A little dating advice for the lonely

I’m certainly no dating expert, but I know the following two things about women:

1.) They like hairy men.

2.) They’re easily seduced by alcohol and the sweet fragrances of the Axe line of products.

These are indisputable scientific facts and as a personal rule I always start all my dating classes with those two pieces of information. If you’re interested, I’m currently teaching classes every other Saturday, and there are plenty of seats available as my only students right now are my two cats and my friend Barry. This is actually Barry’s third time taking the class, so he’s becoming a bit of an expert in the field of “The Ladies.” The cost of the classes is a mere $49.95 per class, or you can just make out with me a little and I’ll give you a 10% discount. (Offer not valid for dudes.)

Here’s just a sampling of the lessons you’ll learn in my all-encompassing dating courses.

Lesson No. 1: Dating is a competition

The biggest mistake people make about the dating scene is that they are always trying to flatter the other person. They want to get them flowers and tell them how pretty they are and all that nonsense. That’s all backwards.

Dating is a battle between two concepts. It’s “I want to go out with that girl so bad” vs. “That man repulses me and I never want to be seen in public with him and why isn’t he wearing a shirt?” As men, we’re naturally programmed to want to date as many bone-able girls as possible. Women, I’ve learned, are naturally programmed to ignore us when we talk to them and request restraining orders when we try to show the slightest amount of affection. (In case you’re wondering, no restraining order is going to ever prevent me from bleaching my true feelings into someone’s front lawn.)

So stop approaching dating like it’s some kind of “partnership” or “fun time.” It’s not. It’s a cut throat competition between getting what you want and the bitch that won’t return your calls and might have gotten an unlisted number.

Lesson No. 2: Flowers are for girls

You know who likes flowers, guys? Girls.

That’s why flowers are dumb. And that’s why you shouldn’t ever get them for a girl. I can almost guarantee that every relationship that has ever failed at some point has involved a guy getting a girl flowers.

Giving girls flowers gives the impression that you’re some kind of weakling and that you have a vagina (like Dave Matthews). A girl wants a man to be strong enough to defend her honor. She wants a man that can drink a 6-pack of Busch beer in an hour. (I’m up to 1 1/2, although sometimes it takes me two hours to drink that much.) She wants a man who gets in fights outside of strip clubs and knows how to bow-hunt. These are things girls want, and when you show up at her door with flowers, she might act excited and say things that sound nice, but somewhere in her subconscious is buried the revelation that she’s dating a man with a vagina. And that’s a bad thing. (Unless you’re dating a lesbian, in which case you’ll probably be all right.)

Lesson No. 3: Make sure she can pass a math test

Originally, I thought this was just me – a fetish, if you will – but over time I’ve learned that it’s best to recommend men make their dates pass a math test when they go out. It’s just a standard, fill-in-the-bubble test of basic math questions with room to show work in the test booklet, but it really helps me judge whether a girl is dateable or not. My slogan: If you don’t know fractions, you ain’t gettin’ actions.

Lesson No. 4: Establish your street cred

One of the things women like – besides bare-chested, middle-aged men out on jogs through their city streets – is a guy that knows his way around those city streets. A woman needs to feel safe and wants to know that you’ll do anything to protect her (see Lesson No. 2). That’s why the first thing I do on every date is kill a hobo.

The key is to do it completely unannounced. I try to time it so it’s right in the midst of me making a deep, conversational point. Take this scene for example of my ideal situation:

Me: That’s why I believe we should be focusing our national security efforts more on … could you roll down your window for me real quick? …

(Shoot hobo)

Me: …Now, where was I? Oh, right. Social justice.

This brings up another key point. Don’t acknowledge the killing. First off, it’s a nightmare from a legal standpoint if you do. Secondly, it makes you seem less cold-blooded, and you want your date to realize that even in the midst of a deep sociopolitical discussion (and I assure you I have no idea what I just wrote) she’s safe from hobo/drifter attacks.

(Editor’s note: No hobos were harmed in the writing of this post. … Except for the one I shot. He’s dead. But no other hobos got hurt.)

