A Cry For Help

This is a different kind of post.

As I mentioned in a previous post, in February my fiancee and I had a very special little girl. Since then, we’ve been struggling to keep the household up and running while dealing with a mountain of medical bills, as well as the usual pressures of everyday life.

Things have finally reached the breaking point. Instead of treading water, we’re starting to sink.

We need a miracle. We’re both doing everything we can to try and make ends meet. This is sort of a last ditch effort.

I work full time, she stays at home and cares for our daughter, Mallory. Last night, at our wits end, we decided to create a gofundme to ask for help. 

We’re private people who prefer to keep to ourselves. I joke about hating every one and everything, but the truth is I’d rather just be left alone to live my life and care for my family. At this point, I’m unable to do that, so I’m trying this.

She’s reactivated her Facebook in an attempt to garner help and support, so I felt that I had to do anything I could to help.

Any help at all would be greatly appreciated, even if it’s just a reblog ( I’m looking at you, OM! You’ve followed me since “you ain’t special”, I know all about your online army! JK).

We’ve reached out to friends and family, none of whom are able to help (I don’t have any, hers are unable or unwilling to help). We’ve approached every charitable organization in the area, and they’re all either “out of funds” or “unable to assist”.

I never expected to be begging for help online, but here it is. Details are at the link, I don’t have the heart to write it all here.

Thanks for anything, and sorry.

Questions or comments, overwhelming need to call me a lying, deceitful dickhead, etc., send here: mikef9824@gmail.com (that’s my REAL email address)

Thanks again for anything.

Shame On You

I’ve been MIA recently because there’s been a lot going on here at the Hate household. I started a new career, we bought a new car, and we had a baby. She’s fucking amazing.

She was born premature, weighing at 6 lbs. even, and she was born with a condition known as frontonasal dysplasia. The long and the short of it is; mommy has some genes, I have some genes, and together those genes form like Voltron to terrify the living shit out of us. It’s basically like a cleft palate, only higher. We spent a harrowing 4 weeks in the NICU at St. Joseph’s while they ran test after test. Finally, they determined that there are no developmental disabilities whatsoever and it’s wholly cosmetic. They’re already on track to perform corrective surgery when she hits the 10 month mark.

We got off light. She’s amazing and adorable and perfectly healthy. She’s 4 months old now, and she’s as big as an 8 month old. She’s ahead of the curve as far as baby milestones go; she can roll over on her own already and support herself on her hands and knees. Soon enough she’ll be crawling around hating shit and making her daddy proud.

Which leads me to the topic of this new post.

We’re currently relocating from Pinellas County, Florida to Pasco County, Florida. There’s simply too many people (especially scientologists, the crazy fuckers) in the city, so we decided to move to the middle of fucking nowhere.

Anyway, on Friday, we were headed out to sign our new lease, and the baby decided she simply HAD to eat. We pulled off into a Walgreen’s parking lot, mixed up a bottle, and started feeding her. While we were there, an obnoxiously large, bright red truck pulled into the parking space next to us. My fiancée and I watched as a woman resembling a busted, aging Jacksonville stripper got out of the truck and entered the Walgreen’s, not batting an eye as she LEFT A FUCKING TODDLER IN THE BACK SEAT OF THE TRUCK.

She was the topic of conversation for the next fifteen minutes, both of us getting more and more worked up as the talk continued. When she returned, my fiancée delicately questioned her parenting skills. It wasn’t exactly a conversation, because the hooker wouldn’t even acknowledge the fact that she’s a worthless, disgusting, horrible cunt of a mother. It was entertaining to hear my fiancee say things like, “You’re a negligent fucking bitch of a mother.” and “Who leaves a fucking kid in a car, in Florida, you pathetic cunt?!” The “lady” climbed into her truck and took off without a word.

BUT THAT’S NOT ALL FOLKS…

For future reference, I’d suggest that if you’re going to do something as stultifyingly fucking awful as leaving your toddler in a car while you go buy make-up to cover your meth scars and cocoa butter for the fake tits hanging from your sunken, aging chest, maybe…just…maybe, you shouldn’t have the name of your business plastered on the rear windshield of said vehicle.

I guess this never occurred to the aging trophy wife who runs “Painted For You By Me” in Dunedin, Florida. (That’s right, you fucking cow; this ain’t a post on your motherfucking Facebook page, sandwiched between pictures of shitty furniture that you’ve painted to look even shittier, that you can delete before any of your 2000+ followers get a chance to see it; you ignoble slut.)

