Confessions of a Beta Male
Hi guys, a little over a year ago my friend and fellow comic Peter White and I were swapping horror stories about our social lives when Peter came up with an idea for a book. Peter’s idea was that we should try to play off the success of books such as I Hope They Serve Beer in Hell and The Alphabet of Manliness by writing a book from our perspective. Now that the jocks had had their say, it was time us beta males had our voices heard. As Peter put it, our aim was “to celebrate the other side of man. The side that doesn’t like breaking things, interrupting, or looking people in the eyes when they speak.” We wrote several essays about the trials and tribulations we’ve faced over our awkward lifetimes and titled the project Confessions of a Beta Male. Then we got rejected by every publisher we sent our book proposal too. We weren’t too hurt by it though, after all, we’re beta males, we’re used to rejection. Pete and I still like the idea and are contemplating turning it into a two-man show. Here’s one of the essays I wrote. A few of the names have been changed so as not to offend some people. Hope you guys like it! Thanks so much.
The Intellectual Approach
The Intellectual Approach goes something like this – the beta male believes that he can’t impress a woman with his body, so he goes out of his way to impress her with his mind. The Intellectual Approach isn’t a bad idea actually, as some women truly do prefer brian over braun, spectacles over testicles. You’re never going to see spray-on tanned Steven Hawking flexing on the cover of a Muscle and Fitness underneath the headline “Have Your Pick Of Black Holes With Dr. Hawking’s Killer Ab Workout!”, but the man has been married twice. The following story is about my efforts to woo a girl using The Intellectual Approach and the one fatal mistake I made.
Deanna
Deanna was an eccentric, raven-haired beauty who floated around the fringes of our clique in high school. For years, I really paid her no mind. She was hot, she was weird, she was one of my friend’s friends, whatever. I had heard through the grapevine that Deanna was an apparent genius who had taught herself how to play the piano at a young age. I dismissed this as rubbish, however, when she got so stoned at my 19th birthday party that she ran into my cornfield in search of the devil. (This was the same night that my cousin Trav clogged up my toilet with his vomit, my cousin Luke fooled around with his girlfriend on my bed, and my buddy Mike Mainprize ordered 7 porns on my satellite. Us doormats sure do throw one hell of a shindig.)
During my last year of high school I decided that it was time for me to stop crying after drinking 6 wine coolers at parties. It had gotten so bad that my cousin Trav had even devised a clever nickname for my alter ego, he’d dubbed him “The Fag”. “I’m having a party, you can come but “The Fag” isn’t invited, understand?” So, displaying self-discipline well-beyond my nineteen years, I started switching to water the second I caught myself humming a Simple Plan song. Since Deanna wasn’t a really big drinker either, I found myself talking to her more at parties. It was during these conversations I realized that she most assuredly was a genius and a surprisingly funny person as well. The two of us began passing the time at these parties by commenting on the debauchery taking place around us.
“If Aaron and Jennie had a kid, what profession would it grow up to have? Remember, it has to have a profession, you can’t say unemployed.” She once asked me as we watched the aforementioned pair engage in a screaming match over a weed brownie.
“Champion of a backyard wrestling league.” I instantly responded, causing Deanna to laugh for a good half hour. (I actually liked this line so much that it later became part of one of my first stand-up jokes.)
Every so often Deanna would excuse herself from shooting fish in a barrel to smoke a joint or fool around with some dude but she would always return eager to hear my status report.
“What did I miss?” She’d ask.
“Well Craig fell in the fire, the dog bit Mandy when she tried to hug it and dust continued to collect on my decorative dick.” I’d answer.
It was only a matter of time until that changed though. After all, Deanna and I were like those two old Muppet guys Statler and Waldorf, having the time of our lives hurling heckles down from the balcony. And while Statler and Waldorf might appear to be nothing more than platonic friends now, one can make the assumption that they’ve surely fucked at least once over the years.
Unfortunately, since the average beta male prefers to lay low for at least 6 years before making their move, the two of us graduated before I could express my affection. Statler went on to travel Europe for a few years and Waldorf enrolled in Humber College’s Comedy: Writing and Performance program. Over the next two years, while Deanna searched for the devil in the cornfields of Romania, I began my new life as a stand-up comedian.
