panda! panda! panda!

let's talk tai shan...

Standing on the shoulders of lesser drunks....AN DOOF ASS!

Word on the street is that An Doof Ass has fallen off the sobriety wagon and onto the white horse of cheap Scottish-style scotch drink. For a while I wouldn’t believe the rumors. After all this is the same An Doof Ass who has quit smoking at least 15 times, sworn an undying allegiance to the Jesuits order - twice and trained for a half marathons for like almost a week. In a word, the son of a bitch has staying power. When An Doof Ass puts his mind to something, by golly, it will be at least a week, week and a half, before his incredibly weak constitution requires him to drastically reassess any oath, pledge, vow, promise or allegiance he may have made days, even hours, before.

So, I was justly skeptical when ol’ An Doof Ass was back on the golden cream only days after swearing off the sauce except on major holidays, after A.L.I.A.S. and “during the shakes.” But now I can say with almost complete certainty An Doof Ass is once again on the booze train heading from Whiskey Central all the way to Peach Vodka Valley. How do I know this you find yourself asking? Did I find An Doof Ass back in Chicago punched out on a street corner clutching an empty bottle of Isopropyl alcohol? Or riding a broken 10 speed the wrong way down LaSalle at 3 in the afternoon, his tattered shirt flapping in the wind? Surprisingly, it was none of these, what I like to call, “Classic An Doof Asseries.” No, as much as it pains me to say it, An Doof Ass has grown some during this first year of life procrastination training, I mean, graduate school. He’s much more nuanced now, more graceful, sublte and full of tact.

For you see, An Doof Ass has entered a higher stage of alcohol abuse; a realm reserved for those of us over 24 years old and wise to the ways of the classy cocktail party were one slurred word can mean instant alienation and dirty glances. In this bold new world an alcoholic of An Doof Ass’s skill and college binge training and stamina has only one outlet remaining: The drunken phone message at 3 in the morning. Recently a slurred and very serious An Doof Ass revealed that he has many “hot sexy babes, and no fat chicks” he’s also “totally scoring” and therefore “not sweating it either, but, in facts of it, ruling.”

The truly scary part is at some point in the near future, An Doof Ass will be back in Chicago for “a major holiday.” What debauched, Cosmo induced, self-deception will he enter into at the Bible Tech of Midwest America Technical College Alumni Virgin Margarita Christmas Happy Half-hour? One never knows.

count your blessings

Hey bitches. Well, I’m back. Where have I been? That’s neither important nor interesting, but, for the last week, I have been out of cell phone range. In fact, it wasn’t till last night around 7 that I was able to contact anyone outside of yelling range. So you can see why I was anxious to turn the ol’ Nokia and see how many exciting voice messages I would have. I had visions: Visions of crazy party calls saying “Andy, dude, get your ass over here, man, there’s like co-eds by the fistful.” or “Drew, my name is Tanya. You don’t know me, but I know you. Meet me soon. Passionately yours, Tanya. Also, I’m terribly attractive, and easy.“ and, in all honestly, I didn’t think I was aiming too high when I expected at least one, “Andy, I’ve got a bottle of Canadian whiskey with your name on it, let’s get drunk and sing Irish ditties.” But no. Not even fucking close, you bastards! I had three messages on my phone after a week, a week!, of not answering. The first message was from a good friend informing me he had Sunday morning off and was wondering if I was going to church and, if so, could he come with. “All right” I thought, “That message doesn’t exactly make me awesome, but, hell, I’ve got a couple left. Surely, one of them will be at least mildly debauched.” Message two: “Hey Andy, I haven’t talked in a while. I, uh, found the new Kanye West c.d. at a thrift store for 2 bucks so I bought it. I expect good things. Give me a call back sometime.” Unfortunately the last message was a wrong number, in which some terribly drunk Mexican was spanglishing his way through an explanation to Juliana about some kind of sexual transgression that had left their relationship “con los lobos.”

All in all then a week incommunicado taught me a couple of things. Number one, I don’t have any cool friends. Number two, I don’t really have any friends. Number three, I don’t even have any cool enemies. Number four, Jesus Maria needs to lay off the sauce. Number five, I’m back bitches!, and it’s fucking cold outside.