Here I am with a beautiful baby that we weren’t even sure was going to survive her first night, and this glorified cock holster is perfectly comfortable leaving her small child unattended; unless you consider a dvd an acceptable baby-sitter. I wonder if her husband knows she does this shit. I wonder if the people who support her sad excuse for a business know. If I have my way, they soon will…

Diets

It’s hard to believe that in January of 2014, nearly two years ago, I weighed 320 lbs. There’s no excuse for it; I didn’t have a medical condition (they haven’t classified “cheeto-itis” yet, right?), I wasn’t sitting around suffering from mind-numbing, soul-crushing depression; I was just a lazy fat ass (my apologies to any lazy fat asses who may be reading this and take offense, almost nothing is about you, you fat bastard. All that repetitive breathing must be making you tired, you should nap). Since then, I’ve lost 140 lbs and managed to keep most of it off. Today I’m going to share my story, as well as some tips and tricks I’ve learned to lose (and keep off) the weight.

The first few weeks were the absolute worst. I had to ease myself into the huge dietary changes I planned on making, so I’d eat my usual breakfast (a home-made 3 egg, sausage, and cheese breakfast burrito washed down with nearly a quart of whole milk), then sit around playing video games while I awaited the typical morning explosion. Thus fueled and filtered, I’d haul my jiggly frame out of the house and hop on my bike to begin the first leg of my exciting new journey to health and wellness. (That’s right, a BIKE motherfucker! Big, sweaty, wheezy dude on a bike coming right at ya!)

Now, you may be thinking , “This fat fuck pedaled his ass to the goddamned gym everyday to engage in some strenuous exercise regimen.” Uh-uh, douche-bags, I rode my fat, sweaty ass nearly 5 whole miles to the local Wal-Mart, where I’d park my ample posterior right outside the front doors. I’d sit there for hours, watching the sea of “average Americans” flowing in and out of America’s favorite purveyor of cheap, Chinese products. IT WAS BRUTAL. Don’t get me wrong, I knew I was no prize pig, but these folks…

I saw it all; fat women, men, children, even fat babies. Not the adorable, chubby, nearly newborn kind of babies, either, I’m talking big, fat ass, cheeseburgers and fries for dinner type babies. The store regularly ran out of those little motorized cart thingies due to the sheer number of heifers. This particular Wal-Mart had a McDonald’s inside, so some days I’d wander in to see how many of the piggies (some of whom I’d seen eating on their way in) stopped to eat before — or after, or during — their shopping excursion (and to buy a couple Big Macs, who we kidding?).

I’d spend this time reflecting on the blob I’d become and giving myself little pep talks. Did you know fat people have exceptionally sharp hearing? They do. I can’t tell you how many near confrontations I had because some tubbo overheard my private musings.

“Did you just call me Greaso, The Clown Who’d Eat Himself?!”

“I’m talking to myself, Greaso. I’m obviously unhinged and dangerous. Waddle the fuck away before I stake you with a celery stalk or something…” (They’re like vampires, right?)

After a few weeks of this, I found myself with only two options; either I implemented PHASE 2 of my plan, or I laid in a bathtub full of candy and slowly ate myself to death. So, it was off to the gym for your porcine hero.

The gym. I still have nightmares about this place. All the grunting and sweating, loud noises. It was like being on the set of the world’s shittiest porn, minus the nudity and sex (though considering it was two minutes from my house, I have no idea what went on in the locker rooms). The first month or so was simple; iPod in, stationary bike for an hour, GTFO.

About two months into my routine, an old man approached me and attempted to strike up a conversation:

“Hey guy, I noticed you when you started coming. Great work, how much weight have you lost so far?

“About 35 lbs. you weird, stalkery old fuck. What’s it to  ya?”

“Ju-jus-ju…”

“Spit it out, Porky Pig. You’re blocking the road.”

“You know what? Fuck you, buddy. I came over here to give you a compliment.”

“Yeah, thanks for interrupting my workout, you old gimp. Why don’t you go have a heart attack on the rowing machine or something?”

The journey nearly ended there. I’d been kicked out of plenty of places, but I’d never had a membership revoked before. I spent a few days drowning my sorrows in Ben & Jerry’s, then got right back on the horse; albeit this time in public.

I’ll relate some of my further adventures in weight loss at a later date. For now, I’ll just leave you with some tips:

  1. Stop eating fucking garbage. Seriously, you can’t believe that anything you get at Burger King or Taco Bell could be healthy for you.I don’t care what the First Lady or anyone else tells you about “moderation”. That’s complete horse shit. Some things just AREN’T good for you, no matter how infrequently you partake.
  2. Move your goddamned ass. This is the most important tip I can give you. Get off your couch and move. If you’re too fat to run or bike, walk. Just do something.
  3. Don’t give up. It’s easy to get discouraged, especially since you probably won’t see results right away. Keep at it. One day, you’ll notice fewer rolls under your boobs, or that you don’t run out of breath going from the couch to the toilet.

