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Recently, I saw a woman from behind who, when she turned in my direction, displayed a full beard. A real beard meticulously trimmed to glamour mag perfection. Not two minutes after that encounter, I saw a thing whose sexuality I could not for the life of me accurately discern. When it turned to face me, I saw that it had the faint countenance of a male face, and humongous swinging manboobs that slapped against its kegerator belly. The worst part? The thing’s nipples were huge. I could see the dark outline of islet areolae and jutting teat tips stretching the fabric of its silky t-shirt.

Now, normally, I don’t like giving these freaks the satisfaction of my gawking attention, but some of them are so outlandish that the eye can’t help but try to make sense of what it’s seeing. Normally, the best way to treat freaks is to look right through them, as if they make no more impression than the air around you. Deny them what they want, which is attention, good or bad.

(Ed: Correction: the best way to treat freaks is to cast them to the icy wastelands, alone with their degeneracy, but that is not an option anymore. Too bad.)

Anyhow, the crooked rise of these shambling mounds has got me to thinking about a potential upside. If you’re a well-groomed, healthy, trim, normal looking man with no obvious psychological or sexual identity issues manifested in any body “art” or strange fashion choices, the world of the Degenerate Freak Mafia is your oyster. Waltz into a job interview or client meeting with your head held high and your chest projecting an invincible aura of confidence, because everyone will breathe a sigh of welcome relief that they’re in the company of a genetically and psychologically superior human. In the land of the disfigured, the abnormally normal man is king.

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