Unplugging chumps from the Matrix is a lot like triage – save the ones you can, read last rites to the dying.

It’s one thing to be an Omega Male, but quite another to be an internationally recognized, Omega-gone-viral. Joseph Dobbie’s epic email has circulated around the world for 6 years now. I actually wrote a response to this on SoSuave when it first surfaced, and since that time I’ve always held it in esteem as the seminal work on the epitome of Omega-tude. In 2006 I wasn’t formally using terms like “Omega”, but on some level of consciousness I think I instinctually knew this degree of Beta Game crossed a line. It transgressed into something beyond Beta – this is the grey area of sincere belief in Disney-esque idealizations of not only women, but circumstances destined by fate, and the border of unhealthy social retardation (i.e. the creepy effect).

Defining the qualities of being Alpha is an exercise in subjectivity, but Beta pretty much reeks of Beta; you know it when you see it. Men who’s beliefs and behaviors drop them into the Omega tier of hell kind of blur the distinction between Beta and social / mental autism. So in the interests of better clarity on this distinction I submit for my esteemed colleague’s critical review, verbatim and unedited, Joseph Dobbie’s immortal classic, Lady of the Cake:

To: Kate Winsall
Subject: Lady of the cake

Hello Kate,

It?s joe – we met at Andrew?s party.

I hope you don?t mind me getting your e-mail address from the e-mail
that Andy sent to us all; it is a bit sneaky of me.

It was wonderful to meet you on Saturday, and I wonder if you would
consider meeting me for coffee sometime; maybe at the Tate Modern?

OK. This is where my common sense is telling me to stop? keep it simple
and positive joe.

And the probability of me listening to that voice? Experience has taught
me that it is not worth putting up a fight; I will end up giving in to
the part of me that never wants to find itself shaking its head and
muttering ?if only?’

This is the part where I throw caution to the wind; the part where I
listen to my heart and remember that I should live my life as an exultation and
revel in the opportunity to try; the part where I refuse to apologize

for who I am; the part where I trust that the lady I met on Saturday
night is, as I suspect, able to see sincerity where others would see
clich .

I am fortunate enough to have been able to collect a number of special
memories. They are memories of moments that made any struggle leading up
to them worthwhile. They are memories of moments when I am struck by
something so beautiful, time stands still and all of the ugliness in the
world ceases to exist.

Your smile is the freshest of my special memories.

Regardless of whether we see each other again, I will use it as I do my
other special memories. I will call on it when I am disheartened or low.
I will hold it in my heart when I need inspiration. I will keep it with
me for moments when I need to find a smile of my own.

I am unsure of all my motives for sharing this with you and, if I am
honest, not ready to examine them too closely. However, I know that it
makes me feel good to believe that maybe, if you are ever upset, knowing
that I will be keeping your smile alive might help you through.

If you are half as intelligent and aware as I believe you to be, I am
sure that you will find what I have written, in the very least, sweet.

If I am twice as lucky as I would dare to hope, you will find this note
charming and agree to contact me and arrange a date.

Either way, I trust that your reply will be candid – you told me how
much you value honesty.

One last thing, I promise that it is enormously rare for me to stray as
far from sobriety as I managed on Saturday night.

Be safe.
Joe

This reads like a Hallmark “Special Moments” abortion splattering Emo effluvia indiscriminately on any who could get past reading the first 3 ‘stanzas’.

In the interests of science, lets see if I can save the patient,..and maybe the patient is you?

Lady of the cake? Who the fuck are you, Percival? I realize AFCs think chivalry isn’t dead, and that women secretly want, and appreciate it. I have news for you, they’re the ones who killed it and all you do is telegraph your beta-ness to the 1% of the female population who would actually understand what you’re alluding to here. Relax KingArthur.

Hello Kate,It?s joe – we met at Andrew?s party.I hope you don?t mind me getting your e-mail address from the e-mail
that Andy sent to us all; it is a bit sneaky of me.

Translation: It’s me Joe, the chump who stared at you across the room for the better part of the night unable to muster even the rudimentary courage needed to ask you out, so I’m using this Buffer called email to blunt the potential for real rejection that I was too petrified to risk at the party last Saturday.

Her: Note to self – Kill Andrew for not blind copying his group emails.

It was wonderful to meet you on Saturday, and I wonder if you would consider meeting me for coffee sometime; maybe at the Tate Modern?

Her: What was your name again?

Translation: I’ll be masturbating to visions of you in my head – like all my special memories.

Translation: I am so desperate for sex, and am such an Omega male that the pedestal I’m putting you on was reserved for Christ the Messiah. Congratulations, you’re my new religion, and only after having met you once at a party – it must be destiny.

Translation: I would really like to get laid, but since I don’t want you to think I’m like “other guys” who only want to fuck you I’ll sweep that under the rug and desexualize myself to steer you away from that thought. Instead, contemplate how reliable, familiar and comforting I’ll be (like a stuffed animal) as your potential boyfriend, again, so unique and unlike those “other guys” who just want to fuck you.

Her: So essentially a woman half as intelligent would fill the same poetic role you’ve sickeningly cast me into after casually meeting me at Andy’s party. I swear I’ll kill that bastard.

Translation: In case you are only half as intelligent and aware as I hope, let me explain for you how you’re supposed to react to my quasi-marriage proposal – you should think I’m charming and shouldn’t give me the rejection I never risked in person last Saturday.

Translation: Lord, please, say yes. You said you liked art, poetry and appreciated honesty (like every other girl on Match.com) in a guy, haven’t I identified and qualified myself with you for your approval?

One last thing, I promise that it is enormously rare for me to stray as far from sobriety as I managed on Saturday night.

Translation: I swear I wont be an alcoholic when we’re married.

I’m sorry, we’ve done everything we could, this patient is terminal, call the Deacon to read last rites.
Time of death,..