The Porno Boy Chronicles

After much deliberation as to whether it would be a good idea to publish about the infamous Porno Boy, I've decided that the life story of this person must be told. One cannot fathom such a person as Porno Boy, because he is so completely beyond the scope of polite society and reasonable behavior. If a movie were to insert a character like Porno Boy into it, the character would be so over the top and unrealistic that the character, while very funny, wouldn't be believable. Rest assured, everything that I'm about to write happened. As the cliche goes, you can't make this stuff up. But first, some background.

Porno Boy was brought into my circle of friends by my former roomate (I shall refer to him as Loki going forward), who while being a bit of a sociopath in his own right, had the wherewithal to actually put on a civilized veneer from time to time when the occasion called for it. No so Porno Boy. He arrived at our apartment drunk, stumbling, cursing up a storm, and talked in a low-class Jersey patois that left no doubt as to the manner in which he conducted himself or the environment he was raised. He subsequently left rambling, drunken messages on our answering machine that professed his undying willingness to have a rough, "adult" relationship with me. My first natural inclination was to knock his teeth out, as I had only met the guy once and wasn't particularly impressed with him. (I'm all for joking around and getting my chops busted, but not by a complete stranger who was merely a friend of my roomates.) In the end, I realized that it was better to leave it well enough alone, a calculation that turned out to be more prescient than I thought. Porno thrived on upsetting people; it fueled even more insulting and irreverent behavior, which he directed toward the targets of choice. I did manage to become friendly with him, at which point the disgusting answering machine messages diminished to a reasonable, more civilized tenor. ("Hey, what's up you scumbag?" was a vast improvement, to my mind.) Porno also managed to ingratiate himself into our little clique of hell-raisers. (We were all in our mid-20s, all aspiring stockbrokers, with nary a pot to piss in. Not that stopped us from going out two or three times a week, getting liquored up and exploring the darkest corners of dirty Gotham.) Watching Porno in action, boozed up beyond all recognition ( and probably coked up, too) was a sight to behold. A few choice examples:

Porno Boy talking to a girl at Peculiar Pub:

Porno: What do you do for a living?
Girl: I'm a doctor's assissant.
Porno: Oh. Well, maybe you can help me. I'm having some problems with my prostate.

Porno Boy talking to a girl, again (I believe) at Peculiar Pub:

Porno: You know, you remind me of a friend of mine.
Girl: Is that a good thing?
Porno: I dunno...his name is Jeff.

Porno Boy turning on the charm to some girl who had no interest in him:

Porno: Kid, you're not bad looking, but you have to do something about that mustache. That may fly in Romania, but not in America.

(Girl is suitably horrified.)


These are just a few of his greatest hits. In the interest of stretching out and keeping the readers of this blog interested, I'll be posting minimally (I hope) a dozen more Porno stories.

This concludes this chapter of the Porno Boy Chronicles.

(Cue the music from Masterpiece Theatre.)

I am Spitfire. Goodnight.