Conservative Man Seeks Baby-Making Machine

Paul Ryan

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


I am man who is so conservative that, to me, Rush Limbaugh is Alec Baldwin with three extra chins and an optional ass-cheek. I live so far to the right that my neighbor to the right is the same Jehovah who turned Lot’s wife into a pillar of salt, though not before cancelling her state health plan, since there was no room for socialism in the Old Testament. I am such a Republican that I named all eight of my children Ronald Reagan, and would have designated the next eight by the same great name had my wife not died of terror when informed of my plan. In a word, what I seek is a second wife with a uterus more fertile than a nutrient-rich culture dish of phototrophic bacteria to bear me at least another eight Ronald Reagans – and if girls, then Ann Coulters.

I am a religious conservative, which means that I view science as a bunch of malarkey, though I have no problem enjoying the fruits of the scientific method in the form of computers, SUVs and hair-transplant surgery — stuff that would never have come into existence if, in the past, religious people had been allowed to burn all smart people at the stake. It also means that I speak of the non-materialistic Jesus as our Lord and Savior, but, in practice, I chase the holy dollar with all the persistence of a celebrity-hound hair-stylist from Des Moines chasing down Lindsa Lohan through an airport terminal.

I believe every word of the Bible, especially the part that decrees that a bride shall be stoned to death if she is not a virgin on coming to the altar. (Make sure, Jenna Jameson, you strumpet, to wear a suit of armor on the day after your wedding!) I have swallowed whole – sorry, the Jameson reference still lingers in my sinful mind – nay, I take as gospel the story of Noah somehow fitting a set of all one-hundred-million of the Earth’s animal and insect species, including Polar Bears from the Arctic and Green Anaconda snakes from the Amazon Rain Forest, onto an ark no bigger than Pat Robertson’s Lincoln Town Car. Yes, my faith is strong, and I expect my next fetus-incubator to share my religious zeal.

My woman should expect to stand at my side and beam up at me when I hold forth on family values and the value of my new Rolex; to be able to cut the lawn, and then, while pouring more fuel into the tank, give birth to our next baby, say, Ronald Reagan XII, which she will strap to her back so she can finish cutting the grass; to be cheerful in her praise of the Lord Who has given her that gray Amish dress with the word “Baby” printed across the chest and below that an arrow pointing to her forever gestating womb; and, last, to accompany me on Abortion-Doctor hunting expeditions on our weekly date nights – blessed be the Lord, Jesus Christ.

So where are you, my God-fearing embryo-growth factory?

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