That’s all I got for today. Stay tuned for my latest venture: MOVIE REVIEWS!

 

 

 

 

The Playground

The Playground, 11:09 am, 12/18/2016

“Step-daddy, can I take my shoes off and play barefoot?”

Fuck no, you can’t take off your shoes. All these dirty little bastards running around here, you’ll probably wind up with warts, or a staph infection, or Lord knows what. I wouldn’t put it past one of these grubby little dirt merchants to bite off one of your fucking toes while you’re on your way up a ladder.

Shoes stay on, and don’t talk to any adults here except your mommy or me; half the men look like they should be having a sit down with Chris Hansen, and most of the women are acting thirsty as fuck, cruising for dick like they’re at prime rib and shrimp night at Golden Corral instead of on a fucking playground surrounded by small children.

Don’t believe me, check this bitch out. Yeah buddy, the one in the tank top and booty shorts covered in meaningless (but colorful) tattoos. She’s so mesmerized checking out dick pics or whatever on her goddamned iPhone she STILL hasn’t noticed that her three-year-old is bleeding after taking a header off the fucking slide.

How about the meathead following his small daughter around, climbing onto every single piece of play equipment with her, other children be damned. You’re right buddy, he does look like a superhero; a superhero that’s skipped leg day for the last fifteen years. I’m more concerned for his safety on the jungle gym than I am his toddler. A strong wind could snap his ankles.

Hold on buddy, let’s watch mommy cut loose on this strange older woman in the colorful (LOUD) pastel outfit. See little guy, adults should cover their fucking mouths when they cough in public; especially if they’re sitting next to a pregnant woman, and even more so if they’re in a park surrounded by small children who pick up viruses like Eddie Murphy at a transvestite convention. Yeah, mommy’s funny isn’t she?

We’re not here to be polite, or societal. We’re here because this adorable little five-year-old, and most of the rest of these children, haven’t figured out what your mommy and I deduced long ago: most people aren’t worth the skin they’re in. Some lessons they have to learn on their own.

 

Dog Owners

I feel like any business (other than, you know, PET stores) that allows non-service animals through their doors should be perfectly okay with people (I.E. me) spitting on their fucking floors. If enough people start operating under this premise, and explain their reasoning calmly and concisely, maybe we can move past this bullshit.

I’m sick of going into businesses and seeing people with fucking dogs. In strollers, on leashes, unleashed, being held. It’s a fucking epidemic at this point. I’ve seen stupid little dogs in their owners arms, chewing their gonads like they’ve discovered the Lost Dutchman Goldmine, then stretching and sniffing — sometimes LICKING– produce at the local Wal-Mart. I’ve seen them shit and piss on the floor, and the owners just scoop their little asses up and walk away like nothing happened. This shit is unacceptable.

Speaking of shit…if you feel responsible enough to own a dog, you should be responsible enough to clean up their fucking feces. I have; and no doubt will again at some point in the future; been ready to throw down and whip someone’s ass because they thought it was acceptable to let their animal shit in my yard. If I wanted to clean up shit, I’d invite my retarded cousins over more often.

It’s not like it’s even difficult to acquire a service animal vest. You can literally buy them on the fucking internet with no proof required whatsoever. People don’t even bother, because “polite society” allows them to just continue to get away with this fucking nonsense. Not me, I’ll say something. Furthermore, if it comes down to it, I’ll fight you AND your fucking dog. Eat shit.

One more thing, FUCK YOUR “THERAPY ANIMAL”. If you’re so fucked up that you can’t leave the house without your “companion animal” then fuck you, starve bitch. You’re one of the reasons this goddamned planet so overpopulated to begin with.

Drivers

Here’s a thought; howsabout you put down that cheeseburger, take that goddamned cellphone away from your dirty ass ear, tell those trollish little hellspawn you call children to shut the fuck up and DRIVE YOUR FUCKING CAR LIKE YOU’VE GOT SOME SENSE?

I like to drive. I like to drive fast. The difference between me and 90% of you mouth-breathing jackasses is that I don’t drive while distracted. Believe it or not, I don’t even own a cell-phone. I know the responsibility that comes with manning a (nearly) 4000 pound rolling death-trap, and I don’t want to be responsible for leaving some family splattered across the highway because Daddy has to check the latest sports scores while he’s rolling down the highway with his kids in the car; or Mommy wants to flirt with the kid’s grade-school teacher on Facebook when she’s cruising through a school zone. I keep my eyes open for all you idiots, and it’d be nice if some of you started returning the favor.

