Chris Dorner's manifesto alerted us to the extent of racial intolerance in our country, and how racism is a great excuse to slaughter four people in cold blood and then call one of the victim’s fathers to brag about it. Sorry, but the truth hurts.

On the other hand, though Chris Dorner's struggle has come to light, there are similar stories of injustice that our nation hasn’t heard. I, for instance, have a friend named Larry, who has been trying for ages to get his account published, but couldn't. Bigotry stood in his way. Well, readers, today his silence ends. This is Larry’s story.

Larry's Manifesto

I’ve always considered it my duty to inform the American people of how anti-Semitic this country is. Yes, I have been martyred over the course of this mission by the controversy of my message. Yes, many have turned against me, accusing me of ulterior motives—“Larry, how can you call Barbra Streisand an anti-Semite?” or “I fired you because you burned down the office building”—but I am honor-bound to ensure that this message goes through, that America understands the suffering it has inflicted upon my people.

Graham Clark, Neon Tommy

Yesterday, I called my lawyer to sue the hell out of a completely anti-Semitic “special needs child” (delinquent with alcoholic parents) who saw me in the supermarket, pointed and yelled “Jew, Jew, Jew!” I’ve since been told he was pointing at the Minute Maid display behind me, trying to say, “Juice, juice, juice,” but that, to me, is like Hitler claiming he was trying to exterminate platypuses and hit us by mistake.

After that slime lawyer hung up on me, I decided you needed to know about Cindy Perkins. Cindy Perkins is an anti-Semitic slut, a woman so full of bigotry and intolerance she might as well convert to Islam.

You deserve to know: I strayed off the path a little. I was quite in love with Cindy Perkins, ever since I saw her undressing through her bedroom window. Her reaction was so disproportionate to the actual situation that I should’ve seen a red flag right there, but what can you do? If you ask me, she was practically begging people to look into that bedroom, or she wouldn’t have made it so easy. I can’t tell you how simple it was to climb up that drainpipe and pry those blinds open. Girls who don’t want to be seen try harder to stay hidden. I know why she behaved the way she did. She might as well hang a sign over her crotch saying “No Foreskin, No Entry,” and save people the trouble.

But, like I said, I was in love. I could never get mad at her, despite the fact that when I railed against her German grandfather for the way his people treated mine, she took me aside incredibly rudely and said, “Look, Larry, I’m trying to be nice because you’re my neighbor. But you can’t yell at a ninety-year-old heart attack patient that way.”

She had a new boyfriend at the time, and a more obvious Neo-Nazi you will never meet. The man has so many piercings he can’t have any magnets near him, in case they pull all the metal out and kill him. His jeans are tight enough to be leotards. And he was a creep—he was always at her house, never leaving her alone, practically stalking her. That man ran her life, but when that grandfather of hers moved in, did the boyfriend stay to help her out? Was he loyal and consistent, the way I am? Like hell. That man disappeared faster than Obama’s popularity.

Nice guy that I am, I sent her some flowers after the breakup, but of course she called the cops, the trollop. Okay, so there was a little chloroform on the petals. Don’t ask me. Everyone fools around with tranquilizers once in a while and sometimes the bottle just slips.

“But Larry,” you say. “Surely you can’t be so upset over these little things. These are trifles. These happen to people every day. What do you have to say that’s so special?”

Let me tell you, reader, let me tell you.

So, I perfected the art of lock picking from Wikipedia and ended up in her bathroom. I was hoping to give her a little thank-you gift for helping me out when I slipped off that tree branch by her bedroom window and ended up on the roof of her patio. So, as one does, I installed some video cameras in her shower. No big deal. Any other girlfriend would’ve found it charming.

But of course, she came home before I was done and walked into the bathroom to take a shower. And before I could explain myself—because I’m a Jew—she obviously assumed the worst. That night, the fire of anti-Semitism stung me in the eyes as it never had before. Actually, more accurately, it was the fire of the pepper spray she yanked out of her boot that stung me in the eyes. (Only a Nazi would keep weapons in her boots.) And I tell you, reader, I cried. I cried, as this crazy woman practically transformed into Mel Gibson in front of me. I mean, come on. You can’t tell me that was the natural response. Born-again Baptists reacted better to Brokeback Mountain.

I’ve been telling everyone about this, and I’m sick of the response I’ve been getting from other “Jews.” I’ve even heard the inevitable: “You’re not even Jewish! You’ve got no Jewish relatives, you don’t go to Temple, you eat ham, and you don’t observe the High Holy Days.”

First off, these supposed “Jews” can bite me. Please, if God really chose them, he would at least have granted them moderately edible cuisine. Give me a break.

And second of all, yes, I may not participate in any of those allegedly “Jewish” activities. I may not have any Jewish relations. But this isn’t about bloodlines or religion—this is about discrimination. I’ve faced anti-Semitism all my life, from Cindy Perkins, from grocery store retards, from paraplegics who deliberately “stop for breath” in front of my driveway so I can’t leave for hours. There’s this one called Harold James who huffs and puffs there in his wheelchair every Monday morning, always getting me late for work, belching about the War and his hideous grandson. I’ve made the decision to back over him the next time he tries to pull this on me. I don’t care if some anti-Semitic court throws me in jail for manslaughter. There’s got to be some action taken and, if nothing else, this’ll show Cindy Perkins how tough and masculine I really am.

Reach Contributor Sameer Suri here.