Help me, Cupid! I need matchmaking assistance. I matched with 21 local lovelies. Which should I contact?

Don’t say “all of them,” as I don’t want to be “that guy” yet.

Cathy will help me decide on today’s Nice Guy Show at 11am PST. Feel free to dial in and join us (347) 237-4721.


What can atheists get out of Christmas?

atheistxmasSome piece-of-shit bimbo … oh, I’m sorry … lovely lady, whose profile I happened to stumble across, decided to return my kindness with unkindness. Here’s how the conversation went with the closed-minded waste of nipples … sorry again … I mean, person:

“Great pics! Hope you had a nice Christmas.” Phil

“Christmas???? You are an atheist. I don’t get it. I’m a Christian. Best of luck to you.” Crusty Rotting Baby Hole (Sorry, I added that last bit.)

WTF? I wasn’t referring to my holiday. If she were Jewish (she’d be just as awful and probably pan-assed … sorry), I may have wished her a Happy Hanukkah. I don’t wish people happy birthday on my fucking birthday, do I? No, because that’s silly and self-centered to an alarming degree.

So, what right did this beastly twat (sorry) have to reject my somewhat sincere compliment and friendly greeting? All right, it is a free country, even for ignorant people with saggy boobs and gray roots (lo siento).

This pig (sorry) really screwed up my morning. Here I was, sipping my delicious mug of espresso with a light dusting of cinnamon whilst perusing my emails and, what do you know, I stumble across an unmarked speed bump. Was it what I deserved to find: a sweet greeting from Sandra B. who wants to get to know me well? Nope. It was a flippant remark from a smelly person whose chest and shoulders are probably dotted by moles from sun overexposure (sorry). I hope she’s constipated (again).

A more civilized response would have been something like:

  • Why, thank you. You’re too kind.
  • Aw, how sweet of you. Yes, I had a nice holiday.
  • Hey there, handsome. Your profile has lovely photos as well.
  • Much obliged, my sweet.
  • We must meet soon and taste each other.

But, no. This lonely slob (sorry) decided to select her response from the not-so-nice pile:

  • You’re an atheist, which means you should fucking burn for eternity and get no presents.
  • How dare you? May the Almighty smite thee.
  • If you don’t have God in your life, you are an uncivilized lump of monkey boogers. Go away.
  • So, you don’t believe in anything? That means you suck, and I don’t believe you. But, that doesn’t mean I’m an atheist.
  • Stay back or I will throw holy water and garlic at you.

Try to be a nice guy. Jeez. Well, now I’m pissed. This lumpy slab of humanity with cramps (I so hope she has cramps–bad ones. Ooh, and a migraine too) thinks she can invade my email box and return an obvious random act of kindness with venom and get away with it? Oh, hells to the no! I’ll not sit here idly and shrug off another injustice. I hope some smelly man one pew over takes her out, gets her drunk on cheap boxed zinfandel, and then proceeds to impregnate her with over-sized triplets. And, I hope she gets a UTI from him. Heck, toss in some warts. There.

People, if someone compliments you, take it. Don’t make any judgment around the level of sincerity involved. Don’t seek to determine the qualifications of the well-wisher. Just take it, bow, and say thank you. Good day.

What am I supposed to do with your number?

When you distribute your phone number to a potential bedwarmer, what are your expectations? Wouldn’t it be logical to provide instructions along with the number? Why begin the relationship with ambiguity? Why test the man before the first date?

After exchanging a few witty (brushing my nails on my shirt right now) emails, I received a reply that contained a phone number. This baffled me. I was flattered to receive the number, but I didn’t know what exactly to do with it. Yes, I realized the intention was for me to use it to call her. My confusion concerned how and when. I put on my smart cap and decided the safest thing to do was send a text message asking what was best time for me to call. Gosh, sometimes I wonder how I fit all those brains in my skull.

Then my phone rang.

I allowed it to go to voice mail because I was on the treadmill and wasn’t in the mood for a face-plant, plus I didn’t want all my panting to scare her away.

