The search has never been easier for women who like to shop for the male species. All you need to do is point and click your way to infinite romantic possibilities – anything from a spunky pen pal in Ireland to the ultimate Mystery Date. Will he be a Dream or a Dud? Once you become familiar with the internet, you never have to leave the house again to find a date. The best part of man shopping from the privacy of your home is that you don’t have to fret about applying makeup, fixing unruly hair, or selecting just the right shoes to match your new jacket. Redirect your energy and go directly to http://www.i’mreallydesperate.com to browse the personal ads of the e-guys your local region has to offer. Date shop with ease as you slouch unattractively in holey underwear, gobs of night cream smeared liberally across your face, while you munch on greasy, salty chips that crumble gracefully down the front of your floppiest gray sweatshirt. Surf merrily across the sumptuous sea of thought-provoking photographs depicting eligible bachelors, who are chomping at the bit for the opportunity to type their way into your emotional spectrum. Some of the pictures you view might show Mr. Possibility dressed in a T-shirt and baggy shorts, holding a beer in one hand and making a peace sign with the other. There’s also the type of ad photo which shows the good-looking guy in question clad in a tux with his arm around a remnant of a woman (ex-wife?) who was obviously cropped out of his life. Then there are the flashy, flesh-crazed men who think that exposing as much skin as possible in their on-line pic makes them more desirable to intelligent, self-respecting women. If you try hard enough, you might stumble across a handsome face that seems almost worthy of a response from you. So you scrunch up your brow, muster every shred of courage you own, and write him a relatively simple, naive email that might go something like this: “Dear IDO694U, After reading your personal ad, I thought I would drop you this note. Like you, I enjoy moonlit walks on the beach, eating watermelon, and watching wild animals mate. Beyond that, my life isn’t too exciting, except that I won first prize in a chess tournament when I was 12 years old. I’m not sure how I feel about nipple clamps, I didn’t understand that part of your ad. Does it have something to do with nursing babies? Please write back if you are interested. Sincerely, Curiously Apathetic 100 miles away P.S. Are the letters BDSM your initials?” The next day, as you connect to the internet, a little voice announces that You’ve Got Mail. Your heart skips a beat as you see that it’s a reply from the personal ad guy. He writes, “I just love when women like you write to me. You are so beautiful, and full of delicate innocence. I feel like I have many new things to explore with you, so much to show you” You completely ignore the plethora of red flags buried in his words because you are too flattered to notice. Within the next 48 hours you talk to him on the phone, and one week later, he insists that the two of you meet in person. You agree to hook up at a restaurant halfway between your town and his on a Saturday night. “He lives 102 miles away so you’re safe,” you reassure yourself as you tear off your floppy gray sweats and fling open your closet doors. Now comes the extreme effort. You dust the cobwebs off of your curlers and do your hair, carefully apply makeup, squeeze into last year’s best outfit, and paint your nails. You hit the road revved and ready. Mr. Possible Dream Date is only two hours away. Boldly, you walk into the center of the dimly-lit restaurant right on time and glance nervously around. You spot the hostess a few feet away marking her seating chart, and your nostrils are assaulted by the combined aromas of grilling steaks and fresh peanut shells. It appears as though you arrived first. There’s nobody in sight who remotely resembles the studly, statuesque, good-looking man whose online photo you’ve been admiring for the past nine-and-a-half days. The only stray human you noticed when you strutted through the front door was a fat bald guy sitting at the bar, whose frazzled, overweight wife was most likely in the bathroom. You turn on your rarely used patent leather heel, and opt to wait demurely in the lobby. As you exit the dining room, you inhale sharply when you feel an exciting, unfamiliar touch at your elbow. The Really Big Moment has arrived. You whirl to face H I M, the romantic, Mister Mystery Date, who has been oozing his innermost thoughts into your ear nightly on the phone for the past week. Your disdainful glance drops downward, and you realize you are staring at the fat bald guy from the bar. “I’d know that lovely face anywhere,” he croons hoarsely. “I printed your picture, and sleep with you under my pillow,” he whispers softly, as close to your ear as he can get when he stands on his tiptoes. “Your profile said you were over six feet tall,” you remark incredulously. “I wore my two-inch heels!” His lusty glance drops to study your shapely ankles. He is obviously oblivious to everything else. You snort disapprovingly with all the subtly of an overzealous racehorse about to charge out of the starting gate as you formulate your next statement. “You look quite a bit different from your picture. Nothing major, really, other than in your photo you appeared to have more hair and less waistline.” He laughs throatily. “My dear, after a good dinner and a couple of drinks, I’ll revert back to that handsome young fellow in the picture again.” Staring at your chest he adds, “I know you’re the right kind of woman to transform me.” Fighting nausea was never your best event, so you smile sweetly and ask Mr. Dud to grab a table while you run to the car to grab your cell phone (which is safely stashed in the purse you are clutching for dear life). The minute he walks away, you are out of there so fast an F-14 would be forced to eat your dust. As you drive home, humming to AC DC’s “Highway to Hell” on the radio, your journey is guided by a bright sliver of silvery moon. When the song ends, you breathe a sigh of relief that you never gave Mr. Dud your last name or address. You rationalize that one bad online apple shouldn’t be permitted to spoil the whole e-bunch, and ponder what other kind of internet dating services are available. You know in the deepest place of your heart that Mr. Dream Date must be out there somewhere. After all, you always won Mystery Date when you were a kid, wasn’t it about time you emerged victorious as a grownup and landed the guy in the tux with the fragrant bouquet instead of the scraggly looking dud? As you study the stunning slice of moon laughing at you from the sky, you thank your lucky stars that the human race is equipped an overabundant supply of hope.