OK, I’m about to give up on this whole Match.com bullshit. They claim they can help you find that special someone. But since I’ve joined, not one woman has shown any interest. My friends tell me it takes time for people to notice you on the site. I guess they’re right. After all, it has only been about ten months. In any case, in lieu of an actual blog entry this week, I’ve decided to post part of my profile to see if anyone has any suggestions. Thanks for your help.

About me and what I’m looking for:

I believe a woman should stay at home and be barefoot. Not barefoot and pregnant. Just barefoot. I don’t like shoes and I don’t like kids. I also think that a sense of humour is important. Therefore, my ideal match should have a good idea of what is funny, without actually laughing. I find the sight of a woman laughing to be physically repulsive. Besides, there is too much potential for snorting, which is an instant deal-breaker.

When it comes to fashion, you can pretty much wear whatever you want. All I ask is that you avoid any cotton or cotton blends. Also, I will not be seen with anyone who shops at The Gap or Old Navy. Keep in mind, you do not actually have to be wearing clothing from these stores to turn me off. Just the mere thought of bargain attire littering your closet makes me cringe.

As far as perfume goes, anything with a floral scent will immediately cause me to break out in hives. Citrus smells can be refreshing, provided they are not derived from orange, lemon, lime or grapefruit. Tangerine is OK.

Also, you must love dogs. You should believe that of all the domesticated animals, dogs have the most to offer. Of course, of all the wild animals, monkeys have the most to offer. I mean, it’s a fucking monkey, right? You should be one of these people who babies her dog to the point where people question your sanity. All I ask is that you keep your fucking mutt away from me. I’m very allergic.

In any case, I’m just a simple man who doesn’t require much. So if you hate cotton and don’t own any shoes, we may have a future together, assuming you fit the rest of my criterea. For a free copy of my five-page document entitled The Woman I Seek, all you have to do is deciper this simple code: 6hy23s9H87GT. Hint: the capital H is actually a lowercase h. Thank you for your time. And good luck.

Hey, what day is it? Sorry, I guess I”m kinda out of it. My head is aching. I suppose that’s what I get for throwing a party on a Thursday night. Why a Thursday night? Because Friday-night parties are for pussies.

So anyhow, like I was saying, I decided to have me a little get-together. Just me, some folks I met off the street and a bottle of Jack. Sure, I could’ve invited people I actually know. But it’s a lot more fun when you’re partying with strangers, am I right? Yeah, you know what I mean.

So anyhow, there we all were, sitting in my living room, passing ’round the ol’ bottle, trying to guess everyone’s names, when someone—I think his name was Mike—said, “Hey, I have an idea. Let’s play Truth or Dare.” And I was like, “Fuck that shit.” But then the girls said (did I mention the girls?) Truth or Dare sounded like fun. So, naturually, we ended up playing the stupid game.

Of course, we didn’t know each other’s names, so if we wanted to dare someone, we’d just point to that person and say, “You.” The game began when the girl with the curly hair—we’ll call her Curly—pointed to the chick wearing the polka dots (Dotty) and asked her, “Truth or Dare?” Dotty thought for a moment and then she said, “Dare!” So Curly looked around the room for a while and then she said, “I dare you to. . .eat a tomato!” And I was like, “What kind of fuckin’ dare is that?” And she said, “Tomatoes are gross.” And I was like, “No they aren’t. I eat tomatoes all the time.” Anyhow, the stupid bitch ate a tomato, and then it was her turn to pick someone.

So Dotty started to look around the room and she ended up picking that guy who I think is named Mike, and she said, “You! Truth or Dare?” And Mike, he thought for a while and then he finally said, “Dare.” So Dotty sat there thinking and finally she said, “I dare you to make out with . . . her!” And she pointed to one of the hottest cheerleaders in the room. (Did I mention all the girls were cheerleaders?) So I was like, “Hey, what the fuck? That’s no dare!” And Dotty said, “Sure it is. He’s gay.” And I was like, “Oh.” So Mike went up to the hot girl (Hotty) and he didn’t waste any time. He just put his lips against hers and started doing the tongue tango. But it wasn’t like they were only locking lips. He was all rubbing up against her and grabbing stuff. And all this time, I was thinking to myself, Man, I hope I get a dare like that.

