Personal ads.

Relationships are an integral part of our lives as humans. We are fundamentally built to find someone, copulate and blast out a couple of sprogs who will spend their lives fulfilling the same futile cycle. Cynicism aside, we spend our lives searching for shags, finding our fucks and hunting for humps (and I ain't talking about camels). People do this in several ways: meeting friends of friends; going to clubs and bars; discussing your dogs whilst walking through a park; meeting someone at a KKK rally, etc. A simpler route that many people cycle down is that of personal ads. Personal ads are, basically, a 20 word confession of the end of your life. Every time someone writes into personal ads, or even seriously read them, their life slides another metre down the slippery slope to loserdom.

INTERMISSION:

I hate that stupid bitch Gillian McKeith. Stupid, anorexic, sanctimonious little twat of a pseudo-doctor. You are what you eat, eh? Then you must eat a sack of cunt every day.

INTERMISSION OVER.

So anyway, where was I? (check that usage of conversational devices to create a sense of a free-flowing and natural writing style) Oh yeah, I was talking about personal ads. They're pathetic. The worst kind of personal ads are the variety in which the mental image is that of Hugh Hefner, but without the money, fame or charisma. Here's an example:

Yes, it's normal for people's standards to slip dramatically as they age. In some cases, however, people seem to do the exact inverse of this. Maybe they come to the conclusion that if they've not had "any" in about 40 years, they may as well state their dream partner, and if it happens: Horah. It's somewhat like playing all or nothing in a poker hand, although when you're writing into the lonely hearts section of the Metro, I doubt that you'll be getting "all".

Actually, reading the Metro on the bus today, (see my previous blog entry for more bus fun!), I turned the page to an interesting sight: what the newspaper had hilariously punned, "Metrosexual". What this basically was, was a stalker's alternative to the standard, in this case pretty damn cool, lonely hearts section of newspapers. The premise of "Metrosexual" is that losers write in with gems such as "You get on the 36 line from Edgeley to Rushholme at 7:05 every morning. You usually sit near the back, and you wiggle your bum as you walk past. I've always wanted to talk to you, but I am too shy". Wow, what a clever idea! So, what happens? At 7:05 in the morning, Miss Wigglybum gets onto her normal bus, walks past that odd looking man that she sees most days, unglues a metro from the clammy seat, turns to page 25 and finds the love of her life staring at her both from the page and from 2 seats in front.

"Oh my god", she gasps. "Are you- are you Norman?"

"Yes, I-I-I am!", shy ol' Norman retorts.

"I've noticed you around; I find you quite attractive. Will you go to bed with me?", she asks.

"Y-y-y-yes I will! OMIGOD!", Norman splutters.

"Psych! Fucking pervert paedo." comes the reply.




That night Norman hangs himself.