JJ. ...Abrams, not Walker.

First up: J.J. Abrams. Not because I think he hates black people, but because the man can’t write an ending.

The dirty truth of it is that Abrams is man writing without an outline. He’s all wizz-bang-high-concept-ideas and explosive pilots but two years in when it’s time to put his head down and connect all those loose ends he likes to leave lying about, he slinks off to start a new project.

Felicity’s ratings in the toilet because stupid fans shit a brick over a haircut? Go make Alias!

Giving Sydney more sisters doesn’t distract fans from the fact that years of chasing Rambaldi McGuffins leads nowhere? Go make Lost!

Just realized that you’ve populated your new show with so many twists, flashbacks, origin stories, dream sequences, tropical polar bears and annoying love triangles that you couldn’t untangle this ball of yarn even if you wanted to? Go destroy New York, except make it so that camera shakes so much the audience doesn’t actually get to see any of it happen. Oh, and for an encore let’s see how you can fuckup Star Trek.

Always two there are, a master and an apprentice.

Here’s a thought Jeffery. Put down the Cloverfield monster toy and your two Emmys and go back and finish something. It may be too late for your other wayward children, but Lost is still out there, beating up kids on the playground for their lunch money. Boy needs a father figure.

And know this J.J. Your fanboys may have conveniently forgotten but hater#1 remembers your shame.

You wrote Armageddon.

Hater-A Manifesto

This amuses me.

There have always been haters.

Hating was old before those two centurions made fun of the skinny Jewish guy on the cross. Hating was old when one triceratops commented on another triceratops’ big fat ass. Hating was old when the first amoeba made fun of the second amoeba’s demo tape. The universe runs on matter, energy, and negativity. It collapses empires, washes away seafront towns, and makes your girlfriend nitpick your silly ass outfit on the way to date night. You know, the one with the wide velvet lapels. No one looks good in that.

Hating is not criticism. Criticism, in a roundabout way, is a positive thing. In its purest form, criticism is a tool to help an artist grow and develop. Though criticism appears to be destructive, its intention is to help build. We don’t claim such lofty goals. We just dislike stuff. And we think you’re stupid for liking it.

If I may move from the esoteric to the practical: this is primarily a pop culture blog. I am aware we’re not exactly tilling new fields, but pop culture is so accessable and so very easy to make fun of. It’s like picking fistfights with your surly fourteen year old cousin Devin. Politics and social subjects will probably find their way here, but those bones have been picked clean by pundits much more skilled in hating than ourselves.

Hating is inherently destructive. It’s cheering the ship as it sinks, the fire as it burns. As a hater, we see the rot in all things and we embrace and revel in it. Like the Sith of old, we draw power from the corruption manifest in us and we bask in the light of our annihilation.

If you really want to pull back the curtain on our little magic show, you’d find that we actually like most of the stuff we rant about. We’re both enthusiastic devourers of geekdom. We were just born with the kind of brains that endlessly pick apart the things we enjoy, defining every little nugget of beauty and art by the shit staining it.

I think we all have a little goblin inside us, a disgusting verminal creep that we feed with our negative emotions. I am good friends with my goblin. We have tea regularly. We sit down and discuss trifles, trifles light as air. And I am building a buffet for him with this blog, and the main course is your indignation.

Enjoy.