A Letter From Joanne
Ello, Yewchube…women, like bees, are disappearing at an absolutely alarming rate, innit? Can’t even pop out for a cheeky Nando’s, or a big shop, anymore. Chewsday. Regrettably, despite heterosexually inventing an orphan in the 90s, I must now let it be known that I am officially worried about lesbians. Are they vanishing from their family portraits like Michael J. Fox and his sister in Back to the Future? What are Doc Brown’s credentials? Is he licensed to perform surgery? What if a lesbian were never invited by her crush to the Under the Sea dance, and she were so upset that she forgot to menstruate and subsequently kissed her mother, who has mistaken her underwear for the underwear of her father’s bully? These are just some of the questions you get asked if you are, like me, Britain’s first female billionaire.
I've been vibing with you all for decades, simply absolutely pulsating with energy…undulating like a frond under the sea with a jellyfish hovering overhead. Are you really going to throw all those vibes away just because I’m marrying the blue liquid that stands in for period blood in tampon commercials? Grow up. In commercials, real women menstruate real blue liquid, and there’s absolutely nothing wrong with that. I’m truly sorry if this offends anyone, but I have to be honest: Anyone who menstruates has to come live in my horse barn and let me feed them apples and carrots out of my hand, and brush their mane with a gold comb, and bring them armfuls of sweet-smelling summer hay across a freshly-mown field, and they have to live there forever and be my ponies. And anyone who hasn’t menstruated is going into my blue-liquid Jockey Pods, where they will be absorbed into the Great Jockey Hive Mind and assimilated into a perfect polo-pony rider. I won’t apologize for it. If trans people don’t like that, they’re really not going to like it when I shrink them down to the size of a kumquat with my billion-dollar Debiggulator Ray and carry them around in my kangaroo pouch (yes, I have a kangaroo pouch – it’s a perfectly safe means-tested procedure for women of a certain tax bracket; none of your Doctor Brown’s and their off-license, at-home, cut-your-own-tits-off do-it-yourself surgical time travel kit) until they grow up a second time into regular people, like straight women who write books under boys’ names and put on a big referee’s shirt and whistle and tell lesbians what to do.
I’ve given you all I have, vibe-wise at least. If anything bad were to happen to a trans person, and I weren’t already busy menstruating at the time (which I often do, in solidarity with Virginia Woolf), I would certainly undulate my fronds in their direction in a sympathetic manner. Perhaps I could even be called upon to make certain thrumming sounds from deep within my throat-stalk, sounds that stimulated the vagus nerve, which I believe even trans people have, and induced a sense of peacefulness and calm. That’s mint, is it. Bagsy.