tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-60943227289691283662024-02-19T02:49:26.536+00:00Internet BeratingDesperate times call for desperate measures friends. Gone are the days of meeting your future spouse at a wedding or at work. Oh no. Nowadays, it's either e-dating or no dating. I'm not ashamed to admit to being an internet dating tourist, and one thing that impresses/distresses me more than anything are some of the messages that wheedle their way into my inbox. And some of these are just too good to be left unacknowledged. So here they are, in all their glory. Plus the replies I never sent.CTShttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02786395045890215519noreply@blogger.comBlogger268125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6094322728969128366.post-27837292352768704012011-11-13T23:31:00.000+00:002011-11-13T23:31:27.795+00:00From Mrs Threesome<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;"></span><b>Hi babe, I'm looking for a sexy lady to join me for some girl on girl action and then for my husband to join in, are you intrested? Hope you are look forward to your reply ;)xx</b><br />
<hr /><i>Dear Mrs Threesome. Thanks for your email. Sorry, you're totally not my type, but your husband is FIT! Mind if I have a go? I'm sure you can watch...from outside a locked door. With no windows. Yours, hopefully</i></div>CTShttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02786395045890215519noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6094322728969128366.post-53050222924882583232011-11-13T23:30:00.000+00:002011-11-13T23:30:34.214+00:00From Mr Christian<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;"></span><b>hi,<br />
i hope you enjoy every moments of happy and joyful festival,<br />
i am wishing you a sparking,happy and joyful Christmas to you<br />
"he is on your way of life,<br />
this Christmas with christ'"<br />
see you<br />
enjoy your time </b><br />
<hr /><i>Dear Mr Christian. Thanks for your email. Hang on, are you saying that Jesus Christ has something to do with Christmas? Rubbish! We celebrate Christmas because the 25th of December is Father Christmas' birthday! Look at the facts. We all get presents because that's what birthdays are all about. And we decorate Christmas trees which represent his home in the North Pole. And we all eat mince pies, Quality Streets and drink eggnog, because they're Santa's favourite party treats. And we use the symbols of angels because the old beardy fella was a massive Robbie Williams fan. And we hang up stockings to acknowledge the fact he has a penchant for cross dressing. And we all pray for a White Christmas because we know that Santa had a nose for blow. So there. You bloody Christians, trying to make everything relevant to Jesus. Piss off you and your dogmatic peddling, and leave the real festivals to us atheists. Yours, festively</i></div>CTShttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02786395045890215519noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6094322728969128366.post-87767801663910617512011-11-13T23:27:00.000+00:002011-11-13T23:27:01.429+00:00From Mr Married<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><b>Hi there, how r u? Would u be friends and have with a married man?<br />
<br />
Check my profile and let me know if u're interested (Text me 0753* *** ***).<br />
<br />
Take care. Mr Married xxxx</b><br />
<hr /><i>Dear Mr Married. Thanks for your email. No, I would not like to be friends or anything else with a married man. What I would really like to do is publish your full profile and mobile number for the entire internet to see. I'd also dearly love to know what your poor wife feels about her husband actively putting himself on dating sites and emailing his mobile number around to strange women. Sadly, I'm sure there are some ladies on here who don't see a little thing as 'marriage' as an obstacle in meeting new partners, but I sure as hell do. Shame on you. Yours, most offendedly </i></div>CTShttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02786395045890215519noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6094322728969128366.post-7450653846758534342011-11-13T23:25:00.000+00:002011-11-13T23:25:09.272+00:00From Mr Poetic<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><span style="font-family: trebuchet ms; font-weight: bold;">Hello,</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: trebuchet ms; font-weight: bold;">Rather than initials why not call yourself something like: Gorgeous Virgo Comic Writing Clown-Like Knitting Love Goddess!</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: trebuchet ms; font-weight: bold;">Anyway, great profile and witty narrative style </span><br />
