Nikipedia: Dear EHarmony

Dear Eharmony,

I'd appreciate it if you stopped sending me matches.

I know I signed up for a FREE account and went through your whole "personality profile survey," but it was a weak moment.

There was a banner ad, I was bored, lonely, and boom - suddenly I'm answering a bevy of personal questions that are going to match me based on 29 dimensions. I don't even want a boy with 29 dimensions. Two dimensions would be fine.

Does he drive a Prius? Will he offer me a glass of water after sex?

Great. Send him my way.


At no point did I think I'd find love through your service. That's not why I signed up. I just like taking surveys. And let's be honest, I would never date someone who signed up for Eharmony. And on top of that, I would never date a guy who would be okay with dating a girl who signed up. It's a lose-lose situation.

And no, I have NO desire to be one of those couples on the Eharmony commercials. First off, I don't look good against a white background. Secondly, I don't look good next to an unattractive person.

But I see how people get sucked into it and eventually end up paying. You've been sending very compelling emails that let me know that you've found someone for me. They are always so personal and so excited for me.

"Nikki- we've got a match for you!"

But then you won't let me see a picture because I haven't paid you.

That's not fair. Luckily you give me enough information right off the bat that lets me know I'd only be shelling out thirty bucks for a few pictures of a dude posing shirtless next to his sports car.

It's always the same thing. For some reason you always end up thinking I'd be perfect for some 5'6" Latino clothing designer from Glendale.

And yes, I remember clicking that I didn't care about their ethnicity, but I was feeling really vulnerable and unracist at the time. I didn't want you to judge me. I should have been more honest. I'm sorry.

And don't pretend like the old dude with white hair from Eharmony would be okay with my interracial relationship. He looks like my grandfather. Don't play dumb, Eharms. You don't want me and Jose necking at the dinner table on Thanksgiving.

Oh, and since I'm being honest, I guess I should let you know that I drink more than once a week. Is Skylar, the graphic designer from Bozeman, Montana going to be okay with that? You should let him know I might not be the sober and responsible girl of his dreams. You should also let him know that he's 19! Are you fucking kidding me?! If I wanted them that young, I would have become a high school teacher!

And you can stop sending me Christians. Have you even seen my act?!

Eharmony, I'm sorry to sound bitter. I'm taking out my aggression on you and it's not your fault. You're just trying to help. It's just that this week I came to the conclusion that I'm most likely destined for the romantic fate of a female comic like Roseanne Barr, and I'm not happy about this.

I wonder who's going to be my Tom Arnold....

Maybe Tom Arnold. Is he single?

Love,
Nikki

Nikki Glaser is a stand-up comedian living in Los Angeles who has recently written about her choice to be childless and her love of sleep . Go to www.myspace.com/nikkiglaser for info.

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Nikipedia: A Child And A Choice

She's a child, AND my choice.

I don't want to have children. At least that's what it says on my Myspace page. A lot of my friends say I'll change my mind as I get older, but they're wrong.

See, if I had to have a child, now would be the time to do it. If I wait any longer, I won't be able to give him to my parents to raise. Pregnant teenagers get a bad rap. People think that these "babies having babies" ruin their childhood by doing so, but there are so many perks to teenage pregnancy that are overlooked by the general public. There's the attention from your peers, time off from school, Oh, and you get to have sex.


And come to think of it, I've always wanted a brother. And it would be ideal to have my illegitimate son as my brother because fights between siblings can be vicious. And since I'd technically be his mother, I might be able to see God's beauty in his fat stupid butthead face.

But if my plan were to work, it would definitely have to be a boy. My parents already have two daughters. They don't want another one. We're not easy to raise. Especially because we force our parents to care for our children when we can't do it ourselves.

So if I had a daughter, I'd have to give it to some other family who doesn't know any better. Then I'd keep trying for a son, like one of Henry VIII's wives, or a woman in China.

I realize that at the age of 23, that society might expect me to raise my own baby. At the very least, I'd at least have to pay for half of him. And that's not going to work for me. What if I have twins?! That would mean I'd have to take care of a full child. Not cool.

Maybe I should get my tubes tied. Not only is it fun to say (alliteration!), but it also sounds easily reversible. Just pull the string, and voila! You're a woman again!

That's my mom's argument: "Getting your tubes tied is unwomanly!"

"But Mom, what if I ask the doctor to tie it in a pretty bow? What's more lady-like than that?!"

But I get it. Getting a hysterectomy is a huge decision. It's like getting a tattoo. Especially considering my idea for a tattoo, which would be the Chinese symbol for "Let's fuck without consequences!"

