Dating And The American Expectation

Due to the sage advice of friends whom I may learn to hate as a result of the advice, I have taken my first stab at online dating. This digital hook-up pool of youngsters and angry mothers is a sea even Nessy would think twice before swimming in. But I’m already ahead of myself. Let me recap, as a caveman would scribble in powdery stone on a cave wall.

Atticus single. He look at people in vicinity. They look away. He too far away to dig up bodies from past. Atticus in city of collegians and gays. He only know taken women and girls with inflated self-worth. Atticus settle with VoyeurWeb.com and Puffs Plus with Aloe.

Back to the lecture at hand. Erection is deflected, so I'm 'a let 'em understand.

Before I dove into the new American dating scene of Craig’s single-fish-harmony-match dotcom’s cyber world of promised promiscuity and masseuse killers, I figured it prudent for a bereft thirty-something clamoring for familiarity to venture back into his old stomping grounds, a lush garden of primitive emoticons and staccato video feeds.

If your only internet experience to date was Yahoo chat rooms, you would pretty much assume there are no humans left in the world. Like Signs except slightly more exciting and with Mel’s anti-Semitism onscreen.

I visited the Yahoo chat room world for the first time since I was eighteen. Alright, maybe I peeked early in the new millennium, but I assumed things had been cleaned up some Times Square-style. Right away I was inundated with cyber whoredom (or as we used to call it, drive-by sluttings). Seriously, not a single fucking human there. I felt like an extra in a Terminator 3 future scene, where the world is a landscape of crunchy bones we use for sod in our turf war with constantly evolving robots.

Perhaps the captcha upon entering the room set my heart temporarily at ease, as if no porn purveyor had found their way around that Mexican border fence. Luckily for the economy, it has. A veritable skankfest instantly exploded. I had more fembot IM windows open in my first thirty seconds of entering than I did chubby freshman IM windows opening in my first three months of college in ’97. Before a sixtieth cyborg could ask me to “chk my (their) profile fr nu pics” because “ur (I am) 2 kewt”, I ran screaming from the chat window and back to my desktop.

The place I was advised to explore was the free PlentyOfFish.com, which boasts “900,000 Daily Active Members… (that) will go on over 18,000,000 dates with other users this year.” Now, I’m no mathematician, but my calculator is and it is telling me that through this dude’s Chemistry Test I should be averaging 20 dates a year with the various women its twenty-six algorithms churn out in that time span. Not a bad average at one or two a month.

Here is the reality: I’m certain there is a curve; however, that curve would not be in my favor.

Here is why: a few questions they asked and a few they do not ask in the profile.

(Bear in mind that, mentally, I live in a sick, twisted world where people tell the truth and that grey areas are best left rounded down. So basically, if your comments are all, You’re doing it wrong, You gotta lie, etc. then don’t bother commenting. I get the strategy of filtered truth. I just feel better knowing my cards are on the table. Someone out there has to respect that.)

Pigeon Hole #1
Body Type – answer: A Few Extra Pounds

If you have a picture posted, it should be a no-shit-Sherlock thing. What amazes me are all the chubsters out there claiming an “Average” body size. Compared to what, your morbidly obese friends? Pictures don’t lie. I put it out there that I’m holding some extra size and you should too. Besides, my fat face doesn’t exactly scream average, nor does the bacon restriction limit placed on me by doctors.

Pigeon Hole #2
Religion - answer: Non-Religious

This is the Northeast. All I can hope for are fallen Catholics, cutters and women too uneducated to ask why.

Pigeon Hole #3 & #4
Do you drink? – answer: Socially
Smoker? – answer: Occasionally

First off, Mr. Match-‘em-up-chemistry-guy, stop sending me profiles of people who are athletic and love outdoor activities. Between my photo, answers #1, #3 and #4, and answer #2 not being Wiccan, one of your algorithms should pick up on the fact that, aside from a nice walk and picnic, I’m not going to spin class or climbing a mountain with these chicks. Stop marching out all the hard bodies as faux prospects. Haven’t I suffered enough?

As for the vices? Again, just putting it out there. I have learned over time that true love is more valuable than any drug available. But until then, kampai!

Pigeon Hole #5
Do you want children? - answer: Yes*

I know, I know. It screams desperate. But I’m not looking to impregnate someone within the first few minutes of meeting them. I’m just taking the question at face value. Do I want kids? Someday. Just enjoying the practice sessions right now. If they had a “Not until we’re married or the condom breaks” option, I’d be all over it.
*recently changed to Undecided/Open after holiday flight experience

There are other stupid questions, like Marital Status, Profession and Smarts (education), but those are just for you to check if the married sales clerk you are fucking attended college or not.

