Some people gracefully shift from youth into adulthood. It’s the natural progression of life. They concede to the simple fact that what they did and enjoyed in their teens and 20’s just isn’t what they do and enjoy now. Stories about being out at the bar with friends have been all but replaced with stories about children doing cute shit and the woes of mortgages and family finance. That, in a nutshell, is adult life.

I stink at adult life.

Little by little I’ve come to realize that I lead a preposterous albeit relaxing and enjoyable existence. I, simply put, am terrible at being an adult. Even just then, I typed out the word adult and sat and glared at it as if it’s something that I’m not. I could have just typed ‘I’m a bad Nazi’ or ‘I’m a bad cosmonaut’. But the problem is…the sentence I actually typed is factual. I’m 30. In fact, I’m just south of 31. That’s an adult; a legitimate, card-carrying, grey-hair-growing, 401K-having adult.

Fuck.

Allow me to clarify. I have my own apartment. Every day I wake up and go into a respectable job where I earn a respectable income. All the key elements of adulthood are there, but…okay here’s an example. I don’t ever want to work. Ever. Seriously. I’m trying to, and am god willing en route to, working as a screenwriter fulltime. Make no mistake about it, the motivation behind that is just as much me never wanting to go into an office again as it is me fulfilling a creative goal I’ve had since childhood. Winston Churchill once said “Find a job you love and you’ll never work a day in your life again”. Winston knew his shit. I love that quote. I live by that quote. I love to write. Hate to work. But some people are cool with it. Fuck, I SHOULD BE cool with it. Most people wake up at 7 AM or earlier, read the paper, get the kids ready for school, put on some well-folded slacks and head to work to suck the day’s dick as they say. (The fact that I just typed that proves my current point in spades). However, when I wake up, here’s what happens.

8:30 AM: Wake Up.

8:32 AM: Loudly yell “Nooooo!!!” to myself.

8:40 AM: Get out of bed while flailing both my arms and legs about like a child being forced to do something.

8:45 AM: Eat toaster strudels.

8:52 AM: Shower.

9:07 AM: Turn on Maury.

9:15 AM: Get FURIOUS that I have to stop watching and leave to go to work.

9:20 AM: If the episode of Maury is particularly gripping, sometimes I take the late train into work so I can see the results of the paternity test.

There’s no 7 AM in my world. Unless I’m catching a flight to go on vacation somewhere, 7 AM may as well not even exist. It may as well be called Blarg o’clock. There are no slacks. Besides myself, there are no children. There’s no paper. In fact, if I were to read the paper there’s a whole shitload of adult words I wouldn’t understand. Nasdaq? Dow Jones? Obamacare? I couldn’t properly use any of those words in a sentence if you paid me. Barack Obama is the President. Obamacare has something to do with health care. That’s the extent of my knowledge about that one, or health care or presidential policies of any kind really. If a super villain were to wire my mom with C4 and say that unless I explained what Nasdaq meant she’s a goner, well, let me tell you something…Nancy Hoare would be blown to smithereens. Exploded mommy. I know who Casey Jones is. He, much like myself, is a friend of The Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles. Is Dow his brother? Probably, right? 

If you were to look at my Google history right now, you’d see “Is dickhead one word or two?” Allow me to break this down. Here’s what this means. It means that sometime within the last two weeks or so I was typing out the word dickhead, looked at it and thought to myself, ‘Hmm. Does that look right? I’m not sure, and I REALLY wanna nail this one! A Google search this does require!” I’d have to assume that most 30-year-old men will die without ever having to type the word dickhead, let alone making sure to spell check it. I say dickhead out loud like every day! I’ve never made a salad. Ever. Want to know what I have made? Three homemade chipwiches. An hour ago. A few weeks ago my buddy Justin texted me with “Where are you guys?” I, without ANY hesitation, inexplicably responded with “At a handjob convention in Chattanooga”. Nothing more, nothing less. No further information was conveyed. Radio silence. Why? Why did I even think that much less write it? Was I actually at a handjob convention in Chattanooga? Do handjob conventions even exist? No! No to both! I wrote it, giggled to myself like an ass for six seconds, and then carried on with whatever pressing matters were at hand. 

