You know, I bet Jennifer Connelly’s own mother looks at her and thinks “ass to ass.”
You are attractive, and I want to go out with you.
Basically.
Let’s get coffee in a well-lit public place and then rut urgently, like jackals.
Haruki Murakami has no idea how much ass he’s leaving on the table not having a profile here.
I want to take that picture of you (doing stupid thing) and paint it on the ceiling of a church.
I want that picture of you (doing stupid thing) tattooed on the back of my eyelids.
I want to take that picture of you (doing stupid thing) and engrave it on a plate of purest gold; launch it into deep space so it’s the first evidence aliens find of our civilization.
When you (did that stupid thing in your picture), that was your Ulysses. You were put on Earth for that moment.
You and me are gonna have houses, cars, servants (username). We’re gonna have so many yachts we’ll begin calling them merely “boats” to differentiate ourselves from the nouveaux riches who gauchely call them “yachts.” How about it.
Just saying I would honor and respect the living fuck out of you.
One day I’m gonna lasso a bull Tyrannosaur and ride him into the heart of the sun to the strains of some motherfucking Motorhead, and if you want to hold me back, I fucking dare you to try. Also, you look good in that sweater.
You seem like the type of girl whose last words are gonna be “hold my beer, watch this.”
No pressure but if you don’t message me back a nest of cute baby birds will be stomped beneath Hitler’s boot.
My name is Sexxxo Pornographicus, Galactic Overlord of Schlaungg, and I am here to crush the Earth. Starting with your pussy. I have mastered your Earth courtship process and have come to conquer all ripe breeding vessels in your “Los Angeles County.” We will meet in a well-lit public place for one of your pathetic caffeinated beverages, at which point my reverse engineered Earth pheromones will overpower any puny resistance you may have and mating will begin. Not at your Third Street Starbucks, though, as I am banned from that one for 30 days. Your absurd statutes regarding proper use of rest rooms are incomprehensible to me.
You have agreeable bone structure.
Not gonna lie, I found you a little intimidating. You’re a handsome young woman and obviously you’ve accomplished a lot in your short life. But there’s also something accessible and human that comes through. It’s like: even Batman takes shits.
I would rather have my dick slammed repeatedly in a car door, and the car is made out of fire ants, than have you not message me back. No pressure.
Let me pitch you an idea:
We go out a couple times. We make out, maybe we bone. Or maybe we don’t, and I just never call you. Or maybe we do, and then we get married and move slightly out of town to some place where people of modest means can get a pretty big yard, and we get a goat, but the fucking thing is too loud and keeps chewing through the fence- they are surprisingly clever animals. Maybe it actually figures out the latch. But point being the goat keeps getting out and getting into the neighbor’s yard and eating his heirloom tomatoes or whateverthefuck- maybe we laugh at this. Maybe this discord with our neighbors only brings us closer together, like, us against the world. Maybe not, maybe you never wanted to get it in the first place, maybe you never wanted to move to the suburbs, maybe you secretly blame me for everything moving too fast and now you’re stuck here out in Calabasas or something and now you’re like 33 and if you leave me you’ll never have biological children, but if you stay with me you don’t know how you can stand even one more fucking second in this house in the middle of nowhere and separating the bank accounts is going to be such a god damned pain in the ass, and the goat isn’t cute anymore, it was a stupid idea, and it has an expected life span of like 35 more years but any place you give it away to might use it for meat and that would pretty much be unconscionable. You don’t want it, but you can’t get rid of it. That’s what it’s going to be like with you and me in like four years. Maybe. I mean, I don’t know. I don’t have a fuckin crystal ball.
Anyway: how about it.
I once farted on James Woods. I thought you should know.
You remind me of that scene in Robocop where they’re showing the prototype robot to the corporate board and it goes nuts and cuts the guy from West Wing in half with a machine gun. And like, the big evil corporate guy is like “somebody clean this up for Christ’s sake.” Both you and that scene are fucking awesome.
You remind me of a line from a book by Jonathan Franzen, which I haven’t read, because, Jesus Christ who has time for that pussy bullshit.
Some day, man… you and me get some acreage and just a fuckton of goats. Just a metric buttload of goats all over the place. Crafty little buggers, you know; you have to stay on top of it because they’ll figure out how to unlatch the fence with their tongue and get into the neighbors melon patch and create strife. But I am up to that challenge. I will not be outsmarted by a fuckin ungulate.
So let me pitch you an idea. We go on a date, but the whole date we can only talk in dialogue (or narration, if for some reason you are moved to discuss the breakdown of the Imperium vs. the Landsraad) from David Lynch’s DUNE. So if you want more wine for instance, you would kind of look at the wine bottle and say “the spice must flow!” And if someone is sitting too close to our table you would say “the Bene Gesserit witch must leave!” You would have to do it in the voice of the Guild Navigator or whateverthefuck that thing was.
This is all building up to the end of the night, where I take you home and try to get in your pants. I’m going to make some move, and you have to say:
“Many men have tried.”
And I say: “they tried and failed?”
And you just briefly turn into that weird old woman who was also in the BBC TINKER TAILOR SOLDIER SPY and fire back with “THEY TRIED AND DIED!!!”
Let me know your # if you’re down.
In the words of Abraham Lincoln: you are a weapons grade boner fairy. Not to be crude.
You seem like the kind of person who has never sung along to Foreigner’s “I Want To Know What Love Is” without saying “I want you to blow me” instead of “I want you to show me.”
Cilantro fucking blows, dude. It’s like– it’s just such a rude interruption. You have a burrito or something made of savory elements like beans and cheese that kind of melt together harmoniously, all warm, and then in the middle of that suddenly you bite through a cold pile of vaguely poisonous-tasting lawn clippings. And you can hear it when you bite cilantro, too. A sound like scissors cutting. It’s an abomination. Fuck cilantro.
I want to wake up next to you on a lazy Sunday morning, with white curtains blowing in the breeze, and you lean over me and look in my eyes and OH SHIT IT’S MY DEAD GRANDMOTHER’S FACE AND HER EYES ARE MADE OF WORMS and it turns out I’m still asleep. And then I wake up for real and you’re like “what were you yelling about” and I’m like “nothing, let’s fuck.” How about it.
You seem like the type of person who knits drunk and wakes up to a fucked up version of that Doctor Who scarf soaking up a pile of puke.
You seem like the type of person who farted on a school trip to see Schindler’s List and now has to stifle a laugh every time someone mentions the Holocaust.
The Legend of Zelda™ fucking sucked, FYI. It was a SCAM designed to force you to subscribe to Nintendo Power™, or cozy up to the one smug fucking kid in your poor bullshit town whose parents had enough largesse to lay out for not only a state of the art Nintendo Entertainment System™ but also The Legend of Zelda™, which if you’ll recall was at least ten dollars more than an ordinary Nintendo cartridge, purportedly because it was the first game where you could save, and about a hundred bucks for that stupid fucking magazine so you could figure out the ONE bush out of thousands that actually has the staircase under it or whateverthefuck. The rest of us had to painstakingly walk around like a dick randomly burning bush after bush on screen after screen, in a perfect metaphor for the drudgery that would become the rest of our lives. That fucking kid also had the PowerGlove™ too, probably, and that stupid exercise pad that you ended up just crouching over and pounding really fast with your hands. Fuck him.
Anyway.
I believe that cauliflower is the king of the cruciferous kales. So you can take your stupid broccoli and shove it right up your ass.
You seem like the type of person who smugly tells people your TV isn’t connected to anything, then spends three hours per day watching Denny’s fights on youtube.
Please tell me you have a pet weasel named “Joyce Carol Stoates.”
Fancy a spot of tea?
— Lord Barrister Nigel Simon Trevor Cholmondeley (pronounced “Chumley”) III, 5th Earl of Crimpington-upon-Marmite and Chancellor of the Exchequer
- “Gurl, you have some sweet ass titties.”
–Winston Churchill
I would send you a dick pic, but it’s blurred out in pictures ever since I beat off to that tape from the Ring.
