(This is a satirical dating profile from my book, Fake Personal Ads (Or Real Personal Ads for Fake People).)
MEN SEEKING WOMEN
Who is the woman of my dreams?
My woman can tell the difference between a Matisse and a Monet, and then sit upon the throne and drop fecal matter like Jackson Pollack during an especially active paint-dripping session. She can read the part of Viola or Lady Macbeth, and still find time to dispel a buffalo wing dinner. She can play a Beethoven sonata while working up a shit that would put to shame the best work of Dom DeLuise. She can walk through a charity function with the poise of the Queen of England…straight to the header to do her business. She has impeccable table manners and an unimpeachable desire to unleash yesterday’s chili beans.
She has the wit and vocabulary to converse on any topic from Ancient Sumerian mythology to the entire cinematic canon of Truffaut, and the lungs to let out a grunt when squeezing out the last tootsie roll. She always wears smart attire and the perfect amount of make-up, as if weighed on a scale overseen by Helen Gurley Brown, none of which is ever out of place upon emerging from a violent bout on the potty. She is yin and yang, sheet and I-sheet-you-not, and so down to earth that she makes sure to supply the fertilizer. She is the love of my life, and together we shall scent the land with our gastronomical perfume.
I picture us, you and I, walking hand-in-hand through the Louvre and stopping before Titian’s breathtaking The Entombment, and then you turning to one of the guides to ask, “Ou sont les toilettes, s’il vous plait?” – your polite way of saying, “Where’s the goddamn shitter?” Imagine, afterward, the love that will swell in my heart as I watch you hobble down the hallway for relief hoping, in the name of all things Renaissance, against an accident befouling of your trousers.
This is my dream, or, yes, to quote, and amend, Shakespeare:
We are such stuff as dreams are made on,
And our life, is rounded with sleep,
And infused with frequent trips to the crapper.
(Visit my website: http://www.authorjamesfjohnson.com)