So yes, this is what I’ve come to realize lately. I am an irrefutably shitty adult. Great bocce ball player. Fantastic bar trivia teammate. Entertaining road trip companion.  Stellar guacamole maker. However, I have indeed reconciled to the fact that I am a shitty adult. Pete problems consist of forgetting to DVR Monday Night Raw or my Munchos going stale because I can’t locate my chip clip. But that’s fine. Because much like the world needs evil to justify the existence of good, maybe it also needs shitty adults to help counterbalance the universe. Much like every circus needs a businessman to help set everything up, it too needs a clown.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to go Nasdaq the fuck out of my fourth chipwich.

Cheers,

Peter Hoare

Twitter.com.PeterHoare

I shouldn’t be typing this right now. I’m currently procrastinating. Instead of sitting here writing this column, I should be showering, throwing on a tie and heading to a church. Ugh. While I love both ties and hygiene (I wish I had a friend named Gene so I could consistently make terrible “Hi Gene” puns), I hate churches.

While I don’t consider myself having any designated religion now, I was raised a Catholic. In fact, the majority of my family is devoutly religious. Church-going Hoare’s they are. As such, until I was 17 or so, on a weekly basis I was forced to wake up and head to St Bernard’s Church in Levittown, Long Island each and every Sunday morning. Forced? Yes. Forced. As a child I always loathed entering a church, still do to this day.

Now as not to upset God (if he does exist), I need to choose my words wisely here. I often find myself simultaneously both defending the church and vehemently opposing it. See, my Mom goes to church every single week. In fact her job, how she earns the money she spends on buying the ingredients to bake me cookies and pies, is by singing at weddings and funerals. Technically speaking, she and God share office space. And she loves it. She really does. If she didn’t go to church one Sunday, I honestly feel like it’d ruin her day. In fact, I know it would. On the flip side, me, her loving son, would have my Monday through Saturday ruined if I knew that there was even the slightest chance that I may have to go to church that Sunday. It’d be like a cloud of impending doom hanging over my head all week. Why do I hate church? It’s really quite simple. I think 8 out of 10 times, if you’re forced to do something as a child, you’ll wind up hating it as an adult. It’s the same logic behind, “Oh you smoked a cigarette? Well then guess what, dickhead? I’m gonna sit here and watch you smoke this whole pack!” I was forced to drink milk every single night as a kid, whether I wanted to or not. Now? Well I’d sooner drink a cold glass of mud than some skim milk. Sure, my bones are so brittle that they rattle when I sneeze, but that’s not my fault, it’s how I was raised.  And I know what you’re thinking? You’re saying to yourself, “Dummy, by that logic, why wouldn’t every kid be forced to murder and steal as a child so as not to grow up a criminal?” First off, don’t call me dummy. Words hurt. Secondly, asshole, like I haven’t thought of that. When I have kids, I am 100% gonna force each one of them to commit hate crimes at an early age. But it’ll be against people who deserve it. I’m not a monster. Anyway, where was I? Ah yes. Church + Pete = : (

As a child, every priest who ever spoke in my presence may as well have been the nanny from Muppet Babies. I literally never actually listened to one word a priest ever said. I felt like my tiny eardrums were rejecting the words, leaving me unable to decipher what any of them actually were. That’s how boring church was to me. Perhaps now as an adult I’d be able to listen to the priest’s sermon. Maybe I’d hear some kind of poignant message that’d stick with me for years to come. But as a kid, all I could think of was that I damn sure better have paused my Nintendo, because I REALLY wanted to go home and beat Mega Man 2. Church did nothing for me. However, and here’s where I defend the church, it does “do something” for others. I’m certainly not so arrogant as to sit here and think that the church isn’t a constant source of positivity in the lives of others. It irrefutably is. Some people enter a church and an hour or so later leave feeling refreshed, focused and inspired. I, however, felt drowsy and bitchy. Actually, sometimes I felt full. My parents used to sing in the choir. So when they’d go up to the balcony to do their thing, my brother and I would sneak out and go to the Nathan’s next door. To each his own. I think that religion, and spirituality as a whole, should be a very personal journey. It should never be forced upon someone. People should live by their own moral and ethical code. 

