudes towards sex.

If they throw a party in the room while you are away, they are responsible for cleaning up the mess before you get back.

They are not to burn candles or incense in the room in order to cover their stink and/or smoke. Even if you don't mind the smell of incense, lie. Tell them you find it repulsive. Like smoking, there will probably be a policy in place that prevents them from burning things anyway because its a fire hazard.

If you are trying to sleep, they need to listen to their music on a headset. If they don't own a headset, they need to fucking buy one or deal with it. If they attempt to play their drum, rain stick or some other form of hippie instrument while you are trying to sleep, let them know that you will break it and/or throw it out the window because they are being an asshole.

Beyond these basic rules, you need to establish others on the fly, after a problematic action happens. The rules need to be fairly reasonable. As tempting as it may be, you can't treat them like your prison bitch. While you can ask them to clean the shower in the unlikely event that they actually use it, you cannot tell them that they have to sit down when they pee. Don't tell them right off the bat to clean the toothpaste out of the sink after they brush their teeth, wait for them to leave a mess before bringing it up.

Regardless of how mundane and fair your rules are, your hippie roommate will regard you as a psycho and/or a nazi. If you follow my instructions, you should create an environment that is toxic to them, but perfectly reasonable to a rational adult, and this will force them to leave either by their own accord or with the aid of an RA.

9. If All Else Fails

If all else fails, beat the living shit out of them and sleep with their free love embracing hippie girl or boyfriend. Just be sure to wear a rubber and get tested regularly for the next two years, because hippies typically don't.

GO BACK TO BEING A HORRIBLE HUMAN BEING

Once you have driven off your hippie roommate, feel free to go back to being a horrible human being. Sleep in. Listen to Slayer at midnight. Binge drink. Enjoy temporarily having a single for the lower cost of a double. You've earned it and your non-hippie neighbors will appreciate the effort.

CHAPTER 8: ACME MUSH & SPANKINGS

CHAPTER 8: ACME MUSH & SPANKINGS

I am not a father yet, which is probably a good thing. That's not to say that I don't envision myself being a great dad. I just own a lot of stuff that could be described as chokey.

My father was a hateful father. Along with instilling discipline in me, he instilled an understanding that it was okay to fuck with people - especially your children.

When I was a toddler, he would threaten to take me to a place called "Acme Mush & Spankings", a restaurant where children are served a bowl of cold oatmeal, paddled with a wooden spoon, and made to sleep on an uncomfortable cot until their parents are ready to leave.

Yes, in hindsight, this sounds highly dubious.

It was a very real threat to me. My father liked to blur the lines of idle threat and reality. One day, probably when I was three or four, we pulled into a parking lot on our way out of town and he pointed out a brick building. He told me that it was Acme Mush & Spankings, and that they weren't open yet.

My mind was blown. I'm pretty sure my eyes bugged out and I shouted "Oh snap! That shit is REAL!!" To this day, I am not entirely convinced that my father was joking.

Seriously.

CHAPTER 7: THE ABRAHAM LINCOLN PRINCIPLE

CHAPTER 7: THE ABRAHAM LINCOLN PRINCIPLE

"Why did you open Chapter 6 with a quote from Megan Fox" -My Fiance, Katie.

What follows is an exercise in hatefulness.

Picture, if you will, Abraham Lincoln.

Are you picturing him? If you aren't, you seriously need to stop what you are doing, clear your thoughts, and envision him in your mind.

Is he there?

Is he?

Look, if you aren't going to take this exercise seriously, you can read other websites.

Okay. At this point, I am going to assume that you have a clear picture of Abraham Lincoln in your mind.

If you are a man, do you have an erection? If you are a woman, do you have the tingle pants?

The correct answer is no, you don't. If you followed my instructions exactly as I wrote them, you have the image of Abraham Lincoln staring at you and it has killed your boner and/or staunched the flow of tingles to your pants.

Okay. Now ask yourself this question: Why did envisioning Abraham Lincoln make your pants fit better?

Was it because you have a profound respect for the man and all he accomplished? Was it because he is an authority figure and you are not comfortable having him see you sexually aroused? Was it because his wisdom rings out to you through the ages?

