Pitfalls of Internet Dating or: How I Didn't Meet Your Mother; Part Two: Messaging

Welcome to ShavedGolf StoryTime's first mini-series entitled Pitfalls of Internet Dating or: How I Didn't Meet Your Mother. The three part series is dedicated to the abysmally depressing world of cyber-arranged relationships.

Disclaimer: While I do not consider myself the authority on the art of electronic courtship, I am horny enough to blog about it. Keep in mind this mini-series is written by a man - any woman that disagrees with what is written beyond this disclaimer can eff a goat.

Part Two: Messaging

Congratulations on surviving the gargantuan task of creating an online dating profile, but quit patting yourself on the back because there are more social landmines ahead.

Statistically speaking, you're outnumbered, outwitted, and outgunned. Demographics of internet dating sites follow the 80/20 rule in multiple categories:

• 80% of the population is male, 20% female
• Of the female population, 80% are lesbians, jury's still out on the remaining 20%
• 80% of the non-lesbo crowd is out of your league, the remaining 20% are possible soul mates

Forget the plenty-of-fish-in-the-sea argument because when all these categories are compounded, you're left with maybe two or three women. Better get to work, you've got some trolling to do.

Finding a target is tricky. Most women choose shitty pictures and write even worse profiles. They can do this because they are women and therefore rare. Economics 101 teaches the principle of supply and demand; this principle can be applied to internet dating: women are in short supply, there is a high demand, and you are fucked.

While searching for The One, you will notice that all women of the website fall in to one of following five classifications:

• Woman with well crafted profile - she's ugly
• Woman making kissy-face in one/all of her profile photos - she's a moron
• Woman wearing fake mustache - she's a smelly hipster
• Woman who opens profile with statement about how she hates to talk about herself - she's a liar
• Woman with humorous profile - she's mythical

Pick the one that irritates you the least. She'll do. Click the message button and let's begin.

Messaging is similar to approaching a woman in a bar; the exception being you are only as foul as your ugliest picture, so she might actually correspond with you. Admittedly untrue because your half-witted and slurred pickup lines aren't doing you any favors at the local cantina either.

Peruse the target's profile, carefully note anything she mentions that is interesting, and cling to this tidbit like a life preserver. This unusual factoid is your in. Exploit it. Ask the prospective lady friend a question about her odd personal detail. Sprinkle in some humor. Tell her nothing about yourself (she doesn't care). Keep it brief.

Once you go pro, you can expect a success rate of roughly 13%. That's right...for every 100 bitches messaged, you'll get 13 responses back. FYL.

Banter back and forth with any wench willing to give you the time of day. Ask questions about anything she says. Omit trivial addendums from life experience - information about you only makes her yawn. The key will be to convince the self-centered female counterpart on the other end of the Cat 5 cable that you aren't a creeper. This task is challenging because you are, in fact, a creeper.

Inevitably she'll get bored with you and quit responding. Raise the white flag after two follow up messages, request for an exit interview, and proposition for casual sex.

Move on to the next victim. Rinse and repeat.

xoxo,
ShavedGolf

Pitfalls of Internet Dating or: How I Didn't Meet Your Mother; Part One: The Profile

Welcome to ShavedGolf StoryTime's first mini-series entitled Pitfalls of Internet Dating or: How I Didn't Meet Your Mother. The three part series is dedicated to the abysmally depressing world of cyber-arranged relationships.

Disclaimer: While I do not consider myself an expert in the art of interweb dating, I am lonely enough to blog about it. Keep in mind this mini-series is written by a man - any woman that disagrees with what is written beyond this disclaimer can STFU.

Part One: The Profile

Your face. The first impression. The first thing people judge. The first challenge in profile construction: which picture of your goofy ass to choose for the world wide web of women to critique?

The Jiminy Cricket of internet dating would tell you to snap a MySpace style pic at the very moment of profile conception so that you are as honest and upfront with every woman that ogles your profile.

The ShavedGolf of internet dating is telling you to squish that annoying internet insect because he's not going to get you laid. Post the most attractive Polaroid you have. The shot from that one summer when you lost 25 lbs will do nicely. Reason: everyone expects you to post your best pic, so if it's not, your shitty photo is assumed to be the best. Therefore you are ugly.

Perfect. Your picture is a devilishly handsome pic of younger you from yesteryear. But now you need content to go with that pretty pinup.

