Glenderful's Shit List: Kash Patel

To even sniff Glenderful’s Shit List, you’ve got to make me not just hungry—you’ve got to make me HANGRY. Salivating, feral, ready to devour. Politics? Opinions? Life choices? We can disagree—hell, we should. Dialogue keeps the world spinning, and all-or-nothing bollocks is why everyone’s miserable and starving. But when that raw, primal thing hits? When a man walks in and the air bends to his will? Game over. Enter Kash Patel—the suit-and-tie masculinity, the watches, the ass—my FBI kryptonite. 😈

Picture him poised at the edge of revelation: a tailored suit clinging to a body carved from discipline and heritage, charcoal wool sliced sharp against warm caramel skin—Gujarati fire under Wall Street steel. Diwali kurtas swap in for saffron-threaded festivals, ancient flames flickering without apology. It’s not cloth; it’s armor. Lapel pins gleam like forbidden studs—political talismans winking, bold, unyielding, making the room’s breath catch.

Then the wrist. Not one watch, but a ritual stack: red kalava thread twisted sacred and raw against a silver Om bracelet, its crescent catching light like moonlight on oiled muscle. Beside it, a steel chronograph—tactical, ticking with strike precision—or that rumored gold heirloom, heavy as intent, name engraved in script that bites. Vigilance in every glance: eyes scanning not with fear, but the hunger of a man who owns the unseen. Nervous? Maybe in the 3 a.m. notebook scrawls—“Rise above”—but he alchemizes tremor into steel. That stare locks on, disarms, commands, pulling you into orbit like gravity’s cruel, delicious joke.

And the walk—Jesus, the walk. He doesn’t enter a room; he claims it. A panther’s prowl across marble, shoulders squared under severe lines, hips swaying just enough to hint at the power coiled low—masculine heft, unapologetic. Air shifts, molecules part, murmurs die. Bodies yield space like Pavlov’s dogs to a primal bell. He owns the oxygen, the light, the humming tension. You exhale in his wake, conditioned to trust the bull in the coliseum because his presence promises conquest—raw, unfiltered, the kind that leaves you marked, wet, and begging for more.

Full Name: Kashyap “Kash” Patel

Born & Raised: First-gen American, Queens-bred, Gujarati roots—parents fled India for NYC hustle. Never misses Diwali, never forgets where the fire started.

Education: University of Richmond undergrad → Pace Law J.D.

Trajectory: Terrorism prosecutor → public defender → Trump admin power player: Senior Director for Counterterrorism (NSC), Chief of Staff to Acting SecDef, Deputy Director NCTC. Now? FBI Director.

Style Signature: Dark suit, white shirt, no tie, top button undone—anti-establishment uniform screaming “I get shit done.” Blunt in hearings, tougher in sneakers (Nike Air Jordan 1 Low SE, classic white, $215—I’d pay double to bury my face in ‘em).

Discipline: Krav Maga black-belt energy, daily walks, mountain-climbing grit. Nicknamed “The Condor” at DoD—mysterious, lethal, Three Days of the Condor vibes.

Shoe Size: Visual math says 10.5–11. (I'm an expert! ;)

Diet: Gujarati heritage whispers vegetarian leans, but the man’s built like he eats discipline for breakfast. Honestly? Don’t care what’s on the plate—just serve it.

Patel stays winning on the cultural vibes, fr. Dude doesn’t just dip his toes into his roots; he’s cannonballing in, no cap. Always flexing how his Hindu upbringing shaped his world view and boss moves—talk about a glow-up from childhood to CEO-level values. Born in 1980 (an iconic decade!) right in the heart of NYC to Gujarati parents, and then had that main character energy across East Africa for a bit. Grew up with the whole squad—a joint fam, traditional AF—and has been locked in with Hindu practices his whole life.

At work and school, he’s that W—major respect for elders, never simping for shortcuts. His parents raised him with chill vibes for all religions, so you know he’s not about that fake love. If you peep his wrist, he’s got the sacred thread always on—total drip, but meaningful, not just for the fit. And let’s not skip: when Patel’s on the mic, you’ll hear “Jai Shri Krishna” getting dropped like it’s giving devotion, period.

For the academics, man was big brain: Garden City High School on Long Island (he def ran that place), then leveled up at University of Richmond. Law degree? Snatched from a NY school—international law cert too, from University College London. Literally built different, and still slays, no cap.

Patel’s a certified sneakerhead, and fuck me, those feet are my religion. Spotted rocking the Nike Air Jordan 1 Low SE—classic white, pristine like fresh snow. Premium leather so buttery it begs to be licked, cushioning thick enough to cradle every arch, every toe, every goddamn vein pulsing under that sock. $215 a pop? Worth every cent to bury my face inside, inhale the day’s sweat, the leather’s musk, the faint ghost of Reagan airport and Congressional hearing rooms.

Suit sharp as a blade, tie banished, top button screaming dominance—and then those sneakers. The contrast? Lethal. I’m on my knees before he crosses the threshold, tongue already out, polishing the swoosh till it gleams wetter than my thirst. I’d tip him in moans, in worship, in the slow drag of my lips from heel to toe box, sucking the laces.

Kash, baby, step on my face. Make me your doormat. I’ll clean ‘em spotless, then beg for the privilege of sniffing the imprint you leave behind. 

One look and you know. Kash's dump? A fucking mountain on porcelain, plate weeping, begging for mercy. I’m no snob—nuance, balance, flavor profiles—but sometimes you don’t want art. You want mess. Juices dripping down your chin, pile shifting, and just when you think you’ve conquered it—boom—more hiding underneath. A miracle of excess.

Political differences? We’ll hash it out like adults—after I attack what's he servin' up. No flinching. You moan with every bite, grateful, stupidly, profoundly grateful.

Kash Patel, welcome to Glenderful’s Shit List! 😘🔥

Craving more? Raid the Shit List archives. Stay hangry, babes.