<span style="font-family: trebuchet ms; font-weight: bold;">and I love your gorgeous face and smile,</span><br />
<span style="font-family: trebuchet ms; font-weight: bold;">your sexy lips, symmetry (what I've seen) and your amazingly beautiful hazel eyes:</span><br />
<span style="font-family: trebuchet ms; font-weight: bold;">serene yet so full of wonder, passion, promise and surprise!</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: trebuchet ms; font-weight: bold;">Write soon</span><br />
<span style="font-family: trebuchet ms; font-weight: bold;">and perhaps one day we'll meet in the summer sun </span><br />
<span style="font-family: trebuchet ms; font-weight: bold;">and go on an adventure or city break and have a lot of fun</span><br />
<span style="font-family: trebuchet ms; font-weight: bold;">and share a dance and little romance beneath the silver moon!</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: trebuchet ms; font-weight: bold;">Ciao for now!</span><br />
<hr /><br />
<span style="font-family: trebuchet ms; font-style: italic;">Dear Mr Poetic. Thanks for your email. And for your inventive verse. Straight prose won't do justice to the sentiment I feel in response to your poetry, so I thought I would reward like with like. I beg your indulgence awhile:</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: trebuchet ms; font-style: italic;">Your profile's lacking all appeal</span><br />
<span style="font-family: trebuchet ms; font-style: italic;">To start you off, is your hair real?</span><br />
<span style="font-family: trebuchet ms; font-style: italic;">It seems to perch upon your head</span><br />
<span style="font-family: trebuchet ms; font-style: italic;">Just like a rabbit. Only dead.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: trebuchet ms; font-style: italic;">Your dress sense sucks, your poem's bad</span><br />
<span style="font-family: trebuchet ms; font-style: italic;">You're old enough to be my dad</span><br />
<span style="font-family: trebuchet ms; font-style: italic;">And walk with you in luna's beam?</span><br />
<span style="font-family: trebuchet ms; font-style: italic;">I'd frankly rather boil my spleen</span><br />
<br />
<i>Flattery will get you everywhere</i><br />
<i>I hope at least ten miles from here</i><br />
<i>Before it lived, lust would be dead</i><br />
<i>Twixt me and your mid-aged spread</i><br />
<i><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;"></span></i><br />
<i><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;">I can imagine nothing worse</span></i><br />
<i><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;">Than reading more of your crude verse</span></i><span style="font-family: trebuchet ms; font-style: italic;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: trebuchet ms; font-style: italic;">The only thing I'll promise you</span> <br />
<span style="font-family: trebuchet ms; font-style: italic;">Is we'll never meet. And so, adieu.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: trebuchet ms; font-style: italic;">Yours, lyrically</span></div>CTShttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02786395045890215519noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6094322728969128366.post-8105781784189068882011-11-13T23:24:00.000+00:002011-11-13T23:24:22.164+00:00From Mr Over-Analysis<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;"></span><b>When u get whistled at in the street, u feel uncomfortable and u''l always tut and roll your eyes. But ur awesomely flattered and ud be gutted if it stopped.<br />
<br />
u will never grow out of your fascination with pop stars. A guy can be completely ordinary-looking, but u will fancy him if he’s in a band.<br />
<br />
u are more likely to fancy a guy if his ex-girlfriends are really pretty.<br />
<br />
u can be put off a guy by finding out that his ex-girlfriends are a bit ugly.<br />
<br />
When u look through a his Facebook photos, ur looking to see how pretty or ugly his ex-girlfriends are.<br />
<br />
u look through his Facebook photos a lot, and u really hope that he hasnt downloaded anything that reveals who looks at them the most.<br />
<br />
Here’s how to make u fall for me. One day, i come on to u so strong that ur a bit weirded out by it. Then totally fail to ring u. ul wonder what u did wrong, and u won’t be able to stop thinking about me.<br />