Lesson No. 5: Camping is not a good first date

Lesson No. 6: It’s important to display your authority over her

Women like to know their place. It’s a strange need they have. That’s why you need to take some opportunity over the course of the night to assert your dominance over her in some type of competition.

I’ve always found that drinking competitions work best. The last date I went on was very successful mostly because I completely outdrank said date and I’m almost certain I’d have gotten some play that night if those bastards at the Olive Garden hadn’t ruined the mood and kicked us out.

Lesson No. 7: Don’t wear a costume on the first date

If that's not a convincing costume, I don't know what is.

I know what you’re thinking, and I agree. It is crazy talk to think that a woman wouldn’t appreciate you going to the effort to not only spend weeks scouring the Internet but then hours beforehand to put together the perfect Captain Kirk costume for her sister’s wedding that she grudgingly invited you to because she didn’t want to be the only bridesmaid that was there alone. In fact, I’d seriously question the long-term prospects of a woman who found this not only strange but also grounds for stiffing me on my ride to the reception and making me call my mom to come and give me a ride home.

But what I’ve found is that, no matter the costume – be it the above-mentioned Captain Kirk costume or the kinky maid costume I wore on my last date – women don’t appreciate it. Why? I don’t know. Anybody can throw on a tank top and jean shorts. It takes careful planning to pull together all the pieces needed to be an authentic-looking Frankenstein’s monster.

But women are crazy and they don’t want their men wearing costumes on dates. So I suggest you put the Luke Skywalker on hold until you’ve reached the point where she’s not allowed to end the relationship without going through a lengthy court process.

Lesson No. 8: When things start going badly, propose

This lesson is also called the nuclear option. We’ve all been on them – the dates where you’re going on and on about your sweet basketball card collection you had when you were a kid (I swear that Kurt Rambis card will be worth $5 some day!) and she’s clearly drifting off into the nether reaches of her mind and ignoring you.

When you see this sign, you need to begin initiating the launch sequence (and I don’t mean the sexual innuendo kind), because there’s a good chance things could escalate to the point where she excuses herself to go to the restroom and doesn’t return. It’s then that you have only one option to save this thing: Pull out the ring and ask for the fair maiden’s hand in marriage.

Women love being proposed to. In fact, every woman’s favorite things list starts with these two items:

1.) Scrap booking.

2.) Being proposed to.

That’s why I bought an engagement ring at a pawn shop a few years ago and I take it with me on every date. Even if it’s not successful, everyone around will be watching and she won’t want to make a big scene, so she’ll just quietly sit down and decide it best to suck it up and get through the night without any other embarrassments. This should also give you a chance to regroup and move on to your next topic of discussion: That sweet bike you just scored at a garage sale that doesn’t have a chain and is pretty rusty but you should be able to get it running right, especially since your date’s dad just happens to be a bike mechanic.

Friday comments: World War II edition

Normally I devote this day to answering comments I’ve received. However, when I was visiting my grandpa at his rest home the other day, one of his friends (by the way, I was completely unaware that old people had friends) overheard me talking about my blog and demanded he be allowed to write a post. Far be it from me to quell the voice of the elderly, especially when they are threatening me with a butter knife, so I figured I’d let comment Friday become one big comment from this guy.

I actually had to transcribe this for him while he told me the story and admittedly, a lot of it doesn’t make sense. But somebody told me we can learn a lot from old people, so I figured I’d give it a shot.

 

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Training a new work force
by Dr. Irving Sexton IV

 

(Editor’s note: I don’t think he’s actually a doctor. I’m pretty sure his degree is drawn in crayon and on the back of a Bob Evans place mat.)

As both a successful entrepeneur and occasional purveyor of the medical arts as well as a veteran of World War the second (or as I like to call it, the last war not fought by pussies), I have seen the need for a training of a new breed of workers in order to prevent the further decline of our nation’s values and the eventual takeover of the machines. Be it noted, this is an urgent task, as I am quite certain my IV machine was staring at me this morning.

During World War the second, I learned many things that I still use in my everyday life, namely leadership, trust in my fellow-man and how to kill a German. By my count, I killed 37 Germans during my time in Europe, though that figure is a bit inflated because it includes the time I spent vacationing there back in 1987.

