Books for Everyone!

25 April 2021

Gender Does Not Sell

In my erudite opinion, in my practiced writing, in my vintage life, in my present life, in my experienced life, gender does not sell.

The old ad adage “Sex sells” still applies to whatever it is that is being peddled, and not in a subtle way. Sex does indeed sell a product, although not as much as it used to, given the ubiquitous nature of sexy babes and dudes, bimbos every one, in Digital World. A tacky promotional sleight-of-hand has tried to replace “sex” with “gender”, and the results are making for much less freedom in the free enterprise.

Fascism in fashion hasn’t been around since Soviet Svimwear of the 1970s, but since we, in the USA, are headed toward the androgynous JimmyCarterville, the merchandising approach mimics that halcyon time of yore. Hard-core and boring.

The idiot Image-Makers, however, have decided to put GENDER for the choice-box of just about every item that traditionally, historically and chromosonally (yes, Apple, learn that spelling) applies to choosing Male or Female. The road these slavishly politically stupid PR “pros” are going down can only lead to the ever-growing something-in-between in the pull-down and off-putting array of other manufactured “sexes”.

To make the 2021 California Nutjob Recall — Real! Mr./Ms./Miss/It Caitlyn Jenner has decided to give a run at the State House a go. I think in a former life “he” was a track star of some sort or genre. Heaven knows, Gavin has not done enough for hair rights and gonad protection. His sex-scapades weren’t sufficiently inclusive and expansive, and so now he must endure, in public, the type of humiliation that might have been his most private thrill.

About four summers ago, I opined to an online chum that I was going to b-b-que a chicken that weekend — in honor of Geezer Moonbeam, the Governor of California. Presently, I’d have a hard time figuring out not only what sacrificial bird to nuke as a symbolic gesture of my appreciation of all that Governor Pompadour has done for the Golden State; I’d have to choose Animal, Mineral, or Vegetable. Out-of-staters might suggest Fruit-and-Nut, but that choice has popped up in too many other State Houses for that classification to be a California Original.

In the arena of sex, the PR experts for the public sellers of makeup, shoes, clothes, and whatever other merchandise has been divided into M and F for aeons, they’ve determined, en masse, that Gender sells.

Nope. Gender does not sell. It ticks people off. Somehow, the Unisex sizing/styling (that fits no one) has not yet morphed into Unigender. I wonder why.

I also question the sales success of any retail site that knee-jerk jumps at hawking the latest buzz-word that really is not a buzz-word. It is a cheap and insulting gimmick intended to instantly attract the newest flock of frantic buyers, like some erotic pheromone, oozing through the Internet to your disgusted and flared nostrils.

Gender stinks. After any digital shopping expedition, I’ve got to clear the air around my laptop, simply to protect my hound dog, snoring as He sleeps next to me on the sofa, from the hideous smell.

About ten years ago, the abundantly ridiculous use of the word, issue, for “problem”, was a real problem for me. I penned the essay, Pet Peeve (July 2013), to minimally rant about the overuse and mal-usage (yes, Apple, learn another new word that I just made up) of the word, issue.

The correct word for a dilemma or sticky situation has returned to common usage in full force: PROBLEM is no longer a problem for true language lovers! I see it online everywhere. I hear it almost too much, now that a problem truly is a PROBLEM. That linguistic clean-up only took a decade. I have higher hopes for the gender abomination.


There is only one legitimate and accurately precise purpose for the real, correct, proper and meaningful use of the categorical word, gender: whether a French noun is masculine or feminine. The French don’t mess around with language or sex, and, frankly, neither do I.

When the Sex Education craze in this country first got rolling, the Education Administrators took some time off from their extramarital affairs to address the urgent need for the teens of America to learn about the birds and the bees. It was the 1970s, and I had the extreme misfortune to be part of an age group that did not come of age at least fifty years before I was born.

I know that time-space continuum-situation sounds like a real-life impossibility, which it was. I took to time-travel young in life as I persevered within a ludicrously shallow and stunted group of adolescents, dreaming my way toward fictional heroes one fine future day of the past.

During my junior year in that northeastern high school, a male gym teacher was assigned the teaching of Sex Ed to the mid-afternoon session of seventeen-year-olds. Ah! Sex-Ed in the Afternoon. This rather supercilious jock started the first class by hanging some pie charts on the blackboard. He then turned around to the boys and girls of those raging hormones, and he asked the question:

“What is this really all about?”

I answered, “Libido.”

His eyeglasses fogged up a bit, and he blushed. He could have called an end to this preposterous farce right then and there, but he’d found a challenge sitting in my chair.

