For a brief instant, disregarding the entire context of this article, at the barest mention of the WBC, my mind was filled with a rage that I have not felt since being harassed by bullies in Middle School.
That is a fury (an impotent fury, but fury nonetheless) that would deafen one to the dying screams of a thousand burning infants.
Shortly thereafter, a strange calm came over me. A calm which I might liken to wondering what it must be like to be a tree. A tree is a living thing, to be sure, but its experience (if it even has such a thing) is so alien to my own that when I ask my subconscious mind what a tree might be thinking all that comes back is silence.
That is why I felt nothing when I stopped to read the article. The WBC and its members form a spiteful collective entity whose hatred is so otherworldly that I cannot possibly imagine the madness that must go on inside their heads.
They are no longer an offense to me. They are merely a curiosity, like a rock formation by the side of the road in the shape of a hand throwing up the middle finger. Something that one might stop and gawk at in amazement for a few moments, but is ultimately of little consequence.