My hot crotch will make your wings melt

The saga of our hero, inspired by author Mark Leyner, continues...

I’m sitting here at my keyboard digesting my lunch. Panda-burger with swiss. No bun. Listening to Jill Sobule. Her voice is salve for my general ennui. I’m in my Carla Behrle leather pants. No shirt. My thick gold bracelet clanging on the keyboard as I type, my head bobbing in rhythm to the sound of music only I can hear. I’m replaying my morning commute in my mind’s eye.

This morning I’m riding the red line from Dupont Circle to Judiciary Square. It’s about 8:30 AM. The women are all over me. I cannot even get into my New Yorker. One lovely wants a charcoal rubbing of my abs. Another wants me to bend a piece of iron rebar she brought along with her this morning into an origami animal shape. Using my glutes. “Leaping Stag,” she says. I oblige. A third drops to her knees ands starts clawing at my crotch, muttering something about buffing my banana hammock. I pick her up, hand her a glass of water and a fistful of Valium. I tell her I am commando this morning and remind her of what happened to Icarus.

I finally make it into work, grab a double-cap-frap-half-caf-mocha-PowerBar from the cafeteria, and head down to the gym. I slip out of my Carla Behrle leather pants and into my lime green banana hammock, securing it in place with some bikini bite. I’m preparing for my competition in the Bali Jute Mill Bodybuilding Invitational in Bangladesh coming up soon. Day 69 of Mr. Banana Hammock's SuperFreak Workout for Juiced-Up Psychos. It has a nice ring I think, don’t you? It only takes 45 minutes. I shower. Air drying, I pose in the mirror and take it all in -- muscle mass, density, ripped definition, intensity, endurance, dignity, flair. I slip back into my Carla Behrle leather pants. No shirt. I head back to the office where I am now typing this missive.

Me you ask? Eating rare and exotic animals. Extreme bodybuilding. South Beach dieting. Culturally aware. Dispenser of pharmaceuticals to the needy. That is what I am about. And if you feel the need to claw at my crotch, remember Daedalus’ warning about flying too close to something so hot. Your pic gets mine.

He gets letters:

"Har, you are a kick-ass hilarious motherfucker, you. I worship your abs!!!!"