Famous Historical Figures Draft their Online Dating Profiles
“Tudor Royal looking to meet Ms. Right (or Ms. Right Now).”
Henry VIII
Tudor Royal looking to meet Ms. Right (or at least Ms. Right Now). Disregard my previous profile pic. I’m stout-ish now. Packed on a few pounds after my jousting accident (52-inch waist, but I’m going on keto). Seeking a comely lass with child-bearing hips and procreative proclivities. Protestants preferred after my recent dust-up with Pope Clement.
Submit résumé to the Lord Chamberlain for screening. Ignore rumours of unwarranted beheadings. All were warranted.
William Shakespeare
Whaddup?? Will here (wee Willy to me mum, but DO NOT infer anything from that). William’s fine too. What’s in a name, after all?
I’m a playwright by day, player by night. I’ll pen you a poem that’ll turn your knees to cheese. Sample: “Love is not love /Which alters when it alteration finds.” (Take that with a grain of salt. Photoshopped pix? I swipe left.)
I can be a depressive— life’s a tale told by an idiot, signifying nothing, after all. And yet, here I am. Hope springs eternal. Good line. I should grab that before some lesser dude snaps it up.
Josephine Brunsvik (ex-lover of Ludwig van Beethoven)
Hungarian beauty seeks NON-pianist. I vant a man who can keep his fingers off the frickin keyboard! I vork out. I look HAWT in my babushka. My ex never noticed. Just kept on pounding away on the keyboard: Da-Da-Da-DUM … Da-Da-Da-DUM.
I’d say “Da-Da-Da-DAMN you, Ludwig! My temples are throbbing!” But doesn’t he go and compose a new tune called: “Für Elise.” I said, “Who the hell is Elise! Is she that slutty soprano you drink schnapps with down at Bruno’s? Vould it kill you to write one called “Für Josephine”!
He just said, “Gott in Himmel, Josie, all your screaming is making me deaf!” I ended it right there.
If you’re NON-musical, swipe right and I’ll dust off my babushka and cook you some halushka.
Napoleon Bonaparte
Whatever you’ve heard about me was SO NOT fair! I am NOT a pint-size pipsqueak. That is #FakeNews put out by the British press. They like to call me “Little Boney,” the bastards. I am 5’-2" in FRENCH measurements — which is nearly 5’-6 in American inches. Ladies of average height may rest assured they could wear a kitten heel on our dates.
Date outings are unlikely, however, as I am currently exiled here on St. Helena — a godforsaken, wind-swept rock in the South Atlantic. The First Emperor of France, reduced to seeking a pen-pal!
I’d upload a photo but the internet here sucks. And all I have is one showing my hand tucked into my tunic. The Brits have taken to mocking that too, suggesting I am somehow diddling my doodads. You can’t expect a Brit to know a hidden hand is a sign of good breeding.
BTW, there is also NO TRUTH to the rumor that I once said, “Not tonight, Joséphine.” I am always up for it. Joséphine used to call me her “not-so-little Boney,” if you get my drift.
Emily Dickinson
Melancholic spinster seeks kindred spirit for poetic banter and badinage. Come, let us while the hours away with gloomy musings on death by drowning, hanging, suffocation, crucifixion, stabbing and guillotinage. (Oh, and flowers. I like flowers.)
Some think me prudish, but I promise: Wild nights — Wild nights! / Were I with thee / Wild nights should be /Our luxury!
… although I should mention that our wild nights must be spent in my bedroom since I am agoraphobic. Simply scale the trellis to the window on the north-facing wall of 280 Main Street, Amherst. Oh, and bring posies. Ideally, blue gentians.
But make haste. The death blow aimed by God could well be imminent.
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Judy Millar is a Canadian humorist. Visit her online, connect on Twitter, or enjoy these stories below:
