4 Nuisances Of Being Home

They say there’s no place like home. While it has been quite fantastic to spend some time relaxing at home with my family now that finals are over, there are certain aspects of being home that I had forgotten how much I don’t like. Indeed, sadly, home doesn’t consist solely of gourmet food and a nice bed. So without further ado, I present – in all my glorious bitching – four things that have bothered me since I’ve come home.

Nothing says "Christmas" like a shouting match with your father over light placement

4. Putting Up Christmas Lights
There’s just nothing like a Christmas tradition. Every December, my parents hand me a string of sorry-ass fucking Christmas lights and a ladder (which, incidentally, is about as stable as the Zambian government) and give me one objective: Make the 25-foot leafless tree in front of our house look slightly more festive and slightly less flaccid. It’s especially fun when, after an hour spent climbing around the tree like a paraplegic chimpanzee, I finish decorating the tree to discover that approximately a quarter of the lights actually function. Ultimately, though, it’s worth the Christmas cheer. Every time I look at that pathetic tree and the lights which appear to have been put up by a blind lemur, I am filled with an overwhelming sense of holiday spirit. And by holiday spirit, I mean uncontrollable rage.

3. Losing To My Parents in Scrabble
I don’t know about you guys, but I love shit-talking (Side note: Being from Denver, Tim “The Jesus” Tebow has regaled me with a whole anthology of shit-talking materials). Therefore, when my parents suggest a casual post-dinner Scrabble game, I immediately acquire the attitude of a theoretical lovechild of Terrell Owens and Pau Gasol. This shit-talking strategy pays off richly, seeing as I often demolish my parents and subsequently run naked victory laps around the dining room table. And this isn’t me bragging about my Scrabble skills; the case is rather that my parents don’t give two shits about whether or not their placement of “twat” (I truly wish I were lying about my dad playing that in Scrabble) opens up availability to the Triple Word space. Tonight, however, my shit-talking strategy failed me, as I fell short by one point against my mom. Ugh. Now I just feel like a douche.

2. Star Wars Episode I: The Phantom Menace
I never thought it would be possible to make such a trainwreck out of a movie starring Natalie Portman, Ewan McGregor, and Samuel L. Jackson, but damn it all if it hasn’t been done. I mean, seriously, what a steaming cinematic shitstack. The kid who starred as Anakin Skywalker (out of principle, I’m not looking up the little fucker’s name) is more obnoxious than the Nyan Cat on methamphetamines. And Jar Jar Binks? I don’t know whose idea it was to combine the voice of an illiterate Louisiana swamp-person with the visual representation of a banana peel with birth defects, but that idea single-handedly ruined my childhood. Honestly, the only thing they could have done to make this movie any worse would be casting Nick Cage as Senator Palpatine. Yeah, just imagine it.

"To the nights you wish you could forget."

1. Vodka Commercials
Maybe this is something I’m just noticing now because I spend 8 hours a day watching TV (luhhhh vacation), but vodka commercials are absolutely preposterous. The one that I find most personally absurd is a Grey Goose commercial, featuring the tagline: “To the nights you’ll never forget.” I don’t know what sort of idiots are running the marketing department over at Grey Goose, but they clearly lack a fundamental understanding of alcohol. Granted, the tagline “To the nights you’ll blackout and then discover five weeks later that you vomited gratuitously” isn’t quite as catchy, but it is certainly more accurate. It just seems that somewhere in the attempt to craft a convincing image-based appeal, the morons over at Grey Goose forgot some of the drawbacks of downing vodka. If I were Grey Goose, I’d try something more along the lines of “To the poke wars you drunkenly initiated with the entirety of your high school government class” or “To the texts you receive from your mom the next morning saying ‘You might want to take that video off of Facebook.’”

Hate a Random Country: France

A Frenchman overcoming his existential ennui with wine, bread, and unbridled douchiness.

