Were you listening to me, or were you looking at the woman in the red dress?
Last time around, I wrote about the stresses of navigating the choppy seas and treacherous winds of the infamous Girls’ Night Out. If you’ll recall, I made mention of the darkness that is the dreaded Circle of Death, a terrifying feminine fortress that has dashed more men’s hopes than Obama’s first term. Oh, that circle may look harmless enough, but be ye not fooled. These sirens‘ greatest joy is to toy with a man, leading him ever closer to their shores until, before he knows it, his ship is splintered on their estrogen encrusted rocks.
Even if you’ve got Travolta’s moves, look like that kid Eggs from Trueblood, and are a certified mack daddy, you might still get totally crossed out. This leaves a lot of us handsome, skilled dancer types scratching our heads. “I was polite. I smiled. I didn’t stare at her breasts (that much). Why did she diss me?”
To fully grasp what’s going on here, you’ve got to understand the basic structure of female social group dynamics. Surprise, surprise, they’re strikingly different from those of males.
Male social groups are organized pretty much like fighter squadrons. They can execute coordinated attacks, but are completely willing and able to break apart as necessary to accomplish the current mission. On the other hand, female social groups operate using a totally different configuration. More often than not, they’re arranged like teams of escort fighters aligned with a single bomber. Those escorts will fight tooth and nail to protect that bomber, and would rather crash and burn than lose it to the testicularly endowed enemy.
Each group member has a role to play in the sociosexual war, and though the lyrics change from crew to crew, the song remains the same. Here’s a quick rundown of the usual cast of characters:
- Prom Queen –She’s fine and errrbody knows it (including her). She’s been showered with male attention since junior high and getting hit on is as common for her as misspelled signs are at a Tea Party rally.
- Big Mama – Who run it? Yep, you guessed it. Big Mama is the matriarch of the group, and while she may not have absolute authority, her opinion is so influential that it’s de facto law. Basically, she’s the U.S. and her crew is like the U.N. They can do whatever they wanna do…but there will be consequences.
- Runner-Up – She’s kinda cute. She’s got spunk. Still, line her up next to Prom Queen and Big Mama, and she’s just not quite there. Maybe it’s something really small, like her left eye is kinda sleepy. Or perhaps it’s a glaring deficiency, like a chest so flat its freakin’ concave. At the same time, she always manages to come up short in battles for leadership: Big Mama’s beak just keeps on pecking the bird shit out of her.
- Gotta Man – Who cares. Kidding. Her relationship status makes her a wildcard. She could be your best friend, encouraging her girls to enjoy life to the fullest, living vicariously through them. Or she could be a spiteful ass hater whose unhappy relationship causes her to view all men through shit colored spectacles. Dicey.
- Ugly Betty – Yeah, so…the name pretty much says it all. She may be a straight sweetheart, or an acid spewing bitch, but regardless of the multifaceted and richly textured personality within her, we know one thing for certain: babygirl is as ugly as the black unemployment rate.
Wherever she goes, Prom Queen is the center of attention. When she’s around, heads turn, eyes widen, tongues wag. The spotlight shines steadily on this scion of Venus and more than a little on anyone around her…which is why her friends are so fiercely protective. She’s one bangin’ ass bomber and they’re her zealously protective escorts.
If some dude comes along and snatches her up, they’re afraid that they’ll have to kiss the attention leftovers goodbye and prepare for a long, cold winter. That ain’t about to go down, at least not without a fight.
When a dude enters Prom Queen’s airspace, the escorts immediately fly into defensive formation. Instead of clearing out to give you room, they remain half an arm’s length away, shooting mind bullets indiscriminately and hoping that the initial barrage alone is enough to dissuade you. Assuming you bravely continue, they’ll move on to such battle-tested tactics as Intermittent Interruption, in which they make excuses to fuck up the flow of your conversation with crap that not even their nosy ass mother would care to hear. “I think I found a new spin instructor. Cortez is fabulous!” What?! The fuck outta here with that buuuhlshit!
Anyway, if all else fails, they bring out the big guns. That’s when someone nonchalantly says, “It’s corny in here. Let’s go.” That person is usually Big Mama, and Runner-Up and Ugly Betty are almost always down to follow her nut-crunching lead. At that point, you can only hope that you’ve fired enough well-placed shots to disrupt communications between Prom Queen and her escorts, enabling you to separate her from her crew and finish the job. If not, you may as well say your prayers. ‘Cause you’re gonna die. When your plane crashes. Metaphorically.
And that’s too bad. I really wish women would understand that their pretty friend need not be their only path to attention from the opposite sex.
- Big Mama, channel all that aggression toward the man at the bar who you’ve been eyeing all night. Use those huge balls of yours for good, not evil!
- Runner-Up, realize that to somebody in the room, you’re actually a Prom Queen. Stop doubting and own your strength and beauty.
- Gotta Man, let somebody else grab a little piece of happiness, even if you fucked yours all the way up the wrong end. Be a cockbooster, not a cockblocker!
- Ugly Betty, I’ll level with you. Yours is not an angel’s face, but maybe you do have an angel’s heart. Let it show. Oh, and usually the ugly girls get like at least one freakishly dope body part, so accentuate the hell outta them breastesses and/or that derriere. It won’t hurt.
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