Grrrrreeet-tinks, Froyline... I'd like to offer you something. In kind, you ...

eeet-tinks, Froyline...

I'd like to offer you something. In kind, you may have something to offer me.

Here's the game: I "portray" impossibly desirable women in the internet personals. As such, I've seen the initial approach (and selected follow-ups) of more than 2000 guys. Seen it from million- dollar CEOs (and sleazy married lawyers) all the way down to the local flannels and 4x4 gearheads.

Romantic jackasses all, too.

Amazing what you can do with some photos boosted from a Lonely Russian Blond Single Girl site and a well-structured paragraph. Some of the sites where "my girls" are working ethically owe me hundreds of dollars as my split from all the dorks who, "signed up just because of you!"

Is what I do amoral? Probably.

Mean-spirited? Not unless some joker gets fresh with me.

Hilarious? Usually.

By odd circumstance I "write" a better woman than nearly all the other women out there, even though my women friends say it's obvious to them no woman would possibly write some of the stuff I launch back to these guys. The guys still miss it most of the time anyway.

Gotta love morons, huh?

So you write a column about people not connecting for myriad childish reasons. To that end, I have something to offer you—my guys. By virtue of the unintended consequences of global connectivity, I find myself astride the line dividing male drive from female receptivity. And, yes, these guys are helpless, hopeless and horny.

The internet population is an admittedly self-selecting sample—the bottom 40 percent by my estimate—but it is a broad sample. So with the eye of a city desk editor for syntax, and the fussiness of a schoolmarm for tone, I get stacks of these guys whom I read backward to glean the workings of their minds.

Who says guys are complex? Non-communicativeness isn't complexity; it's dumbness.

I would like to offer to you my perspective and experience as a hidden resource for your column at the very least. Bigger'n that, I'd like to be a sounding board against which you can bounce ideas. I have a bunch of ideas to get your view on too, but there's no hurry. I'm turning over a book idea that might help out these losers, although my larger intention is to give the girls an easier time handling the typical silverback mook. As such, I could sure use another pair of eyes, especially a pair focused on that line where all the dust gets kicked up.

Whattaya think? You a gamer?

Thanks, babe (or is that "toots?").

   —J.

Is that "J" for jackass? Just curious.

What kind of psycho spends hours crafting fake internet ads just so they can feel superior to the poor horny mooks who answer them? That scores of men will write to any hot broad with a good set on her isn't exactly ground-breaking research, Einstein. Newsflash: If you're wearing the right bra, you don't need a "well-crafted paragraph" to reel 'em in. Hell, you don't even need to speak in complete sentences or have all your toes.

Sure, there are a lot of duplicitous scumbags online (might wanna check that mirror, bub), but walk into any bar—no shortage of dolts and morons there either. And when did I ever say men were complicated? Occasionally vexing and oftentimes infuriating, but complicated? Yeah, right.

Lunatics of either gender do, however, vaguely interest me. I cannot fathom the motivation behind wasting hours of your life that you will never ever get back on this. Are we dealing with latent homosexuality? Do you like the safety shield that pretending you're a woman gives you? After all, you can flirt with guys and be flirted with, but nothing ever comes of it. Or do you secretly wish you were a woman? Whichever the case, you sound sociopathic to this unlicensed professional.

So, no. Thanks for thinking of me, but I'm not interested in using you as a resource or sounding board—hidden or otherwise. I can't imagine gleaning any insights from you other than the inner machinations of a wildly insecure individual with far too much time on his hands.

My name is Jerry, and I have an intense foot fetish like you won't believe. You recently told a guy who wanted to be your punching bag and do your housework that you wouldn't even let him gnaw the calluses off the hardened heels of your sweaty, stinking feet. You say you are nothing if not charitable, so I was wondering, what would be the price for a guy to be your personal foot slave? I would worship your sweaty stinking feet like those of the goddess that you are. I hope you don't think I am pathetic, but I had to try. I always wanted to be a personal foot slave to a mistress.

—Jerry

Prior to your note, I'd never really considered loaning (or renting) my feet out for someone to worship. They're not even close to my best feature, you know. It's been said that everyone has their price, but I'm having a really hard time putting a dollar amount on what I'd need to let some stranger put his mouth (or worse!) all up in between my stanky toes. In fact, I'm not even certain I'd know what to do with my own personal foot slave. So color me uptight, but I'm going to have to respectfully decline your kind offer.

And if it's any solace, Jerry, I don't think you're pathetic at all. You have your kink, you just don't know how to make it happen for you. I'd recommend internet dating—people are more open about their proclivities there. Just stay away from any improbably good-looking Russian babes.