These may seem like legitimate explanations for your current lack of sexual arousal. If you are agreeing with these answers, however, you are not being completely honest with yourself.

To be truly hateful, you must be able to state the exact reason that envisioning Abraham Lincoln removes the yowsers from your trousers. It requires you to look for the most primal reason. It requires you to be able to look at one of your co-workers and say, seemingly out of the blue, "When I think about Abraham Lincoln, I loose every last trace of sexual arousal because Abraham Lincoln was an ugly, ugly man."

Admit it. He was an ugly man.

It's okay. Saying that does not diminish his legacy. Motherfucker could split rails like Fist of the North Star and orate like Jesus. He freed slaves. He enjoyed legitimate theater and could probably palm a basketball. Oh, and he's fucking related to Tom Hanks. All of these things that do not pertain to his looks are awesome.

On the other hand, his beard was inexcusable and all this talk of arousal probably made you think about Abraham Lincoln's dong.

In your face.

CHAPTER 6: SO NOW WHAT?

CHAPTER 6: SO NOW WHAT?

"Wonder Woman is lame. She flies around in an invisible jet, but she's not invisible. I don't get it." -Megan Fox

By now, you should have read chapters 4 and 5, which detail the inevitable, squishy downfall of the human race and subsequent downfall of the post-human race. If you haven't read these chapters and/or don't especially feel like reading them, I will summarize them for you in one simple statement;

"Fuck."

The situation is hopeless. This is not a work of fiction. This is scientific fact - albeit heavily padded scientific fact that I cobbled together from wikipedia and drunken conversations with much smarter people. Remember that movie about global warming that came out two years ago? Not the one that was narrated by Al Gore, but that remarkably similar one narrated by Leonardo DiCaprio that you probably saw a preview for before the last Michael Moore movie? Oh, Dicaprio... What an asshole. Seriously. He wasn't fooling anyone.

I am not at all like Leo.

Not at all.

Except that I am basically doing the exact same thing he was, and am regurgitating things that other, much smarter people told me.

So, you are probably wondering what we are supposed to do now? I mean, I'm basically saying that we're just treading water for the next couple decades, until some kind of technological cataclysm causes instant, exponential advancement, immediately followed by our complete regression into little more than a bunch of post-human chronic masturbators.

Once you've abandoned all hope, you need to find a way to amuse yourself. Suicide is no longer an option, as it has seriously lost its appeal since being co-opted by the Hot Topic crowd.

Brain damage might make the future more palatable, and it would give you an excuse to make other people touch your feces. On the other hand, you'd probably be made to wear snow pants again at some point.

Reasonable religions will not placate your feelings of misanthropy. Fundamentalist religions certainly will allow you to be judgmental, but will probably make you feel bad for enjoying pornography. Anyone you meet who actually admits to being a Satanist invariably smells of cat pee.

Clearly, the only thing you can do is blame everyone else for our impending doom and spend the rest of your life embracing yourself as a truly horrible human being.

In the subsequent chapters of this text, my colleagues and I will provide you with essays espousing the benefits of a hateful existence, as well as exercises and activities that will help to foster the hatefulness that lurks deep inside you (trust me, it's not that deep). You will learn ways to humiliate your children, ruin terrific music for your friends, wage one-sided wars against the twats that surround you in your workspace and make complete strangers so uncomfortable that they will wish that they had never encountered you.

CHAPTER 5: POST-BANANAPOCALYPSE

CHAPTER 5: POST-BANANAPOCALYPSE

As stated in Chapter 4: Bananapocalypse Now, civilization as we know it is coming to end. At this point, all the elements which will lead to The Singularity, The Bananapocalypse, and the Sarahjessicaparkalypse are in play, and it is impossible to reverse the course of our species impending evolution into collective nonexistence. So, what are we to do?

You may have noticed that in Chapter 4, I mentioned that the majority of humanity will choose to remain tethered to their bodies. Some of those who choose to reject their bodies will survive the Bananapocalypse and the Sarahjessicaparkalypse. As a post-human intelligence, existing beyond the confines of flesh, there is a high probability you will survive, assuming the orangutans with thumbs do not smear filth all over whatever machinery is sustaining your consciousness.

Let's face it. Orangs love smearing filth on things. The vast majority of us are still screwed.

