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!
If you would laak to be ma waaf pls sending me photo ind how many logs can you carry? Yikshemesh.
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
PS. You are the real Borat aren't you, off the telly? I'll be ever so disappointed if not...
Desperate 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.
30 May 2011
From Mr Storyteller
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
Intruder.
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.
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.
“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.
A security guard stands proud at the doorway, strength and resolution in his eyes, shooing away the no longer welcome vermin.
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.
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
From Mr F Word
fuck me u r fit
Dear Mr F Word. Thanks for your email. Fuck off, you're fat. Yours F-fortlessly.
Dear Mr F Word. Thanks for your email. Fuck off, you're fat. Yours F-fortlessly.
From Mr Well Endowed
I have a massive cock hhahaha xx
Dear Mr Well Endowed. Thanks for your email. What are the odds, I have a massive cock too! Fancy meeting for idle know chat, willy larks and idle sword play? No? What a shame... Yours donkeyly.
PS. Are you sure you didn't mean to write 'I am a massive cock?'
Dear Mr Well Endowed. Thanks for your email. What are the odds, I have a massive cock too! Fancy meeting for idle know chat, willy larks and idle sword play? No? What a shame... Yours donkeyly.
PS. Are you sure you didn't mean to write 'I am a massive cock?'
From Mr Tokens
Who is up for fresh red roses and box of chcolates.
Dear Mr Tokens. Thanks for your email. Me me me I I I!!!
*raises hand and strains like hopeful schoolchild trying to get teacher's attention*
I want the red roses!!!
I want the box of chocolates!!!
Oh no wait, I'm not a cliche, so on second thoughts no. Thanks, but no thanks. Yours, tokenistically
Dear Mr Tokens. Thanks for your email. Me me me I I I!!!
*raises hand and strains like hopeful schoolchild trying to get teacher's attention*
I want the red roses!!!
I want the box of chocolates!!!
Oh no wait, I'm not a cliche, so on second thoughts no. Thanks, but no thanks. Yours, tokenistically
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