What do you say we make a break for the nearest Hooters and knock back a round or seven of Harvey Wallbangers? Doesn't that sound marvy? Fabulous, we thought so too.
If you recall, almost two years ago (when our gorgeous blog was still in its infancy) we wrote a lil' note praising you for your courage. A sports columnist for the LA Times, you had just penned a remarkable article wherein you announced to the world that you had a woman inside you dying to get out. You were leaving the LA Times as Mike Penner and intended to return as Christine Daniels. It was a self-effacing, witty, brave and heartbreaking piece of writing. You made us all misty.
And now we hear you've decided to be Mike again, after the LA Times paid for your transitioning (hormones, therapy, a charge account at Dress Barn). It was generous of the ailing rag to do so, although they really should have sprung for some hot oil treatments and a scrip for Propecia as well, in our humble ope. But we digress. As you might imagine, we have a few thoughts to share regarding your irksome case of sexual indecision.
So. As it turns out you're actually a man with a woman inside him who in turn has another man inside her. This is fast becoming tedious. What the heck are you, a friggin Russian Doll? And although we suppose it's fortunate that you used your woman's prerogative to change your mind before they snipped off your shame hose and replaced it with a hair pie, we ask you to imagine the following.
Let's say, theoretically speaking, we ordered a plate of bratwurst from the boobs of one of those classy Hooters waitresses. And when our tubular meat product arrives we tell her breasts that we'd actually prefer the clam dish. And when THAT arrives we announce to her nipples how much we miss the bratwurst. We'd quickly find ourselves wearing the clams and being thrown out of Hooters. (Note to self: That actually sounds hilarious. We shall try it in the highly unlikely event we ever find ourselves in a Hooters.)
The point is this: we need you to pick which restroom you're going to use and roll with it.
Because unless your surgeon is Mister Potato Head, genitalia are not easily interchangeable.
And until the music stops and you're forced to pick a gender in your tiresome game of sexual musical chairs, how will we know whether to pay you more or less for the same work?
That is all.
Four out of five Hooters waitresses (and their breasts) agree: A subscription to this blog's feed is boob-tastic!