Content can be excruciatingly difficult for a simpleton. When fleshing out the profile with your weak wordsmithing, it's important to keep in mind that you're boring and no woman is really interested in you. Fact: you're on internet dating for a reason.

Omit trivial drabble about your Dungeon and Dragons hobby, that you successfully went for one week without showering, that you successfully went one week without defecating, and that you fuck on the first date. You aren't impressing women in real life with these tedious tidbits.

Sprinkle comedic musings throughout the profile - if you make the woman laugh, she may choose to ignore your looks.

Once finished with profile content and the resulting depression from the realization of your inferior command of the English language, move on to the survey questions. Every site has some gimmicky gauntlet of general Q and A.

The more questions answered, the better the chances of a match. The more questions answered, the better chance you're a loser. A profile displaying 268 answered questions belongs to one with too much time on their hands. If the site runs out of questions to ask, it's a sign.

Best advice for filling out the survey: answer the questions in a manner in which the woman you're trying to attract would answer them. Answering questions truthfully will only attract a woman equally as bizarre as you, and honestly, no one wants you two procreating. Or even practicing to procreate.

Congratulations! You've got the pic. You've got the content. You've got the answers. Now sit back, relax, and watch the bitches roll in.

xoxo,
ShavedGolf

Questionable Content

To quell government shortcomings and budget deficits, the IRS has begun to crackdown on unreported taxable revenue for companies, individuals, and blogs. Because of the possible Big Brother blitzkrieg on my blog's bankroll, I've decided to deploy this edition of ShavedGolf StoryTime as a preemptive strike to explain earnings.

My ascension from rags-to-riches is credited to the introduction of advertisements on this blog. Prior to the ad add, when my brain brood and written writings were clean of clutter, the blog was a pristine sanctuary full of knowledge and wit. However, once the pollution of capitalism was in place, it became clear that the blog's questionable content may lead to purely entertaining advertisements of little interest to the audience.

The below is a sample sidebar that may have missed the target audience rendered for...

First, let's tackle the Douche. Summer's Eve chose an ad tagline that would grab the attention of any unclean woman or describe any frat boy. Second, let's Make a Difference. BioGift is asking you to advance medical science with an ad powered by Google. Seems trustworthy. Third, let's ponder the Sperm Bank. What's your gut reaction to this ad title with the blurb "free photos" below it? Fourth, let's untangle the Umbilical Cord Banking. ViaCord.com felt it necessary to trademark the phrase "Bank with the cord blood experts." Smart thinking. And last but not least, let's...AURA by IATS. Huh? Is this for money laundering or a phishing scheme?

The titles are absurd. The taglines bizarre. The ads are just ridiculous. Despite your lack of interest in the wares, and forgiving the ignorant Google bot scanning the blog and posting ads, this is my admission: they make me rich.

While the rules of Google AdSense prevent me from encouraging viewers to click erroneously, I will encourage you to click on any ad that catches your interest. Because, let's face it, you smell, and really need to douche.

xoxo,
ShavedGolf

Squatty, Balding Ginger

Groggily, I began to come to. Yellow-hued light and the dull murmur of two voices from my apartment bathroom poured in through the pulled to bedroom door. The early morning disturbance had thrashed my REM sleep, and I was dropped into a handicap consciousness - perfectly aware of my surroundings yet completely incapable of reacting.

Panic. Fear. Who were these people? Why were they in my apartment? What did they want?

The two intruders, one man and one woman, were early to mid twenties, fashion forward in threads, and clearly about to get intimate in my bathroom. The couple had begun to disrobe and throw their designer clothes on the dirty linoleum floor.

I moved to get up, to yell, and to chase the trespassers out. Only instead, in my sleep inebriated state, it was all I could do to roll over on my stomach, hang on the side of my bed, and muster an eerie moan.

It was enough.

My woozy attempt at speech startled the young lovers. They could make out my angry, befuddled face through the crack in the doorway lit up by the dim bathroom light. Quickly, they collected their clothing and began a half naked dash to the apartment entrance.

By that time I was capable of moving. I wasn't fast, but I could stand. With enough strength as a geriatric man, I gave pursuit. Stumbling and weak-kneed, I fell at my apartment's door. The two had fortunately left it cracked allowing me to swing it open.

