You see the same kind of dangerous stupidity repeat itself.

American Neo-Nazis with tucked tails hide themselves in crimson sweatpants and goose-step like hens on parade. The movement looked ridiculous the first time, and then it had the clinical precision of a bureaucratic ego bruise to lend it something of a paint-by-numbers fearsomeness. These fools just feel the hate. They don’t have the muscle control to express it. And they won’t, for as long as there is no one thing for them to hate enough to make it worth the effort of getting off the couch. Darryl hates blacks the most, you see, but Marshall hates queers, and Steve and Tom really can’t stand those goddamned Jews, but Kyle and Todd and the some of the rest of the guys secretly only really hate black women, and no one charismatic enough has come along to unite the group in directing all of their hate at the One True Enemy, Who Encompasses All Others.

Yet.

It’s never really new, anyway. It’s the same old, dead magic and superstition; the same old, dying hate. Why bother? Valhalla collapsed under the weight of your hate and the gods that are still living are fighting the hateful wrath of the so-named One True God. We’ve got bigger fish to fry than that it makes your white cry when your daughter marries a nice young man.

Your daughter married a woman? Someone’s big god forbid she be happy with her one blissfully miserable experience.

We all have to die sometime. I’d rather die friend. Love doesn’t always end, sometimes it changes, sometimes it bends

What are the rules you follow?

Why?