(This is a satirical dating profile from my book, Fake Personal Ads (Or Real Personal Ads for Fake People).)
WOMEN SEEKING MEN
Hey guys, yes, I want a boyfriend, but let me lay down my one and only ground rule: If the two of us are ever getting drunk at a baseball game, and you ask me to marry you while all the stadium watches us on the jumbotron — if you do this, or are even considering such an despicable act, or have ever had a smile on your face picturing yourself on one knee holding up an engagement ring with 35,678 sports goons hanging on your every illiterate word – I say, fellows, if you are ever that man and I am that poor, unfortunate woman, I will fucking slit your adipose-insulated throat. Do I make myself clear? Got that, all you nitwits who equate fantasy football with Romeo and Juliet?
Okay, I may not slit your throat. Perhaps I will just wait until I am driving your drunken ass home from the game; and once you begin celebrating your total lack of shame by pounding your chest and pointing to the sky and thereby jamming your fingers on the car ceiling, I will unlock your door and kick you out onto the freeway to be run over by an eighteen-wheeler.
Boy, if you want to be in a relationship, you should at least have the decency to once in a while converse on a topic that was not introduced to you by some clown commentator on ESPN; or to not employ a sports metaphor for every occasion – yeah, fuck-wad, going to my sister’s baby shower is NOT a march into the red zone. And, for the love of Phil Simms, do not light candles for a romantic dinner using a New York Giants lighter.
And again, motherfucker, if you ever turn to me at a ball game with the smug expression of a gay florist, though you have the facial topography of a bulldog, and pull out some Mickey Mouse ring (probably bought during one of your gambling jaunts to Vegas), and I look up to see you and a mortified me on that fucking jumbotron (which, by the way, represents the downfall of civilization) – if this happens, I promise you, asshole, that I will track you down to the end of the earth, or, more likely, to the closest sports bar, and blow your head off with a Joe Montana-autographed shotgun – and I hope this justified murder is broadcast on the jumbotron as a lesson to all you no-imagination, non-poetic, chest-painting fools.
All right, fellows, drop me a fucking e-mail.
(Visit my website: http://www.authorjamesfjohnson.com)