I identify as a horse. No, really. I do By Jon Rappoport

I identify as a horse. No, really. I do.

May10  by Jon Rappoport  

I identify as a horse. No, really. I do.
By Jon Rappoport


“Faced with two estranged parents in utter disagreement about their daughter’s wish to be a boy, a British Columbia Supreme Court judge has appointed the child a legal guardian to protect her interests…The father not only wants his daughter to cease taking hormone blockers but also to cease all contact with transgender activists or transgender-friendly therapists…Though the case is about whether the 11-year-old can give informed consent to such serious medical treatment, which is intended to delay the onset of female puberty, the judge appears to have already conceded the point by referring to the girl by her preferred, male, initials, J.K., and accepting her male self-identification.” (lifesitenews.com, “Court orders dad to start treating his 11-year-old daughter as a boy,” 5/6/16)
I’ve decided I’m Nyquist, the winner of last weekend’s Kentucky Derby. This in no way subtracts from, or replaces, the Nyquist who ran the race in 2:01.31.
I just want to be Nyquist in my own way. So I’ve moved into a barn in Kentucky (undisclosed location), with other horses who will not be named. They are, for the most part, friendly. I believe they’re on the way accepting me as one of their own.
In the morning, I leave my stall and trot out into a large field where I nibble grass and cavort. It’s much better than working at the Starbucks.
I don’t plan on entering races, but who knows? Do you believe a court will dare stop me if I decide to join a contest at a small track? I don’t think so. It would abridge my right to determine my own category of existence, even if I can’t find a jockey who would saddle and ride me. If I say I’m Nyquist, I’m Nyquist.
Okay, in the interest of avoiding conflict, I’m not Nyquist. I’m Nyquist Two. I’m Ny2. That’s my new name. Ny2.
The question has arisen: what drugs should I be taking? I have found a doctor at the US National Institutes of Health who believes he can design a protocol that will, to a significant degree, turn me into a horse.
How will that change my thoughts? I’m already thinking like a horse, so it’s not a problem, but we’re shooting for the creation of equine impulses to bolster, as it were, my mental processes.
In other words, horse feelings to support horse thinking.
I really want to get into politics. How do you imagine I’ll go over as a self-identifying horse running for Congress in Kentucky? I’m already in talks with a public relations firm, and they believe my prospects are strong. Very strong.
Once elected, I would certainly cause a stir in Washington. No doubt about that.
“Talking horse votes to expand war in Middle East.”
“Horse’s ass wants more war.” Let some columnist or blogger take that tack and I’ll sue for gender discrimination. There are laws. Who’ll risk running afoul of the new identity mandates?
From Congress to the Senate—that’s a manageable proposition. And then, of course, when Hillary runs for her second term, why wouldn’t she slot me on the ticket as her vice-president? I see a clear path. By that time, I’m sure she’ll need all the help she can get.
After she retires to some distant location with Huma, I would be a no-brainer for the 2024 Oval race. I, Ny2, in the White House. Horse-in-Chief. I would live and do the business of the nation on the lawn.
“Animal wisdom.” It rings true. Back to Nature for the most powerful country in the world. Are you kidding? The support would rise like a great wave. Who better to advance the environmental agenda?
“Ny2 decrees 50-percent cut in US energy production, to save the planet.” If you think a 75-year-old socialist riled up the college kids, watch me go to work. By the time I’m finished, the word “human” will be anathema. “Human bias=Privilege.”
I’m ahead of the curve, perfectly positioned.
Aren’t we on the cusp of realizing that everything connected with the dominant species in the world is destructive?
All it takes is a final push over the edge.
Depopulation won’t need a top-down operation. Suicide will become the number-one social-media obsession. “What’s holding you back, Human? Do your duty now, for the planet. Off yourself creatively on YouTube.” People will be lining up, vying for attention. “Day by day, watch me stop eating, all the way to the end, in a homeless shelter with the poor.”
I will appoint my favorites—dogs, cats, cheetahs, mice, snakes, hippos, scorpions, and koala bears—to key posts in my administration. I’ll open the door to unlimited genetic re-configurations in the population.
And I’ll tell you this. I believe, by the end of my second term as President, I’ll be able to enter and win the Triple Crown. The Derby, Preakness, Belmont. Not because I’ll finish first, but because no one will care where in the field I rank at the wire. They’ll need and want to declare me the winner and champion. Arbitrarily.
You don’t think so?
You don’t have your finger on the pulse.
You’re hopelessly mired in the past—where all the trouble was.
We’re going to a far, far better place. Finally.
I see it as clearly as I see the overwhelming acclaim for surgical castration.


Thanks to: https://jonrappoport.wordpress.com