Pardon me m’am

As much as I appreciate the zombie Mr. T you sketched (that is hung on our refrigerator, by the way), there are a few things we need to set straight. I had reservations about you from the beginning; I thought you might suffer from a chronic case of Cool Kid Syndrome.

Despite my feminine appearance, I have a long history of having dated nerds/geeks. Some of them played table top RPGs, some were programmers, most of them were socially awkward. I am a nerd. I have mad nerd pride. I learn things for no good reason, think science is the coolest thing EVAR, sometimes snort when I laugh, and get the XKCD jokes. Perhaps it was the black-framed glasses and my state of well-groomedness, but you had somehow mistaken me for a Reg. And then you DISPARAGED MY PEOPLE.

This is unforgivable. Nerds have long suffered at the hands of jocks and at the jabs of hipsters like yourself. I don’t tolerate that shit. Weighing in at around 145 pounds and spending your days flipping through vinyls and sketching in your Moleskin leads me to believe that I can totally take you in a fist fight. Or simply mess up your faux hawk and send you packing on your fixed-gear, singing My Chemical Romance to yourself through the tears leaking out under your aviator sunglasses.

From that moment on, I refused to talk to you. I stopped calling you by your name and, instead, began referring to you as “Toolbox.”

My roommate, who was desperate for attention, wanted to be friends with you. She scoffed at my suggestion that you were only hanging around to get in her pants. Her dating life has been not-so-great since we moved to Austin. She either skipped, or was asleep during, the life lesson on humility. That’s fine for dudes because she has big knockers, but women have been less receptive, and I suspect that it has something to do with all conversations being steered towards her. As she is new to the whole “lesbian thing” I can forgive her for falling of the cootch wagon and sleeping with a guy or two along the trail. But why, oh sweet Jesus why, did it have to be you?

After that one time you did my lesbian roommate, you didn’t come a callin’. I sometimes lie awake at night and speculate… Was it just for the thrill of the lesbian conquest? Cock beats all? Or was it because she did the pretty girl I’m-going-to-lay-here-like-a-dead-fish-while-you-do-me thing? I accept that correlation does not necessarily indicate causation but I’m highly suspicious of your intentions, sir. Either way, she has instead chosen to blame me for your recent attendance record.

Even if that were the case, your fear of me was only powerful enough to keep you away after you dipped it in my vag gnoshing roommie. Thank you for making domestic relations difficult.

This interaction has only reinforced the judgments I pass on people in skinny jeans.

• Location: North

Date: 2010-02-17, 3:26PM EST

Gentlemen,

Here are some words of semi-wisdom from a real live 30-something woman on how to up your chances that a real, live woman will respond to your post.

1. She probably won’t. That’s right – women really do rule the roost here. Respond to her post. But…

2. If you are up for a challenge and can write funny (you know who you are), then you definitely have an advantage.

3. If you’re not sure whether or not you can write funny, you can’t. See points below.

4. Stop whining about getting spam. You are a man posting on CL. You will get spam. Deal.

5. Put your age in your ad.

6. If you’re a man 25 years or younger, go to a bar and get rejected in person. It builds character.

7. Unless a woman asks you to send you a picture of your penis, refrain from emailing or putting this type of picture in your post. I believe there is this thing called “internet porn” (perhaps you have heard about it) where I can look at all the penises I want to.

8. The “I wonder if he is a serial killer” photo. Oh, you know what I’m talking about. The photo shot of your bare torso in the mirror sans head. Id rather see no picture at all because all I can think about is “It rubs the lotion on it’s skin or else it gets the hose again” from The Silence of the Lambs. But if you are looking to give off the serial killer vibe, then you’re on the right track!

9. HEADLINES IN ALL CAPS will only get you noticed because its fucking annoying. Lets look at an example. FACE DOWN ,ASS Up and let me HANDLE it. Oh, yes, Im all over that. It made me really hot that you apparently dont know where a comma should go. Oh yeah baby.

10. For all you $$ generous guys out there your prices are way too low, especially if you want that hot college coed. $2000/month for up for 4-5 times a month is a good market value price to begin with. And, no, I am not a pro.

