Tranny Factories

trannyTransgender suicide rates are ten times the overall population. Does sexual reassignment surgery cure mental disorder or has medical science made life worse through medical mutilation?

Bradley Manning, who changed his stage name to “Chelsea” to further his career as a professional malcontent and attention whore, has at least two suicide attempts under his belt that keep his male genitalia company on those long winter nights when nobody wants anything to do with him because he’s a nut-job. Actually, that might be three attempts, since the case can be made that a hunger strike is close enough to a suicide attempt to count.

This clown can’t even succeed at offing himself.

Reviewing Bradley Manning’s entry on Wikipedia, chosen for review because the site is overflowing with Leftists and Liberal bias, leads to the conclusion that Bradley made a habit of throwing tantrums when he failed in life. Whether pulling a knife on his step-mother during an argument about his not finding a job, taking running jumps at walls when his step-brother took the Manning name, leaving college after failing an exam, or overturning a table in response to an Army supervisor disciplining him, rash and violent reactions were the young man’s preferred method of dealing with frustrated objectives. His suicide attempts in prison were continuations of the pattern of throwing hissy fits.

Little Lord Fauntleroy Bradley Manning isn’t the only prima donna to have a meltdown when life refuses to play the requested tune. Transgenders kill themselves at a rate an order of magnitude greater than the overall population; greater than forty percent versus a smidge under four percent. The Liberals, who establish what can only be described as Tranny Nanny Organizations, would have you believe the astronomical suicide rate of transgenders is the result of combinations of bullying in school, familial rejection, societal genders norms, and butterflies flapping their wings in the Amazon rain-forest in 1921.

For a group that wants to portray themselves as tough and brave, trannys sure seem emotionally fragile.

The faith-based belief that God created only two genders in all but the most primitive of life forms is disregarded by those who worship at the altar of science, so the argument has to be made imperfectly by putting it into terms the heathens will understand. It’s not easy because they are society’s version of a petulant child shouting at his parents that they are not the boss of him.

Because sex chromosomes only come in two flavors, XX-for women and XY for men, there are literally only two ways to combine them on a fifty-fifty basis. In the rare case of a third sex chromosome, a third sex not possible. It’s a new sex variant in the same way being born with a sixth digit is a new class of human being. The fancy word is polydactyly and occurs at the same rate as XXY-chromosomes (one in five hundred versus between one in seventeen thousand to one in fifty thousand, depending on the exact sex chromosome defect).

Trannys are going to have to do better than an extra pinky before they get their own X-Men movie.

While on the subject of genes, what few twin studies exists show a concordance rate of thirty-nine percent of both identical twins being transgender. So, even sharing the exact set of genes, if one twin decides to literally switch sides and play for the other team, there is a sixty percent chance the other twin won’t.

These studies performed by Leftist institutions, desperate for transgenderism to be an immutable quality, such as race, color, or ethnicity, still fall flat in the claim that transsexuals are “born this way.” Based on identical twins being, by definition, genetically identical, the expectation would be to have a concordance rate of one hundred percent. Twin studies involving those separated at birth show massively higher rates of far more ephemeral outcomes, such as choice of musical instruments, career fields, and pets they own.

You would think the amputation of existing genitalia and plastic surgery to construct the opposite would rest on evidence a little more solid that what is cheerfully accepted for concordance in hobbies.

The Tranny Mongers have an answer to that. The discussion of results explains away the lack of correlation as being environmental.

Say what?

So, when the Born This Way model is not supported by science, the cause of transgenderism reverts back to the way mom and dad raised you. Got it. It’s their fault.

What mom and dad screwed up, a little medically approved butchery is sure to fix. An August 2016 study by Cincinnati Children’s Hospital Medical Center reported that thirty percent of transgender youth reported at least one suicide attempt, forty-two percent a history of self-injury, such as cutting, and a higher frequency of suicide attempts among transgender youth dissatisfied with their weight.

As mentioned above, the overall suicide rate for transgenders is a touch above forty percent. What should make people think is that the suicide rate does not go down any appreciable amount post-surgery. If lopping off the twig and berries and installing a fun-zone (or vice versa) solved all the life problems of trannys, why isn’t the post-surgery suicide rate closer to the under-four percent of the general population?

Bodily mutilation does not solve mental disorders.

Were a psychiatrist to examine a patient who said the neighbor’s dog was instructing him to kill people, the doctor would treat the auditory hallucinations, rather than hand the patient a loaded pistol, shrug his shoulders, and say, “Do what you gotta do, buddy.” However, that is exactly what happens with transsexuals. Gender Dysphoria (because the old Gender Identity Disorder made it sound like people who felt they are the opposite sex visiting a psychiatrist had something wrong inside their head) is the only psychiatric condition that is self-diagnosed by the patient and treated by surgical intervention.

An August 2014 study from Tehran Institute of Psychiatry (admittedly, the land of forced sexual reassignment surgery for homosexuals, but the most recent study I could find and in line with older studies) found that two-thirds of participants, all persons requesting sex reassignment surgery, had at least one psychiatric condition paired with, and that contributed to, Gender Dysphoria; major depressive disorder, specific phobia, and adjustment disorder being the three most common, in order of occurrence.

None of those things sound like something good to have. I also have it on pretty good authority that they can be managed quite effectively with courses of treatment that do not include changing the foundation of the patient’s identity.

We know antidepressants reduce suicides by twenty percent. Could we try the Happy Pills before taking a scalpel to Mr. Happy?

Sex reassignment surgery regret is a real thing. Of course, there are people who are never content no matter how many good things happen to them. They exist, but hopefully should have been weeded out of the sex reassignment surgery pipeline before going under anesthesia.

As early as 1979, Dr. Charles Ihlenfeld, after six years studying under pioneering transsexual researcher Dr. Harry Benjamin and three years treating over five hundred people with cross-gender hormones, concluded that eighty percent of people seeking sex reassignment surgery should not do it, and the remaining twenty percent would only find a temporary reprieve from their unhappiness.

This was long before any actual studies were conducted, so it’s the best evidence available. It’s anecdotal and doesn’t meet study standards, but at least, it’s an opinion from someone with an undeniably qualified background from which to speak.

More recently, but still fairly dated, is Dr. Chris Hyde of University of Birmingham who “found no robust scientific evidence that gender reassignment surgery is clinically effective.” Current studies to put numbers on the actual regret rate of sex reassignment surgery don’t seem to attract sufficient academic interest or government money to mount any studies. The possible funders likely know exactly what they will find, and it doesn’t jive with the current Liberal narrative.

Tennis champ Rene Richards, born Richard Raskind, deeply regrets his sex reassignment surgery. Writer Mike Penner regretted his so deeply that he joined the “Forty-One Percent Club” by committing suicide in 2009, even though he had transitioned back to a man after a year of writing at the pinnacle of Gonzo Journalism as Christine Daniels. Wait Heyer, never finding the promised Nirvana that came with transitioning into a woman, transitioned back to his original sex and became a mental health advocate. Rumor has it that Caitlyn Jenner is so unhappy pretending to be a woman, that he is considering rejoining the world as Bruce.

Go here for a bunch of other sex change regret research I didn’t touch on.

The biology says there is no such thing as a woman trapped in a man’s body, or vice versa, which is much less common. The psychiatric community is beginning to grudgingly admit there are often underlying psychiatric disorders that make the lives of those with Gender Dysphoria suck even more than if they had Gender Dysphoria by itself.

There is no guarantee that curing, or at least, effectively managing, depression, phobias, or adjustment disorder would help even one patient be released from a Gender Dysphoria diagnosis, but it makes a lot of sense to this redneck farmer from Tennessee to see how far you can get with a pill before resorting to a knife.

Who knows? Perhaps up to two-thirds of people with Gender Dysphoria could come to the realization that only the one psychopathy is manageable, as well, or simply not worth going the full measure of sex reassignment surgery.

They could always manage their Gender Dysphoria with some weekend crossdressing and the occasional Casual Encounter ad on Craigslist.

My wild-ass theory is that adults who manifest with Gender Dysphoria fall into one of three categories:

Greener Grass Trannies

The Greener Grass theory has to do with the chronically unhappy. Everyone has encountered them in life. This guy could find a pair of Swedish supermodel twins riding a unicorn that pisses gold coins and craps bacon-cheeseburgers and still not be content with life.

The Greener Grass Tranny may or may not be homosexual, but knows something is not right. Despite all the claims of misogyny and danger in being a woman, the transgender, knowing full well that women have the societal advantage, jump at the opportunity to gain the perks of womanhood. Often, they retain sexual attraction to women, which complicates, rather than simplifies, their lives.

Women who transition into men are generally lesbians who continue having sex with none-to-picky men until their add-a-dick-to-me surgery and assumption of their place in the glorious patriarchy, where they discover being a man isn’t all backyard barbeques and chopping down trees.

Men get injured and killed a lot.

Closet Homosexuals

The biology of men is such that we like sex and plenty of it, with as many partners as possible. The reason that AIDS spread so rapidly, and sexually transmitted diseases, in general, are so widespread in the gay community, is that men are highly promiscuous, as a group. Some men are so randy that once they work through every ugly and fat girl within an hour’s drive of the house, they lower their standards even more and become bisexual.

That sexual drive among homosexual men, who for whatever reasons don’t live life as a gay man, leads to a lot of frustration. Whether it be an aversion to identifying as homosexual or the relative paucity of possible sex partners, how better to have your cake and eat it, too, than becoming a woman? Rather than about ten percent of the male population possibly willing to insert themselves into you, it expands to ninety percent.

The current whining of the transgender community that heterosexual men don’t want to have sex with transgenders is a manifestation of coming face-to-face with the often intransient nature of the vast majority of men’s requirement that the women they bed having been born with female naughty bits.

Attention Whores

Women who crave continual reassurance and positive reinforcement are tolerated by men because they ultimately control access to sex. We don’t like it, but that’s the way it is. Men who behave in the same needy ways are scorned by their peers. They are treated shabbily, and with good cause. Hell, women don’t even dig bitch-ass men.

Such behavior in men stems from a lack of fathers in families, and its result of boys being raised into manhood by women. As wonderful and necessary as women are, they make piss-poor fathers. Uncles, brothers, step-dads, etc. are poor substitutes for the presence of a biological father, the absolute authority he wields, and his ability to bring righteous fury down upon an uppity teenage boy, who has realized he is physically stronger than his mother and wonders exactly why it is he has to do as she tells him.

“Wait until your father gets home” is the scariest and most powerful phrase a mother has at her disposal. Without the ability to use it, mothers tend to raise self-absorbed, selfish men, who do not think or act beyond their own desires and interests. Mothers then have to negotiate, cajole, and bribe to convince their sons to perform the least of selfless acts that should be ingrained parts of all decent men’s ethos.

Johns Hopkins, pioneers of sex reassignment surgery, stopped performing them about the time Bruce Jenner won Gold because they concluded the practice brought no important benefits.

None of the above evidence is presented to make a case that Gender Dysphoria does not exist or that the concept of gender is biological. Quite the contrary. I am willing to concede both points; Gender Dysphoria exits and gender is a fluid social construct.

Were gender not both fluid and a social construct, the concepts of masculine, feminine, effeminate, and butch would not exist.

Having said that, sex is immutable and determined at conception. Any attempts to alter the situation result in masculinized women and feminized men, who go through a hollow life playacting as a person they are not. No less an authority than Dr. Paul McHugh, Distinguished Service Professor of Psychiatry at Johns Hopkins University and their hospital’s former psychiatrist-in-chief, who has studied transgenders for forty years, flatly states as much in a June 2015 Witherspoon Institute article.

The poor wretches who suffer from bona fide cases of Gender Dystopia, especially as children or adolescents, are suffering from anxiety about the roles and expectations of their respective sex and are attempting to seek refuge from the storm under a different umbrella. They are not so much Greener Grass Trannies as they fail to see, or are unaware of, the downsides of their opposite sex.

Transgenders suffer from a treatable, and often, preventable, mental psychopath. They need not resort to socially approved, medically sanctioned mayhem, which leaves them unable to create a life, in exchange for presenting a counterfeit image to the world. Transgenders are children of God, just like the rest of us. They deserve our pity, rather than our encouragement of their delusion.

No one would offer liposuction to an anorexic or cigarettes to someone suffering lung cancer. So, too, should we not offer sex reassignment surgery to transgenders.


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Laser Cat, Suicide, and Lunchboxes

Draven Rodriguez, the Laser Cat kid, committed suicide a few days ago. Draven garnered his fifteen minutes of internet fame last fall for an 80’s-inspired graduation photo, complete with ghost-image profile and multi-colored laser beams, while holding his pet cat.

It is the gayest thing I have seen since I attended the San Diego Gay Pride parade. The fags on the floats would have been taken aback at the sheer queerness of the photo.

Don't Blame the Shirt.
Don’t Blame the Shirt.

The cat doesn’t look terribly happy about the situation, either. Look closely. I swear I see a purple bow-tie on the cat. Or it may be a purple collar. Either way, the cat is pissed off about the whole thing. Even accounting for the ten pounds added by the camera (which is an awful lot for a cat), this tabby was a bit of a porker. He knows it, too. That extra helping of Fancy Feasts will catch up with you sooner or later.  The only way to have made the photo worse would have been to put the poor feline in a sweater embroidered with “Large and in Charge.”

The photo was a defining moment much as when a woman tries to shoehorn herself into her old wedding dress. It never ends well. That is what accounts for the glint of menace in Mr. Bigglesworth’s eyes.

