In the coming days, weeks, and even years, numerous questions -- all foolish stumbles into blind alleys, I assure you -- will linger around the story of a lone man and his record-setting rampage on the idyllic campus of Virginia Tech University. Reporters, pundits, politicians, and even common citizens alike will offer their version of the truth, ranging from allegedly lax gun laws to video game desensitization and the death of family; religion’s retreat to media sensationalism; even simple emulation and hero worship. Whether it will be too much love or not enough, parental neglect or overindulgence, or even the very idea that a sense of community has never been less tangible, the airwaves will soon begin to reek of self-righteous fury and oversimplifications that would challenge even the most battle-hardened social observer. But as usual, they’ll all be wrong.

From the moment I heard that the gunman was a lanky Asian man, I knew exactly what we were dealing with. And then when the news broke that the center of the storm was the school’s engineering building, the final piece fell into place. Take one Chinese South Korean national rubbed raw by a heritage that places women somewhere between dog feces and burlap, an adopted culture that unceasingly equates masculine liberation with spit-shined weaponry, an unfamiliar and exasperating relationship with an actual female now turned sour, and add a last, though equally important, helping of geek sanctimony, and you’ll have 32 dead college students every time. It’s more than the revenge of the nerds; it’s a culmination of the obvious -- a neon sign that’s been blinking for decades. It’s what we’ve never liked to admit about the least among us.

For anyone who read my increasingly relevant 300 review and the resulting backlash, today’s events should surprise no one, least of all those who packed away their prejudices and saw the unvarnished accuracy of my tale. Those not gifted with social skills or mainstream interests are, to a man, wholly incapable of dealing with tragedy and disappointment. And so is born the urge to kill. This might seem odd given their permanent fringe status, but on the sidelines, these people have crafted worlds quite suitable to their twisted, selfish needs. In a sense, they’ve blocked out pain, risk, error, and even communication as a whole, as the rules and regulations of their fantasies have come to substitute for actual thought. As they deal solely in the fictional realm, they never learn empathy, kindness, or generosity, and as weaklings and buffoons, they receive pats on the head to feed their hostility. And so flesh and blood take on a decidedly unreal quality, mere impediments rather than equal partners on life's stage.

The romance of the movies has led us to believe that these unfortunate souls are sweet-natured and genuine -- simply misunderstood -- when in fact they look upon everyone not tucked away in their virginal shroud as subhuman and unworthy of life. It’s more than misanthropy; it’s a murderous lust that bobs and weaves as “protest” and contrarianism, but lands instead -- a full body blow -- as an unparalleled intolerance. But that’s been said. Too many times, in fact. Nerds are the least tolerant people on earth, and more apt to blow things out of proportion (as I said, for every geek who trashed me concerning a movie review, not a single one of them seemed to give a shit about the very war I was blasting), and the gunfire in Old Dominion is proof enough of that fact.

More than that, though, is a stinging truth I have resisted for years, but am now at liberty to admit is, as a viewpoint, ultimately without error. In sum, the absence of pussy is the root of all violence. No exceptions. And so here is this Asian kid, new to our shores, who lands a babe, quite possibly white meat, for the first time in his life. Heretofore a total amateur in the ways of love, he feels like a man at last. Hell, let’s even assume that the chick is decent looking, maybe a bit wild in the sack. What’s more, she’s willing to chew on his nub every now and then. He’s born again. “Ohhh, home nevah rike zis,” he mutters -- not for the first time -- even if that speech stereotype may be reserved exclusively for our Japanese brothers. No matter, this is one confused kid; treated like cattle at home. He’s now openly flirtatious, confident even, and he has nothing to answer to, save his glistening rod.

Once a man recognizes that his cock is the center of his world (it may come late to some, but it comes nonetheless), it’s impossible to go back, and even if every facet of his world still stinks to the highest heaven of nerd, he knows that those orgasms (shared, he believes) feel too damn good to give up. And, being young and desperate, he believes he’s in love, and that if this tap is turned off, it will never turn on again. Of course, not just geeks feel this sense of urgency with young love/lust, but with these people, it is more pronounced, and they aren’t being childishly melodramatic. This time may indeed be the last. And they sense it. And so did our pistol-packing friend.

Having already rationalized away the reasons why this actual female was spending time with him, he was fully committed to the idea that he was part of a couple. And again, because he was both a nerd and Chinese South Korean, he refused to accept that a woman could change her mind. Having won this prized female, the game is over, and she belongs to him evermore. If he tires of her (unlikely, but the misogynistic Chinese South Korean part of him may have won out over the undiscriminating neediness of the nerd half), he can start anew, but it will always be on his terms. So why didn’t he simply kill her and walk away? Or turn the gun on himself after revenge had been achieved? Why the insistence on a full-blown massacre? In my mind, once the nerd component of him had tasted actual death -- once the rage and loathing had been turned on -- it could not be vanquished or even muted. The cock subdues, tames, and smacks about the face, and once erect, it goes down only after running out of ammunition.

That is why, for all the lies and myths and urban legends that have persisted about the nerd’s preference for beauty and romance, he is even more a hostage to his genitals than the football captain or frat pledge. Once the one and only vagina that would droop to surround his manhood has left the party, all vagina must be destroyed. A nerd’s hated enemies might be shallow and vain and moronic, but even they have the ability to shrug and move on. The proof lies in one simple fact: Of all the mass killings in American history, not a single one was committed by a man who knew he’d get laid the following day. That in itself is something to live for, and it’s something our Asian madman lacked in spades. So as 32 sets of parents bury their children in the coming days, remember this simple fact: Never tell a man he’s had his last blowjob. And with a nerd, it’s like gas on a fire.

**UPDATE -- Having written this initial rant when the news was but hours old, I obviously made a few mistakes regarding the specifics of the crime. The killer was South Korean, not Chinese, and he was an English major rather than Engineering. What's more, he shot most of his victims in a German class. And while the motivation was not, as first thought, revenge for a break-up, I stand by my thesis that a lack of pussy forced his hand. So if the details are not entirely in line, the central thrust of my argument remains ever true. So yes, my dear nerds, you can continue to get fucked; 300 is still a pro-Iraq shit stain, you are still intolerant zealots, and I remain infallible in the ways of the world. Good day.