Just… WTF Sketch

I just got the following email, from someone on an online dating site, unsolicited. As in, at no time did I ever indicate I wished to receive an email from said individual, or mention that I am into any of the things mentioned in the below narrative.

Normally I wouldn’t really share an email sent on a dating site, because, to be honest, they’re usually just not that interesting. Even the weird ones don’t usually capture my attention for longer than a nono-second, given my gnat-sized attention span, and my own comparitive weirdness.

But, in the interest of science, and blowing your collective minds. I present to you an email in the key of WTF.

And… go.

“The gathering closed onto the summit.Gathering pace the small group of people walked excitedly all drawing their senses and eyes directly above them.It had been 2 years since the mayan calenders close and Elfie knew in herself the messages meaning in her *dating site* inbox,an invitation that had been in fact sent from another world.

Elfie was now one of the group of contactees usually refered to as singles or the dateable in the old world.She took a glance around her as the precession finally stopped atop the desolate hill on the cities outskirts.People of all types…one geezer or as she liked to refer to him as in her lofty mind reminded her of Mr Howe from Gilligans Island.Another was a close copy of the famous Colonel Sanders from the deep fried chicken fame.A mixed bunch of misfits one might say and Elfie knew also inside herself she was no escapee of reminder in others minds of being someone more than a little eccentric.

”What time is this thing supposed to arrive,does anybody know?”yelled the man in the tan suit.Pacing briskly back and fourth like he had another important appointment to go to.

”Do people from outside the solar system keep the same time?”asked Elfie insistently.

“What makes you think they are even people?I saw no profiles” stated the person standing next to Elfie.A kinda floatsum and jetsum of the online dating world.

As the people conversed collectively about the pros and cons of the theory of relativity and the rumored existence of Chineses exports now reaching beyond the earth and into the cosmos in secret,the actual moment had arrived for which they had been waiting for..

All eyes gazed triumphantly on the beamship above briskly descending down above them in the starry night sky.It stopped a reasonable distance above the gatherings heads as to not squash them or cause immediate panic and it then dipped down gently making a kinda weird funny sound a kinda toiletry disturbance and then a rope was flung down to them after a fuelsalage door opened.

“A rope?!…a bloody rope?” exclaimed the colonel in a tone as yet unmatched that evening.

The man in the tan suit started laughing out loud in fits at the sight.

Nobody could believe or grasp such an advanced race who traverse the galaxy had not yet predicted the need for at least ladders when alighting and picking up humans.Then suddenly from out of all the excitment appeared a figure unlike anyone had ever seen before,be it on the telly or Oxford street between the years 1970 thru to 1999.

“Gasp….whoa!!….came the knee jerk response from the crowd.

It began to speak..

“Earthlings of *dating site* I express on behalf of command HQ from Zeta Reticuli quadrant a warm solar hello and welcome aboard.Just hold hands and one nominated leader grab the rope and let our highly advanced physics do the rest”

“Once aboard we will have lunar cocktails and mercurial nibblies.We will be traversing up to our mothership located currently just behind the SBS news satelite in earths inner orbit.Once aboard we will be holding multiple seminars in various subjects.From dating at the pyramids to bare naked gardening on mars.The acceptability of martian gardening and zen into the galactic mainstream  apposed to being just a local solar systemic trend.So please once again welcome aboard members from all of HQ of Zeta Reticuli and thanks for coming”

On board whilst the announcement was actually taking place there was unprecedented pandermonium.Evil Dialecs from 70s era Dr Who were zipping around the floor of the craft excitedly and reffering…”Humans Humans imprison them inprison them!”

An alcholic jaba woki who became dejected from Hollywood after an on location accident went uncompensated,who was now a very angry jaba woki was leaping around banging his fists down on the modules table and shaking his head to and through in jubilation of his new hostages.

All sorts of madness awaited the online dating members who were still at this time on top of Inspiration hill in the dark and they were in the dark alright.

Stayed tuned to the next installment of Intergalctic Dating.

Brought to you by “Nick ADMIRES the chick called *my username*”

He can never get her attention.”

My face immediately after reading:

Preach.

And now, my rant. Soooo much rant.

1. Do you think I’m an idiot? Do you think I think that that abortion of a Mad Lib was written just for me? Do you think I don’t realise you just change out the username each time?

2. Which brings me to my second point – do you know what women REALLY love? Being interchangeable. Nothing makes us go “bone me” like getting an email that we know has been sent to countless other women, and knowing that all you did was change one thing.

3. Which brings me to my THIRD point. Do you know what women love more than being interchangeable (apart from “make me a sandwich” jokes – they’re super original and funny, so we love them)? Abstract science fiction stories about online dating. In fact, when I’m looking for erotic fiction online, those are the very words I ask Google to hunt down for me. Fifty Shades of Grey can go beat itself in the corner – I want me some Fifty Shades of Awkward Star Wars and Dr Who References.

4. Fourth. If you’re going to send your Fan Boy love stories to unsuspecting female types on the Interwebs, at least proof read it first? The lonely quotation marks, spelling errors and random syllables in that thing were floating around more awkwardly than Rose after telling Jack she’d never let go, and then.. dang… letting go. And at least she had a door to chill on!

5. Storyline. Get you some.

6. The Oxford St reference. Just.. what. Maybe I’m too young to understand this reference, but does Oxford St between the years 1970 and 1999 represent all that is wacky, way out and bizzare to you? Although I do have to give bonus points for not including a Lady Gaga/alien reference. Kudos to you.

7. Proper punctuation. Remember this, and hold it near to you during the long, lonely nights – punctuation is important. Consider this, and which is better: “Let’s eat, Grandma!” or “Let’s eat Grandma.” Now, if you’re a normal, functioning, member of society (and let’s be honest, I have my doubts), then choice 1 is preferable. If you’re a cannibal, choice 2 (unless you’re grandma, of course.)