I had expected they would be half way out the building by the time I even made it out of my apartment door, but instead, when I swung the door open, there were six confused faces staring back. The two lovers were there, accompanied by a squatty, balding ginger in glasses, a woman who resembled Elaine Benes from Seinfeld, and two hefty men, twins, by the look of them.

My tongue returned to allow words, but only in the form of slow, short, and slurry sentences, "What the hell?!...What the hell...were you doing...in my room?"

The two love birds looked at one another and began to giggle. Certainly their laughter was designed to infuriate me, and it worked. The anger helped clear my fuzzy head and words formed more freely.

"What the FUCK were you doing in my apartment?! How the hell did you get in?" I demanded.

There was a short pause as everyone attempted to make sense of the scene. The group of six looked just as confused as me. It was at about this time I noticed the four newcomers were all carrying boxes. Moving boxes.

"Who's moving?" I asked.

"I am," said the squatty ginger, pushing his glasses with his index finger to the top of his nose, "I'm moving into room 706."

His answer confused me. This is 306, not 706. There's only four stories in this building.

Head ache. I tried to tell him he had the wrong room...the wrong building, but when I did, my head spun and words froze. I blacked out.

BEEP BEEP...BEEP BEEP...BEEP BEEP

The rude alarm clock gave me a jump from my bed. The whole thing a dream.

Moral of the story: I hate plot lines like this one. They're trite. So over used. Worn out. Fooling the audience with the most amateurish and pedestrian trickery. Really terrible, miserable, boring writing.

xoxo,
ShavedGolf

Snail Mail Spam

The mailbox for my NW district apartment is comparable to the rental space it supports - small. Unfortunately, the size and my inability to remember to snag the mail compounds to an avalanche cluster fuck once the miniature door swings open.

This persistent conundrum is worsened by the relentless onslaught of advertisements. Redplum. Rite Aide. Safeway. QFC. IKEA. Clipper Magazine. Ads from unwanted merchants show up weekly. These ads are truly the spam of the snail mail era.

I live in Portland. I vote Democrat. I watched Captain Planet. Because of these reasons, I decided to reuse the never ending supply of paper.

First attempts at repurposing the unwanted ads led to the shitter. Wiping an ass with glossy ads is like cleaning the crack with silk. The sleek surface is built for speed, but be forewarned, paper cuts are an ever present danger. This practice was hampered by the regular clog accompanying every bowel movement. The landlord was pissed.

In an attempt at avoiding another work order for clogged pipes, I began lining the bathroom floor like the cage for a parrot. Toilet troubles be damned! The floor was my bathroom! Disposal and a constant odor not even Febreze could hide led to the downfall of this technique.

Realizing that the bathroom was perhaps not the best place for my reusing plan, and in a scramble to get to a birthday party, I grabbed a fist full of ad and used it as bachelor wrapping paper. This idea is truly solid and I'm still using it today. However, due to the high volume of ads, my social life and miserly soul cannot keep up with the flow.

Apartment decor was the next flash of brilliance. Bachelor pad wallpaper. Similar to the newspaper style wallpaper you might find at a shitty Subway fast food joint, but far more valuable. On the off chance Redplum had sent a Dominos Pizza ad, it could be ripped straight from the wall. This method worked until it was brought to my attention that bachelor pad wallpaper might be chick repellent.

Undeterred from using ads to decorate, I attempted origami. The apartment ceiling would look magnificent with hundreds of paper cranes flying from fishing line. Origami was scrapped after my first crane attempt - I got to step 11 and was so frustrated that my temper tantrum was confused for a domestic dispute. Two officers responded.

In the end I settled on the most logical reuse idea of all. I began mailing the ads back to the distributor with a note demanding they reuse and resend to a more receptive recipient. Weekly ads are saved, eventually slid into an envelope and postmarked for the spam HQ.

Gaia, the spirit of the earth, can no longer stand the terrible destruction plaguing our planet. Recyle, reduce, reuse, and close the loop. Cuz saving the planet is the thing to do. Looting and polluting is not the way. Hear what Captain Plant has to say...

The power is YOURS!

xoxo,
ShavedGolf

Zinfandel and White Lilac

After discovering Ron Artest, of the Los Angeles Lakers, had recently filed a petition to change his name to Metta World Peace, my mind started to wander. Metta...meta...Adaptation...blog...I lost The Game.

