Tag Archives: personal ads

Perishable Puns

It started off simple enough with this lame Facebook status:

perishable puns

To put it in a nutshell, people relished the update and even mustard up the strength to ketchup with me and contribute to the fray (there was mushroom for improvement.) So that simple update planted the seed for this post, a series of perishable personal ads you probably won’t find on Craig’s List.

Dig in.

Hi. I’m Herb. I’ve been hurt before, but I’m gingerly throwing my caraway and trying to find love one more thyme. While I’m no sage, chive got a feeling that if we share some common interests—conversation peppered with laughs, the desire to curry on a new friendship—thistle work and we’ll become the pesto friends.

Born and bread in Coloradough, I’m just a simple guy wondering what I am doughing here. My past attempts at dating have gone a-rye, and I’ve found myself in seedy bars with weirdoughs thinking, “I donut belong here.” But I figured I kneaded to try this again, and placing an ad was the yeast I could do. I’m looking for someone to loaf around with who is willing to go against the grain, roll with the punches and rise to any occasion. If this is you, please reply and I will millet over.

Well-cultured woman looking for a gouda time with a minimal margarine for error. It a curd to me that I in no whey deserve to settle for less than jam-packed excitement—which is a nice way of pudding it—so the more spontaneous you are, the butter. I cannoli imagine the fun we will have!

Single chick with chili disposition looking to stop floundering around. Past dating experiences have been offal, dare I say the wurst, and I won’t make that missed steak again! I’m accident prawn with a bit of a fowl mouth, but would love to meat someone who I can bacon for companionship and fun. If that sounds like ewe, carpe diem!

I yam hoping this ad will produce some grate replies, as I’m tired of medi-okra dates with men who think a huge celery means we make a great pear. Bean there, done that and sometimes I wonder why I even carrot all. But if you march to the beet of your own drum, lettuce meet and see what might turnip.

I know. I know. Any way you slice it, these are corny and I falafel about how cheesy they are. But don’t worry…I won’t milk this anymore.

That’s a wrap.

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