Rejected Match.com Dating Profile – – – – – – – -> A Slam Dunk

Hello, ladies.  Hello, there dimwits.  Hello there once again ladies.   So I made this Match.com profile and it got rejected.  Nothing like hopping onto a dating website to make a love connection, and receiving the first rejection right out of the gate.

SUBMISSION REJECTED.

Whatever, it’s their loss.  That’s what I typed in the comments section of their online customer service form, and then signed it, “Suck on a fat one, you dongs.”

I didn’t get a reply, so I figured I’d give it a shot here on the Dimwit Diary.   C’mon fate, whatch’ya got for me Universe?  The Captain’s on the rebound and he’s looking to score a put back.  Fingers crossed.  Here goes nothing…but hopefully something.

Hello.  My name is Chris and I enjoy wearing Aspen cologne.  Some of my other favorite fragrances are Brut by Fabergé, Claiborne Curve, Cool Water, Burberry, Tiffany for Men, and Stetson Black.  I guess if you were to categorize me by any one cologne, it would have to be Stetson Black – the sexy, sophisticated fragrance of the American West, with a blend of warm spices & fresh woods.

I have many hobbies and interests.  I enjoy frisbee golf, hacky sack, drum circles, clog dancing, planking, spelunking, spackling, bird watching, barbecue sauce, laser tag, hosting Tupperware parties with my crazy, yet lovable Aunt Leanoa, Segway tours, horse riding, horseshoes, horseradish, horse whispering, horses, dynamite bass fishing, Home Depot, Marco Polo, Ralph Lauren Polo, Polo Chicken, Mexico,  long walks on the beach, Dentyne Ice, flash mobs, flash animation, Flash Gordon, Jeff Gordon, Gordon Ramsey, pickles, reciting trivia facts on the Bailundo Revolt of 1902, building sandcastles, White Castle, my friend John Castle, curly straws, roller skating, ant farms, organic farms, horse farms, horse races, horse shows, horse jockeys, horse basketball, horsing around, horses, jalapeño peppers, Scattergories, allegories, John Tesh, and performing my infamous Tickle Me Elmo impersonation at fancy dinner parties, just to name a few.

I am a real movie buff.  I have purchased over 1,000 illegal copies of DVDs from a Chinaman down the street, but my all time favorite movie is “The Legend of Bagger Vance” starring Will Smith.  While I tend to enjoy most genres of movies, my favorite movies are the ones that depict the story of down-and-out golfers who discover the meaning of life through a mystical caddy.   Yours should be, too.

I was ready to give up on dating all together after the previous girl I dated turned out to be on America’s Top 100 Wanted Criminals, and I had to turn her in after we finished eating a delicious dinner at Buffalo Wild Wings, then I saw her face plastered on all 70 of their giant ass, flat screen TVs.   I was through with dating, but a friend of mine told me to try this dating site out to “Score you a put back, home slizzle.”  I still wasn’t convinced, however.

I’ve never been much of a balla’ as my favorite rap artist, Bubba Sparxxx, likes to spit mad rhymes about, but I’m ready to get back in the game after moving back in with my mother at age 35, and holding many late night conversations with her while playing five-card Cribbage, sipping citrus lavender hot tea, and sharing inspirational, heartwarming tales of triumphant love and fuzzy romance.

I am looking for a boo who is nice, down to earth, has great penmanship, a winning smile, a passion for turtlenecks, can recite all the lyrics to Ice Ice Baby, prefers Jack Link’s Original Hickory Smokehouse beef jerky, has sandy blond hair, enjoys playing teacher / naughty school boy role playing, has shaved legs, trimmed mustache, a daring personality, witty charm, and can do a hilarious, British accent like my Garmin GPS.

If you have any questions, just ask me.  I’m currently unemployed and usually just sitting around the house all day watching videos of bizarre animal mating rituals, so chances are I’ll be able to get back to you pretty quickly.

Hit me up, buttercup.  This balla’ is ready to make a slam dunk.

