The Perfect Dating Profile

An area man, who refused to be named, has come up with what we consider the most accurate dating profile ever conceived. There may have been a bottle of Jack Daniels, several intravenous injections of South American truth serums and one very fickle lie detector involved, but let those trivialities not take anything away from the magnitude of this invention. As somebody or the other once said - the best insights in life have nothing to do with intelligence, hard work or fortitude – but merely the choice of one’s drinking partners. Or something.

This anonymous good samaritan sacrificed a major portion of his life towards advancing the cause of Science – for without his numerous futile romantic pursuits, inspired by a common, yet widespread, misunderstanding of the notion of love, that eventually led to him becoming a pariah of society – the poor dear – we wouldn’t have been able to come up with the best prescription since Paracetamol.

So here you go. Take it and go. We will find you and we will sue you for copyright infringement, of course, but please do take it and go.

What are you looking for in a woman?

Let me start off by specifically clarifying that I’m NOT looking for love. I’m looking for that Zen like state of being where I would wake up every day without wanting to chop myself into a million little pieces due to the indescribable agony of having to wish my partner good morning once again. Are YOU that partner? (Yes, I do succinctness. Yes, you may send me your high school essays for summarization. Yes, I do charge.)

Does she have to look a certain way?

Two words – no. (Oh, I thought that phrase was idiomatic, not mathematical. Yes, I know ‘no’ is one word.)

Hair colour?

Well, a decade or two ago, I might have expressed a preference for redheads or sparkles in the eye or some such, but my requirements now are simple. A little verbose, but simple. I’m looking for a woman who has hair. The only property this hair should possess is that it should never, ever, ever, ever manifest itself on my prize pair of Woodland shoes that I (deliberately) place beside the fridge.

Weight?

 I don’t really have any preferences. I’d go for anything from the weight of my toy poodle to the weight of my SUV parked outside. Thin is in? That’s great. Thick is sick? Super. Prospective women must however note that if they care at all for a long, happy period of companionship with yours truly, they should never, ever, ever ask me if that dress makes them look fat.

Oh, my doorways are about three feet wide. Being wider than that might pose practical difficulties, so measure yourselves, ladies. I don’t consider this problem insurmountable however, as long as she attaches the abstract of a solution to this problem along with her hello message to me. I’m all for independent creativity so I won’t go into details, but this solution will have to solve the problem of er.. getting in and out of the house, and if not, an alternative mechanism to transport food, air and excrement in and out of her kennel, preferably involving drones.

Height?

Height’s cool. I’m about four foot three, so I can’t really stick to the stubborn ways of my youth and insist that only a six foot tall half-Colombian virgin would do, but even so, I’m not particularly fussed about height. There is a deal-breaker related to height though – you should never, ever, ever accidentally or otherwise knock down that white pillbox – no, the one with the glowing orange stripes – that has been carefully placed twenty two centimetres from the left corner of the top end of the mirror shelf in the bathroom. I do pre-nuptial agreements if required, but this clause stays.

What sort of personality should she have?

Sense of humour?

Doesn’t matter. But she should take any outbursts that I may produce from time to time, usually regarding matters of grave importance only – like ‘WHO MOVED THE BLOODY TUBE OF TOOTHPASE?’ with equanimity.

Maturity?

Don’t care. The immature ones can do whatever with whatever, as long as they do not ever solve the crossword (the ‘easy’) before I do. The mature ones can do nothing as usual, as long as they don’t do nothing while sitting in the custom manufactured ergonomic Eeze2Pleeze auto-reclining chair that’s purposefully arranged in the northwest corner of the drawing room.

Easygoing?

She can be if she must, but I care about my aunt’s pet rat’s behind more, i.e. not very much. I don’t have friends, so the easy going nature is pretty much wasted. She is free, of course, to have a friends circle of her own; she can party every night and puke in the bushes if she desires it, she can even have a surreptitious one night stand or three. It’s alright even if she gets knocked up during one of the aforesaid one night stands, and I have to bring up somebody else’s child – I don’t really mind kids, except that they should never, ever, ever draw the dining room blinds before I finish my two minute power meditation in the morning.

What sort of interests should she have?

Reading?

