Ladies, I am an Awesome Liar

Liar Liar

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


Ladies like to complain that men are liars and that, as a result, ladies want no liars, which is to say that they want no man, though they want a man. I am here to say that if all men are liars, then why not go all the way and date the greatest liar of them all – ME.

I once lied that I had AIDS just so I could have a buffet table all to myself at a Tea Party convention. Another time I misrepresented myself as mulatto in order to gain entrance and tuition to MIT, though I am about as good at science as I am at speaking the truth. And how can I forget the time I called in sick to work saying that “I” had just died, and that the viewing was scheduled for tonight, so I needed the day off to, first, make myself available for embalming, and, second, to buy a new suit to wear later when grieving over the coffin filled with my own lifeless body – but that, boss, I should be in tomorrow to finish that project I started last week.

As such, I can be the guy who, if you have an ass the size of a Volkswagen, will tell you that I have never seen such a tight, heart-shaped rump in all my days roving the strip-club circuit; who, if you are duller than trampled sheet-metal, will claim that I have never met a funnier, wittier lady this side of Sarah Silverman; who, if you own a hideous harelip, will press my hand against my fibbing heart, and profess to you that even Angelina Jolie would die for such a pretty mouth.

Hell, I’ll lie that I love you with all the love that Antony felt for Cleopatra just before his love cost them both their lives, to say nothing of two huge pieces of prime real estate. I’ll lie that, honey, I love your irritating dog, or your eye-scratching cat, or your imaginary friend, Cybil. I’ll lie that I love dancing, cooking, reading poetry and all that other rarefied stuff just to fulfill your fantasy of having a gay boyfriend with eyes for only you, a girl. I will dissemble about your choice of clothes, that, yes, dear, you should wear that trashy halter top to the charity fund-raising ball. I will keep a perfectly straight face when informing you that even though you read and follow the advice of mass-produced woman’s magazines, that you are nonetheless a unique gal who marches to her own drum.

Yes, ladies, I will lie to you like how you lie to yourself, even better, spinning such a gorgeous web of deceit around your spinning head as to make you feel special, loved and worshipped.


(Check out my website:

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?

(Visit my website:

“Not the Toy Train Set Guy” Seeks Lady

Train Set Guy

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


Please, ladies, do not be misinformed about my identity, as it would be inaccurate, if not mean-spirited, to call me a “guy who would rather play with his little choo-choo trains than bed down with a naked, voluptuous, sex-crazed woman who wants to take him around the track a few times.” It is true that I may have a perfect replica of the Union Pacific traveling over the Great Divide, but it is just a hobby that I do on the side when I am not doing anything else, which just happens to be all the time. I am no different from the man whose hobby is dressing up in aerodynamic cycling garb so skin-tight that his genitals stand out in more detail than the bas-relief on the Arch of Galerius while he peddles around with a Lance Armstrong-inspired gang of like-minded people, all of whom treat the road as if it were their private track and, in the process, cause a mile-long traffic jam in their huffing and puffing wake. Sure the bicycle guy is the more in-shape male specimen, but his constant sitting on a wedge cuts off the blood flow to his weenie. In other words, neither of us gets laid, but at least my sexual engine is capable of going choo-choo if only a boxcar of a woman would be willing to form a connection.

            It’s not like I don’t have other interests. I possess a formidable knowledge of Russian history and geography, which I just so happened to put to good use when constructing a miniature version of the Trans-Siberian Railway from Moscow to Vladivostok as envisioned by Czar Nicholas II. I am a self-taught electrical engineer who convinced himself that he was not learning Kirchhoff’s First Law so that he could create an original train set, that it was only a coincidence that he went on to design his own Digital Control Command to power an Atlas-Bachmann hybrid for a Santa Fe reenactment in his backyard. My interests are so eclectic that there was a time when I immersed myself in both the art of graffiti and New York Yankee lore, though we should ignore the product of this “research” – i.e., an impressive rendition of a vandal-spray-painted D Train passing outside right field of the famed Bronx landmark. So you see, ladies, I am in no way that Toy Train Set Guy.

            For argument’s sake, say I am that guy. What would be so bad about you, a sexy lady, hunkering down with me in my basement as we thrill at the bell and whistle sound of a Lionel – and I am not talking about Lionel Ritchie. Oh to cuddle with you as we watch our scaled facsimile of the Orient Express and imagine ourselves in one of the sleeping cars traveling from Paris to Bucharest – and remember that, unlike the cyclist with the wedge forever wedged in his crotch, I am a fully functional male…who just happens to like model trains.

(Visit my website:

Wanted: A Classy Woman Who Takes a lot of Dumps

Woman on toilet

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


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:

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:

Brad Pitt Seeks Non-Do-Gooder


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


My friends say that I am handsome, while other “People” have called me numero uno in the beefcake department, and numero dos in the teriyaki steak department behind Dylan McDermott, who used to be a delivery boy for a Chinese restaurant. So why am I not getting laid? Because I am married to Joan of Arc, a martyr to a greater cause, that being her own massive Messiah Complex; a girl who, by the way, has no problem making movies wherein she blows up cities while wearing an eye patch. My therapist told me that perhaps the eye patch changed my wife from a shallow, bi-polar nymphomaniac who once issued the most libel-proof statement of all time when she told reporters that a romp with then husband, Billy Bob, was the best sex of all time, to what she is now – Saint Angelina who believes that her mental illness can be diffused if passed onto enough offspring.

You know, girls, I live with the damn woman, and even I have lost count of the total number of our “children,” whether adapted from a Tibetan orphanage, or spawned from our Hollywood seed and egg, or found in a basket floating, abandoned, along the Shenandoah River. Nowadays, whenever I am trying to enjoy a moment of non-screaming-kid peace and quiet, with my legs propped up on a recliner and reading a Hustler Magazine, and some new toddler runs around the corner, I barely register surprise – only dread that, in 15 years, I will be financing more than 50 college educations. I just hope the Republicans do not destroy Social Security – or I am truly fucked.

I used to be the ultimate playa, as the only pick-up line I needed was to snap my fingers. Sometimes I mixed it up by snapping thumb to ring finger, or, when in an especially creative mood, using thumb and pinkie (Juliette Lewis fell for that one). Those were days…and long hot sweaty nights that often ended with me climbing out of a window and running for my fancy sports car.

Now I wear four baby harnesses at a time, as onlookers often mistake me for a tree that sprouts Third World babies from my trunk. Or I am following my wife to some godforsaken danger zone where there are more guns than shoes – and no DVD players! Or, on a savior mission to Sierra Leone, the missus is hectoring me to, c’mon Brad, hold that HIV-infected, malaria-ridden, open-sored, one-limbed child and kiss him on the forehead!

In short, what I am looking for are a few ladies, preferably from Jersey, who just want to have a good time, who, if they want to save the world, would rather do it one beer or sexual position at a time. Such ladies think that Darfur is a lottery scratch ticket, Famine is the name of a rock band, and genocide is a form of mouthwash. And don’t worry about the wife – she is too busy saving humanity to notice naughty human behavior right in front of her pretty, self-righteous eyes.

(Visit my website:

Conservative Man Seeks Baby-Making Machine

Paul Ryan

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


I am man who is so conservative that, to me, Rush Limbaugh is Alec Baldwin with three extra chins and an optional ass-cheek. I live so far to the right that my neighbor to the right is the same Jehovah who turned Lot’s wife into a pillar of salt, though not before cancelling her state health plan, since there was no room for socialism in the Old Testament. I am such a Republican that I named all eight of my children Ronald Reagan, and would have designated the next eight by the same great name had my wife not died of terror when informed of my plan. In a word, what I seek is a second wife with a uterus more fertile than a nutrient-rich culture dish of phototrophic bacteria to bear me at least another eight Ronald Reagans – and if girls, then Ann Coulters.

I am a religious conservative, which means that I view science as a bunch of malarkey, though I have no problem enjoying the fruits of the scientific method in the form of computers, SUVs and hair-transplant surgery — stuff that would never have come into existence if, in the past, religious people had been allowed to burn all smart people at the stake. It also means that I speak of the non-materialistic Jesus as our Lord and Savior, but, in practice, I chase the holy dollar with all the persistence of a celebrity-hound hair-stylist from Des Moines chasing down Lindsa Lohan through an airport terminal.

I believe every word of the Bible, especially the part that decrees that a bride shall be stoned to death if she is not a virgin on coming to the altar. (Make sure, Jenna Jameson, you strumpet, to wear a suit of armor on the day after your wedding!) I have swallowed whole – sorry, the Jameson reference still lingers in my sinful mind – nay, I take as gospel the story of Noah somehow fitting a set of all one-hundred-million of the Earth’s animal and insect species, including Polar Bears from the Arctic and Green Anaconda snakes from the Amazon Rain Forest, onto an ark no bigger than Pat Robertson’s Lincoln Town Car. Yes, my faith is strong, and I expect my next fetus-incubator to share my religious zeal.

My woman should expect to stand at my side and beam up at me when I hold forth on family values and the value of my new Rolex; to be able to cut the lawn, and then, while pouring more fuel into the tank, give birth to our next baby, say, Ronald Reagan XII, which she will strap to her back so she can finish cutting the grass; to be cheerful in her praise of the Lord Who has given her that gray Amish dress with the word “Baby” printed across the chest and below that an arrow pointing to her forever gestating womb; and, last, to accompany me on Abortion-Doctor hunting expeditions on our weekly date nights – blessed be the Lord, Jesus Christ.

So where are you, my God-fearing embryo-growth factory?

(Visit my website:

You Will Love Me Because I am Tall, Period

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


You Will Love Me Because I am Tall, Period

You silly girl, do I even have to write a damn dating profile after having listed my height at six-foot-five? The fact is that you will love me for no other reason except that I am taller than an NBA-ready giraffe, or that you will stay in love with me for no other reason except that a TALL man makes YOU look good in public. Your true goal, far above having a husband that actually gives a shit about you, is to have awestruck ladies, the competition, ask you “So how tall is your boyfriend?” — while you assume the egomaniacally shit-eating grin of a no-talented diva twirling about on the red carpet at the Oscars — and answer, “Oh, six-five.” In a word, I am the ultimate accessory, just ahead of diamond earrings, 5-K Run T-shirts and  full-arm tattoos — and without me as your beau, you are just another gal trying to impress people with how you and your friends had a blast on a recent Caribbean cruise and how the crew on the boat will not soon forget you crazy girls, though, in reality, the crew already forgot about you with the arrival of next week’s standard group of hokey girls from Tennessee. You will love me for one reason and one reason only, because I am TALL, period.

Your obsession with wearing high-heels is more important to you than the actual man, which is fine with me, since I, too, am shallow, if not more superficial, as evidenced by how I could care less about what lies below the surface, unless it be the nachos below the cheese. Therefore allow me to laugh to the point of superior tears when noticing that shorter girls desire my towering height more than do taller girls, though, let’s be real, the juxtaposition of my six-five to your five-two makes us look like a damn freak show, which is all the more laughable when looking down to see your worshipful face mounted on your craning neck. Of course, the sex — well, the logistics are less than congruent, not unlike a grizzly bear trying to mount a Chihuahua. But, hey, you would rather forgo a great, comprehensive sex life done in private in exchange for your greater need to receive public acclaim on an hourly basis by having the Empire State Building for a boyfriend.

I will never lift any of my long fingers for you, since, well, I really don’t have to do anything for you except be TALL, which, hey, requires only that I stand at your side thinking about my fantasy football team. If you wanted a man who dotes on you, strives for you, writes you love songs, cooks for you, adores you, makes you laugh (out loud), then you would be with a short guy, since they HAVE to try harder to woo the ladies. But we, my semi-love – I being your total-love – will just mock that poor, groveling chump. The hilarious fact is that you will stretch and bend the very laws of commonsense to attribute to me a noble quality that does not exist, even on a molecular level, within my arrogant persona, yet you will totally ignore a veritable Gandhi/Romeo/Einstein/Jerry Seinfeld if he comes packaged in a five-foot-six frame.

Yes, you will love me because I am TALL, period.


(To learn more about my book, Fake Personal Ads, or my three other books and two screenplays, visit my website: )

A Guy Who Folds His Arms for the Camera

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


A Guy Who Folds His Arms for the Camera


Here’s the deal: A man doesn’t need a personality if he can stand sideways toward a camera, or toward a crowd, or toward his plumber, and fold his arms in a pose that suggests someone being asked to rake the leaves but who would rather stare at a marble statue of Mitt Romney. Then, to increase his personality quotient without resorting to his inept conversational skills, he can wear dark, menacing sunglasses, as if Mr. Smith from The Matrix will at any moment appear to fight him in slow motion; and if that still leaves him a few points shy of being perceived as an interesting raconteur, he can grow the goatee – not a goatee, the goatee — thus giving him the Holy Trinity of male personality props: The Folded Arms, The Sunglasses and The Goatee.

You see, ladies, I equate folding my arms with human sentience because it once worked on a hot lady professor of Endocrinology. Imagine us, you and me, seated at an outdoor café, and you are reading The New York Times. You raise your eyes from the Book Review section, and say, “Hon, it turns out that Sartre believed that the carbon atom is an illusion.” Sure I could reply that Sartre was constructed from carbon atoms, which would have made him an illusion professing his own illusionary status, but such a rebuttal would require an education and a scintillating wit. Instead I drop the shades over my eyes and fold my arms and hope to hell that The Goatee alone is offering you a decent rejoinder, or at least the illusion that such a silent, mysterious man such as myself has no need to comment on a French philosopher who never once gave thought to getting a thorn branch tattoo around his biceps.

Would you not desire a man who is so busy folding his arms in a permanent pose of self-importance that he allows old ladies to hold open doors for him? That he would rather let a child drown in a river than break his American Chopper character? That the only time he makes haste is to rush in front of someone taking a picture of their friends so to give them a digital reminder of my bad-ass pose?

But I am here for you, girls, to help you lose weight and stay fit. How? By letting you do all the work in bed while I do my thing with the folded arms and the cold stare. I will even twist my torso so that, while you go down on me, you can view my tough-guy pose at a brooding angle, which, of course, will only increase your oral ardor.

Remember, in today’s world of romance, image is everything – as a picture of your boyfriend arrayed in the Holy Trinity of The Folded Arms, The Sunglasses and The Goatee trumps a good conversation and having a door held for you as you enter a hockey game. It is more important that your friends marvel at the pic of your pseudo-thuggish mate on your Facebook profile than it is for us to engage in an actual relationship involving intimacy and me telling you that your eyes shine like a million suns.

So line up, girls, and I will fold my arms and nod to the girl of my choice.

(To learn more about my book, Fake Personal Ads, or my three other books and two screenplays, visit my website: )