Thursday, January 20, 2011

RE: Any Good ole Boys?

Any Good ole boys? - 22 (My computer..Duh!)

Date: 2011-01-19, 10:40AM MST
Reply to:

Well lets get right to the point......
I'm 22 and I have a job
I have a car
I'm pretty redneck but have a rock n' roll/biker side.
I'd love if you have a job too. I dont wanna have to pay for everything nor do I want you to pay for everything.
I LOVE country music.
I like my men tall and on the bigger side.
I'm kind of chubby but in a cute way.
I want someone who can make me laugh and is a gentlemen.
I'm a red head just an f.y.i.
I'm a total smart ass!
I have tattoos and piercings.
Bad girl on Friday night, Church girl on Sunday.
I'm a tough chick but still have a girly side
Any takers?

Location: My computer..Duh!
it's NOT ok to contact this poster with services or other commercial interests
PostingID: 2168755514

...And They Call Me Warrior
Colin Heintze to pers-XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX.
show details 11:27 PM (2 minutes ago)

Yep, that’s my favorite song right there, because that’s what I am: a warrior. I’m a patriot, a freedom-lover, and soldier of Christ, and anyone who doesn’t like it can’t come crying to me when they end up in one of Saddam’s rape-rooms.
Anyways, you want a good ole’ boy, you found one. I’m originally from Oklahoma, near the Texas border. I’m one-quarter Cherokee Indian, two-quarters Irish, one quarter Union, and one-quarter Confederate. My grandmother says I have a little black in me, though when I was a kid me and my friend Jeremy would see who could swim across Bailey’s Pond the fastest and I would always win by three, four seconds – so I seriously doubt some ancestor of mine was getting up to any misceginatin’.

So yeah, I’m looking for a girl. It’s hard finding a girl. Most nights, if I’m feeling a little excitable, me and my cousin Jim have to drive down county road 6, all the way to where it dead-ends past the Miller Ranch. After that, we flash our headlights three times into the bushes and wait. Sometimes they never come. Sometimes, we only have to wait two minutes and they start coming out of the bushes, those Fern girls, all dressed up in their Sunday finest all besmirched with axle grease and river clay and giving hand-jobs for a few vicodens or a jar of corn-mash. No one’s seen their daddy for ages – folks around the bait shop say he got a little too fresh with his youngest one night and she had to put him down with a claw-hammer – so ain’t no one afraid of him raising hell over his daughters being used that way. Heck, he was the one who turned them on to it in the first place. Him and his wife, that was Tilda Fern, not to be confused with the Tilda Fern across the border in Tulia, just kept on having kids figuring that, the more dependents they got, the more they get from the welfare every month. Of course, they was trying to turn a profit, so they didn’t exactly spend much of it on the girl’s upbringing. Back when Clay Aires was hitting the meth pretty hard, he said he broke into the Fern’s basement and saw it was full of ratty old mattresses, and there was jars on the shelves with these little dead babies, some of which had two faces, or three eyes, or a pair of unmentionables, one male and one female. Of course, Clay hasn’t been right in the head since he got kicked by his uncle’s horse, but it would sure explain what made those Fern girls the way they are. Point is, I don’t want to get hand-jobs in a forest by the local folklore, I want a real girlfriend!

Like I said, I’m a patriot and a Christian. Mind you, I don’t care much for going to church, but I’m Christian in the sense that it is something familiar to me I can use as a means feel outraged at people who have and opinion in conflict with my very limited view of the world. Ditto on the patriot part. Obama can go back to Africa when he tells me I shouldn’t love America. I met a foreigner once. He was all dark and had these short little legs and curly hair and was jabbering at me in this language. His shirt was torn open and bloody and it looked like he’d been walking for hours, and he kept asking me to take him to a hospital. So, you know what I did? I left him right there on the road cause we don’t need no more foreigners going to our hospitals and spending our tax money to fix their problems. The next day, I heard he was actually the new algebra professor for the community college. Seems he got hit by a drunk-driver and staggered ten miles from the accident site before dying on the road. The newspaper said he was from Bangladesh, which I guess is part of China, so we lucked out not having another commie in town along with those pinkos at the Southern Poverty Law Center, plus we don’t need no one teaching our kids no foreign math. We’ve done fine by American math so far, and I don’t see reason to change.

But, I ramble, which I tend to do ever since last winter. I was varnishing an old tool-chest in January, and believe me when I tell you that there can be some nasty cold-spells in a panhandle January. So, I had the garage sealed up tight so I wouldn’t catch cold, when suddenly I start feeling… dizzy. Then, my grandmother comes in and starts asking me about the muffins, cept grandma’s been dead for fifteen years now. When I got out of the coma, this doctor tells me I damaged a part of my brain damaged a part of my brain damged my brain and my mind might wander from time to time. So there’s that. What was I talking about?

The Encyclopedia of Assholes is Up!

Greetings, fellow seekers of the new flesh.

You may have noticed it's been about a month since my last post. Allow me to explain:
1) Shut up.
2) Being bitter and lonely is a full-time job.
3) Shut up.
4) I've been working on a super-secret new project, and like another super-secret project, it ends with the phrase "I am become death, the destroyer of worlds". It's called The Encyclopedia of Assholes, the everyman's handy reference book to those people, places, and animals that make the thought of death seem like a sweet release. So, for the literally tens of fans of this page, head on over to for even more hate-filled nihilism. Oh, and don't be a jerk - become a follower, and leave comments... especially if it's a hateful comment. In the meantime, I will still be doing Epic Date Fail, since I know that, for many of you, EDF is your only brief reprieve from your lives of quiet desperation. Enjoy, and keep reaching for the stars!

Thursday, December 23, 2010

RE: Submissive seeks direction, control, and guidance

Submissive seeks direction, control, and guidance - 22 (Vail Valley)

Date: 2010-12-23, 9:26PM MST
Reply to:

22 year old directionless ski bum seeks older, mature, experienced long-term companion capable of providing direction, control, and guidance. I am ideally seeking someone who has the time to invest in me and is willing to mold me into the person that I aught to be. Not looking for a no-strings attached or one-night stand type relationship. Please be single - married, engaged, in a relationship is NOT acceptable. You should be experienced in this type of relationship (I am not but eager to learn), trust-worthy, and mature. Willing to answer questions and discuss further. Please read above before contacting.

Location: Vail Valley
it's NOT ok to contact this poster with services or other commercial interests
PostingID: 2127810331

RE: Submissive seeks direction, control, and guidance

Colin Heintze to pers-kxuxx-212.
show details 12:52 AM (5 minutes ago)

Hello, my name is Park Jin Soo, regional sales manager of Samsung Corporation and recent transplant to Denver. I was so happy to see your post – in the four months I’ve lived in America, I haven’t had much luck with the women here. I liked things much better at home, where women only went to college for three reasons: to become a flight attendant, a hairdresser, or to meet a husband with earning potential. These American girls… why, they are more like boys, what with their interests, opinions, and ambition!

I mean, the one and only woman I slept with here had an orgasm. An orgasm! I want someone to keep a tidy household, not some whore.

That’s why I was so happy to read your post. Women here just don’t know how to be women, how to be told what to do by older males until they are perfectly molded into a narrowly-defined, socially acceptable vision of proper femininity. Women should know not to speak out of turn. A woman’s top priority should be to keep a neat and attractive physical appearance. And, for god’s sake, when I come home from a twelve-hour shift at the company my parents shaped me since birth to work at, there had better be some fucking kimchee on the table. Since you’ll only really be allowed to leave the home to go grocery shopping, it shouldn’t be so hard to put a little kimchee in a bowl on the floor for when I arrive home after a night of heavy consumption and whoring at one of my company’s many mandatory drinking parties.

Anyways, I think I can give you the direction your life is needing. We Koreans are experts of the life plan. Let’s see… you’re 22, so you should just be graduating from Stanford with a degree in business finance, right? That means sometime last year you lost your virginity to your platonic boyfriend after he got drunk and date-raped you in the back seat of his car. Thus, you should be married within the next three years, preferably to a rising young star in the Hyundai, Lotte, or Samsung companies. Hmmm…. I wonder who is a rising star in one of those companies? Oh, that’s right, I am. So, I suppose this is the right time to ask:

In three years, will you marry me? I want you to be the mother of my two children, four and six years from now, respectively. Keep in mind, in eighteen months I’ll be getting a promotion, based, of course, entirely off seniority and not actual job performance, so I’ll be able to keep you in fashion magazines and handbags. How about it? Wanna take a ride on the K-train?

Wednesday, December 8, 2010

The Truth Must Be Known!

