Off-Topic Troon sightings in the wild

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Nonconsentual Pronouns said:
I saw a TIM at the grocery store checkout today who was easily six and a half feet tall, I'm not joking. He was very clearly over a foot taller than me, had that flat man ass in denim booty shorts that were barely clinging on because he has no hips either. I didn't see him from the front or side, so I don't have any other details aside from a cartoonishly long wig, but perhaps that's merciful on me. Looking back, I was worried for a moment just now that others may have noticed me staring in horror, but they would have been too distracted by Lurch's trooned out grandson too. Holy shit.
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Around every third male troon I see is in the 6'4+ range. It really seems like the giant guys and the dwarf girls are the ones sucked into this.
 
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Got onto the Tube into central London yesterday. I’m standing next to the doors, and a couple of stops down the line a very tall person gets on. I glance down at the floor and, obviously, this person is wearing socks with the baby blue and pink trans flag stripes. Also a rainbow flag something or other, I forget. Anyway, I glance back at this person and they're having to stand right in the centre of the car because they're so tall, yet they're still hunched over. And they're wearing bright red lipstick.

Pass, they did not.
 
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Larry David's Crypto Fund said:
Around every third male troon I see is in the 6'4+ range. It really seems like the giant guys and the dwarf girls are the ones sucked into this.
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Shorter chicks trooning out, I get. They generally try to become men in attempts to escape living as a sexual prey animal, and being short just adds to feeling vulnerable. But the 6ft+ dudes? I don't think I get it.
 
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So I started a new job a couple months ago that’s an hour away from my home. The middle of last month a new coworker that’s maybe 25 joined that works in a separate department from me. To my surprise he’s the only one I’ve seen that wears a mask in the whole warehouse. I noticed that he appeared to wear women’s jeans, and that kind of set off my troon radar. I kind of assumed he was a pre-op troon but I didn’t have any solid proof. Fast forward to Halloween and coworkers were allowed to wear costumes. I guess this troon went for the catboy/girl? look. B685228B-E13C-4427-81DD-60634688BABA.jpeg
 
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Jimmy Hopkins said:
So I started a new job a couple months ago that’s an hour away from my home. The middle of last month a new coworker that’s maybe 25 joined that works in a separate department from me. To my surprise he’s the only one I’ve seen that wears a mask in the whole warehouse. I noticed that he appeared to wear women’s jeans, and that kind of set off my troon radar. I kind of assumed he was a pre-op troon but I didn’t have any solid proof. Fast forward to Halloween and coworkers were allowed to wear costumes. I guess this troon went for the catboy/girl? look.View attachment 3822880
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Holy shit, when was the last time he used shampoo?
 
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When I worked at McDonalds one of my managers was talking to me about how there was this new tranny joining but he wasn't sure how to refer to them because of how they looked and then later a crew trainer echoed the same sentiment although he was less cucked about it calling them a freak. Later that week I walk into the store ready for work and see this 4'7, fat, blue haired girl working on lobby and I had to hold back my laughter because I instantly knew this was them it wasn't just the weight and hair that gave it away but on their hat was a he/him pin and a Minecraft pickaxe pin. They are the only ftm I've seen irl and holy they didn't pass at all, it was absolutely hilarious watching 40 year old Irish moms call her a girl or a woman to their children it'd be things like "shhhh the girl at the counter is talking" or "thank the woman". Not one person in the kitchen would talk to her either because of how awkward and weird she was, which was just the cherry on top. Sadly they left after a week so I had one less source of humor in work.
 
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It's 4:00am or so about, all that is recalled by my faulty memory is that within the time which I saw upon the face of my cellular device was a singular 4 and I would expect that to be the first integer. My eyes open further from their squinted gaze to a more suitable position for interpreting my surroundings. Slowly they go with a subtle jitter as if the muscles within my eyelid are struggling to pull the weight of my eyelashes. My left eye suddenly ceases in its progression and it takes me a few seconds before I realize I had once again slept with makeup on and consequently the mascara upon my eyelashes had become sticky and saturated with the moisture from my tears. The upper and lower eyelashes had become stuck and thus my left eye was unable to continue. I ran my hand across my face around the location of my left eye with my hand balled into a fist in order to maximize coverage. Slowly I pull myself up from my sitting position and swing my legs off the bed so I may fully extend my body into a standing position. I begin walking towards my bedroom door, brushing my hands past the stacks of monster cans as to gauge my distance from them and ensure that I do not disturb their resting state or trample one and cause a loud noise of catastrophic consequence. I leave my room, heading in the vague direction of the lavatories as I shamble and meander around the hallway. My legs weak, buckling inwards, and disorienting myself further I take a moment to sit upon the floor and reflect upon my evening. To my best memory my night had been spent primarily ingesting copious amounts of vodka and texting the entirety of the grouping of those people I consider friends. Anything from schizoid rants to trauma dumps, to jokes who's context was lost upon their audience. I grab a nearby shelf and raise myself from the floor, and as I glance to my flexing arm, both bony and muscular, and in this strained form, evoking imagery of rusty machinery, clunky, boxy, and disproportionate all falling apart from the wear of time. Suddenly aware of my ghoulish figure I run my hand along my forearms and legs, feeling short hairs prick up as I go. Something instinctive and implicit to my nature feels disgusted. My thoughts spiral and I become aware of every blemish upon my skin. The rough feel one gets when they touch my hand must resemble in sensation that of sandpaper. My skin flakes and the cuts on my arm although faded are still apparent even at night. I stumble my way into the bathroom and catch myself on the counter. My finger catches on something cold and sharp causing my body to flinch and repell itself from the counter. Hunched and tense I bring my head up to observe what I had touch. In the darkened atmosphere of the night I see nothing upon the counter however catch a glimpse at a bright white reflection in the mirror, glinting with the light of an LED stationed just down the hallway. I am able to make out the picture of my face, after some time of observation. Boney, and spotted with pimples, beedy eyes placed too close to the center, a forehead resembling the incline of a mountain. A nose so large and long that it leaves a long shadow stretching to the side of my face even in lighting which is almost directly cast upon my facade. My mouth is wide and slanted downwards. My jaw, wider and more jutting than even my forehead, yet still regressing into the folds of my neck. My hair long and stringy, coated in grease yet dry enough to knot and curl like cable. I start towards the counter and place my hands upon the ledge, leaning forward to analyze the features of my face. I look downwards to see the cold metallic object with gave me such surprise. A razor, small and sharp, delicate and petite. An object so quaint it could be considered antithetical to my existence. To think it's stained red from my blood. Pills scatter the counter, needles piled in the sink. Why do I take these anyway. I can't remember. Shame, misery, and an inexplicable hollowness fill me, I take the razor as it finally settles in what brings me such pain. I am a tranny, a troon, a transexual, nothing but a man, yet barely human.
- kekles​
 
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be me just a rando said:
It's 4:00am or so about, all that is recalled by my faulty memory is that within the time which I saw upon the face of my cellular device was a singular 4 and I would expect that to be the first integer. My eyes open further from their squinted gaze to a more suitable position for interpreting my surroundings. Slowly they go with a subtle jitter as if the muscles within my eyelid are struggling to pull the weight of my eyelashes. My left eye suddenly ceases in its progression and it takes me a few seconds before I realize I had once again slept with makeup on and consequently the mascara upon my eyelashes had become sticky and saturated with the moisture from my tears. The upper and lower eyelashes had become stuck and thus my left eye was unable to continue. I ran my hand across my face around the location of my left eye with my hand balled into a fist in order to maximize coverage. Slowly I pull myself up from my sitting position and swing my legs off the bed so I may fully extend my body into a standing position. I begin walking towards my bedroom door, brushing my hands past the stacks of monster cans as to gauge my distance from them and ensure that I do not disturb their resting state or trample one and cause a loud noise of catastrophic consequence. I leave my room, heading in the vague direction of the lavatories as I shamble and meander around the hallway. My legs weak, buckling inwards, and disorienting myself further I take a moment to sit upon the floor and reflect upon my evening. To my best memory my night had been spent primarily ingesting copious amounts of vodka and texting the entirety of the grouping of those people I consider friends. Anything from schizoid rants to trauma dumps, to jokes who's context was lost upon their audience. I grab a nearby shelf and raise myself from the floor, and as I glance to my flexing arm, both bony and muscular, and in this strained form, evoking imagery of rusty machinery, clunky, boxy, and disproportionate all falling apart from the wear of time. Suddenly aware of my ghoulish figure I run my hand along my forearms and legs, feeling short hairs prick up as I go. Something instinctive and implicit to my nature feels disgusted. My thoughts spiral and I become aware of every blemish upon my skin. The rough feel one gets when they touch my hand must resemble in sensation that of sandpaper. My skin flakes and the cuts on my arm although faded are still apparent even at night. I stumble my way into the bathroom and catch myself on the counter. My finger catches on something cold and sharp causing my body to flinch and repell itself from the counter. Hunched and tense I bring my head up to observe what I had touch. In the darkened atmosphere of the night I see nothing upon the counter however catch a glimpse at a bright white reflection in the mirror, glinting with the light of an LED stationed just down the hallway. I am able to make out the picture of my face, after some time of observation. Boney, and spotted with pimples, beedy eyes placed too close to the center, a forehead resembling the incline of a mountain. A nose so large and long that it leaves a long shadow stretching to the side of my face even in lighting which is almost directly cast upon my facade. My mouth is wide and slanted downwards. My jaw, wider and more jutting than even my forehead, yet still regressing into the folds of my neck. My hair long and stringy, coated in grease yet dry enough to knot and curl like cable. I start towards the counter and place my hands upon the ledge, leaning forward to analyze the features of my face. I look downwards to see the cold metallic object with gave me such surprise. A razor, small and sharp, delicate and petite. An object so quaint it could be considered antithetical to my existence. To think it's stained red from my blood. Pills scatter the counter, needles piled in the sink. Why do I take these anyway. I can't remember. Shame, misery, and an inexplicable hollowness fill me, I take the razor as it finally settles in what brings me such pain. I am a tranny, a troon, a transexual, nothing but a man, yet barely human.
- kekles​
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Didn't read, please use paragraphs.
 
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Old people give zero fucks about gender feefees!!

Had a day out with Nan and her bingo buddy, took them to a old person restaurant with a salad bar, and Bingo buddy kept making comments every time she saw him "Is that thing a man or a woman" "if thats a woman shes ugly as sin" "No its a man! I can see his adams apple" "Why is he dressed like a whore? Its 3pm" (he had on the typical troon uniform, skirt, knees highs, some shitty low cut top) "If that was my son I'd disown him" "I thought crossdressers stayed inside" "He is a pervert" "if a man wore women's clothes like that when I was younger he was considered a deviant and he'd be sent to an asylum"


Bingo buddy is a savage, and will be invited out again
 
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Obvious troon at local pub. It's the kind of place where people share tables when it's busy, so we had a drunken conversation. He brings up JKR, I tell him I agree with her. He cries and tells me I want him dead. Le sigh.

The next time I went in he shouted that I was a transphobe, and tried to get me banned.

Reader, it didn't work. And he still looks like a rugby player in a frock.
 
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Tif Tesco delivery driver came to us a few months back. Looked like a 12 yr old boy on work experience tbh. Usual bum fluff “beard” and the give away voice.

Totally harmless interaction and it seemed to puff up its chest (or remains of) any time i said “mate”

Not seen since , probably unable to keep up the pretty physical job. No doubt gathering trolleys in the supermarkets car park , or something similarly manly.
 
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