The Introduction In the footsteps of all the great investigative reports and reporters before us, we here at The Phat Phree have decided to unfurl a new series of actual, real life stories. Stories of mystery, fascination, and intrigue; a strange and unprecedented look into the unique microcosms of our vast society The Phat Phree: Undercover!
The Target This websites mission is to Target, Observe, Ridicule, and I take that mission seriously. In this series, I intend to expose, through infiltration and observation, some of lifes most insufferable characters. And where better to start than with the young, urban professional? This site was born into the national consciousness on the back of a striped shirt, and I think it is time to dig deeper into the world of the yuppie.
The species is far too broad to cover in one expose, but I am really interested in focusing on a particular sub-category of this group: the dominant males.
My interest was piqued when I had an encounter with this group at a bar one evening several months ago. A pack of males were yelling, carrying on, and hitting on anything that walked past with a vagina. They boasted of their office jobs and unimpressive salaries. They were crass and obnoxious, but strangely confident. My mental files quickly referenced Mike Polks article, Look at My Striped Shirt!, and I watched in horror as before my very eyes, I could see how accurate it really was. The more I saw them in vivid, real-life action, the more fascinated I became with their behavior. What drove them to act this waysuch braggadocio and cockiness with little more than an average income and a designer wardrobe?
The time had come to take this operation undercover, to explore these strange and insufferable creatures in their natural environment. To paraphrase Axel Foley, I would be going deep, deep, deep undercover. My goal: to become the Dian Fossey of the urban jungleto become one of them, and then study their behavior from the inside.
The Plan This would be a full-time commitment, and I couldnt do it alone. I needed a partner, and who better to ask then The Phat Phrees own, M. Thomas L.a master of disguise, and a man who commits to characters better than Phil Hartman (R.I.P.)?
I called M.Thomas. L., not expecting him to answer. I wasnt disappointed, but I left an urgent message telling him to call me back. I informed him that I had an important project that required his special talents. Then I hung up the phone.
Three days later, he returned the call and apologized, stating that he "didnt feel like calling me back sooner".
"No problem, I said. Ive stumbled upon something we need to investigate for The Phat Phree.
The secret world of transgender Pigmy scat porn?" he responded.
"No, my creepy hobby-having friend, the bizarre world of the young, urban professional. Are you in?"
"Fuck yeah Im in." he replied.
The Observation To really get to know the inner workings of the dominant males, M. Thomas and I realized that we would have to infiltrate their work place. This, we surmised, was where the real insight would be gained. This must be where the hierarchy was set and the aggression formed. Everyone has observed the creatures nocturnal habits, but precious few have aimed a scrutinizing eye at their daily routine. Did the pack mentality and chest-beating brashness carry over in the workplace? Or was this manimal more complex than previously thought? We were going to find out.
The process of acquiring a position at the downtown National City Bank office was easier than we had expected. Our falsified resumes went unquestioned by the husky Human Resources woman, Debby. I guess with degrees from John Carroll University and five-years of experience, the polka-dot wearing woman, with her faint odor of cat urine, was in no position to question us. We were offered positions on the spot. Our salaries: $31,000 US with health benefits and a 401k matching program. We also received a discounted membership to Fitworks, special employee car-loan rates, and an option to rent a corporate time-share in Mexicoalthough Debby informed us that the time-share must be requested one-year in advance. Things were already starting to make more sense.
We had the weekend to prepare for our new jobs, and this meant it was time to hit the mall. If we expected to be accepted into the band, we would have to do more than show up. We would have to look the part. Luckily, both of us had grandparents who died recently, so we had a couple decent suits between us. M. Thomas mom had even helped him out financially with his suit when Granny L passed, so he was in great shape with his Brooks Brothers single-breasted three-button. Mine wasnt so swank, but it was black, and unassuming enough to avoid attracting attention.
We didnt plan to stay for more than a couple days, so we figured we could trade suits back and forth and no one would notice. We did however need some cool ties and some going out uniforms. There were no exceptions to this rule because we knew if we didnt have the right outfits, wed be caught, outed as imposters in this surreal world. We headed to the yuppie Mecca: Banana Republic.
This store is ridiculous. A pair of jeans costs $150! A tie costs $75! A fucking tie! With the help of a sales clerk that looked like he had stepped out of low-carb beer commercial, I selected my clothing. I was beginning to regret asking M.Thomas to join me in this mission, as he was cranky and refusing to spend the necessary amount of dough for a quality outfit. I had chosen some "old" jeansfaded front, with pre-worn, tattered bottomsand a stripped shirt. M.Thomas had selected nothing, and flat out refused to wear any of the asshole covers at the Banana Republic. He was threatening to wear clothes from a thrift store for Christs sake. And not even a trendy 80s t-shirt, but rather a black rent-a-cop shirt that he had scored for one dollar.
