Friday, August 15

I'll Keep The Door Unlocked, Miss Tilerotex.

This is the first time I've ever received a piece of Spam e-mail that I sort of wished were real. Enjoy.

FROM: Miss Tilerotex


I want to come to your country to stay with you, honey. Please don't be surprise, my parents were died by food poison and my uncle sent me out from his house, he is wicked man I hate him and I can never stay with him anymore.

If you promised to send me letter of invitation and you will not cheat me when I come to stay with you, I promised you will never regret having me, my late father has with his bank 5MUS$. I was his only daughter living next of kin, my uncle is wicked that's why I refused to give him my inheritance and he send me out from his house.

I am 18 years old from small country Burkina Faso, I want to be a nurse when I come to your country, the bank remittance director said I am too small to handle such money that I should look for foreign partner to stand for me for easy transfer and investment purposes, that is why I am seeking for your help if you wish.

Pals, honey. Tell me about you? And I want to see your picture, how you look like?

Kiss, From,
Miss Tilerotex

Sound off in the comments section and enjoy your weekend.

Monday, August 11

Who Wants To Date An Internet Has-Been?

There are very few things about me that I would classify as 'attractive,' and that's not due in part to the self-deprecating nature of my personality, either. I'm just aware that I'm a fairly average guy. Average height. Average build. Average income and social status. Mediocre teeth. Fair-to-good fashion sense and adequate shoe size. Acceptable taste in music, food, film and the fine art of smooching. I've accepted long ago that my face is sitting smack in the middle of the Bell Curve. Hey, someone's gotta do it; might as well be me.

There's nothing too wrong or too right with yours truly, which possibly explains why most people refer to me as an 'average joe' writer. I'm easy to relate to (I hope), because I'm probably not better looking than you, and yet I'm not so repulsive as to be unable to view directly for more than three seconds without tasting bile. Story of my life, really: always surrounded by enough ugly people to not get pummeled, yet always around enough attractive people to not get laid.

Or, perhaps people refer to me as an 'average joe' because I have nothing of interesting importance to say and look like I should be managing a bait shop in Alma, Wisconsin. I'm going to assume it's the former, for the good of my future.

I have flaws, no question about it. Braces did very little to straighten my teeth out, due in part to me following approximately 1/100th of the proper care and maintenance instructions relayed to me by my large, intimidating, Asian Orthodontist ("You wear retainer? You lying!"). I'm about as pale as Edgar Winter with cancer, a trait that was passed down by my Mother's side of the family; an entrepreneurial group of people that valued white-collar business sense to anything that even vaguely resembled the outdoors. My anxiety requires loving patience, I cannot cook and I could stand to lose ten pounds. Oh, people say that I have a funny walk, too.

So, after all of that, what do you presume that I find to be my most alluring physical and sociological attributes?

Well, I'm pretty good at mini-golf, I'll tell you that right off the bat. My sense of humor is fairly broad (I've never understood people who appreciate only one type of humor; I'll watch Best In Show and Wipeout in the same night and find them both hilarious), and if you hang out with me, I'll make you laugh at least once or die trying. I take pride in not being a neanderthal, I value not looking like Buddy Ebsen (unless it's Halloween), and I think my neck and chin are very structurally sound, displaying an aura of masculinity and strength unparalleled by my tiny wrists and passive-aggressive annoyances.

That's pretty much it. Oh, and my 11-inch penis. Almost forgot.

Spend enough time with me, and if you're even halfway-decent at reading personalities, you'll see my good and bad points almost immediately (this process is accelerated when I'm intoxicated). I smell nice, but I curse a lot. I'll buy you a drink, but I'll probably be really deliberate about it. The more comfortable I feel around you, the more nice things I'll do for you, but the more I'll end up trying to offend you to see where your limits are (this is the only fun I typically have at parties). At the end of the day, however, you could do a lot worse.

You're probably asking yourself, 'What is this douchebag rambling on about?'

This is what I'm rambling on about.

The above screenshot comes to us from Facebook, the biggest online mistake I've made in the last four years (until that point, my biggest online mistake was discovering that 'Pain Olympics' video where that guy chops his ween off). It should be noted that I never wanted to get into 'Social Networking,' but I signed up for Facebook last Summer so I could get the word out about 65 Poor Life Decisions. That's right, I joined Facebook to sell more copies of my book, and I'm happy to say that it worked like an absolute charm. Every other aspect of it can shine my taint like a 2009 penny. This is the same reason you don't see me on MySpace, Twitter or anything else that's simply in the business of uncreative communication.

"I'm at the supermarket now! C-YA!"
"Why are hamburger buns so expensive these days? Grrr!"
"I just shot a black man! Lolzerz!"

