An Doof Ass: REVISiTED

Some of you may have noticed that the exploits of An Doof Ass have taken recently a backseat on the site. The reason for this is simple and mildly tragic: An Doof Ass has quit drinking and smoking. And if he’s not drinking and smoking he's not hitting on old, ugly Jewish women, getting robbed, crashing his Subaru, confessing undying love for Jennifer Garner or making a consistent An Ass of himself. And when he’s not making a complete and total drunk/smoking ass of himself there’s really not much else to the bastard.

But it doesn’t end there. [If it did, I could at least hold out hope that on major holidays, and funerals, An Doof Ass might take a couple puffs, diddle the bottle and start hitting on the coat rack.] Oh no, it gets much more mildly tragic. He’s now not only straightedge, he’s just plum fucking weird. In a word, the douche has turned lame. And when a douche turns lame slander just isn’t any fun.

Who wants to hear about his jogging route? Or his Kashi breakfast with low-fat, non-dairy soygurt? Or his conversion to “Enlightenment Goddessism” and subsequent “self quest” for his previous incarnation as, you guessed it, a bag lady. And who wants to know about how his search for his pet cat “from a previous life empowerment” led him to start a cat walking service called, you guessed it, Bag Lady Cat Walking Service? And I don’t even want to get into the reasons why he picked up cross-stitching and started a Bitch-n-Stitch circle for “non-recovering methheads.” In all honesty, I still don’t why he’s devoted himself to the study of the great flutist of early modern “Britanica.”

I mean, fuck, An Doof Ass, what the hell are you doing to yourself? Look in the mirror! You’ve changed from a super suave awesome gin hound to a complete lame ass. For starters, you can’t open a trust fund for the families of all the insects you killed before you learned they had a “life crystal” like all other “energy rays.” And you can’t, you can’t, keep telling women you want to touch their energy rays. I mean, Jesus, it’s creepy, and confusing.

People need the old An Doof Ass back. The one who spent three days on the couch drinking nail polish remover and eating Kraft Singles. They deserve the guy who once said “Fuck it” when asked if he would like a lemon wedge in his ice tea. Besides, it’s not like your old ways took that much effort. All you ever did was scrounge up a couple bucks from the streets, buy a handle and go out in the woods to “shoot ghosts.”