Okay, here’s my dating profile according to Tiny’s Online Translation Guide.
Feel free to mail me for a date, but for the love of Mars bars and other things holy, don’t send me pictures of your pecker!
I’m not hideous enough to make you vomit, but let’s play it safe by dating somewhere with subdued lighting. On no. Silly me! I just looked in the mirror and I actually resemble Quasimodo having a big, bad hair day.
I have a spankable butternut-squash-shaped bottom and am still waiting for my boobs to grow. In fact every time I get a pimple, I become over-excited, hoping that I’m finally about to enter puberty.
I only ever laugh at other people’s misfortune and whenever someone says the word ‘willy’. Or ‘knob’. And especially the number ’69’.
I’m loud and annoying, and I laugh like a constipated donkey. When people let me out in public, they always tell others I’m on day release from the local Care in the Community programme. I do have major control issues – you can keep your front-door key, Mister. I have a shiny silver one of my own. I do take Prozac – the anti-depressant of the stars.
I’m looking for a man who won’t admit to his true age. A complete wuss who enjoys groping in public places, and will titter alongside me whenever someone says the word ‘willy’. Or ‘knob’. And especially when we hear the number ’69’.
I expect you to pay for dinner. And dessert. And coffee. And an after-dinner liqueur. At the end of the evening, you will thank me for being such good company and then walk me to my car.
Horny is acceptable, but no mummy’s boys, please; I would frequently make you cry. Would be particulary delighted to hear from anyone with flatulence problems in the bedroom. 😉