Dear Normal People

Dear Normal People,

You bore me.

Your two functioning legs aren’t noteworthy.  How easy your life must be being able to stand upright and ambulate on those things made of flesh.  Get back to me when you are walking around on highly developed and costly prosthetics.  Maybe then you will seem interesting.

So you think having two perfectly formed arms will win you brownie points in life?  Forget about it!  You aren’t special unless at least one of your arms is deformed or amputated and you have a bi-racial family —  all smiling as you stand up on that stool dusting off that ceiling fan.

All your hard work, education, service to others, and benevolence means nothing to me.  You don’t deserve any recognition unless you are a black ex con from the ghetto who got a quota bump up the ladder to excellence.  Your earned achievements just aren’t worth talking about.

When you look in the mirror and see your fit body that you’ve worked years if not decades perfecting by spending hours in the gym, hiking the trail, or climbing mountains, don’t be thinking you will be showcased to the masses.  Fat is beautiful.  Mutated is special.  You simply are just not sensational enough to have your moment.

Being a poor white boy from a poor white neighborhood (who’s never been in jail) trying to rise up, become educated, and make a better life for yourself and your family isn’t remarkable either.  Its a snooze-fest.   I prefer to showcase criminals, deviants, and general miscreants because they sell what people are buying.  Drama.  Conflict.  Absurdity.

You know that normal two parent family with a real male as a father, and a real female as a mother you are part of?  Forget having your time in the sun too.  All of your close knit bonding and love;  all that happy happy joy joy crap sitting around your dinner table together sharing the events of your day;  your functional discipline;  your loyalty to one and other;  its just not meaningful anymore.

I’m not interested in your happiness.  I would rather see pain and misery.  Happiness is too vanilla.

I bet you feel like a princess walking around all poised and pretty wearing that dress you created with your own hands;  its hemline not even an inch above you knees;  its neckline nearly up to your clavicle.  Do you really think such a demure ladylike display is interesting or worth presenting to the general public?  Take the hem up to your ass, and the neckline down to your navel, sinch in the fabric to draw it tightly across your breasts and buttocks.  I might find your look appealing then.

Your natural masculinity turns me off.  I would prefer if you dialed it back a notch, or two or three, and didn’t try so hard to look, stand, or move like a biological man.  Its too attractive to be an attractive manly man.  I want you frail, ugly, and walking and talking like a girl;  the more flamboyant the better.

Your boys in blue playing with trucks and toy guns, and your girls in pink playing with dolls and Easy Bake ovens are just too normal to be of any use to the main stream.  Perhaps if you dressed him in a tutu and made him play with makeup, and dressed her in camo coveralls and put a toy chainsaw in her hands it would seem like you are at least trying to fall in line with the new norms.

So as you can see, if you are normal, happy, able, confident, benevolent, smart, responsible, law abiding, or tasteful, you don’t interest me.  You aren’t worthy of my attention or care.  You don’t deserve my respect or admiration.  Let you one day be a vague footnote on the pages of modern revised history.


The Race, Gender, and Sexuality Hustler Industry
The Protected Groups

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