Women, you gotta love them – unless they get a restraining order against you that requires you to stay at least 100 metres from them at all times, which makes it quite impossible. Far from being sexist, I have higher expectations in women than I do of my fellow man. For the most part, women look at a given situation, assess the risks with reason and instinct, and then decide “hmmm, this could possibly hurt/maim/kill me – I will not do this thing”. Men, in the same situation, will go through the same process of risk assessment, will come up with the same conclusion but then rationalize those reasons away and do it anyway, usually with one of their ‘buddies’ uttering those two words that move men to action, “Betcha can’t”. For the most part, as I said, women do not do this. However, there is a segment of women who will: they are the chick-dudes.
I have known many chick-dudes over the years; Chuckella Norris (1) , Sylvia Stallone, Stephanie Seagal, Annie Schwarzenegger, Jessie Li, just to name a few. It was not until last year that I had actually worked with a chick-dude, Herculeeza, and had begun to piece together the commonality that these women possessed. Chick-dudes are not girly-girls; those persons of the female gender who think that personality and ambition are optional attributes. Girly-girls believe that men will fawn all over them, draping them with diamonds and pearls based solely on the shape and girth of their breasts (which is sort of true – I can recall several times I have draped a pearl necklace on a girly-girl in the back alley). Chick-dudes are not the average woman, who while being able to multi-task a business deal and change a diaper, will scream as if the rapture has fallen at the sight of a spider wandering lazily across the patio.
Chick-dudes can sometimes be confused with the stereotype of a tomboy though they share some of the same characteristics. Tomboys and chick-dudes don’t look like the media driven ideal of what femininity is in Western society; they are not petite with fragile frames with sun dresses draped loosely, smelling of some sort of flower and distraught over the slight tarnish of their make up or nail polish in the harsh sun light they are exposed to as you escort them from the car to the restaurant door. Both sub-species of the female human gender smell of cut lumber, oil, gasoline with the dirt of the baseball field under their busted up fingernails from the game three weeks ago. The tomboy and chick-dude aren’t simple arm and eye candy; they are also competitors in the manly pursuit of passing gas, cross-checking the other into the pavement and seeing who can make who bleed the most.
Tomboys and chick-dudes can curse, fight and hold their liquor as well as any man. The difference is that with a tomboy, you are aware of their feminine sexual nature and hope that she’ll drink you under the table because then you can sneak a peek at their wares. Having bested you, your intent is that perhaps the tomboy will, after seeing that you see her as an equal since you are acting like you would around another guy, at least give you pity fuck. With the chick-dude, you pray that she is unaware of her feminine sexual nature and fear that she’ll drink you under the table because then you won’t avoid sneaking a peek at their wares, which will confirm what you already know – their clitoris is larger than your penis. Having bested you, your intent is that the chick-dude will be so disgusted with your weakness that she won’t, in the throes of passion, whip it out and command, “Bend over bitch, momma’s hungry and is heading into the kitchen to pack herself up some fudge” (2).
The chick-dude has comes into the workplace with the expectation that she is to be treated as an equal in their ability to perform the tasks that needs to be completed. The chick-dude lifts heavy objects, the chick dude gets covered in filth, and the chick-dude will get banged up, cut up and damn near knocked out without a single complaint. All things as they are, it has always been a given that one treats the chick-dude as you would any other guy – without mercy or concern for their safety. It is only natural that one transfers the “boys club” membership, and all its perks, to the chick-dude – which in a nutshell is relishing in their pain and suffering while exploiting and debasing them for their weaknesses, which the chick-dude has no hesitation in returning in kind.
While there is a surface awareness of their femininity, it is purely for perverse commentary pertaining to the usage of tools in and around the shop. For example, the greatest indirect application of the pneumatic air wand (it looks similar to a child’s water pistol; the trigger controls the amount of air that is forced from its barrel towards an intended target) is its perchance to elicit oral sex references towards its user. Without fail I will stand behind Herculeeza as she is busily using the wand to clean the material and with the wit of a master state, “You know, I just can’t help but smile when a woman knows how to blow that well”. Of course, this type of statement is a barrel of laughs when applied to the typical homophobic male, commenting that he must have served some jail time since he really knows how to blow – the problem around our shop being that most often the answer is the guy narrowing his eyes and asking how did I know that he had did time.
That is not to say that this type of behaviour is returned by the chick-dude; Herculeeza has the same compulsion to flog a dead horse as I. One of the processes at the shop is to load large coils of flat metal into a former that shapes the metal. A frequent innocent question asked is “is it in?” to which Herculeeza always answers, “That’s what she said”-which personally I think goes way over the line; commenting on how well a woman can blow is a compliment so I see no reason to launch such a personal attack. I’ve heard “oh, I did not realize it was that cold in here” or “And just where do you think you’re putting that” or “too bad you weren’t twins, then I’d have a pair of chop sticks” or “You poor man – me so sorry, me charge you only half”, but never “Is it in”…that hurts, it truly hurts – thereby cementing her membership into the world of male-making-routine-and-or-ordinary- perverse club.
