Love Me for My Seven Bratty Kids

Family is very important to me. That means that my seven children from seven different fathers should be important to you, too. Yes, sir, that is an ultimatum – no matter that you do not know me from Adam Ant, or know that my stomach has more stretch marks than Kirstie Alley after a six-month bout of anorexia; and no matter that you could just as easily find one of those aging party girls with no baggage except the need to offer unsolicited details about past lovers, especially the ones hung like rhinos; and no matter that I am always yelling at the kids if only to get attention from people in public places while remaining oblivious that they want me and my chaotic brood dead, dead, dead. Any man who wants to be with me must first want to be part of the lives of the seven children from Hell, and not just Hell in general, but the part of Hell that features the novels of Judith Krantz and the preserved brain of Howard Cosell.

You see, in my world, I am special by virtue of the drama inherent in my copious reproduction.  Whenever I feel myself becoming less interesting to men and women, I go to the closest biker bar and let a hairy fellow with no personality save for a spider-web tattoo on his neck buy me three Slim Jims, a pickled egg and a Hallmark Card wishing I were his sister so he could make babies with me, to which I always say, “Hey, remember that Christmas when Dad bought Mom a four-barrel carburetor?” The next nine months find me a real-life heroine – yes, a single mom with another kid on the way with the prospective father nowhere to be found, if by nowhere you mean the same sleazy bar with the same stale slim Jims and green eggs. How does she do it, that poor girl? sings the Greek chorus. I simply ignore some of the answers to this question given by so-called educated people who say things like, “She does it because she’s an ignorant whore.” Fuck those Yuppie assholes. Let them try being a single mom!

What I need is a man’s man, though not in the gay sense of the term, though I have nothing against faggots, so long as they stay away from my kids, especially young Calvin, who, at six, wants nothing to do with toy trucks, preferring instead Sports Agent Barbie. His older brother, Fritz, says that at least this Barbie likes sports, but only after pushing Calvin’s face into a pile of dead beetles. The man of my dreams will have no problem using a pair of pliers to yank out the continuously rotting teeth of the children; or taking the brats in their over-sized shorts (the boys) and under-sized tank tops (the girls ages four to nine) to pick trash on Tuesday mornings; or regarding my body as the Venus de Milo whenever my arms are folded into my muu-muu.

I am sure to get a ton of responses for this ad, so please do not be hurt by my rejection. Such an attractive prospect as me knows that she must break a lot of hearts, in particular those with a low sperm count.