8. Picking a bunch of random pop culture references and writing them on a piece of paper, putting all the pieces in a hat, putting said pieces in a blender with a Science Fiction novel, blending with milk, drinking the contents and then shitting out the results on to a tarp is not the best way to write a story. Truth.

9. I know this is covered in my point about proof reading, but Intergalctic? Fuck me. (Despite what I just wrote, this story will at no point result in you fucking me.)

10. Finally, and more importantly. Refer to the below photo, and realise… this dog has more game than you will EVER have.

Next time, just get the bitches some leaves.

 

 

EDIT: Last night I got the below email follow-up.

 

Pretty sure he wants to wear my skin as a coat.

Seal Sketch

As a single early (VERY early) 30s female, working in the city and growing wary of meeting men in bars, I recently decided to try my luck with internet dating. What follows is an account of one of these dates, or what I am tentatively calling: “Breaking the Seal”.

As I tend to do in these fevered reveries, I’ll start with a bit of a personal failing of mine, and this is it: if you point out someone else’s flaw to me, and I haven’t as yet noticed it on my own, from that time onwards,that flaw will be ALL THAT I CAN SEE.

“Did you see Susie’s pimple? It’s a monster.”
“No, I didn’t, you superficial animal, but now I’ll be staring into it’s greasy soul for the rest of the meeting.”

“Daniel has a tendancy to spit when he talks, it drives me mad.”
“I had never noticed that, but now I will flinch every time he even makes a move toward an “S” word.”

“Phillip has a lazy eye – it’s so awkward when you talk to him.”
“Great. Now I’ll be constantly hovering between looking at his left and right eye, trying not to favour one or the other, essentially making myself go cross eyed. He will then think I’m taking the piss, will make a concerted effort not to move his eyes, I’ll get more awkward and start staring at him, and we’ll stay there, forever, staring into each other’s slowly drying out eyeballs for the rest of our miserable lives. Thanks. Thanks a lot.”

Staring into your bloodshot eyes helps me to forget about my hideous haircut.

Now, I tell you this not to highlight what a terrible person I am (but thanks for noticing), but instead as the lead in for the latest story, as it began with me showing a co-worker a photo of the lucky sod whom I would be meeting for drinks that evening.

“Hmm.. he looks OK… but what’s with his nose? It looks like he’s balancing a ball on the tip. Like a seal.”

Like. A. SEAL.

The second she said that, all his normality slid out the window, like a seal (or to be technically correct, like a sea lion), slip-sliding across a Sea World stage. Why hadn’t I noticed the bulby tip of his nose before? And how did it get there? Did he accidentally shove a marble up his nose as a small child? Did a bee sting his nose just moments before each of his photos were taken? And if so, why was his nose so attractive to bees?

I almost cancelled the date then and there.

But then I remembered the old adage, “beggars can’t be choosers”, and a more recent adage, “Get out there and date some people, you mole, I want you to write in the blog”, and I remembered that my desperation is exceeded only by my friends’ desires for me to humiliate myself for their own enjoyment. So with humble nobility (and a belly full of booze), I agreed to meet “Seal” for a beverage or two at a local drinking hole, despite my fears that I would spend the whole time staring, transfixed, at the end of his nose.

Is there something on my face? I hope so. This blu-tack doesn’t feel very sturdy.

The first thing that struck me about Seal when I first met him was not (surprisingly) his nose, but the following:

a) he had a very thick, Russian accent;
b) he was quite short (but also quite well built);
c) he was quite a good looking guy.

At the bar, he asked if I would like a glass of wine, and while I declined (opting instead for the classiest nectar of the Gods, good old Ron Bacardi), he ordered a bottle for himself. Given he was driving, I thought this was a bit odd, but put it down to nerves, and let it slide (geddit? Like a seal? Ah, my jokes are wasted on you people).

While seated, we started on the usual first date topics – work, lifestyle, friends, the fact that he’d had three nose jobs and his chin shaved off…

Wut?

I checked the contents of the bottle, and the time. 15 mins in, one glass down, and he was disclosing his most recent procedures like I was Ellen and he was a shorter, more Russian Joan Rivers. He then started on his weight loss regime, and for the next 30 minutes, showed me the before and after photos on his Facebook. Before: Normal looking, attractive man. After: Muscle bound, bulby-little nose-tip man.  I finally gave myself free reign to stare at it. As he spoke, it waved at me.

I decided it was time for another drink.

While I was inside, I realised it had gotten crowded – the Mexican themed party from upstairs had trickled down to the first floor, and the Sangria was flowing fast and loose. By the time I made way back outdoors, I found I was now wearing a Sombrero – and while I had been gone, old mate had started chatting to the pleasant seeming chappies who had sat at the end of our rather large table. Once I put down the drinks and took off the hat  (noticing that the wine bottle was now empty), I began to introduce myself to our new drinking companions.

“So, this guy you’re sitting with… What’s with his nose? I hear he’s had three operations?”

Wut 2.0?

In the 20 minutes I’d been gone, Seal had not only polished off the greater part of a bottle of wine, but had regaled his new friends with tales of his surgery? Suddenly I had been downgraded from Ellen. I was just one of those old ladies from the View.

One of us just farted. After the break, we’ll tell you who.

I gave Seal the benefit of the doubt, assumed he was just one of those “over-share” kids we all went to school with (“Awesome. Your cat has worms. Now quit wiping your ass on the carpet and do your maths.”), and turned around to finish my drink.

Which is when I saw this:

This is a real, completely undoctored image. Pinkie promise.

Seal had fallen asleep under my sobrero.