And much like a tattoo, I'd probably regret it when I'm 80 years old, sitting alone in a low-rent nursing home, with no offspring to keep me company while I ask them repeatedly about dead people who I keep forgetting are dead. I just hope my parents are still alive by then. My mom would totally take care of me again.

But I've decided that until I'm mature and financially stable enough to provide for an operation of that sort, Plan B is going to continue being my Plan A.

Nikki Glaser is a stand-up comedian living in Los Angeles who has recently written about her love of sleep and Dave Matthews. Go to www.myspace.com/nikkiglaser for info.

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Nikipedia: Sleep With Me

I think I might like sleeping more than living. It's reached that point. I have the sleep schedule of a cancer patient, and for years I've been ashamed of it. I remember reading once that Jay Leno only needs three hours of sleep per day. I, on the other hand, need only three hours of reality. Maybe two.

I used to try to pretend that I wasn't sleeping til 3 pm. When someone would call and wake me up, I'd pretend I wasn't the lazy piece of shit they'd accuse me of being.

"I was taking a nap! I woke up so early today!"

I still do that for my mom. I don't want her to worry. At least one day every week, I wake up to her fourth consecutive phone call of the afternoon. By call number three, she's just making sure I'm alive. Like she's Mary Kate Olsen and I'm late for my massage appointment.

I once slept through a fire alarm. It was my freshman year of college, and although I had been drinking heavily that night, there's no excuse for sleeping through the loudest noise I've ever heard in my life. I know it was, because 20 minutes after it had gone off, I woke up because I had to pee.

I went out in the hallway and wondered what was going on. There hadn't been a fire, of course. Just some burnt popcorn. (In college, smoke detectors should be called "burnt popcorn detectors.") There were firemen walking the empty hallways. I remember them being so disappointed in me. One of them was laughing. He must have been the one who drew the dick on my face.

At least I know I'm going to die in my sleep. The odds are in my favor. That's reassuring, I guess.

The other night I had a dream in which I was so exhausted during the dream that I took a nap IN MY DREAM! I know that this is a lot to compute, but you must understand that this was the most amazing occurrence in my sleeplife.

I took a nap in my dream! Do you know how awesome it is to wake up and realize that you are still asleep?!

"Crap, that was a good dream. Now I have to go to the bank and do laundry... Oh wait, what is this?! I'm still dreaming!!?! Yes!! Now instead of all that stuff I need to get done, I can go have sex with John Mayer in my second grade classroom again!!!"

You get the picture.

I hate to cut the column short, but I will be boarding a red-eye to Detroit in less than two hours. I'm so excited. I love sleeping on planes. I only took one nap today in order to prepare. And I have a window seat! I'm going to be out cold before we lift off the runway.

That's how I roll: Ear Plugs, Eye mask, Drool, GO!

Nikki Glaser is a stand-up comedian living in Los Angeles who has recently written about her love of Dave Matthews and hitting on waiters. Go to www.myspace.com/nikkiglaser for info.

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Nikipedia: I Do It All For Dave

My sophomore year of high school, I became obsessed with the Dave Matthews.

I remember the exact moment it happened. I was lying on my bedroom floor after just having cleaned my room. I had lit a candle and was reading Cosmopolitan Magazine. It was probably some article on how to "Blow His Mind in Bed." This was like porn to me at a time when I should have been reading tips on "how to make eye contact during Social Studies without blushing."

I put my parents' cd, Dave Matthews Band's "Crash," into my boombox and became instantly distracted by the beauty of the song "Satellite." I almost started tearing up. However, I didn't have the maturity level at this age to cry about anything besides boys, my parents "not being fair!", or missing out on the lead in "The Diary of Anne Frank" because I wasn't skinny enough. So instead, I put down the magazine
and listened.

Five tracks later, I decided that I would dedicate my life to Dave.

From that moment on, I'd memorize everything I could about this man. His birthday would become my favorite number (19), I'd get vanity license plates (DMBFAN) for my car and refuse to listen to anything but Dave while driving inside of it. I was going to know more than anyone else. And in the end, through all of this work and dedication, I would somehow win his heart.

It had to work. What famous 32-year-old artist could resist a 15-year-old with frizzy hair, bushy eyebrows, and a bookbag covered with DMB fan art etched in whiteout pen?

I didn't care about the age difference. It actually prompted me to establish a rule which I'll now refer to as "the law of Dave." The oldest person I will date can be no more than 17 years my senior. Dave set this precedent.

In my 15-year-old brain, I honestly thought that I would meet Dave Matthews, and upon first sight, we'd fall in love. He'd think it was amazing that I knew everything about him and his band. We'd get married, and following the ceremony, he'd hook me up with backstage passes, all of his merchandise (which he'd get his whole band to sign!), and we'd live happily ever after on his estate in Georgia.

Oh, and we'd have sex to his song "Say Goodbye" ALL THE TIME. I hadn't even kissed a boy at this point in my life, but I knew I'd want to have sex to this song. I don't even know if I knew what sex entailed at this age. I'm sure I thought it was just rolling around naked. And I hadn't really considered whether we'd be listening to the song on CD, or if Dave would be singing it to me while we had sex, but it would happen. Oh would it happen.

Everyone in my high school knew me as the girl who loved DMB. I was that retard. Remember her? Ugh. Me too.

I would literally write "Nikki Matthews" in my notebooks during class. I didn't do it to be cliche. I did it because as a hormonal adolescent girl, it was a natural instinct. I had to know what it looked like. And I need to practice for the future, when fans would want Mrs. Matthews' autograph. I know I'd want it if I were still one
of those lowly fans.

In the meantime, before I could meet Dave face-to-face, I fell in puppy love with the only boy in school who's DMB knowledge rivaled my own. Doug Rees and I became best friends after I challenged him to a Dave-off one day in the courtyard during lunch.

That day, he won the contest, and my heart.

We started hanging out after school, retreating to his basement whereI'd listen to him strum "Trippin' Bilies" on his guitar, while I'd gaze at him, admiring his
hemp necklaces, tie-dye shirts, and other Dave-like attributes (they both had arms and legs!).

Soon, my crush had reached it's breaking point and I realized that this may be the closest I would ever get to kissing Dave Matthews himself. So, impulsively, one day while we were studying chemistry, the song "Crush" came on his CD player, and I could no longer contain myself. Like ripping off a Dave Matthews Band-aid, I blurted out, "Doug, I like you!"

It turns out he didn't feel the same.

But how could this be?! We shared a passion! We would have made the cutest couple (of losers)!

Doug eventually fell for my friend, Lesley, who must have had a healthy and controlled interest in his favorite band. She may have also had boobs.

And so, with the loss of Doug from my life, I channeled my heartbreak into functions I'd call "Dave Obsession Nights", which entailed me and my girlfriends raiding my parents' CD cabinet on a Friday night, and proceeding to dance and sing like idiots until we passed out around 1 am.

It would be another two years before we discovered my parents' alcohol cabinet. And with this finding, Dave became my second favorite thing in the world.

Nikki Glaser is a stand-up comedian living in Los Angeles who has recently written about hitting on waiters and prowlers with poor self-esteem. Go to www.myspace.com/nikkiglaser for info.

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Nikipedia: It's Not Me, It's Me

I gave my number to a waiter at a restaurant last weekend.

Not because he asked for it, but because I was kinda drunk and had a posse of girls at the bar telling me what a "surefire plan" it was. Of course, I jotted my number on a bar napkin and presented it to him with the line, "I don't normally do this, but..."

What a loser.

At the time, I felt like a powerful, independent woman from "Lipstick Jungle" or "Cashmere Mafia," but I was more like an awkward teenage boy from "The Gilmore Girls," asking Rory to prom in front of her grandmother after church. When I handed it to him and explained that I thought he was cute and he should call me, he said something like, "That's really brave of you." Which is exactly what I would say to some poor guy who tried to slip me his number.

He didn't mean "brave" like "skydiving brave." Not the kind of brave that has some kind of reward at the end. He meant the kind of brave you attribute to a baby who's learning how to walk. A crippled baby. Like "Awww. How brave, baby. You have no idea how walking is so out of your league!"

It's been three days, and I'm almost positive that he will not call me. I don't think I would call me either. I'm assuming he has a girlfriend, or herpes, or both.

Why did I do this? I've read The Game. I should know better. Based on that book, I should have worn glowstick necklaces and sequined ski goggles, ignored him all night, done a few magic tricks for his friends, and then insulted him until he gave me enough Indicators of Interest (IOIs) so that I'd be able to fuck him once and never call him again.

I'm almost positive that's how it works.

But let's say that hypothetically, it all works out. He calls and we get married or whatever. I think my ballsy napkin move might be good for our relationship. It'd be a cute story. Like those eHarmony commercials, except with no ugly people.

I'm sure he'd give me anniversary cards written on napkins as our little joke. Or I bet at our wedding, we would have an ice sculpture shaped like a napkin! God, we'd be adorable.

Did I mention that he looked like Zach Braff? I think I was attracted to him because I subliminally thought he was a doctor. I should clarify: I'm attracted to the character Braff, not the actor. Real Braff would probably be pretty depressed and all Ledgery, and eventually dump me for someone who "really gets him (drugs)" like Natalie Portman, whom he'll meet while on the set of a film called "I Don't Normally Do This..." or "The Bar Napkin."

But it wouldn't work out anyway. If this guy ends up calling, then that means he is the kind of guy who is into the kind of girl who gives her number to douchey waiters when she gets drunk and confident. And I don't think I could be with someone like that.

So I'm totally over this guy. Don't worry about lil' old me! I have a show on Valentine's Day night anyway! I'm getting on with my life! I suggest you do the same, Braff! Throw on your apron and get back to your herpes!

The more I think about it, this might be payback for the countless times I've never called a guy back who I've given my number to out of pity, fear, or because I thought it seemed like a good idea at the time.

This one's for you, black Pasadena firefighter who I met on a flight to Denver last February!

And to Nate, the dude who I met at that birthday party with whom I had promised to start training for a marathon.

And to Claude, the guy with dreads from who I met at Saddle Ranch. Thanks for the texts and messages, dude, but I'm not looking for someone to date right now (who goes to Saddle Ranch unironically).

It's not you, it's me not liking you!

Nikki Glaser is a stand-up comedian living in Los Angeles who has recently written about prowlers with poor self-esteem and Hooters of the Sea. Go to www.myspace.com/nikkiglaser for info.

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Nikipedia: Creep Alert!

I recently started locking the front door of my apartment at night. It's probably a habit I should have adopted when I first moved to Los Angeles, but I'm a trusting person.

Sure, there's lots of graffiti on the construction site near my building, but I have no way of knowing whether or not these markings are gang-related. They don't tag in legible fonts, so how am I supposed to Google it?

But I'm really not worried, because a lot of it seems to be written in bubble letters, which leads me to believe that I live on a block run by a gang of fifth grade girls.

And I ain't scared of no girls.

But I am scared of a certain someone I stumbled upon tonight on the Channel 5 KTLA News website, which is apparently "Where LA lives." But I'm not sure if I want to live here any longer, because this is the headline I read tonight:

CREEP ALERT: PROWLER LIKES TO WATCH PEOPLE SLEEP

Yeah, "creep alert" is right. Is that an official journalistic term?
It should be.

The Associate Press reports, "Newport Beach residents are being warned about a serial prowler wanted for entering homes and standing over the beds of sleeping people."



I don't know what it is about this story, but it's somehow worse than any murder or rape report I've ever read. I'm serious. I'd prefer to see this dude lying NEXT to me, rather than above me, just watching and waiting. Good God, is that disturbing to me.
I swear, if I woke up in the middle of the night and I saw him just standing there...Ugh! It would cause me to wet the bed for the second time that night.

And get this: all he does is stare. NOTHING ELSE. Witnesses say that when they woke up and confronted him, he just "calmly walked out of the home without speaking a word."

Why is the fact that he leaves "calmly" MORE frightening to me than if he actually attacked his victims? This dude sounds polite! I bet he takes off his shoes before breaking and entering.

I wonder why he loves "watching" his victims. This seems odd. But like most sexual criminals, I can only guess that his parents had something to do with it. I'm sure that as a child, they would watch him sleep. The kid is just a product of his environment.

Or is he?

A part of me wonders if he's just a nervous rapist. Could it be that each time he gets close to his victim, they wake up and ruin everything? And then he leaves, feeling unaccomplished and insecure. I can see him walking out of a studio apartment, his head bowed in shame... like he was turned down for the prom.

I bet he beats himself up. I'm sure that when he gets home after a failed rape, he speaks to his reflection in the mirror on the back of his closet door. And I'm sure his reflection responds, berating him:

"They're calling you a "prowler," Pete! A PROWLER! Do you like being called a PROWLER!? Make your move already! Your composite sketch makes you look nearly 25! Most rapists your age are well past their "watching" phase!! What are you, twelve? Why don't you just go torture a neighborhood cat, you amateur! No, better yet, go WATCH a neighborhood cat sleep, then walk away from it "calmly," like a PUSSY!"

Then Pete punches the mirror and cries "calmly" on the basement floor, so as not to wake his grandparents upstairs.

I'm starting to feel sorry for Pete.

But I shouldn’t be. Because it doesn't sound like his repeated failures have discouraged him in the slightest. He's been spotted "prowling" 15 times since November 2006. And recently, a few female witnesses claim that he touched their thigh.

I'm sure his reflection was proud that night.

"You touched her thigh, Pete? Really? I'm impressed, kiddo! I mean, that's really something... At least you're trying. And come to think of it, that's a pretty bold move there, buddy! Straight to third base, eh?! Not bad! Get over here! FIST POUND!"

And then Pete punches the mirror again, but this time it's a happy punch and he celebrates "calmly" while bleeding all over his Hannah Montana magazine cut-outs.

Yes readers, in writing this column, I've officially humanized the Newport Beach night prowler. Not only that, but I've also given his reflection the persona of an encouraging, yet ball-busting MADE coach.

And in doing all of this, I no longer fear him.

I win.

But now I'd like to take a couple lines to address the Prowler, one on one:

Hey man, if you're out there and you're reading this, I hope you enjoyed this column. And if you manage to get a night off from creepin', please never come see one of my shows.

And lastly, if I ever, Ever, EVER catch you watching me while I'm sleeping (even on a plane), please touch my thigh.

(To read more about this news story, click here.)

Nikki Glaser is a stand-up comedian living in Los Angeles. You can see her this weekend at MBar and the Hollywood Improv. Go to www.myspace.com/nikkiglaser for info.

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Nikipedia: Hooters of the Sea

I recently had a horrible dining experience at an overpriced, gimmicky seafood restaurant in Southern California. And although this particular chain has already sent me a worthless $10 gift certificate as an apology for my wretched $25 meal, I have yet to feel fully vindicated.

So instead of complaining further, I decided to write my own take on a personal letter from this particular restaurant to whom I imagine would be one of its regular customers. Enjoy....

Hey Jerry!

Come on down to Joe's Crab Shack!! It's time to party! Pile your extended family into your minivan and drive on down to the 'Shack! We're RIGHT OFF THE BEACH (about 4 miles)!

Come on in!

As you enter, cut the nervous tension between you and your teenage stepson with a pun about being "crabby." After he ignores your joke, pretend to browse through our gift shop full of dusty merchandise. Hey, you’re table’s not ready yet, so use this time to pick out an over-priced stuffed animal for your infant niece that she's not old enough to appreciate.

Okay! You’re table is ready!

Make sure to request a seat by the window so your mother has somewhere to stare after you ignore one of her many Alzheimery comments. You're not a bad son. She doesn’t feel alienated. She's just enjoying the scenery as she gazes at the highway on-ramp.

Now it’s time to order!

You should try the king crab, Jerry. I dare you to find a meatier crustacean in Nebraska. And when your dish is delivered, the waiter will dress you in an over-sized lobster bib. This silliness might prompt your teenage daughter to smile at you for the first time in nine years. But make sure to wait until after the seventh or so encounter with your server until you feel comfortable enough to poll the rest of your table about his probable homosexuality.

And while you dissect your dinner, you can just toss all of your crab cartilage and greasy napkins into the convenient steel bucket we’ve chained to your table. But you’re going to have to tell your 5-year-old nephew to sit back in his booster chair and quit digging through the bucket. He's going too deep. Remember, we never empty the bottom inch of the dump bucket. We find that the slight scent of rotting seafood really accentuates the shack-like ambiance here at Joe’s.

If you're ever bored with the happenings at your own table (when you can no longer feign enthusiasm for your nephew's poorly colored cartoon crab, and begin to lose patience with his "artism"), just look over towards the kitchen.

As the waiters push open the dirty swinging doors with giant trays of mediocre food, you'll catch glimpses of the real men behind Joes: the “Joses” of Joes, slaving away in our kitchen. You might catch them sexually harassing in Spanish as that one waitress with the big boobs passes through their station. And if you see her tearing up, don’t feel bad. After all, she’s making $2.13 an hour!

And lucky for you, right in front of those kitchen doors is where the staff gathers to flirt and gossip; high-fiving, hugging, resting their heads on each other's shoulders. The palpable awkward sexual tension between these high schoolers will be the envy of both you and your teenage daughter for the next hour or so.

Is it your birthday, Jerry? It’s not? But would you still like to hear our special Joe's Crab Shack Birthday Song!? TOO LATE! Because we're going to sing it to every table seated within 15 feet of you and your family! This may get annoying, but we know you won't complain because you don't have a backbone! How do we know this? Because if you did, you wouldn't have agreed to dine here in the first place!

Thanks so much for coming in today, Jerry. Make sure to grab a few complimentary peppermints on your way out the door. We've found that these mints trick your taste buds into forgetting that you just ate our food.

Have a great day and don’t forget to come back and SEA us!! (Oh, do we have fun here!!!)

PEACE
LOVE
CRABS,
Joe

Nikki Glaser is a 23-year-old stand-up comedian currently living in Los Angeles with her roommate, parakeets, husband, and last, but certainly least: her sons, Hilary, 13 and Nelly, 7. Befriend her at www.myspace.com/nikkiglaser and read her column here every other Thursday.

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