I’ve been running around like a chauvinist pig with his dick cut off in search of the perfect soul mate.
Man seeking beautiful intelligent woman ready and willing to commit.
In order to find this Miss Do-Right cum quenching demi-god,
I’ve lowered myself to this dating service with all of you losers
to undergo the intricate filtering practice called
Why waste time with women that aren’t right for you?
With that said, let me begin.
I am a male, 35 years of age, and I have features for all the ladies.
I’ve got the residing hairline for women seeking the more complicated men.
The bulging beer gut for bitches that think they can drink me under the table
and I can pick a pretty mean tooth.
Hey, give me a fucking break.
If you want me to blossom into one of those grease basted turkey looking fuckers
like on the cover of Muscle Fitness,
I suggest you fast, puke, run
or whatever the fuck you selfless bitches do to impress us men.
Lose the excess flubber and we have a deal.
I am a pretty wealthy guy,
but get those dollar signs out of your eyes right now.
I run a meth lab to support my kids and cut them checks ON TIME.
You gotta follow the law.
How am I gonna do that if I’m out there making senseless acquisitions
trying to satisfy all of your stingy wishes?
Lets move on to my expectations, shall we?
First of all, I want a child.
Birth is a beautiful thing
and something I want to be a part of very much.
I want to wait at the end of the tunnel for that little bastard to pop out
And be the first son of a bitch he sees.
“Hello you purple, squeaky little fucker! Welcome to hell!”
My caretaking expectations.
Whenever you smell the funk
or hear the gastronomical butt brass blues
belting out from the intestinal tug o war on the toilet,
I expect my lady to be kind enough to come running with an ice water.
And she must wait there until my pickled liver poops out another pumpernickel.
If I’m going to listen to your shit, you’re going to at least smell mine.
Just what in silken strap hell is Victoria’s big fucking secret anyhow?
I’ll hang up all kinds of cum rags and loin cloths along my walls
so that unsuspecting housewives and juveniles alike
waltz in to impress their boyfriends and husbands.
Lets all pay 89.99 for something that we will eventually stamp a shit stain on.
Lets drag our already miserable boyfriends and husbands into this crooked corporation and humiliate them by prostrating their sexual preferences.
Lets hold up every outfit in the fucking building to our chests until he blushes.
“Honey, I just want to know what you like and what you dislike! “
“Well, lets put it this way biotch. I like to fuck women. And I don’t like wasting my time.”
<insert obnoxious belch here>
In groups I’m pretty well off. Actually as a side hobby, I am quite the matchmaker.
I can smell the chemistry between two folks when everything I say goes over both their heads.
Female friends are ok as long as you keep them the fuck away from me.
Especially the little short haired deranged ones that hide their shallow personalities
with metaphors and superficial book-smarts and their flat chests
and sagging asses within baggy clothing.
They are all destined to become mean bank tellers anyways.
Male friends are ok as long as they are fat and/or unattractive
and they like the same sports as I do.
That way you don’t spread your legs for them
every time I forget your birthday or some other hallmark cardboard compost.
Beer and golf.
Sweet as Christ.
I’m pretty lenient here. All that I ask is that you avoid the lower back. What is the woman’s obsession with obtaining a big ass ugly tattoo as an overhead to the most redeeming quality of her body. And who in the hell wants to stare at some bouncing happy face or coloring book image when he’s trying to get his fuck on?
Ok well not much to say here either really, but here's a thought.
Where do middle aged women get off chastising young men that opt out for a belt and chooses to pull his pants up every stride? What gives you that right when you have YOUR shit pulled half way up your fucking chest. I mean, come on. Lets be reasonable.
You are 40 fucking years old.
Do you honestly think it makes a difference if your fanny pack is hanging over like a goddamn pair of galligaskins, or confined and bulging beneath like a fucking water balloon?
Well, you can’t really have a medical history.
“ But why?” you ask?
Because the only thing worse than a woman going on and on jabbering about her past surgeries and pills, is one undergoing some kind of procedure while you are dating her. Especially the ones that involve private afflictions involving more specifically menstrual minestrone manwich meal whatever-the-fuck is going on down there bullshit.
Whatever it is, I don’t need that shit.
Just like I don’t need your toothless mouth belching in my face
every time I compensate your bodily secretive failures.
I mean come on. Lets be fair about this.
I believe Jeff Foxworthy has this in his vocabulary.
Nah, I doubt it. That fucking schlep.
For the working woman, I don’t want to hear about your day if there is any remnant from yesterday or fraction of negativity. Employers always give the best advice. Leave your work at work and leave home at home.
What this means?
I don’t know really. I think marriage is pretty painful. There is a reason why the actual ceremony only lasts 5 minutes and everyone (even the old fucks) get trashed at the 4 hour long reception afterwards. They are all secretly trying to forget what they had just witnessed. And if and when we do decide on such a detrimental ending (and I emphasize ending) I will request that you let me hide out in a blue leisure suit and pay one of my buddies to fill in for the total fucking embarrassment.
If you expect me to have a sincere conversation with the canoe driver, you need to address this right away.
There's really nothing more repulsive than the unruly pubis. Just fucking forget about those triangular weaves from the 1970s playboys. That is no longer our brand of muff bark chew.
Your requirements are mastery of the taco head tilt style, the cat vomit style, the wrist watch this style, the helicopter style and the wheel maker style.
Give me at least 45 minutes on the pot after waking up to take a shower.
Hey, cut me a slice of some fucking slack!
At least I don’t have to paint a pie chart of cosmetic companies market share to prevent myself from looking like Gary Fucking Busey.
You must also keep your hairdryer time down to a maximum of 20 minutes.
Is that so much to ask?
Crying is fine as long as you go do it somewhere else and call me when its over with.