Now, I’m no scintillating conversationalist, but I’d assume that his impromptu table nap had less to do with my company and more to do with the full bottle of wine he had imbibed in just under an hour. This suspicion was confirmed not 5 minutes later when the venue’s bouncers lifted him from his seat and politely asked him to leave. They even gave him assistance. And I did what any well-mannered young lady would do in such a situation – I hid behind the tallest man in the beer garden, and ignored the text message that came through two minutes later: “I just got kicked out! Where are you?”, assuming it was probably poor form to write back, “Hiding behind a tall red headed fella. He smells like soap and beer.”

I stayed long enough to finish my drink (alone or no, I’m enjoying my Bacardi, OK?), and then thought I should probably message him to make sure he hadn’t fallen under a truck somewhere. Unbelievably, he rang me – while he was DRIVING.

Oh yes, he did.

He then proceeded to ask if I wanted a lift (not from you, Drunky McRussian Pants), if he could come to my house to “See my chihuahua” (yes, I have a chihuahua, no, thats not what he meant), and stated emphatically more than a few times that “he wouldnt think less of me if I slept with him”, which of course was a total surprise and made me immediately drop my underpants and invite him inside my Love Bunker.

LOLZ jokes roffle.

It actually made my lady parts clench so definitively that I almost tripped over on my own lack of desire.

I politely declined (see: laugh out loud, hang up phone, snort), hopped on a bus, got myself a late night tasty snack, and went home to my dog. She enjoyed the Mexican scarf I brought home for her bed, I enjoyed my pizza slice, and I’m assuming Seal enjoyed the cavity search he received at the police station once he was pulled over for drink driving.

And in his end, isn’t that all that matters?

(see? Another awesome joke!)

Terrible, just terrible.

I hate you guys.

EDIT: Someone has just pointed out to me that Seal’s sleepytime reminded them of this clip… Touche, young Padawan, touche.

I’m too sexy for this sketch

As a single late-20 something female, working in the city and growing wary of meeting men in bars, I recently decided to try my luck with internet dating. What follows is an account of one of these dates, or what I am tentatively calling: “Just Do It”.

I think you and I have differing opinions on what constitutes a sleepover. Let’s bang.

 

Now, I know this may surprise you, with all my apparent wisdom and social knowledge, but I can actually be quite naive at times. I try to assume the best of everyone, and I’m constantly making excuses for other’s bad behaviours (think Pollyanna with a filthy mouth and a penchant for Bacardi).

So, if I like you (whether we’re friends, or I can see us doing the horizontal nasty-dance), I will assume you are a good and honest person, with only pure intentions, despite my history. Until you do something abhorrent. Then I’ll laugh at you, and write about it on my blog.

But I digress.

This story, as most of my stories do, began with me speaking to a young man online. Or, if we’re going to split hairs, on a “social neworking” app. At the time, I was unaware of the app’s full reputation, and assumed it was just a place to meet people, have a chat, and if you liked them, meet in person for a beverage (Cue Pollyanna’s theme music).  Anyway, I’d been speaking online with this particular guy for a couple of weeks, during which time he’d been absolutely lovely – and he’d asked if I wanted to have a drink with him. I uhmed and ah’ed, and in the end decided to take a chance, and agreed.

Being lazy, and if I’m being completely honest, not that interested, I agreed on the proviso that we meet somewhere close to where I live (so I didn’t have to travel – it was raining, and as I mentioned earlier, I’m lazy), and he seemed open to the idea. And so it came to be that I met him at a rather dodgy pub in my suburb, wearing jeans, a casual shirt and thongs (we were, after all, only meeting for a casual drink).

When he stepped out of the car, I knew instantly that the next hour was going to be either hilarious, painful, terrifying, or a mixture of the three. He was a totally preened, groomed, buffed out and chiselled specimen of a man – and his designer jeans and crisp white shirt were having trouble containing all the “perfection” within.

This was a man who loved himself.

I’m into all the latest dance styles. This one the kids call “The Tea Pot”.

When he saw me, bless his Arnie-d little heart, his face only dropped a little. But, regaining his composure (the Mr Bondi competition had not only taught him the fine art of taping a swimsuit to his buttocks, but also poise under pressure), he greeted me politely, and we walked inside. I started to think maybe I was being a bit of a jerk, judging him for his outwardly (buff) appearance.

Until he started talking.

Over the course of the next hour (and two beverages), he regaled me with stories of all of his conquests from the app on which we had ‘met’. In fact, his opening line may or may not have been, “Well, I’m assuming you’re not on ******* to find a relationship. You go on ******* for one thing, and one thing only.”

I don’t think the one thing was friendship.

I started the ‘date’ sitting properly, listening politely. By the time he had finished his first sexual monologue, I had shifted so that my legs were strewn over the chair next to me, my chin in my hands. This guy was incredible. I couldn’t believe such a parody existed.

I was enthralled.

And then she put her leg where? A gymnast you say?

Some of the highlights included:

– “Let’s be honest, when I meet women? Within the hour, they’re usually in my bed.” Hmmm, STD goodie bag. Delicious.
– The woman who he had sex with, and got a drunken booty call from the next week  (after her work Christmas party). This was coupled with the saga of walking from the city to his place, with the added inconvenience of stopping at a bottle O to buy a bottle of Pinot Gris that – wait for it – she didn’t even drink, because “she jumped me after like, half a glass. What a waste of time. Why did we have to go to the bottle shop? To convince me you’re not just after my body?” Yes. Women are such blatant whores – my heart breaks for you.
– Another woman who he had relations with who “got off a couple of times, then went to sleep. So lazy.” He then had to try to wake her up because, naturally, he doesn’t like strangers sleeping in my bed. I mean, who does, right?  Apparently she “pretended” to be asleep until he went and slept on the couch, at which time she came out and asked what the deal was (what a mole). He then reiterated his “no strangers in the bed” policy and she finally left. Bitches in your bed? First world problems, ya’ll.
– The ‘older’ lady who called him a week after their dalliance and asked if he would like to join her for a drink… at a well known gay establishment. When he questioned the locale, she informed him she was with two of her close friends. His (logical, of course) response, was, “You don’t just want to show me off to your gay friends, do you?” Well, obviously.
– A larger woman who had more or less tricked him into meeting him (curse those tricky she-heathens with their iPhone photography trickery), and who had confessed to dating over 100 men in one year, which disgusted him. (So it’s totally not cool for her to break bread with a man or a hundred, but he can lay his way around Sydney? Sounds fair.)
– His ‘real life’ date with a girl he’d met at the beach the week before – and yes, he did use the word ‘real life’ to differentiate between someone he’d met to plow, and someone he saw potential in. Ladies – set your fake tanners to high and start teasing those blonde manes… you may be in with a chance!