The Truth Must Be Known! - 27 (Denver)

Date: 2010-12-09, 12:55AM MS

Hello, ladies. Before I begin, let me apologize for taking up your time, but after years of suffering libelous attacks on my character, I feel it has come time stand up and fight for my reputation, nay, my very legacy!

For, you see, I am Cecil. Cecil Blackwater, the true and rightful heir to the Blackwater fortune.

Many of you, when searching this site to sate your feverish romantic yearnings, have run afoul of my so-called half-brother, the rogue and dandy Anton Kimble Blackwater. Let me address some of his more frequent slanderous lies about me in a controlled, orderly way - if I can! As I write this post, my fingers tremble with rage over the keyboard at the thought of his many shocking fabrications!

First and foremost, the issue of my parentage. Anton has stated on several occasions that my mother was a Hoodoo priestess who ensorcelled his father, the "noble" Henry Blackwater, into siring a male heir with her. Lies! Lies! You see, for all the reverence Anton reserves for his father, I and I alone know that Henry Blackwater was little more than a drunk, gambler, and lecher who, having swived every manner of woman and man, would even turn his ravenous appetites on various zoological orders! While it is true that my mother and he did have a single ill-conceived night together, the fact remains... my mother is not my mother! No, my real mother was the twelve-year old serving maid the "venerable" Henry forced himself on, night after night, under threat of unleashing the very same black magick half-brother Anton accuses me of employing! When, at last, Henry was dragged, insensible and rum-sodden, to the Port-Au-Prince jailhouse for lecherous acts with a minor, my mother and her mistress finally saw him for what he was: a two-bit scoundrel and rake. That day they made a pact that he would pay dearly for his treachery, though my real mother never had the chance to see her plots come to fruition, for she died two months later of a pox given to her by her former-lover, likely picked up in one of his many wharf-side revels. The Hoodoo priestess, however, was good enough to raise me as her own and, through me one day take revenge on the man who had scorned her! I believe, dear brother, you recall your father's death on the last leg of his around-the-world balloon race? How the rigging came loose over the Swiss Alps, having later shown signs of abrasion that could have been nothing other than sabotage? Yes, it was I - enraged to the point of murder by your father when, in an opium-stupor, he trampled the earth over my mother's grave and shouted such curses and insults into it that her soul must have withered up in heaven!

On the other charge frequently levied against me by my imbecilic half-brother - an equal to his father in both duplicity and carnality - that I am trying to steal his fortune using "sundry Lapp death rituals and Berber assassins", I can only say: why would I try to steal something that does not exist?

Lift your jaw from off the floor and read that again: Anton is as poor as a Welsh cabinetmaker. It all goes back to one fateful day when Anton was twelve. Old Henry walked into the stable, Blackwater Manor's being the most well-kept and oft-visited in all of New England, to see his young son doing things with his champion mare better left discussed in seaside taverns. That day, Henry knew his son could never be able to manage a fortune, and set up a trust fund to dole out the monies little by little every two years. And, while most men could live a lifetime on one of those generous payments, my half-brother usually spends it within two months on debaucheries that would put the sultans of the Turks to shame! And to hear him talk of his mother, the Spanish wet-nurse, and her tragic, star-crossed romance with the aristocratic Henry! Anton's mother was indeed Spanish, though also a sixty-year old prostitute working the area around the marble quarry where Henry was sentenced to hard labor for impersonating the Duke of Milan! A quarry-whore, the lowest of all whores!

Oh, and to hear his outlandish claims! His "expertise in tomb-hunting and questing for relics of arcane lore"? Ha! Try two years minoring in anthropology at state college, only to be expelled for stealing from the chapel's poor-box. The charitable trusts and aid organizations set up in his name? Nothing more than fronts intended to defraud orphans and nuns of their last shiny coppers!

I regret having to resort to this public airing of dirty laundry, but what else can I do? Anton has refused to meet me on the field of honor like a man, and my attorneys have been unable to locate him due to the fact that he travels under several aliases, usually in the company of a beguiled underage girl. Please, ladies of the world, do not believe his lies! Stay away from Anton Kimble Blackwater!

Location: Denver
PostingID: 2103231861

Wednesday, November 10, 2010

Looking For The Celestial Madonna

Looking For The Celestial Madonna - 27 (Denver, Dagon System)
Date: 2010-11-11, 12:00AM MST

Hello all you lovely ladies in craigslist land! Hope you're having an enlightened day!

You know, I see a lot of posts from a lot guys that just scream immaturity. Guys that are shallow and self-absorbed, guys who brag about their cars or their jobs or their expensive watches as if those were the things that really mattered in life. I don't mean to be hard on them - after all, what man hasn't been like that at some point in his life? Heck, five years ago you could have cut out a crown from your best glossy construction paper, put it on my head, and called me king of the jerks. But, that was before I knew that empathy, compassion, and love were the real keys to happiness. That was before I had my eyes opened by the visitors from the Dagon System.

Looking back, I can't help but be amused at how naive I was. I was working some crappy corporate job, bouncing from relationship to relationship and drinking nearly five nights a week just in the hope of finding a night's reprieve from my terrible lonesomeness. Then, one night as I was stumbling home after being rejected by a girl I had bought eighty dollars worth of drinks for, I saw them: the lights in the sky. The lights in my heart.

Now, I'm never lonely anymore. I never got along well with my birth-family, but my new family is swell! We spend most of every day singing, and dancing, and chanting, and preparing our bodies for the journey to the Dagon System through ritual self-mutilation. Of course, no family is perfect, and ours is no exception. Occasionally, one of my celestial sisters gets it in her head that she wants to write a letter to her birth-mother, at which point things can get pretty tense. Fortunately, a few weeks laboring in the fields on a 500-calorie-a-day diet of lentils puts a damper on even the fieriest of spirits, but boy have we had some close calls. Also, there are the occasional attempts by birth-parents of our family member to take them away, back to their lives of crass materialism, back to being asleep. So, just in case any of them are reading this, let me repeat what our attorneys already stated: most of our members are legally adults, so if you attempt to abduct and "deprogram" any of our brothers and sisters, you WILL be charged with kidnapping.

Anyways, I'm here now looking for the Celestial Madonna. What's a Celestial Madonna? Where can I find one? Unfortunately, the visitors weren't real clear about that one, but if we are ever to achieve the symbolic rebirth that will allow our spirits to ascend to the Dagon System, we need ourselves a Celestial Madonna. Trust me, it will be worth your while. Maybe you can call me an old-fashioned guy, but I take care of my women. After two years recruiting new family members in shopping malls and college campuses, and the obligatory six months of agricultural duty, you won't have to lift a finger, not around my house! Just one of the many perks of becoming a full-fledged sister of the Society of Celestial Love, along with matching uniforms and first pick of partners during group sex sessions!

Plus, you get the privilege of living under my guidance, a man who, I just recently realized in a a burst of theosophic revelations sent to me from deep space, is the one and only true god.

Don't hesitate, my Celestial Madonna! I am here, your god's avatar, to fulfill the prophecy and vault the elect few to the paradise of the Dagon system!

Location: Denver, Dagon System
it's NOT ok to contact this poster with services or other commercial interests
PostingID: 2053969098

Thursday, October 14, 2010

RE: I would really like to know....

I would really like to know.... - w4m - 24 (Denver)

Where single men hang out. Online dating can be difficult and full of angst. If a woman wanted to meet a "real" man out in the world, what would she do? The relationship pundits tell women to "go where the men are." Where the heck IS that anyway? I have tried going where I think you might be and what I might say.

* Home Depot: "What exactly is a ballpeen?"
* Grocery Store: "Do these melons look ripe to you?" (okay, okay, that was questionable)
* Neighborhood Sports Bar: "What inning is it?"
* Liquor Store: "Is single malt worth the price?"
* Art Museum: "How bout those impressionists?"
* Natural History Museum: "Do you think there really is a missing link?"
* Sushi Bar: "Do you prefer Hamachi or Ebi?"
* Pro Bass Shop: "Why do they call them anglers?"

There are a lot of women just like me who are 24-60, attractive, intelligent, humorous, loyal, loving, interesting, engaging, fun to be with and would make a great partner. How can we approach you, or even give a smile of encouragement if we don't know where you are?

C'mon guys, work with us here. Give a hint as to where you can be found. I bet lots of women here would appreciate you posting that information.

Location: Denver
it's NOT ok to contact this poster with services or other commercial interests
PostingID: 1993669862

RE: I would really like to know....

Colin Heintze to pers-XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX.
show details 12:10 AM (4 minutes ago)

You want to know where you can find unattached men with all the qualities women find attractive? Look no further than the correctional system.

