One thought ahead. Three sentences behind.


I’m thinking of joining a dating website and I’m not happy about it.  Neither is my wife.  I’m kidding on the second and wish I was on the first.  I always felt I would come across my soul mate during some random moment of my day, like visiting a coffee shop, walking through a park or exchanging insurance information after a car accident.  So far it hasn’t happened and I’m beginning to wonder if it will ever be likely.

Letting your fingers do the falling.

Although leery, I’m not opposed to the idea of internet dating.  I’ve heard the success stories and I know people who have found love through some websites.  It’s just on balance this particular exercise looks less like a lark and more like a job.  There is no accidentally bumping into a cutie at a suburban grocery store and saying it was either fate or hunger that brought us both to the frozen pizzas.  There is no accidentally doing anything on a dating website.  First you have to intentionally register and come up with some cool login name like “Viking Warrior” or “Cheese Breath.”  Then you have to locate a photo that doesn’t make you look like a parolee living in a halfway house.  And that’s only the beginning.  From there you have to complete a profile that takes longer than most LSAT Exams.

This is where I got bogged down.  I could easily answer the favorite foods and movies.  I had no trouble identifying myself as a white, non-smoking social drinker who can’t dance.  Then a question that stopped me cold.  What is my philosophy in life?

“Seize the Day?”

“Eat Cheerios off a plate?”

I’m still thinking.

I don’t like how my dating profile is starting to resemble a job resume.  But what’s wrong with a little hard work?  So what if I feel a little silly and may run straight into the date from hell.  At least, I won’t have to follow the mating rituals of the elephant seal.

If you are a bull and looking to make an aquatic connection, you don’t start with TGI Friday’s happy hour.  First you have to swim the full length of the Antarctic Ocean and make land on the Falkland Islands.  Unlike the cast of the Jersey Shore, sex is not guaranteed.  There is a hierarchy and the bulls have to fight for the right to procreate.

It takes two to tango.

This isn’t twenty paces and may the best man win.  This is a dirty, knock-down brawl where only the nastiest will win.  The bulls will use their girth and teeth to bash their opponents.  It’s an ugly trial as blood will flow and scars will accumulate.  Only a few will earn the right to become beachmasters with their reward being a harem of dozens of females.

Photo A

Victory does not bring peace.  Breeding is hardwired and the losers do not go quietly.  During their brief mating season, the victorious bulls will have dozens of fights with hundreds of matings.  It’s kind of like being a mixed martial artist.  In fact, out of Photo A and Photo B can you pick out which is a battle weary elephant seal and which is UFC Champion, Brock Lesnar.

Photo B

The life of the elephant seal may be tough but it isn’t nearly as degrading as the white-eared kob.  To get a little action the kob must travel hundreds of miles on the African plain.  But before he can even exchange phone numbers at his ancestral breeding grounds, he will also have to battle other hormone enraged opponents.  Thus begins the butting and locking of intertwined twisted horns.  There is also biting and gouging and eventually a winner conquers and a loser submits.

Twist and shout!

After the contest, the female shows her approval by courting the chosen winner through a chemically choreographed dance.  No, they don’t eat wild mushrooms and listen to Pink Floyd.  Instead, they exchange info through their own urine.  That’s right.  Serenades and love poems are out the door.  Instead, streaks of pee will make do as the male saturates the ground, leaving his calling card or “wink.”

Scientists believe that by sniffing the urine-soaked ground, the female is able to determine the male’s strength, stamina and whether he likes to take long walks on the savannah.

If the female is pleased, she will return the favor by releasing her own steady stream, which the male will lap up through a complex set of receptors in the roof of this mouth.

That’s right.  After traveling hundreds of miles and fighting to near death, a male kob’s reward is to have a female pee in his face.  And his response is to savor the moment like he is sampling a thousand dollar red wine.

That's mighty fine urine.

I don’t think I’d make a good white-eared male kob.  Even if I was to somehow get past being urinated on, I would still have a problem with the sex.  The amorous tryst of the white-eared kobs take only seconds.  If you accidentally sneeze while watching a wild life special, you may miss it.  Even if you catch the act, it doesn’t even look like sex.  It looks more like they accidentally bumped into each other, apologized and went on to update their Facebook status.

I’m pretty sure I won’t  mention that I like to watch nature shows on my dating profile.


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