On you, little man, I don't wanna waste much time
You've been pushed around all your life
You've been pushed 'round by your mother, and your sister and your brother
And if you was married, you'd be pushed around by your wife
I am a fully rounded human being, with a degree from the university of life, a diploma from the school of hard knocks, and three gold stars from the kindergarten of getting the shit kicked out of me.
He had a peculiar knack, as he walked along the street, of arriving beneath a window just as all sorts of rubbish were being flung out of it: hence he always bore about on his hat scraps of melon rinds and other such articles.
—Nikolai Gogol, The Overcoat
We seem to be made to suffer; it's our lot in life.
Dude, have you seen
my show? It's not live, it's not funny. That's my genius: I got
no fucking talent!
You ever get the feeling that the universe is a vast, empty loneliness that exists only to hurt you?
Don't touch me! I've had my nuts broken, body poisoned, and been made love to in the ass by three dozen 40-year-old men! I just want to go home and take a hot bath!
Inferno blow up, Waspinator must salvage. Waspinator blow up, nobody
Oh, why universe hate Waspinator?
bemoans his lot in life, Beast Wars
, episode "Deep Metal"
Born under a bad sign - most likely 'dead end' - Crushed lives up to her name, and would still do so if she had been named Burnt, Impaled, Munched, Mauled or even Gooified.
How unlucky am I...? What am I saying?! This is unlucky? When I was a baby, we went to the zoo and the monkeys kidnapped me... When I was in nursery school, I used to wet myself so the kids called me "Shimon the pants-pee'er"." *people listening start crying* "When I was in elementary school, I ran away from home again with aniki and before I knew it we were on a tuna fishing boat... My house was demolished by an earthquake, burnt by fire and then washed away in a flood... So if you want to stop me, you'd better ready the apocalypse! Don't underestimate my misfortune!!!
Life, why do you hate me so?
You wouldn't believe my day, Garfield. First, I tripped and fell down six flights of stairs. When I landed, I got my head stuck in a bucket of pork chops. Then, a roaming pack of hungry wolves mistook me for lunch...and chased me into an open elevator shaft, which wouldn't have been so bad had it not been for the rabid shaft badgers.
What did I ever do to deserve this kind of humiliating treatment? Aren't I one of the team, too? Am I not an equal?! Don't I deserve some respect?!
I seem to spend most of my time getting the shit kicked out of me.
This stuff shouldn't happen to a dog!
So Mario never destroyed the castle, but he did manage to pick up several fatal injuries.
Thank the gods for the 1-ups!
I was the happiest guy in the world, but fate likes to play a little game called 'Up yours, Moe.'
Everything happens to hurt Black Mage.
For a brief moment, Francis catches a glimpse◊
of what it might be like to feel real human joy ó and sees just enough to know that the experience is completely beyond him.
" is about...the sex life of Harry Kim. Yes, if it's an episode about Harry Kim having sex, it must involve him picking up some disease
to show just how much he is respected by the writing staff. 'We'll not only give him a disease, we'll actually call the show that! Or we can go with "Harry's a Loser and We All Hate Him", unless that one's too long'... If I seem obsessed with Harry's misery, that's because it is his only character trait
Jairus Byrd lost to free agency. Marcell Dareus missing camp to attend substance abuse program. Kiko Alonso out the entire season. Cordy Glenn not at camp with mysterious non-football illness. Jim Schwartz in as Defensive Coordinator. Ralph died. The team's for sale. I've already got a migraine and a cramp in my dick
and we haven't played a game yet... We'll finish the year 6-10, 2-4 in the division. I'll be in the yard burning my Bills jersey and zubaz, grumbling to my wife about Goodell, concussions, and Tom Brady in an effort to rationalize why I'm renouncing the NFL and becoming a baseball fan. To maintain my masochism, I'll choose to cheer for the Cubs.
I know, I canít believe it either...almost everyone who golfs with Bruce at his Thousand Oaks club loves him (DUH, heís practically a living breathing Precious Moments angel figurine), but recently heís found himself on the receiving end of some bitchy Mean Girl
behavior. A source claims that one golfer passed Bruce and yelled: 'Howís your dick?
'. Rather than telling the truth and explaining that heís still in the process of retrieving it from Kris Jennerís klaws
, Bruce replied by joking: 'Itís right here. It hasnít worked in 20 years.
' Shortly after, another golfer cornered him in the locker room and started making fun of his gorgeous ombrť ponytail before joking that he was going to cut it off.
Those caddy shack cunts! How DARE they come for Bruce like that? Theyíre obviously just jealous that God didnít bless them with a glorious head of shimmering shoulder-length chestnut-colored hair or the right undertones to work a tricky color like Magenta Splash on their nails.
, "RUDE! Two Beauty-Hating Assholes Have Been Bullying Bruce Jenner On The Golf Course"
See, confidence is inspiring and sexy because it is an indicator of past success
. If I have not actually had that past success, then you're asking me to simply get really good at faking confidence. And while this is useful advice (becoming an expert at lying is actually a very effective recipe for success, in any field
), it's probably not what you intended...go back to being a toddler and relive your life as the weird kid, or the fat kid, or the poor kid. Reach age 12 or 13 and see a group of females give you the same look they give to a spider they found in the bathtub. Go back and get familiar with that body language that says, 'No one will be happy or relaxed until you leave.' Go back and live your life in a universe that bites your hand when you try to reach out to it. Then see what your confidence is like at age 23.
Regular readers will know Iíve never been the belle of the ball down here in Beachtown, having inspired no admiring glances or coquettish smiles from those who catch my eye, and no wolf whistles that werenít sarcastic and followed by the cackling of a girl-gang
. I was once ignored by a man slavishly drumming up signatures for a petition to save the hospital, who skipped over me like I was invisible, presumably for giving off the aura of someone who hates healthcare.
My resting facial expression is Ďmurderous
í, I resemble Charles Manson cameoing in 'Point Break
, and Iím only ever approached by men aged 18-35 who want a light, or think I can sell them some weed. On occasion, I have been asked by groups to take their photo for them, but only when Iíve been reading a book, which possibly paints over the edges of the 'serial killer, thug, or sex offender?' vibe with an airy coat of education.