I Might Date Liz Jones
Deep breath. I am profoundly ashamed of the next few sentences I’m about to type. But at the risk of enraging feminists the world over, here goes. I want a great love. I want to disappear into the sunset with my soulmate. I want to walk down the aisle again wearing an ivory dress into the arms of my knight in shining armour.
For the whole backstory, go here.
She drank the kool-aid of female-centered emotional pornography. She fell for it. At 53, she is still looking for Prince Charming to sweep her off her feet. Seriously? Plankton to the white courtesy phone. Generation Spinster is only just getting warmed up. You go, grrls!
Fine. I’m bored. My job is interesting enough but in the evenings I need someone to tend to my sexual needs, walk my dog, and clean my humble apartment. Liz, fly across the pond and hang out with me. I’m smarter and more interesting than you so I can easily fulfill your hysterical hypergamy. Oh, and I can write you under the table… without even using adverbs.
I’m no rock star but I’m fairly popular in the village. Yeah, I know, my dog is ugly but she won’t be critical of your emotional pornography consumption. Lucy the dog loves people unconditionally, unlike you. I promise I won’t take a photo of you as you pick up her poo when you take her for walkies. It’s the least I can do. Just know that my dog might eat your romance novels. Lucy loves junk food.
Yes, I’m four years younger than you but I’m sure you’d clean up nicely with some makeup, a shortish dress (it’s warm here in South Florida), and high heels. That way, I wouldn’t be embarrassed to be seen with you when we have a bit of nosh at one of the local eateries. I’ve got my standards, after all. Oh, do you like American football? Even if you don’t, just be handy and serve me and the fellas some cold brewskies while we watch the game, ta.
Seriously Liz, I’m the best you’re going to get. You’ve hit the wall. Your value in the sexual marketplace (SMP) is in the bargain basement, damaged goods section of the store. But if you’re particularly gracious and pleasant (and willing to be a tigress in bed), matrimony might be an option. Of course, I’m going to spend the engagement ring money on a pre-nup with a clause stipulating that I receive half your assets when you get bored at 60 years old and fly to Bali in the vain hope of still finding your knight in shining armor. Hey, the Private Man ain’t stupid.