“Uhh, hi.”

“Hi there, young feller. You look like you need you a good ole datin’ profile!”

“I guess so. The ones I’ve been writing myself don’t seem to work very well.”

“Awww, shoot, pardner, most people don’t have a clue how to write one! C’mon over here and siddown. Can I get ya a cuppa mud?”

“No thank you. So, should I tell you what I’m looking for?”

“Why, naw son! You’re looking for a filly, ain’t ya?”

“Uhh, I guess so. I don’t know that I would have put it that way . . . “

“C’mon, now, sport, we’re all just looking for a cute little filly to throw a saddle on and ride ride ride! Am I right?”

“Uh. I don’t know what to say to that . . . ? Look, I’m pretty good at writing, but I’m not saying anything that a zillion other guys are saying on their profiles. So, what do you have that will stand out?”

“Heck, pardner, if you ain’t got something that’ll ‘stand out,’ you ain’t never gonna hang on a to a filly, know what I mean?”

“No, uh, that’s not what I mean. I mean, in profiles, what can you show me?”

“Well, now, we’ve got this one big ass dump truck of a profile. It’s got really low miles on it. Here, take a look at the noun count on this bad boy.”

“There’s only one noun. And it’s a pro-noun at that.”

“I know! Ain’t that a beaut! The profile uses ‘I’ and then there’s all them there action words! ”Hunt’! ‘Fish’! ‘Scratch’! ‘Fart’! ‘Fuck’! And the beautiful part of it is, it was all written right here in the good ole U S of A. Not one damn foreigner word in the whole profile!”

“I suppose I was looking for something a little more communicative. Something that would make a pretty girl want to date me.”

“Shoot boy, have you looked in a mirror lately? It’s gonna take a lot more than some fancy words to get a pretty girl to date you. Have you thought bout that there lipo-friction?”


“Yeah, they just scrape the ugly off ya, boy! BWAH HAH HAH. Oh, that was a good un, son, that was a knee-slapper!”

“Yeah. Cute. Now, pretty girls. Dating me. Profile?”

“Oh, sure, well, now, jus how purty are you wanting a girl?”

“Slender. Cute. Big smile. Sense of humor. Intelligent.”

“Damn, boy. All right, you know what we’re gonna have to do with your ass?”

“I hope friction isn’t involved.”

“Naw son, what we’re gonna have to do is fit you in one of our European profiles. Them Frenchies cain’t fight a war worth shit, but they can get laid six ways to Sunday. Sometimes they can get laid six times on a Sunday!”

“But, I’m not French.”

“Son, you haven’t got the brains God gave a retarded politician. We just lie on your profile. Multiply your salary by ten. Throw a few more inches on ya vertically, take a few inches off the horizontal — and we can add them to your dip stick for a nominal extra charge — slip in some movie star photos. Or, were you ever good lookin’? Like ten or fifteen years ago? ‘Cuz we can just purty them up and post ‘em like you took ‘em yesterday!”

“But then the profile will be just like everyone else’s! They’re lying! Just like the pretty girls say!”

“But them fillies won’t know you’re lyin’, boy! They’ll think, ‘now here’s an honest one,’ you’ll get your roll in the hay — and ain’t that what you’re lookin’ for?”

“No, not really. I’m looking for a relationship. Laughs. Smiles. Someone to hang out with. Watch a movie with.”

“Yer queer, aintcha?”