women seeking men – Fake/Satirical Personal Ads

I Don’t Give a Flying S**t about Your Oversized Dog!

Posted on July 17, 2017July 17, 2017 by How I Trained a Celebrity

big dog

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

WOMEN SEEKING MEN

Listen, pal, I get that you spend more time working out at the gym than you do being a sentient human being, unless you consider grunting into a full-sized mirror as behavior befitting an advance species; that you have a tattoo-band around each of your upper arms, whether it be a thorny branch, a Celtic tribal design, or a Superman comic-strip; that your garment of choice is a muscle-man T-shirt, even when attending a state funeral – yes, you dumb fuck, I get the whole ensemble as compensation for some inherent shortcoming, but do you have to take the stereotype to the extreme by owning an oversized dog that serves no other purpose than to terrorize humanity?

You see, dipshit, I have no desire to walk into your smelly apartment only to fall straight onto my back because your Doberman has seen fit to lunge for my jugular. I have not the slightest interest in sitting on the couch with you watching WWE Monday Night Raw and then having your Rottweiler mistake my leg for his daily treat of raw meat while you, the idiot, laugh at my fear of losing an essential limb. There is not a single moment on record in which I would walk through a park with you and then be guilty through association when your fucking crazed Pit-Bull mauls, maims and mutilates a small child – and afterward watch you get outraged when public opinion calls for the death of your precious killer doggie. In fact, I would be more than happy to be the one who sticks an axe in the head the homicidal Pit-Bull, and then, while still inflamed with adrenaline, remove your block head from your steroid-enhanced, fake-tanned torso.

Oh that’s right, shit-weasel, I do not believe for one second the reason you give for owning a half German Shepherd, half Boxer, half Husky, half Alaskan Malamute, Husky – oh fuck you with the math! – that reason being that you own this aggressive, lethal beast for your own personal protection. What, the chronic steroid use and MMA workouts are not sufficient for self-defense? Then you must be a real pussy! Wow you really are a scared little man jumpy at the thought of having a run-in with a big bad burglar, or a one-hundred-and-ten pound crack-head mugger, or an athletic girl like me – you poor, frightened little boy. I’m surprised you don’t own three more over-sized, man-eating dogs – oh, that’s right, you do own three more salivating, four-legged members of the species referred to as man’s best friend, if by friend you mean the agent whereby a man (or woman, or child) will contract rabies.

You know what, asshole, I honestly don’t give a fuck about you and all your over-sized dogs.

(Check out my writer website: http://www.authorjamesfjohnson.com)

I Want a Man to Tell Me Lies!

Posted on June 10, 2017June 10, 2017 by How I Trained a Celebrity

Hearing Lies

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

WOMEN SEEKING MEN

Yes, boys, honesty is a virtue and all that happy horse shit, but, come on, do I really want to hear the truth that I do indeed look fat in that dress, especially after I dropped half a week’s paycheck to buy the damn thing? Do I really want to hear you tell me that the hair on my arms makes me look like an ape, and if not an ape, then some freak in a circus act? Do you really expect me to smile when you offer an accurate description of my size-thirteen shoes as objects that could be used as boats in a flood to save a family of five? You may read the above words, and counter with, But isn’t honesty the very backbone of a good relationship? To which I say, Bullshit!

Pah-leeze, if we are being honest here, let’s just all admit to the fact that every love song is an outright fabrication. Is it really possible, according to Bruce Springsteen, for a girl’s eyes to “shine like the midnight sun?” The reality is that a lady with eyes that emit blinding beams of white light would scare the crap out of the villagers, who would burn her at the stake. But the other reality is that, Bruce, you can sing that shit to me anytime, and, what is more, I damn well may believe it.

I want to hear that you, my future boyfriend, will love me forever, though the best case scenario will be forty years tops when you take into account the one big truth that none of us can bullshit our way out of – and that’s Death. You have to give the nod to the dude who wrote the marriage vow, “Till Death do us part,” for at least expecting romanticism to abide by the laws of physics. But I say, fuck the laws of physics, and instead spin me the lie of how, in the afterlife, we will live in heavenly domestic bliss forever and ever, regardless of how you may grow tired of my Honey-to-do lists after the first two thousand years.

There was an Italian Renaissance cynic, Pietro Aretino, who wrote: “I love you, and because I love you, I would sooner have you hate me for telling you the truth than adore me for telling you lies.” Well, Signore Aretino, that’s your opinion. I will adore any man who tells me beautiful lies, even when I know they are lies, for instance that I am the most beautiful woman in the world, though People Magazine has never even heard of me; and hate any man who tells me that I look fat in my new dress, even when the dress tag reads “20.”