The chick-dude, so close to being the ultimate male clone, it is hard to believe that they have emotions that are similar to their women brethren, yet they do. So rare do men see these emotions it is easy to forget that chick-dudes are still women. During the winter we tend to find it easier to have truckers back their units inside the shop, thereby allowing us to load on the cement pad rather than attempt to navigate the forklifts on the snow and ice. On one such occasion, the trucker happened to be a woman, perhaps twenty five year or so who obviously had a truck heater that worked very well and as such dressed appropriately for the truck but not the weather outside. Though you would think that not wearing a coat in minus twenty five below weather, which would indicate the denseness of the he-man and therefore a characteristic of, but the woman was most definitely not a chick-dude. I would not have noticed her at all if it had not been that the forklift driver, who prided himself on being able to load a truck in less than two minutes without caring if the trucker liked how he did so or not in order to get back to world record attempt at procuring an eight hour coffee and cigarette break, had spent ten minutes placing the order on the truck – several times – moving it a few inches over this way, then a few inches that way as the trucker directed him. The forklift operator’s behaviour had not only stirred my interest, but that of Herculeeza as well.
I recall uttering, “Well, well – look yonder my feminine compatriot; there would seem to be a woman generously endowed in the mammary gland sacs wearing apparel that seems overly loose atop yet tight upon the bottom” and making a brilliant observational statement along the lines of the volatile nature of gravity and velocity in regards to solid and semi-solid matter within the context of the elasticity of the human epidermis construct.
There must have been significant sound distortion as it has been explained to me that what was heard was, “Jumping Jesus on a pogo stick – I think I just may have died and done gone to blurping heaven!”
Herculeeza looked critically at the woman and stated that perhaps someone should educate her on the many benefits of bras and a map to find clothes not from the “junior” racks. I informed her that she was crazy – obviously the woman was a proud Canadian, displaying her love of our winters with her gargantuan toboggan run; how could that not stir the embers in the fire to go frolicking.
“Oh….yeah….baby….that’s so hot.”
“Are you daft, man? That’s a fine, fine example of woman right there! How could you possibly not be thinking about doing things to her that are illegal in at least 40 states? What the hell’s wrong with you?”
There was a moment’s silence as Herculeeza glared at me; cheeks afire.
“Oh, yeah, right. You’re a chick.”
I cleared my throat.
“Still, you have to admit you would love to have a set like….uhm, certainly you can appreciate her….er…uhm”
Herculeeza did not answer; however, her eyes became decisively narrower. They say silence is golden; it is a pity that I don’t follow the stock market that closely to understand the value of gold.
“C’mon – if you were a lesbian, you cannot possibly tell me that you wouldn’t want to tap that!”
I could say that I immediately recognized my insensitivity and apologized for my slip; that I asked for atonement. I could say that I looked at her straight in the eye and said, “Maybe you wouldn’t be so bitchy if you had tits like those”. Who really knows at times such as that? I cannot say for certain; my short term memory for about thirty seconds of that day has been a wash due to the ill luck of not being quick enough to dart out of the way of the elephant stampede(3) that I had failed to calculate into the appropriateness of whatever statement I had made.
The chick-dude: proof that it is not mankind that are the most proficient adaptors to their environment but it is womankind. They can match any man in strength, endurance, bad body odour, and the innate ability to try incredibly stupid and dangerous things because buddy turned to them and said, “betcha can’t do that”. Yet buried deep – we are talking deep- deep, like attempting to access it is like trying to dig to china with a sugar spoon deep-there is a girly girl with emotions, hopes, desires and regrets. To the chick-dudes of the world, I salute you – now take the pneumatic air wand so I can stand there and tell you how good you blow…..
