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I’m in the office toiling away when I realize there’s a much better way to pass the time than staring at my desk and counting the seconds of each minute: Tinder. So I load up my profile, toss a couple of Siblings quality lines in the bio (so look for me on Jared’s 100th “Tinder Pick-Up Lines” installment) and get to swiping.
Alarmingly early in my carnal craving, I realize a disturbing trend. For some reason, these women will not stop talking about their love of the lactose ridden, hip expanding, shit inducing, destroyer of women’s physiques known simply in this country as pizza. “Buy me pizza and I’ll love you forever!” their profile will shout out. Okay, but when you’re on the heavier side of the scale, I won’t love you forever. We all know the dire sexual mishaps this can induce for those of us looking to Alien probe a match or two. “Pizza is life” explains why you’re still single. “Will swipe for pizza” essentially means she’ll “queef” rotten eggs and a sulfur mine.
For the PC police out there, this is not sexist; it’s honest. If I posted on my Tinder “video games, pizza, beer, emotional neglect!” though honest, I highly doubt I’d have dates lining up. Sure I’d get the occasional self-hating sex addict looking to be recycled like the pizzas our Instagram model friends claim to “eat” (whether in whole or regurgitated form), but a vast majority of women don’t want to hear I have a smelly ass, poor physique, and get drunk often enough to eat foods only resulting in explosive diarrhea. And neither do I!
What might piss me off the most about this is how patently dishonest the whole fucking thing is. Sure, I lie to women — we all do. At one time I was claiming to be both a doctor and a lawyer. In reality, I was a general studies major 19 credits in. But Tinder is supposed to be personal, sharing immensely intimate moments with a person you know nothing but their bio about. You’re a size 0 and you eat pizza so much that “it’s my only diet” is bullshit. Who do you think you’re impressing by saying that? Trying to catfish Papa John?
We’re on here to make regrettable decisions we hope our future spouses never know, and children never repeat. We’re not on here to navigate a mine-ridden rectal canal on the verge of eruption. Tell me, honestly, when was the last time you ate a pizza and drank enough beer to wake up with the box still on your lap that didn’t result in a meeting with the toilet as one-sided as an MSNBC telecast? It’s always a fucking mess.
Ladies, our Tinder games don’t have to be honest. Shit, they’re better as total lies. But if you’re going to lie, tell me how willing you are to shuck my corn cob, how open you are to #ButtStuff2k16, and how enjoyable spending time with you would be. Not that I’d need a hazmat suit, steel-reinforced bed frame, and the sort of regret only a post-anal inedible chocolate explosion from a woman two tons of fun can incite in a man.
Let’s start the movement, all of us together swiping left on the lactose loving liars. Unless, of course, they’re hot..