Remo

What the hell is he wearing? Are his thumbs really popping through self made holes in the cuffs of his sweatshirt? He looks so dirty. Those fingernails are a quarter inch too long. They’re going to start curling back soon. Jesus. The least he could do is scrape the gunk out from underneath. He must be a smoker because those bad boys are creamy, and not the good kind of creamy. Perhaps he had a sadistic breakdown and went to town on his mitts with a pair of pliers. That would explain the cracking and random white streaks.

Who wears their hair like that? It’s so greasy and stringy. He might as well duct tape some wet angel hair pasta to his tiny little dome and let that flop around in the wind. Always sitting by himself: observing, coughing, and seemingly never blinking. No one really knows his story. What the hell a guy like that is doing in the commissary of a prosperous law firm is simply beyond human reason. He never leaves. Not once, do you see him opening or closing any of the entrance doors. It could be that he slips in and out the back but that’s doubtful. He’s not that inconspicuous. Where does he get the money to buy lunch everyday? He could be a janitor but where’s his broom or his bucket or his gingivitis infested teeth? The man has an immaculate set of chompers. That’s the only clean or presentable thing about him. Good work, Remo. At least there’s one thing about you that draws attention away from your careless grime.

What’s with the snakeskin boots? Cowboy kicks are stylish and acceptable but not if they have a whitewashed pair of tapered jeans stuffed into them. One of the more interesting things about this cat, though there are many, is that he carries a little orange umbrella around. He hangs it off the back of his jeans even when there’s not the remotest chance of rain. Maybe it’s full of poisonous gas like the Penguin from Batman and he’s masterminding some devious plan to kill us all while we enjoy our lunch. That would certainly explain a lot.

Is he done eating already? That’s one minute and thirty-nine seconds earlier than his annual average from the past five years. He’s moving quickly now and keeping his arms tight against his abdomen as he usually does. Come on, Remo. Do something else out of routine. Someone just called out his name. No response—typical. And like that, he’s gone into his hidden world of mystery. You’re a weird fella, Remo—a weird fella.

Chaz D. Balantine

Look at him—that sexy little swine. Fingertips still glistening from his fifth hand wash this morning. It’s barely noon. He’s been up since seven; he hasn’t really done anything besides get black coffee and a whole-wheat bagel but he’s up. Good morning Chaz D. Balantine, you lucky bastard. Who would have ever known that the dust from the rodeo clown days would finally escape his now flawless pores? It’s really no wonder that he’s as built as he is. All of that fleeing from angry beasts and submerging yourself in a ring of testosterone would transform anyone into a lean piece of devil’s food crafted by the hands of Zeus himself. Some people are just chosen, I suppose.

If you would have asked me five years ago where I thought Chaz would end up later in his life, I sure as hell wouldn’t have told you the underwear business. You can’t walk down the street without seeing a bus cruise by, promoting his boxer brief covered phallus. What really blows the mind is how a man in his late twenties can be so completely hairless. In his photos, they airbrush his nipples because they are a little too dark but that’s it. Everything else is au natural.

I went to his house once. What a place. The man’s got a penthouse in the East Village that would make the average American cream in their socks. It’s pristine. Two maids alternate during the day and they run a tight ship. There’s never a smudge or fingerprint on the countless granite countertops and there’s four boxes of lint rollers in the cleaning closet. It almost seems like the obsession to become the object of the public’s perception of perfection has transformed his home into something also equally as “perfect.”

I don't watch him because I'm gay, or because I have some weird obsession, or because I idolize him. He just interests me, that's all. I've known Chaz for quite some time (not in the Biblical sense) and I just positively know that there is something else to him that no one else sees.

For a guy who only wears boxer briefs in photos, he sure has an interesting fashion sense. He doesn’t even wear underwear outside of work and he seldom can be seen in a tee shirt. Lintless polyfiber long sleeves are what cover his muscular upper body. I’d wear 1980s tank tops if I were him—no substitutes. So, how does an alcohol abstaining high school drop out get blessed with such an awesome set of junk and a perfect life? That was the question that plagued me quite some time. Then I realized that the answer was simple. He used to be a rodeo clown and like every single rodeo clown on God's good green earth, he sold his soul to the devil.