Pretty sad

Here's a sampling of my inbox on OKCupid (click image to view larger):

Just once I'd like to get an email that starts out along the lines of "Hey, intelligent and multi-dimensional woman who seems like she would challenge me, how have you impacted the world today?"

Instead I get "Hi pretty."  Like a million times.

Don't get me wrong, I do enjoy being called pretty and beautiful by someone other than a family member or an old person at my church.  I just wish it was by someone who could form a complete sentence.  

Right.  I didn't respond because I was out getting help.  Did you know that there is such a thing as The National Grammar Hotline?  I hope they've got extra staff on duty because, man, am I sending them a gigabyte of referrals.

Also notice that he has taken a page from Chris' playbook:  if at first she doesn't reply, message, message again.  Almost. Every. Damn. Day.  (*Hypocritical use of incorrect capitalization and punctuation for emphasis only.)

At least Mike typed more than three words in the subsequent emails.  That extra effort certainly does make a girl stop and consider that she just might be missing out on something really great...which may or may not include four children:

One would assume that he'd know for sure.  Or the other kid sucks.

I also think I'm going to have to update my own profile to include punctuation as one of my six things.

And I may also add a "word of the day" feature in an effort to expand the vocabulary of potential suitors...such as:

syntax  [sin-taks]

noun

A.  the study of the rules for the formation of grammatical sentences in a language.

B.  the study of the patterns of formation of sentences and phrases from words.

objectify  [uh b-jek-tuh-fahy]

verb

to present as an object, especially of sight, touch, or other physical sense; make objective; externalize.

anchorite  [ang-kuh-rahyt]

noun

a person who has retired to a solitary place for a life of religious seclusion.

And maybe some synonyms for "pretty."

Only stalk if you're celery

If at first you don't succeed, try, try again.  And again.  And then some more.  And maybe give it another shot.  And then one more time.  Ok, one more time after that.  Until you become a stalker.

This guy has been messaging me all year--March 6, April 28, July 8, October 19, November 11, November 12, later on November 12, yet again on November 12, November 17 and today.  I don't respond, but he keeps on trying.  Like a raccoon scratching at your patio door.  I would block him, but it provides entertainment.  And blog material.  But why don't I respond, you ask?  Well, aside from the poor capitalization, lack of punctuation, and cyber stalking, there's this:

Honored and creeped out as I am to be the object of your friend-with-benefits desire, let it be known that I already have lots of friends, I get benefits from work, and I am not an adulteress.  It's a thing with me...the Ten Commandments and all.  (There's a whole other post coming soon about that.)  

But the litany of messages...I mean come on.  The last one came up as I was taking a screen shot of his profile for this post.  Note the green circle next to his photo.  That means he's online.  So he saw that I was online and sent me a message.  Because, you know, today just might be the day that enough of my good-decision-making brain cells die and I message back.  I am on some good drugs for a foot injury, which I washed down this morning with a mimosa (on accident, seriously, I thought it was just OJ), and I did have a lot of anesthetic shot into my cheek for a filling, and have only eaten a 230-calorie Lean Cuisine all day, but even all of that has not clouded my judgement as I have a pretty good tolerance...but not for men like this.

Let me draw you a picture

The other day I matched with someone on Tinder and we chatted for a couple days.  I was pretty excited because he was actually kind of hot.  He was married for 15 years and is divorced (not a big deal)...because his wife left him for another woman (ouch).  Dude, that sucks.  But it opened up a chance for me.  We had a lot of things in common...love of travel, same college degrees, and we both do endurance events.  It was fun having a conversation with some substance.  So I asked if he was on Facebook so we could chat using a real keyboard rather than a smartphone and the Tinder app.  He immediately sent his name and I friend requested him.  He accepted.

And I found out he lives two rectangle states away (and is only here for work periodically throughout the year).

And has four kids (not a big deal since I don't have any).

And his ex-wife left him for the woman in a married couple with whom they were friends (awkward).

Now the ex and girlfriend live in his former house with his four kids and the other couple's one child.

And the girlfriend's ex-husband bought a house down the street from that house so he could be close to his child.

And this guy moved in with him.

But they're not together.  Just housemates.  He even sent me a diagram.

So the moms live as a couple in the one house with the five combined kids, and the dads live down the block in another house as roommates.  But the kids can come and go from either house as they please.

And they all spend their free time together.  Because, you know, they were friends before the whole switcharoo took place.

And he has posted professional family photos of all nine of them and calls the whole group his family and the extra child calls him "dad."

