An Doof Ass Goes to College: The Sage continues via flashback and predictions.

As you know, An Doof Ass is gone. But here in God’s city, Chicago, which is surrounded by God’s toilet, Chicagoland, traces of him remain. By traces I do not mean one of Levinas’s nonstarters that is completely uninteresting and unoriginal, I mean crap. Nasty poor man’s crap is strewn about my super cool pad. Crap that has kept me from scoring lots of hotties.

Crap like his bathroom towel which I NEVER saw him wash. It smells like the Gin and cigarretts he would smoke during his ritual get drunk in the bath so there less to clean up afternoon. There’s also his toothbrush which was just a couple of teeth from a comb glued to a rusty spoon. I’d throw it away, but that would actually require not only being near it but fighting off the rats that have declared it their god. Not to mention the fact that I still can’t turn on the oven for fear I might smell latent grease from his many Aldi brand Kielbasas. I can still hear him talking about them: W.B., they taste neither good nor are they good for me, but when I eats ‘em I get my’s belly full and then I’s can drinks me more nail polish remover. And who can forget the way he completely destroyed my shrine to whatever erotic Eastern god was cool with the Wicker Park bitches that week dragging his found in the garbage recliner out the back door. I asked him why he was bringing it to New York and he look at me with his too close together eyes and said: Because it was free! Not to mention I still haven’t found that 6 cents.

Of course, he didn’t forget everything. He sure as hell took my custom made Pimpin’ 24/7 muscle shirt. I can see him now: Prancing his way down Bronxs boulevards flippin’ change to sex workers and pointing his hairy monkey arms at my cool words emblazoned in hot pink letters. That bastard. In fact, I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s completely swiped my swinging-babe-getting-game-moves. I can see him using my never fail William Foster Wallace line: I love like how like fucking long his ‘works’ are and how like I totally identify with the character because she/he/shehe is like sad and confused but really smart n-stuff. That’s my scoring line! Damn you An Doof Ass!

But now that I think about it, if he’s just using my W.F.W. line and The Shirt he won’t get much beyond the hot artist’s ugly roommate’s older uglier sister. But if he’s using all my sure fire moves -like wearing rainbow-tinted neon shades inside, saying 'n shit' a lot, and referring to himself in the third person as The Cruiser- he may well just land himself the artist’s ugly roommate.