Sunday, September 19, 2010

A True Gentleman

A True Gentleman - 27 (Denver)
Date: 2010-09-19, 12:00PM MDT

Whatever happened to real gentlemen? What became of men of character, men who woo their ladies with long, elegant courtships? Men who hold the door of the coach open for their paramours? Men who walk to the inside of the woman in order to shield her from the fusillade of offal and waste raining down from the windows above? Real, old-fashioned gentlemen such as myself.

For, you see, I am but an eighteenth century English gentleman transported to this time by an enchanted looking-glass my late uncle found on the Singapore wharves.

Your customs, I should say, bewilder me. Take, for example, last week’s journey to the local public house and imagine my shock when I saw women, and no pox-ravaged slatterns, but actual unescorted ladies in attendance! I wanted to shout at them, “Ladies, leave here! Have you no idea what iniquities take place in a tavern such as this?” But my voice was stolen from me upon viewing an even more vexing sight. Sitting beside me, with a dour countenance and shock of fiery red hair, was none other than an Irishman! I rallied the other patrons, crying “seize him lads! Hold fast those burly arms and evict him fore’ he can blight us with some Papist enchantment!” But, to my surprise, no one stirred from their seats, and it was I who was rudely escorted out, not him!

If I cannot find an elegant lady of fine breeding, what hope is there for me in this bewildering new world?

I have combed over the records of what happened after my disappearance of 1752. All my property, including the magic looking glass, went to my sister, though records of her life are woefully incomplete. There is some allusion that she may have been carried off by an Indian during the French war, and if that was so, what became of the looking glass? Does it rest in the pocket of some grinning savage descended from the one who ravished my dear sister? Will I ever uncover what became of my family, and my only means back to my own time?

And, if I cannot return to my own era, how will I survive in this alien world? After all, the fourteen pounds I had in the bank when I disappeared surely won’t last me long – wait a minute… those fourteen pounds must have accrued quite a bit of interest by now. Mayhap I should check my bank balance… I… oh Christ. Oh, sweet merciful Christ.

You know what, forget the magic looking glass. Think I’ll buy that castle in Coventry I always had my eye on.

* Location: Denver
* it's NOT ok to contact this poster with services or other commercial interests

PostingID: 1962304598

Sunday, September 12, 2010

RE: Where are the Brits/Expats?!

Where are the Brits/Expats?! - w4m - 24 (Denver - LoDo)--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Date: 2010-09-11, 3:25PM MDT
Reply to: -------------------------------------------------------
Hello there. Expats are the holy grail. Seeking former UK resident who took up residency in CO for, well, all that Colorado offers. Am still reeling from England's depature from the WC and actually own a replica jersey if that gives you a sense a how committed. Looking forward to hearing from you and seeing where the limits lie. I am an anomaly. Email me and I will be more engaging without the limitations of privacy.

see ya!

•Location: Denver - LoDo
•it's NOT ok to contact this poster with services or other commercial interests

PostingID: 1948942338

RE: Where are the Brits/Expats?!
Colin Heintze to pers-XXXXXXXXXXXXXX.
show details 9:53 PM (3 minutes ago)

Good evening (or whatever time it is on your side of the world), and a pleasure to make your acquaintance.

My name is Nigel Templeton, and I am contacting you from the Republic of Korea, or as my mates around the Commission call it, The land that time forgot.

Egad, man, what a ghastly lot these Koreans are! But, perhaps further introductions are in order. As I said, my name is Nigel Templeton, current consul for for Her Majesty's Diplomatic Service, Incheon, Republic of Korea Office. After newly two years in this bastion of Confucian savagery I have, much to my delight, been given a posting in Denver, CO. Ah, to be among white men once more, and not just those petty sycophants at the Commission that hang on my sleeve begging for indulgences! It's a nasty compulsion of the British bourgeois class, I'm afraid, to intrigue and social-climb. Not that the natives are any better. One gets the feeling that, smile though they might, inwardly they view you with the same piteous contempt they would a pig groveling in the mud.

