Show me you’re not all the same. - 26
Through my dealings with the fairer sex throughout my life, I have become completely disillusioned with females and have now resorted to the internet in an effort to find one that I can at least tolerate for extended periods of time.
You want to know about me? I’ll tell you what I’m not.
1) I am not your father. I will not tolerate childish bullshit when you don’t get your way and I will not throw money at you to shut you up.
2) I am not your hobby. That’s why you have friends.
3) I am not someone who puts the toilet seat down after I urinate. You’re a big girl now and if you can’t be bothered to so much as look at where you’re about to park your ass, you deserve the cold embrace of toilet water.
As a staunch rationalist, I realize you’re probably every bit as bitter with men as I am with your cunt compatriots. My theory is you have not yet lost all hope so we can end our days in perpetual bliss or whatever storybook bullshit those cookie cutter girls get off on.
My ideal woman takes care of herself to some degree. We can’t help certain aspects of our appearance, but if you don’t bathe regularly and have eaten yourself fat it demonstrates a fatal lack of respect for yourself that one would expect to bleed into other aspects of your behavior.
Send me an email that makes me think, laugh, or hope. For the love of a God in which I don’t even believe, just someone show me you’re not all the same.
Meet Peter, the number one reason mermaids break into applause when they discover they don't have a vagina.
But if you do have a vagina, congratulations. Peter would like to introduce himself to you, followed by kicking your dog in the nuts.
Peter recently sat down to write a personal ad but ended up writing an obituary for his own balls. If "I am not someone who puts the toilet seat down after I urinate" is your siren song for the ladies Peter, then I suggest you entertain your sperm with a Travel Scrabble and some comfortable folding chairs. Here's a familiar word they can start with: Sweatsock.
Yet WWHM cannot help but suckle sweetly from the engorged teat of irony; Peter hates women, but yearns deeply for what he claims to so despise. Hence, his personal ad takes on the morbid tone of a six year-old boy forced by his mother to beg for an urn of boiled turnips.
Tortured by his animosity towards the female sex, yet fueled by his desire for pussy, Peter labors through 5 painful and pouty paragraphs by huffing and puffing, stomping his feet, and spilling applesauce all over his bib. Don't fight it Peter; pussy is like a bend in space. That shit sucks everything in. If you want to get angry about it, go ahead and write a complaint to Maslow's Hierarchy of Needs.
If you've ever dated a gay Viking, that pretty much sums Peter as a date. He'll probably pee on you at some point in the evening, he certainly won't compliment you on your dress, and he won't want to touch you at all. But when it's time to get what he wants, he'll just club you with an oar and take it. It's your choice ladies; a polar bear may find comfort in the loneliness and frigid conditions that waft so freely in the confines of Peter's moth-ridden Target briefs, but you don't have to.
And on a personal note Peter, if you plan on dropping the C-bomb in a personal ad, prepare yourself for an inevitable explosion of masturbation.
"Send me an email that makes me think, laugh, or hope. "
Good advice Peter.