* Serious inquiries only *

A Letter To My Mother – Free Spirit & Wieners

April 20, 2013
Saturday, 1:31 PM

771 Dimwits and counting…

Mother,

I didn’t know which of the 16 email accounts of yours to send this to, so I decided to post it here.   Hopefully it finds you, and hopefully it’s during a time when you just got back in from the warm sunshine and time spent admiring your flowers that you enjoy more than anything.

750 new followers in just over a week.  This is crazy, huh?  I’ve got wives reading my stories to husbands, and mothers reading my stories to daughters.  Stories about wieners and Sally Jessy Ralphael’s feathered hair.  Can you believe it?  It’s wild.  I don’t know what’s happening, but of course what’s new. I never know what’s happening, and that’s what I wanted to talk to you about.

You know how your free spirited, kind hearted, adventurous, and yes, your rather mischievous son of yours just seems to go along with life.  It’s gotten me this far, so there’s no use in changing it now.  Well, remember that time you and Dad sat me down right after I graduated college?  You might not remember it, but I do.  It was in the living room, and it was quiet.  If I didn’t know any better, it might’ve been my own funeral that I was attending.

You and Dad wore somber, stern faces.  You told me to sit down, so I did.  On the couch directly across the room, not far away from your somber, stern faces.  I had an idea of what was coming, some sort of boring lecture with me having to say a lot of uh-huhs in between.  I’ve gotten my fair share of lectures from you, and from others, so I kinda get a sense of when they’re coming.

It was a lecture all right.  I know you meant well, and I’m not here to put you down or anything like that.  Mothers do the best they can – well hopefully.  The good ones do anyways, and you’re a good one.   But here’s what you told me.  You and Dad told me to cage my free spirit.  You didn’t say those words exactly, but what you meant was to put my free spirit inside a box, and put him up in the attic with all the other dusty toys.  I was to be a man now.  Stop playing games and get some direction in life.   Some goals, a job, a career, maybe a wife, some kids, and all that other sorta stuff.

Well, I didn’t want to be a man.  From all I saw at the time, being a man meant cheating husbands, divorced dads, drunks, liars, punchers, spitters, and those that like to give lectures about how I’m to play life by the rules, and become a man.

I was 21.  I knew more about being a man than the asshole telling me I had better be a man, after I knew flat out that he had just beat his wife senseless a few nights ago.  My friend told me.  He was in tears.  And now that man had the gull to tell me I had better become a man.  Well, I had the gull to shut my mouth and say “uh-huh.”  I knew more about being a man than him, and sometimes as a man you gotta know when to shut your mouth and say uh-huh, because it’s not worth the fight at the time.  There are other ways to go about winning a fight without shouting, and cursing, and more fighting.  So I left it at that:  Uh-huh.

I guess this is my usual, long-winded, rambling just to tell you this, and then to follow it up with a little more rambling to wrap things up.  I never put that free spirit in a cage.  I never boxed him up.  I kept him free, and I guess that’s why people like my stories about wieners and Franzia boxed wine, and all that other stuff.

They’re free spirits too.  They’re dimwits.  There’s a whole mess of us out there, and they enjoy someone who can spin a good tale, tell a whopper of a story filled with craziness and madness, but also full of love and hope.  Those are the two most important ingredients to a story, because without love and hope, you might as well just read from the dictionary.  The thing with telling a good story is you gotta have a free spirit to be able to tell it, so that’s why I kept him free.  That and it just never made all that much sense to me why anyone should keep anything in a cage.

Thanks for being a good mom.  I usually never tell you that, maybe even never.  Probably because I’m too busy telling tall tales instead, but I was just thinking it’s probably nice and important for a mother to hear that from her son.  It’s a lot of hard work raising kids.  Not a lot of credit, late nights, no sleep, and lousy sons who make you cry when they send you letters.