So, yeah, that kind of shit went on for a few hours. Someone would pick someone, they’d take the dare and then they’d have to do something really easy, like say, drink a glass of water while reciting “I slit the sheet, the sheet I slit, and on the slitted sheet I sit.” Oddly enough, nobody was picking me. It was like I was watching a movie or something—a really fucked up movie.

But then, all of the sudden, after Mike had finished making out with another cheerleader, his eyes locked right on mine and he said, “You! Truth or Dare?” Fuck, so much for being a spectator. But then I thought, What did care if these people found out my deepest, darkest secrets? They didn’t know me. After the night was through, they’d leave and I’d probably never see them again. So I looked right at Mike and I smirked and I said, “Dare.” Shit. Why’d I say that?

And then, for what seemed like an hour (it was actually only 58 minutes), Mike’s eyes stayed locked on mine. Finally, he grinned and said, “What kind of stove you got?”

“Excuse me?” I said.

“I said,” he said, “What kind of stove you got?”

“I don’t know. I think it’s a General Electric.”

“No, you fuckin’ moron! I mean is it electric or gas?”

“Electric. Why?”

“I dare you to turn on the burner to the highest setting and then leave your hand on it for 30 seconds.”

“While it’s heating up?”

“No, after it’s heated all the way up. When it’s glowing.”

“Are you fucking kidding me? I’m not doing that!”

“You have to. That’s the game.”

“Can’t I just eat a tomato or choke on water?”

“No. You have to do what I say.”

“Fuck.”

So, not wanting to be a sore loser, I walked over and turned on the burner to my stove. As I waited for the coils to start glowing, everyone began crowding around me. The girls watched, giggling nervously. And all that time, all I could think about was how I was going to get myself out of this one. There I was, surrounded by strangers, waiting for the moment when i would scar my hand forever. Fortunately, before I even placed my hand over the burner, I came to my senses. I turned the burner off and walked away.

Mike grabbed my arm. “Hey, what the fuck?”

“I’m not doing that shit, man. It’s not fair.”

“Dude, those are the rules.”

“I know. But it’s not right.”

“Hey, did you see that chick complain when she had to eat a fuckin’ tomato?”

“No.”

“And what about me when I had to make out with all of these chicks?”

“No, but I wouldn’t either.”

“That’s because you’re not fuckin’ gay, man. I’m a total fag.”

“I don’t think gay people use that term like that.”

“How the fuck do you know? You’re not fuckin’ gay.”

“Look, I’m not going to burn my hand for a bunch of strangers.”

“Fine, I’ll give you another dare.”

So then Mike looked around the kitchen. He pulled open the drawers, he searched through the cupboards, and he finally pulled out a large skillet pan.

“What am I supposed to do with that,” I asked, “make you breakfast?”

“No. You have to take this and bash yourself in the face with it until you pass out.”

“Yeah, right.”

“Dude, that’s the dare.”

“You gotta be kidding me. This game sucks. I’m not doing that. Besides, it’s impossible. After I hit myself with the pan a few times, I’ll be too weak to give myself the final blow.”

“Yeah, you’re right. . . OK, I’ll do the bashing then.”

“No way. You’ll kill me.”

“Alright,” Mike said, “then . . . you’ll have to make out with me.”

So I handed Mike the pan and closed my eyes real tight. “OK, just hit me and get it over with. All I ask is that you give me some kind of warning before you—

CRACK!

That’s all I remember. That sound: CRACK! Only I didn’t hear it with my ears. It was inside my head. Something broke in there. Something important.

I woke up the next morning with the feeling of cold linoleum pressing against my cheek. And then I felt an incredible, pulsating pain in the back of my head. Normally, I’d want to reach back there to feel what was wrong. But I was too afraid my hand would come back with blood on it—or brain. I slid my way across the floor and carefully pulled myself to my feet. My head was in such a fog that it seemed like I was in someone else’s home. I mean, it sort of looked like my place, only my bookcase wasn’t there. Or my table. Or my couch. Or my TV. Yeah, Mike and the cheerleaders had robbed me blind and left me for dead. Needless to say, I learned my lesson. You won’t catch me inviting strangers into my home anymore. No, from now on, I’m asking for names.

