The Perfect Template

Like many men I have had long discussions with my male friends on the topic of the ideal woman. Everything from her physical features down to the very neurotic compulsive behaviours were open for discussion. My ideal woman was always described as being of South American origin with amazing looks, modest, exceptionally intelligent and passion for gastronomy. This combination was commonly liked by my friends, but rejected as a real living example. You are asking way too much, they said. In the beginning I thought that I was being reasonable with my criteria, however, my friends were persistent on the fact that I was delusional. With repetition, truths can become lies, and lies can become truths, and my ideal woman became a fiction of my imagination.

I started joining chat rooms to cope with my boredom. I ended up talking to this Brazilian female, who studied biomedicine. Inevitably she sent me her picture, and what I saw surprised me. I was expecting something that looked like the swamp thing or a female version of Freddie Krueger, but the woman was absolutely breathtaking. It was at that point that I had a flashback of my discussions with my friends. Had they been wrong all this time? I extracted more information from her, and again I was amazed. She had a passion for cooking and was single. I could not help but feeling dubious about this engineered perfectionism. Was she telling the truth? Or was this in fact a guy, who enjoyed taking the piss? I asked her, if she wasn't a guy, to which she responded that she wasn't and that I would be more than welcome to call her to verify this. I froze. This was it. This was the perfect template. My friends had always stated that this perfect template of mine was as real as the Sasquatsh or the Loch Ness monster. But here it was, not physically in front of me, but some text on my screen suggested that my prototype actually existed.

I believed it to be a personal revelation of how perfection could sometimes cross over from the world of imagination and manifest itself in our world. This woman was the tip of an iceberg, and I was certain that this type of woman was in production, but on a small scale like the Koenigsegg and the Lamborghini. At this point I knew that 99.99% of the production at the women's factory was flawed. It was my mission to figure out where that last percentage of women resided. That percentage was my niche, my perfect template.

Edward T. Shufflebottom