<br />
The above strategy isn’t foolproof. u may just lose interest. It depends on how much u liked me in the first place.<br />
<br />
u often don’t know how much u liked me in the first place. u may have to wait until i don’t phone u. If ur disappointed, it proves that u fancy me . If ur not, it proves that u don’t. It’s like when you toss a coin to help you make a decision.<br />
<br />
gotta stop trying to understand how your mind works. Even u don’t understand how your mind works.<br />
<br />
u constantly change your mind and reserve the right to do so.<br />
<br />
u love getting a missed call from me. It makes u feel in control.<br />
<br />
The pleasure of noticing a missed call doesn’t last long. u never know how soon to ring back, and it does your head in.<br />
<br />
u are constantly scared of putting me off by seeming too keen.<br />
<br />
u are constantly scared of putting me off by not seeming keen enough.<br />
<br />
u will never discuss this with me because u are constantly scared of putting me off by bringing “us” up in conversation.<br />
<br />
“I’m scared of being hurt” means “I don’t fancy you as much as I thought I did.” You know it, i know it, and that is all that will be said on the matter.<br />
<br />
u say “i’is not manipulative” because ur really good at being manipulative.<br />
<br />
u only manipulate my feelings because i manipulated yours first.<br />
<br />
Snoring costs me sex.<br />
<br />
my feet disgust u.<br />
<br />
u shave your toes.<br />
<br />
uve got a rogue hair that needs regular plucking.<br />
<br />
u went through a phase of shaving your moustache.<br />
<br />
u leave your legs unshaven on a first date so that u won’t end up in bed with me.<br />
<br />
u wear big knickers on a first date so that u won’t end up in bed with me.<br />
<br />
u spend entire first date fancying the pants off me and worrying that we’ll end up in bed , all unshaven legs and big knickers.<br />
<br />
u don’t actually care that much about the loo seat.<br />
<br />
u suspect that i like your body more when ur carrying a few extra pounds, but u always feel better about yourself when u lose weight. However u hate that your boobs look deflated, and ur disgusted by the injustice of it.<br />
<br />
u envy me for being able to eat more than u and not get fat. By “envy” u mean “occasionally hate.”<br />
<br />
If a grown-up woman has light blonde hair, she’s bleaching it*. i can tell that a woman is a natural blonde from her mousey eyebrows. (* OK, or she’s Scandinavian.)<br />
<br />
u trim your nose-hair.<br />
<br />
Yes uve got nice eyes, blah blah. Boring. u are desperate for me to compliment your skin and your neck.<br />
<br />
u are even more desperate for me to write poems about u.<br />
<br />
When ur at a party u clock the sexy girls far quicker than u clock the sexy guys.<br />
<br />
u find female strippers sexier than male strippers. But that doesn’t mean u want to snog any of them.<br />
<br />
However u do wish u were gay sometimes, if only to get oral sex from someone who really knows what they’re doing.<br />
<br />
Size does matter!<br />
<br />
What i do with it matters even more.<br />
<br />
What i do with my tongue matters most of all.<br />
<br />
ur really scared that i''l feel your back zits.<br />
<br />
During breakouts u get up at 6am and cover your spots with concealer while im sleeping.<br />
<br />
u don’t want me to stay for breakfast. u want me to leave immediately so that i don’t have time to register how dog-rough u look in the morning.<br />
<br />
u want me to text u from my journey home to say how i can’t stop smiling.<br />
<br />
If i don’t text or call within 24 hours u''ll feel so unhappy that no amount of chocolate and wine can cheer u up. Though u''ll give it a try.<br />
<br />
ud happily sleep with my best mate to make me jealous.<br />
<br />
ur scared of commitment too.<br />
<br />
If im not very well endowed, u won’t tell ur friends. ur<br />
<br />
u fake orgasms so that i''ll stop and let u go to sleep.<br />
<br />
u aren’t always sure when ur faking it. In orgasms, the line between fact and fiction can be very thin.<br />
<br />
u love falling asleep in my arms, for the first few weeks of a relationship anyway. To be honest u’d sleep a lot better if i weren’t there.<br />
<br />
u find my dark-coloured bedsheets a total turn-off.<br />
<br />
u’r a little girl inside. i make u cry far more easily than i realise.</b><br />
