sweatin the small stuff

I have this subject I’ve wanted to address for the past few weeks but I’ve been at a loss at how to put it properly into words. But after jumping off a boat into the middle of a lake and only then understanding the impact of not knowing how to swim.

And after getting my apartment ransacked and having some very cool weapons left to me by my father stolen, plus don’t let me forget the “special” mood two day’s and nights without sleep due to insomnia gave me. I think my inner child has been slapped in the nuts enough to address this issue.

Ok, so you know how it is when you like something whither it be biking or going to the movies or whatever, and you meet some cat who likes the same things you do but kind’a takes it to a different level? Take for example you like to bicycle and what makes you happy is taking out your old bike in the evenings and riding a few miles with some friends.

But of course there’s always some douchketeer in the group all geared out like they’re fuckin Lance Armstrong who stares at you in your running shorts and tank top like you don’t belong. Now where you live might be a different story but around here I call these kinds of fucktwits Elitist.

Elitist are people who in their minds see their personal abilities, wealth, specialized training or other attributes placing them at the top of the so called hipster food chain. These are also the cats who take the joy and fun out of things due to their so high and mighty attitude.

As me personally, I hate the fuck out of these Olestra potato chip eating muthafuckers. Wait, hate is such a strong word………..ahhhh fuck it, I really hate elitist muthafuckers and fuck them for breathing up all my air. Take for example I happen to love live music, the louder and crunchier the better I say. I’m entertained by it all and better if it’s being done by someone local.

But then here comes some elitist cock-gagger who’s complaining that the local music scene sucks because they never play the bands or music he or she likes. And what does this Elvis Costello looking muthafucker like? Some obscure band who not only recorded their shit in a fuckin stinkin assed barn full of bat guano for the sound but are keeping it “real” by refusing to sell their music on days ending with a fuckin y.

So because of this, all this peabag does is hang out with his goatee wearin friends drinking dark beer and bad mouthing the local scene for not being authentic. And it could be anything, food, music, art, sports, even blogging, it doesn’t matter.

You try to enjoy some shit and before you can say “is that a blue nosed tiny fister coming this way”, some elitist rat bastard fuck will try to ruin it for you. That’s when I pick up my ball and head home, cause when it stops being fun is when I say fuck you.


"and the monkey flipped the switch"