I’ve long been pursuing the life of a professional bachelor. At this point, as I enter my mid-30’s, it’s become something of a private little religion. Being a professional bachelor means walking around in boxers, drinking at weird hours, smoking a pipe, and putting on a Nixon mask and screaming at the plants. Also, I’ve started cultivating marijuana and psychedelic mushrooms. And decided, just today, to start collecting automatic weapons and explosives.
Because that’s what being a bachelor is all about!
I’ve never gotten along with women. It’s not that I dislike them. I just don’t trust them. You can lump them in there with pandas and polar bears. Really cool and alluring and, perhaps, even worthy of frequent obsession… But get close to them and they crush your skull with their unforgiving jaws and eat your brains.
I had my fill of passive aggressive women during my childhood and, it seems to me, all women are passive aggressive. Either outright or just as a vague undercurrent. It’s how they’ve been taught, really. The International School of Wheedling. Very few women finish their degree from that school, though, so when the wheedling fails, the only possible option is that passive aggressive route. This goes back to caveman days. Oh, is that all the deer meat you could find? The fire’s almost out. I couldn’t help but notice that you left all those rocks at the cave entrance when you came home. This beaver fur is a little bit thin, isn’t it? Do I look fat in this wolf pelt? I collected some berries but, really, there’s just not much variety in this neighborhood. Not like those caves north of the valley.
Women wheedle because they’re weak and needy. If that’s going to be a common trait, I want it balanced out by something cool. So here’s my perfect woman:
You’re a cop, or a Fed, or someone who carries a gun. I don’t care if you’ve never used it, you just have to carry a gun. You can be a private citizen, as long as you have a gun on your hip (or a shoulder holster). No purse guns!
No heels, unless as part of a bedroom fantasy. Sensible, flat shoes for running after I make you shoot a commuter.
I have a serious fetish for women in men’s clothes. Like the way female FBI agents are portrayed on TV – the tight pants, the tight button-up, the professional little jacket, hair tied back. …Gun.
A financial whiz and overall problem solver. You know your world history, have a grasp on politics (though not an obsession), and have street smarts, not book smarts. I don’t care about your PhD if you’re still a whining bitch. I am not awed by self-involved intelligence or the ability to debate miniscule points. In fact, I hate debates and arguments. Agree with me or don’t agree with me, I don’t care why.
No pill-heads. Nobody who’s on a prescription for anything emotional. Some weird physical problem is fine, but the Zoloft bunnies can fuck off.
Tall. I love them tall. But it’s not required, as long as you’re in shape. I don’t mean Surfboard Kelly in shape. I’m just talking about being within the correct medically-approved weight class for your age and height.
Fingers are important. The thumb should look like a finger, not a thumb. No flabby arms. No Wookie face. No caveman feet.
Homebodies are the best. No fucking dancing. What the fuck? No nightclubs. Barfly is okay, but only if you appreciate dives and weird places. No fancy snooty places with “White’s Only” stamped over most of the extraordinarily expensive fucking menu. I’m looking at you motherfucking Clyde’s!
Enjoys sitting at home and watching movies, or quiet outdoor events like hiking, yuppie-camping, going to Deep Creek Lake and boating around in circles while drinking… Also open to vaguely anorak things like riding a train with no destination in mind, or battlefield tours, or a random drive to a small town just to get a cheeseburger at a diner.
Likes to drive and can drive well. I secretly hate driving.
The Weekend Special
Leave me alone during the week. That’s 100% homebody time. I want to take off my trousers, drink a few vodka tonics, and just do nothing. My days suck. So no nagging for Tuesday night dinners or Wednesday special events or Monday game nights or whatever retarded shit you’ve got stuck in your head.
Leave all that shit to me. Laundry, cleaning, cooking, dishes. It’s my job. You will never learn how to pack the dishwasher correctly. And don’t screw with the laundry – it’s all been sorted just right, and I have my methods that save water, electricity, and time. Everything’s just right, okay? Just sit there and shut up. Chicken for dinner. Stay out of the kitchen, because you’re making me nervous. And you’ll never see me make my sauces. Those are all secrets. Maybe you can go outside and run around the apartment building a few times if you have all that extra energy.
Have at least one gay friend, so he can help me pick out clothes because I’m color blind so I’m always about one step away from just wearing black all the time (or you can fill this role). A lesbian is okay, because I like non-threatening women. No ex-boyfriends.
No kids. If you already have a kid, and it’s not a fuck-up, then I’ll consider it. But that thing had better be housebroken.
No pets. I’m allergic to cats and dogs are as bad as kids. No goddamned birds. Jesus. No rodents. No pets at all. Plants are fine. But if you have the urge for something that moves under its own power, get Sea Monkeys.
I will not participate in whatever stupid thing you’re doing to better the world and/or Mankind. Don’t get me wrong — I’ll help sick kids and pick up litter if I’m being paid for it, or avoiding a prison sentence. But the very few hours of each week that I actually have to myself are all for me.
Daily, multiple times. Headache or not. If your pussy is broken, you need not apply.
And how to apply? Here’s my email: email@example.com