Bill hates himself. I can see it in his beady eyes. He’s the type that would argue with himself in front of the mirror. "Do I like this tie? NO! I do not like this tie. Fuck you! No, fuck you!" And that’s all before breakfast. Every day.
Nobody is quite sure why this seemingly ordinary man is so self-conflicted. Some say his heart is three sizes too small to pump blood to his head. Some say he can’t stand the whore looking back at him in the mirror. Most people, however, say he’s just a dick, including himself.
Being omniscient, I happen to think that Bill O’Reilly hates his own damn self because, on some subconscious plane, he understands the irony of hating people who hate. He recognizes the monster he has become.
What’s worse for the self-tortured bastard, is that he knows, deep down in his black, skeevy heart, his hate is so powerful, it will project onto all that he sees. Anything he looks at will appear, to him, as though it is hateful. Bill-o could look at a pure, white unicorn and think, "what an asshole," because, in his eyes, that unicorn scowled and stuck its tongue out.
Likewise, hate makes O’Reilly think God is flipping him the bird every time he sees a bird, because to O’Reilly, all the beauty that life has to offer is merely a chorus of angry jeers.
Bill O’Reilly hates hate and is hateful toward hatefulness. He throws shoes and empty scotch bottles at his TV whenever he watches the Factor. It’s just too hateful for his taste.
For that matter, so is the guy looking back at him from the mirror. "Who does that fuckhead think he is, anyway?"
His no spin zone is spiraling out of control.