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I was vegging out watching the cultural phenomenon that is Maury Povich’s Who’s The Daddy? specials. I can do this because I delegate all my work to underlings. This particular show was a treat — Maury had on girls who had been on previous Daddy shows and still hadn’t found the real daddy of their kids. One girl had brought two guys with her — numbers 7 and 8 — to see if either of them would pass/fail the paternity test as the father of her cursed child.
Needless to say, except for one glaring exception, the women were beastly. The real dregs of womanhood. One was so hideous the thing looked like a pumpkin placed on top a crumbling mound of feta cheese. The men were thuggish trash, all piercings, sloping brows, and vacant stares. The audience booed and cheered on cue. This is the modern version of the Roman Coliseum, with the physical bloodletting replaced by emotional bloodletting.
The girl who was currently testing numbers seven and eight for paternity of her future ward of the state had noticeably different reactions to the two guys on stage for the latest round. One guy barely muttered a word and looked like an alpha gangbanger. His eyes were beady and his face round. The other guy looked smarter, if smarts can be deduced by looking at a person. He was taller and better looking than the other guy, but not nearly as tough. Compared to the average Linux fanboy, he was an alpha, but next to the musclehead on his right, he was comparatively beta. He expressed some enthusiasm for assuming responsibility for the kid should he be proven to be the father. The alpha thug just shrugged his shoulder and smirked when asked what he would do if the kid turned out to be his.
Alpha was not the father. He jumped up and pumped his fist. A couple buddies greeted him on stage and they all chest bumped. Tongues were wagging. The girl didn’t seem too moved. When the next DNA test result was opened and the relatively beta good-hearted guy was declared free from 18 years of financial servitude, the girl totally lost it and ran screaming from the room.
It might’ve been staged, but if their reactions were close to the real deal, then it was obvious that women have a real fear… and a real need… for beta providers to help them raise their bastard children. When a child is sitting there in a stroller, this need is as encoded as the need to get fucked hard by a badass alpha.
I do not want to ever pay one red cent for any of these kids with my tax dollars. If they all die in the street it wouldn’t bother me one bit. I support exposure at birth.
I was rooting for the beta. In the flood of emotions, he may not have realized it at the time, but he dodged a bullet.