Dear Uncle Sam,
I overheard several girls in my college talking about how they’d sleep with you even though you’re really average looking just so they could say they got with a Shark Tales presenter.
I tried out for Shark Tales but was rejected (internal politics or positive discrimination I guess), so could you recommend another position of relatively minor authority that girls would fetishise and drastically lower their standards for?
I’m sorry to hear about your rejection from Shark Tales – I’m sure you would have been great at receiving abuse from drunk people on the street at 2AM. Fortunately, you won’t have to pursue any bizarre extra-curriculars to convince women to indulge their psychosexual fantasies with you. I know it may sound ridiculous, but all you need do is put me in touch with whoever voiced their desire sleep with me.
Receiving a paltry number of views for hosting, producing, and editing a show of notoriously low production quality can prove alluring to many a lady – it massively outweighs any negatives such as piercings, dress sense, and all-consuming narcissism. However, I guarantee to you that nothing is a greater turn on than forwarding my contact details to those same girls. I mean yes, you could found your own Oxford meme page or start throwing a monthly grime night at Cellar – but think about how much time that all parties could save if you became the middleman in my lovelife instead. At least ponder all the experience you’d gain by handling the tedious wooing and admin associated with one-night stands on my behalf, please? Your skills would go from strength to strength.
Some women are insanely attracted to men with a little bit of power. How else did Henry VIII manage to court so many beautiful women despite his obesity, gout, syphilis, and tendency to execute his paramours? Because he was the King, which dwarfed any grotesque physical features or deplorable personality traits he exhibited. Of course, any serious historian knows that the only lad who got more action was Thomas Cromwell, who was swamped with horny ladies after he started setting up Henry’s passionate flings for him, such as his marriage to Anne Boleyn. I hope you can unpack the analogy here. Here’s a hint to get you started: you are Chancellor Cromwell.
It’s a poorly kept secret that 90% of the outtakes from my season of Shark Tales is footage of harlots throwing themselves at me, unable to contain their sexual frustration upon seeing my ghoulish face, ravaged by sleep-deprivation and high-functioning alcoholism. It’s rumoured that half of [Cherwell editors] Akshay’s and Jack’s time is spent deleting the constant flood of suggestive photographs they receive from their adoring fans. Even menial roles at the Union require a secret second phone number – one’s regular mobile will be inundated with desperate text messages from strangers, begging for some form of release. It’s not easy being self-important men like us. Do you really want to assume all this small-scale responsibility to get this level of female attention, when it would be far easier for you to put me in touch with the aforementioned girls who expressed interest? Just give them my number, seriously. That’s all you need to do. I promise.