One Hundred and Eleven People I Can't Stand

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Meet one hundred and eleven people Taylor can’t stand (in alphabetical order):

Adam, Alex, Alexa, Alexander, Amber, Andrea, Andrés, Angela, Anna, Anne, Anu, Ashlyn, Bibi, Billy, Brie, Britney, Brooklyn, Cedric, Cesar, Charley, Christina, Claude, Clint, Crystal, Curtis, Dan, David, Delia, Dick, Divanna, Don, Donald, Elizabeth, Elle, Emily, Eric, Eve, Ezequiel, Felicia, Felicity, Florina, Franzy, Frida, George, Georgia, Gian, Henok, Hudson, Hung, Isaac, Ivy, Jeff, Jeremy, John, Jonathan, Kaitlin, Karl, Karen, Katie, Kenya, Kevin, Kim, Kris, LaToya, Laura, Leah, Leonardo, Lilly, Liza, Louis, Lydia, Marc, Mary, Matthew, Melania, Michael, Mimi, Nathan, Nelsie, Nick, Ocean, Orlando, Osama, Oscar, Patrick, Pearl, Phillip, Pierce, Pinocchio, Quigley, Quin, Ramy, Reign, Rhett, Rosa, Rudy, Ryan, Salvador, Samantha, Sara, Snooki, Sonia, Stephanie, Tallulah, Tess, Thor, Tom, Tyler, Unique, Velva, Victoria, Vincent, William, Xanthus, Yolanda, Zachary

 My story starts with Adam and Eve. 

We meet Adam in the Bible, which is a fascinating fantasy novel, sort of like The Hobbit, but one where time stands still and where people get punished for the most ridiculous things, like eating an apple or fucking a sheep. Adam was the godfather of humanity, a perpetual bachelor living in paradise, perhaps in Santorini. He was single, not ready to mingle, and according to his shrink, very happy. And then a plastic surgeon removed one of Adam’s ribs to create a needy gold digger with an eating disorder named Eve . . . and I don’t buy that story for a second. 

Look, even with a good antiseptic, a rib-removal surgery is dangerous and, let’s not forget, expensive for someone like Adam. The main question is: where did Adam get the money if money hadn’t been invented yet?

Besides, if Adam had had twenty-four ribs (that’s two whole racks!), then why did he only remove one? A human-minus-one-rib is a recipe for lopsidedness, and if I wanted to stare at mismatched bodies, I’d buy a Picasso. 

When I looked up Adam online to see what he looked like, I learned that he was handsome, if compared to guys in Tulsa. But I still don’t see why Eve had to settle and move in right away. And—while we’re hovering over this subject—how did they find a U-Haul at such short notice? Did they steal it from a pair of lesbians on a second date? That’s really, really homophobic of them.

If you compare images of Adam to Jessica Alves (who’s undergone over a hundred procedures and has more stitches than a blanket)—Adam has no visible scars on his back through which ribs could have been removed. That is according to a plastic surgery website I referenced after researching how much Brazilian butt lifts cost and whether I had to rent a crane for such a procedure. 

Also, through my personal experience on dating websites, anyone without a last name cannot be trusted. Just ADAM? What bothers me the most is that, somehow, for whatever stupid reason, millions of people believe that Adam was created out of thin air without any kind of intercourse involved. What exactly had happened? Had a bee glided above and pollinated a very fertile uterus? Had octomom donated one of her octopuplets? Had Angelina Jolie decided not to adopt another child?

Humans are gullible wazzocks and we simply wanted to believe that a miracle had occurred. Since childhood, we simply wanted to have faith in something: that Santa is real, or that storks bring babies, or that the Port Authority Bus Terminal is safe and no longer stinks of body fluids. 

But miracles don’t happen, and that’s why tofu still tastes like tofu. 

Adam—like a unicorn or affordable childcare—has never existed, and nobody, except for a butcher at Whole Foods (and Harold Shipman), removed any ribs. But if so many people believed in something so outrageously bogus as Adam, imagine what else people have been wrong about? Is Carrot Top handsome? Is kale unhealthy? Has Kelly Osbourne lost her weight exercising and not through a gastric bypass? Is the Earth flatter than Bill Cosby’s nose? Is Bill Cosby—now that he’s been brought up—innocent? 

In summation, if you haven’t figured out my point, here it is: Adam has never existed and is faker than the top row of Bhad Bhabie’s teeth. His story is nothing but a fairy tale, and not a good one at that, as it lacks Rumpelstiltskins, talking animals, ugly ducklings, and needy cleaning ladies. 

Do yourself a favor and run a background check upon being introduced to someone. Excuse yourself to the bathroom and stalk their socials, then rummage through their wallets/purses. Or do something more innocent—hack their email. Simply use any strategy to deduce who they are, or otherwise you may get duped. 

Do not trust anyone, especially an author who wrote a book called One Hundred and Eleven People I Can’t Stand. The reason I penned this masterpiece is as simple as spatchcocking a chicken: People are narcissistic morons (with me being, obviously, an exception). Whenever you plonkers see an item with your name printed on it, such as a T-shirt, a mug, or a key chain, you purchase it. I make a living by writing, and I can’t afford food unless people purchase my books—which they haven’t—and that’s why I’m bitter and look skinny, scrawny, macilent, rawboned, and malnourished. But I mention NAMES and BAM, my book is a national bestseller. So yes, you’ve been tricked into shelling out your hard-earned bucks because y’all are narcissistic, hay-stuffed, good-for-nothing dimwits. 

Bwahahahahahahahahahahah.