"Whenever I go into a restaurant, I order both a chicken and an egg to see which comes first"

Monday, April 15, 2024

The War Between The Sexes - The LGBTQ+ White House Free-For-All

It wasn't much of a surprise that there was bickering and bitching in the White House, given the President' gender initiative, an affirmative action catch-all that intended to exclude no one. Take transgenders, for example.  The men who opted for womanhood outranked the women who had become men because of feminist priorities.  Women, however naturally born or reconfigured, as a privileged, victimized class were higher on the socially transformed scale than women who became men, the oppressor. 


The disputes between these two groups alone were cat fights par excellence, scratchy, clawed, bitten affairs with no give whatsoever.  It was hard enough to make the transition, what with castration and vagina implantation, grafting of testes and penis, hormonal drugs that gave you night sweats and nightmares; but when you had to stand your ground and fight for pecking order, you had to wonder whether it was all worth it. 

Take Bob Thornton, born girly girl prom queen, out of the closet as tough Bernal Heights butch bull, then finally semi-driving, Camel-smoking guy, dismissed by his obverse, the likes of Brenda Beatty, née football star, weight-lifter, Big Man On Campus, turned swishy and flaming Castro-ready, trannied Catherine Deneuve, Grace Kelly elegance.  The twain shall never meet. The squabbles were endless and the fights as bloody as the Thrilla in Manila. 


'Stop it!', shouted Letitia Washington, the President's chief liaison to the LGBTQ+ community and political overseer of the White House Advisory Board on Inter-Gender Affairs. 'What would the President think?'; but the internecine bitching only increased.  'There must be a protocol', Bob and Brenda both demanded, a Presidential order indicating rank and seating.  As it was, gay men and lesbians scrambled for seats at the table only to be elbowed out by trannies of both cross-genders.

'Well, I'm not so sure', the President prevaricated, wading into very unfamiliar waters.  There were no such things as gay men when he was growing up, or if there were, he certainly didn't know any of them. There was Benny Schwartz who flitted around home room like a Disney fairy, or Lindy Moffett who wore pearls under his football jersey, but not enough to put a logical string of evidence together. 

His mother taught him to stay clear of 'unspeakable things' without specifying, but he got an inkling when Father Brophy showed him his thing and asked to see Joey's, and from that day on he had a disgust for perverts like him; so it was a hard pill to swallow when he was asked by his colleagues in the Delaware legislature and beyond to speak out in favor of gay rights. 

By the time he got to the Senate and Vice Presidency, the whole transgender thing was real, and he was asked to champion the rights of gender equality.  As he read down the list of gender possibilities he was bewildered. To be fair, he parsed each one and tried to imagine sexual congress between Option 24 and 38, but came up dry and disgusted. When advised how off target he was when he assumed what went where, he was chagrinned, chastened, and irritated.  

However, when reminded as President that his White House had to look like America and reflect the sexual diversity of the population, Joe demurred. 'You pick 'em', he said to Letitia Washington.  'You know best', but he was surprised, nonplussed, and quite appalled at the side show that assembled in the West Wing for the first interdisciplinary meeting on racial and gender issues.  

Not only had his Inner City Advisor put together a collection of pimps, harlots, con artists, and druggies, but the Inter-Gender Affairs Committee representatives were better suited to Barnum & Bailey than Pennsylvania Avenue. There were more misplaced jackboots, flannel, frilly lace, pancake makeup, eyeliner, and tats than P.T. himself could ever have imagined; and they were all at each other like feral cats. 


Pike Spanner, a former hook-and-ladder commander, a big brute of a man who had saved lives on the job, but was an off-duty a lonely, frustrated woman in a man’s clothing.  Despite is ur-maleness on the job, he was a pussycat at home who cried over his fate.  With great determination, will, and purpose, he began his transition, and within a year he had become Pilar Spanner, a beautiful although somewhat imposingly tall and unfortunately muscled woman.  He assumed that given the radical nature of his sexual change, he would indeed rule the roost at the White House and every neutrois, transvestite, and tri-gender appointee would listen to him first and foremost. 

The mistake showed up at the very first briefing session.  According to the inclusivity ethos, pre-assigned places were not assigned.  Staff members would simply seat themselves around the table, expressing unity, camaraderie, and collective duty.  At a round table there is no head, but Pilar Spanner felt it important to demonstrate her primus inter pares authority.  

There is, in fact, a de facto head of any round table, a position if not numbered or identified, is quickly established by a show of initiative.  Pilar took a seat facing the large portrait of Thomas Jefferson, and was the first to speak.  She did so impressively.  Her strong, stertorous voice resonated in the high-ceilinged, formal room especially chosen by the President for this inaugural event.  She thanked the President, the Chief of Staff, and the diverse assembly before her. 

Brooklyn Peters, Biden’s choice for his lesbian appointment, had always been an outspoken gay woman.  She was a tough cookie, first at the ramparts, first on the steps of City Hall, first in the Castro, and loud supporter of lesbian rights on the City Council.  There was no getting by Brooklyn Peters.  Passes were only given with interest, pay back expected, and whipping post discipline expected.  It was obvious that she wouldn’t sit still for some Johnny-come-lately trannie who arrogated faux authority to himself.  

After Pike (Pilar) had finished his remarks, she stood up, and ginning up every ounce of acid, irony, and put-down invective, let him/her have it.  She, accustomed to leadership, obeisance, and allegiance, was the natural leader of the pack.  She was the Alpha person, and would brook no challenges.

A butch lesbian rejects a non-binary identity.

The roundtable erupted with cheers and jeers from all sides.  Each one of the energized, privileged, and uppity men and women (sic) in the room let others know their claim to authority.  Only when the Chief of Staff walked in the room and signaled for order (he had respectfully remained in the cloak room, given the President’s order for spontaneous inclusivity) did the squabbling stop. “Time for tea” he said as he rang for the Presidential butler, quieting the group who settled back into their chairs as the butler served the tea, crumpets, and scones. 

'What hath God wrought', said the President out of earshot.  This assembly of freaks, misfits, intellectual dwarves, and babies with two heads was not at all what he expected; and yet as a President under oath to 'make a difference' and to reconfigure American society the progressive way, he could never, ever let his true feelings be known.  All was hunky-dory.  Forget Peter Pan, Snow White, little girly sprites and pretty fairies.  The future was The Creature From Outer Space. 


He had signed on for all this, so, good, loyal soldier that he was, he had to put on a good face; so in every public appearance he made elegiac reference to the 'new pronouns on the block', the faces of diversity, and a loosening of the sexual ties that bind. Biden's America would be one of diversity in spades, a happy-go-lucky, sexual free-for-all that would reinhabit the earth. 

'It disgusts me', the President said to his wife in quarters before bedtime. 

'Now, Joe', she said. 'Mustn't be thinking bad thoughts' so with her encouragement - thank God for a straight, white woman - he would stay the course. 

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