Beta Testing

I drive a fast car. Like most people, well, men, I subconsciously view my car as an extension of myself. What I drive and how I drive say a lot about who I am. I think about this when someone in a loud muscle car outfitted with too many spoilers and stickers on their windows from the various aftermarket parts manufacturers they’ve bolted into their vehicles pulls up next to me at a light. My car doesn’t have a spoiler. It doesn’t have stickers. Hell, it doesn’t even make a sound. The person next to me can rev their engine, watch as their RPM needle slams into the red zone, and feel just a little bit of sexual superiority as their penis on wheels growls with a mix of gasoline and egotism. Like a good fart, I am silent but very deadly. In truth, I’ve never been challenged to a race at a red light. I’m not sure I’d even know I was challenged if the opportunity arose. But the idea of being able to destroy someone in a drag race is all I need.

The sad reality - it’s actually not sad, it’s just reality - is that my car is not who I am. I’m not a quiet monster. I am nothing more than a beta who knows he’s a beta but likes the idea of people thinking he’s an alpha. Following all that? I’m not sure I am. Here’s the gist: I (wrongly) assume that if someone attacked me in a dark alley, I’d be able to whip out ninja-like moves with precision and deadly skill that would send my would-be nemesis to the hospital. This is despite taking only a year of karate when I was 11 and having what my physical therapist calls “weak ankles.” I like the idea of thinking I could kick someone’s ass without ever having the need or skills to actually do it. Because I recognize that, truly, I’m not an alpha … and I’d never want to be one.

There’s been a peculiar shift in the American zeitgeist over the past few years: the self-proclaimed “alpha male.” You know, the guys who grunt their way through podcasts, punctuating their sentences with words like “grind” and “dominance,” as if they’re auditioning for the role of “Caveman #3” in a direct-to-streaming movie. They punch down and take any feedback as a personal affront. They wear their alpha status like a badge of honor, which, ironically, is the first clue that they’re not alphas. Because let’s be honest: an actual alpha male would never feel the need to announce it.

When was the last time you saw a lion in the savannah lean over to his pride and whisper, “Hey, just so you know, I’m the alpha here”? Never. Lions have their mane; these guys have podcasts. Same energy, less impressive.

Let’s unpack this phenomenon. Somewhere along the line, the term “alpha” escaped the National Geographic specials and took up residence in the American political and cultural landscape. It became a rallying cry for a neglected segment of society—disaffected men who felt overlooked, unheard, and utterly baffled by the concept of avocado toast (which is delicious, by the way). These men weren’t necessarily looking for a leader; they were looking for validation. Enter the self-anointed alphas, swaggering in with solutions as simplistic as their worldviews.

“Be a man,” they bellow. “Lift weights! Eat steak! Don’t cry during ‘Toy Story 3’!” And for some, this was intoxicating. At last, someone had noticed them! Someone had thrown them a lifeline that wasn’t shaped like a participation trophy. And while I’m all for empowering the downtrodden, this particular flavor of empowerment tastes like a protein shake that’s gone bad.

Take Joe Rogan, for example. Rogan’s popularity is a masterclass in alpha-marketing. He’s the buddy you met in college who always had weird workout routines and a lot of opinions about creatine. His show is an epic bro-session, where topics range from Brazilian jiu-jitsu to … aliens? He’s the relatable alpha, the guy who’ll laugh with you over a beer but also tell you to try elk meat because “it’ll change your life.” Rogan’s appeal is rooted in his authenticity. He doesn’t call himself an alpha; he just does his thing. And, like it or not, that’s why people gravitate to him. Rogan’s alpha energy isn’t shouted from the rooftops; it’s whispered through a haze of DMT.

Contrast that with Andrew Tate, the walking embodiment of a midlife crisis in a rented Lamborghini. Tate doesn’t just call himself an alpha; he’s built an entire pyramid scheme—sorry, “mentorship program”—around it. Tate’s version of alpha-ness is a grotesque caricature, a Frankenstein’s monster stitched together from misogyny, wealth flexing, and the lingering aroma of Axe Body Spray.

Then there’s Ben Shapiro, the intellectual alpha. Shapiro’s superpower is talking so fast that you forget he’s not actually saying anything meaningful. He’s the guy at the party who corners you with a 20-minute monologue on tax policy while you’re just trying to grab some spinach dip. Shapiro doesn’t wear his alpha status like a badge; he wields it like a spreadsheet, weaponizing logic to compensate for the glaring lack of charisma.

But here’s the rub: real alpha males don’t care about being alpha males. They’re too busy leading by example, solving problems, or just quietly doing their thing without making a podcast about it. Alphas don’t need affirmations or acolytes. They’re the guy who helps his neighbor fix a fence without tweeting about “masculinity.” They’re the dad who reads his kid a bedtime story about dragons and doesn’t mind that he tears up a little when the dragon finally finds a friend.

The rise of the self-declared alpha male is less about true leadership and more about filling a void. A generation of neglected, confused men needed a narrative, and these faux-alphas handed them a script. It’s an ideology built on insecurity, not strength. And it’s shaping the political landscape in troubling ways, creating a culture where shouting louder and posturing harder is mistaken for genuine authority.

So, where do we go from here? Maybe we start by redefining what being a man in modern America means. Spoiler alert: it’s not about bench presses or Bitcoin portfolios. It’s about kindness, resilience, and the courage to admit that you don’t have all the answers. And if we can’t agree on that, can we at least agree that anyone who calls themselves an alpha male has officially disqualified themselves from being one? Because real alphas? They’re probably out there somewhere, quietly saving the world. Or maybe just hoping someone doesn’t challenge them to a drag race in a car that’s way too fast for anyone, let alone a guy with weak ankles, to be driving. And that’s okay, too.