11. Speaking of non-pro only did I miss the day where people stopped using the word hooker or is that just a sly enough euphemism so that your post wont get removed? Does this mean that us non-pros are not pros in the bedroom because youre not paying for sex?

8. You write defensively and are mad as hell and are not going to take it anymore. Example: “I’m a hot guy with really high standards. I make a lot of money. What is up with all the fat chicks here? Im so sick of this shit. If you email me, send my your stats AND a picture. I mean, I’m a hot guy.” And blah, blah blah…
Gee, I like nothing more than going out with someone who is angry, defensive and who is incredibly sexually frustrated. Good times!

If you are that bent out of shape, call a hooker. Nothing wrong with that, as long as you’re safe. I’ll save the “non-pro only” commentary for another time.

9. Run spell check, use apostrophes (e.g., “ur” instead of “your or you’re”) and there’s this thing called a space bar that should have come with your computer – use it.

10. Women will most likely not list their weight in a post. Swap photos in the first or second email exchange. If she’s reluctant to send a picture, this could be a red flag or she may not know how to use any basic computer program where she can send a photo showing her body type without her face. Come to think of it, this could be a red flag as well.

11. There are no real 18-22 year old women who post here. I know this comes as a shock. Take a couple of deep breaths. It will be okay.

12. Avoid the use of the following phrases and words: Asian pearl (are you kidding me?!) and Yearning for Asian poontang (even if I was Asian, I would want you as far away from my poontang as possible).

Happy hunting!

Location: Hampton Roads
it’s NOT ok to contact this poster with services or other commercial interests

Gentlemen,

Here are some words of semi-wisdom from a real live 30-something woman on how to up your chances that a real, live woman will respond to your post.

1. She probably won’t. That’s right – women really do rule the roost here. Respond to her post. But…

2. If you are up for a challenge and can write funny (you know who you are), then you definitely have an advantage.

3. If you’re not sure whether or not you can write funny, you can’t. See points below.

4. Stop whining about getting spam. You are a man posting on CL. You will get spam. Deal.

5. Put your age in your ad.

6. If you’re a man 25 years or younger, go to a bar and get rejected in person. It builds character.

7. Unless a woman asks you to send you a picture of your penis, refrain from emailing or putting this type of picture in your post. I believe there is this thing called “internet porn” (perhaps you have heard about it) where I can look at all the penises I want to.

8. The “I wonder if he is a serial killer” photo. Oh, you know what I’m talking about. The photo shot of your bare torso in the mirror sans head. Id rather see no picture at all because all I can think about is “It rubs the lotion on it’s skin or else it gets the hose again” from The Silence of the Lambs. But if you are looking to give off the serial killer vibe, then you’re on the right track!

9. HEADLINES IN ALL CAPS will only get you noticed because its fucking annoying. Lets look at an example. FACE DOWN ,ASS Up and let me HANDLE it. Oh, yes, Im all over that. It made me really hot that you apparently dont know where a comma should go. Oh yeah baby.

10. For all you $$ generous guys out there your prices are way too low, especially if you want that hot college coed. $2000/month for up for 4-5 times a month is a good market value price to begin with. And, no, I am not a pro.

11. Speaking of non-pro only did I miss the day where people stopped using the word hooker or is that just a sly enough euphemism so that your post wont get removed? Does this mean that us non-pros are not pros in the bedroom because youre not paying for sex?

8. You write defensively and are mad as hell and are not going to take it anymore. Example: “I’m a hot guy with really high standards. I make a lot of money. What is up with all the fat chicks here? Im so sick of this shit. If you email me, send my your stats AND a picture. I mean, I’m a hot guy.” And blah, blah blah…
Gee, I like nothing more than going out with someone who is angry, defensive and who is incredibly sexually frustrated. Good times!

If you are that bent out of shape, call a hooker. Nothing wrong with that, as long as you’re safe. I’ll save the “non-pro only” commentary for another time.

