As I mentioned last week, it won’t be long before the company I work for attempts to make me use someone’s personal pronouns and preferred name. It’s not really a question of if. It’s a question of when.
And I don’t really believe they’re going to grant me a medical exemption against stupidity.
So, I need to come up with a way to fight back.
But that’s going to be hard to do. The first strategy I considered was to simply out-crazy them. But that’s nearly impossible when things most of us would believe to be insane are considered by the glibtaq industrial complex to be just business as usual.
Let me give you a couple examples.
I always thought it would be neat to have grandkids. That is, until my son met his bat-shit-crazy girlfriend. Then my wife and I started wishing that the two of them wouldn’t procreate because any kids they have would be really messed up.
As you know, my son claims to be a dysphoric man. And he’s pretending to be a woman. But, he’s married to a woman. Assuming they’re still having sexual relations, would that make him a lesbian? And what about his wife? Would having sexual relations with a man pretending to be a woman make her a lesbian too?
And if they had kids, would they tell their kid that he or she has two mommies?
So, I no longer want grand kids. Because that kid would be completely fucked up.
Here’s another one.
A Canadian health organization has recommended that dysphoric men get regularly screened for breast and cervical cancer. Yup. You heard that right. Men pretending to be women are supposed to get checked for breast and cervical cancer.
If you’re a guy like me, you don’t have a cervix. But, apparently, there are men out there getting surgeries to have their original body parts turned into something that kind of, sort of, resembles a cervix. First of all, I don’t understand how being uncomfortable looking in the mirror has anything to do with your internal organs. If that’s the case, you’re doing something very strange with that mirror.
But that’s not the really crazy part. Or maybe I should say “parts”.
Since these dudes don’t have a cervix, their psuedo-cervix is manufactured by taking tissue that they already have, like from their dick and/or balls, doing some surgical origami on it, and proclaiming that it is now a female reproductive organ.
My question is, when they’re screening men for cancer in that body location, shouldn’t they be looking for cancer that is typically found in the type of tissue they used? So, it’s not really a screening for cervical cancer, it’s a screening for dick cancer or ball cancer. You know, cancers that men could get.
I used to know a guy who had breast cancer. That’s what they called it anyway. He was just a regular dude not confused about who he was. And yes, the cancer eventually killed him. So, men do sort of get breast cancer. I say “sort of” because men don’t have breasts. Men have chests. So, technically, the guy I used to know died from chest cancer.
But the good folks at the Canadian Cancer Society are recommending that men pretending to be women get screened for breast cancer. And they’re also recommending that women pretending to be men, you know, people who have actual breasts, get screened for chest cancer.
Any rational person can see that this makes no sense whatsoever. But there are a lot of people on board with this bullshit.
Like I said, I can’t out-crazy them, because the things that people are willing to believe just so they appear “inclusive” is practically limitless. There seems to be no line I could cross that would be crazier than what they already believe.
Plan A won’t work. So, I need a Plan B.
They say the best defense is a good offense. I think it’s time for me to go on the offensive.
My Plan B is “what’s good for the goose is good for the gander”. When I’m forced to use someone’s ridiculous personal pronouns and name, I’m going to demand that they use mine. It’s only fair. Right?
One of the bullshit things I read when I was researching gender identity is that, according to at least one wacko web site, oftentimes when a child comes “out”, one or more parents will follow. Now, I know that’s bullshit, and you know that’s bullshit. But a lot of people believe it.
I can use that to my advantage. It probably won’t solve my problem, but it does have a ton of entertainment value.
Here’s the thing about self-identifying as something: You don’t have to give any proof, and nobody can argue with you. If they do, they’ll be called racist or identi-phobic or some other silly-assed thing like that.
While it’s true I don’t need any proof of my new identity, I’m going to give them some. Because, as a card-carrying lunatic, I should be proud of my identity and more than willing to share my “journey” with anyone who will listen. So, that’s what I’m going to do. I’m going to tell everyone. All the time. Whether they’re interested or not.
But, to do that, I need a backstory.
Here’s mine.
My story is that my son’s decision to become a fucking idiot got me to thinking. And, in retrospect, 50 years later, I realized that I’ve never been comfortable with my body.
I’ve always felt that I should be able to run faster and jump higher than I can. I’ve never liked my pasty-white skin so I spent my summers working on my tan.
Then there’s that one time I remember I was at a picnic. My friends spent the day in the water swimming. But I can’t swim. I’ve never been comfortable in the water. Then we had lunch. My friends all had hot dogs or burgers. But me? I loved fried chicken. Couldn’t get enough actually.
Then there was dessert. My friends preferred ice cream. But not me. As I remember it now, watermelon was my favorite. I didn’t realize it at the time but my preference for watermelon would have a profound affect on me later in my life.
Not too long ago, I briefly spoke with someone who read part of a book about gender dysphoria. In the time it took us to drink a cup of coffee, that person helped me understand that because of my discomfort with my own body, I must be a woman trapped in a man’s body.
Thanks to that revelation, I see the world more clearly now. And it helped me see there were other clues to my identity that were in front of me the entire time. Think about it. I love fried chicken and watermelon, and I can’t swim. I’ve never liked my “whiteness” and felt my athletic ability should be greater that it is.
There’s only one conclusion you can draw: I’m not only a woman, I’m a black woman.
Don’t believe me? I don’t care. It doesn’t matter that I have absolutely no black ancestors. Just like it apparently doesn’t matter that a man pretending to be a woman has absolutely no lady bits.
Remember, nobody can question me. Not only can’t they question me, they have to applaud how brave I am for being my authentic self. If I want to pretend that I’m a black woman, they have to pretend that I’m a black woman.
Taking a page from their own book, I’m going to change my physical appearance so what I see in the mirror more accurately reflects how I feel inside.
I know a lot of women who are offended by the sight of a man painting his face so he looks like a caricature of a woman. But that doesn’t seem to matter. So, I’m going to paint my face so I look like a caricature of a black woman. I’m going to start wearing blackface.
And nobody can say anything.
I don’t have grandkids so I can’t be someone’s favorite grandma. But I have lots of nieces and nephews, so I can be someone’s favorite aunt. With my kind, loving and generous identity, I expect to be everyone’s favorite aunt.
See, in this case, the best defense is a good offense. And I’m going to use their own rules to be as offensive as I can possibly be.
If it’s acceptable for men pretending to be women to offend all women everywhere, then it’s OK for me to offend pretty much everyone else. So, that’s what I’m going to do.
But I’m just starting out on my journey. And one of the first steps I’m taking is to try on different pronouns and names. That won’t affect me because I rarely refer to myself in the third person. But it will affect everyone else. And expecting everyone to reinforce my delusions is the socially acceptable way.
While I may look like an old white dude, inside I’m a black woman. And this black woman expects everyone to refer to me by my preferred pronouns and name.
As I’ve mentioned before, my pronouns are flerp, flop and floop. My name is Mrs. Jemima Butterworth. And you either use my name and pronouns or you’re being uninclusive and disrespectful…and a racist.
And we can’t have that.
So, from this point forward, I expect you to all call me Mrs. Butterworth. Or, you can just call me Aunt Jemima.
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