It occurred to me that this blog may have become legitimate enough for a meta entry. Granting the audience a window into the process behind ShavedGolf. Pulling back the curtain to expose the inner workings of my mental musings and mind mush.

May God have mercy on your soul.

The process starts in a state of vulnerability. Generally an idea will come to me at the most inopportune time: during defecation. To ensure the idea does not escape while on the shitter, I drop everything and duck waddle to the computer to start the fresh composition. As a for instance, I still need to wipe.

Once an idea is hatched and captured, I torture it for days. The idea stews at a low simmer, but as Wednesday approaches, I bring the idea to a rolling boil. Due to procrastination and writer's block, boiling will typically occur only hours away from deadline.

The writing process is much like you imagine it, but more awesomer.

Scented candles and luminescent votives flood the room with fragrance and romance. White lilac stems are hung strategically from my apartment's ceiling to encourage the flow of positive energy. Everyday drab garments are removed and I slip into a lavish kimono made of fine silk and Egyptian cotton. Chi is focused through meditation and hot yoga. A robust and fully matured Zinfandel from Sonoma Valley is uncorked, sipped, and enjoyed. The cares of the day melt away.

Voilà! The masterpiece is written.

After some quick revisions and approval by editors and legal counsel, the product is ready to publish. Like a mother bird delicately encouraging her children out of the nest with loving nudges, my mouse finds the PUBLISH POST button.

My idea is free. The idea that I gave birth to while on the can. The idea that I put through the cerebral pressure cooker. The idea that I brought to maturity through tradition and ritual. It's free. And it's no longer mine. The idea belongs to the world.

Exhale. A long sigh of relief. Exhausted, I retire to my bedchamber with the knowledge that tomorrow the process begins anew.

xoxo,
ShavedGolf

Orthognathic Necessity

My jaw is crooked. It wasn't always off-kilter. Once I entered my teenage years, the jaw gave the rest of my body the middle finger and went off in it's own direction.

The rebel chin has resulted in pain - a constant headache sensation from ear to ear. Some days the discomfort is mild, other days it can be similar to a migraine. Eating has also become increasingly difficult as my jaw pops, locks and drops it.

Little does my mutinously mutated mandible realize, I'm plotting punishment for its individualist tendencies. Surgery.

Dr. Surgeon says he'll cut my jaw bone in two places in a procedure known as orthognathic surgery. He'll basically move that bitch straight back to whence it came.

There's a catch. Insurance. My provider, Providence Health Plans of Oregon, has denied my preauthorization for surgery. Can't blame them...orthognathic surgery is clearly listed as an exclusion in the member handbook. So while Dr. Surgeon hounds PHP via the appeals process, I've decided to appeal to their more sensible sides here on my blog.

Bacon.

Perhaps the most enjoyable fodder to appear in the average American's daily diet. Delicious, juicy, succulent bacon. Just one problem - I can't eat it. My incisors don't line up making it impossible to enjoy the flatness that is bacon.

In order to process the greasy treat, I must moosh the pig strips into a well-compacted ball. The bacon ball is then pushed to one of two points in my mouth where my teeth touch. Occasionally I leave the pinch of bacon between my teeth and lip like a fatty piece of chew.

Restaurant menus are filled with an ever increasing number of bacon-topped cuisine. They torment my taste buds with bacon concoctions I cannot possibly enjoy properly. Any dish with bacon is a cruel tease - the allusive strips sail straight passed my incisors unscathed.

I've provided the detailed self portrait of my mouth below for the benefit of Providence so they can better appreciate my plight.

Note the gap. There is ample space between the teeth for a piece of bacon to slide right through completely unharmed.

So PHP, if you're reading this, I admit that I'm no surgeon. I don't have a medical degree. I can barely pronounce "orthognathic," much less explain what the surgery entails. However, I happen to enjoy the occasional strip of bacon. On my burger, in my sandwich, adorning my doughnut. For this reason, I beg you to reconsider your declination.

This is not a rant about some unjust insurance company; instead, this is a plea. A submission of desire. An appeal to the taste buds. I long for normalcy in the devouring of bacon. And while the insurance company may dispute whether the surgery is medically necessary, there is no disputing the necessity of the operation for proper bacon consumption.

Can't I have my BLT and eat it too?

xoxo,
ShavedGolf