Part One Deconstructing Transgenderism

To prove I’m still paying attention, let’s take a gander at the Orwellian doublespeak which commonly passes for working brain cells among the transgender crowd. It’s a sad testimony to our troubled times that this particular ontological manipulation has heretofore slipped betwist the cracks, but rest assured I can put down the Cheese Whiz and cartoons long enough to immitate Twisty one more time*. Before I proceed, however, it needs a disclaimer, most likely one comprised of twenty pages, but a paragraph will have to do.

I love Twisty, I really do. Nobody can rip apart the patriarchy like Twisty when she decides to give it a bigger rectal reaming then Goatse’s best efforts after a five-gallon enema. So I offer a humble apology for not letting her get away with upholding that which she claims to despise. Unless I am mistaken, she likes transgendered folk for the same reason that most feminists seem to like them — they prove gender is fluid. Unfortunately, feminists stop right at the edge of their brain, believing that there is no more to think through. Those kind of mental stop signs do not apply to me, though, because I’m evil. And so we arrive thusly at our next introductory paragraph.

When transgendered folks get through the final stage of transitioning and reach “the end”, all that gender fluidity goes right out the window and solidifies into the crusty crud on the bottom of my boots. They have merely succeeded in upholding the gender binary — the very same binary which has held women down for the last 10,000 years. The very same gender binary which says you need a penis to beat your competitors to the punch (else she’s a bitch), or that you need a vagina to express sensitivity (else he’s a wimp). There is simply no character trait in existence which requires one to possess specific genitalia in order to display said character trait to the world; feminists are clearly unanimous in this belief.

Since you do not need a penis to pick up a hammer, since you do not need a vagina to vaccuum, or validate virility, vanquish vasselage, or *oh my!* vounch for volition, there is also no corresponding need to switch out body parts in order to express what is basically described as internal character, unless the purpose is merely to commodify one’s personality as a dainty girl might wear pink or a goth craves black. The genitalia have been reduced to the status of wardrobe accessory.

And since these folks insist they’re not swapping out genitalia for mastabatory fetish purposes, there too is no need to accessorize oneself with the preferred genitalia of their romantic partner unless they’re also prepared to reverse the surgery again, when they meet someone new who wants yet different genitals to play with.

Here again, the crying girl bats her tear-stained bits, and we are supposed to expose our monster hearts because we have a fucking brain and she doesn’t. Suppose it’s also time to admit that I personally don’t care one way or the other what she chooses to do with her body, but the blowback will continue in earnest until she gets a clue that as a permanent member of the respectable third gender, she has no right to speak on behalf of real women — for when they refer to themselves as “real women”, that is exactly the practical result.

*I lied, nobody can imitate Twisty. Suppose I could imitate pure unmitigated evil, though — it comes naturally to feminazis.