Here are three questions I think they should have on the profile and incorporated into the matchmaking technology. It would keep results vetted and more accurate.

Great Question #1
Have you Ever Cheated On Someone With Their Friend?

Pretty much everyone has cheated in the eyes of a God or two, but this speaks more to integrity and respect. If you screw around with someone completely unrelated to your relationship, like a coworker or one-night stand, you are most likely blowing off steam accrued from a bad choice in mate and you are too stupid or afraid to walk away. If you screw around with your significant other's friend, then you are just a filthy, soulless whore undeserving of love.

Great Question #2
What Is The Worst Thing You Have Done Out Of Anger?

Called him a “limp dick ragamuffin”? You are adorable.
Keyed his car? Meh.
Urinated on his possessions? Hey now…

For even the greenest psychology novice, this simple question will grant you unmitigated insight into a person’s soul. Fifty different profile views later you could have a thesis paper on the human condition.

Great Question #3
Can You Be Attracted To Fat People Or Do You Have Aversions To The Bulky?

This is for all the marbles, folks. It’s elephant in the website. Granted, everyone wants to end up with the ideal mate; attractive, healthy, seemingly rich. You know, the ones on the commercials. But not everyone has had their ego beaten down with rejection. Not everyone has learned to let go of what I call the American Expectation, the indoctrinated belief that you can have what the people on TV have.

I feel this answer would clear up most confusion and help avoid embarrassing rejection. Hell, you could set up the program to filter these people to a special page you cannot access. Realize the value of knowing that the people you are matched with have stated they can look past your girth and get to the good times. That, my friends, is how you profile someone.

~ ~ ~

My newest suggested website is Craig’s List. I surfed it for a while today, between football and laundry. Not exactly the Promised Land but is land nonetheless. The advice came from someone who, in thirty tries, had yet to meet a normal person there.

Elizabeth Ann: “Worst thing that happens is you end up on a date with an ugly chick.”

Atticus: “Worst thing that happens is I end up chained to a radiator and forced to rub warmed cooking oil on the loins of a gargantuan, sweaty woman. That or meet a psycho like you did.”

Elizabeth Ann: “Well played.”

Atticus: “I don’t mind ugly chicks. It’s the dumb ones I watch out for.”

My Ideal God

If I could build God like a teddy bear from one of those factories in the mall, I wouldn’t make him in my image. No arms, no spine, no cock. He’d be a gob of lightning-web circulating around a purple orb of energy, whose only purpose is to make things nice for us. He would be intense but never violent. Just really concerned, like Mr. Belvedere. And educational, like Mr. Huxtable.

I would call him him because it sounds better and not because I’m misogynistic.

There wouldn’t be this crazy back-story full of holes about his younger days as a restless, destructive deity. You could ask him what happened to the dinosaurs but he would only waive you off, staring silently out of the window at a world he so indiscriminately crushed and rebuilt like Lego’s. Eventually you’d realize the past is the past and all that matters is the future.

He wouldn’t be angry at you for doing wrong. He would just expect you to do better next time. You may not improve right away, but the fear of disappointing him never lets you stop trying. Plus, pleasing him has its rewards, namely a soft little lightning bolt that reaches out to you and massages your scalp and rubs your back while you bask in his glory.

The world would still be full of terrorists, pedophiles and assholes. People would still shout at the heavens in confusion, How could you do this to us, which they would know why if they bothered to download the transcripts and liners of his yearly State Of The World address on sotw.gov. And even though the carefully chosen words laid out his natural reasoning of balance and utopian fallacy, the creed would still fall on the deaf ears of our “Me = Victim” society.

I’d also make God funny when he drinks, because so few people remain cordial in a blaze of sauce.

His SNL guest spots would be epic. His scotch would always be top shelf. Even his commercials would be entertaining. But the most important spec I would build in him: I would make him into a really cool dude.

You could ask him anything and he would tell you honestly because he knows that people grow best when fed truth and watered with support. If you were wasted, he’d float you and your car home safely. He would do anything for you, give anything to you, as long as you followed the simple rules he set that help make life gratifying for each individual.

My God would be so much better than all of the other gods being churned out at the factory store in my mall. After I built him and paid the angry teenager working the register, I would reward myself with a cheese steak and chocolate malt in the food court. Just God and I; he across the table in the Build-A-God box with the receipt stapled to it, and me with my beard full of crumbs and a destiny fulfilled. Two buddies at the beginning of an amazing journey.

It’s too bad I’d forget him in the theater when the movie let out.