I wasn't always like this, mind you. Mary, my governess from home and closest childhood friend, said I was a brilliant and happy lad. I suppose it all changed when, fresh out of the academy, I was given my first posting in Ghana. It was two years of abject misery, of sleepless nights dreading the incessant tom-toms drumming in the wind, of mosquitoes and the runs and sun-burns, for the Englishman has neither the complexion for the black's sun nor his cuisine. If it weren't for the consul office's air-conditioner - the only thing able to maintain the white man's presence in Africa - and the occasional whore tucked discreetly into my expense account, I dare say I would have resigned from the service after the first monsoon. Christ, how the gutters stank with the overflowing offal of human refuse during the monsoons. And the dry season, let me assure you, was no better. No amount of baking by the pool, the sixth or seventh glass of gin trembling in my hand, could drown out the sheer surging mass of human odour and noise coming from the street beyond the gates. I mean, there was a corpse lying there, just lying in the street for three whole days before someone even bothered to remove it! How the fuck can these backwards grease-smeared savages hope to build a post-colonial society if even such rudimentary social services are ignored? I had hoped that colonization would have left its mark on them, would have imbued in them some spark of civility, but I know now that would be too much to ask of Africa. Africa, refuse-heap of the world! Africa, where one whiff of the foetid air sent Elizabeth, darling Elizabeth, fleeing back to Leeds, back to the arms of that fucking aristocratic cunt Simon! Simon, how I Ioathe you! How I despise your silly fucking affectations, your idle, simpering chatter! And how I hate you, Elizabeth, for choosing him over me and making me the gin-sodden, misanthropic man I am today. You wait and see, I'll rise through the ranks. I'll make ambassador one day, and soon I'll be serving up Simon's smug head on a platter, his Tudor father be damned!

But, I'm getting a new posting in America, so hopefully things will be better - starting with you. I'm sick of crying tears of impotent rage every night. Sick of the whorish expat widows pestering me for affection. Sick of dust-caked urchins loping at my heels for a discarded trinket. A fresh start, and it begins anew with you. Britannia Universalis!

Sunday, September 5, 2010

RE: I am a woman seeking a man with a truck

I am a woman seeking a man with a truck (50ish arapahoe and 95th street)
Date: 2010-08-24, 3:50PM MDT

Reply to:

I need something moved - it is only a few miles.
Wouldn't it be great if you helped me and there was chemistry??

or even a new friendship!

I will help pay for gas.

Please send a photo - thanks.

•Location: 50ish arapahoe and 95th street
•it's NOT ok to contact this poster with services or other commercial interests

PostingID: 1917207015

RE: I am a woman seeking a man with a truck
Colin Heintze to pers-XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX.
12:07 AM (7 minutes ago)

Roger that, I get your meaning.

Lets skip all the fucking bullshit and get straight to the point. My name is Hank. Just Hank for now - if you're on the level, maybe later we can have that "relationship" you were talking about. For now, just ask around at the truck stops on I-20 and everyone will tell you that Hank is the type of guy you want a relationship with, the type of guy that always comes through and never tries any sketch bullshit. Ask anyone and they'll tell you that Hank's product is the best around, and I've moved product from here to South Florida, so transporting it a few miles won't be a problem.

I've got the truck you need, been cooking in it since the apartment I was renting burned down because my dumb-shit cousin didn't bleed the valves on the pressure cooker. Whatever, the truck's better anyways - everything cooked, prepped, and delivered in one place, and no nosy neighbors complaining about the ammonia smell. Got the "chemistry" you're looking for, too. And this ain't no backwoods fuckin' hillbilly chemistry, neither. I'm talking about 99% purity, cooked with lab-grade ingredients, not some trailer-trash cocktail made from the stuff under the sink.

You'll pay for gas? Hell, you'll pay for a lot more than that. I'm gonna need sufedrine, at least 200 packs, methyl alcohol, and sodium benzoate. I'm not running a charity here, so if you want a "relationship" with me, you gotta put in your own work. If everything goes smoothly, we can talk points off the percentage. But, maybe that's thinking too far ahead. For the time being, I just need to make sure I can trust you enough to do business.

You wanna find me, ask around.