Hello, sir. I'm addressing you as such because you're a man. I mean, I could be wrong (as I'm sure you know, I often am), but statistically speaking, you're probably not a member of the fairer sex. Ah, but look at me! Not even a paragraph in, and I'm already generalizing. Does that upset you? I bet it does.
You don't like me. But then again, you don't like most people. Or things. Or worldviews that don't align with your own. You thrive on being a contrarian. Contrarianism is, in a way, your religion. Because you sure as shit aren't a Christian, or a Muslim, or a Jew, or any of those sheeple who believe in a higher power. You're higher than that high power. You're the highest. You, and only you, are the way, the truth, and the life.
You hate, with a passion, that Lindy West broad—y'know, the one who's always flapping her gums about who-gives-a-fuck over at that Jezebel rag. You think she's fat. You want her to know that you think she's fat. So you tell her that she's fat. Un-rapeably fat. Geez Louise, ain't she fat? Where does she get off, being so fat?...
You're tired of being persecuted for your privilege. It's not your fault that you're white. Male. A member of the middle-class. You've worked hard for everything you have—the midsized automobile, the two-bedroom ranch-style home in the suburbs you live alone in, the 50-inche plasma TV, the Pittsburgh Steelers season tickets. No one helped you with a goddamn thing. You, sir, suckle at no teat. There is no room in your life, in your world, in your heart, for people who don't pull their weight.
...You wish you were a fuckin' minority, y'know? Or a woman. Or a gay. They have it so much easier than you. I mean, society never persecutes them. They're too busy giving them jobs and letting them into universities, unwarranted. Fuckin' quotas, am I right?