Some discretionary spending

The Pentagon is waiting for dear Donny Rumsfeld's commissioned portrait to be delivered.

At a...wait let me check...$46,790 price tag.

Double You. Tee. Eff.

Somebody paid $46,790 to paint THIS nozzle?

Let me say it again. Double You. Tee. Eff.

A slightly pregnant man.

It's late. I can't sleep. I feel like shit. I'm off my meds.
And THIS is what's got me riled.

First, let me make one point clear: I fully sympathize with the plight of the transgender community. If I woke up tomorrow (banking, of course, that I will fall asleep tonight) to find my boobs gone and this extra appendage between my legs, I doubt my subsequent freak-out would not soon be matched. I can't say I would miss Aunt Flo, but let's face it: I'm a chick. A chick who can act like a dude, but a chick none the less. I like being a chick (most of the time), and I'd like to stay a chick for the rest of this life time.

With that said, Thomas Beatie's pregnancy DOES NOT COUNT.

Yes, Mr. Beatie, you were born in the wrong body. BUT, you were born with the equipment necessary to the task at hand. This is not the medical marvel people think it is. This is not even a noteworthy scientific accomplishment.

And that, my friends, is because Mr. Beatie here WAS BORN WITH CHICK PARTS.

From the belly button up, you're now a dude, dude. But from the belly button down, you're still a chick. And therefore, you really haven't earned the right to call yourself "a pregnant man."

Now, if they'd finished removing all the unnecessary pieces and added those few necessary ones, and THEN knocked him up...well, that would be damned impressive. Better yet, had this fellow started his days on Earth as a fellow, he would be my hero, not to mention the hero of women everywhere (and possibly the bane of many, many men).

However, they (and when I say they I mean the doctors) only did half a job on Mr. Beatie, so he's really only half a guy, biologically speaking, making this pregnancy a cheat.

Yes Mr. Beatie, you cheated. There, I said it.

You don't make me sick because you're a dude who used to be a chick. You don't really make me sick at all, and, you know, best of luck with the proud poppa gig that will soon consume your every waking moment - sleeping ones too.

You just don't really count as any sort of medical pioneer anything. Sorry.

NEXT!

(yes, I completely plagarized the title from a 1972 French film. Yes, I recommend it. This one has a real life pregnant man. I mean as real life as the movies can be.)

Ann Coulter's Homophobia

I'm all for outspoken, and I'm all for making blood boil - preferably while still pulsing through the veins of those you seek to incense.

However, there's something about Ann Coulter and her juvenile, nay, infantile attacks on those with whom she decidedly disagrees that makes me gag. Below the belt is beautiful, and American politics were built on mud slinging, though not my weapon of choice.

But Annie, Annie honey, you take it to a whole new, ugly level.

And what's with these constant verbal attacks on the sexuality of those politicians you find so vile?

A place to start

Yay! I have a blog! A real one, just like a few billion other people. This is of course if we don't count Myspace. Today has nothing to sy, but it's a place to start.