It was around this time that I think he realised I was very far from interested into falling into bed with him (my slack jawed expression of disbelief mixed with pure joy at the entertainment value of this encounter was pretty evident), and he began to very subtly wrap things up.

“I’m cold. Are you cold? I’m cold. I’m going”.

I have to admit I was pretty upset – mentally I was storing each of these nuggets of dating gold for future retelling, and I just knew there were more if I could just coax them out of him (so far me saying, “Tell me more” had been working a charm) – but he knew a non-conquest when he saw one, and my legs were very definitely closed for business.

With a sigh of resignation, I gave him a hug goodbye (he couldn’t resist flexing the pecs just once, conquest or no), and watched him swagger to his (not that surprisingly) small car, and drive away with a squeal of the tires, into the distance… and I’m sure, to talk some other poor, unsuspecting Pollyanna into his bed.

I just hope to God she didn’t fall asleep in there.

Drunk dial sketch

I’ve come to the conclusion that alcohol, phones and me, do not mix. Me and phones? Fine. Me and alcohol? Fine (to an extent). All together? Big bag of fail.

You’ll have to speak up. I’m not wearing any pants.

Here’s how it tends to go down:

1-2 drinks: Phone sits on table, largely unhandled.

I check myself into the pub I am currently drinking at.

2-3 drinks: I feel the need to randomly text my good friends, get a response, and feel that little glow of love that comes from the SMS Gods above.

I “like” my own check in, and scroll through my friend’s recent check-ins to see if anyone I know is drinking near by.

3-4 drinks: I begin to message people I haven’t seen in months, with jokes that are largely irrelevant and probably make very little sense. To anyone.

I tag everyone I’m drinking with in a large, convoluted post and do a shout out to anyone who “wants to hit the town with us”. No one comments. Some people untag themselves.

4-5 drinks: I message my ex-boyfriend to see “if he’s doing ok”. I spell his name wrong so he knows I’m completely over him.

I check myself into a trendy club I’m not even at, just so my ex knows how fun and cool I am these days. I fail to realise that said club has been closed for a year now. I look through all of his photos, and glare menacingly at any girls standing within 3 feet of him. Including his sister.

5-6 drinks: I send a message to the Mobile DJ number. Instead of listing the song title and artist, I write, “Play some snooooop dogg drop it like its hot ya’ll. Play it bitches yeah yo woo”. My song never gets played. I keep pressing “re-send” in the hopes the DJ will get so annoyed he will relent.

I find the video clip for Drop It Like It’s Hot on YouTube, press play, and dance around the table. My booty is shaken. Vigorously.

6-7 drinks: I decide to send my mum and dad a message to let them know I’m thinking of them. What comes out instead? “You always loved the other two more!”I feel justified, and slightly weepy, so hit send.

I look through my sister’s Facebook photos and write passive agressive comments next to the nicer ones, like, “Your hair looks so nice in this photo! It really takes the attention away from your massive nose! Kisses! Love you!”

I also decide it might be a nice ‘bonding’ experience to invite my 14 year old cousin drinking with us, but my friends veto this decision. Selfish bastards.

First round of jagerbombs: I try to ring the poor sod I’ve recently begun a very light flirtation with. When it goes to voicemail, I leave an extremely sexy and confused voicemail. I enjoy it so much that I immediately ring back and leave 10 more. I then burp into the phone for an added (sexy) bonus.

I try to find the poor sod on Twitter by searching his name. His name is Scott. I get so frustrated I burst into tears and throw my phone at the floor. Luckily, it bounces. When I fall sideways off the chair, I don’t.

Tequilla shots: I try to send an extremely witty (mass) message to any man I’ve had any romantic flirtation with over the past 3 years, but for some reason my fingers suddenly seem way too big for the keypad. The message ends up reading, “hye sexu, long tmie no see. We shuld ctah up for some sixy times so call me plase. miss you byyyyyeeeeeee im drunk yay hahahahahah”. I send it anyway.

I create an event entitled, “Sausage party hahahahahhahahaha” and invite every man in my friends list. Only my creepy uncle clicks “attending”.

Some randoms beer: That guy I went on one date with 2 years ago? I’m now declaring my love for him, and telling him my womb aches to carry his children.

I find said lost soul on Facebook and add him with the message, “Your future wife! Add me!” I add lots of smily faces so he knows I’m not a serial killer.

Big ass bowl of noodles: I take a photo of the amazing, glorious wonder that is the bowl of noodles I currently have my head in, and send it to all and sundry. I ask the girl behind the counter to add the restaurant’s phone number to my contact list, but I think it gets lost in translation when she thinks I’m asking for her number. She looks terrified.

This might also be because I have a noodle hanging from my eyebrow.

I take another photo (complete with lashings of ‘duck face’) and upload it to Facebook. I then make it my new profile photo, and ask the waitress if she’s on Facebook. I get told to leave. After I eat my fortune cookie.

Sausage roll in the cab: I call my friend to tell her that I’m eating a sausage roll, but she doesn’t seem as enthused as I am, so I hang up on her. I then ask the cab driver if he’s had a good night, but before he can reply, also ask what time he finishes, if it’s been busy this evening, if he normally works this area, and if he has a family. I then sneeze sausage roll pastry across the centre console.

