Single Dad Who Uses His Kids to Get Laid


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


That’s me, one of those annoying single dads who parades his kids around parks and lingerie shows, using the tikes to break the ice with girls, like how some guys use their dogs for the same purpose (“My dog peed on your dog, let’s go out for a coffee”), or like how other guys resort to a size-20 sock shoved into their underwear as a conversation starter. I like to exploit the biological imperative that requires all ladies to smile at children, with my own precious litter going by the yuppie names of Carson and Thumper, ages four and one. Once I extort a feminine smile, I offer a sheepish grin in the hope that this exchange will make up for my total lack of conversational ability. It is also a good ruse with which to lend me the appearance of wholesome morality, though, once I drop off the product of my loins to the ex, I usually spend the night beating off to every porn site from here to Jenna Jamison’s rectum.

I talk at the top of my lungs in pre-school-teacher-speak in public places to make attractive females aware of my sensitive maternal side – and if that fails, there are always my wire-framed glasses and galoshes. Sometimes this strategy back-fires in my face like throwing a balloon filled with pizza sauce against the bathroom mirror. Last week, for instance, I was sitting with the offspring in a Hooter’s Restaurant pontificating about how, “no, Carson, the girl in the orange halter top is not a superhero!,” when a cute biker whore told me to “shut-up, you fuckin’ douche-bag!”

I am never more annoying as when, in the morning, I park the baby carriage in a coffee shop amidst tables of working people starting their day. It is true that they want peace and quiet to type on their laptops or to read the newspaper, but I am a single dad, and therefore I expect to be acknowledged as a saint, if not a hero, even when Carson yanks on the pant-leg of a lawyer, or Thumper starts screaming for no apparent reason except to make reading even a box score as difficult as solving the Rosetta Stone while sitting ringside at an Ultimate Fighting Championship. Luckily, I can always depend on some old lady to ratchet up the chaos by paying loud attention to the kids in her own version of pre-school-speak enhanced by a three-pack-a-day habit. And yet the beautiful Asian woman studying her Excel spreadsheets at the other end of the room has yet to take me home and fuck my self-absorbed brains out – this development remains a mystery.

And so, ladies, do you want to be part of my phony Full House act?

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