In an era where the media (both occupational and social) is losing its collective minds over transgender, transracial, trans…portation, I’m sorry to say I need to add a personal addition to the conversation. For I, dear readers, am here before you today to announce that I am…transspecies.
It all started out very innocently enough. I was just a wee lad, a tot really, when my parents presented to me a stuffed toy giraffe. I loved that giraffe. I named it Jerry…Jerry Giraffe. I took Jerry everywhere with me. I nearly lost Jerry in a mall until my mother and father did an exhaustive search of the area and we were reunited. Since then, I “resonated” with the Giraffe community.
The signs certainly, in retrospect, were all there; my tendency to reach for things that were high up, my horrible dancing ability that looked to others that I had hooves and simply clodded around in a pitiful display of lack of “hipness,” my predilection towards any sort of necktie that made me feel as if my neck was being restrained from growing to lengths associated with others of the giraffe species. As another nod to my “identification” as a giraffe, I feel the overwhelming urge to poop wherever I damn well please, and believe that I shouldn’t be judged negatively for that since I am transspecies.
In fact, I’m almost positive there is some sort of law against public defecation. If there isn’t, there should be, if only so I can claim that my human…uh oh…no…not human…animal rights are being violated. I’ll file suit against the federal government and demand that there be exceptions made for people of my kind. Maybe I’ll get enough clout to demand that toilet paper rolls be installed every fifteen feet in public areas (with the toilet paper rolled from the bottom, not the top) that can aid in my newly found rights.
It’s time for the government to create a special identification on all of its information collection documents. I demand a new little box thingy whereby I can report that I’m transspecies. In fact, I do believe I’m due some sort of money from the government for my special group. Certainly I deserve a reality show. Maybe I should get a cover on a magazine…just not Hunting Illustrated, it’d send the wrong message. I’d even pose for a swimsuit cover assuming it’s pictured at night when there is no moon and without any sort of night vision photography.
But money, yes. I definitely need money so I can continue to live as a “protected class.” So who’s with me? I know the men out there are with me, or sloths as we are comparatively judged. Let’s hear it for transspecies!