Love Me for My Seven Bratty Kids


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


Family is very important to me. That means that my seven children from seven different fathers should be important to you, too. Yes, sir, that is an ultimatum – no matter that you do not know me from Adam, or even from Adam Ant; no matter that my stomach has more stretch marks than Kirstie Alley after a six-month bout of anorexia; no matter that you could just as easily find one of those aging party girls with no baggage except for the need to offer unsolicited details about past lovers, especially the ones hung like rhinos; and no matter that I am always yelling at the kids if only to garner attention from people in public places while remaining oblivious that the public wants me and my chaotic brood dead, dead, dead. To repeat, any man who wants to be my lover – that is, if a quiet place can be found to do the deed — must first want to share in the lives of my seven children from Hell, and not just Hell in general, but the part of Hell that features the novels of Judith Krantz and the preserved brain of Howard Cosell.

You see, in my world, I am special by virtue of the drama inherent in my copious reproduction.  Whenever I feel myself becoming less interesting to the locals, I go to the closest biker bar and let a hairy fellow with no personality, save for a spider-web tattoo on his neck, buy me three Slim Jims, a pickled egg and a twelve beers, and then let him bang me in his trailer that tilts at an eight-degree angle due to the ongoing vibration of Guns and Roses blasting at 180 decibels. And – BAM! — nine months later I am a real-life heroine – yes, a single mom with another kid on the way with the prospective father nowhere to be found, if by nowhere you mean the same sleazy bar with the same stale slim Jims and green eggs. “How does she do it, that poor girl?” sings the Greek chorus. So-called educated people answer this question by saying, “She does it because she’s an ignorant whore.” Fuck those Yuppie assholes, I retort. Let them try being a single mom!

What I need is a man’s man, though not in the gay sense, though I have nothing against faggots, so long as they stay away from my kids, especially young Calvin, who, at six, wants nothing to do with toy trucks, preferring instead Sports Agent Barbie. His older brother, Fritz, says that at least this Sports Agent Barbie likes sports, but only after he pushes Calvin’s face into a pile of dead beetles. The man of my dreams will have no problem using a pair of pliers to yank out the continuously rotting teeth of my children; or taking the brats in their over-sized shorts (the boys) and under-sized tank tops (the girls ages four to nine) to pick trash on Tuesday mornings; or regarding my body as the Venus de Milo whenever my arms are folded into my muu-muu.

I am sure to get a ton of responses for this ad, so please do not be hurt by my rejection. Such an attractive prospect knows that she must break a lot of hearts, in particular those with a low sperm count.

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