A Fat Prenup

Over the weekend, I went to a bar/grill type place with Jack Saddle. We settled into a booth and after a couple rounds he began flirting with the waitress until she decided to sit down and join our conversation.

The conversation was about sex after marriage.

“Listen,” Jack told the waitress. “When I’m married, I’ll be fucking my wife until I’m 90. Everyday. Even if they have to pump me full of drugs.”

“How do you know that?” asked the waitress. “People change. What if your wife puts on like 500 pounds?”

“That doesn’t matter.” Jack replied. “She’s my WIFE. The girl I marry I’ll love no matter how much she lets herself go.”

This is where Jack and I differ in our approach to picking up women. Jack will actually lie to girls to make himself appear more appealing. I just assume that sooner or later said skank will realize I’m “touched in the head” and either take me or leave me. By which, of course, I mean “leave me.”

Of course, maybe Jack was just having a moment of selective memory. See, a few weeks earlier, we had a discussion about creative prenuptial agreements. I figure since people write in grounds for divorce and monetary compensation, why not go the whole nine yards and create a REALLY all inclusive prenup?

Wouldn’t it be great to have legal grounds for separation if your wife gained 500 pounds, stopped putting out, and grew a mustache? Up until now, a man’s only recourse was to either have a costly affair, or passive-aggressively punish your spouse by letting yourself go:

She gains more chins than a Chinese phone book. So you stop showering and begin referring to her mom as “Burt Reynolds.” She stops letting you watch the game. So you grow mutton-chops. She puts sugar in your gas tank and begins removing your hair while you sleep to make you bald faster. You continue to have mutton chops.

Yeah…I was just thinking: there’s nothing in the world that can top mutton chops for a passive-aggressive “fuck you.” Seriously, that’s End Game right there. Once you do that, you know you’re dealing with a guy who’s willing to do anything to get even. There’s no way to get inside that man’s head. You’re better off just cutting your losses and moving out.

So why not avoid all the unpleasantness of growing and maintaining facial hair from a Dickens’ novel and just write out in prenup how often you’d like to have sex, how much weight your wife can gain, and whether or not you want anal X number of times a month? The women can put in the same clauses, along with number of orgasms expected, how many times a month they expect to be taken out, and whatever else. It just seems like it makes so much more sense.

So when Jack told the waitress he would be having sex with his wife even if she gained 500 pounds did I smile and let it go? Did I pitch with a comment about how he was the most loyal guy I’d ever met? Did I fabricate a story about how Jack once nursed an abandoned sperm whale back to health…then made sweet love to it on the moon-lit beach?

Fuck no! I sold him down the river. “Jack, didn’t you tell me last week you wanted a clause put in your prenup allowing you to divorce your wife if she gained 30 pounds?”

“Uhh…no…I mean…well…”

The waitress waited about 30 seconds longer before politely excusing herself from the table. She was noticeably colder to us for the remainder of the meal. As Jack shot me glares across the table, I couldn’t help but think that I’d let him off easy. Because the REAL Jack Saddle story involving weight gain is this:

Jack was snuggled in bed with his then-girlfriend after a night of tender love making. As his girl sighed contentedly and gently traced the lines of his face, she asked him dreamily, “Honey, would you still love me if I grew a little bit of a pot-belly?”

Jack cleared his throat, and ever so gently caressed the chin of the girl he was closest to in the world, and gently drew her head up, squarely meeting her eyes.

“Are you kidding?” He asked. “If you don’t drop ten pounds by next week, you and I are through.”

The Greatest Movie Ever

Last night I sat through one of the more tired and listless Hollywood productions I’ve ever seen. A little film called “Smokin’ Aces.” It’s movies like this that remind me why Jeremy Piven never had an acting career. Jeremy, please just continue to tongue the ass of whatever HBO executive you drugged into giving you a part on Entourage and be thankful that you aren’t sucking dick for crack. Christ, the man makes Keanu Reeves look like he has range.