And to anyone who argues my beliefs to the point where they’d say that everyone should live their life by what was written in the bible, I say this. You’re nuts. The bible is a book, nothing more, nothing less. I truly believe that sentence to be an absolute fact. People who live their lives according to what is written in the bible may as well live their lives according to what is written in Goosebumps vol. 12.  I understand that believing in the bible is attributed to “having faith”. I get that, and to a certain degree I respect it. But to a greater degree I think that blindly believing the bible to be fact is simply naïve. Why? Why is this book real? I choose science over faith. It’s just how I operate. How come there are no dinosaurs in the bible? Do the math on the years. Technically speaking, shouldn’t Jesus be battling veliciraptors somewhere in there? If so, that’d be rad. That I’d read. But until those revisions are made, I’ll continue believing that the bible is about as factual as Green Eggs & Ham, I’ll continue to believe that, Pete I am.

No one knows if there is a God or a heaven or a hell. No one. NO ONE. It’s the one question in life that is impossible to answer, and anyone that does claim to have a factual answer to the question is delusional, hopeful beyond logic, or insane. For the record, I hope there is a heaven, I truly do.  But at the same time, I’m logical enough to realize that life may simply be a long, incredible rollercoaster ride. And when the ride is over, Six Flags closes. The party’s over, lights out, go home. No one knows. But while you’re on this ride, if you enjoy going to church, if it gives you inner peace or inspiration of any kind, then more power to you. Keep on, keepin’ on. I, however, will continue to hope that reincarnation is real, and that I come back as John Stamos Jr. 

Amen.

NOTE FROM THE EDITOR: If you know Jesus on a personal level, DO NOT post this on his Facebook. Thanks.

Cheers,

Peter Hoare

Twitter.com/PeterHoare

Today’s date is 4/20, April 20^th, a day where marijuana enthusiasts the world over rejoice over their mutual love of all things sticky and/or icky. As legend would have it, this day was created due to the fact that 420 is the police scanner code for a pot bust. In fact, if you were to ask 9 out of 10 weed smokers about the genesis of this faux holiday, I’m pretty sure that’s the answer you’d most likely get, the police scanner code. Yet, and if this isn’t evidence that smoking the ganja may effect your fact checking ability than I don’t know what is, 420 isn’t a police radio code for anything, anywhere.  But as accurate as that may be (look it up), the myth will always supersede the truth on this one. So I proceed…

A large portion of America is celebrating right now. And of course by celebrating I mean eating Munchos and playing Xbox, but it’s a celebration nonetheless. And that, folks, is where my problem lies. You see, I very rarely smoke pot, certainly not enough to warrant a 4/20 celebration. It’d be like someone whose second uncle twice removed was Jewish, so he takes off early for Passover. I don’t want to encroach on the real pothead’s holiday. It just wouldn’t feel right. However, I do have an overwhelming sense of entitlement, and that prevents me from merrily carrying on with my day while others get to party. Just because weed makes me laugh for 35 seconds and then fall asleep, does that means that I should get one less holiday than everyone else? I call bullshit! I can’t let this stand! So, with that being said, I recently took a look at some other police scanner codes in the hopes of discovering a new holiday, a day that will ensure that the potheads of the world and I have the same exact amount of celebratory days in each calendar year.

11/7

A 117 is the police scanner code that alerts all officers that a prowler is on the loose, so perhaps on the 7^th of every November I could celebrating 11/7. Now granted I’m not exactly positive as to what prowling actually is, but it sounds like something I could get down with. Does that mean I’m supposed to crawl around like a puma, jaguar, or another jungle cat? If so, that might be fun. Or maybe it means creepily stalking around someone’s house. Actually, wait, why the fuck would there be a police scanner code dedicated to the apprehension of people acting like jungle cats? That’s just retarded. It has to be the stalking thing. Either way, I think I could have some fun with that. Maybe I can lurk around someone’s house at night, knocking on doors and rattling on windows. Shit, maybe to bring things full circle I can prowl around a pothead’s house. You’d have to assume they’d be both the easiest to effectively prowl, and also the least likely to call the cops. Win, win!

