I Met Mario Andretti's Test Driver

Back in the 1970s, a friend and I were sitting at a bus stop in Long Beach. A late-stage alcoholic, we'll call him Al, staggered up to us and sat down. He began to regale us with stories of his life as a test driver for Mario Andretti*. They were about as coherent and believable as you'd expect. We did not take him at his word and had a laugh or two about it later.

Looking back on this, I realize now that I was full of Hate™. Let us review how this works.

• If a person identifies as something, we must accept their self-identification, provided they meet some basic set of criteria. In previous blog posts, we have posited that these include vague biochemical and neurological correlations with their claimed identity.

Taking Al as an example, let's run him through the Le Mans-style racetrack of identity confirmation.

• He certainly passes the biochemistry test. He's a man and Mario's test driver in the benighted 1970s would have been a man.
• Dittos for his brain structure.
• Could he perform the basic functions of his claimed identity? I don't see why not. So long as he wasn't half in the bag at the time, I have no doubt that he could have driven a car.

Note that last bullet point because it's crucial. An F2M (female-to-male) tranny might be able to slither through the first two, if we gave her a wide enough tolerance window, but she could never meet the last criteria, not ever. She can't get a woman pregnant.

Therefore, I can say that I met Mario Andretti's test driver. To do anything else would be to give in to the Forces of Hate™.

Taking this further, note that, just like trannies the world round, I have no idea whether he truly believed he had been Mario's test driver. All I know is that he said he was. I have to be super-dee-duper credulous because, well, who wants to be a bigot? For all I know, this was the warm-up pitch to a plea for money. It doesn't matter. I have to take him at his word.

Welcome to hell.

The English language, that headwater of intolerance, has now been utterly defeated. I no longer have any idea what anything means. Going back to the F2M trannies, of which there are so many these days, let's take the example of my cis-normal friend, Jane and my F2M friend, Larry. They are both young, single and unattached. Jane would really like to find a husband and make with the babies**.

"Hi, KT! What's up with you?"

"I was just talking with my friend, Larry."

"Ooh, is he single?"

"Yes, he is."

"What's he like?"

"Well, he's slender, active and full of, err, creative ideas."

"Maybe you should set us up!"

What happened in that conversation? Well, thanks to my new-found tolerance for diversity, it carried with it almost no actionable content. The words "Larry" and "he" meant about as much as if I had said "uh," "so" or "like" as in this sentence:

"Uh, so, like, dude."

From an information theory point of view, the real bits-per-second data transfer rate dropped precipitously. Yay! Diversity, inclusion and equity is bearing fruit! Love is winning!

As an added benefit, no one can be sure what any given sentence means.

Yay.

We are on teh informashun sooper haiway!

* - For those of you too young to remember, Mario Andretti was a famous race car driver which made him, as you might have guessed, a racist.

* - To help you get the picture, assume that she's wearing one of those super-hot Handmaid's Tale outfits as we talk. Rrrrrrrowwwrrrr!