Basically, the movie brought home a realization that I’d had about three years ago: Hollywood has just completely given up writing anything new. Basically, the only things that get green-lighted are remakes of shitty sit-coms and the same four action, horror, romance, or comedy. It’s slightly depressing that the film industry has all this money but, apparently, no idea how to spend it on anything worth while.

Well, if only same few scripts keep getting made, my friend and I hit on a fantastic idea for a film. We’re going to remake a teen comedy. No change in script, setting, or characters. The only difference: the cast.

Awkward Boy Desperately Wooing the Hot Girl: Christopher Walken
Hot Girl: Edward James Olmos
Best Friend: A guy in a fat suit doing an impression of Marlon Brando.
The Mean, Insecure Girl: The Rock
Principal: Ralph Macchio
Coach: Chuck Norris

The only real addition to the script would be a showdown between Chuck Norris and Ralph Macchio. The way I see it, Chuck Norris ends the fight with a flying crane kick to Ralph Macchio’s sternum.

My friend keeps contending that Eric Roberts needs to play a prominent role, but I have my doubts. Mr. Roberts, by the way, will forever have the epithet “World’s Greatest B Movie Actor Ever” attached to his name. I, however, am not as enamored of “The Pope of Greenwich Village” as he is. Besides, I wouldn’t want to make a mockery of the production.

In case you’re interested, by the way, there’s a fake website promoting Christopher Walken for President. I find it highly amusing and have a poster for his candidacy on the wall in my cube at work. But what’s even more fantastic is the other merchandise you can buy, such as a "What Would Walken Do?" Thong. After all, who doesn’t want Christopher Walken in their pants?

I Am Socially Retarded

Deep down, everyone likes to think they’re smoother than a Slip N’ Slide coated with 50 gallons of astroglide. Under the right circumstances, anyone can be cool. But it’s only those select, unflappable few who have the aura and presence of mind to be slick regardless of circumstance. In case there was any doubt, I am not a Chosen One. If you had a cool-o-scope, I would rank somewhere in the thousands of negative mega-fonzies, right between pocket protectors and speaking fluent Klingon.

The majority of my weekend was spent trying to impress a particularly fetching member of the opposite sex. It’s fortunate for me that she is, apparently, attracted to men who are socially retarded. Sort of like the social version of a chubby-chaser.

We were stepping out of the car behind a vehicle that had single-handedly redefined all definitions of “poor parallel parking.” Really, if they had been trying for “perpendicular parking” they would have been closer to acceptable. As it was, they neatly managed to park diagonally, be three feet from the curb, all while neatly subjecting their passengers directly into oncoming traffic by blocking an entire lane. It would have been better if they just hit the hazards and drove their car through the display windows of one of the stores.

As we stepped from our perfectly positioned car, we couldn’t help but converse about the piss-poor performance of the asshole who had abandoned his vehicle in front of us.

“Ohhhhh…” I said after an inspection of the car’s plates. “They’re from Wisconsin. We really can’t blame them.”

“Why?” demanded my shapely companion. “Don’t they have curbs there?”

“Of course not!” I beamed, proudly. Thinking I was about to deliver a line that would surely be among the funniest ever, I raised my voice slightly, so that an elderly gent approaching from the sidewalk could hear. “What are they going to do in Wisconsin, park between cows?”

The elderly gentleman shot me a particularly withering glance, then unlocked the punchline of our conversation and drove off. I’m not sure whether or not they give “the finger” to cows in Wisconsin. However, he seemed to have had enough practice in the maneuver to perform it a damn sight better than his parking skills.

On a scale of one to ten, it was roughly a three in terms of social fuck-ups. Had I played my cards right, there was still the possibility that maybe my female companion would think I was just “slow” instead of full on major-head-trauma-makes-baskets-and-pisses-himself socially retarded. Unfortunately however, I erased all doubts that I ride the short bus of cool that evening at dinner.

