The Lost bet Part 6 — Paul, Stevie and a man with lipstick.

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When we are discussing feminism it is important to distuguish between sex (not the dirty part) and gender. If we do, we might understand how feminism could have saved us from the song "Ebony and Ivory".

I think that if Stevie Wonder and Paul McCartney had been less interested in music and more interested in feminism, they wouldn’t have performed their disgusting duet song “Ebony and Ivory” – because “Biology and Sociology – live together in perfect harmony” doesn’t sound that good. And when discussing feminism, it’s inevitable to discuss gender, and when we are discussing gender it’s inevitable to discuss biological gender and sociological gender.

As I concluded in the previous post, and that some of you probably have found out on your own, you fucking little geniuses, the world's population consists of (at least) two genders. In Trump-land this is a truth which will soon be converted into a law, making it illegal to be something in between – but outside the country that need to be greater, we see that there are several (maybe not as many as fifty, but still …) more shades than only ebony and ivory.

As perceptive readers with good memory, you may remember (it not, read the previous parts of “The Lost Bet”) that I like to travel forklift-conferences together with my buddy Anderson as part of spending the money our hospital provides us. We could off course have spent it on our patients, their medicine or better equipment, but then we had to forget duty-free booze, late nights out with gay bars and Danish women, and “whore hotels” with condom vending machines at each end of all floors. So we take one for the team and contribute to the world economy by spending tax payer’s money worldwide. Many of you might want to ask if this is the proper use of public funds, but I want to reassure you that this is among the best funds invested in the entire health care system. If the management at the central warehouse in the hospital aren’t well informed about the best of forklifts on the market, and can obtain the best of the best, we will quickly undermine the very kingpin in any health care system: Bring the right medicine or the right equipment fast and timely to the right spot so that someone else can transport it further on to those who need it.

Enough said. A few years ago Anderson was on sick leave, and therefore I went alone to the huge World International Forklift Conference in Bangkok. One night I was on the way to a bar to meet some forklift-buddies I was stopped by a tall brunette in pink snug dress, with a wonderfully shaped body and white high-heeled shoes. She looked like a dark-haired and normal sized version of Dolly-Midget-Parton, but with half her cup size.

"Can I do anything for you, sir", she said and her voice sounded a little strange, but at that time I was more focused on her rack then her pronunciation – which I guess all of you men out there can easily understand. After all; I am a truck driver, not a fucking speech therapist. So I started thinking if I had some issues that needed to be dealt with. As I was living in a five star hotel (after all, spending tax payers money is a serious business and require some standards) I didn’t need anyone to do my bed. I delivered all my dirty underwear to the laundry crew and hence didn’t need this woman to wash my clothes. And she didn’t seem to be too educated in cooking (except maybe boiling some rice, which I already was fed up of) and therefore I preferred others to make my food. So; I shook my head.

"No, I don't think so," I replied and looked at her again. I found it strange that a so nicely dressed girls as she, wasn’t at a bar or disco but instead in the streets offering help to other people. I then realized she probably had a big heart under those huge breasts.

"Are you sure, sir. I can do many things, "she continued, and I was wondering if maybe she had a throat injury or another disease that made that her voice sound like Tina Turner, or for those of you who don’t remember Tina; as a female version of Leonard Cohen. I and realized that I could not ask her to brush them. I wanted to please this woman and looked down at my shoes, a pair of Adidas-sneakers, but realized I couldn’t ask her to give me a shoe job. Then I realized it; my mouth was still heavily polluted by my last lice and cully meal (after all, that was what they called the dish of rice and sauce) so I could ask if she could get me some bubble gum to take away the cully taste

"Could you get me a packet of bub ....", I said before I was grabbed by my shoulders and swept away by a man passing us.

He looked at me, with an angry face. I looked back, surprised, and saw only a guy who appeared to be western looking. But I realized he probably was from some kind of far destination deep inside Kazakhstan when he opened his mouth and talked. Try to picture an even worse accent than what Arnold Schwarzenegger has (if possible) and you’re closing in

"Don't you know it’s a man?" he asked, or at least that was what I understood from the flow of sounds escaping his oral cavity. I looked at him and realized he probably had the same eye problems as Shane McGowan’s girlfriend, since every sane man could judge from the woman’s rack that she could not be a dude.

