All I have to do is start wearing women’s clothes, and I can even hang out in ladies’ restrooms and peer through the little cracks in the stall doors as they try to poop under my leering gaze.
And the best part is if they complain, they’re bigots and will be ostracized.
For a sociopath like me, there’s probably never been a better time to be alive, and I mean that seriously. At pretty much any other point in history, people with common sense would light torches, grab pitchforks and chase me from their village. But now I’m a protected class.
And if this newfound obsession with tolerance has taught me anything, it’s that all social boundaries need to fall. And since race doesn’t really exist anyway, I think it may be time for blackface.
I’m sure people will accuse me of bigotry, and they’ll no doubt slander my good name by using facts and examples. They might even dredge up ancient history like how a few months ago I recorded the mini-series Roots but watched it in reverse so it had a happy ending.
Those people are the real racists, and when I show up to my next job interview doing my best Al Jolson after claiming minority hiring preference, those fools better recognize.