We arrived at a stylish sushi restaurant from the blustery cold and were shown to our table by a slender, attractive Japanese waitress. As I shucked off my coat, I turned slightly towards my date who was saying how exquisite the food at this establishment was. My second of distraction allowed our slender waitress the chance to silently glide by me, back towards the kitchen. She would have succeeded, too, had my arm not shot up in an attempt to extricate myself from my top coat. Basically, my arm and her head tried to occupy the same space simultaneously. But just like the Highlander, “in the end, there can be only one.” My arm laid a WWF-worthy clothesline on the 90 pound waitress. I should just start calling my right arm “Connor MacLeod.”

I apologized, helped the poor girl to her feet and sat down as quickly as I could. I contemplated, briefly, asking my date to call me “Ike” for the rest of the night. Instead, I went about digging my hole even deeper.

About five minutes later, she returned to set-up a table right across from us. I got up, walked over to her and said, “Listen, I feel really badly. Are you sure you're ok? Is there anything I can do?”

All I got in return was a blank stare.

“I’m really sorry.” I floundered on. “I didn’t see you. I swear, I didn’t mean to hit you like that.”

“You hit me?”

Suddenly sensing that my evening was about to get much worse, I glanced desperately around the restaurant...and saw a second, very similar-looking Japanese girl holding an ice-pack and taking an order of a customer at the end of the room. I was right. The evening HAD gotten worse.

Thank you. You've been a great audience. I'll be here all week.

All I needed to do at this point was to squint my eyes and yell, “Me so sowwy. Me love you long time, silly American round-eye.” I really might as well have just said, “All you rice-eating cunts look the same.”

Smooth. I wonder if they’ll cut me open when I’m lynched by rightfully-offended Wisconsinites and Japanese waitresses and find that I have some sort of neurological disorder. In the meantime, I think I should just start wearing a helmet and carrying a drool cup, just in case. Because the sad thing was that this was my vain attempt at being cool. Sort of like Chimps, using tools. I can’t even comprehend how big of an asshole I am when I just don’t give a shit.

I’m A Narcissistic Whore

Today I had the opportunity to view one of my more annoying traits with perfect clarity: I’m a narcissistic whore. And there’s really no way around that. Honestly, I should pray that I never become famous, because it will literally be the end of my life. I’ll do nothing but sit in front of the computer in my underwear, reading all the shit anyone’s written about me.

See, it was brought to my attention that a recent crush of mine has a live journal. And what was the internet created for but to violate the privacy of others? Oh yeah. Porn. Well, I downloaded porn yesterday, so I opted for invading someone else’s intimate reflections instead.

So I actually took the time to register with a site I have no intention of reading, just so I could read posts that might not even be about me. I know. I’m sick. At this point, I might as well just take the rest of the day off from work so I can make out with my reflection in the bathroom mirror.

“Mmmmmm…sslllllllluuuurrrrrrrrppppp…uh…uh….yeah. You like that don’t you, whore? You’re a bad, naughty, wicked, disease-ridden slut. That’s right! Get my dinner before I put my cigarette out on your nipple. Cry! Cry because daddy never loved you. Skank.”

Sorry. I got caught up in that hot, romantic moment there for a second.

Ugh. A crush. This whole “wanting a woman for reasons other than sex” thing is pathetic. WHAT HAVE I BECOME??? I’M EVERYTHING I’VE EVER HATED!!!

It’s put a real crimp in my style, I’m telling you. I’m not bitter all the time…Probably only 85% of my waking hours, now. Sometimes I smile at work. Today I caught myself talking to some one socially…in the morning. I tell you, it’s a royal pain in the ass. I have my image to consider and caring for another human being really does nothing to improve it. Before you know it, people will think I’ve gone soft. Then they’ll want to forge friendships with me. And that means phone calls, social gatherings, weddings, Christmas cards, and introductions to their sisters. Then, after I break up with their sister in the most devastating way possible (maybe through intercourse with their mothers) we’ll have to break off the friendship, divide DVDs and maintain an atmosphere of subdued animosity and hatred. And frankly, I just don’t have the energy for that.