And while this is a great scenario for the kids to have both parents nearby and amicable, it's not a great a scenario for anyone wanting to date either of the ex-husbands.

Because while I appreciate the modern family, the idea of what is essentially a loosely organized commune in the Great West does not light my fire.

So back for more Tinder.

Corn rows

You have absolutely got to be kidding me.  There are no words.  Wait, of course there are.

No wonder the teddy bear is lost.  I'm quite confident he bugged out...as did the six bears before him.  Smart little guys.  The lack of commas and improper capitalization were probably the last straws.

A "bit unusual" is a bit of an understatement.  If I were to dominate you, it would be to scrub my bathtub and dust my knickknacks.  That's the shit I want to see done, not wasting food so you can get your rocks off and scare away another bear.

I also take offense at the "sissy" comment.  I wear panties and I can assure you that I am no sissy.  I'm fairly certain that I could kick your ass.  Or at the very least shoot it.  I'll remember to wear my flowery underwear this weekend when I'm rappelling down the side of a high-rise building for charity.

But let's get down to the Thanksgiving side dish elephant in the room--the creamed corn.  Seriously?  SERIOUSLY?  That's got to be the most f***ed up thing I've ever had someone email to me.  The only time corn should be in a diaper is after a toddler eats it...not so your junk can float around in some creamy cradle of maize.  Of course you would be doing this alone--because who, in all honesty, really wants to get in on this?  Maybe there's some dominatrix with a mashed potato fetish out there for you.  Whip those potatoes.  Whip it.

So that's what I think, and, no, you cannot be my bitch.  My sissy pants and I are bitch enough for both of us.

Riblets

I was swiping through Tinder and came across a profile that said, "I don't hunt but I like to BBQ."  I don't exactly see the correlation...I guess he assumes that the majority of carnivores are killing what they're grilling...whatever, but it does make me think I should be a little more forthcoming in my own online profile:

I'm not a mermaid but I like to swim.

I don't cluck but I have eggs.

I'm not a cat but I have lots of hair.

I don't work in a chocolate factory but I am short.

I'm don't plunder and pillage but I like rum and parrots.

I'm not a decomposing dinosaur but I do produce gas.

I like rainbows but I am straight.

I don't listen to country music but I've been in a pickup truck.

I'm not a table but I have legs.  (Also see "not a mermaid.")

I'm not a bear but I have shit in the woods.

And lastly:

I don't own a python but I do have online dating profiles.

Freaks without borders

It's always refreshing to know that I am not alone in my angst.  My good friend in Australia occasionally sends me screen shots of her own online matches to remind me that the situation isn't any better on the other side of the planet.

She rencently had this chat:

Oooh, normally I'd be all over this one except that I can't even floss my back molars without at least one dry heave.  Maybe someday he'll find a nice hot dog eating champion.  Or a funny garbage disposal.  There's an idea...he can go stick his junk in that.

Then the other night she sent me this prospect:

I'm not sure if this guy is seeking sexual partners or a circus troupe.  I have to laugh at the "no strings attached" fun.  Reading this, I assume that he wouldn't mind some strings or rope or what have you.  And that contortion trick...I didn't think that people who live down under actually go down under.  If he can do that, I ask you, does he really need one or two more people in the room?  

I tell you what, after reading these, I do.  One to fix me a margarita and the other to call the convent.

No raptor rapture here

It's no wonder my dating life is extinct.  Look what I have to deal with:

Impressive.  The camera angle really makes those tiny dinosaur arms look a lot longer.  

Is that a drill next to his head?  So it wasn't an asteroid after all...just Darwinism.

Gesundheit.

I won't argue with you there, buddy.  And it's a melfie in an airplane bathroom.  Good God, you've taken the public toilet backdrop to new heights.  

And you, sir, have taken Photoshop to a new low.  (But I will give you points for choosing a reptile other than a python.)  It's a good thing that little guy gave you a ride after he bit off your feet.  

So, in closing, I'm just not feeling a connection with these Cretaceous Casanovas...maybe it's because I don't wear dinosaur jammies, maybe it's self-preservation because I'm a mammal who's lower on their food chain.  Either way, I'll leave these opportunities for some paleontologist living in coastal Montana about a million years from now.

Panty raid

Oh, the things you find on online dating sites...

No, no you wouldn't.  

And what's this "if you wear panties" ridiculousness?  Who's not wearing panties?  Going commando is gross.  I know only one person who occasionally has an unsanctioned commando afternoon and that's my five-year-old nephew.  

