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Contest: "Personal Experiences"

The Dirty Lowdown on International Dating

By Dawk Ziti 

I am a guy who has more women than he can handle, if you count my mother, aunts, and cousins. I live in Los Angeles, California, United States (U.S.), where less than 40% of the people are European. Call me pixilated, but I always wanted to propagate with someone who is similar to me, ethnically at least, but not to the point of having the same genes. Incest may be fine for fireflies and proletarians, as well as ancient Egyptian royalty and practically prehistoric Greek despots, but it is taboo for Italians such as I. Of course, the last group will soon be extinct, but that is inconsequential, and if you knew my relatives, you would understand why.  Most of the women in the U.S. are obese, and the rest are dense. If you are lucky, you can find one who is both, which is not much of an accomplishment. Once, I stooped so low as to try to meet women at the local shopping mall---my favorite hangout---but I received enough cold stares and warm vitriol to last 2 lifetimes. The ladies at these places are no ravishing beauties, but try telling them that. You would need medical attention forthwith. Take my word for it: I learned the hard way. 

Given the state of the situation in my hometown, I rapidly deduced, as I am quick on the uptake, after almost 40 years of futility-if you call banging one's head against a wall failure-that I needed to take drastic measures if I ever wanted to experience connubial bliss. So, on 9/11/01, as my highflying dreams were starting to crumble, I changed my destiny by coercing my mom's friend---I am Italian, remember?---into giving me a computer to access international women, and a little pornography on the side. I never realized how good I had it---before I went online. 

I visited a web site called, or something similar. I would tell you the exact name, but I am not being paid for advertising. Besides, my opinion of the site is not favorable. The site should be called, as I almost got screwed.

The first woman, and I use the term jocularly, was Natasha from Ukraine, a very convivial vixen. She sympathized with my hatred of travel, although she said that her lifelong ambition was to see the world. She wholeheartedly endorsed my idea to meet in Jamaica, a two-bit country, but which, near as I could figure, was the closest place to Los Angeles (L.A.) that a U.S. citizen and a Ukrainian could visit each other legally, which was no consolation. I did not want to be on that worthless island in the Atlantic Ocean. My hair simply does not look good in dreadlocks. 

I made the flight arrangements for Natasha, and the train and ship accommodations for myself. The day after Christmas, which was a week before our respective departures, I received an e-mail from Mai Tai Hsu (Hsu is pronounced the same as 'shoe' is, or so I was told; U.S. citizens have peculiar monikers), a man I did not know, with "Natasha" in the subject line. Merry Christmas to me, I thought, sensing trouble, and I was right. The letter said that he had received a billet-doux from Natasha that also listed my address. He wondered how Natasha could claim to be devoted only to him and corresponding with me simultaneously, which makes him a smart man in my book. He gave me a long explanation about scammers, which is what he called Natasha, and touted me to a web site that is dedicated, in part, to exposing them. In short, a scammer is a person, usually a woman, or a man hiding behind a woman's photo, who most likely is not who she purports to be and is  simply trying to collect money from a dupe in exchange for a plane ticket or other expenses. Therefore, a scammer is a scrofulous individual who deserves to be sjamboked, and I would enjoy doing just that, if given the chance. I believe in the golden rule, and always try to do unto others as they do to me. I get in legal trouble once in a while, but I have loads of fun, and my blood pressure is lower now than it used to be. 

I was glad to get the information from Mai Tai-I had not received any other presents that Christmas, so I did not look a gift horse in the mouth---before I embarked on a wild-goose chase. I am not much of a hunter, anyway, so I thanked him. I certainly did not shoot the messenger, if that is what you are thinking; instead, I invited him to Jamaica, where I seduced him to show my gratitude. He was better company than Natasha would have been, and I did not have to worry about impregnating him, although I believe he gave me the clap.  

I learned my lesson and went to a web site that absolutely promised to be the best, and I met Tanya, 22, who did not have an ax to grind. Instead, she performed a marvelous hatchet job on her imaginary rivals-all the women in the world-as she proceeded to recite her autobiography, bit by bit, through the course of 3 letters a day for 2 weeks. If her life had been interesting, I would not have minded. 

I finally grew tired of being cozened, as I am not a masochist, believe it or not-I have always thought, though, that you only hurt the one you love, but I draw the line at physical pain, even if it is only a dotted one-so I joined a club that vowed to eliminate any mountebanks who materialized. The first  fox, or should I say, vixen, who I fell for, Daria, was a charlatan of the deepest dye, but Elena, the Russian woman who perates the site, which is a veritable cyber guide for Russophiles, and her very capable staff, intervened. Notwithstanding that contretemps, I was still confident that my luck would change, as even the blind could see that the women who signed up and ran their profiles on this site had pulchritude, perspicacity, probity, and dignity, not necessarily in order of importance. I took a 90 day membership. I have yet to be disappointed, except that now, I have nothing to complain about, and nobody exciting to write about. I still have hard feelings about Daria---she was a babe---but since I met Lisa, everything has changed---for the better, I am surprised to report. 

Lisa-her sobriquet; her real name is not printable---from Moscow, had the rare combination of honesty and sincerity, which separated her from 90% of the women who were on the lesser dating systems. Lisa was 20 when I first wrote to her, and although I am approximately 40, she was not too much more mature than I. I would rather rob a cradle than a grave, as necrophilia does not turn me on---anymore. Lisa had 2 outstanding points that attracted me to her. In the interest of decency, I will not mention them here. We decided to meet in late September, in Los Angeles*, of all places,  which was convenient 

*You most likely will not be so fortunate. You practically have to win a lottery, and a rigged one at that, to get an Eastern European woman into the U.S. For a further discussion of the U.S.'s discriminatory policies, contact me, which is easier said than done. I am too busy tilting at windmills to be found, except on holidays, and I am accountable to no one. 

for me, as I loathe traveling, other than by automobile or foot. When the fateful day arrived, I popped a few tranquilizers and then took a long, eventful automobile ride to the airport. Finally, I stood in front of my beloved. I wanted a hug; she shook my hand. We got in the car, and I noticed that Lisa was crying. I figured that the tears were from joy. In reality, the seat belt was too tight. 

One day, Lisa and I were driving around, and she said, "I would very much like to get married." I did not stop to ask her whom she had in mind; instead, I zoomed into a church, perhaps a little too fast, as I barreled past the parvis, plowed through the ceiling-to-floor stained-glass window, and crashed into the first few rows of pews. No harm was done-to my car-as the savior was watching over me; I had chosen a good co-pilot. 

I backed up the vehicle and parked. "How 'bout here?" I asked, adding, "This church looks ecumenical." Lisa shrugged, saying, "It's as good a place as any," which was not an enthusiastic endorsement by any means. We spied a sartorially whimsical man by the sacristy door giving us the once-over. He looked like a creep, but we were desperate, and approached him nevertheless. He beat us to the punch with "May I help you?" "Do you work here?" I inquired, matching him tit for tat. Neither of us wanted to be the first to break down and actually answer a question. "Kind of," he replied. "That is, I'm here a lot, but I don't get paid much." "You're a stalker, then, or a groupie," I joked. He was not amused. "Who wants to know?" he asked. "We're would-be parishioners, I guess," I responded vaguely. "We're lookin' for Reverend Goodpastor." "I might be him," he replied, nervously fumbling to light a cigarette. "State your business," he ordered. "We wanna get married," I blurted. "Want to, or have to?" he queried skeptically, blowing smoke in the face of Lisa, who is asthmatic.

We left there posthaste and decided to go to Hollywood to take a walk. Two men quickly approached us and made an ithyphallic proposition. I rejected it cursorily by stating that I am heterosexual. Everywhere I go, I am plagued.   

We got in the car and drove around aimlessly for an hour and a half, burning hundreds of dollars of valuable gasoline like water, except that, in L.A., the latter is more expensive, although the taste is equipollent. Sightseeing is overrated. 

In case you are interested, and if  not, you are in the wrong place and have wasted a lot of time, Lisa is gone now - oh, she is alive, but she is back in Russia, as her visa expired and the U.S. makes no exceptions for people from her country. As a result of my relationship with her, evanescent and unsatisfactory though it was, I am hailed as an expert on international dating in my neighborhood, which is not a great honor, but I take what I can get. At least once a day some  guy* asks me, "Whadda ya know about foreign women?" I usually reply that "all females 're a lien to me," and leave it at that. 

* Not his real name. I devised an alias so that I would not have to pay him. If I could do the same to avoid income taxes, I would be on cloud 9, and better off, too.

Lisa was neither a fortune hunter nor a clinging vine. She was a strong woman: as proof, she gave me a black eye when I tried to spoon with her. She was not the least bit dependent on me, either, unfortunately.  

You may surmise that the saga has ended, but you are wrong, as always. For a nominal fee, I will provide a heart-rending update, and for more money, I may even tell the truth. Moreover, someone has bowdlerized the disquisition herein; I confess that I was the culprit, and that my purpose was to save the naive reader from abashment. Thus, if you are mature, or just curious, and yearn to view the expunged passages, the paramount focus of which is a caustic commentary on politics and sex -- strange bedfellows, eh? -- much of which is altogether exquisite, and some of which, frankly, is better, for a price, you can have the 84 page, unexpurgated discourse, which, by the way, is 215 k, whereas this account was merely 34 k. The difference between the 2 versions is obvious: 181 k. Furthermore, on page 80, you will learn the real reason that I invited Lisa to the U.S. In no other document can such a juicy tidbit be found. The cost is straightforward: an arm and a leg, your firstborn, or $2,000,000.00* in U.S. currency -- give or take a few pennies -- the last

*Of course, the price is significantly higher if you want a printed copy. I have to eat. 

of which I strongly prefer for hedonistic, as well as practical, reasons. I love the sight of money, and I cannot buy compact discs with your appendages - at least, not over the counter. 

This exposition---if  you are too dense to realize the magnitude of what you have just read, then I will spell it out for you -- meticulous and preposterous though it is, represents a unique but overvalued contribution to the study of romantic relationships and the field of balderdash. Therefore, accept no brummagem or prosaic imitation; or, go ahead and buy one, but do not blame me when your spleen is accidentally, and somewhat painfully, removed by 2 starving bindlestiffs and their pet pit bull. 

Finally, examine the pictures and you will learn something. In the last one, Lisa blithely demonstrates how to garner free food, or maybe she is just thirsty. Take note of her technique: she learned it from Bill Clinton's former intern. In the second depiction, I am the first silhouette from the left and Lisa is the third, or vice versa. Who cares, anyhow? Lisa and I are obviously extremely photogenic. In the first portrait, Lisa is on the left, and I am on the right. Two blowhards were sitting next to us, but I edited them, for aesthetic reasons. Also, you will observe that my arm is not around Lisa. To this day, I still have not felt her up, and as I live in L.A. and she in Moscow, the odds of my rectifying that are, unlike the waistline of the typical U.S. citizen, pretty slim.  

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