Why Stop at Gays? – An Exercise in Political Incorrectness


I’m not really one to balk at politically incorrect things – preferring rather, to sit on the sidelines and giggle as those who’ve been offended go on offense and try to explain the offense to those who did the offending.  Still, this whole gay marriage thing has touched a nerve of mine and I can’t stay silent any longer.   As the nation debates the merits of the gay marriage ban, I don’t think our antagonism has gone far enough.  I know it sounds horribly offensive, but give me a few more paragraphs and I think I’ll help you turn the corner on this one.

There are some pretty feminine men out there – ones who flamboyantly gesture when telling stories and who wear fabulous hair gel products and who utter things with the sort of untimely lisp that makes you know they got their ass kicked on the playground more than once.  Too though, there are some women out there, working Clark Gable hairstyles (not to mention the mustache), with legs more hirsute than a late autumn grizzly, and wielding a penchant for things like lawnmower repair and odd house-painting jobs.  Did I leave out the throaty home-team cheer when football season arrives?

If you pull the intellectual oar hard enough, you’ll come to learn that if the human race is going to propagate properly, we should probably consider extending the ban to any Similar-sex couples.  Lets face it, the scale from Ferrigno to Aniston is fraught with trespassers.  Butch and Bitch are only one letter apart, right?

Colors have a spectrum, right? Autism has a spectrum.  Even electromagnets have a spectrum, although I have about as much chance of understanding that as I would having an autistic kid explain to me..  So why not a gender spectrum?  Let’s put women on the end near 1 and men on the end near 10.  A guy like Richard Simmons might generate a -74 while Rosie O’Donnell could pull a high positive triple digits.

So we could make a rule that unless you are at least 7 points apart on the gender spectrum, you can’t marry.  That sounds like a rule strong enough to stop the world from becoming a bunch a of RuPaul lookalikes, eh?

Perhaps some case studies would serve my point better.  When you are in the mall with your wife, and she’s dragged your unwilling ass into the shoe store for a twenty-minute look-see, you might come upon an undernourished chap with a suggestive hip sway, that flits to and fro, as he rifles through the new line of high heels, and who’s holding his own wife’s purse, as she, with the overwhelming case of Cankles and the burn-scarred hand that your average mechanic would recognize as having had a rough go with the oil pan, questions the proprietor about the latest brand of construction work boots.  You’ll agree they are not far from sexually similar, and, in fact, may have crossed the threshold of gender specificity.

Or possibly, you’ve made your way out to the local Sears store and found two women, in horribly baggy painter’s outfits, arguing about whether or not to use primer and you realize that the one of them, the one against primer – OF COURSE! has well-manicured nails and a nametag on his outfit that says William, while his counterpart, whose nametag says Billie and whose fingers come with thick callouses and something resembling Mange, is bending over like a major league umpire as she sniffs the tops of the paint cans.  This couple is circling the opposite gender poles with enough strangely-placed hormones that even the gay men standing in the kitchenware section are pointing and fish-hooking their lips.

Since I’ve already tapped into the politically incorrect ethos, why not mention the whole breast issue.  Obesity, now rampant amongst those over twenty-five and flourishing in those with pimples – we’re relegated to phenomenal physiques from 18-24, but after that it’s pretty much a population-rich avalanche toward diabetes – has created a plethora of extra boobs in the world.  On your next trip out to a restaurant or ball game, take a good hard look around and tell me whether the average large-breasted person pees standing or sitting.  This nation has enough masculine mammaries to keep Victoria’s Secret hush-hush for centuries.   Factor in the sweatpants-wearing, feminine lung-machines stair stepping their way into anaerobic Nirvana and you have another paradox of the gender roles – breasty men and bulky women.  Stick these two on a wedding cake and you’ll pound your cranium trying to figure out who should sport the dress and who’ll don the tux.

Look, I get it.  People are people and to each his or her own, right?  But if we’re going to question morality, shouldn’t we slide into home?  Tell me Jack Osbourne and Corey Feldman don’t look like they could play on the LPGA tour.  Janet Reno’s strong chin and well-constructed hairdo could easily have slid her onto the anthropological charts.  Ambiguity is a dangerous opponent.  What kind of world would this be if we let love of the individual become the mitigating factor in relationships?  Seriously, could you imagine a citizenry given the freedom to choose their sexually similar equivalent, or even worse, to choose a lover who strays toward their own side of the gender spectrum?  We’d end up with urinals in the women’s bathroom and walk-in closets in the lobbies of office buildings.  And what kind of nation would that be? This isn’t Amsterdam!

It’s time we delimit ourselves to limiting marriage for gay men and women.  We need to expand our definitions of inappropriateness to include Similar Sex people.  Melting pots need different ingredients to create a cultural cuisine.  Failure is no longer an option.  This is the only way to maintain our differences.

For those unsure, this was sarcasm!!!

By ccxander