(This is a satirical dating profile from my book, Fake Personal Ads (Or Real Personal Ads for Fake People).)
MEN SEEKING WOMEN
Winner(!) Seeks Ornament
I am a Winner(!). Why am I a Winner(!)? Well, because I talk in a booming voice, especially on a cell phone during a hushed Brit Milah ceremony (a Jewish circumcision) – and if the little bastard comes away losing more than expected of his future manhood, then chalk up another victory for this eternal Winner(!). I am a lawyer by trade and an entrepreneur by virtue of my white teeth that are polished on a regular basis at the high-end Dental Sandblast Emporium where the receptionists look better than Hugh Hefner’s entourage.
Barry Bonds is a winner – sorry, I meant “Winner(!)” – because Winners(!) do what needs to be done in order to achieve total dominance; and if that means injecting oneself with enough steroids to beef up all the cattle in Texas, to say nothing of augmenting Mr. Bonds’ head to a size 11 that, if in the right position, will cause a total eclipse of the sun, then that is the price to pay for being the top dog.
Winners (!) are always on top. Now, girls, I know what you’re thinking: Does that mean that this high-powered, virile man will never allow a supermodel to straddle him as he lay on his newly shaved back? The answer is only if the woman refers to me as her one true God, just like the deity who created the heavens and earth in six days, and who, last I checked, was also a Winner(!).
I like to utter such phrases as Will do!, or My watch costs more than your house!, or That’s unacceptable! To say That’s unacceptable! is the ultimate proof of my supreme megalomania, as if the sun will stop rising in the east because I find such an arrangement unacceptable, though I did once hear the sun tell me, “Hey asshole, you’re just going to have to accept my daily appearance on the eastern horizon, now won’t you?” But I simply chalked this up as a lack of helio positive thinking, and resumed my Winning(!) course.
It may appear odd that such a Winner(!) is writing a personal ad. Indeed, I am that guy who walks into a room as a towering figure dressed in an Armani suit employing a handshake so firm as to render other men unable afterward to even hold a pencil – in such situations every woman present will stare at me hoping that no one notices the moisture darkening her pants. But the ladies I meet at random seem to forever fall short of my specifications.
For instance, I once dated Gisele, but she would nod off only five hours into one of my discourses on what it means to be ME. Another girl was stunning in every way except that she wanted to be the moon to my Earth instead of the Earth to my Sun. Still another lady did not share my belief in positive thinking, saying that my cloying optimism changed nothing in the physical Universe, and to think so was pure solipsism, to which I responded with a two thumbs-up right in her ass.
So ladies, I am conducting interviews for female candidates to be that ornament that will put the (!) in Winner(!).
(To learn more about my book, Fake Personal Ads, or my three other books and two screenplays, visit my website: http://www.authorjamesfjohnson.com )