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📚 MegathreadThe Pooner Zoo - A thread for collecting wild Pooners and posting OC Pooners, and anything Pooner related
Spotted a absolutely insane pooner in the wild through a retweet showcasing her label collection and also how she locked replies being all smug.Here's intrwebz/tonyblox, a 26 year old SJW "retro internet enjoyer" type of woman who goes by Hank as well....and uh, well let's just say she's rather active in "protesting"
Tweet I found her from:
Her strawpage:
Hi! Welcome to my Strawpage! Here's some info about me! :3
I go by Toby or Hank!
I am 26 years old!
My pronouns are he/she/xe/it + neos!
My gender is; genderfluid (guy, girl, and agender), nonbinary, transmasc, cistrans, and many MANY xenogenders! I am also intersex!
My sexuality is; bi gaybian, abrosexual, demiromantic, objectum, and polyamorous!
I am disabled! My disabilities are; AUDHD (autism + adhd), OCD, BPD, Bipolar, MDD, PTSD, lupus, and chronic bronchitis!
I'm a multifandom artist, which means I draw art for a lot of fandoms! I also draw ocs. :3 (I swear I do draw....... sometimes.)
I have DID, specifically P-DID. I won't really ever go into too much detail about our system on my social media, as me and my alters prefer to have our privacy in regards to this.
BEFORE YOU FOLLOW;
I struggle with understanding tone within text, so PLEASE use tone tags with me.
I sometimes interact with horror content, so proceed with caution if this makes you uncomfortable.
I am heavily critical of any media I consume. If you don't like this, I suggest you don't interact.
I support good faith identities such as; mspec gays, mspec lesbians, lesboys, turigirls, gaybians, cistrans, etc. Don't like? The block button is right there for you to click.
I sometimes struggle with paranoia and delusions, please bear with me.
PLEEAASE tell me if I'm interacting with anybody problematic. I'm likely unaware if I am and I promise I'll be super grateful to be told instead of being kept in the dark about it!
MY BOUNDARIES;
Subkit/Medspace is a huge trigger for me due to a past abusive relationship, so I beg of you to not shove that ship into my spaces please. I literally have nothing personal against y'all (saying this because I've been harassed over this boundary by multiple subkit shippers).
If you're a minor, don't make nsfw remarks or jokes towards or around me as I am an adult and would rather avoid that. I'll likely block you if you disrespect this boundary.
DO NOT dm me/go to my strawpage/etc to ask me to explain my identity for you. I'm tired of having to explain myself to people and I shouldn't have to explain every little detail to be respected or considered "valid". I will explain on my own whenever I feel I have the patience and energy to do so.
DO NOT INTERACT;
Basic DNI (homophobe, transphobe, racist, misogynistic, ableist, etc)
Exclusionists (basically you hate mspec lesbians, lesboys, acearo people, xenogenders, etc)
Proship/Lolicon/Shotacon/Feral NSFW/Etc
Pedophiles/Zoophiles/Necrophiles
Radqueers
Radfems
Transmed/Truscum
TERFs
Conservatives/Trump Supporters/Right-wing/Etc
Pro-life
Zionists/Support Israel in ANY way
shtwt/edtwt
You don't support age regression as a coping mechanism/You sexualize age regression
Unironically believe in cringe culture/Harass people over harmless stuff for "being cringe"
Harass or make fun of people who selfship
Use the r-slur in any way, ESPECIALLY if you use it in a derogatory way
Believe that people with personality disorders (such as BPD. NPD, etc) are "inherently abusive"
Fans of Killing Stalking/Your Boyfriend/Boyfriend to Death
Against self-diagnosis
INTERESTS;
Buckle up, I got a LOOOONG list!
