Mom Is Pissed

Why the fuck are these right-wing nut jobs so obsessed with trans people all the time? They’re out here shooting testosterone into their dicks, strutting around like big alpha males and knuckle-dragging macho men, when they’re really just a bunch of whiney babies. They’re fucking disgusting.

They make everything about us. They’re constantly trying to take away our hormones while they’re obviously pumping themselves full of way too much testosterone. This whole administration and their cronies are dead set on dragging this country back to a flattened cartoon version of the 1950s — where white men run everything, women stay barefoot in the kitchen, Blacks know their place, and queers stay locked in the closet.

Don’t give me that “it’s just about protecting kids” bullshit. Adult HRT is already getting squeezed, and they’re moving toward banning it outright — you just watch. They’re doing everything they can. Surgeries on kids are extremely rare and very hard to get approved for. It’s mostly puberty blockers and social transition. But the right keeps sensationalizing it, shifting codes around to inflate the numbers and make it look like some massive epidemic. I literally just had to get my own codes shifted around to keep getting my medication because hormones are no longer allowed under gender dysphoria codes on these plans.

They love preaching small government until it lets them fear-monger and control our bodies. The Republican Party claims they’re for limited government, but they’ve never had a real replacement plan for Obamacare — they just want to gut it so if you don’t have money, you can fucking die. Most of us are on marketplace insurance plans, and they’re already doing everything possible to kick us off with no solid alternative in place.

This isn’t just scattered policy — it’s a coordinated push to eradicate transgender people across this country. They want us dead. They want us gone, erased from existence. They’ve already started scrubbing us from history, from books, and from national landmarks. They’re whitewashing everything. This is a fucking Orwellian nightmare we’re living in.

Look at that guy running for governor of Tennessee — Monty Fritts straight-up went on a Christian podcast and said parents who support their transgender children should be put to death. The fact that he could say that without any real blowback from his constituents or the broader party shows exactly where they stand. It’s the quiet part out loud. That’s what a lot of them actually believe.

And the rhetoric I hear constantly — telling women not to go to college, or only go so they can meet a man, get married, pop out babies, and stay home. Don’t work. Just take care of the kids. That’s their vision. Meanwhile, daddy goes to the office, bangs the secretary, drinks all day, and jerks off under his desk to trans porn stars like me. Don’t tell me it doesn’t happen — I see that exact hypocrisy every fucking day in this line of work.

Comedy has always been a mirror. It reflects power, exposes pain, or sometimes just magnifies the insecurities of the person holding the microphone. George Carlin, Dave Chappelle, and Anthony Jeselnik represent three very different relationships to power, accountability, and what a comedian owes the world.

Carlin understood that comedy is most potent when it targets the machinery of power. Chappelle once understood that too, but he lost his way. Jeselnik, for all the shocking things he says onstage, has kept a clearer moral compass than the men who claim to be truth tellers.

George Carlin: The Blueprint for Punching Up

Carlin’s material still feels like prophecy because he never confused the oppressed with the oppressor. He went after institutions, systems, and the powerful men who ran them: corporate greed, political corruption, religious hypocrisy. He did not need to mock vulnerable people to stay relevant. His comedy was never about him. It was about the world and the people getting crushed by systems they did not create.

Dave Chappelle: A Legacy Divided

I used to see Chappelle as Carlin’s heir. His early work had that same clarity and empathy. He understood systemic racism and could name the invisible forces shaping our lives. He was punching up.

Somewhere along the way that changed. He stopped critiquing systems and started critiquing people, specifically trans people, queer people, and young activists. He started punching down. The problem is not that the jokes are offensive. The problem is that they feel malicious and he doubles down offstage. Instead of saying they are just jokes and clearly supporting trans people, he frames himself as the victim and gives comfort to the people who want to marginalize us. He has become for the right what Carlin was for us. Someone they point to and say he tells the truth. Except Carlin punched up. Chappelle is punching down and aligning himself with the people doing the marginalizing.

Anthony Jeselnik: The Villain with a Moral Center

Jeselnik says things onstage that are far more brutal than anything Chappelle has said. The difference is intent. His cruelty is theatrical. It is a deliberate character and a mask. You do not believe he actually means it. Offstage the mask comes off. He is respectful, progressive, and does not use marginalized people as props. He shows that dark humor is not the problem. Punching down is the problem. Cruelty without accountability is the problem.

