Things you have an irrational hatred of

[tragabigzanda]

There is a wolf in me . . . fangs pointed for tearing gashes . . . a red tongue for raw meat . . . and the hot lapping of blood—I keep this wolf because the wilderness gave it to me and the wilderness will not let it go.

There is a fox in me . . . a silver-gray fox . . . I sniff and guess . . . I pick things out of the wind and air . . . I nose in the dark night and take sleepers and eat them and hide the feathers . . . I circle and loop and double-cross.

There is a hog in me . . . a snout and a belly . . . a machinery for eating and grunting . . . a machinery for sleeping satisfied in the sun—I got this too from the wilderness and the wilderness will not let it go.

There is a fish in me . . . I know I came from salt-blue water-gates . . . I scurried with shoals of herring . . . I blew waterspouts with porpoises . . . before land was . . . before the water went down . . . before Noah . . . before the first chapter of Genesis.

There is a baboon in me . . . clambering-clawed . . . dog-faced . . . yawping a galoot's hunger . . . hairy under the armpits . . . here are the hawk-eyed hankering men . . . here are the blonde and blue-eyed women . . . here they hide curled asleep waiting . . . ready to snarl and kill . . . ready to sing and give milk . . . waiting—I keep the baboon because the wilderness says so.

There is an eagle in me and a mockingbird . . . and the eagle flies among the Rocky Mountains of my dreams and fights among the Sierra crags of what I want . . . and the mockingbird warbles in the early forenoon before the dew is gone, warbles in the underbrush of my Chattanoogas of hope, gushes over the blue Ozark foothills of my wishes—And I got the eagle and the mockingbird from the wilderness.

O, I got a zoo, I got a menagerie, inside my ribs, under my bony head, under my red-valve heart—and I got something else: it is a man-child heart, a woman-child heart: it is a father and mother and lover: it came from God-Knows-Where: it is going to God-Knows-Where—For I am the keeper of the zoo: I say yes and no: I sing and kill and work: I am a pal of the world: I came from the wilderness.

[Ello Sailor]

I used to think they were lame. Some of them are really cool. The price tags aren't cool though.

That said, I relic my own basses by being entirely too sick wid it.

You can re-uppercut yourself for that post too while you’re at it.

Relic my own chin? Say it ain't so!

[Ello Sailor]

"Reliced" guitars. Meaning: guitars artificially worn-down to produce a rugged, weathered look.

Like the Mike McCready signature Stratocaster. Granted, this is a pretty tame example, I've seen a lot worse.

I like guitars with battle scars and history, but these fake ones feel so silly

Yes these are awful. But really anything pre-distressed in corny.

The king of corn hath spoketh.

[tommy]

"Reliced" guitars. Meaning: guitars artificially worn-down to produce a rugged, weathered look.

Like the Mike McCready signature Stratocaster. Granted, this is a pretty tame example, I've seen a lot worse.

I like guitars with battle scars and history, but these fake ones feel so silly

Yes these are awful. But really anything pre-distressed in corny.

The king of corn hath spoketh.

He's not wrong

[Jorge]

I used to think they were lame. Some of them are really cool. The price tags aren't cool though.

That said, I relic my own basses by being entirely too sick wid it.

I can definitely imagine seeing one of these out in the wild and thinking "wow, cool-looking guitar," but the moment I find out its scuffs and scratches were done on purpose it just deflates it for me. Feels like a cringy affectation, like drawing a cool battle scar on your face with permanent marker

[tragabigzanda]

There is a wolf in me . . . fangs pointed for tearing gashes . . . a red tongue for raw meat . . . and the hot lapping of blood—I keep this wolf because the wilderness gave it to me and the wilderness will not let it go.

There is a fox in me . . . a silver-gray fox . . . I sniff and guess . . . I pick things out of the wind and air . . . I nose in the dark night and take sleepers and eat them and hide the feathers . . . I circle and loop and double-cross.

There is a hog in me . . . a snout and a belly . . . a machinery for eating and grunting . . . a machinery for sleeping satisfied in the sun—I got this too from the wilderness and the wilderness will not let it go.

There is a fish in me . . . I know I came from salt-blue water-gates . . . I scurried with shoals of herring . . . I blew waterspouts with porpoises . . . before land was . . . before the water went down . . . before Noah . . . before the first chapter of Genesis.

There is a baboon in me . . . clambering-clawed . . . dog-faced . . . yawping a galoot's hunger . . . hairy under the armpits . . . here are the hawk-eyed hankering men . . . here are the blonde and blue-eyed women . . . here they hide curled asleep waiting . . . ready to snarl and kill . . . ready to sing and give milk . . . waiting—I keep the baboon because the wilderness says so.

There is an eagle in me and a mockingbird . . . and the eagle flies among the Rocky Mountains of my dreams and fights among the Sierra crags of what I want . . . and the mockingbird warbles in the early forenoon before the dew is gone, warbles in the underbrush of my Chattanoogas of hope, gushes over the blue Ozark foothills of my wishes—And I got the eagle and the mockingbird from the wilderness.