Cheers jerks

thanks for help finding something to do in philly; I'm glad I have such cosmopolitan acquaintances.

.,.,.,.,.,****.,.,.,.,.,.,.,.,.,.!

I'm off to write the great American novel; will be back next Friday.

Basically, it’s the classic boy meets girl tale with a 21st century twist! You all know the Grim Reaper, right? Well, what if I told you he falls in love with the prettiest girl in Chestnut Valley High, Sally Smithington, and kills high school football star, Tom Grander, so as to use his rosy, tone skin as a disguise in order to meet and woo Sally. And that’s just in the first two chapters! Oh, the adventures they will have. But what will happen when Sally finds out she's been kissing Death through Tom’s lifeless rotting pelt – and loving it!? And will Death stick around when he finds out not only that he’s going to be father, but also a single one as Sally will die giving birth to their mutant death/life child?

In its most simple form its the tale of Death wearing people flesh and trying to get with a girl, but if you look deeper you'll see the real message of incarnation and anti-dualism. If everything goes according to plan Zondervan will be publishing in Feburary under the more accessible title: Light in the Darkness of Dusk.

Billy...er...umm...

Alright bitches here is the deal -I've got a layover in Philly this Friday. I get in at 10 pm and leave at 7 am the next morning for my almost final destination via airplane. And I needs some help. Where does one go in Philly to get drunk and score babes? Is Hollertronix still cool? Do Philly people wear jean jackets? Money is not an object; I'm super loaded and all expenses from the trip will be a tax write-off anway. So friends-0-plenty, what's the good word? Any genuine insight into the town? In a word, where should I blow my big city money and how I can get there from the airport?

HIll Mechanical Group

So yeah. Get together at my place this Friday night-ish for a celebration of life. Of course, it’s not a celebration without some rules – hard and fast rules. I’m putting them forward now because, if my personal history is any indication, I won’t be in a state that allows me to inform/enforce the rules come tomorrow night.

Rule 1: Bring shovels and work gloves. There are some cool old boards and artifacts in the ruble piles behind the Box Factory. I want the stuff from the bottom, and you’re going to help me get it. What I'm really looking for is some nice boards I can turn into a display case for my collection of 19th century thimbles and knick-knacks. Also, bring lemonade so we can wipe our brows and drink lemonade and remark on weather patterns.

Rule 2: Ties and jackets for the guys, corsages for the ladies.

Rule 3: ABOSUTELY NO ILLEGAL SUBSTANCES. That means: no pixie dust, runners, X, jammers, mush, E, Q, snuff, O, blow or mary jane. After all, who wants to have a heightened experience of pure pleasure? Who wants to be able to kiss the stars or stop time or, if the stuffs really good, go back in time? Who wants to have the secrets of the universe revealed or have the wallpaper in my apartments start crying gummy bear tears? No sir. None of that spastic delight for me. I would much prefer to stand around looking at non-crying wallpaper drinking 40 ounces of malt liquor that will make me bloated, fat and sleepy. Now that’s good fun. So please, don’t bring drugs and definitely no hallucinogens. *Bring drugs.*

Rule 4: No gambling on the cockfights taking place in An Doof Asses old room. The second a dollar falls in the ring it can get ugly real quick. *gamble*

Rule 5: Yes, you have to put your keys in the fishbowl. And yes, by my intial count the ratio of “guys” to “gals” is running at about 16 guys to every 1 girl, but we’re doing it anyways.

Rule 6: Absolutely no free booze. You think I want to pay to watch you piss on my floor and use my "50 States Collectors Edition" spoons to stir Skol vodka into Diet Coke? To hell with you.

Rule 7: When Heather and I get into our inevitable, nightly, drunken scream/slap fight just act like nothings going on. Pour yourself another glass of Hennessey and just enjoy the Gordon Lightfoot record - let his soothing voice carry you away…

Rule 8: There will be no breakfast.

So come enjoy yourself - just don’t touch anything, ask me about my job or life, look Heather directly in the eyes or use the bathroom. Oh yes, one more thing, we’ll have disposable plates and plastic cups: If anyone –ANYONE- tries to use my glassware, or for that matter even enters the kitchen, the party is over.

