Last week I added a new link to my blogroll: the personal ads in the London Review of Books, which gets logged under humor, though I considered also putting it under language and literature. That’s because these ads strive to break the mold, offering a zany, allusion-heavy parody of that most bland of genres, the personal ad.
You know how they go: “Fit professional SWM seeks fun-loving SWF for long walks on the beach at midnight.” Gag me.
When the LRB started doing these a few years ago, the submissions quickly turned into a contest to see who could write the most intellectually obscure–and the most ridiculously unattractive–personal ads. Some of my favorites from the articles I’ve read about them:
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Romance is dead. So is my mother. Man, 42, inherited wealth.
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Save it. Anything you’ve got to say can be said to my lawyer. But if you’re not my ex-wife, why not write to box no. 5377? I enjoy vodka, canasta, evenings in, and cold, cold revenge.
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To some, I am a world of temptation. To others, I’m just another cross-dressing pharmacist. Male, 41.
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Blah blah, whatever. Indifferent woman. Go ahead and write. Box no. 3253. Like I care.
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Love is strange — wait ’til you see my feet. F, 34, wide-fitting Scholl’s.
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“Shy, ugly man, fond of extended periods of self-pity, middle-aged, flatulent and overweight, seeks the impossible. Box no. 8623.”
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List your ten favorite albums…I just want to know if there’s anything worth keeping when we finally break up. Practical, forward thinking man, 35.
Gently Hew Stone 