Date a Degenerate

Everyone knows there's a man shortage in New York. There are simply more men than women, and my standards for date-ability thus sink lower and lower each year. Realistically, soon I will be dating bald, paraplegic, compulsive liar crackheads who call the Bowery Mission home.

And yet, my flame of hope that I won't have to date crackheads somehow keeps flickering and so, I date. I date doctors and dentists and lawyers and trumpet players and climbers and writers and Luke Wilson's ass doubles. OK, there was only one ass double, but thank God for that. Please note that I do not date investment bankers; I have not yet sunk that low.

Time and time again they disappoint. They're not up front about their own tendencies to lie, cheat, be lazy, and in general lack a code on how to live a fulfilling and upstanding life. (Oh, fine, they weren't all that bad. But still.)

Which is why it's nice that there a guys like Guy. Guy is forthcoming about the fact that he's a chronic masturbator, that he has a hairy back, that he blows in the sack, that he's depressed and curmudgeonly. And that is a blessing. Because there will be no disappointments down the road.

So, ladies, today is your lucky day. Guy's looking for a date via his web site.. And he's asked me to help judge entries. Tell Guy why you want to make him and his grab bag of behavioral problems your own, and you'll be treated to a night at Benningan's and a big plate of Flaherty's Fish. That's good eatin'.