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 As you’re probably aware by now — either because you’re trying to figure out what you’re going to buy tonight or because you’ve been dreading this day for weeks — tomorrow is Valentine’s Day. Indeed, the most fantastic, loving day of the year is just one day away! And, even if you’re not looking forward to celebrating it, that’s okay: Come Wednesday, there’s a full year ahead until the next V-Day! Yay!
Valentine’s Day is, of course, the holiday named in honor of St. Valentine. During his life. St. Valentine was known for converting many heretics with his unique brand of gifts: greeting cards, paper hearts, chocolate candy and stuffed puppy dogs. We honor the this tradition still.
Yesterday, the Inquirer, in celebration of this great holiday, published a column written by a guy who has a billion little complaints about women. (They also published the word “wigger.”) Complaining is fine, of course — every fullblooded American loves to complain — but when your first complaint of “She fixates on how ‘fat’ she is” eliminates about 100 percent of the dating pool, I think you’ve gone a little too far. (This would also, of course, eliminate yours truly from any dating pool that had that requirement.)
The list is pretty much what you’d expect: She’s daddy’s little girl, she’s a hipster, she dresses too black or white (whatever), she shops too much, &c. Strange that all his horrible dates are straight out of sitcom clichés, but who am I to ask about dating? (Answer: I am not one to seriously question anyone about anything, especially dating.)
My list of rules for dating disqualification would be a little more esoteric and specific, as in “Must laugh at my jokes,” “Can’t be an ex of mine who is married now” or “Must be able to withstand at least one viewing of Mystery Science 3000 every three months” or whatever. The strangest thing, though, about the article is how it just ends. After the list of reasons girls are undateable in the eyes of one Matthew P. Blanchard, there’s no denouement — the climax was clearly the quirk “She’s crazy Joan Crawford,” which should tell you what kind of age bracket this story was aimed at, and it certainly wasn’t 18-34 — and the list sort of sits on its own.
I must say that Mr. Blanchard missed the clincher that would have made this article much more enjoyable to read. Just this simple final line would have saved it! It’s like somebody tossed Blanchard a batting practice fastball and you didn’t even swing.
The line: “But, of course, this shouldn’t stop you from trying to sleep with all of them.”
Those quirks have to go [Inky]
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Lonely today? Don’t be. Craigslist has everything you need to chase those blues away:
