Watch this video first, then I’ll have a few words.

Funny, right? I laughed, too, but not at all of it. There’s something sort of disturbing beneath the surface, here.

First of all, I get it: the hotter the chick, the crazier she can be.

First point (and this is a minor one): what you’ve noticed is that the more physically attractive a woman is, the faster her rationalization hamster runs and the greater her sense of the feminine imperative. I guess you could call that a mental disorder; but I consider it more like programming. Like how a spoiled child (once she realizes she can get away with what others can’t) develops a superiority complex.

But what should disturb you is the punchline–this idea that you would rate a transvestite (or trans-whatever) an eight, nine, or ten.

Initially I was baffled. How could presumably heterosexual men (those in the video and the one who recommended it to me) even conceive of a she-male they would be so attracted to?

It didn’t take long to figure it out, though. And the answer is related to another baffling phenomenon among what seems to be the majority of men today, including among the red pill community.

That phenomenon has to do with the desired female body type.

Looking solely at faces, it makes some sense that a person of one gender could masquerade as another–there are boys born with soft facial features who could artfully apply eyelashes, makeup, and so forth. Rating them in the 8-10 range is still a stretch IMO, but I’ll accept it in theory. (Of course, judging by the actresses in a lot of movies and TV shows, plain-faced is the new beautiful, anyway.)

The problem for potential cross-dressers (at least in a culture with more traditional gender roles and tastes) is that healthy male and female bodies do not look alike.

But this is far from a problem in our society, where so many males are attracted to women built like teenage boys. The emaciated scarecrow look is currently en vogue: Broad shoulders, narrow hips, six-pack abs and visible ribs. The only female characteristics commonly desired are breasts and long hair. Anything failing that criteria is called “fat.”

Some guy the other day actually said Kim Kardashian is fat. And he didn’t mean when she was pregnant, either. I pointed out that women are supposed to have some meat on the hips. Not only do wide hips help with childbirth, but put a shapely woman in high heels (or if you run into one of those super-rare treasures that knows how to walk like a lady even without high heels… then even sneakers and tight jeans will work) and simply watching her move from Point A to Point B is better than watching the Superbowl halftime show. Yes, that’s right: including the one with Janet Jackson’s “wardrobe malfunction.”

“Yeah, alright,” the guy said, “she should have hips…but not that are wider than her shoulders!”

“So in other words,” I said, “what you’re looking for is a man.”

I heartily agree with red pill men that femininity makes a woman desirable. What I don’t understand is why they insist that feminine personality should occupy a masculine physique. At least one of the professors I remember from college would smugly accuse you all of being a bunch of closet cases. Add to that the desire for women with deeper voices and butch attitudes (at least among the blue pill male population) and the evidence mounts.

A lot of gay mafiosos and homophiles will opine that everyone has latent homosexual proclivities. I don’t believe that; but then I can’t explain these bizarre mate selection tendencies, either. My best guess is that it’s largely inspired by self-contradictory conditioning from pop culture absorbed during a boy’s formative years in our gender-confused society.

The French expression “Vive le difference!” makes a lot of sense to me. Men and women attract each other in large part not because we are biologically interchangeable, but because we are so different. We compliment each other, and that harmonious design is reflected right down to our body types.

Anybody can grow their hair long, or invest in fake boobs, guys.

I guess I understand the thrill of the unknown so far as some things go, but I can’t think of a more powerful boner-killer than not being sure what type of genitalia is inside a date’s panties (or whether they were born with it or not).

I had to sit through a day-long corporate meeting and I’m taking my frustration out on you.

There is a certain personality type that just luuuuuuuuuuu-uuuuuvs meetings. In fact, they’d probably rather spend an entire work year having meetings than actually doing any work. It seems to be the same personality type obsessed with titles and glorified job descriptions (which serve as camouflage to disguise the fact that they get paid for shuffling papers and enforcing/generating bureaucratic red tape).

During these self-congratulatory orgies with the trappings of business meetings, a lot of time and money is spent, but nothing gets produced. The best of them may present 45 minutes of useful information while the remaining seven hours and 15 minutes are little more than mass mutual ego-stroking–an opportunity for the vain and self-important to dress up and receive awards for dubious accomplishments.

This last meeting only reinforced my opinion. In addition, the Random Seat Assignment gods were pissed at me that day. There were two top-tier babes and at least four second-tier who could have wound up beside me. Instead, the seat to my right was occupied (at the invitation of an obese woman at my table) by probably the last individual on the company roster I would have preferred.

I’ve seen this effiminate little character around before at smaller-scale meetings. Don’t know what department he’s in and not interested in knowing. But I made an effort to be friendly (by Two-Fisted standards, anyway). Maybe the guy was raised by a single mom and only had sisters, and thus was completely oblivious to how uncomfortable he makes men with all his mincing and such.

I had to scrap this benefit-of-the-doubt upon noticing how every female in the company he was acquainted with fawned all over him. Several embraced him and kissed his cheek like a long lost sister. That’s kind of a giveaway.

Okay, western women have been squirting for metrosexuals from Rudolf Valentino to Prince. I get that. (Sorry I can’t provide any more recent examples, but I intentionally avoid pop culture as best I can.) But there was no sexual tension in these greetings–quite the opposite. It was obvious they found him as unthreatening as a stuffed animal.

Going back to junior high, before I truly believed that homosexuals actually existed, I couldn’t help noticing this weird upperclassman who preferred to hang out with the girls. Not for the natural reasons, either. He was obviously much more interested in gossiping with them than any sort of romantic ambitions, and the girls in his circle were all protective of him. None looked at him or reacted to him the way they did me or the other jocks. Their demeanor changed around him in some other way, like he was a puppy with a broken leg or something.

This is a consistent phenomenon in our culture. I always thought that junior high situation was rare when I was a kid; maybe it was rare to find among adults…but not so anymore. When in college I discovered that (prior to the doubled-down media blitz to legitimize homosexuality in the mind of Joe Public) such women were commonly referred to as “fag hags,” even among homophiles.

Now it seems like every female is a fag hag. (A whole lot of males, too, come to think of it.)

I’ve heard women say things like, “I think that’s so cute!”

Let two males, behaving as if one were female, walk into a large group of women and listen to the collective “Awwwwwwww!” erupt as if scripted. You get the same thing in movie audiences after carefully manipulative homo-erotic scenes.

Once in the Bahamas, watching some comedy/musical/variety show put on by the resort staff, actors and actresses came out in various costumes, impersonationg different famous celebrities. The audience was international (though mostly from western nations) and the thespians were attractive. That seemed to be a requirement. There was very little applause for the hot babes–maybe because the men present had brought their dates, as I had. There was mildly enthusiastic applause from the gathered women for the bare-chested beefcake. But when one of the male actors appeared in drag, the hooting, cheering and applause was thunderous by comparison.

On another date a few years later, I watched a belly dancing demonstration. When it was over, the dancer instructed some kids how to dance and their parents all laughed and clapped. But after that she asked the crowd if they’d like to see a guy dressed in the costume and forced to dance. The question was asked like she already knew the answer, based on experience with other crowds. And sure enough, the crowd cheered its approval and some poor mangina was singled out to humiliate himself in front of everybody.

It’s all enough to make a man wonder: Is the same psychological compulsion driving women to invade male turf and ruin it also driving their collective desire to see men feminized (whether it be literally or superficially)?