Punching Up, Punching Down, and the Responsibility of Influence

Over the last four generations we have watched comedy change. What used to be a tool for punching up has, in some hands, become weaponized against the very people who are already fighting for survival. When someone with Chappelle’s platform turns marginalized groups into punchlines and then doubles down offstage, it does not just stay in the club. It bleeds into the culture. It tells the powerful exactly who they are allowed to harm.

Black people, cis women, and trans people should be natural allies against the same systems. But the people in power benefit when we are too busy fighting each other to notice them.

Carlin chose liberation.

Chappelle chose grievance.

Jeselnik chose artifice.

American television has always been a mirror, but it is also a funhouse. It reflects our values, our fantasies, and our blind spots, then stretches them into shapes we do not always recognize. Nowhere is that distortion clearer than in the way audiences treat women who stand in the orbit of male antiheroes. These women are not villains. They are not obstacles. They are not saboteurs of greatness. They are simply the only adults in the room. Yet they are the ones viewers tear apart.

Breaking Bad is the cleanest example. Everyone in Walter White’s straight world is flawed, but they are fundamentally human. They are trying to do the best they can with the tools they have. They have boundaries. They have guilt. They have values. They have a desire to protect the people they love. They are messy in the way real people are messy. And none of them, not a single one, comes close to the level of destruction Walt unleashes.

Walt is the only character who chooses harm. He is the only one who escalates when he could deescalate. He is the only one who destroys people who trust him. He is the only one who lies reflexively, manipulates instinctively, and harms without remorse. He is the only one who has no internal brakes. He is the only one who enjoys the power that comes from being feared.

Yet he is the one audiences root for.

Skyler White, meanwhile, becomes the villain. She is punished for being afraid. She is punished for asking questions. She is punished for trying to protect her family. She is punished for refusing to participate in Walt’s fantasy of himself. She is punished for being the only person in the story who behaves like a responsible adult. And she is not alone.

Rita Morgan in Dexter. Lori Grimes in The Walking Dead. Edith Bunker in All in the Family. Carmela Soprano in The Sopranos. These women are not antagonists. They are not moral scolds. They are not narrative obstacles. They are simply the people who have to live with the consequences of the men the audience idolizes.

Carmela Soprano is the clearest bridge between eras. She is devout, conflicted, protective, and painfully aware of the world she is trapped in. She is not perfect, but she is real. She is the one who forces Tony’s fantasy to collide with the truth. She is the one who sees the cost of his violence, his infidelity, his narcissism, his endless hunger for more. And for that, audiences labeled her a nag, a hypocrite, a buzzkill. They forgave Tony everything. They forgave him murder, betrayal, cruelty, and emotional abandonment. They forgave him because he embodied the outlaw myth that sits at the center of American identity.

This is the heart of the problem. America worships the outlaw. The man who breaks rules. The man who refuses limits. The man who takes what he believes he is owed. The man who is feared rather than ignored. This is the cowboy, the gangster, the vigilante, the bootlegger, the frontier pioneer, the self-made man, the antihero. Walter White is simply the modern incarnation of a very old fantasy.

Men of a certain age, especially those who feel overlooked or underappreciated, see themselves in that fantasy. They see the life they think they should have had. They see the respect they believe they deserve. They see the power they imagine they would wield if they finally stopped playing by the rules. So when Skyler or Carmela or Rita or Edith says no, they do not see a woman protecting her family. They see someone blocking their fantasy.

This is why Archie Bunker was misread. Norman Lear wrote him as a satire, a flawed and bitter man whose narrow views were meant to be examined, not admired. He was the fictional ancestor of Larry David: funny because he is wrong, human because he is limited, compelling because he is deeply flawed. But audiences did not see the satire. They saw a hero. They saw a man who “tells it like it is.” They saw a moral compass instead of a cautionary tale.

The same misreading happens with Tony Soprano. With Don Draper. With Jax Teller. With Walter White. The men who harm others become icons. The people they harm become annoyances.