Besides, the real loser in this whole thing is the readers of this blog. What the fuck am I supposed to write about? Imagine if one day I posted this

“Today I got up and thought of her again. When we’re together it’s like thousands of tiny leprechauns are having lesbian sex in my tummy.”

Christ, I’d have to kick my own ass. Yes, in the long run, it’s much better for everyone that I remain my bitter, insane misanthropic exterior. Maybe I should execute a child or a kitten or something.

Ehren Hosts A Social Gathering

In my not-too-distant and vaguely shady past, I used to throw pretty bitchin’ house parties. By which I mean 200 people, kegs, live band and a blackjack table. In case you were wondering what the key element to a good bash is, I have two words for you: Pajama Party.

Understandably, these shindigs rapidly became the grounds for some truly notorious behavior and outrageous stories. Like the time that my neighbors called the cops on me. Unfortunately for them, about 15 people at my house happened to be volunteer firefighters and EMTS…who were drinking buddies with the local police. Or the time I had to turn the hose on a couple having sex on my front lawn. Of the time half a company of Marines showed up.

Early on, before I’d gotten the whole “hosting” thing down to a science, I ran upstairs to grab something out of my room, only to find my door closed. Kicking it in, I found a couple making out on my bed. The girl had her shirt off.

“Dude” the guy said. “Do you mind?”
“Actually, I do.” I answered. “Get the fuck out.”
“I’m invited.” He smirked. “And I’m not leaving until Ehren tells me to.”
“In that case, you’ve officially been told. I’m Ehren. Get the fuck off of my bed.”

After that, the parties became a well-oiled routine. I equipped my friends with walkie-talkies, set up shifts for checking the house and manning the door, and bought a cop-sized maglite for whoever was on bouncer detail. The light held 6 D batteries. You'd have to be insane to talk to anyone wielding it.

One truly unfortunate kid tried to sprint into the party without paying. Grabbing my walkie-talkie, I yelled “Code Blue! Perimeter breach!” and casually walked down the driveway after him. He didn’t even make it to the backyard. In about five seconds he was pinned on his stomach, beneath four of my friends.

Probably my favorite memory of the party, however, involved my friend we’ll call “Drifter” (it’s the nickname he chose when he recorded an album with me).

I met Drifter through a camp that we both worked for. He’s an interesting dude, who shares my affection for hard rock, gadgets, and eggnog. What better recommendation could any man have?
Drifter was wandering through the party, well into his seventh mug of beer or so, when he came across a really good looking girl. Of course, any girl becomes better looking after seven beers.

Without hesitation he plunked himself down in the seat next to her, and struck up a conversation. She responded with enthusiasm and soon they were chatting away like old friends. Licking his chops over what appeared to be a locked up lamb, he said, “I’m Drifter” and reached out for her hand to kiss.

It was then that his intended prey got a very strange look on her face. “I know,” she said, taking his hand and shaking it. “You used to be my councilor at camp.”

And so I learned perhaps the most important law of party-hosting: always card your guests.

Coveting Thy Neighbor's Wife

Jack Saddle and I recently had a discussion about the etiquette involved in sleeping with someone your friend has fucked. See, a girl we know had sex with one of the members of our little group. She’s a pretty attractive girl and Jack commented “I’d still fuck her.”

This is where things start to get twisted. Because there is really no clearly defined etiquette governing “sloppy seconds.”

For example, I slept with a girl that Jack dated. Of course, there was about 4 years between us. I don’t find it weird. In fact, we joke about it all the time. Another friend of mine ended up sleeping with an ex of mine. The girl was pretty embarrassed when she found out I knew, but the guy and I joked around about it with no awkwardness.

Then again, there are stories like the one below:

I dated a girl (we’ll call her Debbie) back in college. We met in a music class when we had to go around the room and name some of our favorite bands. When she said, “AC/DC” I raised my first and pinky fingers in the international symbol for “Rock” and banged my head. She grinned while the 30 other classically trained musicians in the room stared blankly.

