The Colour Orange Can F**k Right Off: What Are Your Small, Petty, Irrational Hatreds?
The late, great George Carlin once said: ‘I don’t have pet peeves - I have major psychotic fucking hatreds.’
So with that in mind, and considering the fact that it’s a Friday and I don’t know about you but I’ve had a long fucking week, I hereby declare Pajiba a safe space for the expression and denunciation of irrational hatreds.
You know the scene: You’re walking along, minding your own business, keeping your cool, trying to be a good co-operative little cog, life-preserving coffee clutched tightly in hand; when somebody has the audacity to do the thing. They get right in your fucking way, and they just…do the thing. That little thing which doesn’t make that much of a difference to anything in the grand scheme of things really, but which nevertheless drive you nuts. They do the thing, and you immediately shoot them your best baleful glare and begin involuntarily grinding your teeth until little bits come off that you can swallow for strength and sustenance and to help get you through the rest of what will surely be an awful, fire-filled day.
Now just to be clear, these aren’t the big, justifiable things we’re talking about here. Your hatred of, say, fascism, or Jeff Bezos or Logan Paul is righteous and par for the course. No, I want the little things. The fundamentally inconsequential shit that you encounter day to day. The stuff that, despite its minimal footprint, nevertheless drives you up the wall. The things that as a rational, reasonable adult you would have trouble defending your hatred of. Because you know there’s no justifiable reason for it. It’s just some obstinate part of your raging lizard brain that gets off on the hate.
And that’s fine.
Here, today, it’s fine. You’re safe. I want to hear your petty little hatreds. The smaller, the pettier, the better.
Smart watches worn by adults.
What’re you, fucking 8 years old? Why do you need a play screen on your wrist? Has anyone who doesn’t regularly wear a sweatpants-and-blazer combo ever bought one of these? Why would anyone need a smartwatch? Your phone already does all of the things your smartwatch does, and it does them better. A smartwatch lies smack bang in the middle of the sweet overlapping douchezone of the Venn diagram of ‘pointless knickknack’ and ‘overpriced consumerist status symbol’. If you have one I assume your soul has got frosted tips. If I see a person walking down the street carrying a coffee and I glimpse a smartwatch on their wrist as their sleeve rides briefly up I always secretly hope that they trip on a bit of errant pavement and end up flinging the hot coffee all over themselves, thus ruining their sweatpants and their blazer forever.
Here’s an offer: Manage to convince me of the virtues of a smartwatch and I’ll stand up, pull down my jeans, defecate on my shoe, and then I’ll kick upwards as hard as I can to launch the projectile up into the air above my head, standing still with my eyes closed then, awaiting my fate.
People using their phone to pay for things.
You look like a twat, booping your phone against that, you know that? In the shops it’s bad, but on the underground it’s much worse. I don’t know what phenomenon is happening in the two metres or so leading up to the gates to tap into the underground, but whatever it is it makes people who intend to tap in with phones temporarily lose control of their motor functions, as well as their spatial awareness. In other words: Stand aside and let others pass if you’re gonna be fumbling at the gates with your phone for 20 seconds like a half-drunk child, you colossal bellend. Figure out which app to turn on—or whatever is the problem—in good time before you get to the gates. You daft shitgibbon. The world doesn’t stop and start at the convenience of oblivious phone-booping cockwombles. You raging boner of inconsiderate idiocy.
The colour orange
Just look at it.
Really, take a second to look at it.
It’s not really necessary, is it, the colour orange? Like, sorry, Holland, but orange is a pointless addition to the spectrum. More of a broken promise than a colour. And so needy. Every time orange shows up it’s bleeting, ‘Me! Me! Me! Look at me! Look at meeeeeee!’ If you have a headache and orange slides into your field of vision the headache gets instantly worse. If you’re hungover and you’re getting better and you see orange you’re back to square one. If you picked up orange juice and it was actually orange instead of yellow you’d throw it to the floor with disgust. Its cousin, red, is loud too, sure, but it’s seductive and smooth in its loudness. It’s assertive and sure of itself. Orange? Orange is the nice guy of colours—whiny and self-centred.
Why is orange? It’s one of the Big Questions. Very much like Why is Ed Helms?
Why is orange? It’s jarring, loud, and full of lies. Fuck orange.
Photos courtesy of Getty Images