(I forget where I got this, but this information seems more vital now than ever. Penny)
Eminent Retired Psychiatrist Says, “You Can’t Change Your Sex, and That’s Final!”
By Paul McHugh, MD
As an eminent retired psychiatrist, I usually try to behave with the decorum befitting a retired professional. However, I look at all these millions of people who hang around, pretending to have had a so-called “sex change”—or maybe they’re just planning to have a so-called “sex change”—and they really get my goat.
Because they’re all delusional and mentally ill. I know because I’m a psychiatrist and I worked with these characters for many years down at the famous Johns Hopkins Hospital in Baltimore.
(Note: that is not a typo. There is an S at the end of John. Make sure your compositor spells it Johns and not John this time. There is a John Hopkins Hospital too, but it’s out in Carlsbad, California, and they’re not a real research hospital, they’re just a cosmetic surgery clinic. Johns Hopkins tried to sue them for trademark infringement, but the lawyers told us there’s nothing they could do.)
Now when I say “I worked with these characters” I don’t mean we had adjoining cubicles or anything like that. I mean I saw them walking the halls, and sitting in the waiting room, visiting some of our psychiatrists. I was head psychiatrist, so I got to pick who could and who couldn’t do our residency program, which as you probably know is the finest in the nation. Or at least it was then. We liked to think so, anyway.
I saw some real weirdoes, let me tell you. They had these six-foot-two Man-Mountain Dean types dressed up as Carol Channing, and other strange sights. Actually most of them dressed like Carol Channing, because Carol Channing’s six-two so they wore the same dress size. I guess that was it.
But unlike Carol Channing, you could easily tell these were not real women, not even showgirls. They had five o’clock shadow, and bony knees, and adam’s apples, the whole nine yards. Sometimes I’d walk through the waiting room with an empty folder, pretending to have something to say to the reception nurse, just so I could pipe the new arrivals. I remember they always wore blue eyeshadow. The nurse and I would giggle over that.
And they didn’t act like women. They didn’t talk about their kids, or how they were trying to have a baby, or what was happening in their favorite soap opera, or the latest gossip they heard at the hairdresser. They had no interest in reading the old issues of Redbook and Cosmopolitan we had out in the waiting room. No, they preferred Field & Stream, or Sports Illustrated, maybe American Rifleman. Never touched the Lady stuff.
I remember there was one wiseacre who always dressed like Deanna Durbin circa 1935. This guy liked to read Highlights for Children. I always wondered what that guy’s paraphilia was.
Anyhow, after a couple years of this charade, I said: “Enough is enough—we’re not going to have these weirdoes on the premises anymore.” I got this new resident named Jon Meyer to do a follow-up on a couple patients to see if they had mended their ways after going through their so-called “sex change.”
No, they were still up to their old tricks. Still mentally ill. Both of them.
That sounded good to me, so I closed down the program. This would have been back in 1979, just before the hostage crisis in Teheran.
What these so-called transgenderites need to understand is that you can’t change your sex. It’s impossible, for two reasons. A) God made you this way; and B) Your sex has nothing to do with your body or what’s between your legs. What makes a man a man and a woman a woman is your Cutie Marks. In every man’s chromosome there are male cutie marks, while a woman has female cutie marks. Those are inborn and you can’t change them. You can’t see them, but they’re there, and everyone has them, because they’re what makes you male or female.
Transgenderites reject this information because they’re delusional. But we shouldn’t make fun of them, not all the time anyway. We should show compassion. Instead of injecting them with poison hormones and approving many hours of mutilating surgery, we should try to cure them with the Talking Cure. That’s where you don’t give them any treatments, you just talk. Then after forty, fifty years they’re dead, and you can say you cured them.
I can’t say this often enough. So every couple of years, ever since I retired, I rewrite this same article and send it around to all the newspapers and conservative blogs, and religious things, and some of them print it. The Wall Street Journal picked it up last year, though they cut out the bit about Carol Channing.