Regardless, somewhere along the line I was suckered into entering this 'Social Profile' nonsense, which makes your name available to other friends who wish to 'rate' you against others under a variety of categories, such as 'Who's Hotter?' and 'Who's Child Would You Rather Abort?' Hard-hitting queries like that.

Really, one of the primary goals of Social Networking is to see to it that High School never ends for those who peaked during those late teen years. Funny thing is, a quick search of all of the popular people from my High School reveals some of the saddest and most rapid descents from greatness since King Lear. The women that I found so beautiful and untouchable at the age of 17 are now disgraceful rednecks with equally disgraceful redneck husbands; each wearing baseball caps, reeking of Miller High Life and working a crease into their personalized barstool for all of eternity. They will sit in their hometown until Judgment Day, retelling their story of past greatness to anyone unfortunate enough to wander into earshot without an exit strategy. These people eventually become aunts and uncles, and I'm sure you have a few of them in your family as we speak. Hell, maybe you are one of them, I don't know and I barely care.

I find that hilarious. Makes me glad to know that I was borderline-retarded for the first 21 years of my existence. After the roller coaster of Life drops down that first awesome hill, none of the other ones can ever be as high. It's basic physics.

I was never popular, but I was never spat upon, either. I was the type that could wander away from my core group from time to time and fit in wherever I went. I'd bet that approximately 75% of my graduating class would remember me, and out of that group, 85% of them would remember me with some degree of apathetic fondness or indifference. I'll take those kind of odds any day, and so would you if you had the chance.

But back to this goddamn Facebook thing. Typically, I have all Facebook-related e-mails forwarded straight to the Spam folder, but I opened this one up for whatever reason and viewed the 'Dateable?' statistic. Like most of us, I laughed it off at first. I even was optimistic about it.

"Wow, four people clicked 'Yes?' I wonder who they were. That was awfully nice of them."

But after...I don't know...say, six seconds of that nonsense, I got really, profoundly depressed. In all honestly, this was one of the most apparent and glaring admissions of public worthlessness among my peers that I've ever received. To put it another way, if you were in a room with 27 other people, and when asked who would be interested in dating you, nobody raised their hands, wouldn't you feel like running out of the room and bawling your eyes out in the stairwell, wiping away your tears and smeared eyeshadow on the corners of your seafoam dress? Not one person out of 27 wanted to take a chance on me? Doesn't anyone complete these surveys drunk anymore?

I calmed myself down. Surely, there was a perfectly good reason for this. Perhaps most people selected 'no' because I'm a married man. Perhaps they were classy women that wouldn't even consider the unlikely possibility that I'd ever return to the dating market again. Perhaps they were showing respect to the Missus. Perhaps I was being compared alongside of unbelievably good-looking men like Jesse Russell and Bruce Dierbeck, and hadn't a prayer against their photogenic and pheromone-gushing ways. Surely, there was some sort of intangible, some foreign variable that affected the decision apart from "I just plain don't want to date this dorkface."

For the eight-hundred billionth time in my life, something as superficial as a Facebook application has turned my world inside-out. If I'm an average guy (as previously theorized), then that number should be approximately 50/50. Not 87/13 (yeah, I used a calculator). If Facebook is correct, and the word of the People is correct, then I am significantly below average when it comes to being anything even resembling a catch. When did this happen? When did I go from 'Likable Average Joe' to 'If it were down to you and Tom Arnold, I'd still probably have to flip a coin?'

Back to this in a minute, because there was one other stat on that chart that killed me.

Out of the four people kind enough to say that they would date me if given the opportunity (actually, if truly given the opportunity, that number would presumably taper off even further; everyone wants what they can't have), only one woman gave a reason for the approved selection, being that I was 'Funny.' I assume that the other three had very complex theories as to why I'd be a suitable prospective mate; my clean STD record and delicate musk being just two of what I'd argue are dozens of reasonable examples. Whoever the girl was that took the time to offer an explanation, I sincerely thank you and love you.

I also know that it wasn't the Missus who did it, because she thinks I'm one of the least-funny guys on the planet. The last time I made her laugh was when I made a fart noise during a commercial for the 'Rascal' Scooter. She's very refined.

So, what's to make of this? Well, most logical folk will say 'nothing.' I, on the other hand, am only logical concerning the problems of others. The fact that I've written thousands of neurotic words on the subject is a good indicator of this truth. Facebook says that I'm unpopular, unfunny and less desired than about 70% of the World's population. Nobody wants to date me, nobody wants to talk to me and nobody wants to tell me why. Remember my brilliant High School analogy from before? Well, it's beginning to feel so much like 1997 in here that I can hear Savage Garden's 'Truly, Madly, Deeply' gently wafting out of my computer speakers as I speak.

Only now I can drink myself into unconsciousness legally.

Sound off in the comments section and enjoy your week. Get your free and completely un-dateable CDP Desktop Wallpaper right here.