A few months ago I signed up for eHarmony. Because it is my deepest longing, and my longest deeping, that I become this:
And then this:
And then this, my ultimate goal:
But my membership is running out. And me have no money, as usual. So I thought, who better personage to go to than my dad? He's not
but surely this time he can cough up a modest sum of simoleons to help out his love-starved Number One Son*. Right? What could possibly go wrong?
"I don't know," says Dad, sitting back in his huge Corinthian leather-tooled gold-piped executive chair. I stand at attention in his vast office that overlooks the Pyrenees. Behind me stretches a carpet the size of an Australian-rules football field. I am still winded by my trek from the door to his desk.
"I already asked Sergei for the money, Dad," I hasten to say, "but he's in a mob war right now and not returning my calls. So.... you're it. The last resort. And have I told you that I love you, and stuff?"
"If I'm going to venture my capital, I want to know what I'm getting into," says Dad.
"Well, it's a dating site where horny--"
"No, no, I mean I want to see your profile. What product are you trying to sell? What is your IPO offering at what price point? I don't just throw my money down the toilet!"
"Oh, well, sure, if..."
He fires up his glorious Mac (disdaining that criminal Bill Gates' product) and I type my password into eHarmony. Up comes my profile where I lie about my height, weight, age, species, and love of children/dogs/paragliding/goodness.
"DON!" screeches a Finnish woman from the adjacent annex. Mine and my dad's bits of hair shoot up. "What are you doing?!"
"I'm getting on my son's dating site!" calls Dad.
"DON'T DO IT," screeches Maria. "WE'LL GET WORMS ON THE COMPUTER!!"
"Leave us be," growls Dad. He cocks a sardonic brow over his monocle. "Women. Are you sure you want one?"
"Not like that Jesus God no no Christ," I mutter. "No."
"Okay, let's go through this again. If I'm spending my money, we need to maximize your chances... Hmmm."
He brings up the personality test and I am forced to endure the Bataan March of Self-evaluation all over again.
"Do you trust your partner? Ecch. Are you able to communicate your feelings? No. Are you a good person? Certainly not..."
"Daaad," I say. "I want to meet a nice lady!"
"Don't you get it, son? You suck. The sooner you are honest about it, the sooner you can get a woman who will tolerate you."
"I love you too, Dad." Head bowed, weeping, I hum Cat's in the Cradle.
"Hmmm. Do you anger easily? Not often... Sometimes... Very often. We'll say 'very often.'"
"I DO NOT!" I scream, punching a hole in the air.
"Kind. Intelligent. Hygienic. Okay, we'll cross those out."
"Are we almost done?"
"Wait. How much is a membership again?"
"It's 37 dollars a month."
Steven Schwartz shakes his head. "You are writing cartoons here, Mr Johnson. Please show more depth in your relationship with your father."
"Ja, mein Gruppenschreiben Professor. By the way, can I borrow some money so I can renew my eHar--"
* Said with a Chinese accent, the type used in detergent commercials.