Of Course He Told You To Lose Weight, Fatty

I’m not sure I mentioned this on the blog yet — I know I mentioned it on my Twitter, which is really boring and that’s why you should follow it — but someone from The Frisky extended a friendship invitation to me on Facebook. Not just “somebody,” but an editor. Seriously, being asked if you want to be friends with one of the creative minds behind The Frisky is like meeting Lady Gaga or Michael Jordan or something. It’s a really big deal. I instantly felt the urge to communicate with my new pal. So I asked her if she needed a good fuck. No, I didn’t, but I wanted to. Instead I told her that perhaps a logical male perspective would provide audiences reading The Frisky a brief respite from the more feminine, intuitive, psychotic examinations of the human psyche by the current all-girl writing staff. It was just a thought. I didn’t receive a response.

Then I found an amazing article by Anna Sofia Martin, a pretentious girl who uses her middle name for journalistic purposes, yet who isn’t opposed to stooping so low that she uses the Internet to find a date. In her article called, “He told me to lose weight on the first date!” (As if!) she introduces the reader to “Dan,” a guy with a big grin who liked fancy smart-person books, and who “looked like a cute professor.” Miss Martin states — after her brief intro — “Could this be…my guy?”

Well, no sweetie. This probably will not be your guy. And that’s a really dumb remark to make upon looking at a man’s profile on a social networking or dating site. You can’t honestly believe that your immediate physical attraction plus the fact that he says he likes old buildings connotes a budding romance. This unreasonable leap in logic is why women are stereotyped as being irrational. You’ve gone from random visitor to someone’s website to oh-my-God-you’re-already-planning-the-wedding loony bitch in thirty seconds. It’s scary. It’s weird. It’s a turn-off. I don’t like it.

What do you mean when you write online dating for a few months is “long enough?” You’re tired of the scene and you want to quit? Or are you feeling like you’ve paid your dues and now you deserve to find the right guy and leave Internet dating thing to the geeks who can’t get out of their parent’s basements, because for some reason you’re feeling a sense of entitlement, like you’re worthy of better? You’ve described three men you went on dates with, and it sounds to me like you had typical online dating experiences, but you are too impatient to find the right person. Now you’re trying to force it. This always leads to horrible, horrible disasters. I have no doubt your story is leading us in this direction. The title gave it away, but still, the exposition you provide detailing your thought process makes realizing the cruel fate you are soon to endure so much more worthwhile. If anything, what you deserve is another bad experience. I assume that’s what happened…

You offer up “size 10 pencil skirt, black cashmere sweater and boots” like you’re proud of it. I don’t know from skirt sizes, so I Googled “size 10″ and this is what I got:

Already the title of this article is perfectly sensible, but I’m going to continue anyway, because that’s what I do, and the joke isn’t funny until I’ve made it five or ten more times. Repetition equals comedy.

The story of your date with “Dan” begins with the revelation that the dude you saw in pictures was — surprise! — not the guy you were seeing in real life. Welcome to the 21st century. It’s called “hottification,” and I wrote my first story on the subject back in 2005. If you expected anything even remotely similar to the photos you saw online, you don’t know the first thing about being single and using the Internet. Hey, I was where you are for a while, and it wasn’t fun. I mean, I never used a dating website before but I understood the implicit consequences of joining a social network. Everyone is looking to fuck. You put your best photo out there and wait for the response. Except I didn’t use photos at first. I used album covers or pictures of me that were too obscured to make out my features. I didn’t want to put anyone through what “Dan” put you through. It’s not right. It’s not fair. But if you’re naive enough to think you’re getting what people advertise about themselves on the Internet, well…I don’t want to startle you, but you might be retarded.

With all the presuppositions you throw into your story (and it is a fictional story I’m sure is in no way accurate, from the “shoving” of the pasta into his food-hole to the annoying questions asked multiple times, and your perfectly timed witty remarks, which in reality were likely conceived when you penned this article) you manage to paint a pretty abysmal picture of “Dan.” It’s all in preparation for what is to come, of course, the big payoff, the fat joke or whatever he’s going to say. As he shoves food down his throat. As he imbibes wine and you sit there munching on lettuce in the hopes your waistline will recede even after you spent the afternoon pigging out on whatever-the-fuck you could get your grubby paws on, probably at a gas station or bodega or maybe you even stole a co-workers food because you can’t go ten-god-damned-minutes without eating you’re like a fucking CNN “check out this crazy disease where this person has to constantly eat or they’ll die!” freak.

