I Drive a Red Convertible – Let’s be Hot Together

(This is a satirical dating profile from my book, Fake Personal Ads (Or Real Personal Ads for Fake People).)

WOMEN SEEKING MEN

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I Drive a Red Convertible – Let’s be Hot Together

First, guys, let it be said – and let it be written – that I am what modern sociologists call a hottie; or what anthropologists call a total babe; or what biologists call the luckiest draw in the genetic lottery. I am the girl with the pouty mouth, the high cheekbones and the nice ears – that’s right, even my ears are hot! I have a rack that sits so high that some Native Americans confuse it for a mesa on which to build adobes. My tummy is flatter than the head of Frankenstein, which I show off by wearing skimpy tank-tops that cause even my grand-ma to drool like a dog in heat. As such, I am always aware that every eye in the room is riveted on my hotness, and yet I have perfected the expression that says, like, “Oh, what, am I hot or something?”

Second, I am now driving my third red convertible that only clinches my hotness, not unlike how Hitler’s mustache clinched his aura of evil. I got my first such hot car when my dad bought me a red Miata because what else was expected of a father to a nubile girl with a heart-shaped ass who everyone had declared the next great supermodel? It was his duty to augment my hotness much how a parent to a star athlete will hire a private coach. My second convertible was a Corvette, which was a gift from a professor at my college, who thought it might encourage me spend more time hitting the books, but all it did was inspire me to hit the road in order to spread the word of my hotness – and still the dorky prof gave me an A. My new toy is a Porsche that, one fine morning, just materialized in my driveway – a donation from some rich dude with the provision that I have lunch with him once a month.

Now I need a hot guy to round out the picture – a super hot girl, me, and hot guy, you, tooling around in our red Porsche convertible. Can you imagine what all the ugly people will think of such a fucking hot couple on mobile display in such a hot car? I don’t even need you to have a personality, or to even have the ability to string together a coherent sentence – just so long as you look awesome in a pair of Ray-Bans! All we need to do is smile at each other, agog at our mutual hotness.

That, my friends, is the very definition of happiness. Oh, I can hear the uglies – that is, people not me or my future beau — already talking about how such a shallow gal I can’t really be happy, that happiness must come from within, blah, blah, blah. Well here’s a bulletin: I am absolutely ecstatic within my killer body for the simple reason that not a minute goes by without someone making a fuss over that hot babe, me, in the red convertible. It’s called constant validation.

My handsome man, my hot man, let’s be happy together being hot together in my hot red convertible.

(To learn more about my book, Fake Personal Ads, or my three other books and two screenplays, visit my website: http://www.authorjamesfjohnson.com )

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