Although she recently opted to surgically guillotine her bazooms, the stubbly tattooed blobfish born Chastity Sun Bono has no penis and has yet to fill and pave over her vagina with cement, so I refuse to refer to that mortally confused woman as “he.” There ain’t no wiener in that there sausage factory, and thus anyone who insists “Chaz Bono is a man” or “He was born that way” is either a liar, an idiot, or a lying idiot. Baby Bono has no boner, and she could mainline enough testosterone to where she looks like Haystacks Calhoun, but she will forever remain a chick—a hideously mutant sac of celebrity DNA gone wrong, sure—but still a chick.
I have no clue if it’s because her parents forced her to cross-dress at an early age or whether Sonny Bono had a weird habit of calling his daughter “Fred.” I know not whether it’s because, straight out of the womb, she lacked the star power and nearly perfect navel of her mother Cher. What seems certain is that at some point she fell under the delusion that she was former Van Halen bass player Michael Anthony trapped inside the body of a talentless, Oxycontin-addled female college dropout. The fact that she continues to act on this delusion is not evidence of a brave man making a bold journey of self-actualization; it’s proof of a frightened, disturbed woman desperately fleeing from herself.
That didn’t stop the freak-fellating mainstream media from rushing to “his” defense when it was announced last Monday that the adipose monstrosity who legally changed her name to Chaz Salvatore Bono would be a contestant on the new season of Dancing With the Stars, assuming the male role alongside the certifiably female hoofer Lacey Schwimmer. A reviewer said that Chaz’s decision to flaunt her flabby armpits on the program “shows guts.” Truth is, Chaz Bono shows guts wherever she appears. A girdle has yet to be fashioned that can begin to conceal her guts.
After a predictable backlash from uptight moms and a conservative psychiatrist with a hilariously double-entendre surname, Chaz waddled to her own defense and belched to ABC News that “America really needs to see this.” Sorry, John Candy, Jr., but this is the last thing America needs to see. Her publicist Howard Bragman said that “The sky will not fall when Chaz Bono dances.” No, but the floor might cave in. One can only hope that the physically inactive activist’s uterus will fall out during an especially vigorous foxtrot.
Since Chaz is now a “man,” Chaz is no longer a lesbian, and her longtime oyster-gobbling partner Jennifer Elia has suddenly ceased to be a dyke and is now a heterosexual woman, and anyone who does not accept this charade at face value is automatically a confused bigot.
To enter the world of the “transgendered” is to dip one’s unsuspecting toes into a rancid bowl of alphabet soup filled with “autogynephiles” and “genderqueers” and “F2Ms” and “M2Fs.” It is to watch the “pangendered” engage in rhetorical turf wars with the “gender fluid” while the “gender dysphoric” sit in the corner and cry. It is to observe the “pre-ops” seethe with jealousy toward the “post-ops” while “apotemnophiles” try to bum cigarettes from “drag kings.” Most enjoyably, it is to watch third-wave feminists mud-wrestling with second-wavers over whether men ever have a right to become women.
There’s no need for so many divisive labels. I have a word for all of these people. That word is “confused.”
But that’s because I’m a backwards-thinking, hate-filled, homophobic/transphobic bigot whose honest opinions are likely to soon be reclassified as some form of mental illness. Ironically, it wasn’t long ago that most psychologists depicted homosexuality as a sign of mental illness. In 1973, when little Chastity Bono was four years old, the American Psychiatric Association declassified homosexuality as a mental disorder. Over the past decade, there’s been a worldwide push among headshrinkers to depict transsexuality as perfectly normal, too. In another generation, I imagine that mental-health professionals will deem the act of stitching a dolphin snout onto one’s face to be a sign of psychological well-being.
The left—whatever’s left of it—has a queer tendency to mistake ideas for reality and reality for ideas. That’s the only way they could swallow the notion that what’s inside Chaz Bono’s head makes her a man while what Mother Nature tucked between her legs is irrelevant. It’s such through-the-looking-glass thinking that enables them to believe America is riddled with hang-ups about Chaz Bono rather than the obvious fact that Chaz Bono is hung-up about herself.
It’s also what allows them to peddle such obviously fraudulent ideas that race doesn’t exist but that racism is everywhere. Still, if I insisted I was actually a black man trapped inside a white dude’s body, they’d probably tell me to seek counseling. They’re piss-poor at covering all the bases with their magical thinking.
In their fantasy world where feelings are more important than flesh, they cheerlead Chaz Bono in her seemingly interminable quest to become more comfortable with herself, no matter how uncomfortable it makes everyone else. Rather than viewing Chaz’s “journey” as ugly, exhibitionistic narcissism, they depict her chubby feet as treading a golden pathway of life-affirming empowerment. It isn’t a televised mental breakdown, it’s a transformation, an unfolding, a blossoming. They’ve enabled her to become so self-absorbed, she’s swollen to mammoth proportions. They’ve allowed her to become so enormous—both in her body and in her head—that no closet on Earth could ever hold her.
Anyone who objects isn’t merely objecting—they’re a “hater.” As is their style, the Love Brigade aims far more hate and dehumanizing terminology at the “haters” than the haters ever aimed at them. The reason that transsexuals’ unemployment rate is twice the national average has nothing to do with their possibly erratic behavior—it’s the unremitting HATE of the genitally normal. The reason that two out of five trannies attempt suicide isn’t because they’re messed-up in the head—it’s because everyone else is. Whether or not she’s quickly booted from Dancing With the Stars, Chaz Bono will continue to feel hurt, hated, and misunderstood because that appears to be a huge part of Chaz’s personality—perhaps its dominant component.
What a painful and arduous journey it must be to have the luxury of spending your entire life “becoming” yourself. Chaz is still becoming Chaz and will keep taking injections to become what Chaz has always been. Chaz may someday get more surgery to become what Chaz always was in the first place. One would have thought that Chaz, if Chaz actually was Chaz, would stop becoming Chaz and just be Chaz. But Chaz, in trying to become Chaz, has ensured that will never happen.
If she’d only remained Chastity Bono, she’d be far truer to her real self. She wouldn’t be nearly as ugly, either.
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