BOOM, Brett!

Don’t blame your atrocious game on alcohol. I’ve scored more numbers at church in the past few weeks than I have in nightclubs, and I rarely pay tribute to the Lord with anything more than a buzz.

You’re not bombing with women at bars because they’re only attracted to booze hounds — you’re bombing because you don’t fit in. Bars exist to serve liquor, and liquor exists to get people too drunk to operate motor vehicles. When you stand around a bar sipping water and clearly articulating your words, you’re implying that a six-dollar shot poured from a five-dollar bottle of vodka is below you. You’re resisting the temptations of social conventions and elevating yourself above the bumbling, incoherent competition.

And women hate that. When I go out to a bar, I’m just looking for a good time and a few drinks to take the edge off — not a brow-beating from some holier-than-thou Boy Scout. You’re raining on everyone else’s parade by setting yourself apart from your knuckle-dragging peers, and that’s not attractive. Women don’t like a man whose rapier wit is as sharp as his starched collar and chino creases; they like a man that follows the herd. And at bars, the herd heads straight to the trough for a belly full of hooch.

A player does everything he can to blend in with the crowd, Brett. Any attention that you draw to yourself with behavior that’s not average or undistinguished will hang over your head like a poison-cloud of nonconformity. Do you know why unique individualists with extraordinary talents and intriguing perspectives are called ‘loners’? They’re not surrounded by women.

Without booze, this would just be another Tuesday lunch at the Macaroni Grill

Talking to women is a complex exercise in the principal of stabilizing selection. The diversity of a species decreases over time as the extreme traits of its population are marginalized; your weird, non-destructive character flaw is pegging you as an undeveloped relic of human history. The next time you see a half-conscious college dropout guzzle an entire pitcher of beer and then vomit into the coin slot of a jukebox, remember that women find him irresistible because he has successfully adapted to his environment. If there’s one thing that drives women wild, Brett, it’s evolutionary progress.

Make an effort to look and act exactly like everyone else when you go to bars. Bring an assortment of shirts and pants, and wear the outfit that most closely represents the average color palette in the room. Wear orthopedic shoes to adjust your height if you’re shorter than other men, and hunch your back if you’re taller. Introduce yourself as James — the most common male name in America — and tell women you’re 36.4 years old, the median American age. Drink as much as every other man you see, and follow their pace down to the last drop. If you’re the only guy not covered in vomit, blood, and Milwaukee’s Best at the end of the night, you might as well forget about picking up any women.

“Being different” may work for high school debate nerds and improv comedians, but it’s the kiss of death for grown men that want to seduce women. Whether it’s drinking booze in a bar, pretending to like football at a Superbowl party, or feverishly arguing that 9/11 was an inside job at a University Student Government meeting, you have to desperately cling to the status quo to reach player status. So go ahead and sip your San Pellegrino at the bar, Brett — I’ll be chugging Lone Star and loitering outside the women’s restroom.

BOOM!