Sunday, June 29

Fuck the OC

Until recently, I firmly believed that Claremont, California (town motto: "No Parking") was the worst place in existence. Situated in the eastern part of LA County, Claremont is home to five undergraduate universities, two graduate institutions, and about three bars that all close at ten PM. Oh, and old people. Hundreds and hundreds of rich, myopic, liberal bleeding-heart-until-you're-on-my-lawn-then-I'm-calling-the-cops old people who make working in the service industry a living nightmare and walking across the street a ritual which I fondly refer to as "Suicide Practice".
However, despite all its flaws and odd peccadilloes, Claremont has at least one thing going for it: it's not located in Orange County.
About a month ago, a roommate of mine moved to Huntington Beach (town motto: "Spend Money Then Please Leave"), which may be familiar to those of you who are avid ornithologists, as it is the natural habitat of the North American Poloed Douchebag. Not only is Huntington Beach a pain in the ass to reach, since a large part of getting there involves driving on Highway 1, otherwise known as the Pacific Coast Highway or the Big Fat Tourist Sidewalk, but actually spending time in Huntington Beach is a painful experience which I can only compare to babysitting someone else's children. Is it clear to you yet that I hate the OC? If not, let me elaborate.
The OC is populated largely by young, beautiful people, which doesn't sound so bad until you remember that young, beautiful people often have never taken the time to develop an actual personality and expect everything to be handed to them on a silver platter courtesy of Daddy's Credit Card. Those who aren't young and beautiful either stay inside until nightfall when they come out to feed on the flesh of the living or try their god-damnedest to appear young and beautiful. The result is that any woman over the age of thirty five has spent so much time tanning and constructing her physical features that she bears a striking resemblance to what she really is: a gaping leather receptacle designed only to hold money, otherwise known as a wallet. The men have these irritating, and I mean IRRITATING, effete characteristics which cause them to care about what brand their sunglasses are, the fact that their polo shirt collar is not popped at the right angle, and the condition of their cuticles. In fact, during the time I have spent in the OC, I doubt that I encountered one person who did not appear to spend at least two hours preparing themselves for their daily business. Remember Christian Bale's character in American Psycho who spent about thirty minutes of dialogue detailing how he kept himself looking good? Imagine populating an entire Southern Californian county with that, and you would be close to envisioning the hell on earth that is Orange County.
I have made three trips to Orange County. As I said earlier, my roommate moved there, so my first trip was spent moving him in and sleeping with his new female roommate, who is a natural-born OC girl and a "devout" Christian. (Although I tend to refrain from commenting on the sincerity of a person's religious beliefs, the fact that she hooked up with me four hours after meeting me makes me doubt that "God" should be listed as her first interest on her Facebook page. In a perfect world, "being a whore" would be listed first, then God). The second trip was spent drinking wine until five in the morning and tramping around downtown Huntington Beach with two guys who were picking fights with literally every other man we encountered. Although this would normally amuse me greatly, I was out of cigarettes while this was happening, so it just struck me as irritating.
My final trip to the OC ever was to attend the Official Housewarming Party of my ex-roommate. This just really drove the final nail in the coffin home for me. Everyone at this party was either trying to hook up or fight.
Let me just pause for a minute here and dispel any whispers of my own hypocrisy which may be starting to swirl about the back of your head. Yes, I generally march about downtown areas and house parties looking to either fight or fuck (this can be ascertained by the fact that I'll generally be yelling "I'm here to fight or fuck or both!" between shots of tequila). Yes, I generally do one or the other with a fair degree of frequency. However, I maintain that my fighting and fucking attempts are tempered with a sensible degree of childish whimsy and affability which renders them both unoffensive and hilarious. That being said, let me continue to elaborate upon why I hate the OC.
In Southern California, Land of Dreams and Movies (and Porno, if you live in the Valley), there is always a sense of insecurity that hangs over any given crowd of people, much like the infamous smog that hangs over the surrounding mountaintops. In the case of OC denizens, however, this feeling of insecurity is an immutable thread which runs through the spectacularly uncomplicated tapestry of an OC personality. If no one is paying attention to you at a party, then it must be because you have no value as a human being. Therefore, in order to increase your own self-worth, you should sleep with someone or beat someone up. Sounds reasonable, right?
No. No, it's not reasonable. I fail to see why people always have to pretend that there is a spotlight emitting the light of importance upon them at all times, and if this spotlight, which is powered by the opinions of other people, starts to fade, then their soul will flicker out and die in obscurity. Seriously, nobody cares about you. Ok, let me just write a quick note to the residents of Orange County here in the middle of my rant:

