Double the ones, double the fun? This weekend was my co-22nd birthday party, and when six bodacious females throw a rager, guys are inevitably going to show up. Yet, despite the luxurious number of cocks strutting around my lawn on Saturday, it was the girls who seemed to be doing most of the lip-locking. Looking through the rather incriminating photos the following morning, this began to trouble me.

In a situation where the ratio of boys to girls is about four to one, Oprah Winfrey and “Life” tell me that male instinct should kick these guys into ultra-territorial fight mode over us passive creatures. Oprah, are you telling me that Isla Vista is so far removed from established laws that we are now rejecting the laws of nature? Well that sucks. If there’s one thing my experiences in this quaint little slum have taught me during my four years here, it’s that the territorial instincts in most of the male inhabitants — and a solid number of females — are replaced with pure laziness. Trying to catch one of the many beautiful people around here can be tricky for an amateur hunter, but the experts have crafted very attractive and very effective webs. So much so, in fact, that multiple women (OK, or men) are ensnared by the same hungry recipient in the same weekend — or even in the same night.

To those of you thinking “Great, we’re gonna learn how to create a fool-proof hook-up catcher,” think again. I’ve been watching too much “Life” to allow that. When a girl humpback whale is ready to mate she makes some noise, the fellas come a-runnin’ and then a battle ensues. The dude whales fight for a while and the winner gets the most beautiful prize in the ocean. They eventually retire to the depths of the sea to boink in private.

Compare these classy beasts with the couple I witnessed this weekend — a girl in mini-shorts spins cartwheels toward her male of choice; they get horizontal on the hood of a Honda; fist-pumping passers-by chant “Fuck that bitch. Fuck that bitch;” the couple emerges from one another’s intestines and ask to use our backyard; we decline; they move along in search of a more acquiescing host. Really? This gymnast performed an acrobatic feat to seduce a guy who requested a blow job on urine-infested grass? Then she fucked him after a group of primates called her a bitch? I’m not deluded enough to think that I.V. is spawning romantic notions, but is it too much to ask for a couple of standards from California’s most important generation? Stop — that was rhetorical.

Most hunters, while hungry, are reluctant to work for their meals. Forget fighting, these guys wait for their food to come to them. Take Saturday’s festivities as a prime example: Two oh-so-resourceful party people noted the P to V ratio, posted up at the snack table and waited for the arrival of the females. They didn’t wait long. Not only were chicks perched on their laps and fetching them beers, but these wily creatures had an excellent view of the drunken all-girl love fest taking place on the lawn (we’re secure in our heterosexuality). I’m not butt-hurt enough to deny these men the praise they deserve for putting little to no effort into their conquests, but if they had followed the lead of the Darwin Beetle, which uses his killer instincts and awesome strength to throw multiple adversaries out of his path to reach the she-beetle, they might have actually closed the deal this weekend (or at least participated in the lawn-orgy).

To those spider-like web masters: It seems that by letting the conquests do all the texting, initiate all the meet-ups and endure all the walks of shame, you’re probably getting a fairly decent end of the bargain (e.g., digital sex, free lap dances). But now that I’ve reached an age of maturity and wisdom, the animalistic tendency to fight for sexual relief has become somewhat of a turn-on. The iron-pumping crowd at the gym sure seems capable of putting a little muscle into the chase! And if you lose the booty battle, well, I hear the gymnastics team is available.