Enjoy life in the present. Be a hateful, vindictive dick.

CHAPTER 4: BANANAPOCALYPSE NOW

CHAPTER 4: BANANAPOCALYPSE NOW

"The ape regards his tail; he's stuck on it." - DEVO

I'm going to lay it all out for you. What follows is the Hateful Man's book of Revelations.

Civilization as we know it is coming to an end. It is inevitable, and it will, inevitably, be one of the most incredibly stupid moments in the history of all existence.

At a quickly approaching point in the not too distant future known as The Singularity, mankind will gain the ability, through various forms of technology, too evolve exponentially at will. Matter itself will be reshaped and modified to suit our needs. Assuming we even choose to remain tethered to them, our bodies will instantly be able to adapt to any environment.

Naturally, the majority of humanity will remain tethered. We're too arrogant and vain to abandon our bodies, especially when we can cause our selves to sprout something that looks like a six pack at will.

Approximately three millionths of a nanosecond after The Singularity, another event will occur which will eliminate the vast majority of human males from existential relevance, a moment I call The Bananapocalypse. In this moment, one man will realize that his newly gained mastery of evolution will allow him to finally sexually pleasure himself in a way that had always been impossible before, and every exponential leap male intellect had taken since The Singularity will be derailed.

For another nanosecond, women will evolve past men, into a totally separate, collective intelligence. Only, once the realization that our newfound regenerative abilities and potential bodiless existences negates the need for reproduction sinks in (the Sarahjessicaparkalypse), women too, will resort to continual self-pleasure.

The final phase of human existence will take the form of one perpetual, collective groan.

And then the Orangutans will grow thumbs, escape their cages and eat our faces off before we can finish diddling ourselves into oblivion.

Awesome.

CHAPTER 2: AN ESSAY ON LOVE AND THE HATEFUL MAN'S HANDYBOOK BY AN ESTABLISHED WRITING PERSONALITY WHO SHALL REMAIN ANONYMOUS

I believe I was but a lad of fourteen when I first felt the delectable pangs of hatefulness. It was early April, 1994. Spring had finally come to our little Hamlet and my heart was aflutter with that strange mix of puppy love and filthy, masturbatory lust that only an introverted fourteen year old boy can feel for a girl who has barely ever acknowledged his existence.

Her name was Sandra. I recognized her from the yearbook. She took a different bus, didn't have any of the same classes I did, and actually participated in extracurricular activities that did not involve Mortal Kombat II or hitting the TV until the Playboy Channel came in. She sent my ginger plot into a hormonal frenzy after I briefly made eye contact with her across the cafeteria.

Needless to say, three days and four boxes of tissues later, I found out that Sandra was a fucking idiot. She was part of a weird Christian fundamentalist sect that sold Christmas cacti by the roadside in order to fund missionaries who sought to convert people on the Lower East Side and believed that we were all wrong about dinosaur bones. I talked to her for thirty seconds in the hallway between classes and in that time she had told me that we were living in the end days, that there is a silent abortion holocaust, that her uterus was primed to do the work of god and that she felt sorry for my ancestors for having such a sinful heir. It was in those thirty seconds that I became an atheist.

I also realized that day that Sandra had a lazy eye and voice like a gagging ostrich being violated by Fran Drescher, neither of which I could have detected across the cafeteria or in the year book.

My world changed forever on that day. Whereas my walks home before this day had been idyllic romps down happy-go-lucky lane interspersed with occasional white washings and wedgies at the hands larger classmates, they had now become endless trudges through Moronville interspersed with occasional white washings and wedgies at the hands of stupid assholes. An infectious plague of stupid was all around me. There was something seriously wrong with every person I came in contact with. Worst of all, I was too polite to say anything about it.

I had been attending regular counseling appointments for my Attention Deficit Disorder for a number of years. When I related my experience with Sandra and subsequent misanthropy to my therapist, he called me a little prick. Fair Enough, I thought. The man provided me with the Ritalin, so he was probably right.

It was as I was leaving the therapist's office that day that I found a copy of the Hateful Man's Handy Book that another patient had either subversively left on the table for other like-minded sub-geniuses to read... or he just plain forgot it. Yes, dear reader, you hold in your hand now the latest edition of the same book I found that day – a book that changed my life.

