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  LIFE AS A LOSER #115: "YOU WANT AN ALPHA MALE, YOU GOT HIM."  
   
   
 

 It has been brought to my attention that women want confidence, and that’s why women are constantly leaving me. Women want a man with his act together, someone who knows what he brings to the table, who isn’t asking a woman to take care of him or fill a void, someone male. Preferably with big, ripped abs.

I suppose they’re right. They should want those things. They should want a confident alpha male. Who wants a sniveling girly-man who needs constant reassurance? They want men, dammit!

So I am putting together my resume. I will attach this to my back at all times, right next to the “DORK” sign. In this day of constant advertising, it just seems natural, like a boxer with a casino ad in temporary tattoo on his back. This will take the form of a list: My alpha male accomplishments, year-by-year, since birth. Think I’m a pantywaist, too much of a sensitive pony-tailed man? Think I can’t make a relationship work because I don’t feel good enough about myself? Ha! I snort at your shortsightedness. I guffaw at your inability to look past my lack of facial hair. I chortle at your continued insistence that you don’t want a man who pees sitting down.

You don’t know me. I’m all man. I am a Midwestern John Wayne, a tall Humphrey Bogart, an albino Wesley Snipes. And don’t you forget it. Or I’ll do that thing where I clinch my hands together and move my arm toward you really quickly, where it then hits your face! Yeah! Take that! Your pain shall be immense, and incapacitating. Feel my wrath. And then, before you even had a chance to think about attacking me in return, I will be long gone … poof!, like that.

You don’t think I’m enough of a typical male? I’m too self-loathing and feeble? That I’m too sensitive? You just wait, punk. I’ve got Full-Scale Male Credentials. I can prove it. Because evidently, this is what women want.

My resume will look like this:

1975 – Upon exiting my mother’s womb, doctors were stunned to find I had stenciled lyrics to the Rolling Stones’ “Under My Thumb” in the birth canal. Also, they found circumcision near impossible because of my massive, almost elephantine testicles. Overheard in the delivery room: “This kid’s gonna be one hell of a baby maker someday.”

1976 – I share a nursery with a blond-haired nymph named Nicole. By withholding a rattle until just the right moment, refusing to poo while Nicole is in the room, and being generally uncommunicative, I drive young Nicole wild. There are other babies who share their plush toys and do not fling their feces at her, but Nicole finds them dull and too easy. The year ends with Nicole heartbroken when I decide it’s not working out and that I’d rather spend more time drinking my own drool.

1977 – I bite the head off a toy bat. It was an aluminum bat.

1978 – I learn how to read, years earlier than my family expected. I use this newfound power to write letters to girls in my preschool, telling them they should really lose some weight.

1979 – My family buys me a toy phone for Christmas. I then tell Shannon, the five-year-old next-door neighbor, that I’ll call her, and then I don’t.

1980 – My little sister is born. I make a vow to be exemplary in every aspect of my schoolwork and social life, so that she will feel inferior and grow up with self-esteem issues. My dad and I conspire secretly to never tell her we her love her.

1981 – My mother, as our family struggles to make ends meet, says she needs to find a job. I tell her that if she were a real mom, she’d stay home and take care of her children. To make sure I am successful, I urinate on all her cover letters and then blame it on a mysterious bed-wetting problem.

1982 – Next-door neighbor Shannon comes over to play. I tell her I’m watching the Cardinals in the World Series. And to shut her damn trap.

1983 – I learn that flatulence not only disgusts people, but, in fact, is quite funny. I commence to pass gas every time I’m in mixed company. Years later, I will refine this process, adding open flame.

1984 – A new girl moves into the neighborhood, named Tonya. She makes many friends, but I am her favorite because I am unresponsive and mysterious. One night, with parental approval, I spend the night at her house. She asks me to come over the next night as well, but I refuse, because I’m sleeping with all her friends.

1985 – While showering after a basketball game, I see my cousin naked. I beat the crap out of him, because, shit, man, he was looking at me. You know … in that way?

1988 – I score my only lifetime goal in youth league soccer when the goalie is distracted by an asthma attack and I trip on the ball, sending it spiraling toward the goal. In years, this story will be told as so: “Well, I was being chased by wolves, see, that had been released onto the field by Nazi sympathizers. Meanwhile, a janitor with Down’s Syndrome was plugging a semiautomatic at me while I ran. Fortunately, I avoided them all and made the winning goal, which was huge, since the Libyans had kidnapped my family and had threatened to anally rape our cat had we not won. It was right after this that I stopped the bullet meant for the President.”

1989 – I start junior high a week late because I refuse to ask directions to school.

1990 – To try out for my high school baseball team, I am required to take a physical. The female doctor asks me how I’m feeling. I look down, grunt, and act like I didn’t hear her. When she asks again, I exclaim, “Jesus, I’m fine! Christ! Enough with the questions already! That’s all I get from you! Nag nag nag nag NAG!

1991 – I persuade my girlfriend to give me her virginity by explaining that “everyone’s gonna think we did it anyway, so we might as well. Besides, uh, I, like, love you or something.” I tell her I don’t want to use a condom because “I want to be as close to you as possible.”

1992 – I break up with my girlfriend and sleep with all her friends.

1993 – My first week of college, I participate in fraternity rush. When asked why I would make a great Pike, I hand them a then-up-to-date version of this resume. I am immediately selected rush chair.

1994 – I drink my first beer. Upon finishing it, I exclaim, “Wow! This really does make fat chicks less repulsive! This stuff rules!”

1995 – I buy my first Dave Matthews Band record. It, like, really speaks to me, like, on a really deep level. Dude.

1996 – After an unfortunate three-week stretch without intercourse, I discover roofies, and the sky is the limit.

1997 – Over spring break, I have sex with seven females in six days, with a combined age of 85.

1998 – I get Amy Chen really drunk and lay her, thereby completing my goal of promoting diversity by boffing a girl from every major ethnic group.

1999 – I set a personal record in January by waking up in my own piss and/or vomit six times in one month. This record is broken five times by September.

2000 – I set a Juggstown USA club record by filling out my 17th Frequent Diner card, punched each time I order the $11.99 all-you-can-eat buffet. I receive a free “rubdown” from Candi and Staci, twins originally from Omaha, now studying to get their Masters in kinesology.

2001 – In October, I buy a firefighters’ uniform from a Salvation Army store and wear it to New York City bars while sitting alone in a corner, pretending to weep while looking at an empty pint glass. I break another record by having sex 57 times in a week.

2002 – I am selected one of the Upper West Side’s “20 Most Eligible Bachelors” by New York magazine. I am lauded for my “burning mystery,” “quiet sensitivity,” and “virile masculinity.”

OK, ladies … this is what you wanted … it is now time to take a number. Step right up. The line, as always, forms in the back.

 

*BT*

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