<hr /><i>Dear Mr Over-Analysis. Thanks for your email. We've met before haven't we? In fact, we've dated. For five years. And after reading your analysis of me, I'm not only surprised you put up with me for five years, but I'm even more surprised you're making contact again. I'm going to go now and hate myself for my pitiful, obvious and occasionally spotty and hairy existence. Thanks for that. Yours, self-deprecatingly. <br />
</i></div>CTShttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02786395045890215519noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6094322728969128366.post-47023230138898163302011-10-10T22:48:00.000+01:002011-10-10T23:09:14.338+01:00From Mr Personal<span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;"></span><br />
<b>What's your favourite sex position?</b><br />
<hr /><i>Dear Mr Personal. Thanks for your email. My favourite sex position is about 5,000 miles away from you and that frightening face of yours. What is the matter with your eyes? Have they had an argument? Yours, distantly.</i>CTShttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02786395045890215519noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6094322728969128366.post-45524475094234183532011-10-10T20:23:00.000+01:002011-10-10T23:10:06.273+01:00Mr Romantic<span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;"></span><b>er i love you or something!</b><br />
<hr /><i>Dear Mr Romantic. Thanks for your email. Can I have the 'something' please? I'm presuming it's an either / or scenario. Yours, decidedly</i>CTShttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02786395045890215519noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6094322728969128366.post-78474884712187398532011-10-10T19:54:00.000+01:002011-10-10T23:09:42.039+01:00From Mr Piss<span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;"></span><b>Genuine guy whoe loves is mouth and face filled with piss looking for meet today. 8 inches of pulsating thick throbbing cock in return. Pissing on me and fucking my mouth a must. Have you got a full bladder and up for it?</b><br />
<hr /><i>Dear Mr Piss. Thanks for your email. I'm sorry, I think you might have me mistaken - when on my profile I wrote that I liked water sports, I meant I enjoyed partaking in activities such as para sailing and riding on giant inflatable banana boats. I do not partake in urinating on strangers, least of all on those who look like they may have been to school with my mother, taken style tips from Myra Hindley and borrowed Leo Sayer's hair. Besides, you didn't even say please. Rude. Yours, dryly.</i>CTShttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02786395045890215519noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6094322728969128366.post-17697299380059793862011-10-10T19:06:00.000+01:002011-10-10T23:10:38.562+01:00From Mr Holland and Barrett<span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;"></span><b>do you have any prunes angel?<br />
if not , how about a date then?</b><br />
<hr /><i>From Mr Holland and Barrett. Thanks for your email. Sorry, I'm not in the market for any dried fruit right now, I'm regular as clockwork and I'd hate to upset the status quo, so to speak. But the next time I'm up shit creek without a laxative, I'll be in touch. Yours regularly.<br />
</i>CTShttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02786395045890215519noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6094322728969128366.post-80736213999958560412011-10-10T15:34:00.000+01:002011-10-10T23:11:05.143+01:00From Mr Sexist<span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;"></span><b>How many women dies it take to change a light bulb?? Xx</b><br />
<hr /><i>Dear Mr Sexist. Thanks for your email. Ooh, us ladies love a bit of sexism in a potential mate, well done there! Although admittedly all out chauvinism is preferable. I wonder, how many women DOES it take to change a light bulb? Let me guess, none, because their man would do it for them? Brilliant. Hysterical. Well done you. I'll be honest, I'd happily spend the rest of my life in the dark with no light bulbs if it meant I wouldn't have to see your plug ugly mug. Now piss off out of my inbox and go and bandy your misogyny around elsewhere. Yours, feministically.