When you're 22

There comes a time in every man’s/douche’s life when he realizes he’s no longer a young man/douche. For me, this occurred as a senior in college when I was awake all night with terrible heartburn after a “Margarita Monday” at Coyote Ugly. To really understand the gravity of that event you must realize that early that year I's was pounding bottles of spiced liqueurs, fighting off killer bee hordes and even running half-marathons without so much as a runny nose. But after that terrible night things started happening - shit things. My back hasn't stopped aching for 2 years; I have a six heart murmurs; I cannot physical stay up past 9:15 pm. In a word, every day holds new and exciting ways to fuck over poor, innocent Andy.


Now those of you who know me know I’m not a complainer. I stick to things and keep a positive attitude not just for myself, but for those around me. But when you’ve been on this sin scorched planet as long as I have, you start to see things a bit differently. In a nutshell, I’m stuck in the horse latitudes - Fuck! – and am fresh out of limes. Starvation and scurvies are immanent; and I’m scared to go to sleep at night because in the morning it’s getting harder to remember where I put my glasses.


It will happen to you...

I have fucking MOndays

go twins.

^^*****

I’m a simple man. I eat marzipan and enjoy a glass of Chateau Lafite like any regular joe. But sometimes I get the feeling I’ve let awesome urban dweller coolness slip. I’ve gotten stuck in my ways and those ways sometimes keep me from a good scene. For example, last night a severe lack of alcohol left me roaming the streets of Pilsen looking for booze. I ended up at the Treble.

The Treble is a tricky species. It’s like a liquor store-ish bar-ish type-ish thing. It’s open well after midnight when all other liquor store have to be closed, and it has a bunch of folding chairs inside where old men sit around eating popcorn and drinking 40's. Before last night, I had been in the Treble twice before. The first time was to buy a bottle of Tequila. At the time I thought it as nothing more than a liquor store. The second time I was drunk as An Ass and needed cigarettes. So I stumbled over; turned down offers for very tempting offers for relations and the mary jane; and bought smokes. After my second experience I thought - liquor store and drug/prostitution hangout. But it’s more fucking weird than that.

For example: There’s a pool table behind the cash register. Number two, there’s African American and Mexicans inside. Number three, there’s a back room with lots of music and flashing lights but no one goes into the room or comes out...etc...

The Treble is a complicated beast. It’s the place An Doof Ass was punched out and robbed and left for dead. But it’s also the place I can buy alcohol and cigarettes after midnight and its less than half a block away.

I hope that when An Doof Ass comes home for Christmas we can go to the Treble. I hope he get hiself a bottle of Wild Irish Rose (a delicate blend of Schnapps and Red wine.) I hope he drinks it outside of the Treble as an act of defiance to the local hooligans who only months before kicked his white drunk ass. And I hope he drinks it for redemption. And I hope I run like hell before he get's his ass kicked again because the Treble is scary.

I tell 'em - Rick James Bitch..

In 2004, Elrich Weaver used a within-series cross-fostering model and behaviour system in rats in which high licking grooming (LG) arch-backed nursing (ABN) mothers were compared with low LG-ABN mothers. The offspring of high LG-ABN were less anxious and fearful as adults and have attenuated limbic-hypothalamic-pituitary-adrenal axis( LHPA) responses to stress/challenge than offspring of mothers with low rates of LG-ABN.

Big fucking deal right? Well, kinda, when we see that this corresponds to methylation within the fucking DNA of the fucking rats [methylation basically meaning a chemical reactions within the bonds of the DNA sequence that alter a gene's expression.] So, in a nutshell, these fucking rat's DNA is literrally altered through the type of nuturing it undergoes as a child rat. That’s a fucking scene, eh?

789876

Last night I decided I’m looking forward to Chicago’s smoking ban. Sure arguments for it are based upon the drab, uninteresting, and incoherent concept of individual rights; deceptive, bias and dubious studies; and encourage our perverse late-modern worship of health and safety. But you know what? The ban also fucks the government's ridiculously unfair taxes on smokers and gives us something to talk while we puff away outside. And that's two things I currently can't get in my bar experience.