>>> Bang for Your Buck
By staff writer David Nelson
December 11, 2005
Essential New Word of the Day:
ming ming \mIng mIng\ interj: As with most interjections, it's difficult to pin down a precise meaning. I'm happy to report that it's even harder to do so with this one, because my friends and I will just tend to shout it out at random intervals for no particular reason. Think of it as a conversational anchor, something everyone (by which I mean a handful of people at best) can use to become part of the discussion. This word's origin is eponymous, coming from the only Chinese restaurant in Norwood, Ontario.
If you're married, dating, or even have a friends with benefits deal going on, much of this article won't make sense. I apologize for that, but it's hard for me to feel too bad knowing you have access to regular sex and, possibly, sandwiches. I know not every relationship out there is perfect, but believe me when I tell you that even the most toxic, alcoholism-inducing, co-dependent fiasco of a relationship is better than the singles scene right now.
First of all, why is it even called a scene? A scene is a cohesive chapter in a play, and unless that play is by Andrew Lloyd Weber, you can presume that it will end eventually. But dating, as a way of life, never ends. You can swear it off, seek out the company of your other single buddies and resolve to enjoy your bachelorhood, but I guarantee you'll be browsing fucking Lavalife within a month.
“Until science invents a way for a girl to gently caress my dong over the phone, I'm only going to date girls in a one-mile radius.”
I'm not a very good dater. There are really only two outcomes of dating that I can bring about. The first is your standard, garden-variety “I think you're cool to hang out with, so let's just be friends” speech. I know a lot of you out there have heard this same speech at one time or another. There's really not much that can be said about it, but I'll try. First of all, fuck you. I have great friends. I don't need more. My friends will be there for me, and I don't have to buy them fucking insane coffee drinks that have too many fucking vowels in order to spend time with them. What my friends won't do, by and large, is manipulate my penis in a pleasing manner. If that's the kind of friendship you want, the penis-manipulating kind, then I'm on board. I'll go buy the friendship bracelets, and after you're finished, I promise to sign your yearbook. If, however, you want a friendship where we see each other once a month or so and complain about our love lives, well then, I'm going to spit in your Mochaciccino Deluxe when you're not looking, and you need to be prepared for that.
The other outcome I tend to get from dating is relationships that last several months. There aren't any one night stands, or even torrid week-long affairs. When I hit it off with a girl, I go right for the relationship. Clearly, I must be a goddamn idiot. These relationships have been mostly disasters, and now, you're going to suffer for my mistakes as I tell you about some of them.
There was an emotionally stunted girl who depended on me for every single decision. Sex couldn't be regular with her, but there was a lot of peripheral sexual activity. Actually, she pretty much did whatever I wanted, with a few notable exceptions. She also brought me food. That might sound great, but dealing with her was more annoying than a car alarm going off during a lecture from an elderly relative. We fought constantly, and I often noticed how she had brains somewhere between a very dumb orangutan and a very smart egg timer. As a result, we sort of fell into a system whereby she would service me sexually in exchange for access to my intellectual and social assets. Nice, huh? It went on for about 4 years, after which I moved to Japan to escape from her. Peripheral sex is a lot like cake frosting. It can be a delicious treat, but not fortifying enough to live off
While I was in Japan, there was a girl my friend set me up with. He was dating her best friend at the time. These best friend/dating couples are a recipe for disaster. Only the Flintstones and the Ricardos were able to make that work, and that's because both Lucy and Wilma were redheaded sex demons. She lived about 4 hours away by train. In the real world, all there is to a long-distance relationship is affirmation and analysis, neither of which is productive for a guy. Until science invents a way for a girl to gently caress my dong over the phone, I'm only going to date girls in a one-mile radius. I should add that this girl was kind of overweight, and I didn't think my Government of Japan-issued bed would support both of our weight. Seriously, it might just be bitterness causing me to be spiteful, but she had enough mass to tear most elevators off their cables into a fiery explosion of butter and debris, so what chance did my cheap bed have? Of course, I didn't want to insult her either by not letting her use it, so I did the only thing I could: Dismantled the bed and disguised it to look like a piece of sculpture with a sign on it that read “Not Food.” We slept on the floor, and that was the last 3-hour trip she took to come see me.
Also in Japan, there was a stripper from Romania. I know, even I was surprised. She was super-hot, but part of her job included going out on dates with Japanese guys; nothing dodgy, just lighting their cigarettes, pouring their drinks, that sort of thing. Being able to say I was dating a stripper made me a legend among my friends in Japan, but in reality, knowing my girl could be hired out for the hour was kind of unsettling. Japanese guys are perverts, so I knew it was only a matter of time until one of them offered her 1000 yen to eat sushi off her body or something.
When I came back, I took some classes and met a fellow adult student who, in the popular lingo, would be dubbed a cougar. She was about 10 years older, and totally into me. She took days off work to plan sexual adventures. She hawked jewelry in order to rent a limo, where we did the nasty up and down Main Street, which was memorable to say the least. However, she was a bit of a psycho and embarrassed the hell out of me at a friend's wedding, by accusing me of looking at other girls. So, apparently she is some sort of altruist who dates in order to find the rare deviants who think beautiful women are worth looking at. Anyway, like most cougars, she was looking for a ring, and as soon as possible. Maybe she found one on the curb, which is where I kicked her ass.
Then I discovered Lavalife. It seemed the perfect vehicle for me; I could be witty and charming with my words, and use Photoshop to delete my hideous conjoined-twin myslexia deformities. The next series of girlfriends is kind of a Lavalife blur. There was my first Jewish girlfriend, which pleased my parents enormously, but I couldn't take her family knowing every little thing about one another. That's not healthy. Her grandmother died early in the relationship, and I guess I really wasn't that sensitive when I asked for a blowjob after she got the call. Also, I hated pretending I liked her fucking goddamn cats. If there's one dating constant you learn from this article, it's this: Always pretend to like their cats. At least at first. Then, when she's not looking, sell them to a tennis racquet factory.
There was an Asian girl, who was pretty generous sexually, but in retrospect, I think she might have been mildly retarded. Something was not quite right. She would always bring me Amaretto, though, which was nice. Then, there was another fatty with whom I would fight a lot. I later found out she is a player in the local bondage scene. I know those guys are pretty fucked up, so it's no surprise they would line up to be with a train wreck like this girl. There were many others, none of which really merit special attention. If a girl has to resort to the internet, there's probably a reason why. Suffice it to say, if there's a gorgeous, large-breasted model/beer expert out there, she's doesn't need a goddamn Lavalife account.
Then, there were all the dates that just led nowhere. Too many to mention, and certainly too painful to recall. If you've never been on a computer date, just imagine all the tension and scrutiny of a job interview, only with less potential for the event to end up with you touching a vagina. I used to have a system for great, elaborate dates. That was when I first started dating. Somewhere along the way, I figured out how pretentious and ridiculous I was. Also, I was flirting with bankruptcy if I continued. Now, a date is lucky to get coffee. In fact, a water fountain and some powdered Kool-Aid usually suffice. With this in mind, you may be asking yourself how I ever hope to get laid. Well, I am an expert at casually alluding to the size of my penis, which, if you ask any of my former dates, is somewhere between the size of a fire hose and some kind of novelty fire hose.
It’s hard to feel too guilty about this deception, though. Most of the girls on internet dating sites list their body size as average, which I’ve found is at least as deceptive. I remember these girls as being pretty much all the same. Actually, research indicates that hosebeasts all share identical personality traits because of a swelling of red-eye gravy in the area of the brain that causes individuality. What's more, they form a type of hive community and communicate through patterns of perspiration secreted into their giant, pork-scented stretch pants. In any case, I've dated them all, which means I have become quite proficient in the arts of not having sex and escaping.
I’m not getting any younger, but I have to believe that somewhere out there, there’s a girl, with a pulse and all her limbs, whom I’ll want to settle down with. Maybe it’s not too late. But in the interest of being friendly (not to mention pragmatic), I’ll offer some advice: If you're single, give up all hope. If you're seeing someone, and if you can stand her presence for more than 10 consecutive seconds, hang onto her like grim death.