11/30

An 1130 is the police scanner code for an incomplete phone call.  First off, that’s illegal? What the hell? “So what did you get locked up for, man?” “The motherfucking popo got me for not properly elaborating on the point I was making. Noboooody knooows the trouble I’ve seeeeen. Nobody knoooows but Jesuuuuus”. Either way, I can totally get into this one. Every November 30^th I’ll take off work and sit around making incomplete phone calls all day.

RANDOM PERSON: Hello?

ME: Hi, this is your doctor. Your blood work just came back. I’m sorry to say this, but it’s looking like you may have full blown CLICK!

6/04

The police code for throwing missiles? Okay, it looks like I’m not celebrating June 4^th anytime soon. Off the top of my head, I just don’t know of any missiles that are readily available. Furthermore, if I were to locate one, would I really be able to throw it? Probably not.

9/01

This is a code that I’d look forward to celebrating all year long. 901 is the police scanner code for finding a dead body. Let me tell you how I’d play this one. Every September 1st I’d anonymously report a dead body. Then, in the very spot at which I report the dead body being witnessed, I’ll cover myself in fake blood and lay down in a contorted, seemingly-painful position. Then minutes later when the local authorities show up, disgusted at the mere sight of me, I’ll pop up and yell “Happy 9/01!” Now this could lead to one of three things. A. The officers, along with myself, will enjoy a nice, hearty, belly laugh over my good-natured skullduggery. We’ll all head to the nearest Buffalo Wild Wings and become lifelong pals. Then there’s B. Fearing a zombie attack, the officers may draw their weapons and shoot the shit out of me. And finally, C. The officers, fearful of the aforementioned zombie attack, may suffer potentially fatal heart attacks. I’m going with A.

3/14 

314 is the police scanner code for indecent exposure. So perhaps in place of 4/20 I could celebrate 3/14, March 14^th.  I could drive around all day wagging my genitals at all those I pass. I wouldn’t do it in an overtly sexual way, but more in a “Happy 3/14!” way. And you may be asking yourself, “How does one wag their genitals in an appropriate, non-sexual way?” Well, to be honest, I’m not quite sure how to answer that. But I do know that I have a full-length mirror and about 11 months to find out.

3/90

And then there’s the perfect police scanner code, a 390! A 390 is the code for public intoxication. Hell, I already celebrate 3/90 about once a week. This one I can absolutely do! So there. It’s settled. From now on every March….90^th? Shit! Back to the drawing board, dummy.

Looks like the jury is still out on which replacement holiday I’ll choose, but I’ll be damned if I don’t settle on one by this time next year.  

Being that it’s almost Easter, I’d like everyone reading to reflect on something. Easter is a really, really weird holiday. It is. Don’t believe me? Keep reading.

First off, for those who believe, the basis behind Easter is that we’re supposed to be celebrating the resurrection of Jesus H. Christ. (Did some digging. The H stands for Hulk). Fine. I’m cool with that. Now I’m not sure if Jesus actually exists or not, but giving Christianity the benefit of the doubt and saying that he does, coming back from the fucking dead is completely bad ass! In fact, if the bible is factual, then that makes Jesus the most powerful and influential zombie in the history. Does that deserve a holiday? Hell yeah, it does. I don’t have a problem with that. But what I do take issue with is the modern day celebration of this one-man zombie apocalypse.

Jesus is back! Let’s eat candy! What the shit? What is that about? Listen, I love Cadburry Cream Eggs just as much as the next guy, probably even more, but what the hell do they have to do with zombie Jesus!? We may as well celebrate by kicking each other in the nuts all day, it’s just as logical. Actually, no, being kicked in the nuts would actually hurt, therefore negating any celebratory vibe in the air. Also, that would mean women couldn’t participate due to their obvious lack of testicles. And I’m no misogynist, Mr. Hoare be lovin’ them bitches, so let me rephrase. We may as well celebrate by listening to Chumbawumba all day. A whiskey drink, a vodka drink, a lager drink and a cider drink? I’ll take either one of those over a fucking peep any day of the week.