He looks relieved to be behind his little partition.

I follow our route on Google Maps to make sure he doesn’t rip me off, but get confused by which coloured ball we are. I assume it’s the one that’s moving, but that doesn’t help.

A Bacardi Breezer: I try to text my boss from my bed, but succeed only in getting what feels like sweet, alcoholic, death in my eyeballs. The room won’t stop spinning long enough for me to compose a complete message, so I write, “Hi won’t be in migraine. Work. Kind ragerds please. Call me if problams”.

Somewhere in the back of my hazy brain stirs a very loud warning. Something about my phone. Something about my phone causing problems I will be held very much accountable for in the morning. Something about terror. Something about a possibly firing and mind-numbing levels of humilation.

I don’t actually recall being on my phone much throughout the evening – in my mind I was a model of good behaviour, had a couple of light drinks and then took myself home. Although this theory doesn’t quite explain why I have a noodle on my eyebrow and a sausage roll wrapper tied in my hair.

Before I can investigate further, I realise my phone’s battery has died, so I do the only logical thing I can think of at the time – I go to sleep.

And wake up 6 hours later screaming as I recall what happened the night before.

Technology. Bloody brilliant.

Camera flash sketch

Today I’m going to take a little time out of my extremely busy and productive day (read: googling cat pictures, watching Gregorian videos and listening Snoop Dogg’s Christmas album) to run through a topic near and dear to my heart. A topic of utmost importance. A topic that could change the world.

Yup, I’m going to run through the top five types of user photos found on Dating sites that should be avoided.

Enjoy!

1. The ‘mirror’ shot.

In a world where we have cameras on just about anything we buy, it bemuses me to still see photos taken in the mirror of some dude’s filthy bathroom.

I don't know if you heard me counting, but I did over a thousand.

I just don’t get why this is a thing.

a) Everyone gets to see how ridiculous your bathroom looks, b) We can see the camera, so are under no misillusion about what’s happening here, and c) The angle is very rarely, if ever, flattering. The only advantage I can possibly see to this practice is that it weeds out the vampires. Unless they’re those new age, glittery, Twilighty type vampires, in which case you’re pretty screwed, because none of the normal vampire rules apply. And let’s be honest, they’re the type of vampires you’d be WANTING to avoid in the first place.

But I digress.

In essence, the mirror shot is the worst kind of shot for online dating profile photos, because you’re basically saying, “I’m so alone that I can’t even find someone to hold the camera for me to take one lousy photo”. And that shit ain’t attractive.

2. The ‘cropped’ shot

Sometimes, you look really good in a photo. Sometimes, you really want to use that photo for your dating profile. Sometimes, it’s really not appropriate. Meet the ‘cropped’ shot.

Oh him? He's just a friend.

There are a few methods of achieving the pefect “crop”, and while some work better than others, here’s the thing: we can all totally tell that there was once someone else in the shot. Someone you are now quite obviously trying to hide. And there are really only two reasons why you would want to hide someone you were once evidently close to – either you killed them, or you dated them.

I once saw an image in which a man had taken what was obviously a photo of himself and his wife, and had applied a “photo frame filter” which pixelated her face into a lovely, cheery mosaic. It was even more creepy than if he’d cropped her out – I could see her there, leering at me, but it was as if she was trapped behind a glass brick wall. In that case, it looked like he had killed her, and that her ghost had found it’s way into his profile photo, ready to judge all who dared step into her place. Needless to say, I didn’t respond to his e-advances.

3. The holiday shot

When do you look the most relaxed, most tanned, and are most likely to have a camera handy? If you said, “on holiday”, you’d be correct. If you said “while speeding through a red light camera”, sit tight, the police will be with you shortly.

I love the shit out of life! And hookers! I really love hookers!

One of the other most common dating site photos is the holiday snapshot – or more commonly, the holiday scrapbook. In order to show you how fun, well-travelled and just gosh-darn awesome they are, this user will upload 5 of their most outrageous holiday photos (i.e. them standing in front of a well-known landmark, with the caption “me in front of well-know landmark”), making sure that their profile mirrors their insane love for leaving the country they call home.

Common phrases may include:

“need to escape the daily grind and just escape!”
“always have my bags packed… for adventure!”
“definitely have been bitten by the travel bug!”

Which sounds terribly exciting and all, but probably isn’t the best way to make a woman feel like you’re a stable, well-settled individual who won’t bail on her in 6 months to go horseback riding in Somalia with wild monkeys. Also? Skipping out for a two months to do Europe Contiki-style is not “travelling the world”. Just sayin’.

4. The crazy costume shot

When listing the personality traits of their ideal partner, most women will inevitably mention things like, “a good sense of humour”, “fun loving”, and “good with kids”.

Ladies, this is your lucky day.

So what better way to showcase your amazing, off-the-wall, insane sense of humour than with a photo of yourself dressed as your favourite super hero/pirate/Star Wars character? It’s a seemingly fool proof plan.

Excceeeeppppttt… while you’re thinking, “I look so quirky, fun and sense of humoury”, the girl is thinking, “Nerd.” While you’re marvelling at how awesome you look in a cape, she’s thinking, “Uber nerd.” And while you’re not above pointing out the fact that you hand crafted your own Darth Vader helmet, she’s thinking, “Virgin.”

The other nerds at the Comic Book convention will appreciate your genius. But you don’t want to date the girl in the Wookie costume, you want to date the blonde girl in the bikini wearing heart shaped sunglasses on RSVP – and she can barely read a Chinese take-away menu, let alone read meaning into a movie from the 70’s that she thought was about warring celebrities. Life is not the Big Bang Theory, and you are not Leonard.

Sorry.