So I will date the man who responds to this ad with the most outrageous lies. I will even accept plagiarism, and help you in that direction by pointing you to the sappiest love-song artist of all-time, Paul McCartney:

Baby I’m amazed at the way you’re with me all the time Maybe I’m afraid of the way I leave you Baby I’m amazed at the way you help me sing my song You right me when I’m wrong Maybe I’m amazed at the way I really need you

Oh, Paul, you say the nicest things to me!

(Check out my website: http://www.authorjamesfjohnson.com)

Love Me for My Seven Bratty Kids

Posted on May 15, 2017 by How I Trained a Celebrity

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

WOMEN SEEKING MEN

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.

(Visit my website: http://www.authorjamesfjohnson.com)

“I am Not a Cat Lady” Seeks Man

Posted on May 7, 2017July 8, 2020 by How I Trained a Celebrity

Cat Lady

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

WOMEN SEEKING MEN

Men, I just want to reassure you that I am not one of THOSE cat ladies. You know the type: An old broad who owns five felines, all of whom sleep with her like inter-species hippie commune. You see, I have only four cats, and only three of them share my bed, one of whom is not allowed to rest his extra-large head on my shoulder. His name is Fat Head. There was a time when I did allow Fat Head to cuddle with me, but his whiskered Volkswagen-sized cranium caused me to lose the feeling in my throwing arm, and thus my flag-football team had to forfeit our game that week.

Sure I have round-table discussions with my Four Whisker-teers, but in my case it is not a matter of being one of those crazy ladies who talks at their pets. I am a good listener. Our resident Minx, Dorothy Parker, has so much to say – and what an imagination! Just last week, she threw off this witticism: You can bring a dog to culture, but then he barks like an idiot. We all laughed with the exception of the forever volatile Scratch-n-Sniff, who meowed out of jealousy before scratching the anus of the fourth feline member, Cy Meeze, who, in response, endured the discomfort, since he is a homophobe. Never mind that Scratch-n-Sniff is a girl. Cy Meeze once had a bad experience with a set of love beads while catting around at Mardi Gras in New Orleans.

People say that one of the prerequisites to being a cat lady is to be a fifty-five-year-old virgin, or someone who has not experienced sex with a man in the past fifteen years, or has at least not “let” a guy cop an accidental feel in a crowded bus. Well, guys, have no fear of me being that woman, as once a week I enter City Hall with the sole purpose of getting frisked by one of the security men. I am no prude.

But the security guard is just something I get on the side, like a Last Tango in the Municipal Parish. The true man in my life – and don’t get jealous, my internet suitors — is someone who I am gazing at right now on the TV with the sound turned up to the loudness of forty-six howitzers all firing away in an echo chamber. You may know my boyfriend – Brad Pitt. Scratch-n-Sniff says it won’t work between Brad and me. Yuh, and this from the same kitty whose psychotherapy practice is on the verge of bankruptcy. Why else does Brad stare at only me from the pictures of magazines? Well he has split with Angelina. Poor Angelina! So beautiful, and so blind. Luckily she has her six hundred and thirteen adopted children to fall back on for emotional comfort. I’m surprised she doesn’t own six cats, the chump.

But Brad is cool enough to not mind me dating other men…just so long as they understand that I am NOT a Cat Lady, thank you very much.

(Visit my website: http://www.authorjamesfjohnson.com)

Wanted: A Classy Man Who Can Burp the Alphabet

Posted on May 6, 2017May 6, 2017 by How I Trained a Celebrity

Burping

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

WOMEN SEEKING MEN

Who is the man of my dreams?

My man is a charming esthete who can amble through The Palazzo Medici and explain its design as a perfect blend of Classicism meeting the incipient Renaissance, and then punctuate his dissertation by burping the letters that spell the name of its chief architect, M-I-C-H-E-L-O-Z-Z-O. He can quote the great Russian poets of the nineteenth century, Pushkin and Lermontov, and, as a party trick, recite the entire Russian alphabet…in Belch-ese. He is so adept at this particular art form that, when closing his eyes at the New York Symphony, he will burp-hum Mozart’s Piano Concerto No. 24 such that the patrons in the theatre will applaud him as well as Amadeus.

This veritable god is not limited to letters and words, as he can also summon all the air in his stomach in order to enunciate numbers, too. Only a man of financial surplus can afford to visit art museums in Paris and symphonies in the Big Apple, to say nothing of origami conventions in Tokyo. Thus he is probably an investment banker who, to impress high-end clients, will guzzle down an entire sixteen ounce bottle of Pepsi before delivering a CO2-induced recitation of a gaudy monetary figure.