Weather (specifically tornadoes)
Storm Chasing
Dinosaurs
Paleontology
Dragons
Plushies
Zombies
Monsters
Sleep Token
Drawing, reading, writing, and gaming
Webcore/Old internet aesthetic
Scene and Emo
Halloween and Christmas
Eddsworld
Madness Combat
Roblox
Phighting
Regretevator
Forsaken
After The Flash
Invader Zim
Pokemon
Doodle World
Dragon Adventures
Creatures of Sonaria
My Little Pony
HLVRAI
Spyro (both reignited and the legend of spyro)
Bluey
Warrior Cats
Wings of Fire
Homestuck
Dreamworks Trolls
Five Nights at Freddy's
Minecraft
Cult of The Lamb
Dead by Daylight
The Scream movies
Silent Hill
JoJo's Bizarre Adventure
My Hero Academia
SCP Foundation
Spooky Month
Tankmen
Undertale/Deltarune
Webfishing
Stellaris
Amber Isle
Animal Crossing
Dungeons and Dragons
Stardew Valley
Monster Prom series
Fallout and Elder Scrolls
Limbus Company
Kingdom Hearts
Bad Things
Helluva Boss/Hazbin Hotel (by the way, i do NOT support vivziepop, and i am HEAVILY critical of both shows. i just like some of the characters, designs, and world-building.)
As you can see, REALLY proud and brave man who is absolutely capable of rational thought, including these beautiful labels.
Oh yeah, and her tweets. Twitter
All in all, definitely a groomed grown woman and another example why you can't give them an internet presence.
I don't know what any of this crackpot shit means... isn't it "exclusionist" to use such arcane, in-group language that only 500 ppl from Reddit know? Very toxic behavior.
Never heard of "xenogender"--but instead of explaining politely, she deliberately EXCLUDES those who don't know the hipster meanings.
Long list of "do not interact"= likewise.
Too scared to talk to pro-lifers? (mostly a bunch of Catholic housewives) Why won't she argue with terfs/radfems--she should be able to refute them easily?
Sounds like she excludes the vast majority of people, so she needs to add herself to her list of "exclusionists". (Dumb ass bitch)
I don't know what any of this crackpot shit means... isn't it "exclusionist" to use such arcane, in-group language that only 500 ppl from Reddit know? Very toxic behavior.
Never heard of "xenogender"--but instead of explaining politely, she deliberately EXCLUDES those who don't know the hipster meanings.
Long list of "do not interact"= likewise.
Too scared to talk to pro-lifers? (mostly a bunch of Catholic housewives) Why won't she argue with terfs/radfems--she should be able to refute them easily?
Sounds like she excludes the vast majority of people, so she needs to add herself to her list of "exclusionists". (Dumb ass bitch)
She sounds like the most exhausting person in existence, to the point that I almost wish to meet her, but I doubt her type emerges into the sunlight very often, if ever.
And that list of... identities? Labels? Traits? Disabilities?
You know that opening scene in Leaving Las Vegas in which the guy is just happily bopping down the aisles of the liquor store, grabbing anything and everything which takes his fancy and casually tossing it all into his shopping cart? Yeah, that, but it's the Tumblr store.
It would be fun to hide her profile from her eyes, and challenge her to name from memory every identity, flag, and label she's listed there.
I got this pooner barber in my Shorts feed the other day and because I didn't swipe away fast enough now I'm getting a bunch of these. Damn you, algorithm.
There are some that aren't bad, little old ladies getting edgy short cuts and what not. Lots of greasy troons expressing the highest levels of autism in the barber chair. This was the funniest one yet.
I got this dood in my feed inexplicably, too. I think she may be a covert ad campaign of some sort. She cut and styled this Riff Raff looking troon's pink hair and awkwardly spent some time advising him what to do about his receding hairline, which he had not been treating - whether it be asking his doc for finasteride, or - and get this - asking the dood about natural options. I'm assuming she means to tell him to drink spearmint tea or something, but it felt like she was selling something.
Also I wouldn't call her a barber, she remains a "hairstylist", for women, butch women, and hons. Doods and their girlishness, I tell ya.