I had to think fast. With credit card in hand, I offered to pay for his outfit. He agreed and proceeded to the dressing room, pants and shirt slung over his right arm... what a dick.
We decided to crash at my place since it was closer to the office, and because M. Thomas car was in the shop. We stayed up late watching season two of the Fall Guy knowing that he was the last real man we would see for several days.
6:21 AMThe Awakening After several bouts with an alarm clock with a snooze button that didnt quite work, I finally dragged myself from my bed and off of my girlfriend. M. Thomas had slept in his sleeping bag in the hallway, sans pillow. I attempted to wake him, but he looked restless, angry, and groggy. "I've been up all night long drawing you and your girlfriend having sex together," he responded. I didnt want to get into it before the start of the mission, so I simply nodded in approval.
After a Micky D's Big Breakfast on the go, M.Thomas calmed down and we were on our way downtown. I was ready to be a loan officer on this day; M.Thomas had a job in accounting.
8:08 AMThe Arrival/The Breakroom After only eight minutes in our cubicles, we quickly made our way to the break room for morning coffee and our "first contact" with the band of males we would attempt to join. It didnt take long for us to start yucking it up with "the crew", as they called themselves. It was obvious immediately who the leader of this group was. A young man named Brooks seemed to command the most attention, and it was he who first broached the subject of the upcoming nights festivities. The others seemed to defer to his judgement without question, although they playfully jabbed at his sexual orientation when he suggested that one of them shave his chest before going out. A younger worker named Derrick eventually agreed. Brooks was definitely the Silverback of this band.
I immediately tried to make inroads with Brooks by making an off-color comment about a female co-workers tits. The band cackled, and I knew I was one step closer to acceptance. Then an older man walked into the break room. Like a group of deer at the sound of a double-aught six, the group scattered. I followed them to avoid attracting attention, but M. Thomas L. stayed in the break room. I heard the beginnings of a conversation between him and the older gentleman, but I was out of earshot before I could get handle on the topic.
I returned to my cubicle, only to see an email from Brooks about the game plan for later that night. He requested my IM name so we could chat. I quickly installed AOL Instant Messenger and created a new account. My handle for the mission: TameTheCunt2486 a reference to the film Magnolia which I was sure Brooks wouldnt get. To my surprise he picked up on it immediately.
Here is a transcript of our conversation:
ChicksDigBrooks: nice name dude TameTheCunt2486: thanks bro ChicksDigBrooks: I dig that part of that movie, but the rest is fuckin gay TameTheCunt2486: yeah, that part is awesome though. P.T. Anderson is pretty cool ChicksDigBrooks: who? TameTheCunt2486: nevermind ChicksDigBrooks: so your up for some twat hunting tonight right? TameTheCunt2486: hell yeah ChicksDigBrooks: cool bro were gonna get so wasted ChicksDigBrooks: I am definitely gonna get a BJ in the can tonight, that I know for sure. TameTheCunt2486: yeah man, awesome ChicksDigBrooks: fuck yeah it is faggot! ChicksDigBrooks: LOL
Throughout the day, I would receive IMs from Brooks, or one of the other guys, that simply said, "faggot" or cocksucker, which I found quite odd. One time, I received an IM that read only "spoon-chested knob jockey." I began to realize that these messages were not insults, but rather a rudimentary system of communication. They were meant to communicate that the sender was at his desk and available for conversation. It was like a lion's roar- telling members of the pride his location and warning outsiders to stay away.
It was getting close to the lunch hour, and I hadnt done any work yet. Based on the frequency the guys sent IMs and emails linking to sites like www.steakandcheese.com or www.tubgirl.com (WARNING: DO NOT VISIT THESE SITES UNDER ANY CIRCUMSTANCES!), they were also not working much. I was starting to wonder if these "professionals" actually do anything in their cubicles all day. In addition, I was beginning to worry about M.Thomas, who I hadnt seen or heard from since the break room.
11:57 AMThe Yuppie Lunch Hour It was minutes before lunch, and still no sign of M.Thomas L. I was quickly facing the grim fact that I would have to go to lunch without my wingman. M.Thomas would never surface bastard.
The entire lunch was a nightmare. As crude as these guys were in emails and IMs, they were worse at lunch. Brooks bet Reese that he wouldnt grab the waitress ass. Reese did of course, and when she shot him an angry look, they all laughed. Reese said she must be a dyke, to which Derrick responded, she just knows you are shit packer. I wasnt sure what that meant, but I laughed along to avoid being singled out.
To add insult to injury I had to pick up the bill at Applebees. Fuck these guys.
4:52 PMThe End of the Work Day Quitting time. Thank fucking Christ! I had spent the day doing nothing- with the exception of approving a home loan for a family at around 3pm. I wasnt sure exactly what I was doing, but all the paperwork seemed to be filled out. And besides, the dude wouldnt have gone through all the trouble if he couldnt cover the mortgage, right? Anyway, they were really happy, and it was a nice break from chatting with Brooks about how many bitches" he was going to "pound in the ass that night.
We must maintain our cover.
Preparation for the evening still lie ahead, and I had no idea what the fuck had happened to M.Thomas. I waited outside in the parking lot for a half-hour. Finally, M.Thomas came jogging out.
"Sorry man, the boss man had me working on some payroll shit," he exclaimed as he jumped in the passenger seat.
"What the fuck?" I thought to myself, but knowing M.Thomas, it was pointless to ask.
We were now on our way to Phase II, the after-work "partying". We raced home to put on our going out uniforms and grab a quick dinner.
7:30 PMGetting Ready After throwing on our $700 Banana Republic gear (two pairs of pants, two button-up shirts, two pairs of boxer briefs, two a-frame undershirts, two pairs of socks, two trendy necklaces, and sunglasses), we hit a Subway on the way back downtown. M.Thomas, riddled with guilt about the money I had dropped on the clothes and lunch, or more likely just riddled with a ravenous appetite, sprung for our dinner tab of $15. It would be the last time he opened his wallet. I was furious, but we simply didnt have time for such petty concerns. We were late for pre-game at Brooks' loft downtown, and we still needed to stop at a convenience store for supplies.
8:02 PMSupplies We pulled into the parking lot at a gas station just outside of downtown. The lot was filled with newly-washed, black SUVs. As I walked through the doors, the strong odor of designer cologne hit me like a heavyweight jab. The store was filled with young men loading up on supplies just like us. It was an amazing discovery. Eight men, all on cell phones, and all loading up on energy drinks, low-carb beer, clear malt beverages, hard liquor, and wearing similarly expensive name brands all in one place. I expected to find the same kind of brash banter being exchanged about nailing bitches, but aside from the occasional head nod, or compliment about clothing, none of the men even acknowledged each other. It seems that when separated from their group, they act more like regular people. It was fascinating.
The stop was also beneficial because we had forgotten to drench ourselves in cologne, so we picked several tiny bottles of Designer Imposters at the counter. I decided on an Obsession-like scent, and M. Thomas went for a mix of Cool Water, CK1, and Tommy Hilfiger that he dubbed Aggression which was appropriate because everytime I caught a wiff of it I wanted to punch him in the face.
The toolbox crew. Brooks on the far right.
9:10 PMThe Pre-Game Ceremonies We arrived equipped with four, four-packs of Red Bull (which I had to put in a box because M.Thomas refused to carry any of them), and a $52 bottle of Grey Goose. We were welcomed by our fellow striped-shirted friends with the following reception, 'Well it took you faggots long enough. Scared that they might be on to us, and thinking our cover might be blown, I quickly and savagely replied, Fuck you man, I was at your parents house getting my dick sucked by your mom in your old room, while your dad was watching and masturbating in the corner and mumbling to himself about how big my cock was and then after I was done, I shot my load all over your old, Jose Canseco 40/40 club poster, you PRICK! After a short, awkward silence, everyone erupted into laughter and high-fived each other. We were safe for now.
12:01 AM-The First Club After three hours of mindless babble about pussy, golf, work and several one-up quoting sessions from the movie Old School, we headed out. We were like a magical pack of wolves, hunting, jacked up on Red Bull and feeling tipsy from the vodkaor maybe I was just loopy from inhaling massive amounts of cologne in the unventilated apartment.
We rolled eight-deep into our first bar of the night, Tramp. Upon our entrance, Brooks declared, to no one in particular, This place is so fucking dead man. I told you, this was the place to be...eight months ago, now its a fucking sausage-fest!"
In order to preserve some sense of purpose however, we did our first round of Jager Bombs and drank some more Red Bull and vodka. At this point, my heart was beating a million miles a minute and the elixir of violence began to swirl around us, except for M.Thomas who had disappeared.
