I was pretty pumped when Archangel Gabriel first told me about Tinder. But after a week on the app, I didn’t have a single match. Being all-loving, I swiped right for all the ladies. But the ladies weren’t swiping right for me :(
I felt like there was a giant hole right in the middle of my heart. The kind of hole that a man or woman can only fill by finding God. But since I am God, I fill it by boning random chicks.
Yet while Gabriel was scoring multiple hotties on every divine emissarial mission he took, I couldn’t even get a coffee date with a butterface. Was there something wrong with me? Was I an undesirable God?
Turns out, the problem wasn’t me. It was my Tinder profile. Take, for instance, my first pic:
The first pic shouldn’t just be a picture of you. It should be a picture of the best version of you. For me, that’s this guy:
Big white smile, adoring children, sweet baja/cardigan combo. This is a guy chicks wanna get naked with!
My second pic was even worse. Women love passionate men, so the second pic should show you engaged in your passion. Like this kind of passion:
Or this kind of passion:
But not this kind of passion:
A good passion makes for a great date activity, and no girl wants to get all done up just to hang from a cross for six hours and then die.
Once I had my pics taken care of, it was time to work on my profile text. Mine was a bit wordy. For instance, I had two full sentences about how I created the universe. I don’t care how impressive an accomplishment is—if it was 6,000 years ago, nobody cares. As Gabriel put it, “Don’t be the douche who still puts his college grades on his resume.”
When I fixed my profile I started getting matches, but no dates. I think I was scaring girls off with my super serious chats, so I made some tweaks to my chat game. For instance, if a girl asks about my weekend plans, and my real plans are to mete out merciless punishment to the wicked, I tell a little white lie.
I’ll say something like, “I’m going windsurfing with my boy Keith in Malibu,” or, “I’m going skydiving with my homie Alonzo in Ventura,” or, “I’m going hang gliding with my homeslice Tony in Sylmar.” It’s weird, but women can’t get enough of guys who participate in slightly dangerous activities with a cool-sounding friend in Southern California. It’s just evolution, I guess.
Now that my Tinder game’s on point, I’m hooking up with hotties on the reg. That hole in my heart—it’s filled. With chicks. Having sex with me.