11:38 PM: I pull into the parking lot of the Taco Bell/KFC on Lincoln and Manchester, turn on my tape recorder and approach the drive-thru intercom:

INTERCOM: Good evening. Welcome to Taco Bell KFC. May I take your order?

ME: Yes, I’d like a Cheesy Bean and Rice Burrito, a Crunchwrap Supreme, some Homestyle Biscuits and a small Mashed Potatoes & Gravy.

INTERCOM: OK, that’s a Cheesy Bean and Rice Burrito, a Crunchwrap Supreme, some Homestyle Biscuits and a small Mashed Potatoes & Gravy. Will that be all?

ME: Actually, there is one more thing. . . I watch QVC.

INTERCOM: I’m sorry, was that a quesadilla?

ME: No, I said I watch QVC.

INTERCOM: Uh huh. Please pull forward.

ME: No, you don’t get it. I’m not the kind of guy you’d normally think would watch a shopping channel. I have a full-time job and a pretty decent sense of style. Of course, I’m not saying that all people who watch QVC are unemployed and lack taste, although it’s certainly true for most.

INTERCOM: Sir, please pull forward.

ME: You know what’s even worse? I’ve actually purchased things that I’ve seen on TV.

INTERCOM: *sigh* Hey, do you want this food or not?

ME: I even have those Space Bags. You know the ones that you stick stuff in and suck out the air with a vacuum cleaner? They’re sitting in my closet. I’ve actually used them. I also have one of those mops that vacuums up the water for you. Doesn’t work that well.

A horn honks behind me.

INTERCOM: Dude, just get out of here!

ME: Anyhow, my latest purchase was this thing called a Toss ‘N’ Chop. Basically, it’s a pair of scissors with two sets of blades. To make chopped salad, you simply stick the device into a bowl of lettuce and whatnot and squeeze away. The handle is spring-loaded, so little effort is required.

The horn continues to honk, followed by several other horns.

INTERCOM: Look, I’m not allowed to leave the restaurant after 11. But if I could, I would come out there and shove your Chalupa so far up your nose, your brain would have sour cream on it.

ME: I didn’t order a Chalupa.

INTERCOM: PULL THE FUCK FORWARD!

ME: In a minute. See, the problem is. I’ve had this Toss ‘N’ Chop since Christmas and I’ve never used it once. Not even once. I mean, you’d think that in that much time, I might have taken it out to see how it works. But no, it just sits in my drawer untouched. Honestly, I don’t even like chopped salad.

I glance in my rearview mirror and see three guys wearing baseball caps approaching my vehicle.

INTERCOM: I don’t get paid enough for this.

ME: You know what else is strange? I don’t even know what QVC stands for. I mean, HSN is easy: Home Shopping Network. But QVC? Not a clue.

A guy wearing a baseball cap leans into my window.

GUY: Hey, man, do we have a problem here?

ME: Several. But I’m working them out.

GUY: Dude, I’m fucking famished. Why don’t you go work it out at Mickey D’s or somethin’?

ME: Mickey D’s?

GUY: McDonald’s, man!

ME: You call McDonald’s Mickey D’s?

GUY: Everyone does!

ME: I don’t.

The guy reaches in and grabs me by the throat.

GUY: Look, I’m trying to be nice about this. Me and my buddies here want some fucking tacos.

ME: Ack.

GUY: Now, let’s try this again. When I let go, all you gotta do is drive the fuck away. You got that?

I nod as best as I can with a hand squeezing my voicebox.

GUY: Good. OK, I’m gonna let go now.

Face turning blue, I nod again. His hand finally releases my throat and I gasp for air.

ME (panting): OK. . . Can I at least get my food?

GUY: That’s not part of the deal, man.

ME: C’mon, not even a bean burrito?

GUY: Dude, you’re pushing it.

ME: Hm. . .

I look at him and his ears are totally red.

