It is an unsurprising fact that I am a lonely, single male who for the right woman would upon request seriously consider lobbing off his own leg for no real reason aside from her lulz. As such, I've heard much advice lately on the site on where to find some love-making, the common consensus being that my best bet would be hell. Needless to say, after so many people telling me to go there for this "yiff" business, which just makes me feel out of the times because that's a word for sex I could almost use in front of my mother, I decided to pursue this potential lead.

It took very little research to find hell. Having gone into a small-town redneck Wal-Mart after dark, I'd found a place that certainly smelled plenty of semen wherein everyone seemed to be in a terrible mood, perhaps the hellish trade-off being eternal dissatisfaction with your partner of the moment. I could imagine why, looking at the residents, as most were either disturbingly underage or completely huge, and anything classified as an exception was next to some tattooed demon with arms that he could use to bench press himself.

Knowing better than to pick a fight with something that could murder me with it's ink alone, I began my search for a mate elsewhere while resuming my search for a six-pack of Dr. Pepper that had unwittingly led me into this den of evil to begin with. Distracted only briefly by Pop Tarts, I'd completed my initial task and began seeking out a conclusion to my latest mission.

As many seemed certain my best pairing would be a cat with a woman's body, which to me sounded like a sex pillow with extra fluffy padding that purrs, I began my search in the pets department, finding only goldfish and assorted toys that didn't even seem to be in aid to pleasing such a creature outside of making it high. Also, more incredibly obese women talking to kittens hidden in their purses. Or chihuahuas. I can never tell.

The next logical step was that obscure half-people would probably be with the blue alien chicks, which seem all the fashion anymore and thus logically Wal-Mart would have some tentacle-headed slave women for sale, among other things. I assumed this would be with the spaceship parts, but only found windshield wipers and oil in the mechanical department, and electronics supplied only large, impressive, but blurry-pictured digital screens full of a screaming referee trying to sell me something for "the big game."

The mention of game gave me the final idea to try the hunting department, where the closest I found was a picture of an elk with more horns than i felt comfortable sharing a bed with. Dejected, I made my way to the front counter.

I found in the express lane not a fine young lass, but a middle-aged woman that weighed as much as me twice over. Growing desperate, as I handed her my money I banked on her being a cougar and made my move.

Never has anyone so angrily reacted to an impression of Joey from friends. I awoke three hours later in the hospital, Dr. Pepper and Pop Tarts still in hand.

Needless to say, I'm never taking you guys' dating advice again.