How To Be The Biggest Tool In The Bar

Word of advice: Barring extenuating circumstances, don’t go out with a group of guy friends and one cute woman. You will righteously tool yourself before you’ve taken two steps toward self-hell into the bar.

The ultimate in toolbaggery is the group of mirin’, pleased-as-punch über orbiters who show up to a venue with one hot girl in tow. Or rather, at center stage. Because that’s where she inevitably ascends — straight to a social throne that her gaggle of beta pissboys have adorned for her.

I recently witnessed such a spectacle. Five men — not strange looking by any stretch, just normal dudes in department-wear — and one flaxen-haired hottie tucked in the middle of her men-ses, like a small sun radiating through a Saturnian Tool Belt. Everywhere she drifted, they followed, establishing without a doubt to the unbiased third party eye who was gravitationally in charge. When she smiled, her triptych of tools smiled on cue. When she pointed at something, they looked en masse in the direction of her pointing finger. When she laughed, they laughed uproariously. When she sat down, they encircled her even more tightly, parting occasionally to unwittingly afford her a better view of better men.

And when she touched the arm of any one of them, the rest shuffled and frowned with noticeable agitation.

But the coup de brah by a long shot was when the five guys enlisted the help of a passing bartender to take a photo of the girl surrounded by her eunuch guards. The barkeep obliged, and the assembled onlookers retched. When he walked away after returning the phone-cum-camera, I was privy to his eye roll and bastard grin that he signaled to a colleague still behind the bar. The girls in my company also noticed the entire scene as it unfolded, and politely strained to hide their pity.

No one respects a beta orbiter, not even women. Everyone knows a beta orbiter when he sees him. But FIVE beta orbiters hoisting the royal palanquin of a darling princess? Have you no shame, sirs?!

Not one of those men was boffing that girl, I would bet your life savings on it. Every one of those men *wanted* to boff that girl, continuing in the theme of betting your life savings on it. She had no interest in boffing any of them, and to this bet I would add your mom’s life savings.

What is happening to men of the West? By most indicators they have forgotten how to be men, or if they know they’ve lost interest in the art. They kneel at the feet of women, kiss her painted toes, and kowtow to her every whim. They gleefully sacrifice their dignity to public judgment and ridicule. They thirst for the pussy like lost adventurers lapping sand from hallucinatory oases.

Mind you, my complaints extend as far as my big-picture interest in preserving the culture which facilitates my poolside time. As a practical, day-to-day calculation, the abject fealty of my competition increases the destructive power of my game.

If you’re a beta suffering a lengthy dry spell, don’t expect relief to come from the accompaniment of an asexual female friend. Certainly don’t expect it if she is accompanied by four more of your male buddies. If you must go out accompanied by a cute female friend, leave your buddies home. Insist that any additional hangers-on exclude too many of her male friends and include a few of her female friends. And, for the love of all that is hole-y, check the game literature for strategies and techniques detailing how to use a cute girl-friend as a pivot to other cute girls you have a realistic chance of sexing. Because that’s about the best use of a cute female buddy.

It’s almost tragic how unaware beta males are of the latent male SMV-boosting power which resides in an attractive female friend who can trigger the preselection algorithms of nearby girls. Unaware, and incapable of exploiting it. But isn’t that just another dulcet note in the battle hymn of the beta male? Strike suicidally at one’s own breast plate, and drip blood until a chubby spinster with sprog on the mind rescues you.