As I perused the books mix of essays on human stupidity, step-by-step instructions on driving other human beings away with subtly abhorrent behavior and taxonomy guides to the wide variety of cretins and knuckle-draggers an enlightened individual may encounter in their day-to-day interactions with humanity, I felt an uncanny sense of relief and new-found perspective. One could argue that the uncanny sense of relief came as much from the realization that I was not alone in my contempt for mankind as it did from pissing on Sandra's bicycle. I prefer to think of it as a mix of the two.

Enjoy this book, my fellow hateful men!

CHAPTER 18: ON OWNING A CHIMP

CHAPTER 18: ON OWNING A CHIMP

(Written on February 18th, 2009)

Considering the three recent incidents in which people have been severely mauled by pet chimpanzees, the staff at the Hateful Man's Handybook feel that the following essay is absolutely necessary for the survival of all mankind.

And yes, there have been three recent incidents, and no, I said mauled, not muled. There is nothing wrong at all with people being muled across international borders, hidden inside a chimpanzee's colon.

Owning a chimpanzee may seem awesome. All the best celebrities have them.

They're like filthy little men that you can dress up like a Chucky Doll. Better yet, you can train them to dress themselves up like a Chucky doll so that there's no chance that you'll have to touch the Chimp's gooch. Of course, if touching chimp gooch is your thing, I recommend you read Chapter 87: "So I'm Considering A Truly Alternate Lifestyle That Will Put You Pedestrian Trannies to Shame". What you may fail to realize that is that you may not get a smart monkey who likes to wear overalls. Instead, you may get saddled with a slow-witted chimp dullard who would rather masturbate and chew on his feet. Now, raising a slow-witted jack off chimp is still awesome, but it's a different kind of awesome, more akin to rescuing a greyhound from the local racetrack. Sure, you'll still be fond of the animal, but deep down, you'll know its damaged goods.

One cannot understate how amazingly entertaining driving cross-country with a chimp looks. Looks is the operative term there. What most people fail to realize about "Any Which Way But Loose" and "BJ and the Bear" is that those chimps were chimp actors. In fact, closer inspection reveals that Clive was actually an orangutan and The Bear was a racist. As a responsible human being, I also feel the need to point out that neither could actually drive. Beyond all that though, have you ever actually driven cross-country with another person? Do you know how bad the car starts to smell? Okay, now replace "other person" with filthy, lice infested, poo-fllinging primate. Yeah, suddenly that awesome three week road trip with your little homey Mr. Goop-Goop doesn't look so appealing now, does it?

It is a common misconception that all chimps love to roller-skate. DO NOT BELIEVE THE HYPE. Seriously, don't believe the hype, people. Chimps fucking hate being put on roller skates just as much as you hated being put on roller skates the first time your lame parents took you to a birthday for one of your not-yet-aware-of-it preschool classmates (see Chapter 74:The Eighteen Things I Claim Are Sure Fire Signs That Your Child Will Grow Up To Be a Stripper or He-Whore) . For the love of god, my friend, do not corner a chimp with a pair of roller skates. The moment his or her mind realizes that those are not big bananas with apples on the bottom, you are going to be praying for death. Poo will be flung. Limbs will be chewed. Faces will be torn off and shat upon. Do you really want that for yourself, all just to see your adorable little friend on wheels? If so, just trick that damn primate into wearing heelies. Chimps do love heelies. They think heelies are clever inventions and clap when they see them in use, and that is fucking great.

A chimpanzee is a sure-fire way to pick up drunk women. As a man who has lived in a co-ed dorm for one year, I am a qualified expert on this shit. Let's face it, if you are reading this, you are, by definition, a hateful man. Hateful men need all the help they get, because their gut instinct in seeing a girl who wants to hook up with them is to point out every single imperfection they see on this person, and chances are if she is attracted to a hateful man, her breath smells like Melon Boons Farm, onion rings and bile. In order to bypass the instant "You're an asshole" that is guaranteed to come out of her mouth, regardless of how much hateful instinct you have suppressed, you pretty much have to have a chimpanzee with you. In fact, he better be wearing an "I'm with asshole" shirt and one of those helicopter hats. Do not let him wear a smoking jacket and fez, however, otherwise she'll probably be reading Chapter 87 in the morning instead of screaming at you for asking her to pay for the Denny's bill because you forgot your wallet.

