Sunday, February 22, 2009

The Scraper

I Would Love to Gently Shave You

Are you a sensual female who enjoys being pampered in a safe sensual way by a very loving attractive single male?

I would like to find a very nice female who would like to have her private area gently shaved. Many women either through busy careers or relationships have not had the chance to receive this type of attention. I will wash you, apply shaving cream slowly, then gently shave you while you have your legs spread on my shoulders. Hopefully you will find this to be arousing and a beautiful trusting experience.

I'm offering my love and my gentleness to you if you are in need of relaxation and pleasure to escape from life's stresses. I will help you rediscover your sensual self in a safe loving environment. I would love to explore with you, be close friends. My tender fingers guiding you to pleasure, releasing your most intimate desires. Gently touching the intimate areas of your beautiful body.


Because nothing screams "a safe and trusting encounter" like handing a sharp razor to a complete stranger you meet on the internet.

Need an alternative? Put on some mutton panties and squat in a piranha tank.

Antonio scribes an impossibly creepy personal ad that virtually drowns in a pool of its own cheese. Sounding like a cross between an overzealous gynecologist after a six martini lunch and a story question in the appendix of A Dummies Guide to Spiritual Sexuality, Antonio soothingly wafts his way through a gag-worthy amalgamation of supportive buzzwords designed for a new-age couples counseling session. "I would love to explore with you, be close friends." No thanks Antonio, but for the record, your personal ad completely curdled my fresh glass of milk. And for that, I'd like to kick you right in your gentles.

It's as if Antonio actually believes that after a hard day at work, an endless string of errands, and a terrible commute home, a woman wants nothing more than to just kick off her shoes and have her vagina shaved. A soothing spa, a warm sauna, or a deep tissue massage? "No thanks," you might say, "to really relax, I just need to find a random individual online to come over and weedwhack my crotch hair."

Like most personal ads, I suspect Antonio formulated his genital shaving ideology from repeated exposure to hardcore porn flicks. As such, a woman couldn't possibly shave herself without finishing off the process with a frenzied and orgasmic masturbation session. Believe me, I used to watch my girlfriend shave herself in the shower all the time, and erotic is the last word I'd use to describe the process.

Paying no mind to the activity at hand, she often shaved her pussy in the same manner a chicken might furiously scratch its way through a pea patch, producing a grating sound similar to a cat entertaining a new set of drapes with his sharpened claws. Replicating my lawn-mowing technique when I was 10, she did just enough to complete the job and make it look like there was nothing out of the ordinary from a distance. But a closer look often revealed numerous flaws.

But if your idea of scintillating shaving session involves a registered hippie with a beard full of granola grains sculpting your vagina into the shape of a bird in flight, why not? You might even get some free scented hot rocks and a bag of "emotion" beads out of the deal.

Good luck in your venture Antonio, and might I suggest if you want some practice, try shaving your neighbors cat. If you think that thing squirms endlessly to get away from you, just imagine how much a real pussy will put up a fight.

Friday, February 20, 2009


I got a bitch ass - 31 yr man seeking woman

What do you think of my ass? When I wear tight jeans my ass looks like a womans ass. I think it does.


If there were ever reason to apply a rich, gelatinous paste of beef tallow and catnip extract to your eyeballs and rig a box of feral cats to your face, I think you just found it.

Yet perhaps Tristan's decision to showcase his absurdly feminine poop clipper in his personal ad is well founded; a recent Men's Health magazine survey of 1,000 women concluded that women find a man's ass the third most attractive feature of the male physique.

As men, that's no surprise to us. For years we've been promptly and violently lambasted for stealing nary a yearning glance at your breasts, yet the minute we turn our backs your gluttonous eyes instantly microwave our asses into a couple of well-steamed, juicy Christmas hams. You couldn't be any more obvious had you spackled our buttocks with frosting and started gnawing on our nubile asshalves like a gerbil trapped inside a block of nutrient-rich cheese.

So typical of women these days- show her a nice ass and she has to go and start spawning like an Alaskan salmon. Harlots!

Yet for Tristan we must unfortunately qualify the true findings of the Men's Health survey: asses were also ranked upon style. High-ranking styles of ass included the arrogant yet steely "can crusher" ass, the rabid and unforgiving "oar snapper" ass, and the brutally ferocious "Thrustasaurus Wrecks."

Low ranking styles included the always drab "mossy picnic table" style of ass, the uninspiring "onion bag burdened with horseshoes" ass, and in last place, the girlish and pillowy "bitch ass."

