Monday, July 27, 2009
Chemistry.com Part 4: Life is like retractable pencils?
Retractable pencils? How so? You don't lead with that title and then not explain, Mr. Techie. He doesn't mention pencils once in his profile after the headline. Strike one. (Do you see the excitement on my face after almost two weeks of this nonsense? I don't know how much more I can take.)
Computer Boy continues, "I'm also very partial to good writing skills."
I may take back that strike. What else ya got?
"You'll get many extra points if your profile contains complete sentences with capital letters and punctuation...if you don't understand why that's important, then please move along with my blessing and sympathies."
Did I mention how much I love you? Thank you! Thank you! Thank you! You took the words right out of my mouth. Base hit on the second pitch. Where have you been all my life, Mr. Software Company. My heart is skipping rope: Cinderella dressed in yella went upstairs to kiss a fella...
"But of course, all that pales in comparison to the really important things in life. Like pop culture trivia."
F*CK. You've been reading all the other boys' profiles, haven't you? Damn lemmings. You were just tagged out at second. And I had such high hopes. No, I will not take your little film quotes quiz at the end of your profile. That would mean I'd have to actually talk to you to get the answers. Who needs you when I have Google? By the way, "Two dollars" isn't really a sufficient quote. "I want my two dollars!" is more explicit, and yes, I've seen Better Off Dead too. Where's Lane Meyer when I need him? Or Lloyd Dobler, or Rob Gordon, or any other character John Cusack has ever inhabited? We want THAT guy with a boom box, a trench coat and some Peter Gabriel action.
How does one go from the game show host to "One Sober Male"? This photo-less chap "isn't too demanding emotionally."
Well, thank heavens for that. Look, there is absolutely nothing wrong with being sober. My hat is off to you as I sip my cab. Cheers. Lord knows I have spent exorbitant amounts of time in the last two decades babysitting more than one inebriated boy who has passed out on the sidewalk, puked in my car and fallen asleep on me. Literally. Come to think of it, I should get some sort of Medal of Patience and Stupidity. For real. But, leading with "One Sober Male" exudes dreariness; years of boredom flash before my eyes. Life is too short. Buh-bye.
Ralph is "an excercise in juxtaposition" (and bad spelling). He's a complicated cat, that one. In his profile photo, he too wears black sunglasses at his cubicle and throws up dual peace signs, as if to give the ladies a virtual, "Wass up?" (Wannabe gang guys are so hot.) He's "smart-ish, Slapnuts Funny and Attractive-ish." He "doesn't read but [he] is deceptively intelligent."
Let me get this straight. He's bright-ish, but the layperson wouldn't be able to tell just by, say, talking to him and becoming acquainted with him. Don't let that dumb-ish exterior fool you, girls. He'll make up for his lack of book smarts with his clever-ish wit that will make you want to punch him in the gnads. (That's what "slapnuts" means, right?) Forgive me if I want a man who has the ability to read. Is that asking too much? Ish.
The next guy is a "raconteur" and "gadabout" who is "in search of a better mousetrap."
Remember, he's the cat. We're the mice. His trap is a little rusty and he has run out of holey cheese with which to lure us. Did I mention he also didn't include a profile photo? (Do any women consider a guy without a photo? I'm just curious. Maybe I'm shallow and pessimistic, but when I see that default cartoon face with the empty brown eyes, I immediately envision the worst case scenario. Think Vincent Schiavelli, only creepy. Surely Mr. Meow is better looking than the freak my mind conjures up.)
"I have a little bit of that 30-second game that you need in order to survive in the LA meat market."
I'm so done with games. In fact, I've never liked them, nor tried to play them, at least not effectively. Maybe that's my problem. Let's play this game: I'll be Tom. You be Jerry. Now run into that hole over there and find the swiss I left for you. Good mouse.
One more today, and then I promise to leave you alone: Keith is an actor.
In Los Angeles? No! Really? Get out! You know what David Cross says about transplants in Los Angeles? There are millions of people who are "all gonna make it." They "have so much talent. They were so good in their high school productions of Brigadoon and Annie." You know how many people David Cross thinks are going to make it? "Like 13." I hope Keith has a backup plan. He is, after all, 37.
Keith "dusts off pretty well. [He's] had his fair share of dinner parties, drinks, and schmoozefests."
Toward the end of his profile, he says, "I'm bored writing this. Are you bored reading it?"
Do you have to ask?
The Grammar Nazi