And then there’s my biggest Easter pet peeve of all, The Easter Bunny himself. First off, much like the candy situation, what the hell do bunny rabbits have to do with the son of God making his grand reappearance on Earth? Was Jesus actually a rabbit? Did I miss that verse in the bible? Thumper 3:16? I don’t think so. But aside from that, The Easter Bunny is just so damn creepy! Think about it. I mean really sit back and logically think about this. It’s actually borderline terrifying. A 6-foot-tall rabbit that somehow possesses human like qualities, so much so that he has both the physical ability and the know-how to break into our houses in the middle of the night? And then he goes and hides eggs and candy for our children?! And we’re expected to let them eat both?! WHAT!? Great parenting, America. The Easter Bunny. If you ask me he’s like a combination of a Godzilla monster and a child molester. Plus, rabbits don’t even lay eggs! What mouthbreather thought of this crap?

And while we’re at it, The Tooth Fairy is only slightly less terrifying. What if a kid loses a tooth the night before Easter? In that case, we’re advocating the kid to welcome not one but two creepy strangers into their bedroom in the same night! Not my kid! No way, Jose. And why would I want to reward my kid for losing a tooth in the first place? It’s not like he had any say in the matter. It wasn’t a hard-fought battle between man and tooth. Why does he deserve a dollar!? That’s like getting a nickel every time you blink. You know what reward my kids are gonna get for losing a tooth? Another fucking tooth! A stronger, more durable tooth. You want a dollar? Get a job, dickweed.

Happy Easter.

Cheers,

Peter Hoare

Twitter.com/PeterHoare

The Big Bang Theory, and excuse me if I’m using this term incorrectly, sucks an enormous dick.

Now I’m not so naive as to think I won’t be offending some of you with this column, but I simply don’t care. Yes, The Big Bang Theory is a wildly successful, bona fide ratings smash. A proven commodity not only in the prime time realm, but in the syndication world as well. Be that as it may, I still find the series to be a loathsome pile of shit.

The Big Bang Theory insults my intelligence not only as a working humorist, but as a human being with a functioning brain, eyes and ears. Anyone with a modicum of intelligence and anything resembling a good sense of humor should agree with me. As someone who’s close to making his living full time in the same industry as this aforementioned shitcom, it’s success not only enrages me, but baffles me. Why? Because it is, quite simply, NOT FUNNY. I heard funnier jokes in The Artist. I’ve seen more entertaining asthma attacks. And those of you saying to yourself, “But Sheldon is hilarious!”, I want you to do me a favor and bash yourself in the crotch with the nearest mallet. He’s not funny. He isn’t. His voice makes me theorize about banging myself in the head with a big fucking hammer.

Here you go. Are you ready? Allow me to explain the genius creative process that goes into the creation of each and every episode of The Big Bang Theory.

-Nerds make science references.

-Nerds make comic book and/or superhero references.

-Nerds nerdiness prevents them from functioning in normal social situations.

-Blonde girl says something that nerds misunderstand for something scientific, she rolls her eyes and walks out of room.

PURE UNADULTERATED SHIT!

Where do they sell the canned laughter used in this show? Next to cans of monkey shit?

And when I said “nerd”, I should have used snarkey quotations the entire time. Those aren’t nerds. I know nerds. I’m friends with nerds. I like nerds. The fake, naselly voices used to portray “nerds” on this show is AWFUL. That’s the same nerd voice used by the nerds from Saved By The Bell. Those aren’t actual nerds, that’s the nerd Halloween costume. The main guy, the kid who used to be on Roseanne back in the day, oh boy, that jackoff is terrible. His voice is so unnatural that you’re constantly aware that he’s doing a voice, that he’s acting. And when you’re constantly aware that you’re watching someone doing a fake voice, then you can never allow yourself to get lost in the show. Sitcoms are escapist entertainment, but the problem is that escapist entertainment isn’t effective escapist entertainment if it makes you want to escape your living room.

This show is so mind-numbingly horrendous that it somehow makes the hot girl on it less hot. I mean, yes, granted, I would still have sex with her, but the level of self-loathing I would experience afterwards would be astronomical. I’d have to go to therapy.