Generally speaking Tristan, women find female ass characteristics on a male ass abhorrent; buoyant and marshmallow soft, your ass resembles the ever-fragrant and beefy toes of an elephant or other bog-based pachyderm. Yet perhaps even more striking is the remarkable chasm usurped by the seam of your ladypants. I don't know where you put your asshole, but if I find chapped orb of puckered skin shaped like an Apple Jack in the lint trap, I'll rehydrate it with corn oil and slide it under your pillow. If your cat starts choking, call a proctologist immediately.

Has Tristan started a new dating trend by modeling his ass on the internet bulletin boards? We don't know, but personally, WWHM isn't going to take dating advice from Tristan any more than we'd allow a sea otter to teach us how to drive a school bus.

Stay tuned.

Wednesday, February 18, 2009

Table For One

Greetings and welcome to Captain One Eye's dinner theater 46M

Come listen to exciting tales of Captain One Eye's world travels and meet his faithful sidekick, Willie the Baloney Pony. Dinner tonight features an appetizer of kisses, followed by a second course of oral sex, and a main course consisting of a hearty portion of super hard man sausage artfully presented with Captain One Eye's special cream sauce. And one lucky lady will win the opportunity to meet Captain One Eye personally, and take a ride to Nirvana on Willie the Baloney Pony. Don't miss out on this exciting opportunity, seating is very limited. Email Captain One Eye aka Mark at xxxxxxx@

With guys like Mark, you really just have to give up any sense of hope.

Pussy is so foreign to him he'd probably try to feed it potato chips.

Pull down your little mini-skirt, and chances are Mark would scoop your vagina into a mason jar and scurry up a tree like a squirrel that just found a Mars Bar.

Sure we've seen worse ads here at WWHM headquarters, but I know women that would rather pedal a rusty tricycle three miles uphill in a driving hailstorm to fuck an unemployed male metermaid in the goat-milking pit of a petting zoo. And as most experienced WWHM readers know, nothing fucking strokes our fur backwards more than grown men utilizing childish and pseudo-clever story constructions in their personal ads; we'd much rather just entertain another run-of-the-mill online derelict presenting a grainy cellphone visage of his oiled penis to women as if it were a photo of a giggling child in a Santa sweater.

Because hey, at least they're being honest about what they're bringing to the table.

But when you run ads like Table For One, The Vagina Whisperer or Cock Talk, you're simply providing a glaring showcase for your sexual immaturity towards women, while simultaneously trying to get them to fuck you. Believe me, for every 5,000 guys online trying to find pussy, there might be one desperate woman trying to find a dick. And with all those options out there, she's going to want to find a dick that treats her womb like a monkey trying to fish coins out of a jar. Not a guy who pumps, dumps, and wonders why she's staring at you like you just shot her dog.

Your deftly crafted childhood fable of Captain One-Eye and Willie the Baloney Pony might go over well during "Bad Story Hour" at the Greenacres Library, but women already know how the story will end.

An uninvited guest appearance by "Fingers" McGee.

Monday, February 16, 2009

Single Male. Needs Girlfriend.

For once my friends, WWHM simply has no words.

Thanks Tina!

Tuesday, February 10, 2009

Misguided Thinking

Downtown Hotel

married white male seeking NSA fun. Nice guy, safe to be with. Looking for a friend to enjoy the morning and maybe the afternoon with. Room service included.

Kip xxx-xxx-xxxx

WWHM used to have a small audience of doe-eyed and dainty society ladies in butter-churning bonnets visiting our blog on a daily basis, giggling innocently into their tiny cupped fingers as they sipped hot chamomile tea and painstakingly knitted tiny earmuffs for handicapped children in Botswana.

Today, posting to WWHM is like hurling bloody slabs of gazelle meat into a pit of starved wolves. Disturbed WWHM female readers scream relentlessly for disgusting cock pics on WWHM, banging their machine-dulled utensils upon the stainless steel surfaces of bolted down prison tables, oblivious to the trembling guards in lab coats at their sides wielding high voltage cattle prods and cannisters of tear gas. What are you, a bunch of fucking Vikings?

Believe me, I'm surrounded with so many cock pics at WWHM headquarters you'd think my office was located deep inside Nadya Sulman's 24-hour fucking cocaine party of a womb. Every morning I open my email inbox, I'm assaulted with an armada of greased penises fully capable of extinguishing the white-hot hydrogen fueled flames of the Hindenberg with a protein-rich and adhesive stream of stunted fucking genetics. Yet WWHM finally bows to community pressure today, and presents you with a personal ad from Kip. Or, I should say, Kip's penis.