Aside from the fact that this is unsanitary, and weird, it's dangerous.  I appreciate a good full-coverage pair of briefs.  I'm not wearing a string bikini nor am I wearing a thong.  Sorry to destroy your fantasies.  I just don't enjoy picking out a wedgie all day or flossing my lady bits.  Both of those tiny scraps of material would be considered choking hazards.  Mine would lead to full-on suffocation.  It's all fun and games until somebody's convicted of manslaughter.

Besides, I'm sure you heard about that dog who ate 62 hair bands and eight pairs of briefs earlier this year.  Don't be that dog, ladies.

But is this really fun?  And for who?  I'll tell you what would amuse me--having this mysogynist do it first.  You go ahead and stuff those two-day boxers or skid-marked tighty whities in there, bucko.  I'm sure it's hot.

Speaking of tighty whities...imagine the joy when this showed up:

Seriously.  Usually the guys who post shirtless photos are sporting a six-pack, not a quarter barrel.  While I admire your confidence, I do wish that this bathroom melfie included a hideous shower curtain to distract me from those briefs that are chock full o' nuts.  I might just gag--no panties needed.

Count me out

If you've read any of my previous posts, you know that correct spelling and grammar are high on my list.  That being said, you can also infer that counting is up there, too.

Where's that bucket?  Someone please just drown me in it.  Or let one of those pythons have a go at me.  

Ok, there are four things here, not six.  I know some people might be like, "Maybe there aren't six things he can't live without; maybe he's not that materialistic."  Well, he is human and I can list off a lot things we can't live without...water, air, food, the sun (you know if that goes out we die, right?), heart, brain...that's six right there.  Simple biology can fill in the blanks.  But this spelling bee champ has listed only four, the first of which may actually be biological...his "gutair."  

Gutair...gut air...farts?  It's common knowledge that a man's love of flatulence is inversely proportional to a woman's appreciation of the same, so this may be a valid listing--for a guy.  While you're mighty pleased with yourself after crop dusting the kitchen, your significant other is gagging as she is also trying to make sure that none of it got in her mouth.  If you've got "gutair" and "ciggerttes," I bet her list of necessary items includes Beano and Febreze.

This list is better.  Kudos on the spelling, but I'm taking away points for using the same answer twice.  I'm taking away points for using the same answer twice.  See?  It doesn't work.  Still five.

Now here's one I can get behind.  He's got family and basic needs listed (namely "home," but the last two could also be considered basic needs...don't judge me).  So close...but, alas, seven is not six.

I know you think I'm being nit-picky, but the field doesn't say "The six things I could never do without within a tolerance of +/- two things."  Even my two-year-old niece can count to ten with no problem.  My oldest nephew just had to demonstrate that he could count to twenty to enroll in Kindergarten.  I think we've found three children left behind here.

Earlier this year a young woman in India walked away from her wedding after asking the soon-to-be-groom to add 15 and six.  His answer was 17.  It's a global epidemic.

Hold the mayo

Sometimes when I'm going to check my online matches I start to type "eham" instead of "eharmony"...which leads me to believe that I am actually more interested in finding a sandwich than I am in a relationship.

My subconscious might be on to something, though, especially when I am presented with options like this...

...which, ironically, involves a sandwich.  And a snake.  But of course it involves a snake.  It always seems to involve a snake.

Unless it involves an armadillo:

Or a cat in a tank:

Don't get me wrong.  I love me some armadillo and some battle cats.  But what I really enjoy is some turkey...

...on a sandwich.  

Bucket list

You wish, you hope, you pray...and the universe sends you this guy:

Really, eHarmony?  Really?  For $20 a month I should be able to filter out "men who treat a home center as a clothier" in my search options.

Dude, Chicken Little called and said it was a false alarm.  You can go back to storing your catch or mixing a small batch of concrete...or whatever else one should be doing with a five-gallon bucket besides wearing like a palace guard.  Sigh.

Sometimes I really think God is just mocking me.  The Big Guy's like, "You've got a pretty good sense of humor, Tina, but I can one-up you.  I'm God."  For example, I own a home that overlooks a Catholic seminary.  That's right, a whole campus full of single, clean-cut educated men lacking face tattoos that I can't have.  Well played, God.  Well played.

Of course, maybe He intends for me to be single.  Surely all of these mismatches can't be signs from God?  I told you, though, He's a funny guy.  But really, what would I blog about..."Cooking for One:  How not to get tired of eating the same entree for dinner three nights in a row because you couldn't split the recipe" or "Living Alone:  How many deadbolts are too many?"

