I Want to Propose to a Lady on the Jumbotron


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


Hi, girls, you may know me as the guy who wants a girlfriend but who also wants, at the same time, to soak his malfunctioning brain in professional sports morning, noon and night – and to hell with re-runs of Law and Order. I listen to sports radio like a drug addict staring at a vial of crack, and have been known to suffer from hypertension when a certain host forgives A-Rod for being rich, famous and someone who pays to have a manicure. I talk with a fat face about NBA officiating and the laziness of modern athletes, all the while being the owner of a huge beer belly that is camouflaged under a series of game jerseys, which, to me, is the same thing as being out there on the gridiron running fly patterns – that is, if I could jog more than ten yards without collapsing from exhaustion with nacho sauce all over my mug. I wear a goatee because that is what an out of shape white man with no athletic ability does in an effort to strike fear into the cashiers at the supermarket. In sum, I would not know how to talk, in romantic language, to a girl if Shakespeare sat in the press box coaching me through a headset.

BUT I can buy a gal a matching team jersey so that the two of us can hold up stupid signs at a game with the goal of attracting a television camera, whereupon we can get all jacked up and shout that WE are number one! Afterward I can punch you on the arm to indicate that I think you’re a smoking hot babe, and you can retaliate by smacking my gelatinous ass like how a coach does his players on the sidelines. We can drink eight-dollar beers, since I am so classy as to not mind paying extra cash to get my honey a good buzz-on so to minimize the awkwardness of our conversation about which steroid era baseball records should be eliminated from the books.

My own personal championship will be broadcast on the jumbotron when I propose to you, my number one fan, my giant-foam-finger-toting cheerleader, with her face painted the team colors. I will be wearing my baseball hat backward like James Bond…if James Bond was an idiot. You will hear me utter my first non-sports related words during our entire year-long relationship, most of which was spent at courtside yelling at our team of underachievers – and those words will be: “Will you marry me after the game…unless it goes into extra innings?” I know, I know, that question did include the words “game” and “extra innings,” but, hey, call me a romantic.

(Visit my website: http://www.authorjamesfjohnson.com)

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