She and I started a relationship based on the only two loves we had in common: Hard Rock and Southern Comfort. After about a month, I sobered up and realized that not only did we have nothing else in common, but she was completely insane. She sucker-punched my friend’s fiancé at a party. She woke up shaking and hysterical after having dreams about her dad. She’d try to wrestle me and cry if I tried to pin her down. Everyone has issues…but I felt like there was just too much there to fix.

While I was dating her, I met her best friend who we’ll call “Erika.” Erika was a bit of a slut, but was still sane enough to realize that her friend had issues. As a result, she became helpful when I needed a hand trying to decipher Debbie’s crazy outbursts. Many of you can see where this story is leading.

After I broke up with Debbie, Ericka waited exactly three days before showing up drunk at my door and throwing herself at me.

Months later, Debbie found out that we slept together. To this day, she doesn’t know that it was a scant 72 hours after I dumped her, but it took her years to forgive Erika. Debbie still doesn’t talk to me, by the way. In fact, I later heard that she “prays nightly for my torment and demise.” We dated for a month. Six years ago. Maybe it’s time to give up the grudge and move on.

But it brings me back to my point: what’s fucking etiquette in these situations? Is a girl off limits for all time because they dated one of your friends? Does it matter how long they dated for, how close friends you are, or their feelings for their ex? What about people who only slept with your friends? Is it bad form to bang them out? How long a grace period is required?

Don't look at me like I'm sleazy. It's not like the Bible says anywhere you shouldn't covet thy neighbor's wife.

This is all the shit that someone needs to write out and finish off these silly disputes once and for all. That way, when your poker buddy gets pissed because you’re nailing his ex-wife, you can just pull out the book and say, “Dating law says that after six months she’s fair game.” Then you can buy him a beer and joke about how she makes yelping noises in bed.

Ehren's Guide To "Fuck-Me" Food

Restaurants are very important to men. More so, I think, than to women. Allow me to explain.

If I somehow convince an obviously insane or dimwitted female that I’m worth spending an evening with, it falls to me to plan the events for the night. And as much as I’d love to write out an itinerary like this:

7:00 PM: Arrive at your house naked.
7:01 PM: “Accidentally” trip, lodging my penis in your mouth when you answer the door.
7:02 PM: Discover you enjoy it and proceed to insertion into various other openings.
10:00 PM: Small talk.
10:01 PM: More sex.
2:00 AM: Drive home.

Somehow, it never works out like that…without the use of drugs, knives, or duct tape that is. And I’m just a woefully underpaid corporate bitch. I haven’t the money for that. So instead, I’m obligated to take said mentally deranged female out for the evening.

The restaurant portion of the date is perhaps the most important activity of the night. This is where virginities are lost or maintained. Remember, couples who eat together are 75% more likely to be open to threesomes with hot, unconscious hitch-hikers clubbed in the head with a bat when they ask you for directions. Think about it.

Women are always judging. What you say and how you two interact are obviously the most important elements, but don’t underestimate the value of a kick ass meal. Taking a first date to Sizzler says something about your taste, your esteem of her, and your willingness to be exposed to E-coli and the taste of crotch in the name of all you can eat “steak.” Hey, I’m not arguing that it’s actually a steak they serve there. I am, however, pointing out that the ads never specify that it’s a steak from a cow. Just throwing that out there.

You want a restaurant to be nice, but not TOO nice. That would imply you’re trying too hard. Besides, who wants to waste a decent meal on the skank from Saturday night who thinks that K-Fed is “like so super talented. And smart. Like, Jeopardy smart.”? Ideally, for a first date, you want a place that is a “diamond in the rough.” That is, small, local, with great food.

Yesterday, my friend and I grabbed some sushi at a place that would have to undergo major reconstructions and upgrades to be called “shit.” The waitress was horrible. I’ve experienced more sunny dispositions and compassion from guards in Siberian prison camps. The food was sloppy: warm fish, slopped on a dirty plate with no attention to presentation. My personal favorite, however, was the cup they gave me to drink tea from. It was the size of a regular coffee mug, but about one centimeter thick and lacking a handle. Basically, there was no way to take a sip without exposing your hands to second degree burns.

