A lot of "strongly dislikes"
Hate is such a strong word. Often, we use the word hate when we probably mean strongly dislike.We tend to use “hate” the same way we use the word “love.”
You may say you “love” icecream, but you really don’t. You just like it a lot. You may “hate” to stand in line, but what or who are you hating, exactly? You just don’t like standing in a line waiting for service.
I am as guilty as anyone about exagerating those emotions, hate and love, but I am going to loosely use the word hate hereafter, hoping that people reading this will know I just mean “strongly dislike.” As a matter of fact, I hate standing in a line. I dislike wasted time and that seems like wasted time.
I hate it when people refuse to use the turn signal on their automobiles. Have you ever wanted to pull up beside a driver to tell him the little lever to the left of his steering wheel operates the turn signals? Up is for right and down is for a left turn.
Speaking of drivers, don’t you just hate it when they use the turn lane like a third traffic lane? You know, the driver gets impatient and pulls out into heavy traffic and only to ride along in the turn lane waiting an opportunity to enter the traffic lane. I hate it when they do that.
I hate getting behind a driver in the drive through at my favorite fast food restaurant who is ordering for 9 people. If you want to order food for that many people, go inside and stop holding up the rest of us.
I hate blister packs. Blister packs are those sheets of pills that have to be extracted from the plastic covering. I have very short nails and stubby little fingers so it’s difficult for me too open the little blister pack.
I “love” sports, except soccer. I hate soccer. This is coming from a guy who once was a sports editor for several weekly newspapers. I understand that the team wins that kicks the ball into the net more often than the opposing team, but a lot of the rules, like offside, I do not understand.
I hate aluminum bats in baseball. I realize that using metal bats cuts down on the need to purchase replacements for wooden bats, but I still want to hear the “crack of the bat” not the “ping of the bat.”
Have you ever approached the cashier in a store, only to find out she, or he, is on a personal phone call? I hate that. I feel that, as a customer, I deserve that cashier’s attention, especially if said cashier is about to make change for me. For heaven’s sake, talk to him, her or it after work.
I hate liver, the kind that is served on a plate. When I was 20, I spent three weeks in the hospital. Whoever was in charge decided it was good nutrition to serve the vile substance a couple of times a week.
They tried to disguise it, but I could smell it coming down the hall. Needless to say, I went hungry on liver days.
If you were born on farm land as I was, you would be familiar with the slaughter of a hog during the winter months. Our family would go shares with the neighbors and both families gathered share the unfortunate animal. The first thing in the pot was the chitterlings, the hog’s entrails.
No smell on earth is like cooking chitterlings, pronounced “chit’lins”. As soon as the chitterlings went on the fire, I was out of there. I would head to the woods with my gun and squirrel hunt until the sun went down. Even then I had to endure the smell as it lingered in the air. I hate chitterlings and chit’lins.
I hate a liar, a thief, and a pedant. I hate the awful high temperatures in the summer. I hate Mondays and mornings in general. I don’t do mornings since I retired.
I spent too many early mornings commuting to work to have any fondness for that time of day. People who know me know not to call before noon unless it is an emergency.
Other than these few thing that need work, I think the world is a pretty special place and I give thanks every day that I was born in the United States to Christian parents.
Petal’s Louis Breakfield is a former editor of The Columbian-Progress and The Magee Courier. Breakfield also taught high school for 25 years. Reach him via email at: firstname.lastname@example.org