A Southern Bell!

Well, An Doof Ass has left the building: A dilapidated building infested with rats and overrun with not-hot women of the night. But such is to be expected wherever he lays his head for any extended amount of time; be it his apartment in the Bronx, a back alley in Aurora or his parents house. He’s a dirty man. And from 5:30 pm Friday March 17, 2006 to 5:00 am Saturday, March 18, 2006, he brought his aura of depravity and self-debasement back to the Chi. Why was he back? Because he has no friends in all of the world and his utter financial destitution required he pay homage to the patron Saint of Mom and Dad. There were also rumors that a bounty had been put on his head by a band of Irish Bare knuckle Boxers, from whom he unsuccessfully attempted to steal 40 dollars during a poker game (you can’t make this stuff up.)

Any hoo, having hid the silverware and cutting the power to the apartment, we invited An Doof Ass into our home with open arms and 9-1-1 already punched into the keypad with our thumb on “Send.” In an effort to keep his fascinating aroma of peanut
butter sandwiches and Captain Black Superior Pipe Tobacco from permeating our place, we lit our Orange and Patchouli (for centering) Archipelago Candles and quickly hustled him out the door.

Our first stop was the artesian tobacconist on Milwaukee Avenue. There those assembled enjoyed a fine African Malawi blend, Karmellettas (clearly the most homosexual cigarette available) and a robust blend of Virginian leafs. Oh the classiness that we would have accrued if An Doof Ass didn’t smoke cigarettes like a 94 year old Frenchman sitting on the front porch of an Alabama plantation! Leaning back in his chair and flaying his obscenely hairy appendages about in an effort to get comfortable, he would take drags from a cigarette pinched between his thumb and index finger. Somehow he managed to inhale the fumes from each match he used on each cigarrette causing him to double over in coughing spasms. After this little show, he would flail about again and proceed to miss the ashtray when he tapped his mushy, half-lit smoke. Thank Heaven there was at least one individual along who was able to carry on a conversation on fine French silk and German ovens so I didn’t have to watch An Doof Ass constantly swearing under his breath as he dropped his cigarrette in his coffee. What a douche.

After that we went for Bar-b-que. He was surprisingly dignified at this point in the evening.

Then we went to the Skylark for café au lait and carrot cake. As it so happens the coffee was spiked with whiskey and the coffee cake was round after round of swill beer. Being St. Patrick’s Day the bar was packed. Luckily, I was along and used my urban savior faire and substantial personal pull to get us the V.I.P. table with its Pratesi upholstered couches, 19th century gueridon and Shagreen lamps. It was passable.

An Doof Assery I can remember: hitting on a lesbian couple. Taking a shot, somehow missing his mouth and sending it all over his face and two girls at the bar (It was the first time I’ve ever seen someone have to wipe liquor out of his eyes. The girls were not impressed.) His latent homosexuality coming out after only 2 Mike’s Hard Lemonades. And finally, blatantly staring at the terrible waitress’s obscenely large rack while she counted out his change.

After shutting down the bar we went home and drank whiskey until five in the morning when out of the goodness of our hearts we drove his bumbling bones to the train stop. For those who spent the night, they awoke to orange glazed french toast with overnighted Vermont Maple Syrup, fresh squeezed organic pomegranate juice, Strawberries and creme fraise, an assortment of melons, back massages and mimosas. An Doof Ass enjoyed none of this.