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The acts of courting and dating the opposite sex have to be, by and large, the most horrendous and awkward rituals that we as human beings participate in. I spend weekend after weekend in bars and clubs with friends as they try - sometimes desperately sometimes successfully - to pick up women. It’s like we understand that the search for a mate, or even a piece strange, is going to be some sort of torturous routine. We accept this as fact in the same way we accept the fact that in order to be healthy we are occasionally going to have to let a doctor stick a finger in our balloon knot.

If you’re single there are very few options for you to try to wet your wick. I’m personally against dating people you work with because it leads to nothing but awkwardness. Let’s say, for example, that you get your hot co-worker drunk enough ,at an office party, to high-five genitals with you. Eventually the office security tapes will get put on YouTube or officesex.com..(I made that one up, but if it actually works: enjoy) and once video footage of you putting the lumber to the leggy brunette from the third floor gets out one of two outcomes are possible:

ONE: You get a pat on the back, a promotion, and a copy of your performance on high-def DVD.

TWO: Your boss, who has been secretly lusting after her, will now shift blame of all of his embezzling on you and have you thrown out of a twelve story window in an apparent, despondent, suicide. So there’s one option that, if you’re smart, is closed.

Unless you wish to be a social Quasimodo the only real options are for you to go out to a bar or club. And for those of you reading this, in the middle of the night, during Saved By The Bell re-runs, I’ve got a heartbreaking story to tell you: The people on live links, adult friend finder and other sites like that don’t look like they do on the commercials. You may be sitting in your underwear, fingers covered in cheeto dust, thinking you may get the super sexy blonde chick if you can just get her in the right private messaging session. Well it aint gonna happen chubbo. First off you smell like pork and you spend more time online gaming than you do outside with real people. besides the girl on the other end of that messaging session looks like you…but with smaller tits. And one last note to you computer Casanovas: Quoting Shakespeare to girls online leaves no swooning. NO ONE. fag.

Chicks that look like that don’t spend their evenings on the computer or on local chat lines. They’re hot and can go out and get laid whenever they want to. You on the other hand have a frequent buyer card for Krispy Kreme. The world doesn’t work like every shitty CBS sitcom. That fat bastard on The King Of Queens has about as much of a chance as land the actress who plays his hot wife as you do of running a seven minute mile burger boy.

Now when I was single I too would spend weekend after weekend in bars and clubs blindly stumbling through the “art” of picking up women only to discover that I was seriously lacking in some of the finer points. The first of which would be dancing. I don’t dance. I can’t dance. I’m about as adept at dancing as Courtney Love is at multiplying fractions. I’ve never understood girls who say things like, “I just want to go out on the dance floor and let loose.” For me it’s more like, “I want to go out on the dance floor and have a grand maal seizure, completely off tempo to whatever is pumping through the sound system.” Watching me dance would be like watching hippos fuck, and neither of which makes girls want to drop their panties.

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Off the dance floor, on the other hand, I was golden. I’ve never had a problem talking to women. I’m funny, good looking, and a stellar conversationalist - despite my propensity for telling off color anecdotes and love of professional wrestling. I’m quite talented in holding a girl’s attention in conversation. The on thing I lacked was the nerve and the guts to, as salesmen say, go for the close. As the night drew to a close and it was starting to become obvious that it was time to seal the deal, but the look on her face said, “That last tit-fuck joke may have been over the line,” I’d get nervous and sweaty and run away. well in order to counteract that I developed my own gimmick to make transitioning from casual conversation to moving further:

It had that shit eating picture on the front and my phone number on the back. I’d slide it across the bar to the girl and say something like, “Call me,” or, “here’s my card.” Yeah it’s the chicken shit way out but I thought it was cheeky. Sadly; these cards didn’t have the effect that I wanted, but I did become quite popular with the toothless, homeless, smell like urine crowd when I lost about forty of them on the public bus.

Now in the few times I managed to sack up and get a girls phone number I got the privilege of embarking on the social equivalent of a testicle kicking: the first date. Now I think we can all be honest here and agree that the underlying premise of dating, at least in the beginning, is whether or not you are going to have sex. They say it only takes women the first fifteen seconds of meeting you to determine if they are going to let you violate their baby factories. Unfortunately you get to spend $150 on dinner and drinks, and two hours of awkward gettin’ to know ya conversation, only to find out what she knew in the first fifteen seconds, Hell I’ve known girls who have gone on dates with guys that they had absolutely no interest in just for the free meal. Quite frankly I’d rather pay a hooker and skip all of the bullshit pretense. Of course my favorite first date memory is the one where the girl spent the entire evening talking about her aborted child. Which, in and of itself, was a deal breaker towards a second date.

Fortunately for me I don’t have to put up with any of that anymore, ever, because a little over four years ago I managed to use every last ounce of wit, charm, and guile that I had in order to convince a very beautiful and intelligent young lady to start dating me. Somehow, over the past four year period, she’s become convinced that I’m the greatest thing since sliced bread and internet porn; which is probably why, a month or so ago, she agreed to marry me. Little does she know what’s she’s really getting herself into. So far my plans for the wedding include a bounce house (like the kind they rent for children’s birthday parties), midget wrestlers, and live performances from Absent Me and Hot Pistol . Strangely she’s agreed to the live bands but we’re still in an ongoing battle over the bounce house. So there you have it: Dating sucks and I’m engaged. Angelina Jolie, I’m sorry you had to hear it this way, but it’s better like this, I’ll fed-ex you the lingerie you left at my house but I’m keeping the nekkid pictures you sent me from your cell-phone.

This entry was posted on Monday, May 22nd, 2006 at 7:43 pm and is filed under Uncategorized. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.