Way back then, libido did not come in a bottle. My study of biology sufficed, and still suffices, for ample and accurate knowledge of human physiology, which includes sex. Why a bunch of sex-starved specialists needed to push their neurotic agenda on any age group in academia, I won’t pretend not to know. (I do not use the word, generation, because I do not believe in segmenting humanity into generations. It’s a sales tool that, like the exhibitionistic narcissists, those Sex-Ed Savants, has worn itself out and does not work, or function.)

The frigid and ego-fixated foes of normalcy, those freaks who wanted to overturn The Establishment and destroy every archetype within it, the Pecksniffian (it’s a real word, Apple, so learn it) prudes of the 1960s were sowing their overly-processed oats of Freudian, and post-Freudian, carnal knowledge that was nonsensical, not knowledge, and none of their business. One might even question the carnality of it all. The word, carnival, is more apt.

Of course, the interactions and transactions had to be acted out in a group, the Classroom. The privacy-freak always plunders the privacy of others while masking and covering up his own freak shows.

The schoolhouse dramas of those lascivious wing-nuts have progressed to all sorts of crass and smutty abnormalities in the classroom, while at the same time these Philistines attempt to re-define language as a way to conceal their dreary deviancy.

The words aren’t working anymore. The hook-ups ain’t happening like they used to either. I’d say the entire state of affairs is in a state of decline, a drop in fertility, a downturn of the upticks in clicks.

No matter how much the Experts try to convince people that up is down, and down is up; that boy is somewhere between girl and dog, and woman is a malleable concept, the human species prevails. It’s that libido thing. Triumphs every time. The surest sign of a company, corporate blob, or online business in financial trouble is the cringing, fawning, servile adherence to the latest word-rules by the Marketing Jerks.

Case in point: Last week, I discovered at an online selling platform a pair of Dr. Martens Made in England. Yes, Made in England! The Doc is back in town and back in business!

Dr. Martens, Made in England, Vintage 1461. Reasonably priced too. Inspected by Lucy (not Lu-Chen). And, I can testify that these divinely leather shoes not only fit, perfectly, in my usual size, but I can wear mid-weight socks with them. It’s a new experience for me, after more than a decade of having to wear nylon anklets to squeeze my foot into the deformed cardboard stiff “leather.”

I’ve never owned a pair of these Northamptonshire leather beauties, but the previous purchasers were ecstatic, nearly orgasmic, to find Made in England Doc Martens. One gal has saved her pair from junior-high school, 1994, while she’s been awaiting the return of the real English-made shoe.

That shelf-life amounts to more than 25 years! At least a quarter of a century. And I thought that saving my UGGS cardies from 2009 was an act of clinging to the ugh-romance. Her fidelity in shoe-love knows no bounds. For that faithful female, the Doc was not a one-night-standing in line, or even a quick walk around the block.

Straight from the factory, they were made for each other!

There was one reviewer, however, a Chi-comm plant, I suspect, who insisted that the Chinese-made Doc Martens is superior in every way to those shoes made in England. The only true Doc Martens are the knock-offs! The English ones are knock-offs of the knock-offs.

Knock-offs do not sell well, at least not to the masses who know the Real Thing. And gender is a knockoff of the Real Thing. It is not the Real Thing. Ergo, it does not sell well, and neither do product reviews anymore. The entire sphere of online influencers is chasing the next lure for the easily triggered purchase-finger. I won’t go so far as to say that the bait will always consist of truth or even quality. But in terms of categorizing humanity, the transgender category is not the next marketing frontier.

The term “sex scene” will have to be altered to “gender scene”.  The battle of the sexes would be re-formulated as “battle of the genders” (and who knows how many combatants that warfare might involve).  The entire catalogue of Nastyflix would be wiped out by its own dirty hand-scam of the viewing public.

Even Dior online is gonna have to return to the M-F option before the customer disconnects over not finding anything feminine for her sex. Unless the words, masculine and feminine, also undergo linguistic facelifts to create too many letters to cram down the consumer throat, shove onto a screen or plop on a label.

Where would American Marketing and Mass Media be without hiding the obvious truth behind computer screens and foreign labels? Why, it’s been deemed un-American by the monocrat fakes, frauds and traitors for any American to baldly utter the truth. The taste of the forbidden fruit presently partakes deliciously of the truth.

Which is why, during a more virginal era of American history, sex abundantly sold. It’s also why the banned fruit of truth is the hot-ticket apple of the day, every day, anywhere, around the globe. That crop of liars, along with their lies, are gonna come a cropper, on a global scale. There is a time to every season, and one of two sexes for each of God’s children.