MEET THE MOST HATEFUL MAN IN AMERICA!

“HELLO, I HATE YOU ALL,” HE GREETED.

Our story began last month when Guinness World Records, headquartered in London, anointed Ned Demeanor the “Most Hateful Man In America.” “We were shocked because we’d never heard of the man,” said Guinness Records keeper Dr. Spiny Praline. “We observed him for over six months. The man actually hated everything! His first reaction to anything was hate.”

When the Guinness judges arrived at Ned’s spacious basement apartment in Newark, New Jersey, things went South. “He was stark naked and shouted that he hated us. He was old, so his balance wasn’t all that. So, he was careening around the room saying he hated us for a variety of reasons. Two officers with us tazed him for ten or fifteen minutes. He shook himself clear at the end, said he felt totally invigorated and thanked us even though he still hated us.”

Last week, this WWN reporter got the first and only interview with Ned Demeanor at his new home, “Our Lady of the Pleated Pants Happy Zone for the Odd.” It was a campus dedicated to allowing “odd” people to thrive. It’s the only medical facility to offer golf-cart jousting.

This scribe knocked on his cottage’s front door, causing the “Get Outta Here” sign to tremble, slightly.

“Hello? This is Brick Rivers from Weekly World News!”

This reporter heard rumbling from inside, then: “This is Ned Demeanor. Hello. I hate you all!”

The door swung opened and a grizzled fellow clad in a male nurse’s outfit ushered us in. “Come on, come on. If you were any slower, you’d need watering once a week.”

BRICK IS HATED

This scribe entered the cottage and noted that there were boxes everywhere. “Are you moving?”

“I hate you for asking that. Sit down, idiot,” he replied, taping up the last of several boxes. “Now, what do you want?”

“I’m here to conduct an interview celebrating your new title.”

“I hate interviews. And, I hate you.”

“So you’ve mentioned.”

“I mean, look at you! I love what you’ve done to your hair. How do you get it to come out of your nostrils like that? What are you going to do, wax it, shape it, and have a flip-down moustache?”

This reporter reflexively touched his nose, which made Ned Demeanor grin. “Nice nose, too. Your dad was a Toucan?”

This scribe grinned back. “I can see what you’re doing.”

“Good. I’d hate to do this in braille. What do you want to know?”

“Why do you hate everything?”

“Because I can,” Ned replied. “Oh, you want the Dr. Phil excuse? My parents hated me and I hated them. I was kicked in the head by a horse when I was three. Later, I found out it was my father in his football mascot outfit. I decided to run away from home. I ran into the woods, hoping to be raised by wolves.”

“And…?”

“My parents never looked for me and, after three days, the wolves brought me back. My parents took me in because they needed a tax credit. From then on, it was full-tilt hatred.

They sent me to a Catholic school, Saint Fernando of the Lash, where nuns tried to stop me from using my left hand by rapping it with a ruler. So, I bought my own ruler. Whenever a nun tried to rap me after that, I engaged in swashbuckling swordplay.”

SO MANY THINGS TO HATE!

“And it’s grown from there?”

“Why not? What’s there to like?”

“Uh. Nature?”

“Oh, yeah. It thrills me to get up and hear the birds cough. Look, Rocky…”

“Brick.”

“How can you not hate things? You go to a restaurant and there’s a whole table of young people eating. But before they eat? They have to photograph their meals. I mean, duh? Take it a little further and you’ll have them coaching their food. ‘Oh, hamburger, show me some grease. That’s it, baby. Work it. How about a little tomato? I’ll get a fluffer for the lettuce.’

“I hate the fact that young people are doing this instead of, like, having a life. What I hate more is that they’re sending these photos to other people who don’t have a life. Those people feel compelled to text their reaction to this food porn. Hell, why don’t the original people just send the shots of their burgers and, seven hours later, take a photo of their half-filled toilets! Sort of ‘My burger, before and after deal.”

This reporter was speechless. In a way, Ned made sense.

NED MAKES SENSE!

“Ah, I see that you find my hate justified. I hate you for doing that, you know. Another thing I hate? Crowds of braying parents who have IQs equal to their sock size, marching with ‘No masks for my kids’ signs, saying it’s their bodies, their choice. First of all, it’s your kids’ bodies and they don’t get a say. With all the facts saying that masks make a difference, they’ve decided that their rights as citizens are being violated. Big Government is out to put a muzzle on their freedoms. Putzes.

“Why not go all in and let the kids bicycle without wearing a helmet? Nobody can say for sure if an accident will happen that day. Seatbelts? Kids don’t need them. They’re flexible. They bounce well. Why not jump on that train to nowhere as adults? Don’t wear a seatbelt, don’t obey speed limits. And, while you’re at it, drink when you drive. It’s just more big government trying to keep you from dying. These people have scabs on their knuckles from walking.”

At that point, the doorbell rings and Ned lets in a man in a nurse’s outfit. “This is Luis,” Ned said, “my getaway driver.”

Luis grinned, exposing a mouthful of gold teeth. “He’s getting me outta here,” Ned said proudly as the boxes were put in an ambulance.

“You can’t just leave here!” this scribe exclaimed.

“Watch me, Stone.”

“Brick.”

“Do me a favor. Don’t publish this story until I send you an all-clear, okay?”

“I don’t know that I can…”

“Look, kid. I’m not a violent man, just hateful. Luis? Whole ‘nother story.”

He extended a hand. “I hate shaking hands.”

He put on his mask and left the house.

“Give your dad a cracker for me!” he called, getting into the getaway ambulance.

THE AFTERMATH

This morning, I was emailed a news story from an anonymous source: “FLORIDA POLICE IN PURSUIT OF ELDERLY MALE NURSE WHO VERBALLY HARRASSES ALLIGATORS.”

Thus, this exclusive interview and I hated waiting so long to publish it.