This is the American moral inversion. The outlaw is the hero. The responsible person is the villain. The boundary setter is the nag. The abuser is the icon. The victim is the irritation. The satire is taken literally. The warning is taken as inspiration.

Introduction

In late 2025, the U.S. Department of Education (DOE) reclassified teaching, nursing, social work, counseling, and public health degrees so they are no longer considered “professional degrees” for federal student loan purposes. This bureaucratic change has profound cultural and financial consequences, and it aligns with broader ideological goals outlined in Project 2025.

What Changed

• Teaching & Nursing Degrees: Stripped of professional status, lowering federal loan limits.

• Social Work & Counseling: Also downgraded, despite requiring advanced training and licensure.

• Public Health & Therapy Fields: Occupational therapy, physical therapy, and speech-language pathology degrees were reclassified.

• Still Recognized: Law, medicine, dentistry, veterinary medicine, and pharmacy retain full professional recognition.

Why It Matters

• Financial Consequences: Students in care professions face stricter borrowing limits, making graduate education less accessible.

• Symbolic Devaluation: Sends a message that care work is less legitimate than profit-driven professions.

• Workforce Impact: These are exactly the fields facing shortages—teachers, nurses, social workers, therapists. Cutting support worsens the crisis.

The Gendered Dimension

• Female-Dominated Fields: Teaching, nursing, and social work are overwhelmingly staffed by women. Devaluing these degrees disproportionately impacts women.

• Contrast: Male-dominated fields like law and medicine retain prestige and funding.

• Effect: Reinforces traditional gender roles, discouraging women from entering or advancing in the workforce.

Project 2025 Connection

• Ideological Goal: Project 2025 envisions a rollback to 1950s-style social norms—women at home, minorities silenced, queer and trans people erased.

• Education Control: Weakening teachers makes it easier to politicize curricula and redirect funds to Christian faith-based schools.

• Privatization: Voucher programs funnel public money into private religious schools, draining resources from inclusive public and charter schools.

The Bigger Motive

• Cost-Cutting: Reduces government spending on graduate education.

• Privatization Agenda: Creates space for corporate and faith-based actors to dominate education.

• Gender & Class Bias: Devalues feminized, working-class professions while privileging elite, male-coded fields.

• Cultural Control: Reshapes education and care work to align with conservative Christian ideology.

Conclusion

The DOE’s reclassification of care professions is not just a bureaucratic tweak—it’s part of a larger ideological project to reshape society. By undermining teachers, nurses, and social workers, the system discourages women from entering the workforce, weakens public education, and privileges faith-based institutions.

Unicorn Hunters and Poly Hierarchies in Lesbian Dating

Dating apps in the last five years have become a minefield for lesbians. Instead of genuine connection, my feed is flooded with unicorn hunters—couples looking for a “third,” usually fronted by the woman’s photos and bio, only to reveal the man at the end.

The illusion of a single woman—or sometimes a couple—collapses fast. I’ll read the bio, glance at a few photos, and swipe right, thinking I’m engaging with someone genuine. It’s only after they message me first that my suspicion kicks in. Something about the tone feels off, and I go back to study the profile more closely. That’s when I see him. The scrubby man tucked into the last photo, sometimes lurking in the background, sometimes posed awkwardly beside her. He’s not the star of the profile, but he’s there, hiding in plain sight. And suddenly it’s obvious: I’m not talking to a woman at all. The bait was her face, her words, her presence—but the voice behind the screen is his. The fantasy collapses, and what’s left is deception.

Unicorn hunting has gone mainstream, dressed up as “ethical non-monogamy,” but most of it isn’t ethical at all. It’s exploitation disguised as progress, where the third is treated like a prop, not a partner.

And if it’s not unicorn hunters, it’s poly hierarchies: women with “nesting partners,” “primary partners,” and a whole roster of tertiary connections. They call it “dating separately,” but what it really means is you’re never the priority. I’ve experienced this dynamic before—being told I was loved, only to realize later that I was slipping further down the list of priorities. Love without presence is just lip service.

I am ethically non-monogamous, but I am not poly. I’m looking for my person, not my persons. I want to be the most important lover in someone’s life—the anchor, the one they depend on. I want openness without dilution, freedom without disposability. What I see too often is greed disguised as abundance: people spreading themselves so thin that every new partner is just an afterthought.

