Oh, man. It’s like a real-life version of one of those late-nineties early-aughts dating shows. I want to superimpose graphics and VO on it, like:
VO: “Bryan is a kickboxer, and he has this to say…”
BRYAN: “I deal with women like I deal in the ring: I only do knockouts.”
ZOOM IN ON BRYAN’S MUSCLES!
SFX: “BLAOW KABOOM ERYYRE!”*
VO: “Steven is also a kickboxer, and he tells it like it is…”
STEVEN: “I deal with women like I deal in the…what the fuck? Are you kidd—”
ZOOM IN ON STEVEN’S CONFUSION!
SFX: “BLAOW BOOM BOOM BOOM!”
Regrettably, this version of the events is only taking place inside my imagination.
In reality, one of you has ordered and paid for everyone’s drinks, but the monetary and temporal sacrifice goes unnoticed. Your compatriot flirts with the girl of your mutual attentions, winning the war of attrition against this girl’s self-respect, on track to be the favorite bro of the evening.
The drink-bearing one of you hands her a brightly-colored something-or-other drink and in a shocking turn of events she squeals in excitement, gushing over the generosity of the gesture and turning away from the previous favorite, who tries not to let his face fall in disappointment too obviously. The gentleman with the drinks surges ahead in this desperate, extremely obvious game of one-upmanship. And so on.
You guys are so wrapped up in the competition that neither of you has realized something very important: all of this is revolving around a girl who squeals in excitement like a little bitch. You guys seem like turds, but I bet you can still do better. I can empathize with your situation, and I’m sorry your reptilian brain’s imperative (to both out-perform your peers and to put your penis in a warm, lubricated place) is blinding you to that.
*”ERYYRE,” being, of course, a rough onomatopoeic-ish approximation of the sound of a record being stopped.