Great. She shouldn’t ever touch one of my books though. For starters, I hate other people’s fingerprints on my carefully dirtied sheepskin manuscripts, and for finishers, I hate other people crushing the spines of my books just the way I do to all my favourites. It’s perfectly alright if she doesn’t read a thing either because I have vast experience in discussing my favourite books with my favourite wall. (Psst, it’s the pink one next to my bed’s headstand.)

Travelling?

I love travelling – I can even foresee rousing myself from my Eeze2Pleeze to see the lady off on one of her sojourns and then following along on Instagram. She can do one week trips, two week trips, four year trips – it’s all cool - as long as she doesn’t ask me to pick her up from the airport when she gets back.

Politics?

Delightful. She just shouldn’t forget to leave the toilet seat up after she’s done vomiting into the bowl after a ranting session at all the evil in the world and THOSE USELESS POLITICIANS!

Any other interests?

It really doesn’t matter as long as she doesn’t make any attempt to enforce my participation with threats of the invidious variety. It actually doesn’t matter, come to think of it, even if she attempts to enlist me in her weekly game of blindfold scrabble with the neighbours, as long as I’m allowed to swig a mouthful from the Jack Daniels first, no questions asked.

Should she be a working woman?

Working women are great. People are easiest to be with when they’re not around. (That’s not wisdom – that’s fact). I would greatly enjoy being with a woman who’s off on business trips every Tuesday, Thursday and Saturday. I’m not too demanding – I know nobody does daily business trips.

Housewives are cool too. It’s great if she’s a housewife with an angelic disposition, a heart of gold, and a drive to bring up the best children the world has ever seen or will see. It’s perfectly alright too if she’s a lazy moocher who needs a bribe to get off the bed to grab a cup of coffee. Just as long as she never, ever, ever attempts to change the channel when The Open is on. Yes, it may just be old men walking around on fake looking grass hitting balls with sticks, but she should never, ever, ever say so in so many words.

And last, but not the least (tee hee), do you have sexual preferences?

Everything works from twice a day to never. She must however satisfy two minuscule constraints. One: she should never, ever, ever question me about the compact disc kept in a vacuum sealed box in the wardrobe, the one with the topless woman on it. Two: she should never, ever, ever put her leg over mine at any point during the night.

Confirmation Bias

It was an ordinary day. Drizzly and cloudy, the occasional bursts of sunshine only served to remind everybody how gloomy everything was. Yes, an ordinary day it was.

Not for the chubby little boy who waddled his way home from school lost deep in thought; because our young prodigy had figured out a cast-iron test for one of the most important questions of all time.

Is there God?

The test was simple. He'd count to three, and if anything spectacular happened, that'd prove that God was real. He poked at his methodology from all sides, and he found it sound. An involuntary chuckle slipped out his pursed lips as he admired his own ingenuity.

One.
A droplet of rain fell on his forehead breaking apart with a near imperceptible shudder. A stray leaf fought a mighty gust, swaying this way and that. A dog began its hourly lament in the distance. A lorry driver began to toot out a masterpiece on the horn. A bored girl began to walk into view at the edge of his vision.

Two.
Another droplet of rain fell, this time on his outstretched arm. YES! This was it?! No, because a twin droplet followed the last and fell on the other arm, which wasn't quite outstretched. The dog's wailing cut off abruptly. YES! No, it started again, indistinguishable from the last. The lorry driver's toot entered the middle section, his favourite bit. The bored girl took another step. The boy sniffed.

Three.
Four.
Five.
Six.

The boy stopped counting. Why was he counting again? There had seemed to be an important reason.

BZZZT! BZZZT!

'Oh, hey mom. I'm almost home. What's for dinner?'


On another day, the chubby little boy, now a fine, young, rotund under-achiever in an air conditioned room, pondered the sudden sense of deja vu that'd overwhelmed him momentarily. God, these sudden, unexplained thoughts were the worst. Why couldn't he be like everybody else thinking about nothing all the time? God? He sighed.

He knew that he could never get back to working hard at twenty percent efficiency unless he took this thought to its logical conclusion. He sighed again. How many times had he had the same thought before? Presently, a flare of enthusiasm wiped away his weariness and he almost totally forgot about all those other times. This time would be different. He started to count.

One.
A tubelight flickered in the distance, towards the far end of the aisle. (When would they fix that?) The loud sound of open mouthed chewing came from a cubicle nearby. God, these mannerless geeks really drove him up the wall, he ruminated, as he bit loudly on his seventeenth bourbon biscuit of the day. A beep from his laptop signified that yet another email had arrived, affording him the opportunity to do more non-work by replying to it. A crumb made its way from his sloppy mouth and began an inelegant tumble to the floor at glacial pace.