You seem like the type of person where if you were in chains, about to be executed, and you farted, you would still laugh.
Something to think about: future civilizations will speak of Urkel the way we speak of Zeus.
Buddy of mine found your profile, thought we would get along. He said you were hot and seemed like you might be down to fuck. Said I should message you. That man’s name… was Jesus Christ.
Something to think about: Fred Flintstone’s fleshlight was a pterodactyl that muttered “it’s a living.”
I gave you 4 stars. You gave me 4 stars. Let’s get drunk on cheap red wine and bone down all nice and juicy to some Vangelis
What the fuck is our society coming to if YOU have to be on here– you give men boners that could drill through a mountain.
I mean that in a classy way.
You seem like the type of person who thinks it’s cute when your dog humps a pillow but doesn’t think it’s so cute when you’re reincarnated as a pillow.
Let me pitch you an idea:
Dusk. A hot night. The doorbell rings. It is me. I am dressed as a wizard. Or rather, I am dressed in my normal clothes. Because I am a wizard. You are a wizard, too, I tell you. Your real mother and father were wizards. You are not just a normal bullshit wizard, either; you are the one extremely special wizard with a crooked eyebrow or something who is prophesied to save the world of wizarding from another, also much-ballyhooed, slightly less special but evil wizard. The breakdown in wizard specialness goes: all other wizards < evil wizard < you. It’s too bad you’re a girl because you would have gotten so much wizard pussy. Your real parents are shams and the people who actually gave birth to you, or the woman who did and the guy who popped in her after one too many wizard meads, they were powerful sorcerors and etc.
Come with me, I will say, and outside is parked a pegasus. Two pegasuses. the one for you has been customized with an awesome panel airbrushed on the side; I would say a chick with big tits in a chainmail bikini waving a spear on top of a polar bear but that’s probably not the kind of shit you would like. This is why I need to get to know you better, you know. But I would have done my best to outfit the pegasus according to your imagined tastes. We mount our otherworldy steeds and sail effortlessly and powerfully into the moonlight. Somehow a soundtrack is playing. Richard Wagner’s Entry of the Gods into Valhalla. Say what you will about his political beliefs, the man understood majesty. If you ask me what the music is I answer you, making sure to say “Rick-Hard” in a real German-sounding way, like Udo Kier. But I’m not gay.
We ride on into the night and suddenly after a cloudbank the landscape below is like none you’ve ever seen before. Looming jagged mountains with shapes no earthly power could have created, at once beautiful and foreboding, kind of like one of those old Yes album covers from before they sucked. Atop the highest peak, shrouded in fangs of cloud, is a tower, a castle, stone heaped upon stone by untold eons of forgotten hands. This, I tell you, is your new home. It has a name like a newfangled pharmaceutical for some feminine problem would have. Sylestria or something. Inside the society of wizards awaits, chanting your true name, which resembles a disease wiped out in the 1920’s, except for a few pockets in like, Gabon. Dipthyneria, thank the gods you are here because tonight is the night the evil wizard has arisen, and his attack on Sylestria has begun. Dragons and griffins and cockatrices are dive bombing and climbing the walls and legions of cruel sorcerors conjure lightning and flames. But what can I do, you ask– I’m just an ordinary woman!
No. Look inside yourself. The greatest power comes from the humblest of us and etc., and as the evil wizard whose name is a really obvious quasi-pun like the type used by George Lucas rises a mile tall in his hideous demonic form to strike the castle with his fist that looks all trippy like aurora borealis and suddenly the voice of your true mother is in your heart and your eyes blast open with lasers and sparks and flames and the evil wizard has a brief “what the fuck” pout before imploding, loudly, into blackness. The wizards cheer until one sees you collapsing; they rush to your side but the world is fading before your eyes and your last breath leaves your lips with the name of some prior plot element, and there is an overlong pause, sad music… until a faint elated voice cries “she’s alive!”
When you awake, I am still at your door. You are back in your normal clothes, and not one second has passed.
But we have totally boned.
Or we could just get a drink. How about it.