Sorority Girls As the longtime

Sorority Girls

We suppose we’re lucky that no one reads what we write—if they did, we’d be in a lot more trouble.

As a result, dear reader, the Official Gender Relations Liaison at “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly” has attempted to make sure that we lay off the ladies for a while. Instead of constantly kvetching about female lapses, he argues, we should adumbrate some of the sins of a man. K.D. Lang, for example. She’s a guy, isn’t she?

Anyway, dear reader, we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” have refused to give in to the Official Gender Relations Liaison’s pressure. As we always inform our readers each time we are poised to rant about a member of the weaker sex, roughly 47 percent of the crack young staff is of the feminine persuasion. And many of those staff members are women.

In addition, the Official Gender Relations Liason’s title doesn’t exactly strike fear into our collective hearts: It’s actually rather girly. Accordingly, we feel safe to take the ladies to task.

And it’s a good thing, too: Hardly a day goes by in which women don’t collectively bother us. In fact, they disturb us so often you’d think that they make up more than half the human population.

We were reminded of all of this, dear reader, when last a few staffers took a lunch break at one of our local eateries. This establishment, which we shall call “The Soccer Mom Cafe,” is chock-a-block with upper-middle class leftists; it’s the kind of place that serves as a haven for tote-bag clutching weasels who have “Re-Defeat Bush” stickers on their Volvos. The kind of people who love impoverished minorities, but, oddly enough, don’t live near any of them.

As the crack young staffers made their way up to the counter of “The Soccer Mom Cafe,” they noticed something deeply, deeply irritating: A gaggle of sorority girls waiting in line to order.

And what, you may be asking yourself, makes these young gals so offensive? We’re darn glad you asked.

First, one must note that the sorority girl is the closest the modern world has come to human cloning. Each one of these young things looks exactly alike. They all have the Official Wardrobe of the Sorority Chick: Designer sweat pants; designer T-shirt; expensive puffy winter coat; clunky designer sunglasses; oodles of makeup; &c.

As if this weren’t bad enough, dear reader, each one of these women has the exact same bone structure. It’s as if the test to get in to the Lambda Sigma Delta sorority was established by early physical anthropologists. It’s as if sororities were the brainchild of eugenicists and other discredited cranks.

In addition, each one of these gal’s names is either Amber or Ashley. Although we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” are—as our name implies—rather youngish, we still recall the time when every female in these here United States of America was named Jennifer.

Clearly, just as gray is the new black, Ashley is the new Jennifer.

If the automaton-esque quality of the sorority girl weren’t enough to drive one crazy, one need only turn to her habits. Nary a minute goes by, dear reader, in which the sorority gal isn’t immersed in sub-literate conversation on her cellular ‘phone. As far as she’s concerned, the J. Crew catalog is so, like, awesome, and she’s, like, got to tell Amber all about it.

All of this, dear reader, has naturally compelled us to rethink our position on the War on Terrorism: As far as we’re concerned, if you allow your daughter to become a sorority girl, the terrorists have won.