O, I got a zoo, I got a menagerie, inside my ribs, under my bony head, under my red-valve heart—and I got something else: it is a man-child heart, a woman-child heart: it is a father and mother and lover: it came from God-Knows-Where: it is going to God-Knows-Where—For I am the keeper of the zoo: I say yes and no: I sing and kill and work: I am a pal of the world: I came from the wilderness.

[daft twat]

Wiscuntsonites

[spike]

"Reliced" guitars. Meaning: guitars artificially worn-down to produce a rugged, weathered look.

Like the Mike McCready signature Stratocaster. Granted, this is a pretty tame example, I've seen a lot worse.

I like guitars with battle scars and history, but these fake ones feel so silly

Yes these are awful. But really anything pre-distressed in corny.

The king of corn hath spoketh.

I intentionally skipped that whole Diesel jeans/Brooklyn-branded Strokes era! A completely embarrassing stretch for white hipsters. Partly the reason Kamala lost.

Haha my first thought was distressed jeans.

[spike]

Wiscuntsonites

Did you just make this up?

[Chris_H_2]

Wiscuntsonites

Did you just make this up?

I’ll allow it, Mr. Native Left Lane Monopolizer.

[Dev]

"Reliced" guitars. Meaning: guitars artificially worn-down to produce a rugged, weathered look.

Like the Mike McCready signature Stratocaster. Granted, this is a pretty tame example, I've seen a lot worse.

I like guitars with battle scars and history, but these fake ones feel so silly

Pretty much anything of this nature; jeans, furniture etc. very sus product lines/consumer bases

[Chris_H_2]

I absolutely hate it when people don’t bother to clean the snow off the tops of their cars before getting on any road where they’ll traveling at a high rate of speed. I followed at least 5 cars today on the highway on the way back from Michigan where blocks of snow and ice dislodged and blew into my windshield. Death wish deserved.

[spike]

not super irrational. that shit can be dangerous.

[daft twat]

None of the things proclaimed to be better than Soundgarden in OB are even fucking close to Head Down.

[Ello Sailor]

I think it started as a gag to offset Zeb's half-dozen Cornell threads that used to pop up all the time in OB. I don't think LV actually believes all of those things are better than Soundgarden. Or, at least I hope he doesn't.

[BurtReynolds]

When the motherfucking mailman puts my packages in a motherfucking locker and gives me the wrong or broken motherfucking keys.

[BurtReynolds]

When I've very carefully crafted my life so that I don't have to eat lunch when normies do, but now I'm hungry and it's motherfucking 12:30 on a motherfucking Friday.

[tommy]

When I've very carefully crafted my life so that I don't have to eat lunch when normies do, but now I'm hungry and it's motherfucking 12:30 on a motherfucking Friday.

Stay strong, brother.

Hunger is the mind killer.

[BurtReynolds]

When the motherfucking mailman puts my packages in a motherfucking locker and gives me the wrong or broken motherfucking keys.

FedEx lost a $200 dollar package yesterday.

[tragabigzanda]

There is a wolf in me . . . fangs pointed for tearing gashes . . . a red tongue for raw meat . . . and the hot lapping of blood—I keep this wolf because the wilderness gave it to me and the wilderness will not let it go.

There is a fox in me . . . a silver-gray fox . . . I sniff and guess . . . I pick things out of the wind and air . . . I nose in the dark night and take sleepers and eat them and hide the feathers . . . I circle and loop and double-cross.

There is a hog in me . . . a snout and a belly . . . a machinery for eating and grunting . . . a machinery for sleeping satisfied in the sun—I got this too from the wilderness and the wilderness will not let it go.

There is a fish in me . . . I know I came from salt-blue water-gates . . . I scurried with shoals of herring . . . I blew waterspouts with porpoises . . . before land was . . . before the water went down . . . before Noah . . . before the first chapter of Genesis.

There is a baboon in me . . . clambering-clawed . . . dog-faced . . . yawping a galoot's hunger . . . hairy under the armpits . . . here are the hawk-eyed hankering men . . . here are the blonde and blue-eyed women . . . here they hide curled asleep waiting . . . ready to snarl and kill . . . ready to sing and give milk . . . waiting—I keep the baboon because the wilderness says so.

There is an eagle in me and a mockingbird . . . and the eagle flies among the Rocky Mountains of my dreams and fights among the Sierra crags of what I want . . . and the mockingbird warbles in the early forenoon before the dew is gone, warbles in the underbrush of my Chattanoogas of hope, gushes over the blue Ozark foothills of my wishes—And I got the eagle and the mockingbird from the wilderness.

O, I got a zoo, I got a menagerie, inside my ribs, under my bony head, under my red-valve heart—and I got something else: it is a man-child heart, a woman-child heart: it is a father and mother and lover: it came from God-Knows-Where: it is going to God-Knows-Where—For I am the keeper of the zoo: I say yes and no: I sing and kill and work: I am a pal of the world: I came from the wilderness.