Maybe He's teaching me patience.  And tolerance.  If the latter is the intended lesson, then this blog certainly isn't helping my cause.  Every post probably pushes my bridal registry back another year.  By the time it comes to fruition it won't be Orrefors crystal, a Hudson's Bay blanket and a Frozen Concoction Maker, it'll be Fixodent, a new hip and matching lift chairs.  I just keep hoping that I'll be walked down the aisle at some point by my dad before getting wheeled down by six other relatives.

Even the soda machine at work mocks my singleness.  I bought a Diet Coke the other day and got a bonus can, too.  Sweet, right?  They said this:

F*** you, Coke.  God put you up to this, didn't He?

Wiener pics

Get your mind out of the gutter, people.  What did you think I was talking about?  Oooooh, you thought I meant actual penises.  Yes, penis photos and the Internet go together like bananas and peanut butter, hot dogs and ketchup, cucumber and dill...you get the idea.  And if you find yourself on an online dating site chances are good that one slipped through their filters for all the world to see.  But really, I don't need to see that on my phone.  Or on my work computer during lunch.  

I'm talking about family-friendly wiener pics.  As in wiener dogs.  The sheer number of profile photos featuring Dachshunds (and probably miniature pinschers because I can't tell the difference when they're laying down) amazes me.  Men are fascinated by their phallus, so why not have one as a pet?

These men have a lot of fun with their wieners.  They like to pet, scratch and play with them all day--they love getting them worked up.  Wieners love a good bone, and they're always excited when you come over.

Some men take their wieners very seriously.  They judge each other's on overall size, length and hair color.  The Dachshund Club of America lists breed standards that include being "long in body...with robust muscular development," "bold and confident head carriage," and skin that is "elastic and pliable without excessive wrinkling."  No one wants to see a wrinkled wiener.  

When not involved in wiener contests, some men like to snuggle with their wiener.  This guy likes wieners by his face.

A lot of men like to play with their wieners in bed.  And they usually want you to play with it too.  

Others prefer to play with them on the floor.  Ok...it's your carpet.

     

Some men like to dress them up.  I must admit that I like this one.  Call me kinky.

And some just like to show them off.  

But remember, if your wiener is on display for more than four hours, seek help.  It's a wiener, not a World Cup trophy.  Give that wiener a rest.

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The melfie

If you have spent even 30 seconds on any dating site you know that probably half of the profile photos are hand-held melfies--a dude taking a selfie in front of a mirror, usually with the phone held about chest height, so it's right there in the middle of the photo.  These most often take place in his bathroom...which is a terrible option for a profile pic for the following reasons:

A)  You either don't have or don't know how to use the little flip-the-camera-toward-you icon on your smartphone's camera.  Clearly you are still using my BlackBerry from several years ago.  Get with the program and upgrade.  Or ask a toddler how to use your phone.  They can help you.

B)  I don't want to see your bathroom.  Not only do I see that you don't adopt and/or know how to use current technology, but I also see that your tub/shower needs new grout and caulk, you have dandruff and psoriasis, and your mirror could stand to be introduced to some Windex.  Also, your shower curtain is hideous.  Go to Target or Bed, Bath & Beyond.  Please.

C)  Finally, I ask, do you not have one friend who can take your photo?  Seriously, you have not been in public with at least one other person who will own up to knowing you and whom you could ask to snap a quick pic?  I mean, I get that your python buddy has no hands, but come on.  That toddler could even take it for you.

He's a great example of a full-body melfie.  *Note hideous shower curtain.

Not only is he flashing a V sign like some guido wannabe baller, does he realize that those little protective cardboard corners are supposed to come off the mirror when you decide to hang it?  I really didn't think that had to be explained.

So from this photo I know that he does, in fact, have a hideous shower curtain, has no friends who would take or have taken a full-body photo for him, and, sadly, is kind of clueless about disposable packaging.  There are so many strikes here that it's almost a no-hitter.

And then we have this guy who successfully avoided the melfie but still raises some questions...such as, "Why are you taking a photo of yourself in a public restroom?"

Yep.  If I'm not mistaken, those are urinals behind him...unless he has metal stalls, a sprinkler system and industrial ventilation in his house.  Surely he could have picked ANY other venue for a photo--a dumpster, a row of port-a-potties, a fish cleaning station.  At least there's no one peeing in the background.  But how do I know he's not peeing right now?  I can't see his other hand.  This is one case where some mirrors would be useful. 

