Prince Nonexistent

A very dear friend of mine posted on Facebook recently, “Why are the men in books so much better than men in real life? I guess that’s why they call it fiction…”

No, Virginia, there is no Santa Claus; nor are there any men in the world. Most of the adult males I happen to know get filed under other descriptions:

Gays: Perfection.
Little Boys: Immune to filth, sophistication, and emotional reciprocity.
Bastards: What do you mean, what venereal disease?
Pigs: Dear Sir, Thank you for your generous offer of money in exchange for allowing you to have your way with me. I politely decline.
Women: Regular manicures and pedicures do not make you metro; they make you a woman.
Men: Intelligent, respectful, well-adjusted, understanding, honest, handsome, interesting, self-sufficient, single heterosexual males who are also emotionally available are as plentiful as, well, princes. I’m sure they exist somewhere, but, honey, good luck.

There is no end of good raw material out there. I know you can’t change a man, but you can at least change his footwear or teach him to clip his toenails. The problem is that there are so few boys to begin with (mostly because the gays recruited all the best ones for their team, and then the remaining decent ones got snapped up out of college) that all the single ladies end up treating them like seats at a free movie preview- you may not want to sit in the front row, but that’s all that's left... and some other bitch is making a beeline for it.

The problem is, in essence, one of supply and demand. Instead of having to straighten up and fly right, they’re out there having a field day, and acting as childish or irresponsible as they want to, because at the end of the night, there is always a woman out there who will take him the way he is.

I, for one, am taking no part in it. (Any more. What I do, I do not do for love. I do it for research. I do it for you. You're welcome.)

Little Boys? Maybe when I’m 50. If I wanted someone constantly needing me to tell them what to do, clean up after them, feed them, or wipe their tushie, I would have had a baby by now. Besides, my idea of a date is not sitting on some mangy third-hand couch drinking Miller Lite and alternatively screwing and watching cable. I am not interested in a project.
Bastards? This is why I drink at home… alone. This way if my judgment is impaired, the only person who can take advantage of me is me.
Pigs? I’ve learned the hard way that if you play in the mud, you get dirty. It’s one of the many life lessons I learn the hard way, like: Don’t walk alone through the projects late at night, or Metal + Microwave = Fire. Besides, I don’t fall for the pick-up line, “So, have you ever made love to a woman?”
Women? No. Just no. If I think that you spend too much time grooming- you have a problem. This is getting ridiculous. Where have all the cowboys gone?

So there it is. Until an actual candidate comes along, I’m spending time with the only men I love: the ones who also love men. It is not in my nature to squabble over offal. The rest of you ladies are encouraged to do the same. Spinsterhood, here I come. Better go stock up on batteries….