Before you get all bent out of shape let me lay some truth on you. Physically fit? You'll find the hottest hunks are the guys in the orange jumpsuits. I've seen dudes come in as scrawny runts and coming out looking like juiced-up pitbulls. Sure, you may have to have to look the other way when it comes to thousand-yard stares and prison ink detailing a long criminal history in a tapestry of complex symbolism, but can you really tell me you'll find hunkier guys at the library? Artistic? Shit, us guys don't have much else to do other than arts and crafts. I personally have made shanks out of items as innocuous as lengths of wire and toothbrush handles. My celly paints the most beautiful murals you'll ever see. Of course they're mostly about arson, but you wouldn't believe what a con hardened by the system can do with just a little kool-aid powder and syrup from a cup of fruit cocktail. Sensual? Hell, some of the guys in here like to bump so much that they've never taken "no" for an answer!

But all of that is small potatoes compared to the best thing about dating within the correctional system: loyalty. I mean, it's not like any of us guys are going to be cheating on you anytime soon. Not unless there's some new fish whose been running his mouth off and needs to be taught how things work in here. Other than that, you are practically guaranteed total fidelity from your guy. Doesn't even matter what you look like. Since most of us fellas only see a woman every three years or so when our parole hearing comes up, we ain't exactly picky.

Now, I know you're wondering just how this little arrangement can work. After all, it's not like you can just show up at the gate and ask to take one of the guys out for dinner! Well, you have several options. First - just let me get the obvious out of the way - there's conjugal visits. However, if making a life-long commitment to someone who has shown a pathological lack of empathy and need to manipulate others isn't really your cup of tea, you have other options. Are you a licensed psychiatrist, RN, or MD? If so, it's possible you could get the man of your dreams for fifteen unsupervised minutes at least twice a week. Plus, you'll be able to write prescriptions, which means you'll practically have your pick of the litter. Just this second I know a ton of guys who need to come up with several dozen doses of Oxycontin to keep the Aryan Nation off their backs.

Don't waste your time with little sissies who don't know how to appreciate a good woman. You want guys, you know where to find them. For only the willingness to smuggle in heroin inside your body, you could find the man you'll spend the next twenty-five years to life with!

Jake "Cutter" Butler
Canyon City Correctional Institution

Sunday, September 19, 2010

A True Gentleman

A True Gentleman - 27 (Denver)
Date: 2010-09-19, 12:00PM MDT

Whatever happened to real gentlemen? What became of men of character, men who woo their ladies with long, elegant courtships? Men who hold the door of the coach open for their paramours? Men who walk to the inside of the woman in order to shield her from the fusillade of offal and waste raining down from the windows above? Real, old-fashioned gentlemen such as myself.

For, you see, I am but an eighteenth century English gentleman transported to this time by an enchanted looking-glass my late uncle found on the Singapore wharves.

Your customs, I should say, bewilder me. Take, for example, last week’s journey to the local public house and imagine my shock when I saw women, and no pox-ravaged slatterns, but actual unescorted ladies in attendance! I wanted to shout at them, “Ladies, leave here! Have you no idea what iniquities take place in a tavern such as this?” But my voice was stolen from me upon viewing an even more vexing sight. Sitting beside me, with a dour countenance and shock of fiery red hair, was none other than an Irishman! I rallied the other patrons, crying “seize him lads! Hold fast those burly arms and evict him fore’ he can blight us with some Papist enchantment!” But, to my surprise, no one stirred from their seats, and it was I who was rudely escorted out, not him!

If I cannot find an elegant lady of fine breeding, what hope is there for me in this bewildering new world?

I have combed over the records of what happened after my disappearance of 1752. All my property, including the magic looking glass, went to my sister, though records of her life are woefully incomplete. There is some allusion that she may have been carried off by an Indian during the French war, and if that was so, what became of the looking glass? Does it rest in the pocket of some grinning savage descended from the one who ravished my dear sister? Will I ever uncover what became of my family, and my only means back to my own time?

And, if I cannot return to my own era, how will I survive in this alien world? After all, the fourteen pounds I had in the bank when I disappeared surely won’t last me long – wait a minute… those fourteen pounds must have accrued quite a bit of interest by now. Mayhap I should check my bank balance… I… oh Christ. Oh, sweet merciful Christ.

You know what, forget the magic looking glass. Think I’ll buy that castle in Coventry I always had my eye on.

* Location: Denver
* it's NOT ok to contact this poster with services or other commercial interests

PostingID: 1962304598