The TV tells us there is nothing worse than being a single woman (being a single guy, on the other hand, means you will spend all of your time using sexy deodorant sprays and nailing chicks against no-smoking signs). Never mind that I have zero desire to ensnare myself in another god-knows-how-many years of evenings spent watching movies I guarantee you I will not get to pick. The TV tells me I can’t be alone, or I’ll be relegated to Thanksgiving with “the girls” in Cancún, where I am coerced into smuggling heroin for some Australian hunk, and even though I spend the rest of my life in a Mexican prison, my girlfriends will still be super jealous that I managed to bag an Australian hunk, even though he was just using me for the storage properties of my giant cheeks.
The problem is, meeting people who don’t simply need you as a drug mule takes effort, and although that woman Samantha from the TV seems to have little problem asking attractive strangers to make out, actual attractive strangers only say “yes” in my imagination (where I am happy to report that I also own a swimming pool and just ordered some cheese fries). For example, last night on my regular 30-block midnight trudge to Greenpoint, I walked about ten paces ahead of what professional sex columnist parlance might term a “cute guy.” I spent most of this walk having nonexistent repartee in my brain. ME: [cranes head to look for ne’er-appearing B61 cock-tease of a bus]; CUTE GUY: “Say, would you like to have a drink? I assume you have nothing to do, as it is one in the morning and you are trudging through Greenpoint sober and alone.”
Sadly, my only real conversation was with my own delusion, and though delusion will do many things for you (for example, making you think a pair of pants looks awesome when really you look like a soft-serve ice cream cone), it won’t buy you any liquor or make out with you on a warm, boring summer night.
That is why I have decided to emulate my personal and professional hero, Dennis Kozlowski, in my search for a soul mate. You may not know the recently convicted ex-Tyco CEO by name, but surely by now you’ve heard about his $10 million Manhattan residence and its embezzlement-inspired décor of $6,000 shower curtains. Conveniently timed to coincide with Kozlowski’s trial, Tyco recently started running ads on the TV. Such minor details as Tyco not making any products sold directly to consumers do not deter the corporate-image-cleansing machine, and therefore what we get are firefighters touting their Tyco oxygen masks (it’s a good thing ten million firefighting equipment wholesalers tune into Everybody Loves Raymond). TYCO, the spots say in what is not so much a “slogan” but an “overtly menacing threat,” a VITAL part of your world. We’re left to cower as a fireman saves yet another cherubic little girl, half-expecting a handcuffed Kozslowski himself to emerge from the TV The Ring-style and scare the bejeezus out of us until we die.
It’s not enough for the TV to shame us into hating ourselves for being single or promise us we need skanky-smelling body spray to get laid: now is the age of commercials that attack! So I say, why not take a page out of the TV’s nonexistent book (it’s a TV!) and create menacing ads for myself to scare potential suitors into dating me? I should just start walking up to guys and going: “BUYING ME A DRINK: THE BEST THING YOU WILL EVER FUCKING DO, UNLESS YOU ENJOY MYSTERIOUSLY DISAPPEARING.” It may not get me a $6,000 shower curtain, but eventually it might get me a new boyfriend, hopefully one who is horribly afraid of me, and will let me choose the rented movies we watch during the stultifying evenings of our blissful eternity.