“Hi, this is Missy from Match. I thought it would be nice to talk on the phone before we meet. So, give me a call when you get a chance and we can chat.”

When I called Missy, she lectured me. This made me and my curiosity shrivel.

“I’m new to this online dating thing. Tell me: Is it normal that guys get a number and instead of calling send more emails and then a text message.”

“Um, normal?”

“Just trying to figure men out.”

“Well, let me ask you this: If I called you seconds after I received your number, what would have been your impression?”

“I don’t know. I guess I would have been flattered and seen it as a sign of high interest on your part, much like providing my number showed high interest on my part.”

“I see. Perhaps you could have left your number with an asterisk and a note specifying a best time to call and the fact that you expect a voice call.”

“Really? I need to be that specific?”

“Or, you can be vague and disappointed, which will result in an awkward conversation with a man you’ve only met in two dimensions.”

“I didn’t mean for this to be awkward. I’m only asking.”

“In the past day, how many text messages have you sent and how many voice calls have you made?”

“Yes, I text my friends more often than I call them.”

“Hence, my decision to send a text fell in line with your tendencies.”

“It’s just so impersonal, especially when first meeting.”

“I understand and had I known your expectations I would have met or exceeded them. Now, let’s put this behind us, cupcake. Would you like to meet?”

“Um, sure, I guess so.”

Please don’t analyze me. I’m old and tired. I won’t chase you unless you’re coated in honey and powdered sugar. Point me to your pleasure buttons and I will comply.

Cupid, you’re an awful shot.

I should have known better than to hire a zit-faced archer to do my dirty work. I figured with all the video games out today, that winged dope would have sufficient skills to land me love. Nope. Just like in ancient Rome, he infected himself with a loaded arrow before letting it fly and wound up falling in love with an unintended target.

“You … are a winged knucklehead.”

“Hey, it was an accident.”

“I give you one, simple task: Find a fit, childless woman in her forties and let an arrow fly. How the hell did you end up falling in love with a busboy?”

“Ramon is darling. You have no idea.”

“Explain yourself.”

“Fine. I sneaked into the wine bar and posed as a statue. Nobody noticed me for the longest time.”

“I guess the gray skin and tiny penis were uninteresting.”

“I’ll have you know that Ramon loves my tiny penis. In fact …”

“That’s quite enough. Now, what about mytarget?”

“Oh, yes, that. She finally came around to the well and began assembling her garnish–a lime here, an olive there.”

“Yes, go on.”

“She really was quite lovely in the soft bar lighting and dexterous too.”


“So, I yanked an arrow from my quiver and loaded my love bow.”


“I sneezed.”
“You what?”

“Some old woman near me was wearing patchouli. You know how I can’t stand patchouli, boss. Grandma Venus used to wear it and since then it practically singes my nostrils.”

“You sneezed.”

“Yes, I sneezed and in order to be polite and cover my mouth, I had to let go of the love torpedo, which embedded itself in my left foot.”

“You shot yourself with a love potion dipped arrow. How on earth did this result in your recent homosexuality?”

“Well, I’ll tell you. I instantly dropped the bow and jumped around yelling ‘ow’ and ‘fuck’ a lot. Suddenly, this sweet Mexican bar mopper came to my rescue, removed the arrow, and sucked the love venom from my foot, thus intoxicating himself with the potion and my juices.”

“He sucked your foot.”

“It was so sensual. I almost died. Now, we totally heart each other.”

“Are there any other Greek gods that I can summon who would enjoy beating little homo archers into bloody puddles?”

“Don’t be mean. You must come with me to meet Ramon tonight. We’re thinking of moving to Vancouver, getting married, and starting a greeting card company.”

“What about my love?”

“Oh, that. Um. Well, why don’t you just go back on I hear one out of five people meet their significant other there.”

“That means four out of five don’t.”

“Hey, if at first you don’t succeed, lie, lie again.”

So, I renewed my subscription today hoping this dating obstacle course truly is a numbers game. Mars help me.