Half the people I know are getting pregnant. The other half are getting married. Probably none of them should be getting these things, but that’s another matter. The point here is that I am getting neither, and even more neither by the minute.
So, in the interests of blowing up some very tiny floaties and tossing my superior DNA into this decaying carcass of a gene pool, I, billionaire playboy Alex Rose, have decided to find…a mate. Or love. Whatever.
You see, my only outlet for casual, uninvolved and frequently drunken sex had recently gone and gotten herself a boyfriend (damn her) and I felt it was about time I do something similar.
I also felt a column coming on, if you know what I mean.
So, clearing what appeared to be several hundred years worth of “Ol’ Blindy” brand malt liquor cans from my workstation, I fired up the laptop turbines, shouted “Engines to speed!” to no one in particular, and set out to seek my mate or love or whatever in what had been virtually (though neither explicitly or impliedly) a guaranteed location for such things by my local television affiliate:
eHarmony.com.
“Backed up by 35 years of research, eHarmony is the only site dedicated to building the relationships of both Singles and Married couples,” I am immediately informed by eHarmony’s home page, which is an intriguing declaratory statement. Apparently, not only have the terms “singles” and “married” suddenly become proper nouns, but this place caters to the swinger set. And then I cringe, remembering the pale, milkshake-nourished furballs that actually make up that set.
Swallowing my vomit, I carry on.
First name? Alex. Hey, this is easy! I’m a? Man seeking a Woman. (The only other choice, notably, is “Woman seeking a Man.”) A few more pieces of info and I’ve been congratulated on taking the first steps towards finding a successful relationship.
Bully for me.

Ok, looks like I have some describing to do. But only in one-word choices (“rectangular,” “wooden,” etc.) on a scale of one to seven, seven being the highest, one being the lowest, and four being Henry Kissinger. Let’s get crackin’!

I haven’t written anything in 45 minutes because this test really is about the most comprehensive thing I’ve seen since that time I accidentally ate 22 pot brownies at Robert Evans’ birthday party and enrolled in (read: was forcibly withdrawn from) the U.S. Air Force Astronaut Program.
But enough about high school – I’m already 7.5 percent finished! Finding love or a mate or whatever should be a snap!

Half an hour later, we’ve moved on from single-word descriptions to actual (and by that I mean very strange) questions. They seem to beg more questions than answers, effectively defeating their own purpose. Example: “Are you satisfied with your level of emotional development?” Well, how the hell would I know? This is the only level of emotional development I’ve ever experienced. Does it get any more developmentally emotional than this?
“I have a high desire for sexual activity.” I should hope so, or what are you doing here?

Day 13. I have started a journal of my travels and enlisted the help of two Sherpas (Marty and Raoul) I found while gathering firewood in Section Three to help me navigate the terrain. The questions are becoming increasingly faith-oriented, and the mysterious lack of a homosexual partner choice in the beginning of the questionnaire is starting to become clear.
Example: “I find that going to church is a good way to meet people who benefit my social and/or professional life.”
Um.
“My beliefs make me a better person.”
The only thing an existentialist’s beliefs make him is envious of the dead. Or a writer. So, no.

Day 14. We ran out of food early in the day, and things were looking grim. Luckily, Marty’s leg became entrenched in an asinine question about “work for work’s sake” and we were forced to gladly kill and eat him.
Later, we found this: “I ask questions in search of information.” I guess you could say that.
And: “I like to be pampered.” Has there seriously been a single person, ever, who would answer negatively?
Addendum: The Marty chops were delicious.

Day 21. Raoul and I encounter what appears to be an abandoned mining operation for a list of possible emotions, most of which people would likely experience on a “somewhat” level daily – happy, sad, depressed, energetic, etc. – except for the last. “Plotted against.” I either hallucinated that one or Fidel Castro wrote this.
“Yes, comrade, I am almost always plotted against.”
At this altitude, the wind could shear your nose straight off your face.

Day 44. We have reached a plateau in Section Five: Personal Beliefs, and have decided to set up base camp. Do I want to select which religious denominations my partner should be? You bet your sweet, Raelian fanny I do.
Ok, what do we got here?
“Baha’i.”
Ummmmm … no? I don’t know. What is that? And what the hell are Cao Dai and Jainism? I don’t see any signs here of normal insane belief systems like Christianity, Judaism, or Islam. Maybe they got freaked out and left. But hey, Paganism’s here, as is Wicca, Scientology, Rastafarianism and Christian Science.
You know, you’d think they would at least have Agnostic. But no.

Day 473. Had a heated discussion with Raoul over the definition of “water sports” in Section Seven: Personal Interests.
Our supply of Marty has run out and we have eaten our shoes.

Day 782. Am I “very sexy?” You’re damn right I am. Oh, wait. Section 4d of the users agreement indicates I “will not provide inaccurate, misleading or false information to the Company or to any other Registered User.” Ok then, no. I am not very sexy.

Day 1,012. We had nearly completed our journey through the grueling personality test when Raoul, sadly, succumbed to line four, paragraph two of section 19a (32) of the users agreement. I was forced and anxious to eat him. I thought it only fitting as I enjoy a good turducken now and then, and Raoul had had more than his fair portion of Marty. I would consume both their souls and their experience points.

Day 1,012 (Cont.) Six hours later, I finally, wearily, stumbled to the peak and planted my flag – a picture of myself in Venice Beach looking particularly fetching. Funfact: Did you know that users with photos typically have a much higher level of success on eHarmony than those without photos? It’s maybe true!
By now, the results were tabulating, the progress bar … progressing. Moments later, my reward, my true love (or mate or whatever) would be revealed. Oh, the minute it took to find her felt like an eternity!
And kept on feeling like an eternity. Because the only thing that greeted me at the end of my long, hard pilgrimage through this bedamned den of poorly phrased probing was this message, hurled spear-like directly into my already stinging eyes:

“Our matching system was not able to find any matches for you right now.”

Well.
Super.
But perhaps it was I who made the error. Were my search terms too limited? Why, I could drive more than 60 miles for a mate or love or whatever. Let’s go with, oh, 300.

“Our matching system was not able to find any matches for you right now.”

Hey hey! Fantastic. 24,288 hours of detailing my life and this stupid thing can’t find one person within 300 miles of me that meets my custom-tailored specifications.
Maybe I shouldn’t have been so honest about what I’m looking for: a smart, sophisticated bombshell with an insatiable sexual appetite that likes to have fun and can hold her liquor.
More likely I shouldn’t have been so honest about myself, but the less said about that the better.
Although, there are 12 million registered users on this “service,” with supposedly thousands more signing up each day. Let’s go for the gusto and scour the Earth for one. Surely, somewhere in this lonely world there must be –

“Our matching system was not able to find any matches for you right now.”

SPLINTERING BLUE HELL! What kind of sick joke is this? 12 million people worldwide on this infernal crap racket and not even one is compatible with me? I mean, come ON!
Now I’m out two Sherpas and the only thing I’m walking away with here is a screaming spine and verifiable proof that I am going to die alone. (Or that the wretched, socially-retarded freaks who use eHarmony wouldn’t touch me with a ten foot pole, which, frankly, is about 90 feet too short for me anyway.)
All right, fine. So be it. Back to the bar, I guess.
Um. How do I get down from here?