Some make us laugh. Some make us cry. Some wow us with their amazing athletic abilities. And then they do something incredibly stupid. Like break into a stranger’s home in the middle of the night. Or have anal sex with the wrong person. Not good.

It’s always the really talented ones, too. You never see, say, an Adam Sandler caught in a big sex scandal. Or Mary Kate and Ashley busted for heroin. No, it’s gotta be Woody Allen, Robert Downey Jr. and Kobe Bryant. What the fuck? Listen, guys. Could you please lay off the freaky shit for a while so I can enjoy your work? Thank you. Celebrity Screwups suck.

…I’ve got nothing.

Early yesterday morning, at about a half past twelve, I was drifting off to sleep when I was suddenly jolted awake by the arpeggio ringtone of my phone (note to self: change ringtone of phone). I sleepily reached for the receiver and glanced at the Caller I.D. display. The call was coming from the building’s intercom system downstairs. I knew for a fact that none of my friends would think of coming to my home uninvited–especially after midnight. Which led me to only one conclusion: It was someone I didn’t know.

Normally, I can forgive a wrong number. Seven digits aren’t so easy to punch through. But when you’re downstairs at the intercom which requires only three numbers to connect, and you still manage to fuck it up? Odds are, you’re either a drunken asshole or a thief. CLICK. Wrong-Number Night Owls suck.

Yesterday, I opened up my Healthy Choice TV dinner to discover two broccoli florets deeply embedded in my quiescently frozen dessert. One had managed to cling to a cherry before the viscous red fluid solidified. The other was found resting on the cold, black plastic floor. I did what I could to rescue them, but my efforts were in vain. The dessert was frozen solid. Which meant only one thing: Along with my soggy fish filet and tasteless rice pilaf, I would get to indulge in a very unappetizing apple-cherry “surprise.” Tainted TV Dinners suck.

Today’s pointless rant has been preempted so that we can bring you the following special presentation…

(Inside a large theater. It’s standing room only. The orchestra plays a magnificent fanfare)

ANNOUNCER: “Live, from Hollywood, California… It’s The First (And Probably Last) Everything Sucks Anniversary Special!”

(The crowd cheers as if they were cued by an electronic applause sign. The music swells and the velvet curtains part to reveal a group of sexy women dressed in glittery outfits, each one carrying an oversized golden lollipop on her shoulder like an umbrella. The women start to sing off key…)

One year ago today
Smivey had something to say.
So he sat down at his Mac
and he claimed this simple factttttttttttttttttttttttttttttt!

(The dancers start to twirl their lollipops)

(sung to the tune of Be Our Guest, kinda sorta)

We alllllll suck!
We all suck!
We drive SUVs and trucks!
We get in your hair
and we don’t care.
We’re just moronic schmucks!

We’re all slobs!
with no jobs!
We’re gigantic pulsing knobs!
We inflate our breasts
We’re online pestsssss…
Something else that rhymes with slob.
(Editors Note: “We write half-witted blogs.” probably would have worked.)

We’re all twits
who throw fits.
And our breath,
it smells like shit.
If you’re looking for some trouble,
you’re in luckkkkkkkkk

We’re mad at everything.
We know that we can’t sing.
We all suck!
We all suck!
We all suckkkkkkkk!!

(A drum roll plays and the ladies part to reveal Smivey dressed in tux and tails.)

ANNOUNCER: Ladies and gentlemen…Smivey!

(The audience immediately stands up and applauds. Smivey reaches the plexiglass podium. The applause sign gets turned off. And everyone immediately sits down.)

SMIVEY: Thank you. Thank you so much. One year ago, on this very day, I had a concept. A concept that I believed would turn the blog community on its ear. It did nothing of the sort.

(The applause sign turns on, triggering a few golf claps)

SMIVEY: Anyhow, I called that Web log Everybody Sucks. But as the months went on, I discovered that the title Everybody Sucks was just a little too limiting. So on February 6, I changed it to… Everything Sucks.

