I have guilt, unlike many people, because I allow myself to feel too much empathy. I love a lot of people, like even more, and hate only a select few. And I have this pesky thing, this conscience. It’s gotten me in loads of trouble, lemme tell you. Were it Jimminy Cricket, I would long ago have skooshed him to be rid of the constant reminders of the feelings and lives of others. I long to be able, as so many are, to wander through life oblivious to the fact that there are living, sentient creatures behind each facade of a personality. I’ve passed up countless chances to do what I want to because this thought had struck me.
So I resolve, for these columns, not to make fun of those luminescent souls with which I share this life and this world. I intend to fully respect them, in all their intricate beauty and individuality.
But retards, fratsicles, sorostitutes, jerks, crybabies, Republicans, and anyone else I feel like smashing are fare game. Deal? It’s not like any of those have feelings, anyhoo.
