Don't take the Transgender thing so Seriously!

The Transgender issue still lingers as a faux matter of substance in our culture.  Sad and silly, actually, but let’s talk about it again.

 

Greetings, dear listeners, Jim, Papa 4 Da Boys, thinking out loud with perspective grounded in Reality and looking forward the time we can Live Fully in God, cutting through the haze of human nonsense. Today, I turn my to the curious case of transgenderism, that modern dance where feelings try to outwit chromosomes. 

 

Oh, how we love to complicate the simple! I propose a return to what I’ll call Reality Thinking—where men are men, women are women, and the rest is just a psychological hiccup, as the wise tomes of the DSM-V so kindly suggest. Five minutes, boys, to cut through the fog with a drumstick’s precision. Alright, more like 5 – 7 minutes, but close enough.

 

Let’s begin.Picture the scene: a world neatly divided, not by dreams or desires, but by the humble XX and XY chromosomes, those microscopic architects of sex. Two X’s, and you’re a woman; an X and a Y, and you’re a man. Simple, elegant, like the rhythm of my music. Biology, that stubborn old mule, doesn’t care for your feelings any more than a New York winter cares for your shivers. Yet here we are, with folks claiming their inner self rewrites their chromosomes, as if a wish could turn a herring into a whale. chuckles I tried wishing my pathetic guitar noise was a symphony once; it stayed a pathetic guitar noise.The DSM-V, that hefty catalog of mental quirks, calls gender dysphoria a disorder—a clash between one’s body and one’s mind, like a drummer out of sync with his own beat. Feelings, they say, can be a hangup, a psychological knot not unlike my own refusal to grow more wise with my years. But feelings don’t redraw the map of reality. If I feel like Napoleon, must you salute me? drums softly No, you’d rightly call me mad and hand me a toy sword.

 

So why, when someone feels they’re the other sex, do we rewrite birth certificates and pronouns? XX is XX, XY is XY, and no amount of heartfelt poetry changes the code written in every cell. Now, don’t mistake me—I’m no tyrant. Live your delusions, my boys! Dress as you please, call yourself a duke or a duchess, dance to whatever tune your heart hums. You’re free already, as free as I am to drone in a world that prefers silence. But demanding society play along, bending language and laws to soothe your mental hiccup? That’s a bridge too far, like asking me to trade my guitar for a kazoo. snorts 

 

The mentally ill—and the DSM-V suggests dysphoria fits the bill—deserve compassion, not a rewrite of reality. We don’t rearrange physics for those who believe they can fly; we offer them a soft landing, not wings.

 

Reality Thinking, then, is my plea: let’s anchor ourselves to the XX/XY truth, as clear as a winter’s dawn. Men are men, women are women, and the rest is just noise in the mind’s attic. Society needn’t bow to every delusion, lest we all end up drumming to a cacophony of make-believe. taps drum 

 

Keep your freedom, but don’t ask me to clap for your costume.

 

And so, Papa 4 Da Boys retreats, strumming his way back to clarity. Reality Thinking, my friends—embrace it, or at least don’t make me salute your mirage. Keep your chromosomes honest and your drumsticks sharp. Just keep in mind that I Reserve the Right to Pray for your very Soul.