The genderqueers

I just learned a new word: genderqueer.

One word, not two. And it’s a hoot.

Girl/boy

The news story that enlightened and amused me comes from preciously elitist Mills College in the far-out-left city of Oakland, California, where my sister once settled, not surprisingly, but that’s another story.

Those who keep up with the absurdities in the politically correct precincts, and Mills College certainly qualifies — as does all of Oakland — are familiar with the sexually confused and how they paint themselves and demand to be honored.

I put to you, however, that most of these young folks, and they are almost exclusively wet behind the ears, who claim sexual confusion are not actually sexually confused. They are the horrendously spoiled, faddish spawn of upper-class, poorly informed America.

Privileged kiddies in rebellion.

Yes, this is a fad of the ruling class in a nation that has not known true troubles since the 1930s, and who remembers those times? Virtually no one.

That these particular ones at Mills are kiddies in rebellion is obvious. Look at the name of the organization of these allegedly sexually confused kiddies: Mouthing Off!  With a flippant exclamation point! They probably stomp their little feet while saying it.

They say there’s a difference between gender and sex. They say they’ll pick their own personal pronouns, thank you.

The news story says this growing phenomenon “is challenging anew the limits of Western comprehension and the English language.”

The only way this childish nonsense challenges anything successfully is when actual grownups are cowed into accepting it. And cowing grownups in the United States is becoming easier by the day.

Ole Felipe’s solution: Have the kids bend over, and get out the paddle.

Then write on the blackboard 100 times:

I am not a genderqueer. I am Molly Johnson from Greenwich, Connecticut. My mom organizes luncheons, and my dad works for the ACLU. They are my best friends! I’ve never had to work a day in my life, and I adore my BMW.

Gender made simple

Joining a music website the other day, I was asked the usual questions, email address, date of birth, etcetera, and whether I was male or female, which is when the fun erupted.

Music sites, of course, cater primarily to the young, and it’s the young where you spot cultural changes barreling down the highway. Cultural changes in the Anglo world are rarely good these days.

Did the website simply ask my sex? No, it was phrased this way:

“I identify as:” Male? Female?

womanSo it’s not a question of whether you’re a guy or gal, it’s a question of what you think you are.

There are “identity” choices.

This is, of course, more of the sexual confusion being screamed loudly for the past few decades by sexually confused people, who are a minuscule portion of the population but who scream loudly nonetheless.

And clueless people actually pay attention, and Democrats pass laws.

It is why schoolchildren in California can now pick their restrooms depending on how they’re “identifying” that day.

Pair of ballsFelipe is here today to provide a foolproof system!

Look down your pants.

If something is hanging there, you are a guy.

If nothing is hanging there, you are a gal.

This procedure is 99 percent accurate, but perhaps you were born goofy or lost a knife fight with a Latino. I have a backup system for that 1 percent.

Look down your shirt instead. If something is dangling there, usually a pair, you are a gal. If nothing is hanging there, you are a guy.

I realize the backup test is not 100 percent accurate either. In that case, you must return to the pants exam. Combining both tests, you are as likely to go wrong as you are likely to be hit by lightning on Gay Pride Day.

Pass it around. Let us end all confusion.

I am woman!

Call me Felipa. I am woman. Hear me roar.

Yes, in keeping with changing times, especially the trailblazing state of California, I have decided to switch gender, sex, whatever it’s cool to call it.

I’ve spotted some nice frocks in the market, indigenous style, and I’ll fill a hamper. I’ll let my hair grow long and silky, and I’ll shave my armpits and legs. I’ll wear a tight jock at all times to shrink my considerable package.

Perhaps I’ll just slice it off. I don’t want to pussyfoot around this.

Felipa
Felipa

Most fun of all, I will now go into the lady john, and perhaps I’ll peek under the stall doors to gauge the competition.

With luck, my child bride will leap in the opposite direction, so we can still make love in the moonlight. During the day, she can don denim overalls with a rolled sock stuffed down her left leg.

She already goes to the gym a lot, and she has muscles.

I will purchase perfume and scarlet lipstick. I’m well over 50, so menopause won’t bug me. I won’t go hot and cold during the night.

These are exciting new times in which we live, and I do adore California and Gov. Jerry Brown for legislating new ways of thinking.

Now where did I put my eye liner? I am woman. Hear me shriek!