9. Run spell check, use apostrophes (e.g., “ur” instead of “your or you’re”) and there’s this thing called a space bar that should have come with your computer – use it.

10. Women will most likely not list their weight in a post. Swap photos in the first or second email exchange. If she’s reluctant to send a picture, this could be a red flag or she may not know how to use any basic computer program where she can send a photo showing her body type without her face. Come to think of it, this could be a red flag as well.

11. There are no real 18-22 year old women who post here. I know this comes as a shock. Take a couple of deep breaths. It will be okay.

12. Avoid the use of the following phrases and words: Asian pearl (are you kidding me?!) and Yearning for Asian poontang (even if I was Asian, I would want you as far away from my poontang as possible).

Happy hunting!

Just kidding! You sure are gullible though, you fucking pervert.

I am a very career-focused, attractive, 5’9, 120lb woman who is seeking a man who is willing to fulfill my ultimate sexual fantasy. I am an executive with a very successful corporation that keeps me very busy and I sometimes have difficulty finding men who share similar interests to my own in the bedroom.

Nothing turns me on more then Jurassic Park themed role play. You must be the animatronic dinosaur, and I must be the helpless child (Tim or Lex) stuck in the park at your mercy.

You will growl mechanically into my ear and stare threateningly. I will feign panic and search for the flash light in the back seat of the visitor jeep. You will sniff at the window slowly and then release a robotic roar into the night air. I scream for Alan Grant, but your over sized robot jaws come crashing down through the overhead window, pinning me to the floor.

I cannot stress this enough however, you must play as a ROBOTIC dinosaur. This is very specific, my interest lie entirely in animatronic dinosaurs, not real ones. I thought I should mention this as there have been unfortunate miscommunications in the past, leading to performances that have left me without an orgasm.

Other situations could include you being the dilophasaurus and spitting in my face and then going for my jugular. Or you could be the ill and moaning triceratops, and I would be Ellie Sadler, digging through your stool to find the source of the ailment. More or less any scene from the film involving a mechanical dinosaur interacting with a human will do fine.

I don’t like wasting my time, so make sure you do your homework and watch the film and make sure you can fully embrace the mindset of an animatronic dinosaur. I am an incredibly sexual person and I would make it a blockbuster night that you would never forget.

Seeking a tall, well-muscled insomniac to indulge a very particular fantasy. I would like to see you lie motionless on a green-and-cream chintz bedspread, face-up, wearing only your plaid boxer shorts, with your arms crossed on your chest like a corpse at an open-casket funeral. You will sleep like a cat, and I will watch you, ignore you, go out for a coffee, or possibly photograph you with my BlackBerry. When you awaken, we will watch low-quality American television and eat coconut sorbet.

Snorers, sheet-stealers, seafood-eaters and those with a post-CEGEP education need not apply.