What does this have to do with where to take girls? I’m proud to announce that my friend and I swore an unholy oath to launch ourselves into the food critic business. Look for our new site, coming soon! That’s right, watch as I take my frustration of a dead-end job, depressing single-life, and complete lack of social skills out on poor, unsuspecting eateries, bistros, buffets, vendors, and waffle-houses!

In the meantime, guys, remember: Taco Bell does not equal fine cuisine.

Magic Eye: Great Equalizer Of The Corporate World

Ruthless office pranks aside, I worry sometimes that my job doesn’t allow me a constructive outlet for my malevolent impulses. Maybe that’s the reason why I’m so destructive in my personal and romantic lives. Oh well, that’s the price I pay for passing on that position as an interrogator at Guantanamo Bay.

Everyone in my company is given these bland little name tag things to hang up on their cubes, or outside their office. I’ve recently decided that I’m angry with this. I’m tired of being defined by my “Slave Name.” No, I’m not African-American, but my ancestors were slaves…if you go all the way back to Egypt.

Funny slavery story: ok, not really funny. Or a story. Or about slavery. But it's amusing! I have a friend who’s announced that he’s taking the word “Cracker” back for the White Man. He’s just waiting for the opportunity to get offended when someone says the “C” word in public so he can stand up and say, “Hey! That is OUR word. You have NO RIGHT to say it.” It’s a pretty amusing idea. The only problem is that no African American has used the utterance as a racial slur since the 1972 film “Superfly.”

Anyway, where was I? Oh right, my slave name.

So at first, I was planning on announcing a new name that I demanded on being addressed by. Something incredibly complicated with about 17 consonants in a row. But then I remembered that they charge a fee to legally change your name. It was then I decided that the real way I could honor my enslaved forefathers was through doing what they did best: shamelessly Jewing every penny out of The Man humanly possibly.

So instead of a name change, I opted to be extremely cheap. I could already feel my ancestors smiling down upon on me. Then I remembered we Jews don’t believe in Heaven and realized that it had just been a webcam hidden in the men’s room.

Finally, I hit on a way to stick it to The Man in a fiscally-responsible manner. Once in a while, someone will walk down the rows of cubes, looking for someone’s desk. As they go, they walk slowly and squint at the name tags. Because stopping to ask directions would require interaction with someone on a personal level. And ovaries. So I decided to go passive-aggressive in my revenge on the corporate world.

I visited a really cool site and made a new version of my name tag: in Magic Eye writing. That ought to cause some consternation. I can just see someone wandering down the isle:

“Robert Terwilliger, Momar Szislak, Quarky Jones, and wha, um, huh?”

Me: Can I help you?
Confused Corporate Asshole: Uh…yeah. Who are you?
Me [in a weary voice]: Read the sign, pal.
CCA: Huh? How do I...
Me: You have to look THROUGH it. Like a window.
[Long pause.]
CCA: I don't see anything
Me: Are you looking BEYOND the picture?
CCA: Yeah...
Me: No you aren't or you'd see it.
[Another pause]
CCA: Wait, is it an airplane?
Me: Of course not! What kind of idiot would hang a picture of an airplane up in place of his name?

It's such a great "fuck you" to the corporate world. I wonder if I can find a place that will do my business cards in the same format.

If I Did It

A while ago, I noted that I don’t really have a talent for office pranks. See, shooting rubber bands at someone, or putting post-it notes over their monitor just doesn’t amuse me. And I know a thing or two about being funny. Abducting someone’s kids at gun point and keeping them locked in the trunk of their fiancé for two days? Hilarious. But apparently, some people feel that when I do that I’m “crossing a line.” Get a fucking sense of humor.

