The Only Solution is to Boycott. Or Girlcott. Who Knows Anymore.

It matters a lot what kind of bedding and toys you buy your child. After all, without gender signifiers, how are you able to tell if a Barbie is a good toy for your rough-and-tumble eight year old boy. Who is a boy. A. Boy. (Boy.) It’s almost like you’ll have to know what the child actually likes instead of blindly buying whatever is the bluest or the pinkest! Oh the humanity! Without the signs, you are unable to distinguish. It’s now like shopping blindfolded.

It’s true that if you give a girl a truck she will definitely be a lesbian. That’s the liberal agenda. They want to make more gays by confusing your toy purchases.

So you storm the Target closest to you by using the Stores Near You tab. You bring a large decorative fork because you couldn’t find any farming impliments to brandish. You use the flashlight app on your iPhone instead of lighting a torch.

It’s worse than the Tea Party has reported. Now as soon as you walk in, it’s anarchy. The bathrooms have no markers! However will you know where to discreetly eliminate bodily waste!

All the clothes are jumbled up in a heap, hangers abandoned and akimbo. The liberals are digging through the pile of clothes on their hands and knees. When you walk past, they all turn their heads to you at once and hiss. Their children are wearing gender neutral roughspun beige sackcloth. They all have bowl haircuts. It’s impossible to tell them apart.

It’s with horror that you realize the slippery slope this has become. It’s the transgender-liberal-gay-PC agenda.

There is something wet and red on the floor. Blood. But is it boy’s blood or girl’s blood? You’ll never know. There’s no sign.

As you get closer and closer you see that the blood is the concentric circles of the Target logo.

You back away slowly, the only sounds the whir of the automatic door and the shuddering death rattle of conservative American values. Gone. Everything the forefathers had worked for is gone.  The sound of the air conditioning wheezing as you step out of the door and into freedom sounds suspiciously like, “Thanksssssssss Obama.”


I Hate that You’re in Love

Why don’t you consider me, before every gleeful, contented, he-is-my-soulmate post? I should be the first one on your mind before you tell everyone about how happy you are.

“Oh, how is Heather feeling today,” you should ponder, before you click your cursor into the ‘What’s on your mind’ box.

“Has she even brushed her hair today?” you should think. “When was the last time she held someone’s hand? The last time she felt a zap of electric longing in her heart?”

I truly don’t understand why I’m not the center of your digital world. When you’re posting about how much you love your wife and how she completes you and also cooks you pecan pancakes with flax seed, you should be thinking of me, sitting at home, and how my feet are cold and how in the morning when I lose my glasses I have to spend ten minutes groping along the ground, alone, when if I was married all I’d have to do is ask for help.

“When was the last time anyone was happy to see Heather?” you should consider, before you talk about how blessed you are to have found your other half. “If she died, how long would it take for someone to notice?”

It’s almost like I don’t cross your mind at all when you’re happily living a fulfilling and productive life. How can you be so selfish?