I shit you not. The fucking cat’s name is Mr. Bigglesworth. There is no way on God’s green earth that is not one evil pussy.

So here is my theory. This cat with a shitty name and an eating disorder spends his life listening to an effeminate teenager whine about nobody liking him and not understanding why he isn’t famous, yet. He spends hour after hour being hugged just a little too hard while Liberace, Jr. soaks the poor cat’s fur with tears of angst, doubt, and self-pity.

By the way, Liberace is one of my favorite peter puffers. He worked his ass off at his chosen profession and made every piano his bitch. He also followed the first rule of manhood; create more than you consume.

LiberaceSo when poor little Draven, who by all reports was popular, had some prospects in life, and was socially active in school, comes to the realization that going Greek in college will likely mean more than joining a fraternity, he does the typical teenager thing. He obsesses, gives in to his fears, and lets something that is ultimately inconsequential rule his life.

Since Mr. Bigglesworth has never been exposed to suicide prevention training, he neither recognizes the signs and symptoms that his battle buddy needs help nor knows what to do about it. Not that he would escort Draven to the nearest Chaplin or Doc, anyway. This is an evil and angry cat we’re talking about.

Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned, but a vengeful cat is a close second. I once had a cat that took a crap on my pillow out of spite.

What the cat does recognize is a weakness. Cats are hunters by nature and know when to pounce, so in a moment of Draven’s deepest despair, Mr. Bigglesworth made his move. He snuffed Draven in his sleep and made it look like suicide. Nobody ever suspects the cat because they seem so engrossed in grooming their fur and sneaking up on moths, but they hold a grudge for being forced to chase a laser pointer around in circles until they puke. They don’t find that funny at all.

I’m sure Draven’s parents feel it is the end of the world, and they should. Some suicides can be, if not condoned, at least understood when faced with an ultimately terminal medical prognosis, such as with Robbin Williams or my father. However, the suicide of a physically healthy, socially active, and mentally sound child leaves a sense of unfulfilled promise and squandered potential. I’m going to take a wild guess and say it had something to do with him being a homosexual.

Probably a Bully
Probably a Bully

The argument will surely be made that this young man’s suicide was the result of bullying. It may well have been, but here is the rub. If your ultimate fate is to take your own life, those who survive you will scramble to ascribe a suitably profound reason to assuage their feelings of loss. I have it easy. My father knew he would be dead in no more than six weeks and in the meantime, continue to experience small, progressively worse heart attacks until one finally killed him.

My brother and I found him four days before Christmas, after he had begun to liquefy. We also found the remains of his last meal. A Little Cesar’s large Meatza pizza, barbeque chicken wings, and breadsticks. Not a fucking salad to be found. I guess he figured there was no point in changing his eating habits at that stage of the game.

Young Draven is more difficult to explain away. He was popular, active, and all the things a parent wants to see in a child. However, there was something deep inside him that will ultimately suffer the fate of the new American pastime; shirking of personal responsibility.

In their grief, everyone with a sense of loss or an agenda will pick something which they can point to and shriek, “That’s why he did it. He was driven to it.” I put forward that Draven was simply too weak to survive in a harsh world. Not being able to come to terms with the fact that he wanted to ride the baloney pony or that he was picked on for it is only a better reason than his socks not matching that day because it feels more emotionally profound.

Nobody wants to be the one whose son killed himself because the people at Burger King screwed up his order at the drive thru, so they search for a noble reason.

Excuse Me.  I Specifically Asked for Super-Size.
I Specifically Asked for Super-Size.

What more noble reason was available to them than the massively popular and acceptable excuse of social exclusion?  Honestly, if the Laser Cat yearbook photo going around the internet didn’t push this kid over the edge, I’m surprised he killed himself at all. Being gay, Hispanic, and bullied are the trifecta of social shields. That’s why I’m so upset about Portagees no longer being considered “Hispanic.”

Now that I’m just a white guy, I can’t get away with anything. I guess I’ll have to announce that I’m gay in order to get cut any slack for my shenanigans.

The bottom line is that something would have set this kid off sooner or later. Being bullied is part of the human condition. By its current understanding, everyone has been bullied, and we have all bullied someone. The answer isn’t to kill yourself or sit in the corner crying or snitch to an authority. You give back as good as you get, whether it be with words or fists.

In the third grade, I beat my fifth-grader bully bloody with my metal Dukes of Hazzard lunchbox in the boys’ bathroom. You still got something to say to the fat kid, Fernando? I’ll be your Huckleberry again, you cocksucker.

