“This time, it will be different.”

Count on it, single guy. Count on that shoulder-perching little imp, teasingly muttering.

No matter how terminally single a single guy is, the day will come. The day when endless pizza and unselfconscious scratching in public just aren’t enough. Some internal biological timer trips, reason is jettisoned, a history of futility gets ignored, and it’s time to try dating again.

This time, it will be different.

No, it won’t. But this time, I’m here to help.

Granted, I may not be your best choice for Dating Coach of the Year. After all, I’m older than Alaska, I think Hall & Oates were brilliant, and I still have bangs. But I do have qualifications. As it turns out, I am America’s Penultimate Husband. A surprising number of my dates married the very next guy they met. Somehow, I became a very useful practice spouse.

So let’s proceed. For starters, I’ve put together the following “man seeks woman” personal ad for use by my “what’s the big deal with the toilet seat?”single comrades:

Single hetero male seeking minimally neurotic, baggage-free, non-ferret-owning female for companionship, dating, and ultimately destructive miscommunication. I enjoy music, dining, and writing odd stories about shrimp, civil servants, and other aliens. Ideal candidate will have ten (or more) of her original teeth, and zero (or less) pierced face parts. Please send, for review, an audio tape containing an average-decibel sample of your voice during a heated argument. Dues-paying Satanists, the heavily-tattooed, and career politicians need not apply.

What, too subtle? Well, feel free to personalize. Maybe you don’t write stories about aliens and shrimp. That’s entirely up to you, of course, but if you don’t, well, good luck getting a date.

Now. As a seasoned single veteran, I’ve put together a helpful checklist of characteristics which, any minute now, I’ll think up. I may include some comments, too, if any occur to me. I don’t know yet. That’s what puts the “creative” in “creative writing.”

The checklist may not work for you, though it’s guaranteed to be utterly useless. (That’s what puts the “disclaimer” in “legal disclaimer.”) Here we go:

The Perfect Woman…

…will own at least 2 Frank Zappa albums. This not only assures that you’re age-attuned; it confirms that, as teenagers, you were both equally dazed and confused. Extra credit if she giggles anytime you say “moving to Montana.”

…thinks delivery pizza and day-old pizza are two of the five food groups. (The other three, of course, being coffee, Chinese takeaway, and two-day-old pizza)

…has never been blind-date-pitched by friends as “she has a great personality” or “she makes her own clothes.”

…will have no “I (heart symbol) something” or “I’d rather be …” bumper stickers, like “I’d rather be mud wrestling farm animals while under the influence of psychotropic drugs.” Pretty good clue, that.

…supports laws to have ferrets classified as foreign enemy combatants. Now, here, some people will take me to task. “Ferrets aren’t evil,” they’ll say. “Ferrets are cute.” Ferrets aren’t evil? Have you ever SEEN a ferret? Basically, it’s a rat with a zoning variance.

…has a sane amount of beauty products. Her bathroom “body maintenance” cabinet should not resemble a Center for Disease Control Haz-Mat lab.

…has never sent an “I’m sorry your relative died” email. Research shows that a woman who fires off “condolences” emails will go all Lorena Bobbitt on you at your first toilet seat infraction.

…will not have any relatives within a hundred mile radius who have ever shown up at a church wedding wearing a tank top, Bermuda shorts and black stretch socks. Also, be sure to check the relatives for ferret bites.

…has never been in a bar, run into an old friend who is an escaped felon, and greeted him with a secret handshake and the wistful expression, “Hey, Slade. I miss your discipline.”

So there you are, single guys. Armed, and warned. In these weird days, caution must be your byword. I once spent 3 weeks online, chatting up a gorgeous coed named Amber, before I learned she was actually my old college roommate, Chris.

Now, some will say I’m too picky, and that’s why I’m still single. I disagree. I prefer “discerning.” But if you’ve read this far and still can’t figure out why I’m single, I really don’t know what else to say.

Maybe, one day, my imp will whisper again.

Once I get over Amber.