The Mysteries of the interwebby thingy vol. 8: The annoying bit.

Ideal internet dating male photograph v.5.

 

 2 am… Dear god… what the hell am I doing? Someone please draw me a diagram because this, if you will excuse the expression, is pretty much is about as enthralling as plunging my valued parts repeatedly into bacon slicer… well, as much as you can do such an act repeatedly. Let’s look at the maths here:

 It’s dark, I have the air conditioner making a noise akin to a 747 trying to lift Barry White and Marlon Brando off the ground… Yeah, so at least one of those is dead, but I’m not going to revise that comment on the sole ground that I’m past caring about continuity. Just pretend I wrote the thing a while ago. Heck… why not go the whole hog in the backdating thing and cover my arse all the way… I’ve been hearing some good things about this young Jesus fella, although whether he can prolong all the hype when he hits the awkward thirties and loses his looks is a matter of debate… Oh, and apparently it’s all looking a bit shit for the dinosaurs… Did anyone hear a bang? Oh, and, back to the topic in question, there’s also this burn hole in my sock that probably means reconstructive surgery will be needed some point soon. I rather wish the cosmos would use a lubricant.

 The point of all this? Internet dating is the sure fire way to guarantee yourself a perpetual sense of doom combined with both a feeling of inadequacy and twenty-four hour a day rejection by a broad spectrum of society. Think that you possibly might be a tad inept at dealing with the gender of your preference? Well, then buckle up and brace yourself for the most exhaustive process of ego dismemberment ever invented by humankind that doesn’t involve enough psychedelics to convince you that, not only can you fly, but also that you can understand the deep inner workings of the universe and think that they’re actually fairly friendly. You will enter with a mental image of a sea of available nubile human beings blessed with charm, wit, and a kind of general loveliness so fierce that you’ll need factor 50 suntan lotion to avoid third degree burns… You will leave with the grim realisation that, unless you are one of about five people with nice hair and matching personality, you’re going to have to catch that person you like exceedingly drunk… Or, if you’re lucky, in the midst of the kind of crisis where they’re so filled with self-loathing that their judgment is sorely impaired to the point where it probably doesn’t matter if the picture you send them has you clutching a severed head while dry-humping a beached whale’s blow-hole… Quickly lash yourself to that person’s leg for as long as you can and try not to land on your head when they finally shake you off.

 In honour of the entire process of ritual humiliation, the temporary poor judgement of others, and glaring neurosis, I present tonight’s feature presentation. Hell, it beats doing something constructive.

Casper Sanchez and The Unfortunate One.

 “You looked taller in the photo…” She stared at him down the rapidly dwindling length of her cigarette.

 “That was just my head…” Casper felt slightly insulted by her remark, hurriedly developing a complex, “How did you come to the conclusion I was taller?”

 “I’m just saying you looked taller, don’t take it personally, I was just remarking on a fact.” She began fishing about in her eye.

 “Are you alright there?” Casper was starting to feel unsettled, and also beginning to realise that trying to stand up straight was causing unfortunate side-effects including a complete loss of feeling in the right side of his body. Jesus, he thought, any minute she’s just going to take the thing out and start polishing it on her sleeve.

 “Oh I’m just great, I have a contact lens down the back of my eye-socket somewhere and it’s probably going to end up lodged in a sinus. I’m only going to be able to use one eye from now on… I’m already beginning to develop a migraine.” She started fishing in her bag, and eventually emerged with a roll of tape and a napkin. “It’s either this or I go home… and my train isn’t coming for fifteen minutes or so.” She proceeded to carefully tape the napkin over her eye. Casper did his best not to stare at the coffee-stained sheet of crumpled tissue.

 “So what do you do you fancy doing?” asked Casper meekly.

 “Let’s go back to your place and screw like rabbits…” she replied calmly. Casper’s eyebrows rose involuntarily.

 “Seriously?” Casper began to wish he’d hovered and cleared up the plate with the green stuff on it before he’d left the house. The sound of laughter filled the platform.

