He's got loads of money.
And lots of women.
He can really take his pick.
He's got a big head, massive muscles,
And an even bigger ****.
The little, lonely men watch him wistfully.
They look back at their lot in life and find it wanting.
And unfair. Searingly unfair.
Why should they have to woo a woman?
It takes so long, and she might not even put out anyway.
B****s only use you.
Why not use them first?
He's getting what he wants.
He's taking what they wish they could.
He's the King of the Castle.
Lord of all he surveys.
They are pathetic losers.
All they get is a raw deal.
They are too short. Too scrawny. Too shy. Too scared. Too ugly. Too broke.
The image of the strongman shines in their dreams.
A body that entitles you to the perfect tens.
That exempts you from rejection.
And means you never have to face:
The ups and downs of relationship-building.
The confusion of confronting a perspective you don't understand.
The messiness of moods and working through conflict.
The devastation of disappointment.
The terror of vulnerability.
The connection with a real person who doesn't always want the same as you.
The tenderness that can unravel everything you thought you knew.
The loss of control that comes with falling in love.
Yes, all this can be sidestepped
With a chiselled jaw, bulging biceps and an imposing stature.
The manly man is the winner that takes it all.
While the lowly men are left with the crumbs: the fat, frumpy rejects.
Lower-tier women, scarcely women at all.
These are the sad facts of life of the embittered ordinary man
Who must work at things and encounter setbacks.
And endure the humiliation of failures and the inconvenience of human frailties.
So, what are you waiting for?
Isn't it time to take back control?
By kicking a door in, or her head.
But should you lack the balls,
You can always bemoan your sorry fate.
And scowl and seethe and blame the world
For locking you out of the harem.
And forcing you to languish in the desperate comfort of your own familiar hell,
Until finally your right to conquer and control, so long denied, is ripped out of your cold, dead hands forever.