</i>CTShttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02786395045890215519noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6094322728969128366.post-16578948941191298522011-10-01T22:40:00.000+01:002011-10-02T14:31:03.935+01:00From Mr T<div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><b>You sound like my cup of tea</b></div><hr style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;" /><div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><i>Dear Mr T. Thanks for your email. I sound like your cup of tea do I? Is that because I'm hot, white and sweet? With a spoon in me? Well, what do you know! It's just a shame for you that I'm not much of a coffee fan...you're far too bitter for me, and that mug doesn't appeal to me at all. Sorry. Yours, thirstily</i></div>CTShttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02786395045890215519noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6094322728969128366.post-56539063732012025182011-10-01T19:57:00.000+01:002011-10-02T14:32:04.821+01:00Mr Tight<span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;"></span><b>would you share your drink with me if i was to take you out</b><br />
<hr /><i>Dear Mr Tight. Thanks for your email. No you can't share my drink you miserly old miser, get your own. Unless, that is, you were planning some sort of roofie-related stunt, in which case sure! You can have my drink! It strikes me that with a face like that you'd probably need some sort of Rohypnol action to get some sort of bedroom action, even with yourself. So go on, knock yourself out, on both counts. Yours, unsedatedly</i>CTShttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02786395045890215519noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6094322728969128366.post-52883188852622657752011-09-30T21:36:00.000+01:002011-10-02T14:32:29.527+01:00From Mr Crafty<span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;"></span><b>Hi!<br />
<br />
I saw your profile and liked it very much.<br />
<br />
I really like the fact that you make things - I do a spot of medieval re-enactment, and therefore know a lot of similarly craft-oriented people.<br />
<br />
If you have a look at my profile and like it, it'd be really lovely to hear from you</b>.<br />
<br />
<hr /><i>Dear Mr Crafty. Thanks for your email. I make things such as jams, cupcakes and the odd piece of knitwear. I hardly think that equates to hand-stitching tabards, whittling wooden weapons and doing a spot of wattle and daubing do you? The fact that your profile picture looks like the front cover of Monty Python and the Holy Grail without the irony is also similarly disturbing. If Pat Bennatar is right love really is a battlefield, then I'll happily sit in the pub with a glass of wine and a su doku whilst you lot leap around a field in tinfoil and velvet, brandishing cardboard swords calling each other 'knaves' a lot. Yours, medi-evily<br />
</i>CTShttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02786395045890215519noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6094322728969128366.post-12636519036605735592011-09-30T21:07:00.000+01:002011-10-02T14:29:59.675+01:00From Mr Inquisitive<span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;"></span><b>What's the rudest thing you've ever done to someone?</b><br />
<hr /><i>Dear Mr Inquisitive. Thanks for your email. What's the rudest think I've ever done to someone? Hmm...that's a toughie. I once forgot to pass on an answer machine message to my housemate from a boy who wanted to ask her out, that was pretty rude. I also once pushed in front of a little old lady to get the last seat on the bus, that's also rather rude. Oh, and then I started writing a blog to address all the morons, mingers, miscreants and muppets who think they stand a fighting chance of going on a date with me. Count yourself included. Yours, rudely.</i>CTShttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02786395045890215519noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6094322728969128366.post-90028859065997942062011-09-30T20:46:00.000+01:002011-10-02T14:30:38.265+01:00From Mr Artistic<m:smallfrac m:val="off"> <m:dispdef> <m:lmargin m:val="0"> <m:rmargin m:val="0"> <m:defjc m:val="centerGroup"> <m:wrapindent m:val="1440"> <m:intlim m:val="subSup"> <m:narylim m:val="undOvr"> </m:narylim></m:intlim> </m:wrapindent> </m:defjc></m:rmargin></m:lmargin></m:dispdef></m:smallfrac><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><b>fancy meeting with a stocky painter from Bow? you never know</b><br />
<b>it might be fun.</b><br />
<br />
