I think I’m woman, hear me roar!

Jim Hughes | Writer and Producer

As a fourth generation Californian who lived through the first Jerry Brown administration — or as I like to call it, the tunnel-boat scene from Willy Wonka — back in the ‘70s, I always considered a Jerry Brown governorship to be like the chicken pox. It’s horrible, you have to suffer though it, it leaves scars, but the good news is that you can never get it again. Then a friend reminded me that chicken pox can lie dormant for years, coming back as its more virulent, painful, adult cousin: The shingles.

Well, Governor Shingles is at it again.

For those of you who don’t live in the Bronze State (we lost our gold AAA rating a long time ago), Governor Brown and the State Legislature’s Democrat super-majority have been passing an all-out orgy of Liberal spending bills ranging from the bizarre to the absurd. In July, they took time out from building their $98 Billion dollar bullet train to nowhere long enough to address perhaps the most pressing issue of our times: “Gender neutral bathrooms” for K-12 school children. Bill AB1266, passed without a single Republican vote, and signed into law on August 12th, reads in part:

A pupil shall be permitted to participate in sex-segregated school programs and activities, including athletic teams and competitions, and use facilities consistent with his or her gender identity, irrespective of the gender listed on the pupil’s records.” [Emphasis Added]

For those of you parents who don’t speak legalese, allow me to translate: Horny 9th-grade boys will now be able to share the gym shower with your daughter, but only if they feel like it. Having been a horny 9th grade boy once, something tells me they will. A lot.

But hey, this is California! The Wild West, early adopter of the counterculture, so you’ll get no argument from me. I’m going along for the ride on this one. But before I do, I have to get a few things off my chest. Governor Shingles, if you’re reading, it’s time for me to come clean – right here, right now:

I am a woman.

Sure, when I look down in the shower each morning I see a penis, my doctor gave me a prostate exam at my physical last month, I have a Y chromosome, and you can hang a trench coat off my adam’s apple, but since when is science relevant? This is California! If ignoring basic biology is good enough for a confused seven year-old shouldn’t it be good enough for me? I am woman, hear me roar! Naturally, I expect all the perks of my newfound sex – or gender – or identity – or whatever the Democrats are calling it this week: The ability to ogle women in the locker room, the occasional mani-pedi, and a kick-ass spot as second baseperson on the girl’s softball team. And lets not forget the discounted small business loans, the free child care, free birth control, and my WIC benefits. While we’re at it I might as well spill it all:

I am also black.

This will no doubt come as a surprise to my friends and family, as I look like the lovechild of Nicole Kidman and the entire Edgar Winter Group, but it’s undeniably true. It will also come as a shock to my doctor, who told me my DNA test showed absolutely no trace of African American blood whatsoever (but then again I found him on the Obamacare exchange website). God, it feels good to get that off my breast.

After all, it’s about feelings, right? Why do we need Albert Einstein when we’ve got Morris Albert? You and the legislature understand the inner conflict I labor under day in and day out. I’m black to the core. I never miss The “Queen Latifah Show,” I’ve watched “Medea’s Family Reunion” over five times, I’m fluent in ebonics, and I do a fantastic Maya Angelou impression that kills at cocktail parties. My affinity for early ’90s Hip Hop and stunning collection of parachute pants pretty much seals the deal, don’t you think? From now on, I shall be known as Shaniqua Hughes. And, to quote Pope Francis, “Who are you to judge?”

Naturally, I want everything that comes with my newfound status as a PBW (Proud Black Woman). The whole nine yards. Send it to me via high speed rail if you have to: Special protection under hate crime statutes, Section 8 housing, race-based scholarships, the ability to attend Al Sharpton rallies and look indignant, permission to say “talk to the hand” without being ironic, but especially the preferential treatment in government contracting. With our state unemployment at 12 percent I could sure use that one. Line ’em up Moonbeam, because Shaniqua is here, and she’s fierce!

While I’m in the confessing mood, I have to unload this as well:

I am also disabled.

Now, I know what you’re thinking: I have no physical or mental deformities to speak of, but you and the Democrats will just have to trust me on this one. It’s just something I feel to be true — like my menstrual cramps or global warming. I’m sure we can scrounge up something to qualify me: My occasional road rage or my ACDD (Acute Courtesy Deficit Disorder) so common here in Los Angeles. Either way it’s clear: I’m a cripple, and for you to question it for even a second means you hate cripples. Cripple hater. Yes – you!

Naturally, in my debilitated state, I want all the perks that come with my condition – preferential parking, line cutting at Disneyland, and of course boarding the airplane first. Yes, you’ll see me. I’ll be sitting next to you with my “service animal.” He’s an unneutered howler monkey named Spitz with a nasty case of syphilis. I’ll let you figure out where the name came from.

And if you don’t like it, what are you going to do? Punch a crippled black woman?

Jim Hughes a writer and humorist living in Los Angeles. He is neither a woman, black, nor disabled, but he does have an awesome collection of parachute pants.

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