Two.
The flickering tubelight continued to flicker. WAIT! Was that last flicker slightly longer than before? Probably not. The loud sound of open mouthed chewing morphed into the sound of open mouthed crunching moderated by open mouthed gulping, like the rumble of mansion sized potato chips being washed away in a thunderstorm. Coke and chips again, that geek was not only mannerless, but tasteless to boot. That crumb of bourbon biscuit slipped and slid its way down the smooth curve of a well tended belly. Another beep from his laptop. WAS THIS IT? It somehow sounded different! God was speaking to him? Oh. It was the different tone of a meeting invite.

Three.
Four.
Five.
Six.

The man stopped counting. Why was he counting again? There had seemed to be an important reason.

'PNNNNG!' 'PNNNNNG!'

< hey. ya gt da invite. join u in a bit. brb. >

On a different ordinary day, in a different place, far way, an old man squinted his eyes against the piercing afternoon sunshine. God, what would he do for a bit of rain! It was almost like he was being punished for the decades he'd spent doing nothing in an air conditioned room. Hmm.

A sudden thought crossed the old man's mind. His mind was now a fickle thing, with the boredom of retirement, but this thought seemed to strengthen and tame all the other threads into submission. In addition, this particular thought bore a familiarity which disconcerted him. It focussed his mind.

'Hey God, I haven't really ever had the cause to doubt your existence, but it's not like I have really felt your presence strongly either.' the old man mused, with a remarkable effort of concentration.

'How about you prove you're real? I'll count to three, and if there's a sudden spot of rain that cools this bloody afternoon, I'll concede that you might exist. Easy peasy right?'

One.
The noisy neighbour lady's phone began to ring. KRICKIT! That was a strong case for the existence of the devil, if anything, the old man felt. The timing was impeccably awful. A wasp began to buzz by his ear; a gnarled hand involuntarily started to swish it away. The faint sound of a slamming door reached his ears. With his hearing, it was probably next door, but darn, kids these days were so careless! Somebody should smack some sense into the little imps. Meanwhile, unnoticed, the old man's glasses began to slip off his nose.

Two.
KRICKIT! KRICKIT! KRICKIT!
'YES!' 'WHAT?' 'I DIDN'T QUITE CATCH THAT', the noisy neighbour lady barked in a rapid monotone. That proved it then, the Devil was real and he was a joker. God was still playing hide and seek though. The wasp of yore alighted casually on the old man's left ear, and naturally, the old man didn't feel a thing. A joint here twinged with pain, and a joint there sighed with pain. A car door slammed nearby.

Three.
'AAAAARGGGGH', the noisy neighbour lady screamed in agony. The old man chuckled - she'd probably dropped the phone in the bathtub or something. (He wasn't to know, but she was to die of an inexplicable heartattack in a second.) A suddenly bored wasp flew away, mysteriously enticed away from sinking its stinger into the juicy flesh of an old man's left ear. The ebb and flow of human voices, which could vaguely be resolved into the annoyed drone of a parent chastising a child for slamming doors, filtered into the old man's ear. Startled, the old man jerked in shock, and due to a happy coincidence, that pair of glasses that had damn near made up its mind to fall to the floor and shatter, righted itself on a stubby nose.
A momentary shower of water fell on the old man's thinning hair, and then, to use a well worn phrase, all hell broke loose.

The young lady upstairs was mortified. She'd just wrung the water from some of her laundry off the balcony, and right into somebody's face! She couldn't begin to explain this one; her embarrassment turned to fear when she saw who her victim was. The old man would verbally lash her to death!

'Er, sir.' she began to squeak hesitantly, only to stop in shock as she registered the pure, unadulterated joy on the old geezer's weathered mug.
He was screaming.

'I KNEW IT!'
'I KNEW YOU WERE REAL, GOD!'
'WHO ELSE COULD HAVE CHASED THAT WASP AWAY?!'
'WHO ELSE COULD HAVE SAVED MY PRIZED GLASSES FROM BREAKING?!'
'AND WHO.. ELSE... COULD... POSSIBLY.. LISTEN TO ME AND MAKE IT RAIN. EVEN IF ONLY FOR A BIT?!'