5. WTF shot

My last piece of advice is simple. Don’t take your online photo taking advice from this guy, Dave Thomas:

Don't trust me.

And not because his profile picture is all that bad – it’s not. It’s the article below that gives me the heebie jeebies (so much so that I just actually used the word “heebie jeebies”).

http://ezinearticles.com/?Dating-Profile-Photo-Tips:-How-A-Good-Picture-Can-Improve-Your-Profile!&id=141830

Don’t believe me? Here’s an excerpt:

“Choose your backdrop carefully! A nice simple approach is to go to a field or a beach when it’s near sunset, and have pictures taken of yourself against this background. The background you choose should show yourself in a romantic or fun setting, and your clothes should be appropriate to that setting.

How about an interesting alternative? If you know somebody who is good with art packages such as Paint Shop Pro, have them paint out the background, and change the picture so that it looks like a spotlight is shining on you!”

I think I just threw up in my mouth.

. Sketch

My friend recently sent me an email telling me that  she had recently found a book full of period stories, and musing upon what the target audience would be for such a collection.  I let her know that I myself had grown up reading many period stories, and that I had loved them. She asked what I liked so much about them, and seemed surprised that I knew of, let alone had owned, such stories. I explained that I enjoyed reading about the heroine’s experiences, the obstacles they had overcome, and that sometimes (if the writing was good enough) I could imagine I was living through them too.

She then sent me this:

Yup. Apparently this is a thing.

 

So, yeah. Totally not what I was talking about. But in the spirit of feminism, I decided to give writing my own period story a shot. And here it is, in all it’s politically incorrect glory.

Enjoy!

 

A Period Story
By Lady Sketch

 Once upon a time, there was a field of cotton. In that field lived a very happy little cotton family. During the season they grew together, had adventures, learnt life lessons, and generally enjoyed life and all it had to offer.
Papa Cotton was a strong man, wise, with good advice for the children. Mama Cotton was warm and caring, and always knew when her little ones needed a hug, or a warm slice of pie. They were proud of their small family, and knew that with the life lessons they had imparted, their children would go on to live industrious, humble lives.. except for Bobby Cotton,  their youngest, cocky and most troublesome child. They worried for his future, but knew that they had done the best that they could, and contented themselves with that.

 The children grew up, were “chosen”, and moved into their designated careers. Little Jack Cotton became part of a shirt belonging to a very important business man. His life was full, rich and enriching.

Susie Cotton was woven into a beautiful baby’s sheet and spent her evenings cuddled into the warm side of a resting infant. During the day, the window beside her provided a cool breeze, fresh with the scent of the lavender that grew beneath the sill.

 Meanwhile, Bobby Cotton remained troublesome, and was sorted into a group full of other young trouble makers. They viewed themselves as better than their other, more humble Cotton brothers and sisters, and were sent to classes to learn humility, kindness, and general good manners. Months passed, and some graduated, learning to be gracious and courteous, and using their skills in jobs similar to those allocated to Jack and Susie. Others, whoever, continued to be boastful, conceited and showy.

 In the end, there was nothing left for it, and the elders could attempt their teachings no more. The pretentious and conceited were allocated their own, less prestigious jobs, since it was obvious they were never going to be able to change.

 They became tampons, and spent their whole lives being stuck up c*nts.

“Clean Cut” sketch

As a single late-20 something female, working in the city and growing wary of meeting men in bars, I recently decided to try my luck with internet dating. What follows is an account of one of these dates, or what I am tentatively calling: “What Part Of That Story is Meant to Impress Me?”.

Sorry? Oh no, this is the face I always pull before I announce my intentions to sleep with someone.

Let’s start this post with some honesty. We’ve all, at some points at our lives, been the person who has misunderstood a situation and steered the conversation down a slightly inapropriate path. Perhaps it was discussing your ability to blow totally awesome smoke rings while at your Aunt Lucille’s funeral, who just happened to die of lung cancer. Maybe it was bemoaning your 2 kilo weight gain with Fat Gladys from Finance (the one with the “thyroid” problems). Or maybe it was disclosing your inability to show up on time to ANYTHING other than a shoe sale… while at a job interview, after losing your previous job for making fat jokes around the curvier members of staff (Damn you, Fat Gladys).

Regardless, we’ve all been there, we all know it’s totally awkward, and we all know that the only thing more awkward is being the guy that KNOWS it’s awkward while the other guy is oblivious.

Hi. Last weekend, I had the pleasure of being that first guy (notice a trend here?).

Once again, I feel the need to defend myself, and point out that in no stage of my almost 30 years of life have I ever been known as anything even close to a prude. I’ve teetered on the other side of the line many, many times, but always steered clear of the whole ‘prude’ thing. I mean, come on – I’m the girl that laughs at fart jokes. In Church. Hell, let’s be honest. I’m the girl who MAKES the fart jokes in the first place, then laughs at them, starts snorting, and then laughs so hard she farts, causing more laughter, in Church. So, good. We’re all cleared up. Not a prude.

Thou whoeth smelt it, doth dealt it.

There are, however, some topics of conversation that I think should be avoided whilst on a first date. And so, here are three you mentioned, in no particular order.

1. Your missing pinky finger, and how it was seperated from your good self by your batshit crazy brother when you were 8 years old, during a karate fight. I mean, apart from the fact that you shoved your hand in my face and said, “How gruesome is that?” (answer: extremely), how do you go from perfecting your inward hammer fist strike to, “Hey, put your hand on this chopping block and let me chop off your pinky with this giant axe.”? Seriously? And at what point during that question did you think, “That sounds like a good idea – what has my pinky finger down for me lately, anyway?”? The best part however, was when you said the doctor at the time actually gave you the option of getting the finger re-attached, but you refused, and I quote, “because it would be funnier”. Aaaannnnd this is why they very rarely let 8 year olds make important medical decisions.