GUY: Just get the fuck out of here, dude!

ME: OK, OK, I’m going. But before I do, can I just ask you one quick question?

GUY: *sigh* What?!

ME: Have you ever watched QVC?

The next thing I know, I’m waking up in my car with beans, rice and cheese smeared all over the dashboard, mashed potatoes and gravy in my hair and a Chalupa shoved halfway up my left nostril. As you can imagine, I wasn’t happy. How many times do I have to tell that asshole I didn’t order a fucking Chalupa?

CHAPTER 1: The Beginning

John was born on a hot winter’s day in the middle of a Wal-Mart parking lot. His mother, Anne, was so busy loading her bargains into her car that she didn’t even notice when she gave birth. In fact, had a passing motorist not yelled “Hey, you stupid bitch, you just gave birth!” the umbilical cord probably would’ve been severed with a car door. Ouch. Fortunately, this was not the case. As soon as Anne looked down and discovered a baby crying on the blacktop, she put out her cigarette, finished placing her bags in her car, then picked up John and sped off to the doctor’s office.

As Anne patiently sat in the doctor’s waiting room, she started to think about everything that led up to this moment: how she drank a little too much wine and slept with a few too many men. Not that Anne was in any way a slut. No, she just liked to have sex with anyone who would look at her. Or anything. But who really gives a shit about Anne? This is the story of John.

OK, let’s face it, Anne was an idiot. For the entire duration of her pregnancy, she had no idea she was with child. She just thought she was eating a few too many Oreos. And who in their right mind goes to the doctor’s office after giving birth? You go to the fucking Emergency Room, am I right? Yeah. But really, that’s enough about Anne. This is the story of John.

Oh, there’s one more thing you need to know about Anne: Not only was she the town whore, she advertised it proudly. She even had one of those magnetic signs stuck to her car. “I’m The Town Whore,” it read. Which you’d think would be pretty effective. But business was limited, since she forgot to include her phone number on the sign and stupidly stuck the thing to the roof of her car.

Yeah, you might say that when they were handing out brains, Anne probably screamed at hers, dropped it on the ground and stomped on it until someone could sedate her. That would explain why from the moment John had teeth, Anne fed him nothing but Oreo cookies. Regular Oreos were for snacks and the Oreos with Double Stuff were for dinner. For a side dish, Anne would painstakingly scrape out the filling of about 100 Oreos and serve it all in a bowl as sort of a mashed-potato-like thing. Only it tasted nothing like mashed potatoes. It tasted like sugar. And Crisco. Which is not good.

Needless to say, after a while, John’s teeth started to hurt. Anne explained that it was just because his jaw was growing and that the pain would eventually subside. And she was right. The pain did eventually subside, after John’s last tooth fell out. That’s when Anne realized John couldn’t survive on Oreo cookies alone. After all, since John no longer had any teeth, he was unable to get the nourishment that the dark chocolate Oreo wafer provided. Instead, Anne put him on a strict diet of whipped cream and pudding.

Now, when I say “pudding,” I’m not talking about dessert in general, as you Brits tend to do. No, I mean good old-fashioned American pudding. Chocolate Vanilla Swirl with calcium for growing bones. Anything but butterscotch. That shit is disgusting.

So where was I? Oh, right, John. The story of John. Do you really want to read about this? He’s just your average toothless pudding-eating guy who has a very popular mother. Are you sure? OK, fine. Fuck. I was hoping you’d say you didn’t, because I really have no fucking clue what to say about the kid. You know, when a guy asks you if you really want to hear about something, it usually means he doesn’t feel like talking about it. He also might say that if the person he’s telling the story to has fallen asleep or has shoved the barrel of a shot gun into his mouth.

I mean, if this was the story Anne, I could have told you about how she turned tricks for cookies and cake. Or how John wasn’t the first child she gave birth to in a parking lot. But like I said, this isn’t the story of Anne. It’s the story of John. Damn it. Why didn’t I make this the story of Anne? It would’ve been so much more interesting to read. Well, I guess this is the end of Chapter One. Fuck. I am so screwed. Which reminds me of another story about Anne.