Who started this trend of whitening your teeth to such an extreme degree? I mean, it’s important to remove the stains. But, come on, you’ve gotta know when to stop. The reaction you want is, “Hey, nice smile.” Not, “Whoa, what the fuck!” Seriously, do people really find this look attractive? If you do, please explain it to me. Cause, as far as I’m concerned, Ultra-Bright Bites suck.

They come out in their adorable little outfits, the music starts to play, and then they open their tiny mouths and all I can think is, “Stop. Please stop.” It’s not that they’re out of tune (though most of them are), it’s not that they’re off beat, it’s that spine-twisting squeaky voice they have. Who told them that they sound good? Somebody must’ve, because they belt that tune out like their life depended on it. Then there are those rare children who open their mouths and we hear a mature, adult voice come out. That’s really disturbing. It’s like meeting one of those Chinese people from Hong Kong and hearing them speak with the British accent. Something just isn’t right. Child Singers suck.

It used to be that you could spot a spam email from a mile away: “Live Sexy Sluts!” “Increase Your Penis Size Overnight !” (why do I get so many of those?). Yes, they were annoying. But at least they were easy to locate and delete. Then somebody got the bright idea to use more misleading subject lines, making it almost impossible to differentiate between an important piece of information and goddam motherfucking spam. Here are just a few examples of things I’ve recently found in my inbox: “FWD: Broken Link,” “RE: Interruption Of Service,” “Virgin assholes and pussies!!! 20,000 fresh pics of vigin(sic) naked girls!!!” It’s nice to see there are still a few companies out there who prefer the traditional methods. In any case, Spam Subject Lines suck.

So you’re watching your favorite show and you’re really enjoying it, and then all of the sudden the host turns to the camera and says, “We’ll be right back.” So you wait through all the commercials, looking forward to a few more morsels of brilliance, only to discover that all that’s left to watch are the fucking credits. Doesn’t that just piss you off? No? Well, maybe it’s just me. In any case, We’ll Be Right Back sucks.

Okay, I know she has a lot of fans. But when this “artist” was asked to write a ten-second rap for the latest Gap commercial, the only rhyme she could apparently come up with for the word “jeans” was, uh, “jeans.” But don’t worry. I guarantee we’ll be seeing more of Missy Elliot in the future. Yeah, on a show called ‘Where Are They Now?’. Missy Elliot sucks.

Have you ever noticed how every time a car company has a big sale event, they basically shoot the same spot for it? You know, there’s this never-ending rain of balloons and streamers falling from some unknown place in the sky, and the camera is positioned so that all of the attractive sales people are looking up at you with big smiles on their faces. But they can’t stand in one place. No, they have to keep moving. Apparently, they’re so excited, they can’t contain themselves. They march around the showroom, passing by customers who look like they’ve never seen a car before. Keep in mind, this isn’t just a sale. It’s an event. How do we know? They’ve got fucking tents. So, If you want a great deal on a car, you better get your ass over there. Because there’s never going to be another sale like this. Well, not until next year, at least. Dealer-Sale Spots suck.

This morning, I got up, grabbed a pint of juice out of the fridge (I’m out of peaches), and then went to the computer to read the latest news. I picked up the juice and carefully placed my finger over the screw-on cap (just in case), and gave the juice a shake. I then removed the cap and took a swig. “Ah, that’s good juice,” I thought to myself as I placed the container down on the desk. I found an article on Kobe Bryant losing his Nuttella endorsement contract and clicked on it. I put on my headphones and started listening to my latest groove. As I was intensely reading and grooving, I grabbed for the juice, quickly placed my finger over the top and gave the container a shake. Of course, had I been awake, I would’ve remembered to replace the top first. Juice went everywhere. On my keyboard. On my music mixer. On my shorts. My papers. The floor. Everything was splattered with the sticky stuff (insert masturbation joke here). Anyhow, it wasn’t a very nice way to wake up. Morning Brain sucks.

Arising early one morning, I went to the refrigerator to grab my usual breakfast peach. As I was carefully spritzing the fruit with insecticide remover (an act that would later be found to be quite ironic), I noticed out of the corner of my eye an unusual shadow moving briskly up the wall. I turned to investigate, and was shocked to discover a tiny army of ants marching their way towards victory. Apparently, they started their mission early and planned a sneak attack through a tiny crevice behind the electrical outlet. Each troupe had its orders: infiltrate the refrigerator, attack the sink, investigate the garbage receptacle. I was surrounded. But I stood my ground.

Armed with a box of deadly bait and a spray bottle of orange-oil kitchen cleaner, I commenced my attack. I placed the bait in strategic places as if I were planting land mines, and sprayed the kitchen cleaner at the troupes with the rapidity of a machine gun. Soon, the army was reduced to a pool of unrecognizable shriveled up balls and the kitchen was mine once again.

Or so I thought.

Later on, I discovered a few stragglers on the ceiling, perhaps on a reconnaissance mission to account for their losses, or maybe they had revenge on their minds. No matter. I dispensed with them quickly and went about my day. But I soon discovered that those pesky little insects hadn’t just invaded my kitchen, they assaulted my mind. Every time a slight breeze moved a hair on my leg or my arm, I would flinch and think, “They found me!” But nothing was there. I became so paranoid that I had to jump in the shower and rinse out my hair and scrub my body till it was raw (no, not really. But it sounded cool, didn’t it?).

This morning, I awoke to find new recruits making their way out of a different wall socket, far away from the bait mines I positioned on the kitchen counter. They had been strategizing overnight and had a new plan: “Avoid those fucking baits. Stay close to the wall, men!” Where are they coming from? What do they want with me? I may never know. But they are relentless little bitches, I’ll give ‘em that. Ants suck.

Soft focus. A seven-year-old boy plays on a swing in slow motion, a big smile on his face. Dissolve to a six-and-a-half-year-old girl with an even bigger grin on her face, holding her mommy’s hand at the mall, a perfect angel. A gentle voice speaks to us as we continue to see scenes of well-behaved children from this parallel universe: “Disruptive behavior. Hyperactivity. For years, we just accepted these symptoms as normal adolescent behavior. But now we know better. Chances are, your child is suffering from a horrible disease called A.D.H.D., Attention Deficit/Hyperactivity Disorder. Fortunately, there’s now hope. You no longer have to lace their brownies with marijuana. You can now medicate your child legally with a miraculous drug called Strattera. Yes, before you know it, your child will be as gentle as a baby lamb, and twice as quiet. Side effects are mild, and may include upset stomach, decreased appetite, nausea and vomiting, dizziness, tiredness and mood swings. But isn’t that a small price to pay for happy, healthy child?” Side Effects suck.