Expert advice for your dating profile.

Just me and my paella minding my own business when the woman across from me brakes my rhythm. As I warm up to her (and my paella cools down to me), eventually I’m asked what I do. I should just say “coroner,” and embrace the awkward silence. Nope.

“Author.”

“Neat. What do you write about?”

“I write humor about relationships.”

“Excellent. Hey, would you do me a favor and critique my eHarmony dating profile?”

“You did hear me when I said I write humor, right?”

“Yep. So, you must do some online dating. You should be qualified.”

“Ok.”

“Give me your email address and I’ll send it to you to read.”

“Then, I’ll do something the men who see your profile rarely do.”

“What’s that?”

“Read it.”

“Ugh.”

“Your dating profile is like a resume–you should tailor it to the one you’re trying to impress. In other words, put less emphasis on the words, and more emphasis on the pictures.”

“Really? So guys only look at pictures?”

“Men don’t make it past the pictures unless they contain something they’d like to mate with.”

“Jesus.”

“Hey, don’t smite the messenger. My advice is to have professional pictures taken. Make them slightly sexy. Smile. Great backgrounds. No pets, children, ex-boyfriends, drunk friends, or buttery nipples–the drink. Also, make sure they are impressive, but not misrepresentations. You want the man to be pleasantly surprised when he meets you, instead of asking who you are.”

“I guess that makes sense. I had some guys tell me they wouldn’t date me because I have short hair.”

“Do you want to date a man who decides the value of his mate based on hair length?”

“No.”

“Then, those idiots have done you a favor by filtering themselves. Speaking of filters, you should have others, including political affiliation, religion, and the presence of noisy things, such as young offspring.”

“I should specify that in my profile?”

“Sure. First line of mine, if I hadn’t already given up, would be, ‘If you hate Obama, love Jesus, scoop poop with your gloved hand, or pack lunches, move along … nothing to see here.'”

“Maybe I should just begin mine with a claim that I give the best blow job west of the Mississippi.”

“That is admirable, yet an ineffective filter, my dear, unless he lives in New Jersey and has met my friend Ariel.”

“I see.”

She didn’t see. I have communication issues. Let me try this in the voice of my Cuban baseball coach. (He gets through to me, no problem.):

“Pheel, is so easy. I tell ju. All she wan is you leek her poosie. Ju leek her poosie good, she fuck ju. No problem. See? She fuck ju, she fuck nobody else. Ees so easy, I tell ju. She want to give you hand job? Ju fuck dat hand job! Ju wait til she good and wet and she scream, ‘Yes, baby!’ She take off her shoe and give you her foot? Ju fuck dat foot! You got to leek it. No, not leek her foot. Don’t be stupid. Leesen, Pheel. Leek de poosie til she ready, den, only den, ju fuck her gooooood.”

“But, Coach, what if she wants a neck rub?”

“Neck rub? Neck rub?! Ju kidding me? Ju fuck dat neck rub!”

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About the author

Author of humorous essays about relationships and lifestyles.

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