Today is the day to provide your expert opinion.

Have a question that needs answering? Send it in to my advice columnist/mom, Mrs. Zulkey.com. See, she doesn't have a question today so I have to write the piece of garbage below. If you don't send her a question by next week, she will have to retire and you won't like that.

Anyway, I am proud to say I am a member of a wonderful new group on Friendster: Haters.

Chief among the activities of the Haters group is hating. I'm honestly surprised it's taken me this long to join a group solely dedicated to hating.

Don't get me wrong: I'm not a "don't hate the player, hate the game" kind of hater. And I don't hate out of jealousy. I hate mostly as a hobby. In fact, I can make a game out of it. How many people can I find to hate on this bus? In this elevator? At this concert? You'd be surprised.

One time this summer, I went to see my Chicago White Sox play the Boston Red Sox. It was a crappy game and I was sitting in crappy seats. So, there was only one thing to do: start hating on the girl sitting in front of me. It was pretty easy. She was wearing a teeny-tiny child-sized Sammy Sosa t-shirt and a Boston Red Sox cap. She showed off the spot between her butt and her mid-back in her small shirt, where she displayed a large tattoo of a big black Christian cross surrounded by barbed wire. She only cheered when one of her friends pointed out that the Red Sox did something. She also got up every inning to go smoke or drink or meet guys or something.

It took me a while to realize that I was really enjoying hating on this girl much more than I was the game. It was so easy, and so fun. Until she sensed my hating and made a snotty comment to me, in which case I do what typical haters do: get wimpy and defensive.

Please don't think I discriminate, though. I don't reserve my hating on for bimbos, Cubs fans or people with bad tattoos, so please don't think I discriminate. I hate on children, on old people, on fat people, on loud people. All shapes, sizes and incomes. I am an equal opportunity hater. And typically I do it in silence, too, which could be confusing to you: am I admiring your jacket? Or am I hating you for chitchatting with the cashier in line while I'm waiting to pay? You'll never know.

Back to the Sox game. The White Sox lost, and then my date for the night and I had to stand in line for an hour to get on the El. And you can guess what I did then, too.