Another Disastrous Dating Profile, Part Trois

ITEM! The Third Part of Our In-House Sociological Experiment Department:

Continuing with a genuine dating profile from one of our gifted editors, Simon Augustine, which has stunned a litany of relationship and love experts with its incompetence, misguided aims, frightening self-revelation, and twisted concepts of romance:

Also,

One thing that I like to get out in the open right off the bat is that, especially if we really hit it off and you wind up bearing my children, you should know that the gene pool in my fam is not the strongest ever. What does this mean? Well, basically, on my father’s side, all our ancestors grew up in VERY small towns in Sicily, and there was a lot of intermarrying. My grandparents, who were wonderful people, were actually first cousins. There just wasn’t a lot of choice where they grew up: picture Topeka, Kansas without the excitement, the mall, electricity, English, or garden tools. My mother’s side has more stable chromosomes on the whole, but also a lot of people in our family had to escape the Nazis and that was stressful, and I think stress makes it into the genetic code. Not sure about that – I’m not freakin’ Mendel over here. Whatever. But there are some geniuses on my Mom’s side – my great-great grandmother, bless her soul, grew up in Poland or Russia and spoke eight languages. Eight. I don’t even have eight friends let alone eight languages to speak to them in. So, to sum up here, if I do manage to impregnate you and you cooch-shoot out a couple of troublemakers, there’s a

possibility of like two heads, or sociopathology, or three belly buttons or something. Of course, the way chromosomes work, our kid could also be the next Leonardo DaVinci, or at least the next Leonardo DeCaprio, so if you feel lucky, it’s a crap shoot, but you could hit the big time. It’s like those famous lines from the first Dirty Harry movie: "I know what you’re thinking: ‘did he use up all the good spermatazoa or is there still some left in the chamber.’ So, you gotta ask yourself one question: Do I feel lucky? ….Well, do ya punk?"

If the whole age thing drags your bag, dig this: I look about 10 years younger than I am. I was carded for an R-rated movie when I was 30 (the 19 year old special needs student I was accompanying got in scot free). This will be helpful when I am 70 and on the prowl for 60 year old chicks.

I don’t like to admit this – but I think about sex a lot. I think I may be thinking about sex right now, but I’m not sure. Um, yeah, I think I am. I don’t really think about kinky stuff much, like dressing up like Catwoman or the Michelin Man or nothing, just straight arrow stuff like coitus uninterruptus. Usually when I think about sex stuff, it involves using my penis in some way – not to move french fries across a plate, or help somebody by being a human shoehorn – not anything utilitarian like that, but usually putting in some place that feels good, like Ye Place That May Not Be Mentioned! or a vagina, or some such things. Not like in a jar of tacks. It’s hard to not think about sex long enough to write the stuff in these pages that will make women with nice boobs want to have sex with me often.

My maturity level varies: spiritual – 188 years old; sense of humor: 8-21 years old; romantic: varies between 17-38; emotional: varies betw. 23 and 61; being aware of other people: 67. What does this all mean? It means I have tasted an egoless state in which the auspices of individual personhood fell away and I glimpsed unconditioned emptiness; I value love as the highest principle – carnal, filial, spiritual, romantic; I still find great humor in farts, boogers, Animal House, ethnic jokes, The Little Rascals, fart apps for iTouch, itchy powder; I like making out a lot, in cars or when your parents are in the other room or during cocktail parties in the coat room, and trying to get to second base, and one on one panty raids; I’m familiar with Alice Miller, Pema Chodron, have been in therapy – familial, couple, individual, and am planning to read The Road Less Traveled, but I could get winey and manipulative if we don’t watch the movie I want to; I notice people who are suffering, in distress, need a kind word or gesture, help, or a smile.

People always ask me, if you were a wine, Blue Yonder [our writer's dating nom de plume], what would be your bouquet, your finish, your tones? And I say, I think I would be a red, from the Noir Valley, maybe ’64, hesitant yet bold, tangential yet somehow essential, mellow but not fruity, with dark, chocolately tones of chestnut and bayberries, the kind of wine that sneaks up on you, may entreat you with scandalous promises, but in the end is sincere with confindent finish on the tongue. Some nights, however, I feel like a muscatel that comes in a bottle with a screw cap, or a jug of Mad Dog 20/20 or malt liquor, that you drink real fast so you can get loose and horny and try to erase life’s failures from you mind.

Caveat Emptor: Some of the above material, and much of what follows is of a very adult, racy, randy, immature, witty, gross, hilarious, nauseating, shocking, transgressive, and even spiritually transformative nature. [Please do not read this profile if you are under 27 years old. (A PG-13 Version will be out soon for those currently too young.)] But, after several death threats, calls from the ASPCA, the Women’s Health and Empowerment Collective of Somerville MA, and The Infinite Regression: A Foundation For Men Who Insist On Writing Offensive Things, along with several letters from chaplains and concerned neighbors and community leaders, and a law suit from the Iron John Progressive Testaterone Society for Resonsible Romance Humor – all in regards to this profile, it has come to my attention that a disclaimer of sorts may be in order. I am probably showing off a bit to show how hip and "with it" and "with the times" and "in the know" I am and try to demonstrate I am "happening" and a "hep-cat" and a "guy on the go" by making myself a little more wild than I am in reality.  But I’ll tell you this, lady: I have a donor sticker on my driver’s license that makes sure my body is donated to necrophiliacs and cannibals in the event of my death.

I appreciate jokes involving penises, vaginas (talking or silent), and interaction between the two, or a hole in the wall, or a vacuum cleaner, or some combination thereof.

And don’t start quoting that Emersonian crap to me about "do I contradict myself; very well, I contain multitudes…" I’ve heard it all before, sister.

Disclaimer 2:  *Please* God no more: sweaty palms, unresponsive lunkheads, flop sweat, lots of waiting and pacing, being untowardly nervous, DSM-IV poster children, self-involved…well, yes, I’ll say it by god – trollops; no-shows, show-too-muches, hostile arguments over educational theory, middle of the night e-mail rants involving existential crises and BJs, two-way-ticket long walks through snowstorms, if you get my "drift" (a double entree!), feet fetishes, social phobias, or any conversation that might be considered for The Guiness Book of Douche-Chilly Awkward Social Mishaps of the Century … (Hello, my name is Pas. Faux Pas. I’d like her stirred, not shaken.)

So, that said…

I’m not really into a lot of fresh air. No kayaking. Even bars with those Japanese singing machines are too outdoors for me. I’m more the stay in and watch a Yaphet Kotto marathon and eat a lot of small chocolate donuts type.

I love to go out dancing to songs made before 1981, or live bands playing songs written before 1981. I have some pretty good moves. Ever been to Bell In Hand or The Pheonix Landing? Or that five floor disco place downtown with the funny name?  I once drank 6 martinis at Felt and wound up dancing with a group of what looked to be Lithuanian light-trippers; me and this guy with a lot of gold chains formed a grind sandwich with one of the Lithuanian women. Later I puked at 3 in the morning in Union Sq.

I tried kidnapping a rich kid once to impress a date.

If you didn’t go streaking in some point during your life, *please* do not get in touch. At least one form of public nakedness is required.

I usually evaluate snowstorms for their sledding/wonderment/sparkling potential, not for their potential slush/car accident/inconvience value.

I like to quietly hump or neck or suck face on the couch in the den, while everyone else at the party is having cocktails in the other room.

I’d like to start a mind-control cult one of these days, of which I would be the leader – a social organization of some sort, that would do community work (like your more altruistic sororities and fraternities) during the day, and then have chanting/orgy/naked face painting/worship me ceremonies at night. Most of the members would be chicks, except for me. We would also read the canonical Romantic poets like Shelley and Byron while playing Jell-o musical chairs.

[One dating site provided the opportunity to demonstrate the writer's aptitude with foreign language, and provide a translation of sections of the profile in other tongues.  Simon chose Yiddish.]

In Yiddish:

My grandmother’s ghost: "It’s not the fuck-kac-tah itching that I mind, its the swelling. Oy, the swelling goes on and on…"

"With all the talking and writing? Enough already! If she’s intrigued, she’ll get in touch…hopefully no shiksas – god forbid. Oy, the WASPS! With the gin-and-tonic drinking, and Cheever-reading, and no emotion showing…Find yourself a nice Jewish girl, do your grandma a mitzvah! But stay away from the JAPS…the demand expensive jeans and are lax in the BJ dept…., and no grandson of mine should put up with that."

Part Four is on its way, so you don’t have to worry.  Still coming up: Multiple personality, multiple choice.

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