I've decided I will no longer "tolerate" people who believe I am Old Gooseberry himself because I think it's sick to ginsu a teen lad's genitals into Play-Doh.

The LGBT movement began by asking for “tolerance.” Then they wanted “acceptance.” Now they insist we straight men Drive Mr. Daisy or else the gaystapo will shriek “TRANSPHOBE!” at me as I walk by with my very real Puerto Rican fiancé.

As a former New York City liberal, I know the crushing pressure your screeching, man-bunned clown-in-law feels when it comes to obeisance to the narrative. In the world of the libs, thinking for oneself means complete ostracization. Zhe will no longer be invited to drink with Friday's after-work appletini posse. And forget about hooking up with that flocculent-nostrilled, fubsy Madison chick, who has insisted everyone call her "Mad" since she got that tattoo of George Floyd across her forehead.

I am over the days of "tolerating" a person whose political views include sending me to a gulag for walking the "wrong way" down the aisle at Kroger during a fictitious pandemic.

I haven't seen a Harris-Walz yard sign in my hood -- though I find new Trump flags every day -- but if I did see one I would know that the person who posted it plans to vote for open borders, more crime, inflation, the end of the 1st and 2nd Amendments, and perhaps the death of our Republic. How can I "tolerate" a communist? I can't.