12:36 AM-The Second Club The second club we hit also had a one word name, Posh. I made a mental note of the one-word trend. It was something that I thought deserved further research. I looked around thinking perhaps M.Thomas L. had gotten ahead of us and would be waiting at the second club no dice.
Posh was busy, and the guys were pumped! Reese, gladly bought, and we immediately drank another round of Jager Bombs and hit the dance floor. Seven men dancing in a circle, talking on their cell phones, leaning in to shout in one anothers ear over the bass of some painfully redundant Techno song; it all seemed kind of strange but I did it anyway. I felt like I was truly inside their circle now, and wasnt sure if I could make it out. My undercover mission was getting too deep, but there was no turning back. I had to forge ahead. Every now and again, one of the fellas would get behind a girl and grind on her ass. We would cheer wildly for a few seconds, before the girl would walk away. The rejection didnt seem to matter at all to these men of the night, they would just go onto the next one like a Roomba vaccum moving from wall to wall.
12:49 AMThe Third Club After we hard-charged for thirteen minutes at Posh, the guys grew impatient. Tommy shouted Ive seen better pussy at the middle school I used to coach football at. To which Brooks added, at least the cheerleaders would stay in shape and swallow.
They took turns commenting about how the place was "dead" even though there was line out to the street. We left Posh and waited in another long line for around a half-hour to get into a club named Wish. I was starting to feel like I was being tested for membership in a mystical cult. Everything around me was swirling when we finally got into the club. Mere seconds after entering, we immediately left. We had actually just waited thirty-minutes in line just to leave. When I asked why we left, Brooks said, "Theres no good pussy in there man smell my finger". They burst into laughter and high-fived each other. I didnt get it, but I played along.
1:28 AMThe Strange Haze At this point of the night, I was in a strange alternate universe...a go-between, brought on by the over indulgence of depressant and stimulant. My head was at war with itself. I was sweating profusely, drunk enough to pass out, but WIDE awake. I had at least six quarts of Red Bull in me and we were all pissing it out everywhere in back alleys, on the street. Brooks even pissed on a homeless mans face, and he dared Reese to urinate on a 2005 Ford Mustang convertiblewhich he of course did.
I dont remember much of what happened after that, but I do know the seven of us beat the living shit out of someone on our way to the last club of the night because he stepped on Brooks shoe. And M. Thomas L. was still nowhere to be found.
1:34 AMThe Last Club The last club was simply called Dive , and I had had enough. The guys said this was our last chance for pussy. They were hopped up on adrenaline and Red Bull, and there was no backing down. Like predators stalking their prey in the deepest recesses of the night, they hit on anything with tits. They used every angle. They quoted every line in the book. They hunted women like a young lion hunts an antelope in the wild. But on this night, the plains were quiet, and all the antelopes got away.
Come 2:15 AM, they had all struck-out. It was like seven Steve Balboni's haplessly waving at a curveball with a two-strike count.
2:31 AM-The Sandwich Vendor ' Drunk, tired, and broke, the fallen soldiers and I waited in another long line for an over-stuffed sandwich. Still trying to score, they rapidly dialed every single number in their phones- desperately trying to convince girls to come back to Brooks for "after hours." Although they werent content with the quantity, two actually agreed to meet us there. Suddenly, like Al from "Quantum Leap", M. Thomas miraculously appeared.
Where the hell have you been all night?" I asked.
"Sorry man, I had to finish some stuff up at the office, and it was right around the corner. Larry was there, and he let me in" he responded.
Who the hell is Larry? I asked. The night watchman answered L. in a tone that suggested I should have known all along who Larry was.
I stopped asking questions.
3:03 AM-After Hours By the time we got back to Brooks loft, the effects of the gallons of Red Bull were beginning to wear off. The band of men had grown quiet. Only a few words were spoken, mostly faggot accompanied by a short jab to the shoulder. As we approached the elevator, two scantly clad, giggly, 28-year-old-freshmen-in-college-for-life girls ambushed us in the hallway. Brooks, Reese, Tommy, and the rest of the gang immediately perked up and began posturing for attention. Tommy rushed ahead and burst into the apartment making a b-line for the acoustic guitar.
I told you mother fuckers I told you. Whos the fuckin man?! Brooks proudly decreed.