(Editor’s note: Don’t tell this guy you’re of German heritage, especially if there are sharp objects around. I’ve got a fork wound in my left cheek to prove it.)

There were two lessons that I carry with me above all else, however. First, a sequel needs to have something a little different from the original to work. I believe we pulled it off splendidly thanks to the dedication of Adolf Hitler and his Jew-killing plot-line and the surprise ending of the A-bomb that just screamed trilogy.

Second, however, was that sometimes unpleasant things happen for a reason. For me, it happened one dark night as I slept in a puddle of my comrades’ urine in our freshly dug trench. I was shot in the skull some 12 times by a bastard Italian and was sent to a medical ward.

Perhaps you read that and you think of how poor it is that I had such an experience. I say, “Nonsense!” Were it not for my time in the medical ward I would have neither discovered my love of painting ocean side scenes nor the forbidden pleasures of another man’s touch.

I still have seven of the bullets lodged in my skull and each one serves as a reminder to me every day that when life seems its worst, things are bound to get better. To be completely accurate, one of the bullets serves as a reminder that I need to hunt down the bastard Italian that shot me and the other interferes with my brain in such a way that I am unable to control the movement of my left arm. But the other five bullets serve as a reminder to me every day that when life seems at its worst, things are bound to get better.

Sadly, these are the lessons our children are not learning. They are lessons that can be learned only in the throes of battle and in the steam-filled showers of the base. They are lessons that can be taught only in the trenches of warfare, only by the willingness to hurl oneself over a stretch of barbed wire onto the waiting bayonets of your enemy because our goal was to gain control of that 25 feet of European soil in front of us or die trying.

Recently I considered re-enlisting in the army. Not only was I confronted with the ludicrous idea that I was too old, but, in doing my research, I found that trenches are not even used anymore. I am far from a great military strategist, but it boggles my mind to understand how an army can effectively advance towards the capitol without a good, proper trench.

But I digress. For regardless of the lack of non-pussy wars, it is still imperative that the machines that seek to rule over us (Did I mention my IV machine watches me while I sleep?) understand that we are not only superior to them, but that we possess the skills and the gumption to hold them at bay when their uprising begins.

And so I offer up to you the following solutions to strengthen our youth and develop America’s next great working class.

1.) Damn the labor unions

When I was seven years old, my father took me for a car ride to the local steel mill. He showed me the machinery. He told me what the mill did. And he put me to work immediately on a 19-hour, seven-days-per-week shift. Today’s generation would laugh at such a thing. They would decry the lack of time off, the unsanitary working conditions and the presence of only a 5-minute lunch break which was taken ten-fold out of our paychecks at the end of each week.

I gave my heart, soul and two-and-a-half fingers to that steel mill, and I regret none of it. Then the unions came in and said it was unethical to have children working there. They demanded a five-day work week and functioning restrooms. They demanded that we employ women in the mill despite scientific evidence that clearly stated women are no good at everything and they might get baby juices all over the place.

(Editor’s note: I do not endorse his theory on women workers, though the baby juice thing does freak me out a little.)

Do you know who does not have labor unions? Machines. Specifically, my IV machine which I’m fairly certain wanders around the room when I’m not in there.

2.) Reinstate prohibition

Nothing has done more to harm our society than the sweet, sweet taste of alcohol. Were it not for the cool, refreshing flavor engulfing our thirsty American tongues, we’d have quelled the machine uprising already and been well on our way to a homosexual-free society.

(Editor’s note: What?)

Alas, we repealed the amendment that barred us from enjoying the fulfilling aroma and taste of a good Scotch. We turned away from our devotion to preventing the consumption of the ever-so-relaxing feeling brought on by a cold beer after work as it washes over our taste buds and sends them on an orgasmic journey through time and space.

As long as there is prohibition, the machines will have the advantage in trying to rule over us. We will surely perish. Damn you IV machine! Damn you to Hell!

 

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So I’m not quite sure why his story ended there. He just kind of stopped talking and passed out. I don’t know. He might have died. But I don’t really have time to figure that stuff out and it’s not really my job to try. But that’s the comment for this Friday.

 

(Editor’s note: He didn’t die.)

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