Wednesday, February 29, 2012

One Douche for the Recordbooks

There once was a boy on my floor. I never particularly cared for this gentleman, but his brash sensibilities, combined with his eternally aggressive demeanor did no favors for him in my book.

He made it a weekly habit to blast "music" out his door. One may liken his cacophony to that of a flurry of fire alarms, lacking coherence, cadence or any real rhyme or reason to exist. But scratch that, unlike dubstep, fire alarms have a purpose, and that is to save lives.

The size of his ego exceeds any modern device's range of measurement capability.

This young man lived his life so blatantly full of ignorance. He was full of himself, demanding, close-minded, immature, destructive and stood for the absolute antithesis of compassion. He did nothing but to cause himself enjoyment, humor, comfort and little to nothing to positively impact anyone else ever. He kicks inanimate objects, runs into walls and yells unendingly.

How this young man managed to attract a cult following of friends? I know not! Perhaps it is that those who decided to become his disciples lacked a life beforehand. I mean, after all, they do nothing but obsess over video games and scream at their televisions on a more-than-regular basis. The ring leader's anger seems infectious in that regard. He's managed to mold the minds of the losers he has culled after all.

In fact, these losers socialize with no one outside of their very exclusive group, and behave like seven-year-old boys at day camp. So they lack the ability to step outside of this tightly-knit group.

They go in only one person's room, so they lack creativity.

They do nothing but senselessly scream and shout, so in that sense, they are hyperbolic.

They are nothing more, nothing less than extremely, unbearably, intangibly, unimaginably intolerable.