Politics of gay balloons. Tilf and Trick look at balloon reassignment surgery.

Today something deeply distressing happened. I saw the most homosexual dinosaur in the world. And it’s mere existence upset me. Allow me to explain.

A friend of mine, who shall remain nameless, mainly because he’s turning into a hipster, but I’m sure he’ll find his way eventually, decided, in a fit of infinite male wisdom to buy a helium balloon. Said dinosaur. This dinosaur has two dangling feet, so it ‘walks’ along the floor. Already I can feel the sadness well up. This dinosaur was so unbelievably gay that Louis Spence would have backed away screaming.

I’m not homophobic, I believe as long as no one is hurting anyone else they can do as they please. But there is that fine line between gay, and a medal hunting queer. Same as the line between lesbian, and thunderous diesel dyke. So, John Barrowman is gay, Sir Ian McKellen is gay, and amazing. But Louis Spence is queer. Alan Carr is queer. They seem to make it they’re life goal to be ‘that gay guy’, and it’s depressing. See the idea? When you stop being a person, and become a horrendous stereotype, that’s the line I draw. Harsh? Maybe. Cruel? Possibly. But honest. At already I’m doing better than about 33% of this country. Not homophobic, just stereotypicophobic. And yes, that is a word. Now, it is, anyway.

Where was I? Ah, yes, the hideous dinosaur of gaytown. This bloody thing was bright green, with pink, orange and purple patches. This quintessential poster-child of queer caused diabetes in anyone who looked at it. I exist on sugar and chemicals, so thankfully, I was fine. But either way, the look was completed by it’s neon pink claws. I mean, seriously? What kind of dinosaur has pink claws? Rapedbygeorgemichaelosaurus? The megasaurarse? Ridiculous.

But, here’s the utter cherry on the horribly queer cake. Where the filling tube was.

Go on, have a guess.

That’s right. Between the legs.

Suddenly I was struck by what the dinosaur actually was. It wasn’t an awful medal hunting queer. It was pre-op. Which is a whole different situation.

Instantly, the rainbow town mascot had a new meaning. It was a creature to be applauded, not hated. Again, I don’t hate gays, or lesbians, or any of the LGBT world, not in the slightest, but these people who refuse to be a person, and instead become an embarrassment to the groups, I despise them. They cheapen the battle faced everyday by people trying to come to terms, in a world, still woefully undereducated, with how whichever god you choose made them.

I know we as a planet are steadily coming to terms with the fact, repeat, FACT, that homosexuality isn’t a choice, it’s a biological and genetic thing. As unchangeable as the colour of your skin. Another thing this world has a problem with, and that pisses me off too. But that is a rant for another day! And homosexuality should never be confused with transexualism.

So, this pre-op dinosaur was in my shop, looking all inflated and a bit self-conscious, and I hit upon a wholly disheartening idea. People are made to live as the opposite sex for two years before they have gender reassignment surgery. What about our poor pre-op heliotropic, helium based life-form? The life span of helium balloons is in competition with mayflies, Who can die the fastest? Kind of thing. It didn’t have jellyfish’s hope in hell of lasting two years. Hell, it wasn’t going to last two days, or two minutes if it kept freaking me out with it’s surprisingly emotive eyes. And someone decided it had to live two years to be in the body it had always wanted.


Cruelty to the extreme. I was horrified at the unfairness of it all. Other people and balloons could change their appearance to fit their soul whenever they wanted. They could change their hair, add ink to their skin, metal to themselves, anything they wanted. Anytime they wanted. And this poor dinosaur who’s only crime was to be made in the wrong body had to be a social freak show for two years.

This had to be changed. I offered to cut his bits off there and then, give it the life it wanted, and dreamed of, for so long, just to see it happy. But I wasn’t allowed. Politics of balloons, I suppose.

Possibly we can let balloons be what they want, unmolested, unchallenged, free to enjoy the relatively short lives they have, in peace and happiness. But humans as a species have never been particularly happy at letting each other express themselves.

Which is why the leopard man of Skye chose to live alone on the isle of Skye, until he couldn’t cope alone anymore. I think that balloon might teach us a valuable lesson, if we let it.

Peace people.


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