There were no adults present, but there were a couple of witnesses. Word got out fast. Especially when the little punk tattled on me. Parents were called, meetings were held, and my dad nearly got into it with whichever boyfriend-de-jour Fernando’s mother called her Old Man that semester. I took some suspension time for it, a couple months of lost recess time, and several hours’ worth of combined lectures from the Principal on down to the Janitor and Crossing Guard. For some reason, they drew the line at letting the Lunch Lady have a go at me.1980-dukes-of-hazzard-lunch-box

Like any self-respecting Con, I took my time in The Hole without complaint. It was a bargain price to pay for what I got in return. Sure, Fernando got up to his old tricks almost as often as before, but a quick pointing out of the nearest lunchbox caused him to reconsider. And whether caused by fear or respect, I certainly didn’t gain any new bullies for the rest of my time in grammar school. I had shown my refusal to be a victim.

My mother was beside herself with disappointment. She denies it now, but I remember her lecture sounding just like everyone else’s. I was upset that I had dented my beloved lunchbox beyond use and had cracked the thermos. My father pretended to agree with mom. Afterward, he took me out for ice cream and bought me an identical replacement lunchbox.

We are creating a society of victims where weakness and cowardice are encouraged and glorified. All life is precious, so it is a pity that Draven Rodriguez killed himself. I can only imagine the horror his parents are enduring, and I would not expect them to agree with me at all. Allowances for parental grief aside, the fact remains he could not muster up the guts to face his problems. That is what saddens me.

Robin Williams’ Suicide Ruined My Writing Career

Immediately after news of the Robin Williams suicide broke, there was an outpouring of breast bearing and self-mutilation of the scalp with seashells everywhere I turned.  Actually, if that was literally what I saw in response, I would have enjoyed it more because to plagiarize The Bloodhound Gang, “A lap dance is so much better when the stripper is crying.”  What actually happened was prolific public emoting from an overabundance of sympathy, empathy, and good old-fashioned going along with the crowd to avoid being seen as an asshole.

Maybe I should have used a word besides “broke,” since that seems to be the emerging background.  Loss of work, sudden poverty, death of a loved one, and immanent death seem to be the four big reasons a man commits suicide.  I forgot pending arrest.

I’m going to risk every follower and fan I have (all fourteen of them) with today’s post, fully understanding the tsunami of opprobrium headed my way very shortly.  You are likely reading the suicide note for my writing career, but as my kids say, “YOLO.”

Excluding people who at one time or another were in possession of a phone number Robin Williams would answer, who among us has any sort of connection with him that did not stem from a commercial transaction?  By that I mean, he provided a product (entertainment, laughter, acting ability, etc.) and you provided him money.

If your hand is up right now, compare your connection to Mr. Williams with others in your life.  Would you have been able to drop by his house and be allowed in?  Perhaps you served with him on the PTA?

I would argue most people who do not pass the Telephone Test mentioned above are actually grieving at the prospect of not being able to consume the product that is Robin Williams.

“Oh, but Carlos, I have a personal connection to the issue of suicide,” many might reply.  So do I.  My father committed suicide three weeks before Christmas 2010, and my brother and I did not find his corpse until he had been decomposing for seventeen days.  Liquefaction is the technical term.  So please tell me again how I lack understanding of the subject.

The Give-a-Shit Meter registers “zero” for Robin Williams.  Quite honestly, it measures the same toward you, dear reader, because we don’t share a true connection.  I expect the feeling to be reciprocated.  All outpourings of emotion at my eventual death are strictly prohibited.  If anything, I want a liquor soaked bacchanalia with gun play, strippers, feats of strength, and midgets in tuxedos riding unicycles serving shots of tequila.  Oh, and sideshow acts.  I love sideshow acts.

For those with such a deep sentiment toward Robin Williams, or any other public figure, please answer the following:

1.  What is the name of his dog?

2.  What flavor was the cake at the last birthday party you and he attended?

3.  What did you and he discuss the last time you talked on the phone?

Anyone able to answer just one of these questions is free to grieve for as long as he feels appropriate, and I will shut my pizza grinder.

Now that I have thoroughly angered everyone on the planet, I would like to make my point about celebrity, social media, and shallowness.

We feel connected and important because we have this number of followers or that number of back-links to our blog.  We make friends and earn admirers halfway around world, but don’t know the names of the neighbor’s children.  As a society, we can stand neither solitude nor silence.  So, we fill the vacuum with ephemeral connections to people we have never met.  No amount of product put out by an actor, comedian, musician, or public figure will fill the hole in someone’s heart.  Whether that person lives or dies is irrelevant.  Fulfill your life with those around you.