Dating apps are supposed to be about connection, but lately they feel like the island of lost toys. Taimi is chaotic, Tinder has swapped TERFs for unicorn hunters, and even queer-friendly spaces are flooded with hierarchies. I’m tired of being tricked, sidelined, or treated like a checkbox in someone else’s fantasy.

Don't Turn Your Back on the People Who See You and Love You

I lost my best friend seven years ago. It happened during a time when we weren’t speaking, though it was much more complicated than that. Still, the regret—the anguish of not making amends—has haunted me ever since.

I turned my back on her. I blocked her number. I blocked her email. I thought I was doing the right thing for my family. My wife had given me an ultimatum: I couldn’t see my best friend anymore. And in that moment, in that state of mind, I thought I had no choice. I believed I was choosing my family. What I didn’t realize was that I should have chosen differently. That I should have gotten away from the person who was isolating me, not from the person who had always stood beside me.

The night my best friend took her own life, I’ll never know if she reached out to me. We had a code word—shovels. It meant that if one of us called and said "shovels," the other would be there, no questions asked—ready to help, to dig, to bury a body if necessary. We weren’t criminals… well, we weren’t murderers. But the meaning was clear: we would show up for each other, no matter what. No explanation needed, no hesitation allowed. That was the depth of our love. That was how much we had each other's back.

Through the years, when our romantic relationships failed, our friendship endured. We used to say, "My best friend was here before you, and they'll be here after you." And it had always been true—until it wasn’t.

I will always blame myself because I don’t know if she tried to reach out. Many nights, she sent emails—confessions, secrets, cries for help. She carried the anniversaries of trauma like weights, bracing for impact each time they came around. She’d do something reckless but always come back to me, to let me know she was okay. Or she’d send me a message, just to get it all out—the thing that kept her from pulling herself under completely. And I leaned on her in the same way.

Until I wasn’t there anymore. Until I cut her off. Until I walked away.

Now, she’s gone. My wife is gone too—the person who convinced me to turn away never loved me at all. And I abandoned the one person who truly did.

The grief is unbearable. And now, I’m starting to forget her. I don’t have people to talk to regularly who knew us both, who can hold onto these memories with me. It was always just the two of us, so the only person who could have corroborated our experiences is her—and she’s not here.

I have a few voice recordings, but I’m forgetting the sound of her voice. And that might be the cruelest part of all.

Don’t turn your back on the people who see you and love you. Not for someone else's comfort. Not for an ultimatum disguised as love. Not because you think there will always be time to make things right.

When I first saw that my work was on Chaturbate, I wasn’t particularly invested in being part of the platform. I had signed off on the studios I worked with to distribute the content as they saw fit, so I expected those videos to appear in various places. But what I didn’t expect was the way Chaturbate handled my presence—the way they categorized me, the terminology they used, and the utter lack of respect shown toward transgender performers.

Let’s be clear: *shemale* is not a sexual orientation. It is not an identity. It is an archaic and dehumanizing term that has no place in any legitimate adult platform. Yet, Chaturbate continues to use it, forcing transgender creators into outdated, offensive categories without their input or consent.

Performers deserve control over their identity, their persona, and how they are labeled. But Chaturbate strips us of that autonomy, making it painfully obvious that they profit from our work while failing to acknowledge our dignity. If they refuse to evolve, then why should we, as performers and creators, continue to give them our time and talent? The adult industry must do better—it must recognize the real people behind the content and ensure that every performer is represented with respect.

Is this a strategy to make us queers and whores sterile so we don’t procreate?

The Roadmap Marvel Needs

Marvel’s Daredevil: Born Again stands out as a beacon for the future of the Marvel Cinematic Universe (MCU). In a franchise often dominated by spectacle, this series proves that grounded, character-driven storytelling can be just as captivating—if not more so. By focusing on Matt Murdock’s struggles as both a lawyer and a vigilante, the show crafts a narrative deeply rooted in humanity and personal stakes. Showrunner Dario Scardapane masterfully balances suspense, emotional depth, and narrative intricacy, making Born Again a prime example of how Marvel can reconnect audiences with the essence of its heroes.