A funny thing happened when I started performing comedy though. I was surprisingly good at it. Stand-up comedy came naturally to me and I experienced immediate success. Within five months I was getting paid gigs, within a year was signed by the comedy club chain Yuk Yuk’s and within two years I won the Tim Sims Encouragement Award acknowledging me as one of the best young comedians in Canada. Yes, I had dramatically transformed myself from a lowly nerd into a lowly nerd who got paid $50 a show to tell self-deprecating jokes in front of disinterested Stagette parties.
About a month after winning the Tim Sims Encouragement Award, during the 2005 Christmas holidays, Deanna returned home and invited me over to her place for some Earl Grey tea and a chat. Unfortunately, my recent comedy successes had bloated my ego to such a degree that I actually thought I could match wits with this bona fide genius. Instead of gleefully strolling down memory lane with Deanna, I asked her a slew of serious questions about the pressing issues of the day. Deanna, of course, answered my questions by using a barrage of big words that I’d never heard before. Flustered, I responded by mashing together a series of sayings, famous quotes and old advertising slogans in a vain attempt to sound equally as intelligent. Here’s a sample of how our conversation went:
Jeff – So lovely to see you Deanna. So very lovely. Let’s gets down to brass tax, shall we dear? What are your thoughts on the U.S. government’s response to the Hurricane Katrina disaster?
Deanna – Oh…alright, I really thought we were going to talk about the time Steve got alcohol poisoning from drinking a quart of whiskey out of a carved-out pumpkin he dubbed the “Jack-o-lantern”, but I guess we can cover current events too. As far the risible U.S. government and their response to Hurricane Katrina is concerned, it’s obvious to me that their efforts to provide relief were both exiguous and indolent.
Jeff – Indeed. (Nods head, sips tea, stalls for time) You’re precisely right Deanna, one can lead a horse to water, but what one cannot do, is make that very same horse drink. In fact, it’s been my experience that not only is imitation the sincerest of flattery, but idle hands are also the devil’s playground. And it is for these reasons and more that I believe the time has come to ask ourselves as individuals, not “What can my country do for me?” but rather “What can I do for my country?”
Deanna – What the hell are you talking about?
Jeff – Life is a sport, drink it up.
Knowing I was drowning, I finally changed the subject to our personal lives, unaware that my worst case of verbal diarrhea was yet to come. I listened intently as Deanna described to me her travels through Europe. My heart sank though when she revealed that due to a bad experience with a guy overseas she was planning on staying single for a while. Deanna then inquired as to my relationship status.
“How about you?” “Are you with somebody Jeff?”
I should have said just said no. Good Lord, should I have just said no. I didn’t just say no however. Instead, wanting to sound like I was enjoying the single life as well, I answered her question by excreting out the worst analogy of all time.
“Well you see it’s like Spiderman 2, Deanna. Peter Parker has to choose between fighting crime and dating Mary Jane. If I actually got a girlfriend I’d have to stop doing all the jokes I have in my act about not getting laid.”
Now lets break down what exactly makes this the worst analogy of all time.
1) I’m trying to impress a MENSA member by using an action movie analogy.
2) The analogy reveals to Deanna that my stand-up act is filled jokes about me not getting laid.
3) The analogy implies to Deanna that I have no interest in her or any other woman.
4) Oh yah, it’s an analogy in which I compare myself to fucking Spiderman.
Deanna responded with a hesitant laugh but the disappointment in her eyes told a different tale. Like an alpha male who gets knocked out by a bouncer, I’d overestimated my abilities and been promptly humiliated. Shortly afterwards, Deanna was kind enough to give me a ride home but I haven’t heard from her since. I can’t help but feel sorry for Deanna, she spent all this time discussing retards with her most trusted confidant only to find out that he too was a retard all along. Hey, if you swapped in ghosts for retards then it would’ve been just like The Sixth Sense right…right? You’ll have to excuse me, I’m not the best at making analogies.
Jeff McEnery