Your Bucky

I don’t care if he’s got the highest, prettiest voice and wears dresses and pink glittery nail polish and high heels. If he tells you he’s a boy, then he’s a fucking boy.

I don’t care if she looks like the Hulk and talks like Morgan Freeman and has a beard to rival Thor and the hairiest chest and legs ever and wears a suit. If she tells you she’s a girl, then she’s a fucking girl.

“I just don’t get it, ya know?” one of them began, shaking his head.  “I mean, you bump into somebody in the supermarket and you say, ‘I’m sorry, sir,’ and hear back, ‘actually, it’s ma’am,’ then you say, ‘so sorry, ma’am; my mistake’ not ‘I’LL CALL YOU SIR IF I DAMN WELL FEEL LIKE IT!!!’”  More head shaking.  “What’s the matter with some people?  They just got no manners.’

“Couldn’t agree more Hoyden.”