here's a new dating club on campus. It's called 'The Dating Club'. And, despite the obvious creativity of those who named this band of brethren, I think it's crap. In fact, I think the prevalence and increasing popularity of dating services and online match-making websites is a sign that the second coming is nigh.

This whole trend reeks of the American quick-fix ideology. Just like the diet pill scam: take one of Miracle Max's magical diet pills (chocolate makes them go down easier) and lose some weight. But don't go in swimming for at least an... an hour. The lengths that these lazy hippies go to in order to find true love is sickening. True love is the greatest thing in the world. Except for a nice MLT. A mutton, lettuc and tomato sandwich, where the mutton is nice and lean and the tomato is ripe. But you won't find either of these things in The Dating Club. And that's enough references from a single source.

Anyway, this is how it all began: I was walking down Sproul plaza, trying my best not to breath through my nose lest I catch a whiff of hippy, and this mousy Asiatic guy tried to hand me a flyer for The Dating Club. I spat on him out of principle. When he complained I spoke my mind: your being single is God's way of telling you that no one loves you and you aren't meant to breed. That's what Valentine's day is all about: making you realize how pathetic you are. Of course, my being single is God's way of telling me that no one is worthy of my genius.

There's a reason you're single, I continued, and it's not because you haven't yet found The One. It's because you're ugly and no body likes ugly people. Not even other ugly people. This is mainly because most ugly people don't know how grotesquely hideous they actually are, especially in Berkeley. But I know. And you're fucking ugly. On top of this, you've joined some sort of dating club in an attempt to find yourself a woman before the fourteenth of February so as not to look worthless and you think you're all cool about it so you hand out flyers to random strangers whom you think are in the same desperate position as you.

Fucker, do I look like I need your dating service? I have womens lined up outside my front door all the way round the block just like some E ticket ride at Disneyland. Except without the faggy, three-fingered mouse. And these waiting womens are all eager to catch a glimpse of my godlike physique, to bask in my masculinely-chiseled features, and perhaps even to taste my brilliant wit if they're lucky.

Whenever I feel down, I just read the personals section of the newspaper. Pure comedy. God couldn't write this stuff. And it never fails to cheer me up because after reading about a few men seeking women or women seeking men or hairy-pitted hippies seeking a world in which no animals are killed for food or sport (like that's ever going to fucking happen), I can't help but feel that my petty problems are nothing compared to how pathetic these people are.

I read about:

SWF, 120lbs, luvs water sprts, hot lunch, intmt walks on beach at sunset. Hates peas. Seeks SWM for friendship or more...

Of course, what this ad actually means is that the respondent will be treated to a date with Humongore the Hippopotamus Woman, champion of the pock-faced fatties of Fatland. We all know that SWF is code for "single (for soon to be obvious reasons), white (becuase I live in my parent's basement where I watch back-to-back episodes of Sex and the City while chomping down Ben and Jerry's by the gallon and haven't seen the sun since Richard Dean Anderson was saving the world with nothing more than a paperclip, an empty aerosol spray can and a pair of ladies panties, instead of wasting his immeasurable talent on that shitty SG-1 series), female (despite the copious facial hair and partially descended testicles)".

What puzzles me is that they never fail to list their weight. Why? Everyone knows you're lying. Let's be realistic, if you weighed only 120 pounds, as you claim, you wouldn't be single. Unless you're three feet tall. Or you fell out of the ugly tree and hit every goddamn branch on the way down. And then the ugly truck came by and ran you over. And then Billy, who lives next door, came out to the street where you were laying, twitching spasmically, bleeding profusely from the ugly-truck shaped mark on your face and beat you to within an inch of your pathetic, ugly-ass life with an ugly stick off the tree from which you recently fell. Yeah, I guess if that happened I can see how you'd still be single at 120 pounds.

And now these tragically comic glimpses into the desperately lonely soul of the masses have found their way from the classified section of your local paper and onto the world wide internet web network. But they all portray the same message: Hello, I'm single, but rather than honing my social skills by meeting others in the real world, I'm going to create an electronic persona with which I will ineptly attempt to seduce those posing as women on the internet. Sounds like a plan.

The deals for these online dating forums are so enticing: three weeks free on when you open an account. We guarantee you will meet the woman of your dreams within two months or your money back. Free soul mate with purchase of a Domino's pepperoni pizza. Delivered piping hot in thirty minutes or less or she's free.

But beware, for all is not as it seems. In Australia some dumbass farmer paid more than $230,000 to a dating service and the fucker is still single. Ok, let's say that one more time, this time more slowly: he paid a dating service two-hundred and thirty thousand dollars. And yes, that's real money, not those silly euros or the brightly-colored monopoly money the Aussies use when they barter crocodile and kangeroo pelts or whatever it is they export over there. Dude, at what point were you going to say, hey, wait a second, maybe two hundred grand is too much to pay for the unrealized promise of a soul mate.

Maybe he should have just gone to one of the world's premier mail-order bride services. One this website you can browse through pictures of nubile, post-communist soviets in search of the American dream. Of course, for these eager-to-please, sixteen-to-twenty-two year olds, that ream manifests itself in the form of whatever hairy-backed, capitalist pig is desperate and lonely enough to pay Russia your shipping costs. Is life really so bad in Russia that you'd rather spend your days wedded to a man who could easily have been your grandfather if he had been less of a loser in his youth and had the guts to rub his pasty girth up against some woman before he bought you? At least in the motherland you've got good vodka. Here we've got Winner's Cup.

Oh, yeah, and whoever thought up Valentine's day, I want to smack you like I smacked that crying baby on the fifteen hour flight back from Hungary.

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