He's Mine, Betch

Every time I see "The Bachelor" I shudder - not just because the dude's Mystic Tan and recently-capped molars have given me and several small children nightmares for weeks, but because I fear that this atrocious shitbox of a show is really one of the Seven Horsemen of the Apocalypse, gleefully tapping on our shoulders to let us know that this "reality show" is really the reality to come. What do I mean? I mean that we chicks have the stupid habit of all competing for the same guy. We're at a party, a wedding, a bar mitzvah, jury duty, and what do we do? We zone in on one target. As the girlfriends and wives hiss and snarl and clutch their taken prizes ever tighter, we single Dianas (The Huntress, a Greek mythological reference, aren't I clever) circle the floor, warily sizing up each other and the meager pickings at hand. He's too old, he's too bald, he can't seem to dress himself, he's too fat, he's too...gay? And then we see him: Tall. Handsome. Charming. Full head of hair. Sporting a...Rolex? Let me at him! And so it begins. Never mind that all these single women are fine catches themselves, with hot bodies, great racks, beauty and brains to match, most with college degrees and successful careers. In the heat of battle, that shit don't MATTER - it's who is gonna snag that ass, and who's gonna be able to HANG ON TO IT for the remainder of the evening. Intellect and self-dignity be damned, I'm giving him a blowjob in the bathroom! Oh yeah, well I've already stitched my room key to the inside of his jacket! Oh yeah, well I've already met his parents and offered them a free cruise! And so on, and so on.
With the troubling statistic of a significantly higher percentage of women than men attending college, this is only going to get worse. Is there any way out of this Pussy Galore?