God I fucking hate tripods so fucking much holy shit. Holy shit, every commercial they’re in, every camera, every gif, every jpeg, they have this painfully vacant, stupid as shit, fuckass look on their stupid lumpy stand. Absolutely no part of their ugly as sin piece of shit 3 pan head is endearing. Their stupid fucking legs? Who the hell makes a stand with three legs. Their dumb flaily fucking twig legs? Their shitty, lumpy bastard Height adjustment Knob? The three thousand percent unnecessary dumbass shitass fucking BALANCE HOOK that no biped has EVER FUCKING HAD IN tHE HISTORY OF GOD’S GREEN FUCKING EARTH? God, I hate them. I hate them so much. So FUCKING much. Every time I see a stuffed toy tripod for wannabe photographers or a tripod quick release plate or a shitty goddamn commercial, it ignites my primal rage response and I’m overcome by the need to punt those shitty little homunculuses into the fucking sun. Fuck them. Fuck them fuck them fuck them fuck them fuck them. You look like Allah Abdallah summoned a patronus. Their dumb fucking twig rubber foot makes their whole shitty legs look like a hairy skin tag. I hate their dumb fucking lumpy center columns and their stupid, empty leg lever lock and their over-the-top goofy ass padded leg wraps. Any photo of a broken tripod invokes all the wrath and fury of a spoiled child having a meltdown over a chocolate bar in a walmart checkout line. And I know its irrational. That’s the worst part. I know they’re just a shitty fucking stand in a stupid fucking photoshoot, I know it doesn’t matter, I know I shouldn’t care. But that’s part of the problem. The part where no matter the might and fury of my hatred, the locus of my homicidal intent is alltogether inconsequential. I find myself laying awake in the dark in the early hours of the morning consumed by the spirit of Wrath itself, all the force and might of a flaming hurricane directed at a bottle of piss in a ditch by the highway. The absurdity of it all burns me to my core. What better things could this energy be directed towards? And yet my disdain for this stupid, useless, insubstantial failure of fucking three legs utterly eclipses the intrigue of all other pursuits. I hate them. I hate them on a level of my mind reserved for the worst of the world’s array of sinners, and I can’t even begin to justify it. Shitstick the rubber dick is, for all intents and purposes, the camera holder corpse of all of humanity’s saccharine pretenses- every condescending, passive-aggressive statement of meaningless upper middle class suburban drama distilled into a single, hateable form. The fucking. Fuck. I have no words. There is no cuss or epithet in any language that can encapsulate the height of the emotions I am experiencing. God, I hate them so much. I hate them so, so fucking much. I want to light their ugly little dumpster bodies on fire. I want to graphically beat them to death with their own stupid fucking monopod legs. I want to punch them to death. You know that weird feeling you get, when you see a picture of something so cute you find yourself overcome with the bizarre, inexplicable urge to squeeze it? It’s EXACTLY like that, except instead of cuteness it’s disgust. The wordless knowledge that his existence is evidence of all the failures of mankind. I find myself possessed by the will of a Holy Angel gone rogue with the belief that God has made a mistake, and I alone must correct it. This is the trial by which Samael himself fell from grace. This wild, meaningless rage. A thousand blades of shining steel cast with inhuman force in the direction of a plastic grocery bag floating on a breeze. What horrors must I have committed in a past life to be plagued by this torment now? I must Unmake this god-forsaken fucking piece of shit as an excuse for holding something.