Things Really PC’ing Me Off; Volume Two


First off, let’s make perfectly clear that I hold no identity biases of any kind. I don’t give a firefly fart about whatever personal plumbing you feature or elect to re-do or ignore.

My personal plumbing

Nor does it matter whether anybody inclines towards consenting outsies, insies, nonesies, u-joints, elbows, faucets, drains, diaphragms, none, or all of the above. Sorry. Couldn’t care less. So why does every frigging-body want a personal pronoun to announce their tinkering?

I once had a dog named Biscuit. Casual observation of that bounding, joyous puppy indicated the trappings of a male, but as it grew Biscuit displayed zero interest in the orifices of any other dog. Instead, Biscuit developed a darling affection for every handy inanimate object at head height. Biscuit would happily play with other hounds, but would only apply the canine equivalent of dinner and a movie (that is, sniffing)  to hay bales, sofas, barrels,  and wheelbarrows. Then – if lucky – Biscuit would happily hump away until both eyes first rolled… and then crossed.

And Biscuit was a fine ol’ dog, one I think of and miss from time to time. As – apparently – does the rusty old wheelbarrow in the barnyard.

There was also a pet goat named Houdini, on account of an amazing ability to escape any tether or enclosure and assume a favourite position on the roof of any nearby car. Houdini had no other goats with which to bleat and frolic, but had learned to uhmm…..ahhh…how to put this?….yeah…self-pleasure. Ridiculously often. Brazenly.

Biscuit’s Love

And Houdini was a fine goat, though when some visitors saw a goat doing that on the roof of their car while Biscuit was humping their consenting picnic basket,  they’d leave and never return.

In my family tree, moreover, we find a human named Åse with uncommon proclivities. A third cousin twice removed (three times, if we count the time Old Åse suddenly lost all bowel control while singing show tunes – off-key – at the Christmas dinner table), this odd ancestor declared at the age of twenty-seven that living as a human mammal was intolerable. Old Åse identified and wanted to live out life as a lemming. Sadly, we lost Åse off a cliff in Spitsbergen in the spring migration of 1907, but the fact remains (if this anecdote were as true as the others) that we’ve slogged through 600 words describing three different non-binary beings without using a single gender-specific pronoun. So what’s the big deal, people?

She, He, It, Her, His, Him, Hers, and Its are pronouns that have served us well for

“Yikes! Ou’s there!”

centuries. And if those don’t do it for you, there are always – you know – Proper Names to describe everything and everybody. I can even live with resurrecting the actual separate Medieval pronoun ‘ou’ for something that was neither he, she, or it. (Whatever that was back then, ous probably what finally scared the Romans out.) But it is certainly the PC-est madness to concoct – as of now – 32 (yes: thirty-two….3…2) new pronouns to accommodate every possible inclination (or lack thereof ) of a slew of binary or non-binary self-identifications. The head spins.

I wish I’d the imagination to have made this up, but a University of Wisconsin web site actually reads:

How do I ask someone what pronouns they use?
Try asking: “What pronouns do you use?” or “Can you remind me what pronouns you use?” It can feel awkward at first, but it is not half as awkward as making a hurtful assumption.
Buy Their Stock!

All this will certainly be a boon to the folk that make restroom signs and embroidered bath towels, but I mean, please…Stop the world and let me off. Can we not see where this will go? If he, she, and it no longer serve our insanely brittle and narcissistic world, it is certain that 32 pronouns (yes: thirty-two) will not long suffice. Sie that no longer identifies hirself that way but, say,  as a neutered asexual cyborg will soon need a spanking new personal pronoun. And so on…..

And at family parties in large polyglot clans like mine, we will need to learn translations of all these in four languages, though I can’t even remember my five children’s names in any one.

Restaurant waits will also be much, much longer, because long before the servers offer  wine and dessert lists, they’ll present a long, leather-bound pronoun one. (“Thank you. I think I’ll have the ‘tey’ this evening, and my companion will make ’em’ choice now.“)

Let’s also imagine – with an empathetic shudder – the challenge to those poor folk with multiple personality disorders. Yikes.

Listen up, Snowflakes: I can identify as Zaffaz The Human Teabag as much as I want, but given the design that Serendipity assigned me, it’s fine that someone says “He’s in a hot

Me; Zaffaz

bath again. No milk,” while “Tee’s in hot lactose-free water again. It’s a wonder tee doesn’t scald teeself,” is just silly. And while we’re at it, feel free to pressure our sensitive government to give you passports without gender data, but please understand you will be subjected to Wisconsin University’s “awkward….hurtful assumptions” during very long and possibly degrading delays at most foreign border inspections. There will be photos. And possibly guffaws.

And the soon-to-be acceptable sentence “Sie and Zie went to the Y to meet an X, who’s an em, C?” – while it may be letter perfect – is simply better as the old-fashioned “Biscuit and Houdini went to the Y to meet Åse, whom they dated. See?”

And all with zero new unnecessary words!

Nope. Sorry. This is a non-starter. When it comes to remembering that tey is with ter partner who is eirself an ey,  I’m just leaving the party and reaching for a very non gender-specific pronoun to express: Fuck It.














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