I know you’re crying right now.  Just like when I can sense a lecture, I can usually sense when someone’s gonna cry, too.  I can sense a lot of things.  Some say it’s a gift, but sometimes it’s a curse too.  It can take a lot out of you with all the sensing going on all the time, and no way to turn it off.  Rather than whine about a gift that others would kill to have, it feels nice to make good use of it finally.  Wieners!  HA.

So stay tuned.  Your son is going places that only a free spirit can lead a person, and he’s taking a TON of dimwits along with him!  It’s going to be a fun ride.  It will be interesting at the very least.

Love,

Your son.  The dimmest of all the dimwits.  The dunce.  The doofus.

Chris

PS.  Sorry to include this photo of you with a scrunchy face, that looks like you just caught a whiff of a dog turd, but you didn’t really think the Dimwit was gonna end without a good laugh, did you?  Toodles.

“Big Love” – Excerpt From A Hot And Steamy Romance Novel

Do you like reading hot and steamy romance novels about pounding hearts and quivering thighs as much as I do?  Doubt it.  But if you do, then you will be thrilled to know that I’ve been working on writing a romance novel of my own.

The romance novel is titled “Big Love” and it’s a love story about a guy and gal who meet in an online chat room.  They hit it off, chat back and forth for several months.  The virtual lovebirds have only one rule:  no photos or physical descriptions of one another allowed whatsoever.  They’ve committed to testing out the theory that love is blind and that true love doesn’t concern itself with physical appearances.

After several months of online courtship, the two decide to finally meet up in person.  Kevin White, a nutritionist and health coach, is in for a BIG surprise when he finally meets the virtual love of his life, Nelly Barnes, a Wal-Mart sales associate.  The following excerpt is from their first meet-up.  Check it, yo.

“Big Love”
Excerpt From A Hot And Steamy Romance Novel
by Christopher Hinton

It had been months of correspondence, back and forth emails, phone calls, and handwritten letters.  The time was finally here.  I was going to see her.  In the flesh.  Face to face.  I was finally going to get to squeeze her tight, and if I had it my way, I might never let her go.   My sweet Nelly.  My true love.

I was nervous as hell.  I showed up at the coffee shop as per our arrangement, only I arrived two hours earlier than expected.

I gulped down three cups of coffee and an espresso while I was waiting.  I don’t drink coffee.  I was jitters.  I was a bundle of nerves.  Where is she?  Where is my cute as a button, Nelly, my precious baby lamb?  She was going to be here any second now.  I ordered another cup of coffee and sat back down, waiting.

Not long afterwards, in walked Nelly.  There she was.  It was my bunny angel.  I knew it was her by the way Nelly described the outfit so perfectly in a prior email – she said that she would be wearing black stretch pants and a yellow puppy dog T-shirt with the clever caption printed on the front, “I Ruff You.”

Yes, it was my Nelly all right, but she didn’t look like the girl that I had spent countless hours sculpting, and forming and painting a picture of in my mind.  If I’m being frank, Nelly was about 240 pounds heavier and carried quite a few more extra chins.  The girl in the painting also wasn’t wearing flip flops and didn’t have her hair pulled back into a moo cow Scrunchie.

I’m a putz.  I’m a dope.  A real honest-to-goodness imbecile.  The first thing that shot through my brain and out of my mouth before I had a chance to put a silencer on that nasty, devil of a tongue of mine came spewing out.  I fired a bullet.  Boy, did I ever.

I took one look at Nelly and I screamed “Holy shit!” across the entire way.  They heard me in Alaska.  Christ, they heard me in Japan.  Every person in the joint was looking at me, snapping and stretching their heads around like rubber bands.  I don’t blame them.  I have a bad habit of cursing – I’ll be the first to admit it, my pastor would be the second –  but cursing in public is a vile thing if you ask me, especially when there are children present.

I mouthed an apology to the mothers.  I meant it, I was sorry, but what was I going to say to my poor Nelly?  Sorry wouldn’t cut it.  Not for my sweet pookums, but it wasn’t like I had much time to give it thought.