The deliberate pacing of Born Again showcases the courage to prioritize substance over action, as evidenced by Daredevil’s near absence in the first half of the series. This slow burn builds tension and allows the audience to fully invest in Matt’s journey, making his eventual return all the more impactful. It’s a creative choice that reflects the storytelling finesse of Christopher Nolan’s The Dark Knight trilogy and the emotional resonance James Gunn brought to Guardians of the Galaxy. By embracing these styles, Born Again delivers a gritty yet heartfelt narrative that feels refreshingly intimate within the sprawling MCU.

This approach doesn’t just reinvigorate Daredevil—it also sets the stage for a new chapter in Spider-Man’s story. Following the conclusion of Spider-Man: No Way Home, Peter Parker finds himself completely alone, with no support system or relationships to rely on. This reset creates an opportunity to explore Spider-Man in a way that aligns with the grounded tone of Born Again. Stripped of his safety net, Peter’s next trilogy could delve into his resilience, his struggle to rebuild his life, and his growth as both a young man and a hero. By focusing on his humanity, Marvel could elevate Spider-Man’s narrative to new emotional heights.

A crossover with Daredevil presents exciting possibilities. Both characters share New York City as their stage and a connection to street-level crime fighting. Matt Murdock’s gritty perspective and moral complexity could challenge Peter’s idealism, while Spider-Man’s optimism could reignite hope in Daredevil’s darker worldview. Their partnership—marked by tension, mutual respect, and growth—could add layers of complexity to both heroes and enrich the MCU’s overall storytelling.

While Born Again offers a roadmap for grounded narratives, it’s not a one-size-fits-all formula. Characters like Moon Knight and Punisher thrive in darker, grittier settings, whereas Spider-Man and Ms. Marvel can still bring charm and levity. By blending the grounded realism of Born Again with elements of Nolan’s depth and Gunn’s heart, Marvel has the opportunity to create a tonal spectrum that caters to diverse narratives.

When I grew up, bullying was normalized. If you were smart, you were bullied. If you seemed queer or gay, you were bullied. If you had a disability, you were bullied. It’s like I had to construct this person to inhabit based on all of the assumptions and expectations of what I should be to hide who I really am and avoid getting bullied even more than I was. This was survival, but it came at the cost of my authenticity and self-expression.

If the movie Dazed and Confused was anything like the 70s our parents and grandparents grew up in, then we see it for exactly what it is: an era that glorified bullying as a rite of passage. The first 15 years of the 21st century, a lot flipped. Nerds and queer people became the cool kids, and we became a lot more serious about protecting children and respecting their individuality. These cultural shifts helped foster a more inclusive environment, but they also sparked resentment from those clinging to outdated notions of power and dominance.

Oh, and this pissed off the bullies, mouth breathers, and knuckle draggers, who feel like their alpha male, cool kid status has been robbed from them. It’s like they weren’t allowed to beat up ‘fags’ with impunity anymore. The idolization of fictional figures like Scarface, Tyler Durden, Tony Soprano, and Walter White just fed this resentment, glorifying toxic masculinity as a form of rebellion against progress. This gave rise to real-life influencers like Andrew Tate, who embody these toxic traits and perpetuate harmful ideologies under the guise of strength and success.

Today, this struggle plays out in our schools, where queer kids are being alienated and stigmatized over something as simple as their names. The refusal to honor preferred names isn’t about protecting children. It’s about enforcing rigid, “society-created” gender norms that give bullies license to mistreat queer kids in a more palatable way. Calling someone by the name they prefer harms absolutely no one. If you think it does, then you’re part of the problem. Growing up, I was called a nickname I despised. Yet, after my transition, when I chose a name that reflects who I truly am, some of the same people who dismissed my feelings about that nickname would now insist on calling me by my deadname, saying, “Well, that was your name. That’s what I’m going to call you.” This isn’t just disrespect—it’s a deliberate attempt to erase and invalidate my identity.

I don’t tell my child who he should be. I listen, offer guidance, and give him room for self-discovery. I also try to give him the means to defend himself and, through my guidance, stress the importance of respecting boundaries, respecting each individual, and protecting the vulnerable by speaking up when he sees someone being mistreated or disrespected. These are values the world desperately needs.