|
10 September 2011
I must confess to internet dating, which invokes the same feelings of embarrassment as admitting to not picking up your dog’s poo on the promenade or reading YOU magazine.
My foray into the world of internet dating was for purposes of research. Really it was, no, really. It was in fact an attempt to address the imbalance between men and women in the Kingdom of Hearts; I would do the research, dig up a ton of men and keep the nuggets.
It was a little like mining, I found, sifting and discarding intellectual hamsters, lascivious Lotharios, men in recovery from triple personality bypass surgery and lying lounge lizards. Some can’t spell and some have had their sense of humour surgically removed. Many have both afflictions. Like Colon from the Bluff, seeking a sole mate, who did not seem to get it when I asked if an old trout would do.
Caveman asked ‘Who is she?’ when I asked if he was looking for Mrs Ples and the man who asked “Do you love live?” asked if I was sick when I said that I hadn’t tried it dead. He clearly did not understand when I said that I did not want anyone who needed a proctologist as a specialist doctor. Neither did the others who replied to the following advert, asking about the make, model, year and colour.
WELL MAINTAINED VINTAGE sports model seeks considerate new owner. Perfect paint and body work, relatively low mileage, economical to run, maintenance contract available.
Well, they weren’t on Carfind.co.za. The chap who asked if it had a large boot and if it was likely to backfire had his tongue firmly in cheek and is one of the four sane, solvent, sober and sincere men that I added to my data base out of almost six hundred profiles.
What was I looking for? I knew what I was not. Good dinner party material seemed to sum it up, but I changed that when Richard asked if I liked sausages for supper and when I described myself full bodied, like a fine wine Rod asked if I would like to get corked.
I met some of the men that showed promise. Tom had an Addis moustache, died hair and a gold tooth of which he seemed to be inordinately proud. Dick had fat veined cheeks in a chipmunk phuza face and breath that could have powered a lawnmower and Harry had a fine head of hairy ears.
I finally hung up my mouse when in response to a description of myself as ‘Well read and well bred’. The reply came ‘Are you good in bed, do you give good head?’ I had tickled the underbelly of internet dating and I did not like it. Not one byte.
