Poor little Johnny. Johnny gets up every morning and tosses aside his superman bed sheets and races down to breakfast in his batman P.J.’s. His mom says “good morning my little man” as she pours his morning fuel from his favorite box of Wheaties, the one with Kyle Bush on the cover. Johnny loves racing; the walls of his room are plastered with posters of cars; hot wheels and matchboxes litter the floor. The only thing little Johnny loves more than racing is wrestling with the other little boys in the neighborhood. Or maybe playing soldier in the woods or hanging upside down on the monkey bars at recess. Or quite possibly, catching frogs at the pond so he can gross out his sister and her annoying friends. Yup, at nine years old, little Johnny loves all things about being a little boy, except grandma’s sloppy kisses. He doesn’t know it, but he is deluded into thinking he’s a well-adjusted little boy; and that must change. Little Johnny needs to be a bit more introspective about his sexuality, even though his interest in the opposite sex, at least the only other one he’s vaguely aware of, focuses squarely on cooties and making sure he doesn’t accidently grab his sister’s horrible pink book bag on the way out the door in the morning.

What if we wanted to be a hippo instead?

What if we wanted to be a hippo instead?

Today, Johnny becomes a purple penguin. Not by choice mind you. Johnny doesn’t realize it, but he’s afflicted. His parents weren’t aware of it either; the local news station had the courtesy to let them know. No, from now on, the local school board and the all-caring liberal establishment has decided that their little boy, mom’s “little man” is suffering from a false sense of security and an over-inflated sexual identity. How horrible at his age never to have questioned his gender. It’s high time he started doubting his falsely “normative” socially imposed gender identity, and fast. Every time he goes to school in his Ked’s and wranglers, he oozes hate and subtle bigotry that affects the lives of others who aren’t so infected with his brand of selfish, socially-constructed gender identity which he clings to rabidly, even if subconsciously. It probably stems from early childhood rearing; likely an over-bearing mother, potty training him to stand in front of the toilet, targeting the cheerios she dropped into the bowl in order for him to perfect the aim of his weapon of confusion. There are no cheerios at school; he can’t impose his bathroom proclivities on others who may wish to hike up their little boy skirts and squat daintily over the bowl. Of course, they wouldn’t feel comfortable next to the “excluding” little neanderthal; no, they’d rather squat next to his sister, someone who may be suffering her own delusions of well-adjustment. She too needs to be monitored, lest she decides to become the dreaded housewife or heaven forbid, develop a raging crush on any other of the mud-covered cretins who haven’t the decency to question their own sexual identity. That’s how it spreads, you know; this infirmity of normalcy. Seemingly well-adjusted children, hanging onto the outdated genetically insignificant drives that force them to sprout breasts or facial hair, leading them to be confused about how different they are from other children who refer to themselves by other grammatical articles. She, he, her, him, boy, girl. These are the symptoms of the affliction that can only be eradicated if we catch it at an early stage in their lives, well before they are infected by their parents, their friends, older siblings or even their own bodies. We can’t allow these children to feel secure in their gender if others aren’t. We must make sure we separate them from their false sense of securities of little boy, little girl.

Little Johnny needs an advocacy group; he needs his own bathroom. He needs to be appreciated, celebrated for who he feels he is at any given moment and if he feels no need to surgically remove his non-offending appendages, who are we to judge him? He is after all, a purple penguin; part of the group, regardless of the fact that he’s a purple penguin who strongly identifies with the gender of his birth chromosomes. Underneath it all, we are all just purple penguins. We must all make accommodations for his affliction as if it were our own. As everyone knows, the best way to gain total inclusiveness is to celebrate our differences loudly, force everyone to recognize and accept them, live with them, accommodate them; if not by force of law then by force of shame and ridicule. That’s how we gain true acceptance. Grudgingly. One colored animal at a time.

Now, what shall we do with the orange orangutans?