While there’s the trannies that get themselves DEI jobs and trooned out in college, the homeless trans people are always intentionally shooting themselves in the foot as literally nothing will ever be enough for them. And unlike drug addicts you can’t tell them to knock it off and try getting help again when they’re ready to give up on the bullshit. They’re worse than drains, they drain and knock down everything that doesn’t work exactly the way they want it. Trans centers don’t do shit except give them hormones and send them to actual services.
I’m glad this idiot can’t get money for their plasma but they’re going to cost more than the $40 in the long run.
“ "On the day I heard that my penis would be huge, I sobbed.
In the car outside the doctor’s office afterward, I bent my torso in half and bawled, my face against the dashboard, my boyfriend petting my back to console me but confused. Isn’t it good news that they can do it? — like: At all? And obviously, yes. It was. Growing up without one, I’d thought or maybe convinced myself that mine would grow in later — to the extent that when I see a woman in tight pants, I still often instinctively think, Where is her penis? — but my period at 12 aptly, agonizingly bled to death that increasingly implausible dream of reconciling with life, with God, that he wouldn’t make me like this and leave me like this forever. So the news, 28 years later, that the agony was going to be over — abundantly over — was a bit much to take in.
I fixated instead on the information that a pert little average-flaccid package was not an option for me. (If I even wanted that.) (And did I?) When I’d asked the surgeon how big my impending penis was going to be, he could only guess, pointing to the reusable water bottle in my hand, a metal cylinder nine inches in circumference: “Smaller than that.”
Thomas Penis Esquire III turns five. I DON’T KNOW what happens for most people when they catch a glimpse of themselves pulling up their pants in the bathroom mirror. I know only what happens for me: A quick, thick jolt of knowing that I can accomplish anything courses up my root chakra.
That’s not to say that I always feel like I can accomplish anything. It is to say, I guess, that I should look in a mirror when pulling my pants up more often.
Today is the fifth anniversary of my waking up from the best decision I ever made: to, finally, after 40 forlorn and lost years without one, get the dick that the universe left me without in an epically torturous experiment.
There is no overstating this trauma. Even after all this time, I saw an AFAB person in tight pants the other day and still thought, as I have since I was sentient, Where is her penis?? It’s automatic, unstoppable—cognitive coping gymnastics I developed as a child in immeasurable pain, forced to believe it would show up later to survive.
And show up it did.
Five years of having my penis doesn’t erase the 40 years that I didn’t. Old terror and emptiness live in my cells; terror renews that the emptiness could return. There was very little chance, medically, that my penis wouldn’t survive if it made it five days past its creation, but though it’s been nearly 2,000 days now, our viability is so tethered that I stay scared.
Or I did, until this week. Rounding into this fifth birthday, I found myself standing in my RV kitchen, spooning guacamole from the awesome food bank into a bowl, and suddenly leaping with relieved joy, light of heart and feet as I finally believed: It’s not gonna die. It’s not a coincidence that in the last few weeks, I’ve found myself increasingly thinking: Oh my god—I’m gonna live. GETTING A PENIS didn’t solve all my problems. It didn’t even end my dysphoria.
That took four more surgeries. I had a glansplasty, which is the surgical term for getting your dickhead shaped, then the second step of my two-stage top surgery, to remove loose skin. I also had an erectile device implanted earlier this year (!—more on that later), and finally, two months ago, I received body contouring, in which fat was sucked out of places where it was ruining my life.
I don’t mean just that it landed like a knife when some woman in a food co-op ran up to tell me I looked exactly like a lady from behind. I mean that when I was sufficiently recovered from my October lipo to go to yoga two weeks ago, I felt the conspicuous absence of my insides screaming why, why, Jesus fucking mommy oh my fucking god why.
While the birth of my penis had deeply mitigated that screaming, it hadn’t eliminated it. Prior to the week before last, I’d thought for twenty years of yoga classes that everyone felt their insides screaming during yoga—or at least all the other incest survivors. But after my seventh transition surgery in seven and a half years, the one I knew would be my last, I learned that, to me, that was just what dysphoria felt like. “YOU ARE SO lucky,” my great-great-great grandmother, who was trans, said to me recently, dead as she was. She was murdered, on her way home from coal-mining one night, in circumstances that the last relative to tell the story still euphemistically referred to as a freak accident.
