I Like My Women The Way I Like My Kebab

For amusement, I once posted a personals ad on craigslist with the title, "Does This Sound Like You?" The entire text of the ad was composed of the following -- "awooga awooga..." And although (sadly enough) I got a number of responses for an ad that consisted solely of the sound of a tugboat, it does not even begin to compare to the brilliance of the ads from They Call Me Naughty Lolita, Personal Ads from the London Review of Books. Below are some of my favorites.

I write the best literature this country's ever seen. Then my spell-checker tell me to kill, kill, kill. No sudden movements with highly-strung F, 38, Reading. Box no. 3627.

I once found the perfect match in this column, but it turned out to be an ad I'd written two years earlier that they'd forgotten to publish. Still, you have to admire my consistency. Man, 43. Consistent. Admiring. Admirable. Box no. 4321.

I like my women the way I like my kebab. Found by surprise after a drunken night out and covered in too much tahini. Before long I'll have discarded you on the pavement of life, but until then you're the perfect complement to a perfect evening. Man, 32. Rarely produces winning metaphors. Box no. 5623.

List your ten favorite albums. I don't want to compare notes, I just want to know if there's anything worth keeping when we finally break up. Practical, forward-thinking man, 35. Box no. 8089.

Only the good die young. And sea-monkeys. Providing you flush them. Reclaim those years of bitter disappointment, waiting for the turgid little insects of your life to blossom into entertaining webbed-toed critters, with good, honest cephalopod (35). Underwater kingdom and X-ray species available from box no. 5789.

I have known only shame. Then, last week, I experienced surprise. Man, 37. Box no. 4126.

Will you sleep with me? Knowing is half the battle. Man, neither the time nor the inclination for subtleties. Box no. 2574.

Using advanced quantum mechanics and some bits from an old Breville sandwich toaster, I have been to the future and witnessed its glories. They say men will never be able to hover like wasps, but I tell you they haven't witnessed our many bounteous unions with the delightful Wasp People of Ruislip's as yet undiscovered caverns. Join me, and let us be the first to offer up our bodies and secure majestic wask-like hovering abilities for generations to come. Man, 63. Possibly ingesting medicines that shouldn't be taken orally. Box no. 2268.

My Vagina Has A First Name, It's C-H-E-A-P

I have the worst gynecologist ever. I know this because he is always available for appointments. When I tried to make an appointment with other gynecologists, the conversation goes something like this:

Me: "So, um, I'd like to make an appointment."

Doctor Too-Good for Me Apparently: "Sure, no problem."

Me: "Great!"

Doctor Still Too Good for Me Apparently: "I think we can squeeze you in sometime around 2010."

When I call my gynecologist, the conversation goes like this:

Me: "Do you have any appointments available, say before the next solar eclipse?"

Doctor Desperate: "Sure do. How about today at noon?"

In fact, I am willing to bet that if I wanted to schedule an appointment at 3 in the morning, my doctor would be willing to meet me halfway...and then escort me inside the office.

The office itself is no more reassuring. The waiting room features solely magazines devoted to pregnancy and childbirth. Not one single People or US Weekly to distract patients from the fact that a total stranger is going to put a cold instrument up their hoo-ha and pry it open like some stubborn elevator door. No siree.

The waiting room selection though, beats the exam room offerings though. Posted directly in front of the paper-covered barca lounger, is a poster of a tree frog dangling precariously over a branch, its legs akimbo. The caption reads, "All progress has resulted from those who have taken uncomfortable positions." I am too frightened to ask what sort of progress I might expect. I am too frigtened to run screaming out of the room like any person with a tablespoon of common sense would do.

Sometimes I really dislike small talk. When I get my haircut, I sometimes pretend to have a headache so that I won't have to engage in strained chitchat with the stylist. However, I found myself wishing that my doctor would launch into a little mini-dialogue about the weather or sports or what effect the weather was going to have on sports this weekend. Nope. Not to be. Instead, what I get is:

"Let's hope for a normal pap result. Now, wouldn’t that be a great Christmas gift!"

Now, my vagina is not ordinarily in the habit of getting me gifts. And if it were, I'm pretty sure the wrapping job wouldn't be all that impressive. But, it was Christmas and I happened to know my vagina wasn't going anywhere. So it was with some eagerness that I awoke on Christmas and looked around to see what my vagina might have left me.

Unfortunately, the good doctor is also apparently, a liar. My vagina got me nothing. Zilch. Still, I can't help but have high hopes for Valentine’s day...