It's not that they want to play dress-up: who cares? It's their demand that we go along with their game that's so irritating – stop jamming it down our throats!
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This fella claims that if he puts on a dress, he’s a woman, but if he puts on a hat he’s a male, and if he dresses in sandals he’s some undefined gender. Since when did we start having to acknowledge Halloween trick-or-trreaters by the costume they’ve chosen? “Oh, good evening, Mr. Tiger, would you like nice bowl of milk?”
When this fad started a few years ago, I recounted my own experience as a three-year-old, when I’d wake each morning and decide what animal I’d be that day. If it was a tiger, say, then that’s what I demanded my mother call me: “Chrissy, breakfast is ready.” No response. “Chrissy?” Still silent except, perhaps, for a ow growl. “Oh! Mr. Tiger, your breakfast is here!” And off I’d trot to the kitchen.
If my parents had thought for one second that I really believed I was tiger, or a turtle, or Princess Snowflake, they’d have sent me off for deep, psychiatric counseling. That would probably have stood me in good stead later in life, but it was unnecessary then, because I wasn’t insane. Sheesh.