Dear OC Asshole,
Nobody cares about you. You are not an interesting person. You are attractive, yes, and you have lots of money, yes, but that doesn't mean that I actually want to engage in a conversation with you. I would rather watch Ron Popeil infomercials in a sauna while eating a seven pound wheel of gouda cheese than talk to you about how much money you have. P.S., I know you had your boobs done. Congrats. No one cares.

The Angry Drunken Irishman.

Okay, I just had to get that out of my system. Now where was I? Oh yes, the Party of the Damned.
Anyways, I showed up with a Minnesotan pastor and was sporting a camouflage fedora and a button up shirt with a cigarette burn in it because I am That Classy. Immediately, everyone attacked the hat:
"What, you think you're Indiana Jones?"
"Hey buddy, stupid hat!"
"Nice hat, loser."
Clearly, the hat is to be worn as a joke only. However, I was unprepared to find a house full of people who couldn't take a joke. So I did what I always do in awkward situations: I started drinking large amounts of tequila straight out of a wine glass.
However, the ridicule didn't stop with the hat. I was asked why I was drinking wine when there was alcohol to be had. I replied that I was drinking tequila. They asked what I mixed it with. I said nothing. They called me an alcoholic. End of discussion.
I believe that everyone has a breaking point where they just have to sit back and laugh, so I tried to push other people to that point by drinking straight out of the bottle, making fun of women, and generally acting the part of the harlequin buffoon. No such look. Any scathing comment made towards a girl was immediately followed by a pugilistic reply from some asshole in a polo shirt, and my attempts at white boy dancing to the Gypsy Kings were met with looks of scorn. Finally it dawned on me that people in the OC are just too shallow to laugh at anything that isn't Dave Chappelle or Family Guy. Well, fuck them.
The other part of the party that tended to suck some major ass was the fact that the roommate with whom I slept had decided to hedge her bets and ruin any chances I may have had with any other females by telling all the women at the party that we had hooked up. Fine. I don't care. By this time I had moved on and was dating an awesome woman. The ironic punch in the nuts came after the party when I got a call from my ex-roommate saying that this girl was pissed because I "told everybody at the party that we hooked up." That, my friends, is Christian guilt in motion: let's tell every girl here that I hooked up with this guy so that I may claim him as My Property, and then when everyone talks about the fact that we hooked up, I should act offended that my joke of a reputation may have somehow been damaged. It's disgusting. But why use all these words to describe the situation when two will suffice: hypocritical slut.
I really can't describe any more to you the intense seething rage I feel at the OC these days. It is a terrible cesspool of talentless sycophants whose only thought concerns who might be at Da Club tonight. The only way I can describe it is to ask you to picture yourself in an Abercrombie ad. You know, one of those black-and-white pictures you see around the mall with some shirtless guy staring at the camera. Picture yourself inside that picture. Sounds great, right? Now picture being stuck in that situation for eight hours. Picture being around someone whose only purpose in life is to look good. Picture trying to have a conversation with that person.
It sucks. The OC is fun for about five minutes, then it swiftly turns into a punishment of the human soul that would make Sisyphus cringe.
I hate the OC. I hate it so much that I hereby make the following decree: I ban myself from traversing in, cavorting about in, or otherwise setting foot in the OC for non-business related reasons, seeing as how the OC is a worthless stretch of intellectual wasteland in which no decent people reside.

Now bring me a drink. A Sex on the Beach.

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2 Bullshit Responses:

Blogger I'm Bitchy for a Reason left the following bullshit...

hahahahaha... only you! Most intellectual people would know better than to be seen at one of those parties and attempt to interact with the pretty people that Illinois prom queens strive to be. You sir are out of your element

8:28 AM  
Anonymous Anonymous left the following bullshit...

Well done, sir. But theater majors have GOT to be worse. Any group of people with members who regularly use a fake British accent to appear sophisticated is beyond the contemptibility of popped-collar automatons in the OC.

Or at least as bad...


1:53 PM  

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