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The secret is out.

I’ve been trying online dating for a little over a year now. There’s been some small successes, one failure, and dozens of deleted messages from what could only be a wooly mammoth scientists recently thawed out of an iceberg. But through all 55 weeks of this experience, one unchanging truth remains: people are morons.

Experts say that 54.6% of online daters describe themselves by saying they “like to have fun,” and by experts I clearly mean me. After all I should know: I’m an expert.

You like to have fun. Of course you do. If something is fun it provides amusement or enjoyment, so in other words, you like doing it. It is by sheer definition impossible to feel any other way about it. Unless you live in some Addam’s Family parallel universe where good is bad, right is wrong, and Christina Ricci’s isn’t hot yet, you can’t help but “like fun.”

Do you see where I’m going with this? The statement “I like to have fun” practically consumes itself in circular logic and, if meditaded upon for more than ten seconds, is certain to make your head spontaneously combust. Go ahead and try. I dare you. But I’m not going to be the one to Squeejie your cerebellum off your monitor.

If you join a site that requires you to describe yourself please, for the sake of all that is good in this world, don’t use this sentence. Describe yourself. Say you “like fine dining”. Say you enjoy the outdoors, hiking, or kayaking. Hell, say you like snuff films and that hunting the homeless gives you an erection. At least that makes a statement about your character.

I take that back: saying you like to have fun does make a statement about you: it says you’re an idiot. But don’t despair: that perfect someone who “loves to laugh” is out there, just waiting for you to help them spawn a family of mutant offspring, thus pissing in mankind’s already stagnant gene pool.

Thought for the night: online dating services would be more appropriately named potential male role and baby daddy location services. Now that I’ve dated or been shot down by most of the available women that I know and my social circle is slowly closing in around me, I’ve decided to give a couple of these services a try. This is what I’ve found.

Originally I believed that online dating was meant only for the hopelessly unattractive or disfigured, but that’s only half the story. After trolling Cupid and Plenty of Fish for needy and emotionally draining women for about an hour I realized there was an entire demographic that I had been neglecting: single mothers!

There seems to be two distinct groups of single mothers that utilize online dating. The first are those looking for someone to help raise their kids. You can’t blame them for looking online. I’m sure there are a plethora of introverted men looking to bypass the social experience of falling in love and would prefer to pick out a family online, similar to the way they shop around for their japanese tentacle rape pornography. Lord knows I do! The second is the strong and independent mother that doesn’t have the time to get out and meet men. This group seems promising! I’ll post an update in a few days and let everyone know how this online dating thing works out.

I don’t so much feel like writing a full review of The Notorious Betty Page, but I will say this: you think Requiem for a Dream had a depressing ending? Well I’ve got a surprise for you, my friend.

It’s as though the little girl from The Ring used her magic VHS conjuring powers to turn Viagra into a feature length film, and then Pat Robertson got his hands on it and changed the ending.  What’s even more depressing is that it’s true.  An hour and a half of light bondage, corsets and stiletto heals culminates into five minutes of repentance. Damn you God, you spoil everything.

Though we may not notice it through the dark, dreary haze of the daily news, man still has a fighting chance in his battle with nature. Throughout the last few weeks I’ve read several amazing survival stories which I will repeat here as a solute to a few men that have proven themselves to be more bad-ass than anything God can throw at them.

Eric Nerhus

Unlike Samuel L. Jackson, Australian diver Eric Nerhus was eaten head-first by a shark and lived to tell about it. On January 23 Nerhus was diving off the coast of New South Wales when a three meter great white (also called a white pointer shark) chose to devour him from neck to naval. Fortunately for the 41 year-old diver he was wearing protection (a lead-lined diving vest), and the shark had the eating habits of only the most skilled pornographic actress: rarely scraping or biting, but relentlessly trying to swallow the sea-man in it’s mouth.
Nerhus survived the attack by using the only weapons he had available: a single free arm, a chisel, and one tough mustache. The diver was hospitalized for lacerations and a broken nose, and the shark retreated sans an eyeball and a little pride; but with a little training and his new eye patch, the shark is confident that he can defeat the mustachioed mariner when next they meet.

To any actual mentally deficient folks reading this blog, I owe you an apology: not for alluding to the word retard in my title, but for demeaning retarded people everywhere by associating them with the sort of daft, uncoordinated ogre it must take to throw a controller through a television. Do I have to apologize to ogres now too? Sorry Shrek.

Let me set this inflammatory little story up by telling you a few things about myself. I’m the proud owner of a Wii, and I play it often and for long stretches (we’re talking till the batteries die here, folks). I’ve had my Wii for two weeks now and have already finished Red Steel and Twilight Princess, without the aid of strategy guides like some of you sissies out there.

In addition, I’m also lazy, overweight, and out-of-shape: “human wasteland” would not be an inaccurate description of my physique or my personality. Whilst playing the Wii I indulge in perogies by-the-box, coffee by-the-pot, and cigarettes by-the-pack. I need a nap after walking down the stairs, ladies and gentlemen. I take breaks from playing to go to the bathroom, but only because my penis won’t fit in an empty soda bottle. I’m lazy!

I’ve also got some anger management issues. Just yesterday my DVD player was laid to rest for resetting itself in the middle of the movie, and by “laid to rest” I mean I beat it to death with my hands like it was a whining toddler (don’t let me babysit). So you can imagine how, erm… “passionate” I can get when I’m struggling with a game.
But the thing is this: Insane times (fat + lazy) to the Wii’th power does not equal Broken Television. Multiply the left side of that equation by RETARD and the right side by Nintendo’s worth divided by the number of the bloodsucking lawyers in America, and you might be getting somewhere.

First off, prior to every game there is a visual warning to wear your wrist strap accompanied by detailed instructions on how to attach it. They even include pictures in case your illiterate in addition to being born with assholes on the tips of your hands instead of fingers.

Second, its pretty difficult to just forget that you don’t have the wrist strap on. All the waving around is supposedly how the Wiimotes are going through the televisions anyway, right? Which means that the wrist strap will also be flapping around against your wrist. It’s not like your being beaten about the arm with a rubber hose, but its noticeable.

Thirdly, I have a little trouble understanding how the wrist strap can snap when there is absolutely no reason to swing your Wiimote without having a firm grip on it in the first place. How can the wrist strap break when there is no reason at all for that chord to ever be “pulled tight?”

Finally, in all the marathon video gaming I did in the last two weeks, not once did I break a sweat; and I already told you what kind of condition my body is in! Your hand would have to be awfully slippery to lose the grip on the Wiimote. We’re not talking Cheeto’s grease here either. We’re talking a tube of KY… and the controller does vibrate, so I suppose I’ve just solved the mystery.