Nelly gave a wave and walked over to my table.  She smiled, laughed nervously under her breath.  She was all jitters too.  She spoke.  A crackling, mousy voice came out of that mammoth body.  It was much different than the voice I had heard over the phone.

“Hi there, stranger.  So good to finally see you.  Sorry, I’m shaking.  I didn’t think that I would be this nervous.”

I said hi there right back.  Told her it was okay, I was nervous too.  We hugged.  It felt warm.  She had a question in regards to my shouting fit, however.

“So was that a good holy shit or a bad holy shit when I walked in the door?”

I never knew there was such a thing as a good holy shit, but I was relieved to be given a choice in this case.  I chose to go with a good.  It was good.  Nelly was – she was different than I had fantasized about in my dreams, but it didn’t matter.  That’s love.  It’s mad and it’s crazy, and if it’s right, it doesn’t give a damn about a size or a shape.

My Nelly was no ankle-biting poodle, and our love was no tiny, puppy love.  No, Nelly was a big fat ass elephant of a greyhound dog if that makes any sense, and I decided right then and there that it was all right with me.  I must be mad and crazy.  It was love for certain, and after I decided a little bit more, it was even better than being all right.  It was downright ecstasy.

The rest of the afternoon was nice.  We laughed.  We nearly fell off our chairs.  The tongue behaved, settled down and so did the nerves.  I can’t remember ever being happier than I was in that moment.  It had been a long time since I had been happy, which is a sad thing for a person to say, but it’s true.

No more dark and lonely nights.  Nelly was my sun.  She lit up the room, she lit up the sky.  Night time no longer existed as long as she was around. There was only day.

I held my Nelly tight.  It was a good holy shit.  It was a good goddamn.

I found my big love, all right.  I decided I was never letting go.

The Canary Yellow Cardigan

 

The Canary Yellow Cardigan
A short story by Chris Hinton

Inspired by Puff Daddy

It was an unseasonably cold evening for the month of August.  Jenny, 19, shoulder length blond hair, was freezing.  She leaned over in the car towards her boyfriend Frankie and whispered, “I’m really cold.”  “You know what,” Frankie replied.  “It is a little chilly now that you mention it.”  They both agreed that the cold weather was especially unusual considering it was full blown summertime in Omaha, Nebraska.

Suddenly Frankie, 20, patchy goatee, remembered something.  “Why don’t I go grab your cardigan from the trunk?”

“A cardigan?” Jenny asked curiously.  “I don’t own a cardigan.  I own several pullover jackets and numerous Love Pink sweatshirts from Victoria’s Secret, but I most certainly do not own a cardigan.”

“Are you sure that you don’t own a cardigan?” Frankie inquired.   “I remember seeing a canary yellow cardigan in my trunk a while back.”

“No, I don’t own a cardigan,” Jenny responded rather pointedly.

“Well, if you don’t own a cardigan and I don’t own a cardigan, then I wonder whose cardigan it could be?”

Jenny was visibly upset.  “I don’t know whose cardigan it could be.  You tell me.  But I’m telling you that it’s not mine.  I’m severely allergic to cardigans.  The fibers cause my throat to swell shut and I could possibly die if I even go near a cardigan.  Or are you forgetting this, Frankie?”  Frankie did forget. “Frankie,” Jenny continued. “Is there something that you need to tell me?”  Frankie turned the radio up and pretended not to hear her just like he’s done a million times before.

Jenny was fuming.  Her worse fear – next to her intense fear of spiders hatching eggs in her ears during her sleep – had come true.  She couldn’t believe that Frankie had cheated on her, especially with a girl who wore a canary yellow cardigan of all things.  Jenny began sobbing uncontrollably.

“Why did you do it?” Jenny blubbered on like some sort of blathering, blubbering whale.  “Why did you have to throw away our perfect relationship just because you wanted to get your willy wet with some no good, two-bit, cardigan wearing whore?”

