He couldn’t get a date at all,
This man of forty six:
Perhaps because he lived with Mum,
In a small town, in the ‘sticks.’
Then one day, he saw an ad,
In the local paper,
"Have we got the girl for you!"
It sounded like his caper.
He rang the 1800 number
Listed in the ad,
The breathy, sexy voice he heard,
Didn’t sound half bad.
Told him there were many girls,
Who’d love to have his details:
Six hundred on his credit card,
And he’d get lots of emails.
He read out loud the credit card,
And the expiry date:
It seemed like he was on his way,
To findin’ him a mate.
She breathed all sexy down the line,
And asked his sexual preference,
He said he’d see the local Mayor,
Yeah! He’d give him a reference.
Her laughter really turned him on:
He was gettin’ real excited;
She said she’d find a special girl,
With whom he’d be delighted.
"Do you seek relationship,
Or just a one night stand?"
He answered: "Any girl will do –
No, I don’t play in a band."
Next day on his computer,
He went into his emails
And sitting there were three full rows
Of seriously stunning females.
His mother said "they look too young,
And I’ll wager they can’t cook!"
Son replied "don’t matter Mum –
It’s only how they look."
He picked three out and emailed back,
How much he’d like to meet them,
In three days time, an answer came:
Someone’d already beat him:
"Kindly pick another three,
From the fifteen files attached,
No need to rush, we must be sure
We have the perfect match!"
He didn’t care about the match,
He just wanted to get started,
But when the bankcard statement came,
Six hundred had departed.
Our gallant lad was dateless yet,
There were so many reasons,
And he began to wonder if
He’d missed the mating season!!!!
For three long months, he persevered,
With mum now quite amused.
Mind you, she was unaware
Of the six hundred he had used.
And then at last there came a match,
A stunning, leggy redhead,
In an almost see through negligee,
And wrapped around a bedhead.
He drove as fast as he could go,
To Brisbane for the meeting,
And all the way rehearsed the words,
He’d use for this first greeting:
"Hullo Karen (that was her name)
I’m Noel, I’m from Chinchilla;
The local girls all reckon
I’m the great Chinchilla Thriller!!"
Arrangements had been made for Noel,
To book in at the Crest
And while it cost a whole lot more,
He’d heard it was the best.
A table booked for two, at eight,
In the restaurant "Tres Expensif,"
He’d win her with his thrilling ways,
With his repetoire "extensif!!"
At ten past eight, the waiter came,
To where our Noel was seated,
Beside him was a women tall,
Whose youth was long depleted.
Her hair was grey, and nothing like
The image in the email;
He wondered where they could have found
This frumpy sixtyish female.
"You can’t be Karen – just couldn’t be"
The "Chinchilla Thriller" said,
"Me Mother looks as good as you,
And poor old Mum’s half dead!!"
"I’m Karen, sure enough, you fool"
Came the calm reply,
"You’ve had your six hundred dollar date,
"And now I‘ve got to fly!!"
©Dennis Scanlon – Oct 2005