Mr. BH gives mad props to all the Orange line lovelies

As I sit air drying in my Adams Morgan compound sipping my breakfast wine and eating a meal of poached spotted owl eggs and Canadian meerkat bacon on brioche accompanied with a hollandaise sauce, I contemplate all things manly. It is hard to help doing this. My kitchen is fully mirrored and I take it all in from my different angles, each one better than the first -- muscle mass, density, ripped definition, intensity, stamina, endurance, mental focus. The ladies of Washington, DC have it too good with me around.

I change into my Armani black suit. Dark blue shirt. The arms are ripped off both to accommodate my ballooning pecs thanks to my PUMP TECH™ dietary supplement. A blue tie accented with little yellow fishes almost completes the look. I put on my Armani rimmed frames with blue tinted lenses, grab this months copy of Playboy© and head for the Orange line. Farragut West to Dunn Loring.

So many lovely ladies on the Orange line this morning I do my best to flex, wink, and point with a trigger finger to all of them before they exit at Rosslyn to offices unknown to me. My head bobbing in rhythm to music only I can hear. With winter fast approaching, it is harder and harder for them to catch me shirtless. The result? I am getting fewer requests for charcoal rubbings of my abs. Perhaps I should have an open house some day? A few want me to sign their breasts. I graciously accede to their requests with my Mr. Sharpie. Then I settle into my magazine. A pictorial on the Girls of Hawaiian Tropic. I should get one of those, I’m thinking.

Me you ask? Drinking in the morning. Eating endangered animals. Reading softcore pornography during my morning commute. Dignity. That is what I am about. And if you want me to sign your breasts with my Mr. Sharpie, drop me a line.

He gets letters:

"you are handsome. how about a glass of that morning wine?"