It is Tuesday, dear reader, a day traditionally reserved for tacos and hangovers, but down in the swampy bowel of D.C., something far more hallucinogenic is taking place.  The Supreme Fucking Court of the United States – that marble mausoleum on First Street where nine block-robed eminences sit in a row like constipated owls – today undertook the solemn business of hearing whether a man can, by pure declarative force of his own mouth, transmute himself into a woman for all legal and rational purposes, simply by announcing the fact with sufficient sincerity.  Not surgery, not hormones, not even the full bureaucratic regalia of a changed passport or birth certificate; just words.  Sincerely uttered words.  “I am a woman,” spoken aloud, preferably with feeling, and lo, biology folds like a cheap suit.

The occasion was oral arguments in the twin cases out of Idaho and West Virginia, where states have had the audacity to insist that girls’ and women’s sports teams remain delimited by the crude old metric of biological sex at birth.  Lawyers for the challengers – tranny women (a.k.a. men) – faced a relentless barrage from the conservative bloc, most memorably Justice Alito, who kept returning, with the patient cruelty of a man peeling an onion layer by layer, to the hypothetical: Here is a person born male, unaltered by any medical intervention, possessed of undiminished testosterone and the full architectural complement of male secondary characteristics, who nonetheless steps forward and declares, “I sincerely believe I am a woman.  I am, in fact, a woman.”  Is this person now, for constitutional purposes under equal protection or Title IX, a woman?  Not “treated as,” not “recognized in certain limited contexts as,” but is.  The attorney for the challengers, to her credit, did not quite vaporize into a mist of horseshit on the spot, but the exchange hung in the air like smoke from a tire fire.

And here we arrive at the great, foaming, incandescent, absurd idiocy that has become the progressive position on sex itself.  Because if the answer is yes – if mere self-declaration suffices to override the material reality that has ordered human reproduction, athletics, prisons, medical care, and basic mammalian taxonomy for several hundred million years – then we have entered a realm where language is no longer descriptive but performative magic.  Say the spell correctly, believe it hard enough, and the body obeys.  Reality is optional.  The Left, in its current fever-dream configuration, has decided that the highest form of compassion, the purest moral heroism, consists in pretending that words can repeal chromosomes.

This is not thinking.  This is anti-thinking.  It is the intellectual equivalent of covering your eyes and shouting “Not real!” at an onrushing freight train.  The same moronic cohort that once prided itself on ruthless materialism – class analysis, historical dialectics, the implacable grind of economic base determining ideological superstructure – has now traded all that for a metaphysics so idealist it would make Hegel blush and Berkeley look like a blunt empiricist.  Sex is not a fact; it is a felt essence.  Biology is bigotry.  The body is a suggestion.  And those of us who point out that penises and testosterone confer certain ineradicable athletic advantages, or that women’s prisons perhaps ought not to house rapists who have recently discovered an inner femininity, are excommunicated as a TERF, a bigot, a collaborator with the carceral state, et cetera, et cetera, ad infinitum, ad absurdum, ad nauseum.

What we are witnessing is not progress but a species of religious hysteria dressed in secular drag.  The catechism demands affirmation, the sacraments are social transition and pronoun policing, the heretics are those who notice patterns in crime statistics or bone density or simple mammalian dimorphism.  Dissent is violence; skepticism is hate.  The high priests – academics, NGOs, blue-check journalists, certain appellate judges – enforce orthodoxy with the zeal of inquisitors convinced they are saving souls.  Meanwhile the material world keeps refusing to cooperate: women lose scholarships and podiums, girls sustain injuries, female inmates face predation, and everyone is required to smile and applaud the new doctrine that a sufficiently earnest declaration overrides every measurable datum.

This whole stupid spectacle would be darkly comic if it were not so destructive.  A man can no more become a woman by saying so than he can become a giraffe by eating leaves off the top shelf or a helicopter by spinning really fast.  Yet here we are, dear reader, watching the highest court in the land earnestly debate whether the incantation “I am a woman” should enjoy the full force of constitutional recognition.  The Left has not merely abandoned reason, it has declared war on it, and demanded we all enlist.

I almost hope the Court rules the obvious – that sex is binary, immutable, and not subject to unilateral verbal fiat – simply so the idiot fever can break, the patients can be led gently back to observable reality, and we can stop pretending that the most radical act of solidarity is agreeing to hallucinate together.  But even then, the damage is done.  This insipidly imbecilic ideology will slink off to lick its wounds, rebrand, and return under a new, nonsensical slogan.  Because the true believers never really wanted to win an argument.  They wanted to win reality itself.

And that, ladies and gentlemen of the invisible jury, is where we stand on this fine January day in 2026: listening to solemn men and women in robes decide whether self-deluded sincerity is stronger than sperm.

I can’t believe I’m forced to live in a society this fucking stupid.  Christ almighty.  Pass the Jack Daniels.

N.P.: “Here comes the rain again” – Pure Obsessions & Red Nights