London Review of Books

Amongst the several literary magazines I read in lieu of toying with myself, such as The Believer, Granta and the New Yorker, I have started reading the London Review of Books (LRB). They have a unique take on personal ads, as follows:

'My success as a lover is matched only by my success in the field of astronomy. Man, 37. WLTM woman to 40 with eyes as big and as bright as those stars that come up over by the trees opposite my house at about 9pm every night, then every 15 minutes or so. You know the ones. I call them the Regular Magic Tree Stars. They may be comets. Or planes. Or something. Whatever. Write, we’ll have sex, you’ll love it. Box no. 24/03'

or:

'I cannot guarantee you’ll fall in love with me, but I can promise you the best home-brewed beetroot wine you’ll have ever tasted. Now if that doesn’t sound like a fermentor bucket of yummy syphoned lustness I just don’t know what does. Man, 41. Stupid like wow! Box no. 24/04'

So I decided to write one and submit it for the hell of it, or as I explained in an email to one of their staffers, I wanted to use their 'esteemed publication as a platform to prostrate and humiliate myself':

'Bend over and show me your bottom. Collector of bearded stunt midgets, 35M, seeks F (to 80) curator of DIY curio for genuine aluminium stepladder action. People named Dubya, Osama, Sindy & Barbie needn't apply. Blow-up dolls excluded unless they come with their own puncture repair kit.'

I then received the following reply from Sara at the LRB:

'Dear Woz, thank you for the text. The ad is great, however, the editor would like you to remove the bit about the midgets. Do you collect anything else? Other than that the ad’s fine.'

Despite telling her on the phone that I had already omitted the boa constrictor and the trombone out of good taste, she politely refused to relent, so I modified the ad:

'Bend over and show me your bottom. Collector of bearded stunt hobbits, 35M, seeks F (to 80) curator of DIY curio for genuine aluminium stepladder action. People named Dubya, Osama, Sindy & Barbie needn't apply. Blow-up dolls excluded unless they come with their own puncture repair kit.'

I did leave Sara with the image of camp, cross-dressing midgets being fired from cannons into battle, pursuing their enemies whilst singing Broadway showtunes. Despite that, the ad should run soon. I have written several more, utilising the Oedipus complex, pie fetishes, etc. I may run those at some point in the future.

Actually, I had been meaning to write spoof personal ads for Donald Rumsfeld (although with his recent departure it may no longer be topical) and Rocco Siffredi (I think he's a tosser). I could post these on Craiglist, but as the shallow, materialistic and fuckwittish tend to congregate there, I think i'll pass on it.