“I didn’t do it, Jenny.  I didn’t cheat on you.  How many times do I have to tell you that?  You accuse me of cheating like every other week, and I have to tell you, it’s starting to get mighty old.”

Jenny did not believe him.  She told Frankie those exact words.  “I do not believe you.”

“Well, I don’t believe you, you ungrateful accusatory nag of a girlfriend of mine!” Frankie shouted furiously.  “I will murder you and bury you face down in that canary yellow cardigan, then you won’t have to worry about your throat swelling shut anymore, now will you?”

Frankie’s unexpected burst of anger shocked even himself.  He tried to play it off nonchalantly by french kissing Jenny and telling her that he was just being silly with all of that murder stuff.  But Jenny was not in the mood for french kissing, or any kind of kissing for that matter.  She turned away from him, so Frankie went about fiddling with the radio, changing stations, and finally settlling on his all time favorite radio station, 92.3 z-92 FM.

Carlos Santana was playing.  It was somewhere around the two minute mark of the late 90’s smash hit song “Smooth” featuring Rob Thomas from Matchbox Twenty, when Frankie suddenly had another realization.

“Screw me!” Frankie shouted.

Jenny was hardly interested in Frankie’s sexual advances.  “Nice try, but I will not be screwing anyone that cheats on his girlfriend with cardigan sluts.  Take me home now, Frankie.”

Frankie turned the radio down to a soft murmur.  “No, no.  I didn’t mean screw me, as in take me to be your manservant in the back seat of my ’87 Oldsmobile Cutlass Supreme to the scorching sounds of Carlos Santana’s wicked guitar solo.  I meant screw me, as in I just realized whose canary yellow cardigan is in my trunk.”

“Well, whose is it?” Jenny snarled.  “Wait, let me guess.  Her name is Candy, or Trisha, or some other floozy sounding name like that, right?  You know what?  I don’t even want to know what her name is.  Just take me home NOW, Frankie!”

“Hold on a second.  Hear me out, Jenny.  I just remembered that the canary yellow cardigan is mine.  I’m such an idiot, I had completely forgotten.  You know how absentminded I can be sometimes – forgetting birthdays, anniversaries, forgetting your poor grandmother at the Henry Doorly zoo when it was 105 degrees out that one day.”

“Or how about forgetting to feed my dog when I went away to cheer camp for an entire week and nearly starving poor Muggles to death,” Jenny interjected, no longer blubbering like a blathering, blubbering whale.

“Yes, that too.  Muggles, your birthday, all of that stuff.  I’m a forgetful person.  And as we’re talking, I just now remembered that I bought the cardigan after watching a Lakers game a few months ago.  They showed a close-up of Puff Daddy wearing this really cool yellow cardigan during the halftime intermission.  The color was vibrant, yet incredibly pleasing.  He looked so handsome.  No homo, but I went to The Gap and bought a canary yellow cardigan the next day so that I could look just like my idol Sean ‘Puffy’ Combs.”

“He’s black,” Jenny noted.  “How are you going to look like P. Diddy just because you’re both wearing matching canary yellow cardigans?  That’s insane.”

“Look, don’t bring race into this,” Frankie pleaded.  “This has nothing to do with African Americans.  This is between me and you, and me and you only.  I would never cheat on you with some girl named Candy, or Trisha or even with a girl that had a wholesome name such as yours.  Jenny Marie, you’re the one I love.  Can’t you see that?  I’ll throw the damn cardigan away as soon as I get home, I promise.  You believe me about the cardigan now, babe, don’t you?  Please tell me that you believe in me.  You believe in us.”

“Of course I believe you.  I found the receipt in my apartment the other day and I knew it was your cardigan all along.  I was only testing you.  Now come over here, my little manservant, you.  Better make it quick, though.  We only have about twelve more minutes before Carlos finishes up with that god-awful song of his.”

