Am I A Racist?
I am a racist. I hate racism. That makes me bigoted. I am the disagreement of a stomach against its own intestines.
You are so proud that you are not racist as if that takes intellectual acumen, as if that means that you are a genius rather than a politically correct dolt.
And you pinch your nose when you say that I am a racist. It’s true. I hate black killers, white killers, Chinese killers. I am racist against killers in all colors. I protest protests.
I am a sexist too. I think women are more empathetic and men are more violent. I think men are better than women in math (in general). I am not. I hate math. And I hate your condemnation of me.
If you can’t isolate differences you will be alone in a vast glacier of plainness.
I am a tree. I grow. I have blossoms spread about me like love in the wind.
Love? Something you don’t understand. You are too rooted in your liberal hatred.
You are progressively ugly. And you pat yourself on the back as you encourage Isis to kill.
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