2. Road trips with your drunk friends in which the person driving refuses to make any pitstops, causing one of your crew to decide to pee into a bottle. I still don’t quite understand why you were then asked to hold his penis while he made water, or why you felt the need to do it. Or why you told me.

3. Your ex-girlfriend, how hot she was (despite being Asian – your words, not mine), and how you felt uncomfortable holding her hand in public in case people thought she was a “mail order bride”. Rightyo. Won’t be touching that one with a ten metre pole, if you don’t mind.

Ok, so now that we’ve covered what conversations to avoid, let’s admit that there are specific words that should be avoided, too. While this can depend on numerous factors (location, level of sobriety, the person you’re with etc), I think we can all agree that there’s one word in particular that really shouldn’t be making an appearance on any first date.

I’ll give you a hint – it starts with C, and it isn’t “cancer”, “crabs” or “chlamydia”. And yes, all would have been preferable to the word you actually used. While saying it 5 times in the space of 2 minutes was a mean feat (probably some sort of bogan record, actually), did you have to say the last one quite so loudly, right when the guitarist had stopped playing?

I think I may have Post Traumatic Stress Disorder from the experience, as I can’t even remember what story you were telling at the time that necessitated the use of so much swear-pepper, but there are only three times people use that particular word (none of which should happen on a first date).

And these are during:

1) A stand-up comedy routine, for shock factor (most commonly used by unfunny female comedians in between routines about periods and awkward sex);
2) School-yard fights between 17 year old man-children trying to gain street cred from their unshakable peers (Urban Dictionary has a lot to answer for); or
3) Home renovations, after nailing a finger to a wall, drilling a screw into your foot, or getting a brick pegged at your head (I’m assuming you’re renovating with the Three Stooges, kay?)

And let’s reiterate – not a prude. But I’m not a huge fan of getting glared at by restaurant patrons for being with the guy dropping c-bombs during Happy Hour.

I’m also not a huge fan of being with a guy who eats off my plate (you’re lucky I didn’t cut off your other pinky), texts dirty messages back to his friends (and the answer to your friend’s charming, “Does she put out” text is, no, not to you) or who burps loudly during a meal (yes, I did notice), but I’ll let that one slide.

After all, I’m the girl who farts in church.

Paper Facial sketch

I need to start this rant with a disclaimer. I am in no means anti-literacy, anti-world news, or anti-print. However, if there is anything I am anti, it’s having a giant newspaper thrust in your face while minding own your business whilst traveling on public transport.

Excuse me, are you reading a blanket?

I mean, I think its absolutely freaking fantastic that you’re catching up on what passes for ‘news’ these days – apparently a reality starlet got married/divorced/starred in a porno (all within 24 hours), something recently happened involving NRL players and booze, and someone on Twitter did something that caused something else to happen on Twitter, and that’s wonderful, really. Good for you, all news-heavy and full of (second hand) opinions on things, and stuff, and happenings. But do you REALLY need to keep flapping that giant, unwieldy news depository in my face every time you turn the pterodactyl wing pages of your paper?

I’m not meaning to cause a fuss, but when you flipped from Entertainment to Sports, the breeze damn near pushed me off my seat. And I’m all for a bit of “culture”, but couldn’t you have just downloaded the information to that Blackberry you keep waving around like a shield? We get it, you read the news and own a Blackberry because you’re very important. But how are the scampish antics of Garfield relevant to your life? Do you make lasagne for a living? Are you performing important market research to see if you should enter the feline market? I don’t get it. (And if you actually USED the internet on that Blackberry of yours, you’d know that cats like cheezburgers now, not lasagne, anyway.)

This just in - 9 out of 10 cats prefer Cheezburgers to lasagne.

Look, basically what I’m saying is that MAYBE it would be an idea to read the paper somewhere where there’s a little more available space, so that the person next to you doesn’t end up with the day’s headlines printed across their cheek? Because let’s face it – as great as it is to have a temporary tattoo of Prince William’s gormless chops stamped on my face, it’s really more of a weekend look, and I’m on my way to work.

Finally, when we go around a corner, and I have the audacity to accidentally brush the corner of the precious Cars Guide you’re drooling over, please don’t peer over the tops of the pages with a raised eyebrow like I’m some kind of brainless dolt. A) I’m doing all I can not to get swallowed up by the Classifieds, and B) I don’t even know HOW you managed to get your head above the paper, and it’s scaring me.

I just think it’s a little selfish that you’re riding the bus with us normal folk, when realistically you could fold that ink splattered mess into some sort of paper plane and soar to work instead. Maybe if you spent less time ogling the Bingle, laughing at Garfield and drooling over BMWs you could get working on something similar?

Until then, I look forward to the trip home, and the less flappy MX. Just as vapid as the regular papers, but smaller, and free. Oh, sorry, what’s that? I’ve imprinted a picture of Kanye West onto your forehead?

Silly me.

“Heroined out” sketch

As a single late-20 something female, working in the city and growing wary of meeting men in bars, I recently decided to try my luck with internet dating. What follows is an account of one of these dates, or what I am tentatively calling: “The Bugs Under My Skin Are Telling Me To Stab You”.

Now, a quick preface – if there’s anything worse than going on a horrific first date with someone you hoped would be normal, it’s going on a horrific second or third date with someone you thought was normal.

You go out with someone – they seem nice. You bond over shared interests, laugh at each other’s stories, have a couple of drinks, a little flirting takes place and maybe at the end of the date, you share a kiss (or a cab ride, but that’s a different story). In the weeks that follow, you have a second date, but this time it’s mid-week. He seems tired (and by ‘seems’ I mean, “he mentions he’s tired repeatedly), he whinges about work, ignores anything you have to say, and works his way steadily through the cocktail list (ensuring you pay for every second round of the drinks he chooses). You leave feeling a little underwhelmed by the whole experience, but chalk it up to tiredness and work-stress, and leave the ball in his court.

