MEMBER: Ambrose Millard

As a gourmand growing up in the land of milk and honey -- more accurately, the Midwest, so the land of mayonnaise, cream of mushroom soup, and deep-fried cheese -- I've often felt like an outsider when it comes to foodstuffs. While others traipsed off to eat their abhorrent mixtures of non-dairy topping and canned fruit, I snacked on pancetta and garlic-stuffed olives, scoffing at their bovine natures. But then I found my passion, my downfall, my Lolita, the fire of my loins and the glitter of my soul. It's called a pizzle.

Let's say you have a trusted friend, one who would be a godparent to your spawn, or an open wallet in case you land in jail because of that silly trespassing charge (I told you, Minneapolis Police Dept: I had permission!). This pal has recommended romantic candidates, agreed with your whacked-out political rants, and smiled happily when served the god-awful concoction of cheese-like product and rice that you seem to favor for absolutely no good reason. Could this chum also be the answer to getting your spending and debt under control?

Thanks to my unemployment (keep working, human Minion! Appreciate it!), I have oodles of time to peruse the tidepools and stagnant puddles of the Internet, and there are few sites I like more than online personals. Although I'm not looking for companionship, or even some mildly amusing romp -- I have far too many admirers already -- I do enjoy the way that people write personal ads that ensure no one will ever, ever want to date them.