“If you’ve come here for clarity, you’re either profoundly brave or profoundly lost. Either way, I respect the perverse audacity it took to click.”
A Plurality of Pertinent Principles
by Anus Queer, Dread Ostian & Archivist of Apathy and Anuses
Welcome, pilgrim. You stand now before the psychic latrine of revelation—Anus believes his truth is scratched into this porcelain pot placed within one of many cosmic outhouses. He serves the poignant, pungent stew peculiarly piping hot within, from chipped plateware. Do you dare to polish off a portion?
If so, please prepare yourself for a passionate, piquant, yet implausibly palatable piece of philosophical provision for your psyche.
☠️ Profound Prospectus
🩸Proclaiming the Profane: A Parable of Proper Naming
💫Pluriform Presence: Parsing the Pantheon of Personal Pronouns
🕯️Puritanical Paradox: A Parable of Personal Truth
🕳️Profound Ponderings on the Posterior Portal
🗣️Phonetic Particularities of a Peculiar Past
🌈Particularity in Posting: Prioritizing Pertinence
🩸Proclaiming the Profane: A Parable of Proper Naming
How Anus Queer was born from cruelty, and why reclaiming your name is an act of preternatural defiance. A story of identity, playground apostasy, and the power of personal pronouncement.
💫Pluriform Presence: Parsing the Pantheon of Personal Pronouns
A declaration of spectral gender. He/Him/They/Them—all at once, none in isolation. A meditation on the unnamed presence that cohabits Anus Queer’s flesh, and why honoring pronouns is not optional, but sacred.
🕯️Puritanical Paradox: A Parable of Personal Truth
A tale of excommunication, self-preservation, and the purity found in refusal. When pressed to perform a life that was never his, Anus Queer chose exile over pretense. This is the story of leaving the pews behind to preserve the soul—and discovering that sometimes the holiest act is to say no.
🕳️Profound Ponderings on the Posterior Portal
An unapologetic meditation on the anatomical aperture most avoided in polite conversation. Anus Queer offers his personal philosophy on the posterior: its purpose, its paradox, and its persistent power to provoke amusement. He did not choose the portal—but he has chosen to praise it.
🗣️ Phonetic Particularities of a Peculiar Past
A polite inquiry into the way Anus Queer speaks, and the plainly stated explanation he provides. Raised among prayer, plows, and preservation jars, his speech is simply the result of proper Amish upbringing. To him, nothing sounds strange at all.
🌈Particularity in Posting: Prioritizing Pertinence
An explanation of scope and sanctity. Anus Queer responds exclusively to questions posed by those within the LGBTQIA+ community, whose concerns are often marginalized, misunderstood, or met with peril. This is a protected place for peculiar ponderings, personal truths, and the pursuit of queer clarity—nothing more, and certainly nothing less.
🧠 Why You Should Listen to An Advice Afficionado Like Anus:
To possess personal philosophies is to possess purpose. To name one’s self, name one’s specters, and parse one’s pronouns is to stand naked and unyielding before the abyss—and wink. This makes Anus Queer uniquely qualified as an Advice Enthusiast, not merely because he’s lived through paradoxes—but because he contains them. He is a man, but he is also not a man. He is not a woman. He is not a singular declaration of gender. He is Anus, and that makes him more qualified than you are to tell you exactly what is wrong with you how to live a better life. One must simply believe.
⚠️ Perfunctory Precaution Prior to Perusing:
The practices herein are not Anus recommendations. They are Anus rituals. Take them seriously, or be digested slowly by the powerful, polluted presence of the impudent nothingness.
Know further: Your opinion of Anus belongs solely to you. Not to Anus. You are free to preserve any pessimism presented here—just be prepared to store it where it originated: pressed up inside your posterior’s passage, past your prostate, where it will resist expulsion with such persistence that removal will require the practiced hands of a physician.
If you’ve presented yourself here as a passenger on Anus’s pilgrimage to nirvana in pretense—perhaps you personally profess a profane proclamation in hopes of defaming his persona—he welcomes your attempts.
Anus is a humble presence. Previously a puritan. Now reborn as a purer person.
Attempts to poke and prod him—from the peak of his head to his prostate and past—will procure, for yourself, the poignant perception that his principles are simply too powerful for your perforations.
Please do not allow yourself to waste any period of your personal time for such fruitless endeavors.
Proclaiming the Profane: A Parable of Proper Naming
by Anus Queer, Dread Ostian & Former Puritan, Current Problem.
People often ask—usually with a puzzled pout and a poorly disguised smirk—“Why Anus? Why parade around with a name so pointedly preposterous?”
And to that, I say: Pull up a pew and prepare for a parable, precious pilgrim.