 “Yeah, I dig wild random sex with short guys when it feels like someone’s pouring salt into my skull-holes… Hey, wait, let me just lie down under a bus to get in the mood.”

 “I’m not short dammit, I’m standing on a damn slope.” Casper tried to hide the fact his right hand had gone blue.

 “Yeah, ain’t the curvature of the Earth a bitch when it comes to making first impressions…” She dropped her cigarette and Casper watched as it gracefully rolled round to start melting the toe of his shoe.

 “Look, I made a slight mistake when it came to metric conversion… it’s not my fault you’re fucking Gigantor… some of us weren’t born in a radioactive swamp.” Casper watched as one eye-widened and the other one rustled the paper slightly.

 “Listen you stumpy little Gollum, just because my knuckles aren’t raw from dragging along the pavement doesn’t mean I’m unnecessarily tall, it just means that one of my parent’s wasn’t a fucking oompa loompa… Hey, look on the bright side, at least you’re non-threatening to pygmies. You can be like their butler or something.” She fished a cigarette out of her bag. She’d said she didn’t smoke… Casper eyed the cigarette hungrily, having decided to play along and leave his Capston’s on the dining table after desperately deep-hauling ten before he left the house. “You got a light Tinkerbell?” Casper fished out the pink disposable lighter covered in rust from being through the washing machine at least six times and flicked the wheel.

 There was a lot of screaming when the foot-long jet of flame ignited the napkin.

 By the time the smoke had cleared she’d drawn a switchblade.

 “I’m going to cut you and I’m going to enjoy it.” Gigantor lunged wildly for his eyes yet her lack of depth perception and substantial charring put off her aim.

 “Jesus, you cut my damn ear off…” Casper found himself gushing an unfortunate amount of blood. “Screw you Gigantor, you will never get The Pearl Of Magnorak.” Casper drew The Sword of Griganakker, oiled himself, and spread his thighs in an action pose.

 “THAT PEARL IS MINE MONGOLOR,” Gigantor laughed as she joined with Prozacathong and Oxymoronicana and morphed into the eight-hundred foot tall robot Thorgon. Thorgon then stuck its arm in the air and, clutching the other to its groin, and did a couple of pelvic thrusts.

 “You will never defeat me Throgon, your Triple Dipthong Attack is no match for my Startled Duck Soul Exploding Death Punch…” laughed Casper Mongolor as he evolved into something that looked a bit like a tortoise with an onion stuck to it. “I AM NOW PIKAMONGOLORACHUKKABUKKATORTLE”

 “But you seem to forget that I hold your home planet hostage with my fleet of battle-cruisers… if I die they will instantly vaporize your people.” Thorgon cackled. “Now give me The Pearl.”

 “HA!” Pikamongolorablahblah chuckled. “Even now my people are summoning The Spirit of Tortillatron to turn your own people against you with his Third Eye of Krallg… Just surrender and accept defeat.” Pikywickywoowoowhatever straddled his legs as far as his shell would allow.

 “Well, my Son, if you will not join me, let battle commence…” replied Thorgon and leapt forward. The pair clashed, rending platform 4 of Waterloo station in two, causing a chocolate machine to fall over. Pikamongo-etc clutched Uranus in his hand and threw it with great force at Thorgon, who responded by gripping the very fabric of reality in its hand and using it as a crude bludgeon. Billions died in the ensuing battle that was really exciting and well written. Then Throgon said it’d email Whatever-the-fuck-the-other-one’s-name-was but didn’t.

The End.

That’s your internet dating for you. I ain’t saying there aren’t some nice people out there, I’m just pointing out they’re out of our league… but hell, do what I do, keep a bottle next to the computer and a bucket for the tears. If you’re cunning, you can line the bucket with Gold Blend and, provided you can maintain a regular level of rejection, you’ll never have to move again, provided you take your coffee black and salty. Eventually your arse will merge with the chair and you can point out that Darwin had a point while finally snapping and making a pass at a 40 watt bulb in hope of a little light relief.

 

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