PART I: The Situation.
Boys and girls, pimps and hos, gather ’round the fan for a sec. It’s time for a little come-to-Jesus on the subject of date-trolling your friendly neighborhood Craigslist. Because it ain’t pretty, folks. You have stumbled, bumbled, and fumbled your way through ill-conceived form letters, capped-up hissy fits, demands of blowjobs and roses, and every spam-artist from NOLA to Nigeria.
This is what Craigslist is here for. Easily attained, NSA sex; used furniture; the occasional zombie sighting; and ultimately a refuge for the nerdy, BBW-sturdy, and sex-over-30 crowds. You prayed, you wept, you toiled and sweat, you wished upon a star domain and woke up to your wildest dreams. You are why Jesus turned a stack of moldy old Robert Heinlein novels into the internet.
So let us set things right. Let us lay down a few ground rules. A gauntlet, if you will, of style and sense. MORE>>
It seems like a cop-out to start out the party with a success story early on. But, without this particular success story, Junkbuzzed would only be a twinkle in my eye. Or an itch on my ass. Indeed, I first met The Snarling Misanthrope on an adult dating website and was immediately impressed with his charming wit. Not impressed enough to rush over state lines and fuck him but impressed enough to start a weblog with him. The winning email? Well, it was in response to an ad of mine on a kink site. I was so tired of getting form letters that I wanted some proof that guys had read my profile. So, I asked them to include the word “unicorn” in any reply they sent to me. None were as clever as the one from my Darling Misanthrope:
So it was like this. I was walking down the street (Rue Wha_?), a flim-flam man with a pocketful of asides, non sequiturs, and the 1985 edition of the Broken English Thesaurus, when I was very nearly impaled by a passing unicorn. At least I thought it was a unicorn, but upon closer inspection, it was more of a genetic amalgam. Wearing a porkpie hat pulled low. A unicorn’s trunk, with thick tufts of multicolored hair that resembled a flying carpet. Its back legs were that of a goat; its front legs were, well, arms. Human arms. Heavily tattooed at that. I think it was part of the Sistine Chapel running up his left arm (I recognized Michelangelo’s flayed skin, because, having lived the southern life for a few years now, the image has come to remind me of cracklins: Dante, Michelangelo, Hitler, all sitting Indian-style around a lush lake of fire, toasting the skins of the damned, and talking in buoyant voices about the important things in life past - art, genocide, the proper use of punctuation).
Where was I. Oh, right. So he shimmied a bit, half a whinny, a smoker’s cough; cracked his back in the way one imagines a gangster would before delivering his payload of maximum violence. He shifted his hat, looked me in the eye - he looked like the Macho Man Randy Savage. Except for the giant horn protruding from his skull. Ahem, I said, and stepped backward. Fumbled for a greeting.
He reached into his parcel, produced his pipes, and proceeded to play a lilting tune, as his back legs danced in time. It was very Riverdance. Sorta.
“Oooooooh yeah,” he said, his voice craggier than Tom Waits doing Wagner. Then he asked where all the “hot chickadees” were.
“The Mid-Atlantic,” I blurted, and the creature darted past me. I then made a mental note that, the next time I should need to load up on peaches, fireworks and petrified crocodile heads, I’d be well off to find a new state to do so.
Clearly a match made in the sweaty and graphic confines of internet dating purgatory.