You say ‘black’ I say ‘white’
You say ‘bark’ I say ‘bite’
You say ‘shark’ I say
‘Hey man! Jaws was never my scene
And I don’t like my biological reproductive organs’
Apparently it’s tranny week here at UTB. So bend your bangers and mash back between your legs, apply lipstick as necessary, and read on.
In the latest totally non-ironic tranny news, a sixteen year old with a dick and a wig was crowned homecoming queen at Huntington Beach, California’s Marina High. Lance “Cassidy” Campbell said “she” was “doing it for the kids who can’t be themselves,” adding that people should “just be true to themselves,” and that “it doesn’t matter – you can be yourself.” Profound.
And what better way to embrace who you are – in this case; a dude named Lance – than to call yourself Cassidy, don a wig, slather your face in makeup, inject yourself with estrogen [Boner Warning: Super-sexy voice and crazy hot bod ahead], and pretend you’re a broad? It’s common knowledge, after all, that those posing as the diametric opposite of their own self are truly embracing their own self. That’s logic in the judgment-free era – or are you too intolerant to understand that, you “words have meaning” cave-nazi? Just as Michael Jackson embraced his blackness by bleaching himself white and embraced having a nose by gradually whittling it off of his own face, Lance Campbell has embraced his maleness by forsaking his penis and testicles and living life as though he’s a natural-born menstruator.
This is the Tolerance Or Death culture I made reference to in my previous post. This is how a culture tolerates itself to death. The notion of tolerance has been bastardized into implying unrestrained glorification – and outright demonization of those caught not pledging allegiance to the flag of non-judgmentalism. But back on Planet Words Have Meaning, tolerance and glorification are two very different things. If I’m gone for eighteen hours and my dog shits on the floor, I can tolerate that – I accept that. But I don’t put a crown and a sash on that pile of shit, carry it to the mountaintop, and tell the world of its majesty. It’s a pile of shit – I know how it got there and I know what to do with it. That a pile of shit is on the floor is a clear indication that something went wrong. Luckily, I know what went wrong and how to prevent such shit piles from appearing in the future.
Something went wrong in Huntington Beach, CA and it ended up calling itself Cassidy. Yet another unfortunate event that I’m perfectly capable of tolerating. I could offer suggestions on how to prevent Cassidys from appearing in the future, but they would hinge upon men being men, and that’s just unacceptable. So – this being the age of acceptance – accept the fact that I’ll tolerate the lifestyle of some sixteen year old would-be-mental-patients’ hatred of his own cock n balls, but I won’t zip up the back of his dress, stick him on a float, and send him down Main Street as the homecoming queen while a thousand young pieces of ass with authentic vaginas regret not publicly declaring phantom dick syndrome so they could have fulfilled their dreams of making homecoming court, even if it’s as king.
What about them, huh? Actual hot chicks. You know, the kinda broads that used to get elected homecoming queen – back in the weird old days when homecoming queens were attractive females with vaginas and not ugly dudes with dicks. Aren’t we treading into anti-feminist waters if everyone in the homecoming court has a cock? You want to elect a chick with a dick? Fine! But at least fool me! At least make sure he looks like a hot she. It’s a fucked up fact of life that there are some legitimately attractive trannies out there – but Cassidy ain’t one of them. Under no circumstance would I mistakenly end up with this chick’s dick in my hand before vomiting and committing ritual suicide for the sake of my own honor. She’s built like a series of bread loaves mooshed together with a $7 wig from the party supply store thrown on top. Look at those marshmallowy legs. Is she injecting estrogen or creamy mallow filling? Fuckin-a dude, forget your dick, do something with those half-deflated flotation device legs of yours.
Forget Butch Cassidy and her elective gender for a minute. Is fun even a thing anymore? I know the only competition allowed in this era is who can out-tolerate who, but… like… has the quest to become the world’s least offensive and thereby hip person replaced any form of doing fun high school shit? This is homecoming week for Christ’s gender-neutral sake – and the student body at Marina High turned it into nothing but one big self-congratulatory progressive-fest. These future arbiters of societal decline spent homecoming week electing a dude as homecoming queen not as a practical joke but as a social statement? Wow, what fun. “Flaming youth” has evolved into – well – flaming youth. Let us lament the death of fun and general teenaged assholery.
And now to sound like an old guy longing for what used to be. Cue Springsteen’s Glory Days.
Homecoming in my town wasn’t even called homecoming. It was called Egg Wars. The sale of eggs to anyone under the age of eighteen was banned for the week. Cashiers carded people the same as they would for cigarette sales. You had to stock up ahead of time, drive to neighboring towns, or get adults to buy your eggs for you. Each class had an alternating series of homes meant to be kept secret where they’d gather each night of the week to work on their “hallway floats” – yes, “hallway floats” – because parade floats had been banned in a failed attempt to quell the mayhem of Egg Wars. Portions of each class dressed in full military fatigues and waged war with eggs against each other all week long, while simultaneously avoiding the massive detail of cops patrolling martial law-style like the Marathon bombers were on the loose. Humans, cars, homes – everything was destroyed via egg and various other projectiles for the duration of the week. Five nights of reckless driving, physical assault, trespassing, property damage, property theft, evading police, and illegal possession of eggs.
Being on the football team, we were strictly forbidden from any participation in the nefarious Egg Wars so, naturally, most of us led the charge for our respective classes Monday through Thursday, culminating in Friday night’s homecoming football game. Each day we were interrogated about the previous night’s wreckage and warned that, if caught, consequences would be severe. No one was caught, no consequences were dealt, and our homecoming queens all had birth canals. Senior year, as a team captain, I spoke in front of the school at the homecoming pep rally. In hindsight, I deeply regret not using this platform to glorify the mental illness of gender dysphoria promote tolerance, but instead using it to deliver a paraphrased Scott Hall/nWo “Hey yo” survey degrading our opponents, capped by a plagiarized DX “If you’re not down with that…” tagline, crotch chop and all, that included the entire student body screaming “Suck it!”
Which homecoming week do you want? Gender Reassessment/Male-to-Female Hormone Replacement Therapy Week or Homicidal Egg Wars/Wrestling Promo Week?
Did you pick Egg Wars? Figures, you narrow-minded intoleramus. You’ve probably never even questioned your own gender. You were just born with a particular set of reproductive organs and decided, “I guess based on this vagina I must be a broad/I guess based on this dick and nutsack I must be a dude,” when – as Cassidy Campbell knows – gender is a feeling and there’s no dick or balls big enough to stop a boy from feeling like a lady.
Cassidy Campbell won her crown “for everyone out there.” That includes me. And when I goaded my high school into screaming “Suck it!” little did they realize I was referring – in tolerant tribute – to the cock of a then two year old boy that would grow up to be Marina High School Homecoming Queen, thus blending irony and reality into a fool’s paradise that would make Freddie Mercury cream his jeans and rename his band.