I Pretty Much Hate Humanity

posted in People on May 31, 2007


I don’t know what it is about humans. We all live, breath, eat, poop. We all wake up to the same sun. We all fall asleep to the same moon. We’re all the same. Well, I’ll change that slightly: we’re all the same except for assholes. See, normal people…they aren’t assholes. But some people have that special quality that pushes them just so far out of the realm of normalcy that they have no idea what it’s like to not be an asshole. Scientists have studied long and hard over the past century to pin down what causes assholiness. They’ve looked at detailed reports on Hitler, Grendel, and The Big, Bad Wolf – among other famous assholes – to finally prove that indeed they held the keys to unlocking the mystery. What was found astonished the world: a nucleic acid imbalance in all of these famous figures concluded that assholes are different from normal human beings; in fact they are a subclass of humans that we should all spit on and pity.

The picture you’re seeing illustrates what science has found. Basically what we have here is that instead of Adenine – part of your normal balanced diet of nucleotide bases – assholes simply have what is referred to as the Asshole Nucleotide. If you spot one of these in the wild, be sure to take out any concealed weapon you have and beat them to death with it (wasting bullets can get expensive). “But why all the hate? What did an asshole ever do to you?” you may wonder. Well, honestly, assholes are hard to spot. Like a werewolf, their true nature can be disguised until certain mystical phenomenon turn them into the beasts they are. For me, tonight, under a beautiful moon illuminating dewy grass, a human turned into an asshole when he DECIDED TO PULL MY MIRROR OFF.

I was laying in bed, like most humans do at night, placing a novel I had just finished reading on my nightstand. My window was open so I could be lulled by the chirp of eager crickets and the wind passing through the leaves of the tree outside. Just then, as I was reaching to turn off my lamp, the phone rang. Caller ID, one of my favorite inventions of the 20th century (eat your heart out sliced bread), dutifully relayed to me that the caller was “CAMPUS SECURITY.” With a sigh, I reached for the reciever with my mind jumping to what normally constitutes one of these calls. Generally, someone is loitering outside the dorm or they have found their way onto the ledge outside of their room. Unfortunately, it’s the summer. No one lives here. My heart dropped with an uncertain dread as I lifted the phone.

Hello, is this Garret Evans?”
“Yes ma’am, what can I do for you?”
“Well, it seems that you have some damage to your car. Would this be new damage or old damage?”
“Well, it would have to be new damage; it was fine earlier.”
“Alright. We have an officer inspecting your vehicle right now if you would like to take a look.”
“Ok. Thank you.”

My shorts that had just been thrown on the floor not fifteen minutes prior made their way back on to my strong, extremely masculine body as I headed outside. I met the officer and he showed me the destruction. Someone had decided, as they were walking by my car, to pull my driver’s side mirror off. I don’t know what possessed them (a bad burrito, gum on their shoes, a tonic from the local apothecary), but they had at that moment of vandalism become the biggest asshole I know; the largest, gapingest, could-fit-a-Louisville-Slugger-up-there-iest asshole I know. Essentially, whoever this guy was, he was like the balloon knot on an elephant: living out his days as a shit covered, last-sphincter-in-the-line, pacadermian asshole.

As you can see from the photos, my car is dirty. AND OH YEAH THERE’S NO MIRROR THERE. I wonder who could have done that? Oh right! Maybe it was that asshole I just mentioned! I thanked the officer there for noticing that my car had been royally screwed, and made my way back inside. The moist air stayed in my lungs for a while, causing me to cough angrily as I pondered my next move. Since we have no motive on record and no suspect, a police report would do pretty much nothing. I don’t know of anyone who would do this, and, from the look of it, it didn’t seem premeditated at all. It most likely was just some random asshole, which by now you can probably guess that that is what I’m placing my bets on.

So to finish up this fantastical journey, I’ve decided to chronical this night’s events in this post for all to share. As I wind this puppy down, taking the Garret Emotional Meter from “Damned Angry” to “Bloody Tired Because It’s 5AM,” I will leave you with some parting wisdom: get a garage as soon as you can, lest rabid assholes tear your car limb from limb.

P.S. Sorry if I offended anyone with the rampant use of the word “asshole” in this post. I seemed to think it added a certain flair, not unlike when Emeril Lagasse spices a steamed ham with his famous phrase or when J.J. uttered “DYNOMITE!” on Good Times.