A couple of weeks later, you are out with a friend, having mid-week after-work Melbourne Cup drinks at a popular bar. He messages, asking where you are. You tell him, not really expecting him to do anything with the information, and he tells you he’s five minutes away.

It’s 9pm.

Now – when he shows up, do you expect him to be:

1. A little bit buzzed, given it’s Melbourne Cup day, and most people (including yourself), have had a tipple or two;
2. Stumbly drunk – the Champagne has been flowing heavily since 2pm; or
3. So smashed that the act of keeping one’s eyes open is a chore and talking is pretty much out of the question?

I'll take Drunk As A Skunk for 200, Alex.

If you are anything like me, you would have hovered between 1 or 2. If you are anything like me, you would also have been completely unsurprised when he was halfway between 3 and “herioned out”.

Now, let’s just clear something up – I’m a pretty big drinker. I love a Bacardi or ten, and I’ve been sloppy drunk more often than I’d like to admit for someone in their late twenties. However, I can’t say I’ve ever been so drunk by 9pm that someone has openly and honestly confused me for a habitual drug user. Heroin chic may have been cool in the 90s – but it’s now 2011 and he ain’t no Kate Moss.

And I get it – he’s drunk, and following me around like a stoned puppy obviously seems like a good idea. But making me pay for all his drinks (because he obviously need more, right?), dry humping me while I’m at the bar, and sticking his tongue down my throat the second my friend turns her back? Not so cool.

When we decide to leave the bar, and he surprises me by offering to walk me to my destination (something he failed to do on our second date), I naively think that Mr Heroin may have realised the impression he is giving, and is doing something to correct it. Instead, he uses the time to try to oh-so-subtly coerce me into going home with him. Because, you know, that sex would be amazing.

And it goes:

Mr Heroin: “Come home with me.”
Me: “Uhm, no… I have to be up early tomorrow.”
MH: “I’ll drive you into work.”
Me: “Well, I have no clothes to change into.. so, no thanks.”
MH: “Just wear the same clothes! No one will notice!”
Me: “I’m wearing a races frock, with ruffles on one shoulder. People will notice. No.”
MH: “I’ll drive you near your house, then you can go home and get changed and go from there.”
Me: “I’d rather just go home – we can see each other another time.” (Yeah right).
MH: “So you’re not going to come home with me? You said you would.”
Me: “Uhm, did I?”
MH: “Yes! You said you we could catch up during the week!”
Me: “Yeah. I meant catch up, as in… see each other. Not.. see each other.. naked.”
MH: “So…..”
Me: “Yes?”
MH: “Just come home with me. Come on, let’s go.”
Me: “Dude. No.”

A silence follows, in which I think he may have actually realised that a) shit’s getting akward, and b) dude ain’t gettin’ none tonight.

I’m right.

It dawns on him that his chivalrous act of walking me to my bus is getting him no poontang, and fast. With this realisation comes another, just as quickly – that his train station is right behind us, and every second spent in failed negotiation with me is a second he’s not passed out on a train, headed home. He swoops in, kisses me on the cheek, and before I can say “heroin hobo chic”, he’s legging it to the train.

I piss myself laughing, get myself a well-deserved sausage roll, and head home on the bus.

Blissfully alone.

Hectic sketch

It’s late-afternoon, I’m on my way home from work. It’s been a fairly busy day. I guess one could describe the atmosphere as moderately hectic, if one were so inclined.

Because it’s late afternoon, the bus is pretty packed. And because the bus is pretty packed, people are standing. Next me is a youngish girl who seems nice enough, obviously on her way home from work. She isn’t bothering me. Until a male friend of hers, in obviously the same age bracket, boards the bus.

The conversation starts normally enough – he asks what she’s been doing, and she tells him she has been working five days a week as part of her uni course. He nods sagely. “Sounds pretty hectic, man.” She concurs.

He says he’s been skateboarding heaps, which is also “pretty hectic.” He’s going skateboarding on the weekend, which promises to be “heaps hectic.” He wants to start a website to sell “these hectic decks i bought heaps of, to like, younger kids, but my life has been pretty hectic.” Wow. Sounds hectic.

He then proceeds to drop the “H”-Bomb no less than 4 times in one sentance. My ears are starting to ache. I’m exhausted from listening to his life, and all he seems to do is skateboard and go on Facebook. I feel a bolt of compassion for him however, when he tells his friend that a recent status update from a friend “was kinda hectic.” It sounds moving.

He then asks her more about her new job. She tells him that as part of her uni course its mandatory to work five (WOW FIVE? OMFG WHA?) days a week, which is (as you can appreciate) REALLY exhausting. He returns that he can’t really appreciate how bad it must be, but that it *winnnceeeee* sounds “pretty hectic”. He asks how long she has left of this corporate hell, and she tells him six months. He gasps, and says emotionally, “Oh MAN, that’s FULLY hectic!”

Does this haircut make my head look hectic?

I feel blood dripping from my ears.

She tells him that she was meant to go to a party in the city that night, but that she’d left her wallet at home – explaining why she was on a bus going home (like srsly, lame!) at 6pm, instead of out downing Jager Bombs at Home Bar. He commiserates, sighing deeply, and uttering but a single, yet solemn, “Hectic.”

I can see my bus-stop in the nearness, so close – yet, so far away. The boy drops five more “H”-bombs in quick succession, before I can shield my brain from the assault. I clamber out of my seat as the bus pulls nearer. He sees a dog (“Ha, that dog is hectic!”), describes one of his friends new boards, (“this thing is like, hectic.”), and bonds with his friend (“It’s been seriously hectic seeing you.”).

I leap to freedom, clasping my bag to my heaving chest. I’m free, and breathe in the salty, sandy air with appreciation. And a single word floats on the breeze as the bus pulls away…

“heectiiicccc….”