Jenny took Frankie’s hand into hers and gazed deeply into his eyes.  “I’m yours now and forever, Frankie.  Two crazy love fools, me and you.  But I swear to God if you ever cheat on me, it will be your face buried in the dirt wearing that hideous Puff Daddy wannabe cardigan sweater of yours.  Don’t think I won’t do it, either.  You kapesh?”

Frankie smiled.  “Kapesh.”

The evening was no longer cold in Omaha, Nebraska.

The End

A Note From a Haitian Girl – I Want You to Be My Friend For Ever and Ever

A few of my family members recently returned from a mission trip to Haiti.  Seeing their photos and reading their stories has left me with Haiti on the brain even more than usual, so I thought I’d share a touching story of my own.

I was blessed to be part of a team that traveled to Haiti in March of 2012.  There were thirteen of us.  The team was comprised of five family members, seven members from my hometown church, and myself.  It was a good mix of young and old, guys and gals, the medically trained (two nurses and a doctor) and the clinically insane (my mother).

Our group was affectionately dubbed as “Team Squirt” after the majority of us were stricken with giardia and experienced severe bouts of explosive diarrhea when we returned to the States.  It was pretty awesome – the trip, not the explosive diarrhea – but it was a very small price to pay in exchange for the time we spent with the beautiful Haitian people.

Team Squirt stayed at an orphanage in the city of Cap-Haitien for a week.  Our primary objective was to provide food and medical relief to the needy, and to help around the orphanage where needed. At least that was the rest of the team’s objective.  My objective was to introduce the orphanage kids to old school hip-hop and R&B artists, and to hold late night dance-offs, perfecting dance moves like the Moonwalk and the Cabbage Patch with the children.

One of our evening dance parties at the orphanage.  I brought my wireless, bluetooth speakers and loaded my iPod with jams.  The kids placed the speakers up in the rafters and we danced the night away on tables.

We took our translators and their respective families out to dinner one night at a nice restaurant.  After dinner, the sun went down and the dance party fired up.  We danced for well over an hour, having the time of our lives.

The youngest member of the dance crew, but don’t be fooled.  This little girl was all spunk and brought some legit moves to the dance floor.

Me teaching sweet, little Jacqueline how to do the “Shimmy Shake.”  He laughed at first, but after a while I think he grew concerned for my well being.

Some of the teenage members of the dance crew. They tried to teach me how to Dougie, but after six days and five nights of failed attempts, they eventually submitted to the fact that I’m white.

Mission accomplished.  Both objectives were met.  Team Squirt fed the hungry by day and busted a move by night.  We were some real rice providing, vitamin distributing, Dougie dancing fools that week.  I’m pretty sure the kids at the orphanage and the members of the surrounding community had not experienced a group like ours in quite some time, if ever.  A week wasn’t nearly long enough, though.  We had a tough time saying goodbye when it was time to part our separate ways.

One of the teenage girls at the orphanage especially had a tough time saying goodbye.  I saw her on the last night, slinking off into the shadows, completely withdrawn to herself.  She was at a loss for words, so she had her friend slip me this note that was folded up into a neat, little square with her name, Eve, scrawled on the front.  I waited to read the note until I was on the plane ride home.  I carefully unfolded it and here is what the note read:

Hey!!!

I don’t see any word to say goodbye tonight beau because you are a special friend for me.  I want to see you next time again.  I want you to know that you are in my prayer and in my mind.  I want you to be my friend for ever and ever.

It was a short plane ride home but long enough for me to catch my breath and to reflect on the trip that had just taken place.  The note just confirmed what I had already suspected of the Haitian people.  They are just like everyone else in this world.  They only want a chance to be loved and to feel special.  The bags of rice, the toothbrushes, the donated clothing – that’s all nice.  It helps to meet their physical needs, but what Team Squirt was able to provide went beyond that.  We provided them with emotional support and a spark of hope.  We made them feel loved.

The Haitian people are truly special and I’m happy that I had the chance to make some new friends.  Friends that I intend to keep for ever and ever if I have it my way.