“You are so lucky,” said my Grandma Martha—that was her real name. And she was right. I am.
So fucking lucky.
I am so lucky to have been born with citizenship, courtesy of my ancestors who emigrated from Eastern and Western Europe to this magnificent, violent, magic, shit-hole country, where our transcestors fought and died to ensure that if I could just survive decades shackled to a virulently anti-trans sex abuser and in the closet—then just get myself to the right cities at the right time to hustle, jockey, and suffer for health care across three different states, taking two of them to court to get surgeries they were theoretically already required to provide by law—if I had the resources and resource to do all that, while being invisibilized and dehumanized again and again and again—all the time—then I could get the treatments I needed to feel for even a second, let alone a whole yoga class, what it is to breathe free from dysphoria.
I’m luckier than if I’d been born in Hungary, the home country of half my maternal ancestors. I’m luckier than if I’d stayed in my home state of Ohio, where Medicaid was banned from covering my health care. I’m “lucky,” that is, only by the standard of what “lucky” means for trans people, which isn’t what “lucky” means at all. TO MY PENIS on his fifth birthday, our collective rebirthday:
I wish we hadn’t been apart for so fucking long. If I had to rip out my ribcage to save you, now—if in the end, it was just you and me in a weird, horror-movie puddle of parts, boneless, bleeding out—as long as we were still together, stitched skin to skin, it would be worth it.
I wouldn’t trade anything for the experience of waking up with you in a hospital and singing to you, there, a lullaby I didn’t know the words to. Or for any other moment I’ve held or touched you, thousands of moments since that I hope—need—to eventually comprise a trillion moments. I wouldn’t call it lucky, but I would call it rare, and awe-some, to know the different degrees of whole. So to my penis, on your fifth birthday, I beg you—however irrationally, haunted by your absence still—to never leave.
There is nothing on this planet or in my past or future that I cherish like you. Like us—like my Selfhood. Our union completed me in ways I tried to complete countless times with the bodies and affections of others; it made it possible for me to know myself in ways I could never have imagined.
“You are so lucky,” Grandma Martha said, because she lived forever in dysphoria and the closet, until she dared peek out, and was killed. She couldn’t have dreamt this life, the internal and external freedom, that I live. I couldn’t have either. My own father, her tragic familial line, told me both during rape and outside it that it could—that I could—not be.
Now we both get to witness my embodiment. Witnessing some trans children now—many children, where I live—going to school and family events and the mall, out and supported, I’ve often thought, These kids are so lucky. But what they’ve been through and go through still isn’t what lucky means, either.
It’s practically impossible to not hate yourself when you grow up hated. But doing the impossible is quintessentially trans. I love myself, and I love my dick, and those things are interdependent for me, having pursued my dick because I loved myself just enough, then, to believe I deserved to get what I needed—and to try. Having it is a constant reminder, in a great, reinforcing cycle of self-love that every day heals the cycles of violence I break.
Happy birthday, Thomas Penis Esquire III. Happy magnificent, improbable rebirthday to us. Our sacred joining is the best thing that ever happened to me, and not even death will do us part.
I’m at some lawyers seminar and there is a pooner lawyer here that checks all the stereotypes. Short. Squat. Patchy pube beard. Bad haircut. Trying too hard to act like a dude.
I’m at some lawyers seminar and there is a pooner lawyer here that checks all the stereotypes. Short. Squat. Patchy pube beard. Bad haircut. Trying too hard to act like a dude.
This girl kinda gives me NickisnotGreen vibes. She's not remotely masculine whatsoever, but comes somewhat close to passing as an effeminate soyboy. Key words there being "somewhat close", of course.
Is that the "Pissed Off Lawyer" pooner? Or the one which had that *chef's kiss* magnificent courtroom-meltdown?
The POL one always kinda made me sad, as she seems like she still has much potential to live a good, happy life. She is certainly one of the smarter ones.
Her strawpage:
