Concerning That Fresh Advert, Fake Craigslist Post #3

This is the third installment of Fake Craigslist Posts, a worthless endeavor of mine that is wrought with the pathetic and wreaks of amusement. As you may remember, my first installment starred a man attempting to break through gender stereotypes on a quest to become a sans-children-stay-at-home husband. A bike-themed part two paired an incredibly vague woman looking for an unspecific man and a careless driver asking for an apology from the hipster biker he almost ran over. 


For round three we're getting dirty, sloshing through the gutter of the Craiglist personals section: Casual Encounters. It's a nook of CL where anyone looking for a random hook-up can float themselves or a fantasy out into the great blew. Whenever a woman complains to me about how difficult it is to get laid, and yes this actually happens, I show her the Male For Female (m4f) section of Casual Encounters. When I wrote this, headings like "looking for a gang bang girl," "watch me fuck my own ass," and the ever so innocent, "Can I cum on you?" were begging for a click. 


And there are a lot of postings. I inserted mine at around 5pm and when I tried to get it up for my roommates at around 9pm it had been pushed to page four by almost 350 other postings. 


Like I did in the other entires, I'll serve you my ad and follow it up with all the responses I received. I don't reply to the "ladies" who decide to take a chance because they're not ladies. They are spammers trolling for emails, photographs, and other personal information they can sell or use to bait other victims with. Through my step by step breakdown, I'll reveal how you too can spot a fake! 


My first brain child breached the idea canal a couple of weeks ago as I recalled something a former friend had told me. He had just ended a relationship with a woman after he pressured her into having sex and, not surprisingly, she just didn't seem that into it. "Starfish" is the term he had used to describe her. Apparently there are men out there who just want to sleep with as many women as possible no matter the emotional damage they leave in their wake. Classy guys.

Even classier: 

Alright. I admit. Not my best work, but then I threw in this photo: 

Really ties the ad together, doesn't it? 

How to Spot a Fake Craigslist Response

By: Me, silly! 

1. They are clearly in the wrong section. 

Francisco was always known as a fast mover. 

By 4 weeks he was crawling. 

At age 2 he was reciting Shakespeare. 

And by 22 he was on Craigslist trying to give 

his phone number to men in the m4w section. 

Jimmie, leave off the "For fuck sake Saw" 

and try your mouth in m4m.

Maybe a good question for the discussion forums? 

2. They don't make sense (and they may be in the wrong section). 

Try Missed Connections? 

 3. They follow a pattern. 

                        a.

                        b.

                        c.

                       d. 

First off, I wasn't aware my "advert" was so "fresh". 

Secondly, keep your hairy hands off of Dharma and Greg. 

That show is sacred.

Let's take a moment to introduce another fake post. It was inspired by another douche bag, a musician by the name of John Mayer. A few years back he was interviewed by Playboy and asked, "Do black women throw themselves at you?" Instead of actually answering the question he said he doesn't think he's open to it and then compared his dick to a white supremacist. The producer took exception to the original lyrics of one of his first hits: "Your body is a wonderland... unless you're black." 

Here's (to) Johnny! 

I want to take this opportunity to point out a couple of things. One: I'm especially proud of my best typo to date: "passed". Thank you. Two: I showed this one to my roommate and he didn't laugh. I got scared for a second and thought maybe he was offended since he's Filipino. "I've actually seen this before." Oh, great! Now I appear racist and I'm unoriginal. "No, it was on Reddit." Apparently it was tagged under the meme "I Don't Want to Live on This Planet Anymore." Yea, I'm famous. Kind of. 

We now return to our regularly scheduled program, "How to Catch a Predat—er—Fake Craigslist Response". 

4. They use the word "movie" too much. 

How about trying a thesaurus?

5. They don't actually look at the ad. 

You like my pic, huh? Really? Here's the pic I used: 

6. Their signed name doesn't match the "From" portion of the message, which also doesn't match the email address. 

What an unfortunate name, Rachael Banyo. 

7. The photo has "her" face/head cropped off and she is way too hot for the Casual Encounters section of Craigslist.

 I surf Craigslist for the articles.  

     

  Thank you for clearing that up.

8. They employ international stereotypes. 

"Dude, it sounds legit. She could be really hot 

and you could make friendship with her." 

"hunting" males? You may want 

to steer clear of that wording, considering

 we're on land-o-murderers Craigslist.

9. They play hard to get... information. 

Ahh, yes.

Ahh, yes. 

Ahh, ye— Wait a tick. 

Wrong section, Ms. Tipps.

AND...

10. They almost have you convinced, but then you put 1-9 together and see through their trickery. 

Crabtree & Evelyn doesn't exist, 

but you have to admit, Hogsett is a 

way better last name than Duffy.

If you like-ita this, check out my 

first Fake Craigslist post and my second. 

Mother Huffing Hockey

My mother would always tell me, “Brad, one day, on that computer box, you’re gonna have what’s called a “blog”. I have no idea what that means but it came to me in a dream.” And then I’d say, “Mom, have you been huffing again?” And she’d say, “You shut your fucking mouth!” Then I would begin sobbing but she’d set me right as rain with a quick snort of paint thinner. “Anyway,” she’d continue. “You’re gonna write on that blog, and I just want you to promise me one thing: never, ever write angry.”

Well mom, you’re not the boss of me anymore. It’s my party so I can write angry if I want to.

Someone’s having a party?!

Shut up! Just shut up. So rude. But now since you’ve broken the question seal, hit me with the one I know is burning you up. Go on. Get it over with. I’m waiting.

Seriously? You’re not gonna inter—

Why so angry, Brad?

I FUCKING KNEW IT! You are so predictable!

And you are angry.

You’re right.

**sniffle**

I am angry.

You see, I fucking love hockey. I do. I was born in Minnesota, the State of Hockey, and though I don’t live ther—

How can it be the State of Hockey if you haven’t even won a Stanley Cup?

You shut your fucking mouth right now! Fucking, mouth. 

**sniffles**

**spraying paint in bag and big sniffle**

Hockey! That’s what I was talking about.

I love hockey. There is nothing more in this world that wrenches the profanity spout wide open like when I’m watching a game on the teletube. Nothing gets me loud and outta my chair like a goal. Imagine a blender with rusty gears losing its top at the peak of its cycle, spraying shrieks and flailing arms all over the room. Everyone gets dirty. Some get hurt. A few have even died. Not my problem. Don’t stand so close to the blender.

I love hockey and have a swell of pride in the fact that Minnesota truly is the State of Hockey.

Remember the last time the USA Men’s Hockey won a gold medal? Neither do I, and it’s not because I was stoned. It was because, being in 1980, I wasn’t born yet (but God—along with my siblings—knows my parents were trying). Well, it was historic, dubbed the “Miracle On Ice,” it was. In 1999 Sports Illustrated crowned it the greatest sports moment of the 20^th century. Ask anyone who was in the comprehension stage of their life in 1980 and they’ll tell you it was a massive deal. And guess where 8 of the 20 players on that team were from. Not Minnesota. But 12 of the 20 were, and that doesn’t include the head coach (also a Minnesota native).

I'm a softie. I cry every time I watch this movie. "Who do you play for?" 

"The United States of America!" Tears. Hell, I well up watching the trailer. 

How about one of the largest high school tournaments in the nation? The State Boys’ High School Hockey Tournament has been rocking since 1945 and Minnesota nearly shuts down for it. If your team is in it, chances are you’re getting out of school that week to go. If your team didn’t make the cut, you can soak your tears in root beers at home as you watch it because damn right the entire thing is televised.

Then there’s the fact that Minnesota produces more NHL players than any other state. Oh, and did I mention we have the U.S. Hockey Hall of Fame in Evelyth, MN. I’ve been there and it’s suuper neato.

Get to the point, buster.

Would you relax? Stop to smell the roses once in a while. 

That's a bag of air and spray paint. You have a problem. 

My problem is the fact that Minnesota can’t seem to put a fucking winning professional hockey team together. And we have the scar to prove it. 

How many ways can I say this? It's an abstract picture. See the animal? 
See the trees? See the river? The moon? The North Star? 

Huh, well lemme put in a call to see if they can make it simpler for you. 

Imagine the sports team that you enjoy watching more than any other. Maybe it’s a football team you latched onto before you even realized there was an entire league of football teams. Maybe it’s a baseball team you’d watch with your dad and mom and brothers and sisters at the ballpark, back when the crunch of peanut shells under your feet was both frightening and exhilarating. Or maybe it’s a basketball team that glues you to the tube, one where a big shot shoots you out of your seat and compels you to meet a high-five quota. Now imagine if that team, the team that casts family conflicts aside, one that conjures conversation between perfect strangers, a team that bridges political, religious, and other ideological differences, and one that plays a sport that has a history in your state dating back to 1905, moves. Poof. That team is now gone, off to another state. No more Boston Celtics. No more St. Louis Cardinals. No more Green Bay Packers. That’s what happened with professional hockey in Minnesota. The Minnesota North Stars dropped the “North” when they migrated to Dallas. The owner, Norm Green, wasn’t seeing enough green in his bank account after a few losing seasons so he moved my team to a place that can’t even make ice on its own. And it broke a lot of hearts, including mine.

Go puck yourself, Norm Green! Puck yourself right in 

your pucking puck hole you mother pucker! PUCK!

It feels ridiculous to piss and moan about a sports team when suffering shows everyday on the faces of those holding cardboard signs at city intersections. But as idiotic as it sounds, sports can help alleviate suffering. They have the ability to unite a city, state, or country, to spring hope from a well thought to be dry, and to distract fans from the day to day that has the tendency to bog people down.

But they also have the ability to infuriate people. A study of NFL games from 1995 to 2006 revealed that the number of 911 calls regarding domestic violence increased by 10% within an hour of the home team losing.

Who’s fucking blahg is this?

Yours, but the study goes on: If the game was against a division rival, the number of calls shot up by 20%.

Yeah, so there are people out there who clearly don’t know how to decompress after a loss. What? Why are you looking at me like that? Hey, I punch pillows not women.

That’s what they all say.

Actually, I’ve watched a lot of Law and Order, and I’ve never heard an abuser say that.

Came up when I searched "Law and Order" images. 

Really? Your defense is a scripted shitty cop drama?

You’re right. That was dumb. 

Way better. 

Wouldn't you agree, Detective Benson? 

Believe me, I already know it’s silly to give control of my emotions over to something I have absolutely no control over. But I have a pride in my home state and a passion for one of its main claims to fame: hockey. 

It just plain pisses me off when we, the State of Hockey, can’t even make it to the playoffs, let alone put together a Stanley-Cup-winning team.

You get your tiny, cabbage-smelling 

hands off the cup, VERNE. 

“Tampa has a cup,” said a friend from Florida a few nights ago, as I was bitching on and on. He was referencing the Tampa Bay “Lightening”, a team that won the Stanley Cup in 2004. “And I’m pretty sure nobody in Florida really cared.”

See? Do you see my frustration?

The Minnesota Wild suck. They’ve never made it to the Stanley Cup in their 11 years of existence. The North Stars, rest their soul, never won a Cup either, until they changed their name and moved to Dallas, TEXAS! And this all makes me angry and sad.

At least there's one southern team that will never win a cup. 

Another thing that makes me sad is when I'm at a game in a different arena and I look up to see Stanley Cup Champion banners hanging from the rafters and then I look around to see many of the fans cheering that their opponents just got called for offsides. It's offsides! It's not a goal, you clowns. It's not a penalty or an icing or anything else that actually matters. You're an embarrassment to the game. 

I’m writing this while watching the final Wild game of their embarrassing 2011-2012 season, a season that started with a flurry of wins, a season where the Wild found itself atop the entire league halfway through December only to see a plague of injuries and an erosion of confidence choke them out of game after game. At present moment, they sit six-and-a-half games out of a playoff spot. They’re losing by a score of 4-1 to the Phoenix Coyotes, who sit in 3^rd place in the Western Conference and will begin their playoff series this week.

Phoenix, ARIZONA!!!!!

**spraaaaaaay**

**snifffffffff**

**snore**

Did you enjoy this blahg entry? Then one-time it to all your friends so they can get a giggle or two. 

Red Lights are the Enemy

You know what? Fuck this weather! Fuck it right good. I’m sick of people talking about how it’s sooo nice out and how it just makes them wanna get outside and show some skin, skin that probably holds a healthy shade of color. Fuck them, fuck this weather, and fuck their beautifully tan, well-moisturized skin.

I'd hit that.

Alright, I’m deflecting.

That’s not the real reason the hot weather is getting me bothered. The truth is, I don’t like this 75-and-sunny shit because it forces me to ride with my windows down. 

Stop yourself! Stop yourself right fucking now! This is not a blahg about my bitchin’ ride, the 1996 Buick Regal LIMITED who graces the world with her near-immaculate body and righteous name: Rainbow Satan. I will not have you defile her essence and beauty and badassness with your perverse presumptions about the subject of this blahg entry. Shame! You know what, you should leave. I’m serious, go. Go on. I’ll wait.

Did you enjoy this blahg post? Well that’s just sad, because it’s not even done yet.

This blahg is about one of my longest loves: music, and more specifically: singing. Nothing makes me want to sing at the top of my lungs more than singing at the top of my lungs. I love it. My closest friends know this about me. If they’re paying attention, my fellow gym goers know this about me. And now, thanks to this dickish weather, those driving next to me, or next to the car that’s next to mine, or across the street from that car, or maybe those working on their base tan in the park all know I love singing.

Huh, Paula Deen? Where you at? I bet you've never 

cooked yourself in butter.

So what’s the problem with singing in your car, Brad?

Jesus Christ! Put some pants on. How many times do I have to tell you? If you’re gonna interrupt the blahg, if you’re gonna screech my flow, wear. some. pants.

Oh yeah. Sorry. Got it.

Nothing. Nothing is wrong with singing in your car, but I get shy about a few things when I do. For one, I’m a loud singer. Two, my voice isn’t as smooth on the ears as Rainbow’s non-dented lady-like curves are on the eyes. And third, the music that breaks me into song isn’t always known as good music. In fact, for many it’s known as shitty music. But I love it so.

I'm trying!

UNO! I sing loud. How loud? 

Rewind to about a year ago. Wait, too far. Forward a bit. Back a lit—

Take forever!  

Oh, I’m sorry, I guess I want the scene to play at a point where I’m fully clothed. Speaking of fully clothed, pants! Put on pants!

Oh yeah.

And where the hell did you get Cheetos? I didn’t buy Cheetos. 

Anyway, I’m in my apartment, singing full blast because some notes are only reachable if you’re really pushing it, and a knock sneaks into my ear. It’s the landlady.

“Wait, was that you singing?” Meloby looks past me as if the source of the sweet sound is my life-size cut out of Uncle Jesse.

 Dear diary, I could not find a cut out of Uncle Joey 

and then the dollar store was out of razor blades. :( Brad

“Yeah, why?”

“Oh, I, ah, I just thought it was woman. Anyway, it’s really loud and we’ve gotten a complaint. Can you, ah, bring it down a bit?”

See? Told you. Me sing loud, me do.

“Wait, are you talking to me?”

“Oh, sorry, Meloby. Didn’t realize you were still there.” **awkward whistle** “Actually, I’m glad you are here. Something’s wrong with my door. It hasn’t been shutting properly. Back up for a second. I’ll show you.”

My hand grabs the door knob and shuts it.

“Oh, hey, look at that! It does work!”

Four Friday nights later. It’s just after 7pm. I’m getting ready to go out, probably to another street fight I will undoubtedly win, and I’m singing. 

Those were my fucking Cheetos! 

-Jean (also pantsless)

I’ve drastically reduced my volume since I am now fully aware that my neighbors can hear every question-mark fart that slips out of my sculpted buns. My jam session lasts roughly 10 minutes and I jet out the door.

Fast forward to five hours later. WOAH! You don't need to see that. Keep going a bit. There! I’m in bed and I get a txt message from my roommate. It reads something like:

“Dearest Bradlee, I hope this text message finds you well, in both mind and body. Our property manager has left a voice recording on my mobile telephone relaying that she will be giving us a citation for a rather loud bout of singing and/or chanting that was emanating from our residence earlier this evening. What? Almost out of characters? Fk tht!”

Yes, friends. I got a noise violation for singing. Do I think it’s complete bullshit that I got it for piping some passion on a Friday night at a reasonable volume for 10 minutes? Fuck yes. Do I still hold ill will toward that third string prostitute? Absolutely not (and I’m offended you would suggest such a thing.) Truth burger: I consider it a point of pride that I got a noise violation for strumming my angelic vocal chords for my neighbors.

POINT TWO! My voice is not angelic. It’s by no means shitty, no, and I’m def not tone deaf. I’ve competed in two live-band karaoke contests, placing second in one, and winning the other **flex!**. But I’m not clown enough to try out for American Idol because I know my voice isn’t great (and it has nothing to do with my perfect-for-radio face).  It’s because, as Meloby so tactfully briefed you on, I’ve been blessed with a range well above Celine Dion and at, or just below, Axl Rose. I’m not the most manly singer and I’m not ashamed to admit it. But admitting it to my six readers is a bit different than springing it on the sex blossom in the Beamer to my right.

TREEEEE! I like punk rock. Well, not even punk rock. Pop punk. Motion City Soundtrack, New Found Glory, Something Corporate, Fall Out Boy. Yes, the shit you may have dipped into your ears in high school is still tea bagging my drums. And I fucking love it. It matches my hummingbird heart, the notes are just the right height, and the lyrics embody all the angst I don’t feel for a former property manager. It’s my music and it makes me happy.

Favsies! Motion City Soundtrack. De Minnesota!

So, mis amigos del sacapuntas—

Wait, you know that means "pencil sharpener," right?

Duh! It just so happens to be my favorite Spanish word. You know another favorite? PANTALONES! 

Red lights are the enemy because I want to sing, I need to sing, and since Rainbow’s red-hot personality doesn’t allow for air conditioning, I am forced to be strategic. If mid-life-crisis on my left has the top down, up goes my left window. If white Rasta to my right be eavesdroppin’, up goes the right window. And if I’m practicing AC/DC’s Shook Me All Night Long for a live-band karaoke contest, I do so in the far corner of the parking lot with both windows up on a balls-hot summer’s night, sweatin’ (profusely) to an oldie, because that’s how much I love singing. But mostly because I fear being written up again by that skank-wench land labia who I am totally not still mad at. 

Did you enjoy this shit? If you did, post it on your Facebook wall so others can get a giggle from my me-ness. 

Ha! "Me-ness" rhymes with penis. 

Speaking of penis, I swear to God imma cut it off if you don't pants it up.