Have you ever had your testicles sawed off with a rusty butter knife at a Nickelback concert? Although that may sound like the worst possible fate one could suffer, there are over 60 million people in the world who suffer a fate much worse. I’m not talking about AIDS victims, I’m not talking about human rights violations – I’m not even talking about Cubs fans. I’m referring, of course, to the French. Those elitist semensicles are the physical embodiment of everything heinous about the world, which is a substantial claim, given that they inhabit the same planet as other notorious twatbarrels like Iceland and New Zealand.

I’d like to begin this exposè by clarifying one crucial point: The French did not help us to gain our independence. “Historians” may assert that the French came to our “rescue” in “boats,” but we all know that those were just patriotic pirates mistaken for Frenchmen because of their tragic speech impediments.

Don't be fooled by the buxom and idyllic French Lady Liberty

Now, where was I? Oh that’s right – I was talking about how France is the most pitiful heap of Le Scrotum upon which humanity ever laid its sorrowful eyes. The first point of scrutiny is their flag, which boasts the triumphant red, white, and blue color combination, just like the United States. Don’t be fooled, though – while the American flag’s colors stand respectively for valor, purity, and justice, the French flag is merely a white flag of surrender with red and blue bars symbolizing red wine and bleu cheese.

You can't sit with us! That's the second time this week you've worn pantaloons!

France’s history of “leadership” is also notably heinous. Ranging from Louis XIV (who held the title of “Biggest P-tripper” for almost 300 years until Sherman Ave was created) to Nicolas Sarkozy (the only attendant of the G20 summit who could easily double as a cast member on Jersey Shore), the presidency and monarchy of France were never lucky enough to see any George Washingtons or Andrew Jacksons take office. The most successful leader they had was Napoleon, who can only be compared to an atrocious illegitimate lovechild of Danny DeVito and Jim Cramer. Napoleon accomplished some things as a leader, but all of his achievements are effectively canceled out by the fact that his men killed Prince Bolkonsky. Fucker.

To be fair, it was the first French combat victory in quite a long time.

Another hilariously sad aspect of France is its athletic culture. Like most nations that are absolutely rancid, France’s national sport is soccer, or “football,” as known by Brits and hipsters. One of my personal favorite highlights in France’s history is the national team’s 17-1 loss to Denmark in 1908. I don’t think there’s really too much more I need to say here – I’ll just humbly point out how demoralizing it must be to get clobbered by a country whose Queen fucked her brother-in-law. However, an even more humiliating event in the team’s history happened in the 2006 World Cup Final, when Zinedine Zidane – someone who stands out as a douchegargler even among the French populace – found it necessary to blatantly headbutt a member of the opposing Italian team. And then they lost! That’s like being ass-raped and still getting pregnant. Better yet, when the French national team qualified for the 2010 World Cup, they didn’t even make it to the primary elimination round; they were bested by the national teams of Mexico, South Africa, and – I shit you not – Uruguay. That was certainly a gargantuan blow to their ego, but thankfully they have enough ego in just their waxed mustaches that it didn’t do any permanent damage.

Some pansy French guy, probably after finding out how fucking lame the 5th Republic is or something

If you’re looking for more reasons why France is innately inferior, the proof is in the crêpes. Remember that time we landed at Normandy and showed the Nazis that they were not(sy) going to win World War II, while the French were too busy cultivating their fucking grapes? Remember that time the French thought they were going to win the 4×100 swimming relay in the 2008 Summer Olympics, and then American bamf-stick Jason Lezak came from behind like he was Kobe Bryant (not a basketball reference)? Remember that time an American athlete with a trunk only half-full of junk (or half-empty, for all you private-part pessimists) went into France and beat them at their own sport 7 times in a row? Because I remember. So, to all Frenchmen and Frenchwomen (often a difficult distinction to make), I leave you with this last thought: Next time your flagrant self-centeredness convinces you that you’re the best country in the world, you can escargot fuck yourself.