Ode to a White Suburbanite Gangster

Backward hat facilitates oral sex

I can tell just by the way you wear a ball cap on your head sideways that you are a man of taste and refinement. The sideways cock of your hat lets women know that you are a devastating sexual animal, and the kind of man who leaves others of his gender feeling horribly inadequate. The sideways hat shows that you are not like the masses of uniformed conformists who dare only to wear their hats with the front in the front. The Man dictates to all that hats must point to the front, but you thumb your nose at convention; you don’t play by the rules. You are different. Besides, all your friends wear their hats to the side.

With your baggy pants you yell out to the world that you refuse to live within the arbitrary constraints of life—like waist sizes and inseams. When you walk it looks as if there is a five pound steaming loaf in your drawers, and who knows, maybe there is. Maybe there is, because you don’t live to be a slave to the restroom—that’s for bitches.

The heavy gold chain that you wear around your neck must have set you back at least three paychecks before you were fired from the landscaping company for breaking the leaf blower. The Mercedes Benz hood ornament on the chain tells the world that you are an outlaw who no longer has need for a landscaping job. You will make a fortune on the illicit sale of drugs as soon as someone will spot you a dime bag, which you will in turn sell to your little brother at a comfortable profit. You all about “doin’ bidness.”

But no one will spot you a dime bag, and your little brother already warned you that he will tell mom if you try to take the money he got for his birthday from your aunt. So you have no cash money, but what does that matter to a gangster like you? You, who are content to stand around for hours on a downtown street corner being loud and trying to act threatening. You and your homeys throw gang signs to each other until your bus comes. All gang activity is put on hold so that you can get home to watch Malcolm in the Middle because that shit cracks you up.

Much like your unconventional ways of dress, your speech blazes new trails far from the beaten path of grammar and syntax. Your speech is free of the normal rules that confine and limit language. There is beauty in your simple language of about 50 words and a series of unintelligible grunts that come from the new poetry of hip hop.

You are truly an original. You are the new American archetype, from the same mold as the cowboy—never mind that in reality the cowboy was a filthy, uneducated agricultural worker. You are exactly what America needs to regain our hegemony in world affairs. Stupid, violent, and inarticulate are the foundations of the character of the hip hop gangster. So many aspects of our culture promote these values that I am confident that we will soon be the dumbest and most violent society the world has ever known.

Diary of a Seattle Male Call Boy Prostitute

Sex sells. You heard it here first. I just read that someone digitally masquerading as a London call girl snagged a book deal on the merits of her anemic blog. I came across her web page a while back, before she got the book deal. All I could think was that if she fucks like she writes I hope she hasn’t quit her day job. She writes about sex with about the same enthusiasm as the 65 year old Mexican grandmother from my earlier post. I seriously doubt she is a hooker at all but someone who simply knows how to grab prurient readers by the short hairs. Now she has a book deal. Bitter? Not me.

Sex sells, so I’ve been told. Two can play that game and I’m sure there are lot more than two people writing fictitious accounts of their “lives.” I can never understand why so many people care to read about other people’s not-very-interesting sexual encounters. If it’s uninteresting you want, then that’s what you’re going to get. It’s time to tell you about my life.

This is a website about a male call boy, me, but not a call boy for boys, and not one who caters to pathetic old hags who can’t talk someone into greasing them for free. This is a website about a call boy who gets paid to get dirty with beautiful and disease-free women, because that’s what people want to read about. There are probably a few people who wouldn’t mind reading about a call boy who has sex with old ladies, but they probably aren’t big spenders, so who wants to fill the demographic need in that market? Not me.

Just last night I got paid to have sex with four hot women—all at once. In call boy parlance we call that a fivesome. In France they call it a ménage à cinq, and not only is a doctor’s permission required, but hotels make you put down a damage deposit for the steam cleaning. I don’t mean to brag about my performance but one of the gorgeous ladies ended up in the emergency room. She has to wear a patch over one eye for the next two weeks. Is that sordid enough for you?

I was paid one million dollars for my efforts, but since I was in Paris I was paid in Euros which meant I had to jump the turn-style at the metro station to get back to my hotel. Bad exchange rates are an occupational hazard of male call boys.

Next week I am off to Las Vegas to work the game show hostess convention. Instead of money I usually get paid in merchandise. I don’t mean to sound jaded about my work but if you’ve seen one Victoria’s Secret model bound and gagged you’ve seen them all—and I’ve seen them all bound and gagged, in fact, I did the binding and gagging.

It isn’t all glamour being a male call boy. I have to buy Viagra in bulk at Costco. What I really miss in this line of work is cuddling. Most super models don’t like to cuddle. There won’t be any cuddling next week when I have a gig working the glory hole in the women’s bathroom at the Academy Awards show.

What could be better reading than a blog about a male call boy who gets paid to do the wild thing with famous women? I can’t mention any names because of contractual obligations but I can make anagrams of their names. Is an anagram that thing that is the same backward as forward? Wait, that’s a palindrome. Anagrams are when you mix up the letters to make another word. I’m not smart enough to do that and if you have read this far you are probably too dumb to figure out who I’m talking about. Let me just say that last week I was paid to have sex with someone whose name rhymes with Brickney Beers. And hey Moprah, your check bounced.

A Tortilla Is not a Potato Omelet!

I know it isn’t a world hunger size problem but I have been grappling with the Spanish tortilla for some time now. I am a fairly accomplished cook so if I prepare a dish two or three times I feel like I have it down. Not so with the Spanish tortilla. The tortilla is a very tricky species.

I ducked into a restaurant on Capital Hill last week which was featuring the food of Spain on their revolving menu. In the past I have been happy with the meals that I have had at this place. I ordered the tortilla. I even asked the waitress if this was a good call on my part and she reassured me that I was making a good choice. What I got was a potato omelet with a side of potatoes. Someone at that restaurant needs to take a trip to Spain to see first-hand what a tortilla is all about. A Spanish tortilla is not an omelet with potatoes inside.

A Spanish tortilla isn’t to be confused with the Mexican staple with the same name. A Mexican tortilla is a bit of maza harina, mixed with a little water, rolled out, and baked. The Spanish version looks like a pie made with eggs and potatoes. Like a piece of pie, you cannot make a Spanish tortilla to order in a restaurant. It is a fairly involved affair that takes at least 30 minutes if the potatoes have been prepared in advance. Restaurants in Spain have their tortillas displayed on counters or in glass cases. When you order they slice a piece off and throw it on a plate.

The potatoes must be cut thinly and sautéed in olive oil until they are tender. When the potatoes are ready you add in the beaten eggs. The tortilla must be cooked on both sides which requires flipping the whole thing in mid preparation. I have found that the easiest way to flip the tortilla is to turn it into another pan. Some people finish the dish in the oven to insure that it has cooked through thoroughly.

I topped my tortilla with caramelized onions for strictly esthetic purposes. I was fairly happy with the finished product. The problem now is that I have a 12 egg pie in my refrigerator—a cholesterol claymore mine. It would probably be safer to store plutonium in my apartment. I can actually hear my arteries hardening like the creaking timbers of an old ship. I can’t help myself, because a Spanish tortilla is something that I get a craving for every so often and I always give in. Instead of making this dish it would probably be easier to take another trip to Madrid.

A Pauper's Grave

I wish that I knew exactly how much time I spend working to fix my computer and how much time it “saves” me. If I were to add up all of the time I have spent waiting for my computer to do something, and all of the hours I have toiled fixing something that is screwed up, and the countless days of trial and error figuring out how to work this damn thing, and if I took all that time and applied it to some useful task I could probably be a pretty good juggler by now. I could have learned some cool cards tricks. I could be playing the banjo right now instead of bitching about my computer in this essay.

