Sinéad O'Connor recently posted a rather extraordinary blog entry, titled "IS SINÉAD ABOUT TO HUMP HER TRUCK?" In this post, she revealed that her desperation for a little man-action is getting so severe that she's considering getting busy with inanimate objects, such as trucks, fruits, and vegetables. At the end of the post, she lists some major criteria for male suitability and calls for applicants. I'm not on the market right now, but c'mon, this opportunity is too good to pass up. I'll gladly take a crack at it:

HE MUST BE NO YOUNGER THAN 44. Most of me is 28, but I have the soul of a 75-year-old. And by "soul" I mean heart and liver.

MUST BE LIVING IN IRELAND BUT I DON'T CARE IF HE IS FROM THE PLANET ZOG. I don't live in Ireland, but I have the starchy physique and ruddy complexion of a lifelong bog dweller. As for the "planet Zog" thing, I'm not sure if that's a coded anti-Semitic reference, but I assure you I have no connections to the Zionist Occupation Government.

MUST NOT BE NAMED BRIAN OR NIGEL. Nope! I am not a Nigel, nor do I associate with them. I have a couple of friends named Brian, but I can keep them away for the duration of our coitus.

MUST BE BLIND ENOUGH TO THINK I'M GORGEOUS. I see very poorly without my glasses, and I'm willing to take them off and assess you as charitably as possible.

HAS TO BE EMPLOYED. AM NOT FUSSY IN WHAT CAPACITY GENERALLY BUT VEHICLE CLAMPERS NEED NOT APPLY. I'm employed, and it doesn't involve clamping vehicles. Though I'm not sure you should be too prejudiced against vehicle clampers, since you're the one out there humping trucks.

LEATHER-TROUSER-WEARING GARDAI, FIREMEN, RUGBY PLAYERS, AND ROBERT DOWNEY JR. WILL BE GIVEN SPECIAL CONSIDERATION. AS WILL LITERALLY ANYONE WHO APPLIES. I'd like to think I've got the scruffy charm of a Robert Downey Jr., minus the richness, attractiveness, famousness, and, well, charm. But the thing about being literally anyone: that's me!

I LIKE ME A HAIRY MAN SO BUFFED AND/OR WAXED NEED NOT APPLY. Through some genetic fluke or hormonal deficiency, my body is mostly pink and hairless, not unlike a big plastic bag stuffed with frozen shrimp. On the plus side: no buffing or waxing for me!

NO HAIR GEL. I don't even own a comb!

NO HAIR DRYER USE. That's fine, as long as you don't mind my hair turning into a gigantic fluffy afro.

NO HAIR DYE. You know, you're getting pretty particular about this hair thing for someone once famously bald.

STUBBLE IS A NON-NEGOTIABLE MUST. ANY REMOVAL OF STUBBLE WOULD BE UPSETTING FOR ME. Give me about five days and I'm sure I could work something up.

NO AFTER SHAVE. No, that smell is definitely coming from me.

MUST BE VERY "SNUGGLY." NOT JUST WHAM-BAM. If "snuggly" is a euphemism for "in terrible shape," I raise my hand proudly.

MUST BE WHAM-BAM. I hate to break this to you, Sinéad, but Barney Rubble's son is probably long dead by now.

HAS TO LIKE HIS MOTHER. My mother is cool, although I'm not sure she'll still like me if she happens to read this article.

HAS TO LIKE HIS EX AND OR MOTHER/S OF HIS CHILDREN. I've got nothing against my exes. And if I have any kids, extra points to my super-cool exes for not even telling me about them!

HAS TO LIVE IN OWN PLACE. It's a rental, but yeah, come on over. My bed is a little broken and I can't figure out how to change the burnt-out bathroom light and there's kind of a gnat issue due to some fruit left out too long, but other than that it's only pretty disgusting.


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