Because yes, that is a penis, and Kip offers it up to you in the same manner a white-gloved waiter might lift a silver tray of elegant European cheeses to your nose for an inviting sniff. Sniff not my friends, as the sour stench of desperation is overwhelming; I'm not saying Kip set the bar low for his weak effort at getting laid, but at first glance it appears as though Kip might be casually waiting for a cross-town bus outside an understaffed housing facility for disoriented seniors. "Hey Kip," a guard might yell out, "stop leaving your fucking pants in the pudding bin."

Per your presentation Kip, the horniest woman on the planet wouldn't approach that atrophied cock if it was made out of fucking cheesecake and shot an endless string of sparkling South African diamonds around her neck with the pinpoint accuracy of a decorated sniper. Tease them as you will with a pair of hastily dropped Hanes briefs binding your ankles like a 3 year-old preparing to pee in a plastic johnny toilet covered with dinosaur stickers, it nary makes up for the fact that I've had a dried moth carcass blowing lightly around my windowsill for six months that exhibits a more charismatic sexual exuberance than your quivering and bulbous birthing hips.

Guys like Kip post cock shots somehow believing the grainy cellphone visage of a penis ensconced with what appears to be an unkempt housecat miraculously ignites the libido of a woman with some type of primal sexual spark; yet Playgirl recently went bankrupt for a reason, and it wasn't because chicks were clamoring to catch a gander of Fabio's wilted Circus Circus bargain buffett breakfast sausage laying lifelessly across his leg like a shot squirrel. If you want your cock to spark something, go stand on a beach riddled with undernourished field wrens at 6 am and lay it on a beach log; you'll spark a flurry of violent beak strikes that will leave your manhood looking like a perforated bicycle tire.

Order that room service for one, Kip.

And order a fucking razor.

Monday, February 9, 2009

The Weeper

i am a sensetive man- 44m

i am a man who love nature, and all the things in it to behold. who are we to judge it? i am a man that will cry out for you when you are not near me. i am a man not afraid of my feelings for you, when held by a woman who holds me with the soft touch of her brest. i am a man who will cry tears when we make love, for my love will feel so deeply for you inside. i am a man who cries waiting for yours response. i yern for your soft and gentel kisses. kevin

Yeah, we get it Kevin. You're a really fucking sensitive guy.

When not rushing to assist a frightened young deer with the birthing of her first fawn, one might find you wistfully cursing at the unbridled freedom of the deep blue sky. Your heart yearns to sketch a solitary dewdrop, yet the beauty is simply too painful; how can one accurately replicate the tears of a bygone season?

Women may find a portion of your sensitivity attractive Kevin, but even a clan of starved fucking Eskimos would flee from your relentless onslaught of blubber. Exploring your emotional side may have worked in your 20's, but now you're 44 years-old; at some point you need to gnaw away at the nutrient-rich placenta you wear as a goddamn picnic hat and put on a pair of open-toed sandals to take a Hollywood studio tour in a loud shirt.

Because women are wise to this game, my friend. And history can prove it.

After years of complaining about the sexual brutality of the dominant male, prehistoric women gradually found themselves beginning to sexually appreciate the less dominant and sensitive males who stayed behind during the hunt to paint images of sunsets on cave walls and grunt rhythmically about glacial deposits. Never ones to pass up a free meal, other cavemen quickly adjusted by showcasing their softer sides.

Unfortunately, this blew up in the face of women. In no time, they found themselves mired in a society full of plant-gathering, cave-cleaning, soft-cocked sissy boys that sat around on rocks all day complaining they couldn't hunt because "it was too foggy."

Rather than sleep with a bunch of bird-fearing, fire-dousing girly apes, women straddled porous stones and hoped for earthquakes while furiously whittling ivory tusks into the shape of the cave cocks they had once been so relentlessly pounded by. "Homo-Erectus my ass!" they exclaimed, "Why don't you Flaccidius Minimus motherfuckers just go outside and try not to cry when you're startled by the sudden hissing of a nursing squirrel."

I recommend you keep your sensitivity in check, Kevin. Women might find a little emotion attractive, but walking into the kitchen to find you breast feeding an injured sparrow crosses the line. Women can only withstand so many rivers of phlegm during a Meredith Baxter-Birney Lifetime marathon, and they're supposed to be hers.

Buck up, motherfucker. Keep weeping like a bitch, and you'll drive your women into the arms of a unemployed, heroin-addicted rock band drummer who eats fucking nails for amusement.

And she'll fucking love it.