Like so many tragedies, the McKeesport Castration Case has left me with more questions than answers.

That's not totally true. I have answers. Maybe they're not be entirely accurate. Maybe they don't have anything to do with the so-called "facts of the case." Maybe I haven't actually researched the incident, or even finished reading the article linked above. But my answers are good enough for me. And I'd be willing to bet they're closer to the truth than they are to, say, the plot of the next Harry Potter tale.

Q: Why would you shop for a castration on the internet?
A: Living in semi-rural McKeesport, Pennsylvania, it's difficult enough to convince your general practitioner that a tobacco, rhubarb, and brandywine puree isn't the appropriate treatment for pinkeye. Try to convince him that you're a long-suffering transgendered person seeking only love -- not only the kind of physical love that runs screaming whenever you lift your petticoat to reveal your throbbing Nittany Lion, but a love for yourself and your body that comes from knowing that a cock as thick as Tom Ridge's neck isn't mocking you from within your XXXL black, diaphanous thong. The doctor is slightly less likely to get the Swiss clinic on the phone than he is to call you a fancy boy faggot and kick you out of his office, still semi-nude. Therefore, the internet is the only option. Plus, it's convenient.

Q: How could you think that a $400 castration would be safe?
A: In McKeesport, $400 goes a lot further than it might in a fancypants big city like, say, Baghdad. I purchased my house, a four bedroom, two and a half bath Victorian with hardwood floors, full dining room and family room, rumpus room with wetbar in the basement, Jetstream -brand jacuzzi tub in the master bathroom, a sauna, a utility shed and small sweatlodge in the backyard, a Chinese garden with coy pond, a dumb waiter, and a dumb waiter for $279. When you consider that, $400 is a small fortune.

Q: How could you consent to endure castration without anesthesia?
A: Doctor... I mean Mr. Lenhart was such a nice man, and his hands were so soft. When he said it'd be just like pulling off a Band Aid brand adhesive bandage, how could I say no? I figured, how much worse could it hurt than inserting an eggplant into your ass, right?


Assailant Doug Lenhart: A Cut Above

Analogcabin @ 2:19 PM
Permalink |