Sorry, where was I? Oh, right. You’re trying to implant all these negative feelings towards “Dan” in your story in anticipation of him calling you fat. So that we the reader would empathize with you. He asks why you don’t run during the week and you make something up about getting robbed in the park, as if the only time you could ever run would be really late at night when all the crime happens. Right? You can’t run because late at night, the dark people, they commit crimes in the park at night, and so you can’t exercise. They’ve taken that liberty from you. The ability to run…on the street…when you’re not at work. Even if it’s not dark outside. Maybe in the morning, before work, like the rest of us do. Your point is, it’s not your fault your fat, it’s the world’s fault.

At long last, we get to it. The payoff. The climax. The orgasm — you probably don’t know what that one feels like, or maybe you haven’t for some time, since you were skinnier maybe, oh hell, your cute younger sister could probably tell you all about it — the e-mail “Dan” sends you telling you you’re fat. Oh man, this is going to be priceless. Hang on, I’m going to dim the lights. I’ve been waiting for this. Can anyone see me? I’m going to start jerking off right now.

He calls you pretty. He admits you’re prettier than him. Flattery will get him nowhere. You’re too stuck up to appreciate it. You want love handed to you on a silver platter. You don’t want to work [out] for it. You just expect it. “Dan” sighs. Did he really type the word “sigh” or are you making this up? I mean, the whole text is italicized, but it’s not quoted. Does that give you some journalistic leeway? It kinda reads like this thing was written by a girl. Anyway, he says there’s no chemistry between you — physical chemistry — and then he mentions (perhaps unnecessarily) that it’s because you’re “very curvy.” I’ll admit going into detail about his own choice to change the direction of his life and get in shape was not required, but maybe he’s the type of guy who calls a spade a spade, you know? Maybe he thought you’d be angrier if he just said there wasn’t chemistry, and didn’t give you a reason. Better he should tell you you’re fat than let you think you’ve got some gross deformity (I mean, you do, but maybe you think you have another deformity in addition to your disgusting weight problem). Sometimes, the harshness of an unflattering remark can act as the first stepping stone on the path to self-realization and self-improvement. But you don’t care. The tone of your article makes that very clear. Through condescension and self-absorption your warped worldview comes to light. It does not make you look any better, either physically or intellectually.

I’m not even going to touch your girl-power response to the guy who called you fat, because it’s moronic. Your pettiness, irreverence and ignorance manage to make you an even more deplorable character in this story than the guy who called you fat. It’s actually kind of an amazing feat, when you think about it, considering you’ve spent paragraphs upon paragraphs trying to paint yourself as a victim. If you grow to be morbidly obese and succumb to stroke or heart disease, I’m sure “Dan” will regret calling you fat that one time. And should you balloon up to a size…whatever (I said I don’t know about sizes) I’m sure you’ll find more excuses for why it’s not your fault, why the world is conspiring against you, and why you’re too good for any guy who thinks a woman who has trouble breathing because there’s a whole ham stuck in her windpipe is unattractive. I’d say “Go to hell” but if you’re being called fat by guys who you seek out on Internet dating websites I’d say you’re already there.

In all seriousness I hope you find “Mr. Could Be” someday, if only because it means someone has given you the time of day. Someone who isn’t waiting impatiently on the other side of a counter while you scour your change purse to pay for that umpteenth candy bar. It’s not even noon and already you’ve eaten a sleeve of Oreos. Finding your “Mr. Could Be” means at least he’s thinking about possibly dating you for a second or third time. The potential for a relationship will exist. Apparently that’s all you’re looking for right now. A guy who could stand to date you a second time. I want you to find that, Anna. I want you to know what it’s like to realize the fantasy of being with a guy after your first date. When it’s more socially acceptable. When he’s seen you for what you are and you’ve seen him for what he is, and neither of you are scared or offended or guilty of pre-date hottification. Everyone deserves some happiness in their lives. Everyone deserves some love. Even people who break the law. Even complete assholes. Even bloggers. Even girls who paint guys out to be chauvinistic, slovenly neanderthals who misrepresent themselves on dating sites, which is something women never do. Even you, Anna. You horrible, horrible pig.