So, after all the time and effort I’ve spent lobbying for Man-Cards to be revoked on a 12 point system, I was accused of being judgmental! Well, that’s gratitude for you.

I am judgmental. That’s the honest truth. And frankly, I think I have damn good judgment, too. Admittedly, I usually say “instincts,” instead of judgement, but po-tay-to.

I was grousing at strangers on the internet, again. Twitter. Whatever self-censoring mechanism I had… whatever impulse control… Well, Twitter! The picture was of one of those stick-family bumper stickers. Three kids. A dog. Dad. And a gap where Mom apparently used to be.

Taking up most of the S.U.V’s rear window was a hand-scrawled statement: position available. With an arrow pointing to the “Mom Gap.”

I have to feel for those poor kids. Even assuming their mother ran away with the neighbor’s German Shepherd, never to be heard from again, the kids deserve better than this. Some privacy. Some shelter from the shit-storm of divorce. And that’s without mentioning the issue of “Position available,” as if a wife and mother were something you hire… like a waitress… or a servant.

Yup. Right about there… or 14o characters later, is where I got called judgmental.

And then… He might be a nice guy.

I’m already simmering in an absolute hatred of the “nice guy” motif. “Nice guys” come in last. Of course, every single guy in that race was “nice.”

Let’s put it this way: there are the things I mention when I talk about the ideal date, and then, there are the things I’m never going to say because they’re  just… that… obvious.

“Nice” is just… that… obvious.

I want nice. Everybody wants nice. I don’t know a single person, male, female, or other, who deliberately goes out to find somebody who isn’t nice.

It’s on the same list as “doesn’t smell like rancid track star,” and “has a pulse.” “Breathes oxygen” is up there, too. Goes without saying.

If you want to start racking up the points, you’re going to have to be more than nice and non-smelly with a pulse. I’ve got standards.

Don’t tell me you’re a nice guy. That’s like telling me you have a pulse. Tell me why you think you might be my nice guy. Smart. Creative. Loves paso doble and weird foods. Or tell the truth: I don’t have the faintest idea what we have in common, but I want to find out.

And just a hint… if you hear a girl saying she’s looking for a “nice guy,” run.