Since I started this website out of my garage way back in two thousand and it doesn’t matter using nothing but a bullhorn and some sparklers, I’ve had my share of stalkers. I’m not talking about the kind of people who collect celery and worship rhubarb–I’m talking about those who love someone so much that they don’t even care about their own birthday anymore. Obviously I don’t enjoy being stalked or else I’d tape lemon meringue pies to my butt with a sign on my back that reads “FEAST”, but since it’s an inevitable part of being an “unmasked hero” I can at least let all the obsessives out there know what I’m looking for in a mate. I don’t care if you’re a girl or a boy. I’m in no danger of falling in love with you because I’m already hair-deep in a marriage that oozes so much tenderness motherfuckers think we’re Popeye’s fried chicken. Plus, I have something to offer both sexes as I’m actually a very well-rounded human, with a passion for women’s bodies, men’s activities, women’s TV shows, men’s lack of emotion, women’s love of gossip, men’s love of women and women’s love of lemonade and little salads with seeds.
I don’t care if you lick my stuff. As long as I don’t know about it and you don’t have any diseases that would cause my eyes to turn inside out so I can see my own brain causing my brain to scream and activate an undiscovered gland that secretes yet another goo, then have at it. You can lick my bathtub no problem because in my world it’s the one piece of your house that cleans itself with every use.
You can be gross. I don’t mean gross like you sneak into our place at night and replace my Shreddies with dried snot squares that you meticulously scratch your email address into, I mean like, you can eat my used toilet paper. In fact, take all of my garbage, I don’t care. I’ll even give me my old socks and underpants. Come to my doorstep on the 23rd day of each month and I’ll leave a treat bag full of stuff SOAKED in my DNA, and I’ll label it “Mixed Globs”.
Take my picture, I don’t care. I don’t take enough pictures so by all means, be my documentarian. I don’t even care if you catch me naked because there really isn’t anything about my body that you haven’t seen before unless you’ve never seen a cactus with a snake wrapped around it.
You don’t have to be attractive. In fact, it’s probably better that you aren’t in case one of my single friends gets interested in you and wants to date you and you agree only to get closer to me and then they find out, get mad, revoke our friendship and BAM–there’s one less person to give feedback on my ketchups. I mean, imagine Ringo had’ve married Mark David Chapman? You’d have to scroll to the BOTTOM of the guy’s Wikipedia page before John Lennon is even mentioned.
I’m fine with you researching my family. There’s a lot about the gang that I probably don’t know so a little intel could save me some time when I eventually have to write someone’s eulogy. Apparently my great grandparents were from Scotland but what shape were their eyebrows and how many dogs did they hate?
Remind me of what I did, my short term memory isn’t very good. I’m not adverse to meeting with you once and awhile so you can fill me in on what I’ve been up to. I’ve found that my long term memory isn’t exactly of “Japanese” quality. For example, I once assumed I had been to the Grand Canyon when I was a kid but it turns out it was an IMAX movie. I also can’t remember what that Japan reference means. I sort of remember watching Miss Saigon but it might’ve been Madame Butterly except neither about Japan unless I forgot what Japan is as well. If you meet the above requirements, don’t bother applying, just go ahead and start freaking me out!