(The applause sign goes on again. A man coughs in the back row and everyone hears it.)

SMIVEY: Uh, anyway, we were supposed to look at some clips right now. But who wants to stare at a bunch of words? Not me.

(He takes out a trophy shaped like a golden lollipop and sets it on the podium.)

SMIVEY: I also had this award to give out to the one person who sucks the most. Well, not so much hand out the award as beat the recipient within an inch of his life with it. But everyone’s probably switched over to more interesting blogs by now, so what’s the point? In fact, this whole show is bullshit. I wrote a blog for an entire year. So what? Does that mean you should suffer through an hour-long regurgitation of my past? I don’t think so. I’m gonna go see if I can get my money back on this tux. Anniversary Specials suck.

So I’m walking down the Promenade when I suddenly hear my name called out. I turn around and see some bald guy with a goatee approaching me:

“Smivey, wassup, man? What the fuck you doin’ over here?”

My mind starts racing. Who the hell is this guy and why does he know me? I try to stall while I search my memory banks: “Heyyyy, mannnn….I didn’t even recognize you.”

“Dude, what the fuck? I look the same as I did three weeks ago.”

Three weeks. Three weeks. What the hell was I doing three weeks ago? “You sure, man? Maybe it was what you were wearing.”

“Whattaya talkin’ about? I was wearing the same thing I always do.”

Fuck. He’s on to me. “Yeah… I don’t know. You just look different.” There’s an awkward moment of silence. I still have no clue who this guy is. I try some subtle detective work: “So…how’s work?”

“Is that supposed to be funny?”

“Huh?”

“Dude, you know I just got laid off, man. Are you feeling okay?”

Shit. It’s the mailroom guy from my old building. Unfortunately, I still have absolutely no idea what his name is. “Yeah, I was just askin’ how the job hunt was going. You know, how’s work?”

“Whatever, man. I gotta get goin’. Tell Mike I said ‘hey.’”

“Okay…man. Good seeing you again.”

He walks away shaking his head, thinking I’m pretty messed up. And then it dawns on me: I have no idea who the fuck Mike is either.

The Name Game sucks.

Some musicians deserve every dollar they get. They write their own songs. They play their own instruments. They even sing. And when you go to see them perform, you actually get to hear them play.

On the other side of the spectrum, you’ll find the “recording artists.” These people are all about image. Fancy costume changes. Laser light shows. And synchronized dance moves. Most vocal tracks are pre-recorded with the music, so all the “singers” have to do is mouth the words and concentrate on the choreography. Of course, when you pay good money to see Britney Spears Live In Las Vegas, you probably expect an actual live show. But let’s not quibble over semantics. The Un-Live suck.

I love a great illusion. Seeing a magician do something like float out over the audience and explode into a flock of white doves, that kind of stuff really makes me think. And think. And think:

How the hell did they do that? It’s got to be something really simple. Something I just haven’t considered. What the hell am I overlooking? Is it misdirection? Slight of hand? Smoke and mirrors?

Sure, It’s fun for a while. But then I reach the point where I just don’t want to play anymore:

All right. You win. I give up. Turn up the house lights and show me how it’s done. Expose the wires. Reveal the trapdoors. Put me out of my misery.

But they never will. No matter how politely I ask. Or plead. “Sorry,” they say, “it’s against The Magician’s Code.” They explain that if I find out how the trick is done, it will ruin the illusion for me. You know what? I think I can live with that. The Magician’s Code sucks.

Here in Southern California, great weather is the norm. So you’d figure the most desirable table at a restaurant would be on the patio, right? Uh, not so much. You see, ever since a law was passed prohibiting smoking inside public spaces, most restaurants have turned their patios into a puffer’s paradise. Which means, whenever you dine outdoors, you can always look forward to a little something extra with your meal: a complimentary side of carcinogens. Patio Dining sucks.