Welcome to Literally the Worst, an occasional column wherein I shit on all the shit that’s shitty. This week: The Washington Nationals, Crossfitters and food bloggers. Got ideas? Of course you do. Send them to me at email@example.com
The Washington Nationals
I know all of six of you will care about this, but: Fuck the Nats. Fuck ‘em right in the ear. That whole playoff series was a shit show, and they deserved to lose. My cat could get on base more often than the Nats hitters (he has, like, NO strike zone). All we learned from that series is that Bryce Harper creams his jeans any time he gets a chance to hit a vanity home run to fucking Mars that ultimately doesn’t matter.
The Nationals and Dodgers have conspired to create the most insufferable, unwatchable playoff combination possible. I would rather watch C-SPAN than watch Giants and Cardinals fans passive-aggressively argue over whose team is “GRITTIER.” Did you know that Hunter Pence, the Giants’ right fielder, rides a fucking scooter to home games? How twee! How does the team’s insurance even allow that? I hope he gets in a season-ending (but non-lethal) accident.
I’ve heard writers and historians refer to baseball as “torture” due to how long the season is. That’s not exactly right. Torture would be preferable to baseball. With torture, you know it will be bad. Baseball’s not like that. Baseball is lovingly raising a pet from infancy, and then your alcoholic dad unceremoniously stomping it to death when he gets back from Afghanistan.
Fuck baseball, and fuck the Nationals. Can’t wait until next April, though!
There’s nothing wrong with CrossFit as a fitness program, other than the fact that working out in a competitive environment is antithetical to the very concept of exercise (and therefore inherently unsafe). But that’s ok. Many people get hurt doing CrossFit, but many, many more people do not get hurt doing CrossFit.
The problem with CrossFit is the people themselves. I do not want to join your fucking cult, and it IS a cult: It grows through evangelism (recruiting new trainers) and propagation (building new “boxes”), just like any other religious sect. I do not want to do those weird, bullshit dolphin-kick things you erroneously call pullups with you. I do not want to slam ropes on the ground, or run carrying bags of sand with you. I may want to pay a visit to your “box,” but something tells me we are on VERY different wavelengths regarding that term. CrossFit is a fine way to get in shape; just shut the fuck up about it. The appropriate time to unsolicitedly say “I do CrossFit” is “never.”
And another thing: You’re not fucking athletes. I mean, some CrossFitters may be athletes who happen to do CrossFit for the fitness, but exercising competitively does not make you an athlete. Athletes exercise so they can play actual sports. There are a select few “exercises” we’ve deemed worthy of elevation to athletic competition (running, swimming, etc.) but consider that we give so few shits about them that we can only be bothered to watch them once every four years.
First of all: Fuck anyone with a personal blog. The worst of them are probably the generic “My Crazy Life as a 20-Something Girl LOL!” blogs that I’m pretty sure are, at this point, generated by a computer in the Philippines for as similar as they all are. Hint: Everyone has problems when they’re 22 and broke and single and living alone for the first time. It’s a part of life that’s no more blogworthy than the changing seasons.
Food blogs get special mention, though, because they’re something that could theoretically be useful: I like cooking (well, I don’t mind cooking, at least) and I could always use ideas for new stuff to make from other people who put a lot of thought into that sort of thing. The problem is that food bloggers go out of their way to make their blogs as unbearable as possible. Every post (which should just be a recipe, some pictures, and maybe prep notes) instead turns into 2,000 words of bullshit, followed by a recipe at the verrrrrryyy end.
Look: No one gives a fuck why you were inspired to make this. No one cares that your kids and husband have busy schedules, and here’s four paragraphs explaining why my family really looks forward to taco night, or whatever the fuck. No one ESPECIALLY cares about whatever other tangential bullshit you have going on in your life that has absolutely nothing to do with food at all. The people who read your blog, if they exist at all, are not your friends. They’re not your therapist. They’re people who want recipes.
Just tell me how much fucking cumin I need to use and get on with it, ok?