Generation gap

Uh, no.  You are 21.  The year you were born was the year I turned 21.  That means I literally have a lifetime of tolerance on you.  I also have college sweatshirts SpaceBagged in my closet that have been on this planet longer than you.  Speaking of which, you're probably still in college which means you don't have a job and will expect me to pay for said drinks.  As I've stated before, I'm not a sugar mama and I sure as heck am no cougar.  But if I was, I'd probably eat my young.  Better dial it down, Romeo.

I get emails from young guys fairly often.  Some can form complete sentences, some can not.  

And then there are the older men.  I mean significantly older.  And not cool and perpetually attractive in a Harrison Ford, Pierce Brosnan or Sean Connery kind of way.  Which doesn't really matter anyway because inter-generational dating really creeps me out regardless.

What?  That noise?  Oh, that's just the sound of my skin crawling.  To someplace safe.  Seeing this in my list of "who's viewed me" is cause for an immediate shower.  Like a heavy-exfoliation-take-it-down-to-the-next-layer-of-dermis-get-shampoo-in-your-eyes-on-purpose kind of shower.  Thank heaven you are an ocean away.  God save the queen.  Nevermind, she's too old for you.  God save Kate Middleton.

Putting your best face forward, or not

Today's match is brought to you by the letter "C" and the numerical concept of "zero"...which is exactly how many emails I'm going to send to this guy.

If you read the previous post, then you know right away that Genius here probably got into the oxycontin and several cans of frosting and apparently was told to do all sorts of stuff.  I'm just wondering if it was Betty Crocker or Poppin' Fresh.  That doughboy can be shifty.

So you've got OC on your forehead.  Orange County?  One challenge?  (Clearly you're facing more than that.)  O, cats?  That would explain the tiger stripes on your jawline.  Kind of.  Really nothing can explain that.  And the star....can guys be "basic"?  I think that's about the most basic tattoo you can get, Rum Tum Tugger.  Unless the star stands for "say can you" in which case I give you props for being patriotic.

And what exactly is going on below the neck?  Was your tattoo artist a toddler?  Or having a seizure?  And there's another damn star next to that cave drawing of a bison or whatever it is.  If I squint, your chest kind of looks like something in the style of Chagall.  But I'm going to go out on a limb and say that is probably just a fortunate coincidence.

So, in summary, we are not a match.  I don't care if you're a neurosurgeon or poet laureate, this isn't happening.  Only Polynesian warriors should have that many, er, any tattoos on the face.  The Rock can have tattoos like that.  Mike Tyson is a poor decision maker.  Based on your fair skin and hair, you fall in with Tyson.  Not a good lifemate quality.  Besides, I'm allergic to cats.

Comma chameleon

It's not that I don't have options.  I do.  It's viable options that seem to elude me.

Like Metal Guy...he actually emailed me a few days ago and told me that I have a pretty smile.  Thanks.  I appreciate compliments.  And I do have a pretty smile, if I may say so myself.  I do because I don't have piercings in my mouth chipping away at the enamel.  Might be something to consider.

Daily I receive emails like that as well as notifications from a variety of sites telling me that someone is interested in me, wants to meet me, viewed me, likes me or possibly wants to dismember me and eat my toes in chowder.

But even more horrifying than that possibility are the people who don't use punctuation.  As I've said before, correct spelling and grammar are to me what the red room is to Christian Grey.

So as we see above, use of commas and periods is not his forte.  Nor is the use of capitalization and, apparently, anti-depressants.  I'm about as turned off right now as a city block after a transformer fire.

Ditto for this guy.  I know piercing.  I don't know per icing.  Please tell me that your dessert frosting is not telling you to get tattoos.  Although that could explain some of the people on here.  My cupcake told me to get that velociraptor inked on my face.  Maybe time to lay off the drugs.  And hicking?  Is that like cow tipping except you're knocking over meth heads in the Ozarks?    

And then there's this guy.  

Wow.  I am really sorry about what happened to you and I appreciate your pain and mistrust but I really don't think I want to get mixed up in that besides the spelling errors and five-and-a-half pairs of quotes are driving me insane and you should know that I keep a gun in my bedroom.  

Oh God.  I wrote a run-on sentence.  The ganache told me to do it.

Clearly labeled

Several people have asked me if these are real guys with real profiles.  Oh, you got me.  I've staged every single photo and paid the the models handsomely with a grant from The Clinton Foundation. 

You just can't make this shit up, people.  

This email arrived two days ago.  I read his profile, and based on his job I'm sure he really is a genuinely nice guy (albeit someone with poor decision-making skills), but if I met him in person it would take everything within me to suppress the urge to hang my keys on that chin thing.  And the fact that the nose ring is crooked is sending my OCD into overdrive.

I had to look up bridge piercing (the two balls on the ends of the bar across the bridge of his nose).  Yeah, no thanks.  Apparently this type of piercing has a tendency to eventually make its way to the surface because there isn't a lot of skin there to hold it in place...unlike the stretched-out earlobes holding what I assume are huge gauges.  Or they're little dreadlock pigtails.  Or corks.  I can't really tell.

But what I appreciate most about this photo is the fact that he has "metal" tattooed across his neck...just in case the actual metal in his face wasn't a dead giveaway that he likes smelted minerals.  I bet it's helpful for TSA agents, though.  Very straightforward.  Saves questioning when getting a secondary wanding.  I think I'll get a big tattoo across my belly that says "water retention" to alleviate any confusion the next time I'm naked in front of a guy.  I don't want him to think I'm fat.  Thanks for the idea, dude.

And unicorn makes three

Might I suggest some cumin instead?  Get yourself a nice tagine and forget about an extra women.  Woman.

The grammar and spelling errors presented here are about to trigger a seizure.  I'd better sit down.  And, for the record, I'm ok with tattoos...a full sleeve is cool, but our groom-to-be has a full turtleneck with thumb holes.  This guy is a Highlights hidden picture page incarnate.  Coupled with my adult-onset ADD, this would be a bad combination.  I can just see me in a moment of intimacy:  "Hey, I found the bell!"  And then I would circle it with the Sharpie I keep by the bed.

But why stop at the knuckles, jaw line or waistband?  Oh, hell, go for broke, dude.  Unless you are broke.  I'll assume you have exhausted your available funds on body adornment and as a result cannot afford a shirt.  Or shorts with pockets.  Get your damn hand off your groin and pull your pants up.  Your dirty briefs are freaking me out more than your poor spelling.

And let's not forget the threesome.  Gah.  This comes up a lot in online profiles.  As I've said before, there are specific sites for this kind of activity, so please don't jump in the pool during wannabe-couple-only swim.

This guy and his wife are another pair who should have their pool passes revoked:

You KNOW I had to look up "unicorn" on Urban Dictionary.  I was honestly afraid of what I might find, but it's not that bad:

Well, it's bad in that they just want some gal for sex and household contributions with zero emotional involvement, but it's not as bad as the weird plushy/pony direction where my mind was initially headed.  So basically you want Rosie from the Jetsons with a few extra attachments.  Get a Roomba and go to town, chief.

As for the guy at the top, I still suggest cumin...although based on his spelling performance I imagine he'll interpret that as something entirely different.

Mystery dates

One of my biggest online dating site pet-peeves is not having a profile pic.  If I can't see you, what makes you think I'm going to contact you, let alone meet you?  I need to, at the very least, compare your photo to several online mugshot databases.  There's a reason why Chinese restaurants have photos of almost every entree--so you know what you're getting.  That reminds me, I need to help a friend put up some lost dog posters later.

Even when you have a blind date set up by a mutual friend, they show you photo or offer a verbal physical description.  This usually works fine...except the time I was set up with someone who arrived at my condo and turned out to be shorter than me (having only seen a head shot).  I'm only 5'2", so that's really something.  Seeing as how I did not want to sentence my potential children to a life of seasonal employment wearing tights and jingle-bell shoes, we didn't go out again.

But, seriously, if there's no photo, how do I know that you don't have a tiger tattooed on your face?  Your package in a deer skull?  Or, worst of all, wear Affliction t-shirts?  Proper vetting involves visuals.  At least Pen Guy was honest.

And then you have guys who post photos, but are ambiguous in other areas:

Oh good, a person.  That's just the kind of mammal I was hoping to meet.  I'm so glad you have photos to back it up.  But if just being a person is your occupation (that's what that line is really for, and you didn't mention anything to indicate employment or marketable skills in the rest of the profile that you left blank), I don't think I can support both of us on my non-profit salary.  Sorry, dude, no sugar mama here.  I'm more of an off-brand low-calorie artificial sweetener mama.  Might I suggest you go buy a python and charge other single guys to take a selfie with it so you can have some real income and a career path.  There's actually a market for that.