Is it because I skinny dip in mall fountains on Friday afternoons?
Is it because I wear designer sunglasses while showering?
Is it because my clip-on tie collection sold for $3,000 on eBay last year?
Is it because I have a Santa Claus tattoo covering up a Keith Richards tattoo on my inner left thigh?
Is it because I smoke Quaaludes at senior citizen orgies in the spring?
Please, give me an itemized list of why you hate me. I’m writing a memoir. Go!
And please don’t tell me it’s because I wear knee socks and a wet suit to the opera.
I do not hate you. With more information provided it is just about possible that I could hate something you would be up to, although it doesn’t seem that way. However I will never hate you because I do not believe the you that experiences things (at the most fundamental level) has free will.
I hate you because your Yahoo email account sends me spam. I’m OK with the other stuff, and in fact I think that you should be skinny dipping in mall fountains at least three times a week. Especially if they have those ultra cool color changing lights. You should totally make sure that you do your dipping during the light show.
My email still sends you spam? Okay, I’m putting that in my memoir. That’s a legit reason for hate.
Weak sauce. Next!
Several years ago you bumped the we-have-pigeon-eggs thread and I can never forgive you for that.
You put ketchup on your hot dogs. Reason enough to hate anybody.
I don’t hate you, but I could learn how.
Do you remember that day? Yeah, that day. Well, I do. The things that you did and said that day couldn’t be forgiven by Gandhi himself. If I were to watch you roast in hell for a thousand years, it wouldn’t be enough.
And as if that wasn’t enough, I know that you look back on that day with fond reminiscence. What kind of sickness is that? You are a walking commercial for abortion advocacy. That day, the day that only you and I know about, is the reason I hate you.
Is that strong enough?
On the other hand, sorry about killing your thread. :smack:
You hang your toilet paper the wrong way.
I hate you because I don’t know what your name means.
I hate you because, according to the SDMB gallery, you hold your beer with your pinky finger out.
I hate you because according to the same source, you have a polka dot short sleeve shirt and a brown t-shirt with a bad sexual pun on it.
But I’m sure you’re a lovely person.
I hate you because your orange beard clashes with my red tie, and we live in the same world. Imagine the faux pas people will think I’ve committed when they realise this.
I hate you because you swept the Tony awards with your one man show about the childhood of William Howard Taft.
I only hate you because you are the kind of person who needs to know why I hate you.
Hate is too strong a word. Do I dislike you? Yes. Do you disgust me? Yes. Am I offended by your existence on this planet, or any other planet or stellar body? Yes. Would I rather die a slow, horrible death than be in your presence? Yes. But hate you, of course not, that would be unfriendly.
Indeed, I much prefer the people that go blithely through life, not caring one whit why I stare at them with the smoldering embers of Dante’s Second Level of Hell, imagining them hit by a runaway ice cream truck, their milquetoast physiques impaled by a hundred popsicle sticks in the twisted wreckage while the flames of unleaded gasoline mix with their lifeblood and melted red, white and blue Bomb-Pops, as I jump to my feet, laughing like a drunken hyena while tipping over my plateful of their worchestershire-marinated entrails and a insolent little Merlot from Argentina, and maniacally grabbing passers-by singing “You’re next, you’re next/Oh be not thou much vexed…” in a falsetto that’d make Freddie Mercury sound like Barry White and scaring the neighborhood urchins who are the only ones that see through my Hugh Beaumont-esque demeanor and glimpse the kind of apocolyptic hatred reserved for those who start self-absorbed internet discussions… and Oprah.
I hate your for constantly rubbing your happiness in everyone’s face.
That, and because, knowing what I know now, I can never drink from a mall fountain again.