Of course, now we come to a very serious part of this essay. There's something that usually does not get mentioned when chimp attacks are reported on the news because it is truly horrible -and I am not making this up - chimps tend to eat people's faces off when they feel threatened. Seriously. They will tear your your face off, put it in their mouth and eat it. They also have a tendency to tear people's limbs off and eat the hands and feet. Why do they do this? Because its seriously fucked up. It's something so fucked up that even the our primal ancestors couldn't laugh about it happening... to themselves. I mean, its all contextual. If a lonely old woman's pet chimp goes berserk and eats her face, that is appalling. But let's face it, if some nascar fan in Florida gets his face eaten because he did something to offend a chimp, I feel sorry for his kids, but I'm laughing at him.

So, in conclusion, the Hateful Man's Handybook does not advocate keeping chimps in your house. While there are plenty of hateful perks to owning a chimp, we can't get behind the close quarters face eating thing. As hateful as it may be to have a poo-flinging buddy who may one day wig out and eat your idiot neighbor, its better to laugh at the victims from afar and blame the owners. Saying "Fucking shit. Really, who keeps a fucking chimp as a pet?" while standing by the water cooler is much more fun than being held liable for someone's severed face.

CHAPTER 89: ON VIOLATING YOUR NEIGHBOR'S LAWN

CHAPTER 89: ON VIOLATING YOUR NEIGHBOR'S LAWN

"Good neighbors build good fences. Oh, mine? All these enslaved Ewoks built mine."

-Endorian Poet Laureate Chewbacca, six months after the destruction of the second Death Star

Do you live in suburbia? If so, chances are that you have a neighbor who loves his or her lawn. Interestingly, my field research has shown that there is a high probability that this person also happens to be a complete and total asshole.

You'll be walking your dog, poo-bag in hand, abiding all the applicable laws, and the next thing you know, Jenkins in the yellow house around the corner is threatening to call the police if Rex happens to even set foot on his precious fucking lawn. Inevitably Mrs. Henrietta McRagingbitch will claim this is the third or fourth time she's spoken to you about this, the cops are on their way, and your dog is going into the wood chipper behind PETA for sure this time.

Fuck that noise. First of all, your neighbor is full of shit. At most, this is only the second time they have spoken to you, and chances are that you weren't even aware of their existence until just now because jerks like them have long since dulled any pleasure you got from knowing the people around you. After spending every free daylight hour baking under the sun, breathing in a mix of fertilizer fumes and lawn mower exhaust, your neighbor has lost a small part of their small fucking mind; specifically, the part that points out that having neighbors who don't want to want to see them suffer might come in handy when society finishes collapsing and the gangs of Australian, buttless chap-wearing marauders decide its time to victimize the neighborhood.

Seriously, how long are you going to put up with this tyranny? At what point are you going to stop waiting around for Lord Humungous and his gang to show up, and start making this asshole suffer yourself? You know that Humungous is only going to turn on you and run you down with his Zamboni when he is done raping your neighbors fake wishing well. You need to make a stand. Your need to grow a pair. You need to literally or figuratively fuck your neighbors lawn!

What motivates this person to be such an asshole regarding their grass? Is it really about the lawn itself? Is it some kind of suburban claustrophobia wherein they feel that living roughly twenty feet from the next set of windows is beginning to feel like nineteen-and-a-half feet? Or do they just have some kind of unhealthy, overprotective attachment to their ugly, stupid children and feel that failing to prevent your dog from urinating on their property will keep little Ricky from becoming the star of his remedial soccer league? You need to figure this out in order to truly violate them and "win". Winning is all important to the hateful man.

-When it's solely about the lawn-

The most simple explanation for this malady is that they work really hard maintaining a nice looking lawn. There's nothing wrong with making things pleasing to the eye. That's why the world loves slutty college freshmen. However, there are risks to having the sexiest lawn on the block. If your lawn is appealing, people and animals will notice. They will appreciate the work you have done. They will admire it. And, most importantly, they will want to fuck it. You must come to understand this mindset, this fear that all the work they have put into making a beautiful lawn will only lead to negative attention. Your neighbor is terrified. Your neighbor is terrified that you are going to rape the living shit out of his special blend of Kentucky and Hawaiian grass seed like a tertiary character on CW teen programming.