<hr /></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><i style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">Dear Mr Artistic. Thanks for your email. And many thanks for your kind offer but I've already got the painters in. Sorry. Yours, emulsively.</i></div>CTShttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02786395045890215519noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6094322728969128366.post-64271749312965142352011-09-05T22:58:00.002+01:002011-09-05T22:58:53.669+01:00From Mr Sweet<span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;"></span><br />
<b>three things youd take to a dessert island?? Xxx</b><br />
<hr /><i>Dear Mr Sweet. Thanks for your email? The three things I would take to a dessert island would be a napkin, elasticated trousers and big fuck off spoon. Nom nom nom. Yours, puddingly</i>CTShttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02786395045890215519noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6094322728969128366.post-59983475579823166942011-09-05T22:54:00.000+01:002011-09-05T22:54:54.033+01:00From Mr Observant<div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><m:smallfrac m:val="off"> <m:dispdef> <m:lmargin m:val="0"> <m:rmargin m:val="0"> <m:defjc m:val="centerGroup"> <m:wrapindent m:val="1440"> <m:intlim m:val="subSup"> <m:narylim m:val="undOvr"> </m:narylim></m:intlim> </m:wrapindent> </m:defjc></m:rmargin></m:lmargin></m:dispdef></m:smallfrac></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><b><span style="font-size: small;">hey, i dunno if anyone has said before,but i noticed something unusual about you!</span></b><br />
<hr /><i><span style="font-size: small;">Dear Mr Observant. Thanks for your email. Let me guess it's my sparkling eyes isn't it? No? Okay, how about my winning smile? Still no? Well, it must luscious plump lips then? No? Well, to be honest I'm scratching my shiny bald scalp in utter bemusement as to what on earth it could be... Yours, alopecially</span></i></div>CTShttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02786395045890215519noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6094322728969128366.post-9345208964448636382011-09-05T22:49:00.000+01:002011-09-05T22:49:42.072+01:00From Mr Spelling<div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><m:smallfrac m:val="off"> <m:dispdef> <m:lmargin m:val="0"> <m:rmargin m:val="0"> <m:defjc m:val="centerGroup"> <m:wrapindent m:val="1440"> <m:intlim m:val="subSup"> <m:narylim m:val="undOvr"> </m:narylim></m:intlim> </m:wrapindent> </m:defjc></m:rmargin></m:lmargin></m:dispdef></m:smallfrac></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><b><span style="font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%;"> </span>Wouldnt av sed u wer 30 from yor pic sweetie.</b><br />
<hr /><i>Dear Mr Spelling. Thanks for your email. Pictures aside, I wouldn't have said you were 32 from your writing either. Are you literally a moron? Yours, literately.</i><br />
<br />
<i>PS. Your village has just rung. They want you back.</i></div>CTShttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02786395045890215519noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6094322728969128366.post-62376653162608567432011-09-05T22:45:00.000+01:002011-09-05T22:45:45.817+01:00From Mr Musician<m:smallfrac m:val="off"> <m:dispdef> <m:lmargin m:val="0"> <m:rmargin m:val="0"> <m:defjc m:val="centerGroup"> <m:wrapindent m:val="1440"> <m:intlim m:val="subSup"> <m:narylim m:val="undOvr"> </m:narylim></m:intlim> </m:wrapindent> </m:defjc></m:rmargin></m:lmargin></m:dispdef></m:smallfrac><br />
<div class="MsoNormal"><b>Hi, I was just wondering if you'd be interested in purchasing a banjo?</b><br />
<hr /><i>Dear Mr Musician. Thanks for your email, and your kind offer to sell me your instrument. I actually already have a banjo thanks, so am not in the market for another one just yet. But perhaps you could help me in finding a replacement string? I snapped my banjo string earlier in the week and it's making it very tricky (and rather painful) to play with. Please let me know. Yours, highly strung</i></div>CTShttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02786395045890215519noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6094322728969128366.post-58384420180890508032011-09-05T22:42:00.000+01:002011-09-05T22:42:35.272+01:00From Mr Cryptic<m:smallfrac m:val="off"> <m:dispdef> <m:lmargin m:val="0"> <m:rmargin m:val="0"> <m:defjc m:val="centerGroup"> <m:wrapindent m:val="1440"> <m:intlim m:val="subSup"> <m:narylim m:val="undOvr"> </m:narylim></m:intlim> </m:wrapindent> </m:defjc></m:rmargin></m:lmargin></m:dispdef></m:smallfrac><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small; line-height: 115%;"><b>there`s a hobgoblin in daddies wheelbarrow</b><br />