So, having said that, I present to you The Big Bang Theory challenge. If anyone can provide me with a clip of this show that can make me laugh out loud I will immediately PayPal you $5. Shockingly, I’m not a hater. I’m really not. I love to laugh. It’s what I focus the lion’s share of my attention towards, making myself and others laugh. However I maintain that this show is 100% incapable of making me so much as smile. So send me a clip of this show. Post it here on Tumblr, post it to my Facebook, anything. If I laugh, you get cash. And I’ll be 100% honest.

And again, yes, I realize that this show is ridiculously popular. I’m in the minority here, I’m sure. But guess what? I give not one shit. Know what else is wildly popular? NASCAR. Yep, cars driving around in a circle. Allow me to write that again. CARS DRIVING AROUND IN A CIRCLE! And to me, “Derr, look at them there cars goin’ fast!” is the sports equivalent to “Uk Yuck! Sheldon done said something ‘bout science again!”. I’m available to debate both topics, but beware, if you do plan on refuting my argument, bring a pre-prepared statement…because I’m probably smarter than you. I don’t suffer fools lightly, and you like NASCAR and The Big Bang Theory.

Take the challenge. I dare you.

Cheers,

Peter Hoare

Twitter.com/PeterHoare

Looking for the least informative recap of the 2012 Academy Awards ever?! Allow me.

Just saw Sacha Baron Cohen spilling Kim Jong Ill’s ashes on Ryan Seacrest on the red carpet. Brilliant.

“I don’t understand all the hype about The Artist” - Marlee Matlin

How many awards is Marmaduke up for? Probably a bunch, right? #Marmaduke

Worst Oscar drinking game: Taking a shot every time Billy Crystal says “pubes”. He’ll probably only say it 3 or 4 times.

Cameron Diaz used to be hot. Now she looks like a scary old-timey marionette puppet.

I want J LO and Cameron Diaz to remake Thelma & Louise, but as a reality show. I want them to recreate EVERY scene.

Apropos of nothing, if I ever get invited to a swanky Hollywood pool party, I will SO make a hilarious Dame Judy Drenched joke.

Adam Sandler? Really? After making Jack & Jill, Adam Sandler shouldn’t be allowed on an Oscar broadcast for at least five years

Oh, man! I wonder who’s gonna win this years Nobody Cares Award (Best Foreign Language Film)? Just give it to Marmaduke.

I hope The Big Show wins something for MacGruber.

Fred Willard could read the phone book and be hilarious.

Bet Bradley Cooper gets laid more than I do.

Little known fact, Moneyball was originally named Monkeyball. Jonah Hills character was intended to be played by a chimp.

How didn’t The Artist win for best sound editing?! LOLZ! ROTFL! LMAO! 

No, but seriously, little known fact, if you watch The Artist with the mute button on…full soundtrack.

She didn’t win the Oscar, but at least Melissa McCarthy got to do a skit with Kermit. #mspiggy #imadick

I wasnt paying attention there for a sec. Why was Chris Rock on stage? Did Oscar retroactively give Pootietang an award?

Ben Stiller looks like Chris Kattan doing Mr. Peepers on SNL.

Jonah Hill looked like he was gonna cry when he lost. You were the “ask me about my wiener” guy in Accepted. just be happy to be nominated, dummy.

I have a feeling Nick Nolte kills at least one person every year.

I always listen to the War Horse score while I make love to a woman.

Hell yeah, Bret McKenzie! It completely rules that a member of Flight Of The Conchords now owns an Oscar.

Woody Allen never shows up when he wins. What a pimp.

The winners for the short film awards may as well all sound like The Nanny on Muppet Babies. #dontcare

You know this isn’t the MTV Movie Awards because they’re not premiering a shitty new Twilight trailer halfway through the show.

Anyone else try bouncing a mini muffin off your stomach and into your mouth during the last commercial break? No? Just me?

The original song choice for the dead people montage was “Doin’ It” by LL Cool J. Cooler heads prevailed.

Imagine Chris Brown came out and punched Natalie Portman in the head?