You can make a good living as a street artist if you can juggle, do cards tricks, or play a mean banjo. Instead of entertaining passersby on a street corner I toil away as a slave to a thin slab of plastic and silicon chips. I feel like some Neolithic hunter-gatherer who has to spend 22 hours a day chasing around my food which consists of a skinny little lizard and a handful of berries which may or may not prove to be fit for human caveman consumption. A more industrious caveman would just win his skinny little lizard and potentially-fatal berries in a game of three card Monty and then take the rest of the day off.

This essay was inspired by a vicious little computer bug I picked up a week ago. It is an ad ware file that my spy ware program was unable to delete. I began a search and destroy mission deep in the bowels of my computer. As I searched I came upon stuff I thought I had eliminated months and even years ago. It was definitely time to do a little house cleaning on my laptop.

Sometimes when you do some really thorough house cleaning you go too far. It is kind of like if you had an illegal immigrant maid cleaning your apartment and she threw away the title to your car because she thought it was junk mail—not that any illegal immigrant would be that dumb. I basically threw away the title to my car and the deed to my house, or whatever the moral equivalent to that is when you just go around randomly deleting files from your computer’s hard drive.

I came home a little after I had deleted the files and my computer looked like a house plant I had watered with battery acid. “I’m sorry, was I not supposed to water the plant with battery acid?” So now my expensive computer is lying dead on my coffee table. Results of the autopsy were inconclusive but the cause of death was cited as human error. Viewing hours are between 1 and 3 p.m. In lieu of flowers please donate to the charity of your choice.

Hot Sexy Coeds in Heat

I have a terrible truth that I have kept a deep, dark secret for long enough. The time has come for me to unburden myself of the crushing guilt I feel every day that I remain silent. I have been living a lie and it is destroying me little by little. For too long I have been content to live behind the anonymous façade of the internet. It has been too easy for me to live out my fantasy life by telling the readers here at Leftbanker things about myself that are sometimes a slight exaggeration and sometimes are shameful lies. The time has come for me to come clean and tell everyone the truth.

For years now I have led my readers to believe that I am a strapping, athletic man, a sportsman and patron of the arts, an erudite and urbane cosmopolitan. When I say that nothing could be further from the truth I mean that both figuratively and geographically. The truth is that I am a 65 year old, 270 pound Mexican grandmother who writes these fantasies from the village of Barriga Grande in the state of Durango, Mexico.

I don’t mean this as an excuse for my mendacious ways but lots of people on the internet live out their delusions of grandeur. The web is full of tough-talking neo-con shit bags who wouldn’t look another dude in the eye when they pass them walking down the street. On the web these right-wing dorks write about the military might of America as if they actually had anything to do with it. Loudmouth know-nothings who haven’t done a single bit of service for their nation question the patriotism of others who oppose their bellicose view of U.S. world domination.

I never meant anyone any harm by the make-believe world I created for myself here at Leftbanker. All I ever wanted was for people to like me and to generate a little bit of a popular following. I failed miserably even on that account. My readership is in the toilet, but this assumes that I even have a toilet. The sad truth is that my village doesn’t even have a toilet—we share one with the neighboring village of Nalgas Cerradas.

How can I ever regain the confidence of my readers? The only way to regain the confidence of my readers is to first get some readers and then work on the confidence regaining part. I have decided that instead of being an urbane gentleman or a Mexican grandmother I will be a barely-legal blond love goddess. My measurements are 33-45-41. Wait, I think that was the combination to my locker in high school but I’m so dumb you could talk me into just about anything, and I do mean anything, if you know what I mean, Do you know what I mean? I’m not sure I know what I mean because I get confused easily when I’m only wearing a bikini and it’s too hot to wear even this little thing. Did I mention that my parents are gone for the weekend?

I see that the traffic on this page has increased to 10,000 hits a minute. I guess now is the time to regain your confidence by letting you know that I’m not a nubile 18 year old tart but a 65 year old Mexican woman who is missing three fingers and half an ear from a burro accident. I may have the shape and disposition of a pot bellied stove but I could teach you a thing or two about getting’ freaky so just stick around here at Leftbanker and you may learn a thing or two.