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.