• Location: Clarion hotel

I know that all your ex-girlfriends are ‘psychos.’ I’ve heard all about them since hardly a day goes by that you don’t make some eye-rolling reference to ‘that crazy bitch’ who practically ruined your life and then went off and married some successful ‘douchebag’ leaving you to troll local college bars in search of no-strings-attached ass while she enjoys quiet weekends at home with her new in-laws in Connecticut. That selfish, cunt. I know that you don’t think I could ever be as good of a ‘psycho ex’ as she was. But, I assure you. I can. I’ll be such a raving lunatic nutcase – you won’t even remember her when I’m through with you. Try me. For starters – I am great in bed. Isn’t that how all the ‘crazy’ ones start out? You’ll meet me at some party through some friend of a friend of a friend who knows I have ‘whacko’ potential but will fail to mention this to the chain of people through whom we are introduced because…quite frankly, our friends don’t really care enough about either of us to keep our best interests in mind. Alternatively, they *do* have our best interests in mind but know that our dramatic personalities and overwhelming egos are forces too powerful for even the most friendly, logical advice. Thus, they abort all attempts to keep us apart and allow us to get drunk and grope each other publicly, shaking their heads all the while because..this shit is gonna’ blow up big time. Meantime, we’ll already be upstairs, half undressed where you’ll be too drunk to censor yourself so you’ll make overly generous blubbering commentary about how ‘sexy’ I am (as I knock into a table lamp with swanlike grace). You’ll also rave on and on about how I have the greatest tits you’ve ever seen and am ‘fucking amazing’ on all other fronts (as if I didn’t know). Compared to the four other chicks you’ve banged, this will be the best sex of your life. And as soon as we’re done, you’ll start forming a mental list of which buddies you are going to text message first about this while at the same time wondering if you could possibly spend the rest of your life with me. In the sobering light of morning, you’ll forget that you wanted to spend the rest of your life with me and instead opt for a “two-night stand” but you’ll quickly realize that I am having none of that and somehow weasle my way into staying over, cooking breakfast and reading your newspaper. I will also have conveniently brought my toothbrush and some sanitary products which I quickly store in your bathroom cabinets since ‘I’m going to be spending a lot of time at your place.’ Your Maxim magazines will go from the top of the toilet to the bottom of the wastebasket because I find them ‘offensive’ and ‘immature.’ Later that day, you’ll log onto Facebook and find out that I’m ‘in a relationship’…with you. Yay! At first, you’ll think it’s creepy but then (due to your inferiority complex) you’ll take it as a compliment and change your relationship status too. Within an hour, you’ll receive 57 new notifications which indicate that I’ve commented on every photo in your album in which you appear with an unidentified female. Your relationships with these family members, college friends and co-workers will quickly disintegrate as you mistake my obsession for passion and declare your undying commitment to me and stop returning other people’s calls. Friends will caution you but you’ll be too blinded by my mind-blowing felatio technique to notice anything. Besides, I’ve explained that they’re just jealous of our love. Together, our poor self images will have us each convinced that the other is cheating. We’ll fight about it all the time. Non-stop. On our ‘good days’ we’ll shower each other with undeserved gifts and sexual favors and the accusatory banter will be minimal – though still prevalent. Things will be going ‘pretty well’ for a while until one night your phone battery dies and you fall asleep early – forcing me into an incoherent panic. Six unreturned voicemails and text messages will lead me to believe only the worst – you ARE cheating on me! To confirm my suspicions, I will immediately log into all your personal accounts – since you are so technologically oblivious you left your passwords saved on my computer – and find a message to be mad about. It will likely be a harmless flirtation from a platonic friend who lives six states away that pushes me over the edge. Unable to reach her or you – I will scramble into my car and drive barefoot to your apartment where I will ride up on the curb knocking over an unsuspecting potted plant. The commotion outside will rouse you from your slumber and you’ll stumble bleary- eyed to the window just in time to see me throw the car in reverse and plow into your beloved Huyndai Elantra. In short order, the police will come, I will cry, you will shout, your landlord will evict you and your insurance company will drop you. On the bright side, our names will be forever emblazoned together onto a county police report. Despite all this, it will take another several months for you to come to your senses and break-up with me. Knowing that I am a ticking bomb, you will execute this in the kindest, most reasonable way possible. You will make every effort to lift my spirits by explaning that “It’s not you, it’s me.” and that “I deserve someone better.” All this, to no avail. The only way you can truly be rid of me is to change your phone number and move across the country where you’ll make new friends and find a new insecure girlfriend to emotionally abuse for months until she finally reaches her psychological breaking point and throws a wine glass at you and storms out of a restaurant. Everyone will be looking at you, dripping in Pinot Noir with an astonished look on your face. In your head you’ll be thinking, “Ha. That was nothing. You should see my Huyndai Elantra.” And, that, is why I’ll be the best psycho ex-girlfriend you’ve ever had.

You are fucking kidding, right? Just so I’ve got this straight; you want me to lick your pussy for hours and pay you for it??

I’ll tell you what…. instead, why not pop round to my flat, worship my feet, suck my cock, make me cum and swallow the lot, then make me dinner, tidy my flat, wash up and do my ironing while I play Gran Tourismo (don’t worry – I’ll lift my feet up so you can hoover round me). And then you can leave the cash on the table on your way out.