And so you must.

Now, am I seriously advocating that you waltz over to Jenkins' lawn one sunny morning, walk to the center of it, drop your pants and underwear and start grinding your crotch against his grass? Well, sure, I suppose you could approach it like that. Its certainly creepy and will get the point across. Personally, I think that is both a little too blunt, and not nearly devastating enough.

First off, you need to prolong the asshole's suffering for as long as possible. Simply getting it all over with in one fell swoop is only going to give him about fifteen minutes of duress, unless he or she has a stroke. You do not want either of these to happen. You want to inflict weeks, if not months or even years of intense emotional agony. You eventually want Jenkins to spend his nights in a cold sweat, staring at the ceiling and occasionally looking out his window, wondering if his beloved lawn is a dirty, filthy, lying whore. And you do not want to be held responsible if they have a stroke.

The first thing you need to do is prepare. You will need to do some light reading about actual lawn care, which can be achieved by skimming books at Home Depot or, better yet, a local home and garden center. Buy some window boxes, and begin growing flowers in your bedroom window, but leave a 10"x5" open space. Acquire an old, manually operated push mower, and store it somewhere besides your house, such as your brothers house in the next town. Find a new route for walking you dog - one that does not take him past your neighbor's lawn. Set aside a small amount of money to eventually repair your own lawn mower.

Once all the preparations are made, it is time for you to be personally introduced to the lawn. You need to approach your neighbor one afternoon while he is tending to his lawn and give him a compliment. Do not compliment the beauty of the lawn itself, however, as this may rouse overt jealousy and suspicion in him. Compliment his handiwork. Maybe you should praise his skill at removing weeds or his obvious ability to maintain proper PH levels. What you are trying to do is win his trust so that he will invite you on to his actual property.

Next, you need to find a way to get him to let you actually care for his lawn. Explain to him that you wish you could get your lawn to look so nice, but its impossible because you own a dog. I recommend asking him to instruct you on his mowing technique. Trust me, this dude has a technique. There is a pattern to his movements because the way in which you cut your grass can effect the way light falls on each individual blade. If you are especially good at this seduction, he will actually allow you to push or drive the mower while he instructs you from the side. Simply being allowed to observe him in action, however, will suffice. Your goal for this portion of the operation is to become at least a relatively minor component of his lawn care process. Remember, he has to blame himself for what is to come.

Eventually, your neighbor will have to take a break from lawn care. Maybe he will be "headed up to the lake for a week". Maybe he will have to attend a funeral. The point is, something bigger will temporarily remove him from the stewardship of his one true love, and that is where you begin the actual affair with his lawn. By now, you should have won his trust. He sees you as his disciple. Seriously, you are not merely his student. He is lawn Jesus and you are his Peter. This guy is probably convinced that he is somehow saving everything that is good and decent by passing down his knowledge of keeping a fucking patch of green plants exactly two-point-three inches long. And so, he is finally entrusting you to tend to his greatest responsibility while he is called away to wear a mesh speedo and drink Budweiser while floating on an innertube on Sebagosaki Lake.

During your temporary stewardship of his lawn, you may be tempted to have inappropriate relations with it. Doing so would be totally counter productive to the long term goal of absolutely destroying this person. No, during your tenure, you must do the best job you possibly can maintaining his lawn. While you need to prove that you truly care about his lawn, he cannot know about your true intentions.

When he returns, he will be pleased and he will let his guard down as that first Summer ends. He will sleep easily through the Fall and Winter, because he knows that you are watching out for him and his lawn.

The destruction begins in the second year.

The first phase of destroying this asshole is to change the dynamic of his own relationship with his lawn. The following spring, stop complimenting his skill at maintaining the lawn, and start complimenting the lawn itself. Tell him that his lawn is beautiful. Compliment its smell, it's greenness and its softness. It now has power over you, not him.

Continue your neighborly relationship. Keep it friendly, respectful, but personally distant. Never let on that you hate him with every fiber of your being that isn't allocated to hating every other living thing.

