Chicks Had Tits, Dudes Had Dicks—Then I Saw This Furry and Lost the Plot
Mate, I’m over it. Back in the day, life was simple: chicks had tits, dudes had dicks, and you knew what you were getting. Now? I’m at this thing with my mate, and I see his son’s new fling—a furry, all decked out in some sparkly fox getup, tail bouncing, ears perked. I’m thinking, “Alright, quirky chick, probably calls herself a ‘vixen-kin’ or some TikTok bollocks.” Looks female, moves female, the whole deal. Then my mate drops the nuke: “Nah, it’s a bloke.” A BLOKE. My brain’s doing backflips, not ‘cause I give a toss who his kid’s dating, but ‘cause I saw this furry with my own eyes and got it dead wrong. It’s like reality’s taking the piss, sneaking into my life and flipping what I thought I knew. This ain’t just a laugh—it’s got that French Revolution vibe, when trust got sent to the guillotine and nothing was solid.
The old days? You didn’t need a bloody decoder ring to figure people out. See a chick, you knew. See a dude, same. No second-guessing. But this furry? I’m standing there, beer in hand, staring at what I swore was a girl, only to find out it’s a guy. My mate’s half-laughing, half-freaked—says his son’s all “it’s fluid, Dad,” spouting words like he’s swallowed a woke dictionary. We’re just trying to have a yarn without playing “spot the gender.” It’s not about hating on anyone—it’s about the world feeling like a funhouse where mirrors lie.
This screams 1789 France, when the mob wasn’t just toppling kings—they were torching certainty. Blokes like the Chevalier d’Éon played mind games, swapping dresses for swords to mess with everyone. They called it “liberty,” but it was chaos—nobody knew what was real, from God to who’s running the show. Now it’s X doing the dirty work: posts hyping “be whoever you want” while others scream “it’s all a scam!” Me? I’m just a bloke who saw a furry, thought “female,” got “male,” and now I’m wondering if I’m the mug for trusting my eyes.
Why’s this hit so hard? ‘Cause I saw it, mate. Furries aren’t new—around since the ‘80s, 1-2% of folks, mostly young blokes, with 20-30% vibing “non-binary” (some 2016 furry study). Cool, do you. But when I clock someone as a chick and get corrected, it’s like reality’s pranking me. It’s that Revolution ghost—sowing doubt, making you question your own senses. Could’ve been cleared up with a quick “I’m a dude,” but nah, the “hoo haa” keeps it alive. Drama’s the fuel—clicks, retweets, fights. X loves it.
I’m not saying burn the furry costumes. I’m saying I miss when seeing was believing, not a bloody guessing game. This furry crap’s just the start—same as those elite rumors we’re sidestepping. All noise, no truth. So, what’s the fix? Keep it real. Next time I see a furry, I’m asking, “Mate, chick or dude?” Straight-up, no bullshit. Let’s outrun this Revolution rerun, one clear answer at a time. Who’s in? 🍺 #BringBackTheOldDays