(1) Names have been altered in order to protect the optimal utilization potential of a certain part of the author’s body, which some people have opined that because of the lack of looks, money and personality on the author’s part, is the only redeeming quality he has, from being crushed by said chick-dude as she growls menacingly, “why’d you write that, bitch, huh, why?”(1a)
(1a) Upon proofreading the statement of the alteration of names, it has been suggested that due to the advances in cosmetic surgery it may be worth my while not to change the names as there could be an opportunity for improvement. (1b)
(1b) the author would like to take this time to point out that the “body” count in the ditches in his wake is in the very high triple digits. The sheer quantity should be ample validity to the author’s worry about the safety of his asset. The names will remain changed. (1c)
(1c) there is an insistence that quantity does not infer quality. Perhaps if the author had gotten this asset assessed by a professional market broker instead of some back alley hack shop, he would realize that the value has been inflated from fair market value. However, by using the real names, there is the possibility that the resulting actions could cause a physical inflation to match the delusion in which he currently resides in. It has also been pointed out that if his assets were so damn valuable there should be a clamorous crowd outside the bedroom window each night baying like love sick puppies – funny, how well one can sleep, isn’t it? (1d)
(1d) the author would like to state that there would be a commotion outside the bedroom window if it were not for the spot on impersonation of a bull moose during rutting season emanating from beside him each night. For the sake of the fragile global ecological system, the names will remain altered. (1e)
(1e) apparently it is not the moose’s fault for being confused – in the dark the ass hairs waving in the air as the author repeatedly gives American’s a tribute with his version of “bombs bursting in mid air” could be mistaken as fields of wheat in the dim glow of that damn stupid Ramones flag. The names should be used in order for the World Court to make a list of potential witnesses for gross violations of the Kyoto Agreement. (1f)
(1f) the names will not be used despite the arguments against such action. The author would like to remind the detractors of this position that if they did not barrel roll the entire bed coverings around them there would not be the need to attempt to heat the surface area with natural gas. (1g)
(1g)There has been the accusation that if the author was not such a cold son of bitch and cuddle once in a blue moon there would be no required action of attempting to imitate the feeling of warmth through the over use of linen and quilts. Despite the objections of the author, the time allocation of cuddling apparently does not include the close proximity required for insertion of various appendages into various orifices. The suggestion of real names being used has been reiterated as it might teach the author that the term “feeling” is an emotion not a god damn gross and fine motor skill exercise. (1h)
(1h )The author would like to submit the notion that the male psyche is one that is simplistic and there has to be some understanding that in order to maximize the odds of getting the correct feminine definition of an action to be undertaken, we will attempt several options. For example, the term “get off” has several branches that can stem from it, therefore, when we get off, we get off, thereby covering two possible avenues of action that may be within the parameters of the feminine definition of get off. Besides, it’s not like I want my ass getting stuck on the wet spot as I do not live by the mantra “moisturize, moisturize, moisturize”. The author has also noted that the term “pig” has vehemently been insisted upon to be added to his vast list of self-descriptions and has this response: oink oink, baby, oink oink. (1i)
(1i) The author would like to finalize the statement the names will remain altered, with the exception of the Palm Sisters, to whom I have been assured I will dating exclusively for the foreseeable future…..
(2) Pshaw if you will, but this a legitimate concern, as I found out years ago by accident. Chuckella and I were having a few drinks out by the ol’ swimming hole (which in reality was a flooded dug-out, but we had ‘fixed’ it up by putting up installing a rope on a tree branch that extended over it thereby creating a ‘high’ class-like aquatic recreational environment – it is simply amazing how wondrous the world is when you have low expectations). It was hot out and Chuckella suggested that we should cool off by utilizing the opaque, algae covered pool, a plan that had not been thought of before we had carried the cooler two kilometres from the air conditioned house we had been sitting in, which meant going in au natural as wet jeans, sun and a stumbling gait make for chafed inner calves. The water was indeed refreshing, and the algae seemed to have the bonus effect of being a natural sun screen; I was enjoying myself – until Chuckella decided to use the rope to perform the aria of her aquatic performance, the belly flop. Her form was perfect; legs spread, arms spread, back arched back in order to attain the maximum surface area impact as she let go of the rope. Unfortunately, I happened to be doing a lazy dog paddle right into ground zero.
The walk was incredibly hard: though Chuckella and I are similar in height, our strides are quite different in length. Then there was the backseat driving – “Shouldn’t you have taken that path”, “Look out for that cat” and “Didn’t you see that sign, you can’t jay walk here”. To add further to the difficulty, the wind had changed from a warm, invigorating breeze to a cold, scalpel into the skin gust which shrunk the pendulum between my legs but the result of my shivering and her warmth transferring over to my buttocks seemed to increase hers. If it hadn’t been for another friend of mine, who rather than being interested in manly pursuits was interested in pursuing men, who had his own personal miniature “jaws of life” and an ample supply of industrial margarine, I imagine that Chuckella and I would be making our living in a freak show as the only unnatural co-joined twins in the world.
(3) Not literally – I hardly doubt that I would be sitting here typing if I was caught in the middle of a psychotic pachyderm parade…well, I suppose I could be, but the thought of using a pencil stuck up my nostril to hit the keys lacks a certain amount of appeal, but the other kind of elephant stampede, the redneck hick from the sticks kind of elephant stampede. What? You have not the faintest idea of what I’m referring to? Make a fist, tucking your pinkie and thumb under the three remaining fingers. Extend your middle finger and take a look – well, see it? Damn right, it’s an elephant, if you need more help, draw a couple of eyes or paste a couple of googly eyes just above the knuckle of your middle finger and it becomes far more evident of the animal…or perhaps I may have had a little more time on my hands growing up than was mentally healthy. Regardless, it is a great little bar trick to do to a person who is annoying you. You show them your hand elephant then flip it over and say sadly, “aw, look, you killed it”, then duck quickly as the other person creates his or her own elephant with carbuncled ears and starts stampeding all over your face.