Retrieve the manual push mower. Think of it as your stealth bomber. On Midsummer's Eve, while he is sleeping, quietly mow a small section of his grass with a push mower. Only mow about a two foot strip at most; just enough that he knows it was mowed by someone else. Return the push mower to wherever you are storing it and thoroughly clean the vehicle you used to transport it, inside and out, so as not to leave any evidence.

At the end of the summer, sabotage your own lawn mower so that it visibly breaks down in front of him. Ask to borrow his mower so that you can have a nice looking lawn before you take your mower to be repaired. Mow his lawn when you are finished with yours, claiming you thought you'd surprise him by doing him a favor.

And so ends the second mowing season. Your neighbor is now confused and slightly concerned that hs lawn is sending you the wrong message.

Shortly after his first lawn care session of the year, cut a pair of 5"x5" squares of grass from the middle of his lawn while he is at work, and put them in a window box in your bedroom. A few weeks later, invite him over for a beer. Place one lawn section in the fridge, in a place where it will be easily spotted and leave the other in the window box. Be sure to point out the window box when you show him the bedroom. If he asks about the grass, quickly change the subject. When the tour is over, tell him that you have a variety of beers in the fridge, and insist that he pick his own. When he sees that chunk of grass in your fridge, he will realize that you are the Ed Gein of grass.

And that's when you violate his lawn with your genitals. Oh yes. And by the way, congratulations, you just won.

-When it's about claustrophobia-

What if it's about more than just the lawn? What if your neighbor feels that the world is slowly, but obnoxiously encroaching on a little more of their personal sanctuary with each passing second, and is using you as the focus of their otherwise helpless rage?

In the previous few centuries, American's who couldn't stand vinyl siding or lawn ornaments had the option of regularly moving farther and farther out into the frontier. Now the only American frontier is Alaska, and, really, if you hate obnoxious, filthy people, the last place you want to be is Alaska. So what is someone like this to do? Simply put, they turn into judgmental, semi-confrontational assholes.

As a hateful man, you may come to view the suburban claustrophobic as a comrade in your war on the obnoxiousness of the world around you, as they clearly hate everyone as much as you do. DO NOT BE FOOLED. The suburban claustrophobic may be like you in some ways, but his methods are cowardly and weak, there is no joy in his actions, and he ultimately lives only to bring misery to others, not to advance the cause of hatefulness.

The suburban claustrophobic will never confront you directly if you are the target of their rage. Close range human contact makes them incredibly uncomfortable because they are unable to assert dominance over other adults. Instead, they will strike at you through your children or your mailbox. You will know that you are dealing with a suburban claustrophobic when one of the following things happen;

** They confront your children about problems they have with things your children are doing on on your property.

** They post defensive, religious signs during the holiday season and leave pamphlets about Satanism, drug abuse and spousal battery in your mailbox.

** They attempt to form a home owners association and/or neighborhood watch in your sparsely populated neighborhood whose sole purposes are to attempt to have you legally evicted over trivial bullshit like leaving a snow shovel out on your driveway while you go inside to relieve your bl adder or have your teenage offspring stopped by the police for walking on the street after 4:30 PM.

Violating a suburban claustrophobic takes far less effort but more monetary investment than dealing with a true lawn asshole, as you have to damage your own property values. The lawn they are concerned with is not so much the physical green space as it is their peace of mind and feeling of limited control of the world around them.

Begin by taking up "composting". Notice the quotation marks. By composting, I mean leaving things like scrap metal and old wooden planks with nails sticking out of them in heaps on the edge of your property so that they can slowly rust of rot into minerals and fertilizer for future generations.

Put up your halloween decorations the first weekend of August. Don't just go for the traditional pumpkins and friendly, dancing skeletons, either. Conjure up a scene of reanimated, desecrated corpses of Liberian child soldiers attacking a group of missionaries, or a larger than life, 3-D tribute to the great Cannibal Corpse album covers of the early to mid-nineties. We're talking Tomb of the Mutilated, here. On November 1st, put red christmas lights up over your halloween decorations and them leave them up until next May, never taking any steps to fix any damage that may occur to the props throughout the winter. Come the first weekend in May, smash the decorations with an axe and throw them on the compost heap.

