People are people... it's too bad really

Anyone who knows me knows two things: One, I like
cheese... a lot. It's the food that makes everything
else taste better. Two, I am down with the rainbow
revolution. They're here, they're queer, get used to
it already.

But I am a bit of a throwback when I have phone
contact with people named Jenny or Victoria who are
clearly men, at least they were when they were born. I
don't know if they are pre-operative transexuals or
what, but when I'm talking to them in the course of my
job, calling them ma'am (which is what they are really
getting off on making the call last about twice as long as
necessary when they don't really have anything to complain
about) it's effin' annoying, buddy. Should I start calling them
sir just to put them off a bit? I think so. Perhaps a
little "accident" now and again will make them feels
they aren't pulling off the whole "live as a woman for
a year then get the operation" thing.

I know this tranvestite in my home town named Cindy.
Cindy is probably 6'4" and a 60-year-old grandfather
with hands the size of a first-baseman's mitt. Cindy
looks not a little bit like J.R.R. Tolkien with a
blonde wig. Pant suit, skirt, sweater or jogging suit,
Cindy looks like a dude in a wig, she isn't fooling
anybody. And that's OK, but what surprises me is just
how delusional she is. If you are introduced to Cindy,
she tries to shake your hand like a lady, you know,
mostly with the ends of her massive, hotdog
sized-fingers.

Of her inner circle, Cindy asks, "do you think anyone
suspects I'm a man?" Hell yes they do, if by anyone
you mean EVERYone. It's like me asking my friends to
constantly tell me how thin I look. Forget about it,
it ain't happening. I would only ask to make them
uncomfortable.

People are a curious lot. And of course, by curious
(pun intended) I mean needy deluded fucking idiots.