Behold the awesome power of my banana hammock

More homage to Mark Leyner. So much better than that guy who sometimes feels like a nut?

Another sweltering DC morning. I’m waiting for the 42 bus to take me from my Adams Morgan compound to the Dupont Circle metro, where I take the red line to Judiciary Square. I’m wearing my Carla Behrle leather pants. No shirt. And frankly, the leather pants are starting to smell a bit “musky.” I’m not so much worried about an offending odor so much as I am of the high concentration of my superhuman pheromones emanating from my banana hammock region. Just catching sight of my prodigious manhood has been known to induce pregnancy in the infertile and labor in the pregnant. But merely catching a whiff of my scent of Eros? An unknown as I embark on my journey to work.

I step onto the bus and already can tell there is trouble ahead. They see what I see in the mirrors over my bed—total fitness and power, muscle mass, ripped definition, stamina, intensity, mental focus. And before long in this enclosed space I have women running their hands over my rock hard glutes, washboard abs, and grabbing at my banana hammock. I’m worrying about paternity suits. Finally we get to the Circle and I’m heading to the metro, lovelies hanging from my biceps and clinging to my legs.

I somehow manage to get to the office, barely settle into my iced-double-half-calf-mocha-latte-something-or-another, and in walks the intern. Brad. What a name. Brad. Sensually speaking Brad’s having “size” and “duration” issues, so I have to draw from my vast knowledge of tantrism. I say, “Brad, try this. First rub your lingam with wasp stings and massage it with sweet oil. When it swells, let it dangle for ten nights through a hole in your bed, going to sleep each night on your stomach. After this period use a cool ointment to remove the pain and swelling. Never fails. And her yoni will be pleased.” And Brad’s all, “Ouch. You did this?” And I’m, “Me? No need. Never had a problem in that department. I’m just here to impart my vast knowledge of tantric sensuality.” With that I head down to the lunch room. I’m thinking, manatee-liver pate and toast points.

Style. Grace. Dignity. Shameless self-promotion. Langue and Parole. A ripped physique that can induce labor. That is what I am about.