My name is Angela, and I am a hater.
Most of all, I hate mitochondria. “How can you hate the ‘mighty mitochondria’?” you ask. To which I say, “You’ve hit the nail on the head”.
That “mighty mitochondria” mnemonic device that we all learned in grade school is insidious. Earwormy. To this day, I can’t hear the word “mighty” without quietly muttering “mitochondria” afterward.
In documentaries: “On the savanna, female lions let the rest of their pride know about intruders with a mighty [mitochondria].”
At work: “Our little Archibald is quite mature for his age. For his sixth birthday party, he wants to have the Mighty [mitochondria] Power Rangers.”
During late-night marathons of justifiably forgotten cartoons: “Here I come to save the day! It’s Mighty [mitochondria]!”
Damn you, powerhouse of the cell.
My name is Steven, and I hate Rent. I’ve never been much of a musical theatre person anyway, but Rent is next-level dreadful.
Every theatre queen in the English-speaking world thinks it’s completely appropriate to burst into “Seasons of Love” on the subway, in a Lyft, in the middle of a budget meeting. Could you imagine if everyone did that with, say, “Who Let the Dogs Out”? Or “Baby Shark”? Civilization would come to a screeching halt, causing 99% of humanity to die of sudden whiplash. The world would be rebuilt by tribespeople from the Amazon, the Sahara, and the Great Rift Valley who’ve never been to Broadway, never heard a power ballad, never attended a junior high cast party and had to console a roomful of weepy teens bemoaning the unfairness of it all because they’ve spent a few weeks–“literally, my whole life!”–working on an audition piece to land a featured role in the spring musical, only to have that rare opportunity given to someone who “like, only got it because she has 5,000 followers on Instagram”.
Full disclosure, I’ve never actually seen Rent, so I don’t know what it’s about, but I assume it’s about people who rent an apartment or something? And that’s a terrible message. Why would anyone glorify rent payments? Home ownership is the most important means of building personal wealth in a capitalist economy. If we have to get excited about a musical, couldn’t it be called Fixed Rate or maybe I Love You, You’re Perfect, Now Amortize?
Really, what are we teaching today’s young people?
My name is Jonathan, and I’m a hater. I hate Meryl Streep.
I have nightmares about her.
I’m someplace far away in an open-air market. It looks exotic in a stereotypical way, with smoke wafting from incense sticks and brightly colored spices piled in rustic, handmade baskets. Maybe I’m in a souk, or maybe I’m in a souk-themed display at Pier One. Or maybe I’m in that episode of Ab Fab where they all go to Morocco, which I only remember because I’m an old gay.
Wherever it is, I’m there, and someone in a caftan sidles up to me and starts speaking in a foreign language. I can’t tell what they’re saying, I can’t even see their face, but they keep gesturing to me and then to my fanny pack. (Which, by the way: I’m wearing a fanny pack. Heavens. This is a nightmare.)
“What on goddess’ green earth do you want?”, I ask the creature at my side. More gesturing, more pointing. They put both hands together with upturned palms: the universal sign for begging.
I sigh, unzip my fanny pack, and take out what looks to be a reasonable sum of money. I can’t tell for sure because it’s foreign currency, so I guess I’m not at Pier One after all. (Unless they have Pier Ones in the Middle East, which makes me wonder: what would that even look like? Plastic, American flag-patterned storage bowls displayed like a Fourth of July picnic? Would that pass as exotic on the Arabian peninsula?)
I start to hand over the money, and suddenly, there’s a dagger in the mysterious stranger’s hand. The next thing I know, that dagger is jammed through my ribcage, and I’m on the ground wheezing for breath, and the stranger is standing over me with a bloody hand gripping the wad of cash I’d pulled out.
Then, they pull back the hood of their caftan.
You know who it is, right?
Surely you know.
Meryl. Fucking. Streep.
Screw her ability to disappear into a role. Screw her supernatural facility with languages and accents. That bitch cut me, and she took my money.
I’ll see her in hell.