Estrogen Vs. Testosterone: There Can Be Only One!

by: E.M. Burlingame

Life’s a Filthy, Hidden War

Life’s a stinking, no-rules slugfest in a forgotten alley, and we’re all just meat in the grinder, churned up in a "kill them all" fight we don’t understand. The latest street gospel? Estrogen and testosterone are locked in a genetic cage match—winner takes all, loser gets a dirt nap. Estrogen’s the puppet master, pulling strings to thin the herd, whispering sweet lies to make us slit our own throats. Testosterone’s the dumb brute, flexing its muscles, too busy strutting to see the knife sliding in. We’re the collateral damage, bleeding out in the crossfire. It’s the kind of twisted truth you’d hear from a bourbon-soaked old drunk at last call—crazy enough to make you listen, real enough to make you sick. And he’s not wrong. There’s something to it. Far more dangerous. Far more than just noise in a world already screaming.

The Thesis: Hormones as Street Fighters

Here’s the hustle: estrogen’s the backroom schemer, the one rigging the game, turning chaos into a weapon. It’s all about the long con—whispering to the estrogen-laden to play dirty, to manipulate, to drive the world to suicide or genocide without smudging its nails. Testosterone? That’s the muscle-bound peacemaker, cool as hell until it’s time to smash a face or chase a skirt to keep the world from ending. Subtlety’s not its game, but it holds the line. The word on the street is estrogen cozies up to the runts, the predators, the estrogen-rich, stirring up trouble to topple the alphas—then twists the big dogs’ arms to do its dirty work. Those testosterone-jacked titans? Too busy living their lives or flexing in the mirror to spot the shiv, blind to the fact their whole reality’s a setup.

It’s a grimy little tale, the kind you nod to until you see it’s not just talk—it’s kids getting mutilated, grandmas shipped off to the MAID, human meat sold cheap at the block. It’s the rot in our cities, the rape gangs, the cover-ups. Not accidents. Estrogen’s cold, calculated play.

Psychology: Fancy Degrees and Half-Truths

Psychologists strut around with their clipboards and degrees, preaching testosterone makes men brawl, bed, and build empires, making the world toxic. Estrogen? They’ll say it’s all love and light, calm and caring, all wisdom and knowing. Bullshit. It’s the borderline stupid sly dame who’ll smile while she guts you. But life’s uglier than their charts. It’s a sliding scale—XXers can be doting moms or matriarchs who’d feed their own kids to the wolves, XYers can be warlords or passive-aggressive soft-eyed killers leaving trails of dead in their wake. Hormones jerk us around, scribbling the script—thrillers for the estrogen crowd, blood-and-guts flicks for the testosterone junkies.

Testosterone’ll make a guy swing first, bet big, lose bigger—but it’s to defend what’s right, to hold the line. Estrogen’s sneakier—patient, playing clean while the bodies pile up behind the curtain. It’s the hormone that drives the violence, the self-destruction, the quiet rage. It’s a shadow war, and don’t kid yourself: hormones don’t think—they’re the puppet masters, moving us around, making us fight to their tune. Estrogen’s got many wired to kill all, testosterone’s got others wired to save what little it can.

Sociology: Society’s Straitjacket

Society’s a rusty cage—men gotta be brutes, women gotta be angels, and if you don’t fit, you’re scrap. It’s a rigged gig, keeping the gears turning while we gag on the smoke. A smoke screen of lies designed to deceive. Estrogen teams up with estrogen laden guys, the predators, to kneecap the toughs and prey on the rest. It sics the weak on the strong, punishes any man who dares stand tall, all to sow discord and rot. Seen it play out in dive bars, cubicles, courtrooms, streets—the quiet ones and the insane harpies are plotting your downfall while you’re just trying to live.

It’s not the gods—it’s the hormones yanking the chains. Power, wrath, envy, genetic bloodlust—the same old shit. We’re all clawing to breathe in this asylum, and if dirty tricks are the play, estrogen’s all in. It's Estrogen versus testosterone and they’ve been at this deception of a masked slaughter for millennia.

Religion: The Oldest Con

Religion’s the slickest hustle going—men as sword-swingers, women as halo-wearers, dangling heaven if you toe the line. It’s a leash, convincing the strong to bow to the weak, to die for predators, because "only God can judge." Estrogen’s in bed with the meek, the soft-bellied boys, egging the strong into the grinder, while grooming and diddling kids. Sounds like Sunday school, right? David slinging rocks at Goliath. But what was Goliath guarding? The weak, murderous scum in David’s tribe, hiding behind a tough kid with a sling. Religion puts a bow on the carnage, but it’s the same brutal game.

Preachers? Conmen with megaphones and robes, predators of many forms of predations. If estrogen and testosterone are slugging it out, religion’s not calling the shots—it’s raking in the bets, and estrogen’s got the fix in.

Myths: Stories That We Tell In the Dark

Myths are the lies we whisper to keep the dark at bay. Pandora, Hera—those old-school femmes fatales—are estrogen with a smirk, always outsmarting the room. Hercules? He’s testosterone, all brawn and bravado, thinking might makes right. Spoiler: it doesn’t. There’s always a curveball, a setup, a dame with a scheme that wins.

I’ve met women like that—disarm you with a grin, hand you a drink, and next thing you know, you’re the patsy in a murder rap. That’s estrogen: one woman’s genes outlasting the rest. There can be only one. War’s the same—different weapons, same blood.

The Bottom Line: It'll Kill Us All, If Allowed

So, is this estrogen-testosterone war real? Open your fucking eyes! We’re beasts dodging estrogen’s killshot genius by the hundreds of millions, the billions. How many did estrogen get killed in the last century alone? How many did testosterone have to kill to keep the whole world from burning to the ground? Hormones jerk us around, mere mortals—they’re the puppet masters, and we’ll never see the strings. Knew a guy once, thought he’d beat the odds betting she was the one. Lost his shirt and his kids, his life, having listened to the shrinks and priests pinning humanity on saints and sinners all to mask the war. Rigging the game.

Life’s a drug fueled hazy rage, a battle in the blood in the mud, and we men, we're just swinging wild at shadows we neither see nor understand. Estrogen, testosterone—they’re the gods of this shitshow. The former’s not on the throne but owns and runs the whole damn circus; the latter’s perched up high, clueless, until it’s forced to grab the reins and save what’s left, if it can. The rest? Just static, causalities, collateral damage in the war.