Help your children build a clubhouse. Start by purchasing an unfinished, wooden shed designed to look like a cottage. After a day or two, start adding on to the cottage. Knock a hole in the roof and build a poorly constructed tower and crows nest. Next begin building a half-pipe on one side of the structure. DO NOT FINISH THE HALF-PIPE. Begin to build a wooden tire swing that expands out from the tower. DO NOT FINISH THE TIRE SWING. Leave the tire swing in condition that resembles a gallows and leave the tire sitting on your lawn. Dig a partial mote around the club house, but stop before completely encircling the structure, and casually note to any neighbors who may have contact with the claustrophobic that you think you may have hit an old septic tank while digging. Finally, decide that the entire structure is unsafe, smash it up with an axe, and drag it towards your ever expanding "compost" heap.

Read up on local laws regarding livestock. Can you raise chickens within city limits? If so, build an enormous henhouse and buy one hen. Allow the hen to be killed by local predators. Partially smash the henhouse with an axe, and throw it on the compost heap.

Continue adding to your "compost" heap. Eventually, it should begin to close in on their property. At some point, the city will force you to clean up your mess. And that is when you demonstrate that your neighbors themselves are powerless to stop you by sexually violating their lawn.

-When your neighbor is merely being over-protective of their stupid, ugly children-

Maybe your neighbor isn't really concerned about their lawn or the world encroaching upon their sanctuary. Somehow they have formed a bond that requires them to constantly protect their apparently helpless, common senseless, immune system-less children instead of finding them to be cloying little wieners like you do.

Weird, I know.

What do you do if one of these hyper-nervous, overbearing, under-tolerant spore factories starts attempting to encroach on your existence by threatening to call the cops on you or your normal, healthy, intelligent children for walking your dog past their property?

First of all, when confronted by an over-protective parent, do not apologize to them. Be honest with them. You did nothing wrong, and as such you are not sorry.

Read up on your town ordinances regarding animals and property. If the laws allow your animal to be on another person's property so long as they are on a leash and are not causing damage to the property, you are in luck.

If you plan to fight back, do not stop walking your dog past their house. Do not, however, allow your animal to defecate or urinate on their lawn. Just allow it to move across their property. Also, be sure to carry plastic bags to retrieve any droppings. You need to be as responsible and in the right as possible. As long as your dog is not actually damaging their lawn, there's really not anything they can do, short of building a fence, and if they build a fence, you've won early.

When they next confront you - and believe me, they will confront you - calmly explain that you always remove any excrement, you've read the town ordinances, and there's nothing illegal about what you are doing. Go on to explain that while you are sure to remove any excrement your dog may leave on their lawn, you are doing so only for aesthetic reasons, and that you don't care about the well-being of their apparently excrement eating children.

Have a change of heart around the holidays. Send the family an apology letter. You were being rash. You really do care about the well-being of their children, and their mother bear behavior just caught you off guard. Then send them a gift basket containing floss, toothbrushes and paste, breath strips, anti-worm medications for dogs, lysol, rubber gloves and antibacterial soap. Continue sending gift baskets every Christmas, Easter, May Day, Mothers Day, Fathers Day and on Abraham Lincoln's birthday.

Go to Sam's club or another bulk goods store and by the biggest container of antibacterial gel you can find. Keep it in a conspicuous place and whenever they pass your property, make a big show of using it. Hose down the street or sidewalk once they have passed by. Make it clear that you regard them as unclean.

Over the course of the next few halloweens, you need to establish your house as The House to Visit on halloween. Give out Dove Bars wrapped in five dollar bills. By the time their children are old enough to insist which houses they HAVE to hit up, you will be an impossible to resist target. When their children show up, give them Payday wrapped in a coupon for a bottle of Purell, a wink and a grin.

Finally, make some guacamole on the Fourth of July. Put it in a disposable diaper, and leave it uncovered in the fridge to oxidize for a few hours so that it turns a brownish color. Eat the brown guacamole from the diaper with your bare hands while walking back and forth past their property, alternately sobbing "Look what you made me do! I m eating my shame!" and singing the Star Spangled Banner. Then sexually violate their lawn for good measure, ensuring victory.