He is a close personal friend of Major League Baseball’s ambassador of sophistication, Derek Jeter, who, on the rare occasion when he is struggling to woo a beauty to his Yankee bedchamber, will get my man on the phone to keck Jeter’s career hit total to the woman, which always closes the deal for Captain Clutch.

I sometimes let myself fall into a swooning reverie when imagining our wedding. We stand at the altar of the Cathedral Basilica of St. Denis. I gaze up at my lover whose tuxedo has been tailored by of Gieves and Hawkes of Savile Row, while his jet-black coif has been perfected, also in London, at the esteemed Taylor and Taylor. His vast erudition and worldly taste can be ascertained with just one look into his luminous eyes. Now comes the crowning moment – yes, my dream-guy, works up another tank of belly gas and eructates the words “I do.”

(Visit my website: http://www.authorjamesfjohnson.com)

If You Propose to Me on the Jumbotron, I’ll Kill You

Posted on May 6, 2017February 28, 2022 by How I Trained a Celebrity

Raiders Girl

(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)

Liberal Woman Seeks Sissy Boy

Posted on May 6, 2017May 6, 2017 by How I Trained a Celebrity

Pelosi

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

WOMEN SEEKING MEN

First, I am a WOMAN, not a girl, or a chick, or a babe. When was the last time a WOMAN wearing a dowdy dress and galoshes was called a babe, or even a member of the fairer sex? This means that I only find humor where no one else finds it, for instance in foreign art-house movies. I am the person in the theatre breaking the oppressive silence with forced and inappropriate laughter when, say, a character named Abu discovers his sister mistaking the Ramayana for the Koran. In my opinion – and let it be established up front that I have more opinions than an uneducated Fox News pundit — to laugh at fart jokes is tantamount to being a puppet in a male-dominant society bent on electing a one-week-old fetus as President of the United States. I love all people of color, though, in my high-end neighborhood, the only time I actually meet one is when I pat one on the head after he or she has cleaned my apartment filled wall to wall with portraits of Beatrice Webb, Simone de Bouvier and Kanye West, the latter to impress people with my condescending taste for urban culture, though, if his rap music were played at full volume by my next-door neighbor, I would call the police.

My ideal man WILL never say anything nice about a registered Republican, even one who doesn’t have a nuclear warhead in his basement aimed at Nancy Pelosi; WILL forever walk with rounded shoulders in anticipation of me humiliating him in public if he commits the mistake of saying “Mankind” instead of “Humankind;” WILL cook for me and do the dishes afterward while wearing an apron on which are printed the words “I am a Stupid Man – Just Ask My Brilliant Wife;” and WILL live a green lifestyle that includes recycling his own spit.

He must be able to maintain an erection while checking down a long list of libido-crushing protocols while using correct feminist language. Below are examples of two such steps:

You should say: “May I now touch your breast to both arouse you and to check for cancerous lumps?” You should NOT say: “I’m gonna maul your heaving flesh orbs.”

You should say: “May I press one finger, not two, against your clitoris to promote vagina lubrication and to also help prevent yeast infection?” You should NOT say, “I’m gonna jam three of my butcher-sized fingers up your soaking wet gash.”

Of course there are forty-six more protocols you must follow during our beautiful and spontaneous love-making sessions, but these you can learn in the manual I will coerce you into reading called Respect Your Lover by Not Cumming!

So I will await your e-mails…and wait…and wait…

(Check out my website: http://www.authorjamesfjohnson.com)

You Will Love Me Because I am Beautiful

Posted on December 31, 2015May 6, 2017 by How I Trained a Celebrity

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

WOMEN SEEKING MEN

Angelina Jolie Seeks Sperm Donors

Posted on May 24, 2015May 6, 2017 by How I Trained a Celebrity

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

WOMEN SEEKING MEN

Angelina Jolie Seeks Sperm Donors

Hi guys, first, let me take off the eye patch that I wore in Sky Captain, and perhaps, then, you will recognize me as Saint Angelina, the photogenic lady who will embrace any leper from another country (a foreign leper is more exotic than someone with flaking limbs from Des Moines), but refuses to talk to my famous dad because he has, of late, developed ugly liver spots on what was once a beautiful, Midnight Cowboy face. There have been many noted saviors of humanity, for instance Jesus, Mother Theresa and Donald Rumsfeld, but I am moving up fast on the pantheon of celestial people, having just passed Pepin the Short for 34^th place. My goal is to rival Mother Nature as the supreme Mama of the world, maker of collective lunches far and wide, and a PTA meeting pain-in-the-ass to all and sundry. To achieve this goal, I need to be the mother of more children than can possibly be raised by my battalion of nannies – and my present husband is beginning to not share my longing for a giant brood to help promote my saintliness. In a word, I need sperm.

My friends say that I am attractive, while my stalkers consider me a veritable Helen of Troy, if not Helen Hunt if she looked like me, Angelina. Helen of Troy had the face that launched a thousand ships; well, boys, I have the lips that launched a thousand Melrose Places. Songs, operas and Italian restaurant menus have been written about my famous lips. The U.S. military has tried to recruit them as pillows for our brave men and women serving on the front line. Let’s not forget about my body that is so smoking hot that, while shooting the Tomb Raider movies, the crew on the set had to be weaned of all heterosexual men and Rosie O’Donnell, with the director, Simon West, going so far as to change his sexual orientation. In sum, to be the man to donate sperm to the luscious Angelina Jolie does not require hardship pay – and, come to think of it, I expect the donor to give me money, or, better, to contribute to the fund to elect me as the new Mother Nature.

One of the prerequisites to becoming one of my male donors is that you have the right-sounding name so that, when connected to my own name, it will sound like one name. Brad is the father of some of my children, hence Brangelina. Other possibilities are James, Jamgelina, Sam, Samgelina, and Engelbert, Engelbergelina.

I have engineers at work right now preparing my underground nest. It is modeled on the lair of the queen monster in the movie Aliens, except we have created special defense protocols to protect my hundreds of Angelina eggs from a flame-throwing Sigourney Weaver. Of course, the men who fertilize the various pods will afterward be executed within this giant womb. But, hey, at least you can die knowing you banged Angelina Jolie.

(To learn more about my book, Fake Personal Ads, or my three other books and two screenplays, visit my website: http://www.authorjamesfjohnson.com )

A Girl Who Gives the Middle Finger to the Camera

Posted on April 22, 2015May 6, 2017 by How I Trained a Celebrity

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

WOMEN SEEKING MEN

A Girl Who Gives the Middle Finger to the Camera

Hi, I am that girl who poses for pictures while holding up my middle finger. This is done for the simple reason that I am a rebel – not a rebel in the sense of being willing to live in the woods eating bark and trying to overthrow the government (though I do wear a Che Guevera T-shirt) – more a rebel because I dye my hair two colors and have the hots for vampires. I have tattoos of Chinese symbols that were copied straight from a Chinese take-out menu next to the Crab Rangoon entrée. I believe that the World Bank is evil, and that all Third World denizens are sages who understand things that will forever remain a mystery to Westerners, for instance how to take a machete to a baby Tutsi. True, I have an IRA and stock in a mutual fund, but I am still a rebel at heart as evidenced by the aforementioned middle finger that I hold up at parties while using the other hand to hold a red cup of beer. I am such a bad-ass!

I am a bad-ass by virtue of how stuntmen on television fall down when hit by one-hundred-and-ten-pound women like Lena Headey on Terminator, Eliza Dushku on The Dollhouse, Sarah Michelle Gellar on Buffy the Vampire Slayer, Jessica Alba on Dark Angel and Gabrielle Anwar in Burn Notice. Therefore I believe that I, too, with my toned body thanks to four spinning classes a week, can karate-chop any All-Pro NFL linebacker and they will simply fall to the floor in a whimpering mound of steroid-enhanced flesh.

Men, if you do not believe my claim to being a tough chick, then check out my Facebook profile – hint: I’m the one giving the camera the middle finger and wearing the tight shirt revealing a rack to rival Jennifer Love Hewitt before she became a serious actress on Ghost Whisperer. The smirk adds to my naughty mysticism, to say nothing of how I purposely misspell words on my daily comment blurb and write “feck” instead of “fuck.” No one fucks with…whoops, excuse me, no one fecks with me!

I would like to think that I am the only white girl with no muscle definition who hand-signals the words “fuck you” in photos. But truth be told, I have seen many rich college girls putting on this same bold display of personal rebellion. I trolled Facebook to find many toned, athletic girls with tattoos also presenting the single central digit to the omnipresent camera. That means that the majority of young American girls are rebels

I know there are many men out there who share my crazy and dangerous habit of addressing the camera with the universal hand signal for defiance. These are my soul mates, one of whom I hope will join me in a Holy Fuck You Photo Op, and together we will be pseudo rebels who will spawn kids that we will someday slap up-side the head if ever they pose for a family portrait holding aloft their tiny middle finger.

What bad boy can show me the hottest middle finger?

(To learn more about my book, Fake Personal Ads, or my three other books and two screenplays, visit my website: http://www.authorjamesfjohnson.com )