George Clooney could lose and then immediately shit his pants, he’s still a winner. He’s going home with Stacy Keibler

A scene from my recently optioned screenplay, “Everybody Wants Head”

It’s been a while since I’ve written one of these columns.  Truth be told, I’ve been busy with other writing related projects. That, and Showtime keeps playing Air Bud whenever I sit down to work. What can I say, I’m a sucker for any movie in which the lead poops on the floor in real life. (I’m looking at you, Clooney) Anyway, I’d like to say that I’m coming back swinging, firing on all comedic cylinders, but I’m not gonna do that. Not right now at least.

I recently attended a film screening, a rough cut of a yet-to-be-titled movie about Boyscout leaders. It was a comedy. As such, its desired result was that I laughed. I did. Good job, movie. You win. Or do you? See, after the screening there was a Q & A session. Everyone in attendance was able to voice their opinion on the aforementioned viewing.  Being that I lack the ability to shut up, I went first. I had some well-constructed feedback, all of which pointed out the positives of what I just watched. The producers seemed genuinely psyched to hear that the fruits of their labor went well received. Then, well, the next viewer spoke. That’s when the dam of negativity broke. Everyone in that screening room, EVERYONE, had something bad to say. These were people who just minutes earlier I heard laughing their asses off, and now I was hearing them rip the source of that laughter apart. That’s when a sad fact dawned on me: everybody hates everything.

Read your Facebook news feed. Go on Twitter. Listen to strangers in subways or in elevators. Hell, sadly, listen to some of your own friends. Our culture has become one which breeds negativity.  I can’t help but to notice this lately. Everyone seems to WANT to hate things. I’ve realized that far too many people enter new situations, be it a new movie, book, bar, band, hell, sometimes even meeting a new human being, with a guilty until proven innocent mentality. That, plain and simple, sucks.

Now some of you may be thinking, “Hey, bozo, the basis for 90% of your Antenna columns is you ripping something apart!” True. You got me. The pot calling the kettle hypocritical? Not really. See, I write these columns, in my own weird, roundabout way, for the soul purpose of positivity. Ever since I was a kid, I’ve appreciated laughter. Making people laugh is, as cheesy as it may sound, an intoxicating feeling.  I absolutely love it.  I mean, think about it. It’s literally impossible to laugh without smiling. And smiling is, by definition, the body’s representation of happiness. Laughter and sex are the two most enjoyable activities I can think of in life. And while, sadly, I can’t rock all your worlds (Full disclosure: I’ve probably never rocked anyones anything), I can try and put a string of words together to make you laugh. So do I genuinely get angry that Snooki released a perfume or that Kim Kardashian is all over the news? No. truth be told, I give not one shit about either of those things. But if I feel like writing about those situations in the way that I do might make a person or two laugh, then that’s what I’ll do.

So if you’re making a negative joke, I’ll give you a mulligan. That’s where the roots of some of the best comedy lay. But if you’re actively looking for ways to put things down, searching for reasons why you won’t like something new, going out of your way to knock something that you don’t actually know anything about, I implore you to rethink your ways. Now I’m not saying I ride to work on a fucking unicorn and eat dinner on a rainbow. I don’t live life with R.E.M’s “Shiny Happy People” looping internally. That’s not what I’m trying to say. My life is far from perfect, trust me. What I am trying to say is that living life with a glass is half empty attitude is like a fighter going into a boxing match thinking to himself, “I’m not gonna win. Why even try?” So if life is a boxing match, and make no mistake about it, in so many ways it is, I want to win. To me, if you’re smiling, you’re winning. And if you allow yourself to shake the negativity, you’ll give yourself a chance to win a whole hell of a lot more of life’s little battles, some of the big ones too. In the immortal words of Joe Dirt: Life’s a garden. Dig it.

You think you hate something? Give yourself the opportunity to be proven wrong. It feels good.

Think about this. When we’re old and gray, something that, God willing, we’ll all be one day, it’s the times in which you were smiling and laughing that you’ll sit back and look fondly upon, not the times when you were saying that something sucked.

Happy Holidays

Peter Hoare

Twitter.com/PeterHoare