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..