The test that I am proposing is a “visual” test, also known as the “barf” test. It consists of response of a heterosexual male of any race to the following hypothetical: if you were to wake up in the morning next to this athlete, what would your reaction be? Would it be positive, for example: “had fun last night, she still looks and smells good, I want to do her again as soon as she wakes up”? Negative: “where is the barf bucket? Where is the door? What if “she” beats the hell out of me when she wakes up?”, or neutral. The test group would be fairly large, let’s say at least five thousand men, and it would consist of all races and all nationalities in order to eliminate bias.
If more than seventy five percent of responses are negative, then the athlete is not eligible to compete as a woman. Simple test…and less humiliating or intrusive than the prior IOC-discredited testosterone test, and more objective than the current gender-identity based one. After all, who is more qualified to judge the sexuality of the other sex than those specifically programmed by nature to respond to sexual stimuli in order to propagate the species?
Anyway, I conducted this test on myself, with the 800 meter finalists as the subjects. Here were my responses:
A skillful eye will notice that I have given Niyonsaba the benefit of the doubt, although there are rumors about her femininity as well…
Applying the test, and stripping the losers of the test of their medals, I came up with the following final standings:
Gold: Niyonsaba (Burundi)
Silver: Bishop (Canada)
Bronze: Jozwik (Poland)
Congratulations to the medalists!
Now the primary issue with the new Ghosbusters is that “they” have taken a beloved classic and tried to use it to jam their version of political correctness down our throats. The hate towards the flick has nothing to do with the fact that the cast is all female. I am sure that many of those who criticize the new Ghosbusters did more then just looked at the actresses’ tits when watching other female-led flicks. Like me, they probably cried during “Fried Green Tomatoes” and hoped that Thelma and Louise escape alive from the mean policemen and smelly rapists.
I did not see it and don’t plan on seeing it, so I can not criticize the movie itself. For what I know it may be a masterpiece. More likely it is not, and is simply a professionally made film. But the PC brigade has made it tough to swallow for most people; in order to manipulate the public the social engineering agenda behind the movie needed to be much more subtle; and this obvious lack of subtlety made it clear, even for the dumb ones, that the movie was not worth their money. After all, outside of a handful of man-haters, who would want to spend their hard earned money on a feminist manifesto even though it may be outwardly designed to look like a good-natured comedy?
Since we are on the Olympic theme, I thought that I would write a few words of wisdom concerning the two gender-neutrals participating in the women’s 800 meter gold medal race today. I mean Caster Semanya of South Africa and this other birdo-weirdo from Kenya, whose name escapes me at the moment and I do not feel like looking it up. But, after watching “her” run in the 800 semis I have had enough images stored in my brain to last for a lifetime of nightmares.
Now, to be fair, the modern Olympic Games have had their share of gender confusion. One of the earliest was Stanislawa Walasiewicz, gold medal winner of the women’s 100 meter race in 1932, found, after her death, to be a hermaphrodite. More recent are the cases of Zdenka Koubkova and Mary Watson. Feel free to look those up for more details. Polish gold medalist in the 1964 4 by 100 relay, Ewa Klobukowska was found to have been born with a condition that caused her to have both male and female characteristics, and, after winning the Olympics, was banned from competing against other women.
So this is not a problem that is exclusive to Caster Semenya. However, both Caster and the Kenyan “lady” have one thing in common: they happen to be Black. And from Africa. I guess that makes two things in common, but who is counting? Anyway, both of these people – and I can finally use a descriptive term that does not need to be encased in quotation marks – have been allowed to participate in the Olympic games in 2016, after the International Olympic Committee decided to forgo their most recent rules that prohibited people with increased testosterone level to compete as females, and instead decided to follow a very vague set of rules that concentrate on gender identity.
I will make this long story short, because the faces of Caster and her friend are haunting me already, and I do not want to keep them in my mind for too long. Both of these fine “ladies” will go one-two in the 800 meters, I am sure, with Caster probably taking the gold. There will be much celebration in the once backwards and oppressive but now very liberal and democratic state of South Africa. There will be much rejoicing on Western television due to yet another taboo being broken. Sure, there will be some gnashing of teeth by genetic women athletes who were never given a real chance to compete, but who cares about the feelings a handful of mostly (but not only, to be sure) white ladies when there is a much bigger prize at stake.
So the Olympic Games roll around, and it’s great and all, I am as happy as punch because I just love watching the Olympics, cheering for and against various countries and individual athletes. This is sports competition at its best, no doubt about it.
But today I turn on my television to watch the mountain biking competition, and, instead, I notice with sadness that am being served a hefty dose of something called “rhythmic gymnastics”. Of course I am being facetious, I exactly what rhythmic gymnastics is, and, given the choice, I would not watch it. But I had no choice. The only other Olympic programming available was the gold medal women’s basketball match (and if you want to watch a bunch of American lesbians and she-males beat on less politically correct foes be my guest, but don’t force me to do so), so I was stuck with rhythmic.
It lasted for a few minutes only. I mean, come on, watching women jumping around while playing with hoola hoops, with rolls of unfurled toilet paper and strange objects that look suspiciously like dildos is probably somebody’s idea of a good time, but so is poop eating and gassing people.
So, today’s Olympic morning was a dud. Of course I could not imagine myself cracking open a few cold ones while watching some nubiles perform gazelle-like movements while teasing men with their phallic objects, so the beer is waiting until tonight, when the heptathlon gets on its way. I am salivating at the prospect.