As M. Thomas and I entered the loft, I can only recall the amateurish sounds of The Dave Mathews Band being strummed on Tommy's guitar. I quickly passed out on a futon in corner of the loft. I have a vague recollection of some dude asking to join me, but its all really just a haze. When I woke up we were in the futon TOGETHER, spooning. I dont remember what happened or the guys name, but M. Thomas L., who was in his sleeping bag in the bathtub some thirty feet away, sketched a torrid man-love session between the two of us in his sketchbook.
The Mission in Conclusion The next day I decided not to return to the bank. I figured that I had learned as much as I could from that situation, and frankly, I was uncomfortable with the idea that I might have slept with another man.
So what did we learn? Aside from spending a total of $1200, we learned that the world of the young, urban professional is a world like no other. They are an optimistic bunch with a strangely tiered value system. Their lifestyle is best viewed from afar. In the cruel play of life they are sometimes cast as the aggressive predator, while other times they are merely cast as the meek prey. As long as I live, Ill never forget Brooks, Reese, Derrick, and Tommy; and that strange man that I may or may not have had sex with at the end of the night.
Perhaps "faggot" is more than just a playful greeting.
Ready for 'The Night Life'
Where are they now? M. Thomas L. is now a branch manager at National City Bank, but he hasn't hung with the guys since that night. He did however fire Reese for masterbating on the job. Reese claimed that Brooks had put him up to it.
Chad Zumock contiunes to dissappoint family and friends.
M. Thomas L. and Charlie DeMarco contributed to this article
whatever... Posted: 7/7/2006by: Brad I don't know Matty. I DO know guys like this, and I'm tempted to believe the people who write these articles making fun of them are making some huge assumptions. For example, a mediocre salary? Who says? One of my buddies makes close six figures, the rest aren't far behind. SO, maybe it was just the group they looked at. I also have a hard time believing the, "these guys never get laid" refrain. It reeks of envy. As much as the author and many of the readers dislike these guys, girls fall for them all the time. Just like the girl below who commented that it sounded just like her ex, she may hate him now, but she got railed by him once. I say get the sand out of your pussy! enlightening Posted: 5/22/2006by: Ivan what's sad is that i was actually going to follow the finance career path. now that i see what douchebags would be my coworkers, im really thinking twice. great article, thanks for exposing the truth
and to top it off you got a great sense of humor
thanks to "trace" - YOU'RE the idiot! Posted: 1/31/2006by: Matty How did you not find this article funny? Do you even know anyone like this? Do you know that they are ACTUALLY like this in real life and thats what makes this piece so funny...its called witty observations. He made them out to look like the tools they actually are, instead of the rico suave world leaders they think they are. There's a reason why the article has been rated so high...because ITS FUNNY! But I guess every single person that voted for it must be an idiot, it cant just be that ONE person (you) does not have a sense of humor right? Don't be jealous or upset that you don't "get" that witty, sarcastic, cynical sense of humor the rest of us do. You're probably the same kind of person that doesnt find Seinfeld funny. I dont trust people like you!!! Tucker Max Posted: 1/12/2006by: Nick These yuppies are all the same. Tucker Max Syndrome. Tucker Max can be brilliantly funny; however, all these yuppies want is to be like him or near another guy like him to maybe pick up on some of his "mojo." And they just fail miserably. Assholes and womenizers all of them. This is a great read and I'd like to hear more about undercover missions, but regarding the yuppies every story would be the same. Brilliant Posted: 12/18/2005by: Eric I know these guys in real life. no Posted: 11/21/2005by: trace How the fuck did this piece of shit article get rated so high? This is not funny in any way! My guess is that the author voted fro himself about a million times. It's either that or people are just idiots. mgr Posted: 11/13/2005by: mike good to see that all natl city employees act like David Daberko, the Pres. Chad, you should get an award Posted: 11/8/2005by: V Frankly, that fact that you have written this brilliant piece has made you incredibly attractive to me. I wish more guys were as enlightened as you. I'd post my number and photo here for you, but I wouldn't want to incite a riot. =)There should really be an award for such serious and hilarious investigating. You've exposed one of life's unfortunate realities. I work in midtown and am blessed with having to deal with hundreds of these assholes on a daily basis, to boot, I am a woman, making the encounters that much more frightening. Ha Ha Ha Posted: 10/12/2005by: Jessica This article is my ex-boyfriend and his friends all the way. He thought he was such a big-shot because he worked downtown. I'm glad to see I'm not the only one who thought he was a loser. ???? Posted: 10/11/2005by: Chaz Reinhold this article was a waste of the author's time and mine. so is this post.
