OK. I’m convinced. Call me Roberta.

 


Gonna be a woman now. How I’m identifying from here on in. Whole world of opportunity opens up. I’m still good looking, in a Cruella Deville sort of way, which should work out because I’m not into sex with men. Does that make me an ‘L’ or a ‘Q’? Either way, I get to go in the Ladies Room. (Lip smacking noises.) I can play fem when the ‘Y’ is open so to speak. Because when nobody’s straight anymore, only the straight gets right to the nub. So to speak.

All that’s beside the point, though. What I want is to be married to an up and coming Democrat politician. Right away I know he’s dumb as fuck and has no balls. A girl like me can work with that. I’ll get him teen girlfriends, and pictures of same, and then he’ll do what I say. No need to mess around with showing up in Congress or the Senate. Given his clout and my swishy skirt, a cabinet post should be in the offing. Close to the president would be even better. Maybe Chief of Staff. I can get old mush-brain all the hair to sniff he wants. I’ll keep promising to let him squeeze my tits, but he’ll never learn I don’t have any because my hair smells so nice.

Then we’ll do the Green New Deal. Which consists of me filling my fishnets with deep green Ukrainian cash, courtesy of The Crack Hunter. 

Yeah. Fake womanhood is good. No periods, no tears, no hysterics, no pregnancy scares, no yeast infections, no worries about fingering, no menopausal psychosis, and no glass ceiling rage. Just a rock solid knowledge that all men are total idiot assholes who think full-time with their little-heads about nothing but pussy. Couple months from now I’ll have it made. No vetting, no congressional approval necessary. Just a soupçon of eye makeup and a slit skirt that makes them think they can see up to where there’s no there there. As far as the girls go, they’ll all assume I’m playing on the other side, whatever that is. Unless I get lucky along the way. My tongue is good if discretion is an issue. It’s all good. I know how to ride a red tide when I see one.

Or I could just get married to one of the media weasel pedophiles. They all want a beard, don’t they? I can do that, though I’d need a Porsche, a Borzoi, a cottage at the Vineyard, and a full time hairdresser with a fulsome chest. You know.

Everything’s open for negotiation. I’m a woman now, you see. And I don’t even talk nonstop all the time every day all day long.

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