<hr /><i>Dear Mr Cryptic. Thanks for your email. Thank you for bringing this pressing issue to my attention. I won't lie, it does trouble me to think that there may be some sort of evil mythical being meddling with my father's gardening equipment, so I'll be calling Rentokil pronto to have the little blighter dispatched of quick smart. That is, of course, assuming that your email is factually correct, and not some sort of sinister euphemism making reference to genitals, in which case I suggest you pop down to the clinic and have your little 'situation' looked at. Yours, Encryptedly </i></span></div>CTShttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02786395045890215519noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6094322728969128366.post-46640390740977725672011-09-05T22:27:00.001+01:002011-09-05T22:38:11.377+01:00From Mr Three<div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><m:smallfrac m:val="off"> <m:dispdef> <m:lmargin m:val="0"> <m:rmargin m:val="0"> <m:defjc m:val="centerGroup"> <m:wrapindent m:val="1440"> <m:intlim m:val="subSup"> <m:narylim m:val="undOvr"> </m:narylim></m:intlim> </m:wrapindent> </m:defjc></m:rmargin></m:lmargin></m:dispdef></m:smallfrac></div><div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><b>Hey,<br />
U sound like just the person i associate completely bonkers would be great to get to know you better . So tell me "what are the three best things about you?"</b></span></div><hr style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;" /><div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i>Dear Mr Three. Thanks for your email. What are the best three things about me you say? Well I would have to say my rather fabulous left leg, my even more fabulous right leg, and that utterly fantastic lengthy limb that allows me to prop myself up like a tripod. Drink? Yours, leggily</i></span></div>CTShttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02786395045890215519noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6094322728969128366.post-31883795286232755112011-09-05T22:21:00.000+01:002011-09-05T22:21:14.012+01:00From Mr rOguE cAPs<m:smallfrac m:val="off"> <m:dispdef> <m:lmargin m:val="0"> <m:rmargin m:val="0"> <m:defjc m:val="centerGroup"> <m:wrapindent m:val="1440"> <m:intlim m:val="subSup"> <m:narylim m:val="undOvr"> </m:narylim></m:intlim> </m:wrapindent> </m:defjc></m:rmargin></m:lmargin></m:dispdef></m:smallfrac><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><b>Hiiiiii my SWeeT DReam How r u ?????? I happy TO GO oUt ANy My spECIal BaBe .....REply Me..................thanx....</b><br />
<hr /><i>Dear Mr rOguE cAPs. Thanks for your email. And you have the nerve to call me special? Special yourself! Yours, eSpECiaLLy</i></div>CTShttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02786395045890215519noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6094322728969128366.post-71799363598029208852011-09-05T22:19:00.001+01:002011-09-05T22:21:34.819+01:00From Mr Upfront<m:smallfrac m:val="off"> <m:dispdef> <m:lmargin m:val="0"> <m:rmargin m:val="0"> <m:defjc m:val="centerGroup"> <m:wrapindent m:val="1440"> <m:intlim m:val="subSup"> <m:narylim m:val="undOvr"> </m:narylim></m:intlim> </m:wrapindent> </m:defjc></m:rmargin></m:lmargin></m:dispdef></m:smallfrac><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><b>couldnt be arsed to read your profile but could we meet this weekend so u can give me a blowjob please?</b></div><hr style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;" /><div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><i>Dear Mr Upfront. Thanks for your email. I'm really sorry that my intricate and thoughtful verbosity on my profile has caused such an assault on your senses that you require immediate oral attention to your genital region. I will, of course, be more than willing to oblige by way of an apology for such an inconvenience, so if you would be so kind as to send me your address, I shall be over first thing Saturday morning brushed, flossed and mouthwashed in preparation to make amends with my mouth. I eagerly await your reply with baited breath. Yours, orally.<br />
<br />
PS. I am, of course, joking. Fuck off. Fuck right off. I wouldn't suck yours with someone else's. Anyone else's in fact.</i></div><br />
