Tales From Online Dating, and A Suggestion for Frustrated Single Men on Match.com
Suffice it to say, the looney bin continues to fill up, and its edges overfloweth.
Were it not for my pigheaded propensity for deriving comedy from tragedy I wouldn’t even consider this thing. But for the life of me, I can’t help myself. And here’s why. After the (I think) love of my life departed about ten days ago (again) I am faced with the most unwelcome possibility of returning to the sausage machine that is Match.com, Tinder, and online dating in general.
Not sure I will. But I might, if for no other reason than sheer comedic material, better than you can pay any professional comedy writer.
I have a tale to tell from late 2017, which will explain why I am less-than-eager to return to the marketplace, as it were:
I had rewritten my profile to include a story of having been tossed by a horse and promptly nearly stomped to death. The Turkish tale, which was both fun and funny, revealed that I came home with an expanded family of Muslim friends. The way I wrote it told a lot about my sense of humor and the way I live my life. However I hadn’t changed the basics: that I only dated serious athletes in their late forties who had an education, an income, a life of their own, a sense of humor, and who didn’t expect someone to cook or be a mommy. And a fair bit more but all very clearly laid out in no nonsense terms. I was 64, still am a dedicated athlete, I like being alone, I travel a great deal, and I don’t suffer fools lightly.
So help me understand why a high-school educated man of 33 whose profile indicated that he wanted a 21-year-old concert chickie to do the mosh pits with him, was a smoker, a drinker, has an “average body” and makes, what, $20k a year, would reach out, tell me I sound like fun and ask if I date younger men?
My (mostly) polite answer was a rehash of what was on my profile, which he clearly didn’t read. I suggested that he work the mosh pits with a nit comb and see what wriggled out. What will this man and I talk about? String theory? The Uncertainty Principle? Neutrino Physics?
Another Emmy-winner who fell into the combine head first was another smoker, high school grad, Trump supporter and Bible thumper who also clearly hadn’t read the profile. My suspicion, given the sorry state of our public schools, is that both of these fine gentlemen cannot read in the first place, and therefore saw some lean muscular chick in a red dress with long dark hair and punched the “like” button. I provided him with polite walking papers and a guide to a corn maze in East Kansas where he might find Shoeless Joe, mysterious designs in the ground and cotton candy that tastes like potatoes. Doesn’t matter. He can’t read. Which means he’s the perfect candidate for the Trump cabinet. Lots of openings there, I keep hearing.
The third, a survivor of Colorado Springs Academy for Family Values, provided a profile that a kindergartner would have been horrified to turn in as a term paper. Clearly trolling for one thing only, this winner of the ball peen hammer head-smashing contest suggested that we get together and “hug.” Oh ugh. I’d rather submit to a root canal without anesthesia.
Sigh. I contemplate returning to this?
It’s a good thing I really enjoy being alone.
While shopping at a small bookstore in Gorey, Ireland, I came across a simply delightful book that caused me to (pre-fractured rib) guffaw out loud so often and with such gusto that I bought it on the spot. 1342 Facts to Leave You Flabbergasted had to sit on the sidelines until my rib healed enough for me to handle hearty laughter again.
In the mood for a laugh, I opened it at random and believe I have come up with an answer for these men, and men of their ilk (kindly, there are many good ones, you’re not including as part of the target market). It seems that a small organism has solved the problem which many, many males on Match.com et. al. seem to continue to struggle with, and I wish to present this as a perfect cure for their ills.
To wit: if a flatworm can’t find another flatworm to mate with, it stabs itself in the head with its own penis.
There you are, gentlemen. Have at it.