One of my friends from work made the mistake of taking some time off from work. Vacation, religious holiday, dead wife…blah, blah, blah. I forget which. However, in his grieving, he made the fatal mistake of leaving his cube unguarded. Meaning I had the opportunity to issue payback for two and a half years of rubber band attacks. I think the picture below speaks for itself:



You know, it’s not often I get the contented, satisfying feeling of a job well-done at the end of the day. This might have been the most productive day I’ve ever had at work. So it’s nice to truly revel in my output.

Ahhhhhhhh….

I was thinking that the real fun will begin tomorrow when he gets into work. The first thing I plan on doing is putting my arm over his shoulder in a conspiratorial manner, leaning in close and saying, “Steve, I have no idea who could have perpetrated this childish, outrageous prank. Frankly, I’m shocked and appalled. But I’m making you a solemn vow, right here and now, that I will not rest until I find the REAL prankster, whoever he or she really is.”

I figure I’ll let about a week go by then shoot him an email, letting him know that I’ve signed a book deal to tell the story about how I would have booby-trapped his desk called, “If I Did It.”

Good times.

In other news, savvy investors, it seems, took note of my prank and as a result, shares of my company dropped a full dollar. Up until three weeks ago, this would have meant nothing to me. Except at the beginning of the month, I found out that I had a substantial number of stock options and today’s drop cost me personally over $500. That’s a lot of beer. Ordinarily, I’d be slightly depressed about that. But in the long-run, I’m betting that Wall Street will eventually come to realize the true value what I’ve done here today, and send my shares skyrocketing. Which is why I went ahead and ordered 3 live, greased pigs to be delivered to the office tomorrow. The plan (stolen from Jack Saddle) is to number them: “1,” “2,” and “4” before release them to run amuck in the building.

See, now THAT’S funny.

Better Dating Through Fear

I was thinking the other day that there are two possible ways to go about designing an evening that will win a lady’s heart. The first is through grand, sweeping, romantic gestures: flowers, candle-lit dinner, moonlit walk on the beach. Obviously, this is the more universally accepted way to woo. But I’ve been wondering if this approach is not completely off-base.

Not only does it set unrealistic expectations on what a man’s like, the whole approach seems way too needy. Which is why I propose a second, more fiscally responsible method. Though unpopular, I suspect it will prove much more effective.

Essentially, it’s a romance style based on Stockholm-Syndrome. Hear me out on this one.

What a dating really should do is prepare two people for a life-time of bad sex, disappointment and, ultimately, an existence devoid of any lingering hopes or dreams. What better way to capitalize on that than to make your dates so traumatic, that life with you seems dazzling by comparison. I’ve heard that fear is the greatest aphrodisiac. It’s time to take that theory and run with it.

Why buy your date flowers, when you can set a rabid pit-bull loose in her bathroom? In the long run, is a candlelit dinner really so much different taking her to a slaughter house? And by “taking” I mean “abducting.” In the trunk of your car. With duct tape. And why go on a star-kissed walk on the beach, when you can pretend your car broke down in the middle of the crack-district?

This is the best idea I ever had. It’s time to start exposing women to situations that make me seem awesome by comparison. For example, is a potential date not certain I’m good looking enough to sleep with? A visit to the burn-ward of the local hospital ought to change her mind. Do I not make enough money? Watch as I bust her cell phone and drop her off without a penny in “Driftertown” as it’s affectionately called by the locals.

I mean think about it: after a few weeks of dealing with random abductions, animal attacks, and close encounters with death, a girl’s bound to start breaking down psychologically. Leaving her just vulnerable enough to take up with the likes of me.

The real trick, I imagine, would be avoiding a restraining order and jail time during the courting period. Though such experiences would, most likely, work a similar effect on me, increasing my feelings for a girl exponentially. Nothing like a doing a little hard time to strengthen your interest in a girl. What’s that saying, “Absence makes the heart grow stronger?” Really makes you wonder about our current system for dealing with stalkers.

Because after all that, when you’re both completely paranoid, scarred, and emotionally broken, you’ll have no choice but to give up on yourselves and settle for anyone you can con into tolerating you. And in the end, isn’t that what dating is all about?