</div>CTShttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02786395045890215519noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6094322728969128366.post-11862787994737432772011-05-30T22:04:00.000+01:002011-05-30T22:04:13.364+01:00From Borat<span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;"></span><b>Yikshemesh, ma naam is Borat ind ah looking for a waaf as I haaf onle 2 waafs ind I haaf a big farm with manee manee jobs to finish now! <br />
<br />
If you would laak to be ma waaf pls sending me photo ind how many logs can you carry? Yikshemesh.</b><br />
<hr /><i>Dear Borat. Thanks for your email. And thank you for choosing me to be one of your wives. I would most definitely love to come and live with you on your big farm. I am a hard worker, I can carry five logs at one time, I can weave baskets blindfold and I am so good at milking, I can extract the white stuff from any animal including kittens, guinea pigs and baboons. I would most definitely work hard for you and serve you well as your wife. I am sending over three chickens as downpayment on my dowry and will await further instruction. Yours, domesticatedly</i><br />
<br />
<i>PS. You are the real Borat aren't you, off the telly? I'll be ever so disappointed if not... </i>CTShttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02786395045890215519noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6094322728969128366.post-26252625320169467222011-05-30T21:36:00.000+01:002011-05-30T21:36:41.544+01:00From Mr Storyteller<span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;"></span><br />
<b>I entered a TK Max today. An odd breed of store with a seemingly transparent slogan ‘designer labels for less’, Looking for a deal, I compromised myself. Crossing the threshold of the doorway like an ending to a so-so honeymoon, the street behind me moaned. The cold kisses me goodbye unable to follow, but something new lingered patiently, purposefully; ready to pounce on every new unsuspecting<br />
Intruder.<br />
<br />
And there it was, the stench of broken dreams mixed with the ever-popular aroma of fresh cow carcass drapery. A smell so intense, the fragrance of all the thrift-eyed yummy mummy patrons could not muster up the courage to mask. The plaster slowly prying free from its windowless constraints, like a snail heading towards the busy roads unaware of its fate. The neglected floor lies in tatters under foot. Once proud and flawless, Most likely cannot remember the last time its been baptized with the warm caress of soapy goodness, seeping into its pores. The stringy arms of a morbid mop massaging its wrinkles.<br />
<br />
Once happy and proud balloons sag under the weight of their purpose in life, to trick people into happiness. A cunning and exploitive ploy to forgo their monetary concerns and deplete their savings for the splendour of a new shiny item of inconsequence. Signs hung mercilessly from the rafters, with overly common typography, swaying gingerly from the stampede invading the floor above. The drone of fifty six mourning worker bees, there for all to hear if you stop and listen closely, collectively sighing from their mistakes in life that got them to this place. Was it the missed lecture that one insignificant Monday after a heavy weekend? Was it something that could not be controlled, written in the fabric of time? Every new prospective customer they sell themselves to is a reminder of what they could have become.<br />
<br />
“Five minutes until closing”, a musky voice crackles through the ambient noise over the intercom like a sudden stay of execution being called. The relief shows in the posture of the scurrying servants, ever so slightly more confident in their strides.<br />
A security guard stands proud at the doorway, strength and resolution in his eyes, shooing away the no longer welcome vermin.<br />
<br />
I leave, bag clenched in hand content with my purchase, not swayed from the harrowing exhibition on display. Guilt washed away by the feeling of investing in a new part of me for all to behold. The Cold welcomes me back with open arms, rich coffee, freshly baked baguette in the air. Until we meet again, desolate charlatan</b>.<br />
<hr /><i>Dear Mr Storyteller. Thanks for your email. And your delightfully-crafted little anecdote there. Unfortunately, I'm not a judge for a short story competition, I'm a single lady looking for a date. So I'm afraid your wondersome wordsmithery has gone to waste as all I was after was a 'you're fit, fancy a fajita and a fumble?'. So may I suggest you go back to the storyboard whilst I go back to the drawing board. Oh well. Yours fablelessly</i>CTShttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02786395045890215519noreply@blogger.com1