Are you tired of the new-Age milquetoasts of craigslist?

Back in '04 before I started keeping a log of my forays into Craigslist, I posted a serial satire based on a sort of homage to Mark Leyner and kept it up for many months before giving him up (though not completely). I kept these postings in a Word file. I am very busy at work and don't have much time to write, I thought that instead of going silent for a while and disappointing my 3 readers, I would repost these gems on the blog. I've updated them somewhat but they are more or less verbatim what I posted on Craigslist two years ago...

So I hop on the Orange Line this morning at around 8:00 AM at Farragut West. I’m wearing my Carla Behrle leather pants. No shirt. A gold medallion of Bushyasta, to always remind me of the yellow demon who may attempt to disrupt my mental focus, jangles on my ripped pecs as my head bounces in rhythm to music only I can hear. I smile, wink and point with a trigger thumb to the beautiful young woman in a blue tracksuit. She pretends not to notice, her head buried in a book. But from years of experience, I can tell. I’m too much for her all at once. She has to take it in a little at a time -- muscle mass, density, ripped definition, intensity, stamina, mental focus.

I’m late for my meeting with my PR team. They have been working night and day to set up my itinerary for my trip to Western Maryland. I will be meeting with high government officials at an exclusive resort to consult on what I am known for: making love, looking good, and my image and style. Needless to say, I’ll be raking in millions on the deal. A phalanx of high powered intellectual property attorneys are in my employ and have already started negotiations to license my image and style on lunch boxes, tee shirts, salt and pepper shakers, feminine hygiene products. Stuff like that.

After my meeting, I call up Dr. Major and ask her to meet me at Tryst later for a drink and then head for the gym to work on my traps, my delts, and my quads. I apply some Bikini Bite to keep stuff situated so that nothing pops out suddenly from my brand new lime green posing banana hammock. Extra large. Last time I had slippage at the gym, three ladies went into labor and four got pregnant. Luckily no incidences to report this time. I shower off, practice my pose downs and I slip into my lemon ghagra choli. You know. The one that Urmila Matondkar wore in the movie “Deewangee” when she sang “Dholi dhol baajaa." I trust my senses and I am sensing trouble ahead.

I order an iced-double-half-calf-mocha-latte-something-or-another with a shot of baby fur seal Somatotrophin and settle into a big overstuffed couch with Dr. Major, an old friend. She wants to talk about my man on woman sensuality. She’s all, “as being fully functioning and very alive female I have burning sensuality. You might be coming on too strong.” I’m all, “Too strong? I’m toning it down babe.” She doesn’t fully understand. I know that women have their own burning sensualities. I’m not trying to sell a product like my image and style. I’m just trying to let the people know that there is me and there are the new-Age milquetoasts of craigslist.

I head home for dinner. 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.