A few days back, I blogged about whereinthehellall I’ve dated. To read, it might sound prolific, to the contrary. You add up 365 days in a year, THEN divide the totol number of them places - I’ve simply been a wallflower.
It’s HARD being a single old fart. Sooo many soooo lonely, yet there ain’t no “key to the ignition” to start that motha, get ‘er going. The jumper cables to dating connections, suck, they really suck.
“There’s something wrong with everyone who’s on THERE.” (Internet) Whatshername, 2001. In spitea the fact she willingly rode off on a Harley - there was a bitta inward hurt involved when she said that. But also a bitta truth. However, there’s something wrong with all of us. Perhaps a lot right, but something wrong in each.
I have all kindsa ideas for speedin’ this chit up. You know them little thingys when someone sells their house? You know, they’re clear, attached to the sign… weatherproof.. And it says “Take one.” I think there oughta be a “Realty Bar” where you could go.. Workup your sheet about you, you past, “square feet”, baggage (cracks in foundation?), future (get jiggy wit’ it on the real you… retirement? Get halfa the ex’s?.. Would you describe your bankroll as peanut
butter, ground beef, ground chuck, or sirloin? Ahm, ona scale of 1 to “don’t ask, just take me” how would u describe your intimacy wants/needs?
You could have like fake roads.. Chairs wit’ signs out front.. And there u advertise.. You obviously wouldn’t be forced to accept an ‘offer’.. and too, you could very well be subject to “buyer’s remorse” - which, pretty much describes dating anyways oft times.
Many couldn’t do “the bar scene” - so, you could havea dance….. In a gym.. Hell it could be in the basement of the Catholic Church for all I care. (Careful though.. When ‘ex and I tried to get our marriage “blessed”.. we hadta fill out an 18 page ‘survey’ on each of our previous marriages - and the numero uno question asked [which honest to goodness was to be mailed to Rome] was about “your sex life in your previous marriage.” I poop you not.
So you’re in this gym.. A Cath gym.. … Heaven knows it’s the day of double-parking, multitasking, and hell.. At work I’ve got TWO monitors and I have a hard enough time concentratin’ on onea them sumbitches.
So everyone gets a number. You know, like a runner in a race. And it’s “bobby pinned” to your chest. Chicks get on one sidea the room. Guys the other. And… then… much like two sports teams shaking hands after the game is over.. You walk in a straight line.. So that you’re walking past each/every female/male in the joint.
You jot down “hmmm.. #49 really interested me”.. and then you could go to her “packet”, an 8 anda half by 11 envelope affixed numerically on the wall, and learn all about her, her past, her tomorrow, her now.
Then, u take the little supplied sticky note thingy with your number stamped on the back.. Write the number of the one u’d liketa learn more about, and u drop it in this fishbowl thingy at the heada the room. Could even have nuns or priests (that way, no jealousy) notify the desired one - and they could either drop the little supplied sticky note thingy in the “Yay” bucket, or the “thanks but no thanks” bucket.
I’ve run inta so, so many that thrive on this “Thanks but no thanks” stuff - I truly think they’re really celebates oozing with self importance - and they’re somehow perked by scoffing at those “beneath them.” (Picture here slam-dunking in the “thanks, but no thanks bucket.”)
Ifn’s you get to the point.. Where you find that you’ve progressed from the fishbowl.. To the nun carrying… to the ‘yay’ bucket… THEN, you’d advance to the confessional area.. “Ceptin’ you’d be able to see the other… Just the ‘geography’ of it all would ward off all bullshitters.. And u might learn hella about the other.
So………. No GD uncomfy emails. No dry throat “gulps” of walking up to her, the hell do I say? No meeting her in aisle 7 of the Piggly Wiggly, following her all the way to aisle 11, only to give in to your sheepishness/shyness/the hell do I say? (“Why them are the finest looking’ grapefruits I eva laid ma eyes on.” could actually get you slapped at the grocery.)
If perhaps attendance at Mass was down for the past few weeks - they might even consider offering for like .25 cents a shot them little wine thingies for the event. This, after a few treks, sips, could greatly increase the odds of your chances as obtaining a sticky note with your number on it. “Oh the line, all looks prettier at closin’ time.” It might too really spice up the ‘conversation’ in the confessional thingy.. And perhaps, (just shoot me Catholics) the simple feel of the
“proliferation” of it all could actually get you laid… soon.
Hell.. Could be used as a fundraiser. I’d rather straight up give five bucks and mebbe get sumpin outta it than buying 6 boxes of Girl Scout cookies apiece from all them GD O’Flarety kids.
Didn’t get a sticky? Not to worry. Fliers on the table on the way out about “Life as a Priest”.. and “It’s not Nunsense.”
Could beat the hell outta MySpace, Matchdoctor, Singlesnet.com, Match.com, bars, Piggly Wiggly’s, stale single’s events, blind dates, “I wanna set you up with my friend”.. all that. It’s too GD hard out here. Even though you chickies burned ur bra’s back in the day - it’s still skewed toward men initiating… “Cathmatch” just might make it.
May life wing you a sticky note. May you enjoy a fine kiss in the Confessional (The Cathdate one, not the ‘regular one”.) Should you choose a wine glass that’s stuck.. Please grab another. (Victor? You speak from experience? Screw you.)..
And if all that don’t work (no sticky notes in the fishbowl).. . As you exit, holler out “Ab abomino incommodus ile-is…” which, kinda-sorta in Latin, means “I hate your guts.” No one will know. The Priests (the old ones) might snicker… but it could be a feel good..
Cathdate. I likes it. Love, Victurd.
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