"Of course," I said not to offend him, since he obviously had studied something completely different than rocket science (if yo know what I mean …) and turned towards the woman again. She was gone, as the good Samaritan she was, most likely looking for some other people to help. When I later came back to the bar at the hotel, I called Anderson and told him about the positive impression of the Bangcockian ladies and their helpfulness. He told me stories about something he called Ladyboys, chicks with dicks, and told me to be careful and try to avoid them. Most of all he was wondering how I couldn’t understand that Arnold was right; it was a man.

“She reminded me of Dolly. " I explained and expected some piece of understanding, since I know that Anderson have been having wet dreams about Dolly Parton since he was four years old and his mother stopped breastfeeding him.

“But you can see it on the size of the larynx, "he said and I thought that this was a classic example of the difference between theory and practice.

"Maybe this larynx-thing works good in theory", I said. "But it's not easy to focus on the larynx when you have a rack of breasts bigger than the ego of Donald Trump right in front of your nose, which barely have heard of Newton's theory of gravitation.". It sounded as if he understood, so I told him I would stay away from men with balls and boobs, and hung up.

 

This story is just another example of how there are more shades out there in the real world than just ebony and ivory. That’s why believing that men and women are two only two genders, will make you appear as informed about biology and sociology as the people of the rust belt is about politics. When we discuss feminism, it’s not enough to talk only about biological gender – men and women.  We also have to keep in mind the term “social gender”.

"What the hell is social gender", you may think, and realize that it might be just another academic bullshit. But; social gender is born from a perception that gender is something socially constructed, making it an important part of gender research and to the perception of gender roles. In order for you all to think; “This is too fucking theoretical. I go do some dishwashing instead, “ I promise there will be  a juicy story at the end related to the term social gender.

The central question in the discussion around gender is closely related to theories of genetics and environment and which properties we can attribute a person based on their biological gender. Some of these properties are controlled by hormones, which some are definitely different for men and women, but is hormones enough to explain everything? Are men more aggressive than women, just because of testosterone which in theory is often linked to aggressive behavior? Of course; in real life the answer is NO, and any man that has been in an agonizing discussion with a woman will agree. Instead of discussing with women, I think most men would instead prefer to discuss with Hamas and Israel about eternal peace in the Middle East, since after all these two parties have some kind of reasonability and there is at least a small possibility for an agreement.

It’s very common to talk about movies or literature as "typical chick …" or "typical boys …" to define the expectations we have that either girls or boys HAVE to like this or that. Are we, by nature, programmed to like something because of our biological gender, or are we shaped into this by the community? Do all boys actually prefer blue colors and cars, while all girls prefer pink color and dolls – and if YES is the answer, why is it like this? That’s what gender discussion is about, among other things, and this is important when talking about gender roles, an essential element within feminist theory, and something I will return to in next parts of “The lost Bet”.

But for you who are patient and waiting for the juicy story: one time I was at a meeting in a small town close to my hometown. The meeting went on for several days, and in the evenings I was walking the streets to pass time. Passing a corner of a building I collided with a huge lady that would have made Melissa McCarthy look slim. I was surprised, but after some seconds I managed to say I was sorry, only to see that the woman in front of me was my male supervisor at the warehouse. He is a fat and robust built man and it was strange to see him in high-heeled shoes, ample skirt and makeup. I've always been of the opinion that you can put as much lipstick you want on a pig, but it will never be anything other than a pig, and what stood in front of me could never be looked as nothing else than a fat and robust built man with makeup. He looked at me and kept the index finger over his lips, as if he wanted to silence me, and I understood he wanted me to not tell anyone. Then he left without saying a word, and I’ve never told anyone before now. I guess it doesn’t matter anymore, since he left his supervision role some weeks ago when he was offered a position in the staff of Donald Trump, and he would do more embarrassing things in the future than wearing women’s clothes and touring small town alleys.

I continued my stroll and thought that it has to be a ladyboy in a big city like Bangcock with balcony breasts, than in a small town with a gallons-of-beer-belly and rugged beard. But after thinking about it for a while, I realized that maybe my supervisor just had free-thinking parents who allowed him to play with dolls, bought him pink clothes for him and told him "you can be just the one you want". Maybe his parents really loved listening to Paul and Stevie bullying the world with the lyrics a retarded old Circus monkey could have written, thinking that their girly son could live together in perfect harmony with everyone else. Then, maybe he grew up in the belief that he was a girl, until he once in the shower after gym class got reality right in the face. Who knows ...

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