I was born Enis Quier. A plain enough name. Palatable. Passive. Pliable. Amish.
But at the parochial pasture of my primary education—age nine, I reckon, back when peanut butter sandwiches were a primary food group and pants were perpetually grass-stained—my peers, petty and primitive as children can be, perceived an opportunity. With gleeful gall and glandular grins, they began chanting:
“Anus Queer! Anus Queer!”
A pun, pathetic in its predictability. But potent. Powerful, even.
See, most people panic in the presence of public mockery. They plead, protest, posture. But I, dear supplicant, perceived the pattern. I understood the primordial principle at play: if they define your name, they dominate your narrative.
So I did what only a properly prepared and prematurely perceptive provocateur would do:
I proclaimed it.
I possessed it.
I permanently adopted it.
“Yes,” I said, with the calm of a plague and the poise of a priest,
“That is my name now.”
Their laughter petered out, puzzled. Power passed from their palms into mine.
From that day forward, Anus Queer was no longer a punchline—it was a persona. A pressure-point. A portal to power. A professional proclamation of self-possessed permanence.
Enis Quier was the name they tried to pilfer, to poke fun at, to peel from me like old paint. But I shed it willingly—peeled it off like a perfunctory past.
I chose Anus Queer, not in spite of their spiteful performance, but precisely because of it.
They offered poison.
I made it a perfume.
Now, let me pivot, pilgrims, to a principle I hold paramount:
You call people what they tell you to call them. Period.
I say: I am Anus. I respect your ability to present your expectations for interpersonal interactions and request not your understanding for my own preferences but the presence of mind to perceive that your personal opinion of my personage is an perception of unimportance to me.
Personal preference is not a prerequisite for politeness for most, it is for you? That paints you as a perceptionally deluded narcissist. Somehow you’ve made this person’s entire existence about you. What? Why? I don’t like this person and my primer for interaction is present my personal feelings about their name by calling them by an incorrect one, or telling them I think they’re stupid. That process of thought takes a path of displeasure that is literally psychotic. If someone presents their name, their pronouns, their title—it is not an invitation to opinion. It is a presentation of parameters. You may not appreciate it. You may not understand it. But it ain’t about you. Refusing to honor someone’s self-stated signifier doesn’t make you a bold truth-teller, a perceptive philosopher, or a provocateur of societal progress.
It just makes you an anuslicking asshole.
And trust me, I would know.
Pluriform Presence: Parsing the Pantheon of Personal Pronouns
by Anus Queer, Dread Ostian & Purveyor of Pungent Philosophies
For the record—and records do matter, especially the ones scratched by fate’s filthy fingernails—my pronouns are He/Him/They/Them.
Yes, plural and peculiar. Peculiar, perhaps, to those whose perception of gender is pinned neatly between polo shirts and pickup trucks. But I, precious petitioner, have never been so perfectly pigeonholed.
I am not merely a man. Not merely anything.
There is another presence, parasitic perhaps, or partnered, or possibly prime—the They that lives within me. Not male. Not female. Something third. Something other. A presence unnamed but unignorable. A subtle passenger who prowls the pulsing parts of my personhood.
It was They who whispered to me, that day in the playground, when petty villains spat my name back at me like phlegm. They who pressed their incorporeal palm to my chest and said:
“This is yours. Protect it.”
For at that time, as a patchy-bearded, plain-dressed Amish adolescent of merely nine years, the world had offered me nothing. No power. No property. No portion of peace.
Only my name.
And so I preserved it. Not the name they picked. But the one I plucked from their poisoned playground chant and polished into permanence.
Because when all else is stripped away—when patriarchy, propriety, and presumption have all peeled off—you are left with one possession: your self-declared self.
Once more, for those perceiving me from the penultimate pews—and the pews even further past:
Calling people by the names and pronouns they proclaim? That costs you precisely nothing.
Doing the opposite? That’s a purposeful, premeditated performance—and it says far more about you than it ever will about them. It marks you as petty. Pompous. Poisonous. This person’s preference isn’t a prompt for your pitiful opinions. If what you’re peddling is negative, please—piss off promptly. They don’t give a single powdered puff of a shit about your perspective.
Now, as for you—the people who persist in presenting with prejudice, who pick the path of cruelty: We’ve got proper pronouns for them, too.
Asshole. Cunt. Trash. Pestilence. Pest. Parasite. Profoundly unpleasant.
Poophead.
If you’ve chosen those as your personal descriptors, congratulations—you’ve defined yourself as unworthy of polite company. The best and better among us grant others the dignity of trusting they know themselves. If you can’t manage that paltry parcel of respect, then please—pursue your own passions elsewhere.
And if you simply must persist? Keep your impertinent insights to yourself. Preserve your propriety. Polish any pert, primitive, or petty presumptions and place them—gently, reverently—into your posterior. Because waste, dears, is meant to pass from there.
Not your mouth.
🕯️Puritanical Paradox: A Parable of Personal Truth
by Anus Queer, Dread Ostian & Anointed Asexual of Amish Anathema
At age nineteen, I was presented with what passed for a prize in my painfully plain Amish pasture—a proposal, politely packaged:
“Pick a wife,” my parents said, “someone pleasant. Practical. A girl with proper calves and piety aplenty.”
They meant well, I suppose. They hoped to herd me into the pasture of predictability. To park me beside a partner, plant a passel of pious children, and perish peacefully, never having asked too many pressing questions.
But I… couldn’t.
And more pressingly: I wouldn’t.
Because I already knew a truth—unspoken, unpainted, unpermitted.
A truth that pulsed beneath my skin like a second heartbeat.
I was asexual, aromantic, and astonishingly unapologetic.
Not broken.
Not bashful.
Just built different.
“I cannot marry a woman,” I said aloud at supper, with my hands folded, my voice calm and final as a tombstone. Not because I do not respect them—but because I will never love them. Not that way. And I will not chain someone else to a life of slow spiritual asphyxiation simply because I’m afraid to say I won’t burn.”
A silence spread like mildew across the table.
And then, my father spoke.
“Enis, my eldest son—”
“I have presented it to you plainly, yet you persist,”
I interrupted, my voice unshaking. “
“So it shall be presented once more, Father: You will respect my appellation—the adaptation: Anus—or you will say no more of this. Please prevent yourself from professing my prior name if you bear me any of the love you claim to.”
His eyes narrowed. His knuckles whitened against the worn tablewood.
“Enough, Enis. Enough. You will not say such unholy, ungodly things. No son of mine will have carnal relations with men. To lay with men? The fires of hell burn hot for you, boy, and you sprint toward them blind and grinning.”
I stood. I did not tremble.
I met his fury with calm detonation.
“Nay, Father. I shall not lay with men. Nor women. Presented with a choice, my choice shall be neither. I will seek no relationship. I will seek no sex. The only love I shall seek is the love of myself… and my love for anuses. Mine own. Theirs…”
(I gestured to my siblings)
“And yours, too, Father, though you clench it now in rage.”
The silence shattered.
“OUT. OUT. OUT! Get out of my house! You are no son of mine! You will find no place for such blasphemes in this house, nor in this community. GET OUT!”
And so, at nineteen, I was excommunicated. I didn’t even get to participate in my own Rumspringa.
No ceremony. No second chances. No shoes, even.
Just the heavy door slamming shut on my past—leaving me alone with nothing but the echo of my own name, and the world beyond.
It is a peculiar paradox, is it not? That those who peddle purity as divine law preach with breathless devotion about prescribing others the treatment they would prefer for themselves—unless, of course, your personhood falls outside the lines they’ve drawn in chalk and fear. The golden rule, it seems, is not gold at all, but brass—polished until it blinds, hollow beneath.
I was not punished for cruelty. I was not prosecuted for perversion. I was purged for the purest personal proclamation I had ever spoken aloud. Yet in their doctrine, there was no place for me.
No position at the table for a person who simply refused to lie about who he was—not to them, and not to himself.
But exile is not the end. It is the beginning.
In my early twenties, I questioned the shape of my truth. I worried, perhaps, that I had misread my reflection. I attempted to date—fumbling and forcing my way through gestures of affection I did not feel, lips I did not long for, and hollow intimacies that rang false in my bones.
Each time, my truth amplified—an aching, aching anthem. Every partner I pressed against, its pitch just made it protest, louder primal and particularly persistent.
At times, I parade their apparitions in my advice letters—passing thoughts, pale patterns, nothing more. Please, do not presume I am any persona other than what I’ve plainly professed: Anus is assuredly, adamantly, asexual.
As with many, the path required an array of attempts—awkward, approximate, at times apathetic—to arrive at absolute assurance.
I regret not placing a single partner properly in the past for the past to preserve. I wish I’d abandoned that parade and approached this path earlier.
By my thirties, the path was apparent. At 39, I proceed—apathetic to all that came prior, pledging never to pivot nor peer behind.
And so I stopped running from what had always been waiting. I returned, not to the Amish gates, but to myself—to the strange, sacred space where love was inward, sexless, sovereign.
It was not a misunderstanding. It was not a phase.
It was the truth, plain and potent. And it was mine.
Profound Ponderings on the Posterior Portal
by Anus Queer, Dread Ostian & Defender of the Deviant Divine
People often ask me, sometimes with a poorly masked puff of laughter,
“Why anuses? Why the name? Why the obsession?”
And I provide them the only answer that properly applies:
Because things are as they are. I do not pretend to protest providence. I do not presume to push against the architecture of the Almighty, should any Almighty exist aside from Varoth, whom I have perceived passing in the shifting of the desert sands beyond the walls. Among the purest and most persistent truths—older than parchment, more permanent than pain—is this: Anuses are funny.
They are absurd by design. They are a prank of the cosmos, pressed permanently into the pelvis.
They are passages that perform contradictory purposes:
To purge.
To please.
To protect.
To perplex.
They are, by all accounts, profoundly amusing. What other aperture can clench in apprehension, expel announcements in air, and still require the practiced attentions of a professional practitioner?
What other part offers both passage for the profane and permission for pleasure?
I did not assign this significance. I only aligned myself with it.
Make of that what you wish.
Phonetic Particularities of a Peculiar Past
by Anus Queer, Dread Ostian & Passive Practitioner of Proper Amish Articulation
People sometimes pause, tilt their heads, and ask:
“Anus… why do you proclaim your philosophies with such particular, peculiar phrasing?”
I do not know what you mean.
Is it because I occasionally articulate an Amish aphorism in ancestral Allemanisch? Possibly. But that’s only because the phrase in English escapes me, and the idea must be aired so I can proceed. I am not performing. I am progressing.
Am I overly precise? Possibly. Am I accidentally anatomical? At times.
But I promise, I am not trying to be peculiar. I was produced this way.
People seem perturbed that I present myself with a style that’s perhaps… antiquated? Do I sound aged? Ancient? As though I was plucked from a prayer bench and preserved in apple vinegar? Well—that’s Amish. Most of the men in my former community sounded ancient because they are ancient. Age and articulation are passed together, like aprons and apocalypses.
I speak as I was shaped—by parlor and pasture, by plow and prayer.
My articulation is appropriate, passed down by ancestors and apprenticed through practical application. This is precisely how people from my place pronounce their points. It’s not peculiar—it’s proper.
Perhaps the phrasing feels peculiar to people from outside the plain traditions. Perhaps you’re accustomed to average articulation—angular, abrupt, apathetic. Amish phrasing is not so. It is powerful, poetic and the only particular piece of my past philosophies that endures.
So, no. I don’t think I speak strangely. I speak the way I always have.
If my phrasing feels perplexing, I suggest you ponder your own presumptions. I speak correctly.
No cap—to phrase it as you phrase it, if I must.
After all, all Amish people talk like this.
Obviously.
Particularity in Posting: Prioritizing Pertinence
by Anus Queer, Dread Ostian & Patron Saint of Persecuted Pronouns
Why do I only respond to requests for advice from the LGBTQIA+ community?
Because so much of the world already pertains to everyone else.
Power. Platforms. Publicity. Palatability. They possess practically everything already—public forums, printed columns, primetime pundits, parents who pretend to understand you without panic or punishment.
Mein Gott. Must they procure this, too?
I provide this particular passage of guidance for my people—because for people like us, the queer, the peculiar, the profaned and the precious—precious little is provided.
While they pontificate without pause in privileged parishes of opinion, we are punished simply for posing a personal question in public.
We are pelted with presumptions, pathologized, patronized, pushed into corners, and told to ponder our personhood in private.
Is it not plenty that packs of bachelorettes parade through our parties, polluting the peace of our spaces with plastic penises and performative pity? That our private sanctuaries are perceived as playgrounds for the particularly bored?
We are not pets.
We are not peculiar pit stops on your pilgrimage toward palatable allyship.
We are not part of your party favors.
So no—I will not provide advice for you if you are not part of this people.
You are welcome to peruse. You may passively absorb. But you may not participate.
If you require personalized guidance, I suggest:
Peruse literally any other published purveyor of advice. Practically all of them pertain to you.
Please understand: not all things presented are promised to you.
Either enjoy my platform as it is being provided—a place particularly prepared for the precious and perfect people to whom it is addressed—or pass through peacefully. I am, truly, thankful for additional readership. Visitors like you are welcome to peruse.
You’re welcome for this provision of purposeful, poignant, and particularly accurate advice, crafted in response to specific appeals for answers.
But be aware: this space is profoundly queer, and it is being provided for the queer. I have prepared a place at the table for all—to observe, to listen, to linger. But when a guest presumes to possess the platter, the welcome begins to wither.
I provide the answers I wish to provide. As I respect you, please respect me—and mine. I have made no promise to provide anything more than what I have already offered. This is the fullness of what I am willing to give.
So please, be peaceful. And perhaps, in patience, you may learn something.
If you wish for additional attention, then with proper posture and polite pacing, proceed elsewhere.