NOTHING’S BETTER THAN A CHEAP LAUGH AT THE EXPENSE OF THE DESPERATE:

There’s a great book out there called “They Call Me Naughty Lola,” which is a compliation of hilarious personal ads taken from the pages of the London Review of Books. The reason I like it so much is because it makes writing this column so damn easy. So here are some highlights for your enjoyment:

“They call me naughty Lola. Run-of-the-mill beardy physicist (M, 46)."

"Bald, short, fat and ugly male, 53, seeks short-sighted woman with tremendous sexual appetite. Box no. 9612.”

“Either I’m desperately unattractive, or you are all lesbians. Bald, pasty man (61) with nervous tick and unclassifiable skin complaint believes it to be the latter but holds out hope for dominant (yet straight) fems at box no. 1075.”

“My finger on the pulse of culture, my ear to the ground of philosophy, my hip in the medical waste bin of Glasgow Royal Infirmary. 14% plastic and counting — geriatric brainiac and compulsive NHS malingering fool (M, 81), looking for richer, older sex-starved woman on the brink of death to exploit and ruin every replacement operation I’ve had since 1974. Box no. 7648.”

“These ads try too hard to be funny. Not me, I’m a natural. Juggling, monkey-faced idiot (M, 36). Box no. 5312.”