I had a sociology teacher in high school who was supposed to be teaching Economics. But since Economics was a boring joke to him, he’d constantly slip the entire class into verbal sociology debates. One day he went around the classroom asking each student what their prejudice was. As each student proclaimed what they thought would be well-debated by Mr. DoucheLord (let’s just call him that), he would actually rip them apart. For example:
Mr. DoucheLord: “What is your prejudice, Johnny?”
Johnny: “I really don’t like fat people.”
Mr. DoucheLord: “Oh really? What if the aunt who was raising you alone – after both of your parents died in a fiery car crash, who was working three jobs just to support you and your tacky denim fetish – had a thyroid problem and weighed 350 pounds? Would you still hate fat people?”
Johnny: ” !? ”
And so it went as Mr. DoucheLord went around the classroom crushing the opinions of each student.
Now, I was well-informed about DoucheLord because my sister already had her ridiculously fragile ego crushed by his antagonistic ways. But I wasn’t the same kind of girl. As feminine as I was, I was also the type to play catcher in softball and was willing to take a few hits for the team. So in typical me fashion, I dug deep into the recesses of my blonde brain and came up with a brilliant answer that I hoped would minimize the impact of his DoucheLord severity.
Mr. DoucheLord: “So, what’s your prejudice?” he smirked at me, knowing full-well I was the younger sibling of a previously-tortured student.
Me: “I have a prejudice against people who ask other people their prejudice just so they can crap on their answers,” I replied, with my own all-knowing smirk.
DoucheLord snorted, laughed, and replied, “Smart Ass.”
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