Playing “Next” with Ladies, or How I Continue to Play Hard to Get in My Mind

Playing “Next” with Ladies, or How I Continue to Play Hard to Get in My Mind

Your opener involves “shoot for the moon/land stars” or “smell the roses”

You probably drive a black SUV, rarely stop by scenic overlooks (“Ewww…It smells like horse piss”), and want to get married as soon as possible so you can stop worrying about graduate school. And I don’t blame you. I could deal with that. But, you write in clichés. And I’m an English teacher. Sorry. Next.

You describe yourself as “outgoing”

Great. You don’t live in a subterranean warehouse strapped to a steel chair. Now, we’re getting somewhere. Next.

You admit you’re “hard to describe”

No you’re not. You like sunsets, traveling, and have a thing for guys with scruff. Moving on. Next.

Your photos include a bikini pic

You think your tits look good. Well, they do. But I’m a guy. I say that about most girls’ assets. Sorry. But what I have now found out about you is that you’re comfortable with bald-headed ex-MySpace creeps whacking their permanently-curved dicks to your photo every night. Next.

You state that you are 5 ft. 6 inch

That’s not a real height. Give me something I can work with. Next.

You like “drinking cocoa and cuddling up in a sweater”

Will you at some point in future call me “hubby?” Probably. That shit ain’t happening. Next.

You mention “Arcade Fire” anywhere in your profile

Now you’re trying too hard. We all “appreciate” Arcade Fire. We may even “like” them and/or cheered when they won a Grammy. But I’m not 17. I’m no longer wondering what my fingernails would look like black. And none of the ex-frat bars I frequent feature “Neighborhood #1” on the jukebox. NEXT.

You “Can Watch ESPN” With Me

I’ve already blocked you. I point you in the direction of THE REST OF MANHOOD.

You are a Conservative

I’m always so excited when I see this. Because I know I’ve passed on through again. It’s not that I’d rather stay single my entire life and curse friends behind their backs at weddings than spend a statistically-relevant portion of my life in conversation with a woman who believes in trickle-down economics or the merits of a strong military-industrial complex. It’s just that I can’t get athletic in bed with any woman whose brain doesn’t immediately explode at the phrase, “Today I bought the latest Newt Gingrich book!”

Dunstan McGill