A lot of the time, when I’m driving, I have a five-year old and a (currently) pregnant woman in the truck with me, but those times that I don’t…I’m not kidding when I say it takes every ounce of willpower I possess to stop myself from driving my truck straight up your fucking ass. Some dickhole doesn’t like the way the guy in front of him is driving so he cuts over to the left; directly in front of me, who happens to be going 25 miles an hour faster than him; and I’m forced to slam on the brakes. One of these days I’m just not going to bother.

Let’s talk about turn signals for a second. You know, that little lever on the left side of your steering column? It must be some heretofore unknown mutant ability that allows me to hit that thing every time I change lanes or want to make a turn. That’s the only explanation I can come up with for why so many assholes on the road don’t seem to know they exist. That little lever just might save your fucking life one day.

Road rage? Maybe reactionary road rage. I keep a 10 pound sledgehammer in the back of my truck specifically to deter people from getting too riled up. Living in Florida, my significant other is constantly asking, “What’s gonna happen someday when someone pulls a gun on you?” I’ll get shot, that’s what. But, God willing, I’ll get my hands on that sad bastard before I drop.

When I drive, my responsibility is to look out for myself and my family. If you can’t be bothered to do that, you deserve whatever you get.

 

Teen Mom

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source: MTV

At what point does reality tv stop being “real”? These vapid, fame-obsessed young whores should thank their lucky stars that MTV decided to make a spectacle of their lives. At age 41, I’m about to have my first child. My partner has a five-year old son from a previous marriage, and even with my “decent” full-time job we have to take advantage of every sort of assistance we can find. This means weekly trips to the food bank, SNAP and medicaid for her and our unborn child, and helping hands from friends and family to (barely) eke out a comfortable life. Meanwhile, MTV has gone ahead and created an entire cast — hell, entire SEASONS– of entitled, morally dubious dickheads.

Let’s consider the cast from the original series.

There’s Farrah…I defy anyone to try to convince me that MTV didn’t create a fucking monster here. She was bad enough on the original 16 & Pregnant, but on Teen Mom she’s an absolute fucking nightmare. This bitch, by herself, gives the entire cast of Keeping Up With The Kardashians a run for their money. I’d be hard-pressed to name another person who epitomizes the shallowness; and uselessness; of most of the population of the planet.

I really liked Maci at first, but her display of what I like to call “sliding scale morality” really turned the page for me. For her to attempt to claim the moral high ground when MTV brought Farrah back to the show; refusing to let her son be filmed; really left a bad taste in my mouth. Here she is, having lived with two different men (neither of which was her baby daddy) before her son was age 7, suddenly deciding to play little miss prim and proper over Farrah’s “colorful” resume (you know, the whole “fucking on film for money” thing).

Catelynn (and Tyler) seemed to have their heads together, but if you pay attention you’ll see that the cameras have gotten to them too. They should thank whatever Gods they believe in that their daughter’s adoptive parents are such nice people, because the way they act like Carly is still their daughter makes me sick.

After watching the series, the only parent I have an iota of sympathy for is Amber. Firstly, she fucked Gary. I’m not sure there’s a grosser person on the planet than this worthless tub of shit. I’ve known plenty of fat people, and I’ve never seen one spread out the way this fat fuck does when he sits down. It’s like jello released from a mold.

The main reason I feel bad for her is because I believe that the entire crew of the show, from the lowliest sound man, all the way up to the network executives, failed this young woman as she struggled with addiction. You’re gonna tell me no one — NO ONE– Heather the producer, Doctor fucking Drew, even JJ the counselor from Seasons luxury dayspa rehab could tell she was fucking high?! The only qualifications I have are being born and raised in fucking Baltimore, and I could tell she was high as a fucking kite at that “rehab”. Dr. Drew I can understand; he’s just a glory-hound masquerading as a medical professional. His television show, Celebrity Rehab, could arguably be said to have CAUSED deaths rather than preventing them. If there’s a Hell, it’s where this prick will spend eternity, offering pop-psych “treatment” to anyone dumb enough to listen; then sitting alone in a pool of tears in a giant, empty mansion, because Hell for him would be no media exposure. CUNT. There’s no excuse for this, and I can’t believe the network, that “doctor”, and that “rehab” were never investigated because of that.

At the end of the day, I guess I’m glad that these girls have it so easy. They’ll never have to worry about whether or not they’ll be able to provide for their families. They’ll never have to be concerned about being productive members of society. Their children will never have to play the fun games I did as a child; games like “Will my family’s shit be on the curb when I get home from school today?”, and “How can I do my homework when the electricity is turned off?” Reality my dick.

Fuck MTV.