On nights like this
Once there was a little androgyne named Brendan. He was knee-high to a hamster, long-haired, and full of zest for life. Sometimes he rhymed slow, sometimes he rhymed quick, and sometimes, at least in his opinion, he resembled in some ways a Chick-O-Stick, and did not resemble DeLorean, Gambino, or Gotti.
A waitress concurred to some degree. « Here is your vermouth on the rocks, ma'am, » she said. When Brendan insisted that he was not a “ma'am”, she was terribly apologetic, but her pleas could not quell the tumult of his bruised and beaten ego.
« I am virile! » he declared, and through will alone he set his mind in motion. He furrowed his brow and concentrated deeply, and, ever so slowly, his facial hair grew. After many breaks for food and sleep, he decided that his masterpiece was complete. He beat his chest and left his home to show everyone his pride and joy, his Mustache.
« You've got something on your lip, mister, » said a young boy.
« Great success! » exclaimed Brendan, for he had been identified as a “mister”. He was on top of the world, basking in his newfound masculinity.
« Stay away from my children! » screamed a woman who had instantly deduced that he was a member of NAMBLA.
Realizing that many people believed him to be a pederast, he decided to make an adjustment. Soon, he had cultivated a Van Dyke, and showed his face in public again.
« Nice goatee, ma'am! » a teenager shouted.
« It's not a goatee! » he replied, and walked on. Reflecting that he had been called “ma'am” again, he undid his pigtails.
What came next was a series of men hitting on him. « This will not do, » he thought, and converted his Van Dyke to a goatee.
When this caused an entirely different set of men to hit on him instead, he swallowed his pride and went to the supermarket to ask for some advice.
« I am not a homosexual, » he explained to Miss Midwest Midnight Checkout Queen. « I am manly, and I like the poontang and the boobies. What can I do to stop this unwanted attention? »
« Shave, » she said, and refused to acknowledge his protests.
So he shaved and went to the bakery. « I've got a sweet tooth, » he explained, « for licorice drops and jelly roll. »
« I'm sorry, ma'am, » the baker informed him, « but we only sell lard bread and bran muffins here. »
Brendan let out a high-pitched scream and stormed out to play in traffic. His eye was caught by a sign advertising fortune telling services, and desperation drove him to go ask for a consultation.
« You will die unhappy, » said the Gypsy Queen.
Brendan recounted his trials and tribulations and asked her for advice. The Gypsy Queen informed him that he would be subject to additional charges for such, and he assented.
« Very well, » she sighed. « People will never respect you if you care what they think. Just be yourself, and if anyone complains about the way you are, or demands that you change to suit them, tell them to fuck off. »
« That's wonderful advice! » Brendan gushed. He gave her an enormous tip, and hurried out into the world to try out his new lifestyle.
« That guy sucks, » people said. « She doesn't care about anybody but herself. » So they shunned him.
He died an unhappy little androgyne.