That's right, I was basically this guy.
I worked for a dating agency. A fairly non descript building in West Perth housed the office, meeting rooms and foyer where my job was to convince stupid men to pay me lots and lots and lots and lots of money so that I could match their postcodes to equally as stupid women and then they could go on dates. Sometimes I would actually take into consideration what kind of person they were looking for, but most often not. Postcodes. That was the secret. Everybody likes somebody that lives near them, right? So that if it all goes to plan, coffee turns into drinks turns into dinner turns into wild sex at a location that's convenient to your own abode.
My definite favourite part was writing the singles ads for our "Priority" customers, which means I convinced them to give me $5500 for a 'year long membership including advertisements, a personal consultant and first pick of any available ladayz'. (Suckers.) GSOH, CUD OK, VGSOH, ALA, DISC DTM, SSAWOB.
Bet none of you dicks know what the majority of those mean!
P.S. Everybody go and pick up their local edition of the Community Newspaper Group. Ush delivered to your letterbox. They have the best singles ads in the history of the universe including "Herpes, 39, seeks same" and "Our eyes met at Bunnings Gosnells on Sunday. You = Red Sweatshirt. Me = Blue Jeans. I had the Ute that roared past you. Did you feel what I felt?"
P.P.S. I only just realised that I left my Lies and Hoes and Necro t-shirts on my washing line at Cowle St. Should I put together a covert ninja op where I reclaim them? Or leave them for the ages?