89-year-old Wintrop White Winthrop, Esq., whose vast inherited wealth and numerous globe-trekking adventures have afforded him unique insight into controversial social issues, walks you through these potential minefields with the sensitivity and aplomb consistent with his pedigree.
Lately, I’ve noted in our young republic’s zeitgeist the bubbling up of a more organized and vocal awareness in regard to the transgender citizens of this great nation — those who do not identify with the genital or societal trappings they feel have been unfairly foisted upon them at the event of their birth. Much of this debate centers on whether special protections should be granted by our government to this community, so that they might be afforded the same basic rights and dignities many of us take for granted every day.
From my exceedingly privileged vantage point, I feel it necessary to emphatically and forcefully come down on the correct side of history and say “YES!”: the social fabric of this country must be used to swaddle our transgender brethren, and we should draw them to our collective bosom — post-operative or otherwise — to make them feel as though they are safe and that their voices have been heard! Because it is then they will drop their guard to the extent that I may at long last begin to abduct them and hunt them for sport on my uncharted private island.
Trans-man — and trans-woman, for that matter — is the most dangerous game.
On my forbidding, fog-shrouded isle in the South Pacific, I have hunted people for many decades. While initially quite wily, the behaviors of the cisgendered have become disappointingly predictable. How many times must I be bull-charged by a macho regional sales-rep from the Midwest after tracking him for three days and nights through the snake-infested jungles of my island retreat, just to watch myself in the reflection of his wraparound sunglasses as I separate his head from his shoulders with my trusty Mossberg repeater? And how many times will a New Jersey homemaker hysterically beg me to consider her children as I slowly sink a serrated jade dagger into her throat? This slavish adherence to pre-mandated gender norms has become such a tedious bore.
To further illustrate my point: I recall a series of cartoons I have seen now and again, featuring a wiseacre rabbit with an improbable, grating, lower-class Bronx accent. Though very little humor could be found in these tiresome film reels, it bears mentioning that more than once did the bipedal rodent get the better of his nemesis, the hunter — a little inbred fellow with a dreadful speech pathology — by dressing as a beguiling woman, thus appealing to the hunter’s most primal, unspoken desires. The viewer of these animated novelties could not be blamed for asking “Is the hunter blind? Can he not see that he is dealing with a rabbit and not a human female?” But here is the hunter’s secret: Of course he knows! And therein lies the game; not in stalking down another living thing and then watching its life ebb slowly via a jagged abdominal wound, but in a man confronting that most terrible beast of all — the struggle which exists within himself!
Fuddman was the hunter’s paternal name, I believe. Elmore or Vincent or something.
Regardless, it is precisely these unknown, soul-shattering depths of my own psyche I wish to plumb. Will the electrifying, all-consuming desire I discover within myself when confronted with a trembling transgender man or woman that I have run down with my beloved pack of prize-winning, purebred Hungarian Vizsla pointers (Daniel, Sadie, Bullet, Big Daniel, Victoria, Ernst, Doughnut, and Vanessa; RIP Big Daniel II) be my final undoing? Perhaps — but if so, what a novel and worthy end it will be! I shall have lived more in those final few truthful, shimmering, limpid-clear moments than any man could possibly hope for in an entire lifetime!
So please, I beg of you, stand up for these brave transgender souls and bestow upon them the same recognition of their humanity that you would afford any other person you wish to trap, kill, and skin like a wretched animal after psychologically terrorizing him or her for days in an unmapped, stinking jungle labyrinth of your own devising.