I hate Shaw with his absurd posturing about females
  who want to get in his pants to capture his spermatozoa.
I hate Henry James for writing sentences  so convoluted,
   it takes a cryptologist to figure them out.
I hate Hemingway for his drunken brags
  and his monosyllabic stiff upper lip crap.
I hate Pollack with his drunken dribbles.
I hate monochromatic paintings.
I hate people who stand around looking at
   monochromatic paintings and saying,
   “ Hmmm, this is interesting.”
I hate Mencken for his smug, semi-fascist
  exaggerations of American foibles.
I hate Frost for coming from California
  and assuming a New England accent,
  and for telling his daughter one poet
  in the family is enough.
I hate Byron for his total fascination with himself.
I hate Wolf Bitzer For saying  Situation Room a thousand times
I hate Wordsworth for being so damned superior,
  then selling out his liberal friends.
I hate creative writing graduates who simplistically think anything in rhyme  or passive voice must be amateurish.
I hate Fitzgerald for writing the best book ever written,
  then pickling his brain in alcohol.
I hate people who brag that they are Number One in anything.
I hate old Floridians who come out of Po Folks wearing baseball caps
  and chewing a toothpick.  
I hate my wife for not letting me have a second martini.
I hate all politicians who are millionaires,
   no matter what their political philosophy.
I hate old men who wear Bermuda shorts,
  black socks and wing-tip shoes.
I hate curmudgeons like me who think that because they are old
  they can say whatever they want to without getting
  punched in the mouth..

(2008)

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