dinosaur eggs!

Things have been rather busy around here so i haven’t had time to think up hilarious and biting lies to tell you about. Believe me I’ve tried.

For a while I was playing with how to work in a recent discovery of hybrid fruit. Things like pluots, apriums, peacotums, and plumcots. I thought this would be funny stuff for two reasons. First because basically any situation in which one inserts hybrid fruits will instantly become inappropriate and thus funny. Second because the words themselves are funny, especially pluot and aprium. Pity.

A second potential entry revolved around the upcoming artist walk next week through Pilsen. I’ve written about these in the past but they are such a fruitful scenario for adventures that I can't really pass them up. I had visions of Working Boy looking down the poorly fitting dresses of the herion chic art babes, and befriending homosexuals who share his infatuation with hybrid fruit creating many hilarious opportunities for double entendres.

All this spelled at least two entries for the week. But I don’t think it’s going to happen.

.....Or is it?

bell shaped body like mrs. butterworth!

Last night found me fighting off the beginnings of a cold with a couple of handfuls of nips from a bottle of cool, crisp Kentucky smack. I was going along fine reading some big impressive cutting-edge book when the tv mysteriously turned on and switched to a documentary on Andy Warhola.
******************************
For those of you who don’t know Mr. Warhola occupies a very elite position in my world: He’s number 3 on my all time enemies list. He’s just more horrific than "all Russian writers except Chekov" and just not evil enough to overcome my hatred for the liberal media. I’d tell you whose numero uno, but I fear it would so alienate and concern you that you would cease reading this illustrious blog and destroy the revenue stream it provides. I will however give you a clue about number one: It’s Iowa. I will destroy Iowa.
*****************************
But Iowa will have to wait because last night it was all about Warhola. So there I was sick as dog on the couch when one of my enemies was right there flapping his blotchy, bisexual face all over my television. And worst of all, they had all these experts on saying things like "if you will" and french kissing their Warhola wallpaper, if you will. And it got worse. They keep showing shots of New York City and it’s uninspiring and pedestrian architecture. It was like having someone dump shards of fiberglass into your eyeballs. Now I’m no art snob. Sure, I gots me a Miro. And yes, it’s really impressive and looks like fish or an owl depending on how you check it. And yes, it probably is his most important work. But even so–even though I have priceless, unique art by the 20th century’s most important surrealist master that is unlike anything else in the entire universe that doesn’t mean Andy Warhola on my television isn’t total and complete murder.
*****************************
Working Boy: Hello? An Doof Ass?
An Doof Ass: What’s going on? I’m so drunk.
W.B: It’s me, Working Boy. I’ve got a problem. Andy Warhola is on my television.
A.D.A: Sweet glorious horror! What are you going to do?
W.B: I don’t’ know. I was hoping you with your vast knowledge you would be able to help me.
A.D.A: You were right to call me. By the way, is the room spinning where you are?
W.B: He was a bisexual.
A.D.A: who?
W.B: Warhola. And i figured with your vast knowledge of LGBT issues you would be able to help me figure out how to stop the idiotic chatter coming from the television.
A.D.A: I see. Is there any girl on girl bisexuality happening right now?
W.B: No.
A.D.A: Good heavens! Then we must stop this Warhola blabbering as quickly as possible.
W.B: I knew I could count on you. So what should I do.
A.D.A: there’s only one thing to do. Get drunk as astrologist on Kentucky smack and swear at the tv. Swear like you’ve never sweared before.
W.B: I don’t know.
A.D.A: You can’t just shut it off. You’ve got to show the tv that you’re cooler more inspired than that hack looser.
W.B: well, you’re certainly right about that.
A.D.A: You show that tv whose boss!
W.B: You're absolutely right.
A.D.A: Whose right? Who is this?
W.B: You should go to bed.
A.D.A: Yesterday I thought I was a catepillar.

for glory and total failure!

Wow this weekend was home to one of the most absolutely idioti,c horrible experiences of my life. I anticipated telling you all about it but, as it turns out, I cannot relive the horror, not even for you. In other news, a successful bbq at the usual spot was had and well attended by good people who made me feel good through proximity. A rare gift.

Moving on. An Doof Ass is a huge Notre Dame football fan. Over the last few years, ND has had lackluster and poorly viewed Irishmen. This is a shame considering the school illustrious history of fielding year after year of boring, but successful enough, offenses and steely defenses. This year however the Golden Domers had great hopes for fielding a national championship caliber team and as of this Saturday had the nubmer 2 ranking in the nation. Unfortunately, the totally sweet Michigan Wolverines destroyed the Catholics at the Catholic’s ball yard this Saturday and thusly ended any chance of post season glory. That said: An Doof Ass no doubt had a horrible Saturday and we should all take comfort in his pain and suffering. While the glorious, omnipotent Twins have all but assured their place in the American League playoffs there is little chance the Irish will be anything more than a Saturday afternoon viewing pleasantry. Hurray!

the 70 X 7

Which bowl poured out indiginity on the righteous?

Where are those damn pre-med alumni when you need them?!

to Abam!

I probably don’t have to tell you this but our e-mail inbox here at Noononsat... is absolutely saturated with angry, angry e-mails. Why? The reason is simple: What the fuck happened to An Doof Ass? goes the common complaint. And our response remains the same: How can we keep pulling out awesome sweet material about a complete waste of space like An Doof Ass for more than a year or so? I mean, that would require that An Doof Ass actually has events and friends in his life. Come on people! Right now he’s probably sitting in his sewage filled basement trying to see if the mushrooms growing under the stairs are edible. Geez Lucy! What a basket case of hopelessness! I mean, sure, if pressed I could name a few recent developments in the old sad sacks pathetic routine. Like last week when he called me at three in morning asking social affirmation:

Working Boy: Hello?
An Doof Ass: Do I got any friends, man?
W.B: It’s 3 in the morning; An Doof Ass have you been drinking?
A.D.A: Shut up telephone! I’ll kill you! Like I killed that hobo for his paper bags.
W.B: Yeah, well, you don’t have friends. Everyone hates you.
A.D.A: Well, yeah, whatever, I’ll kill ‘em anyways. Kill ‘em like this bottle of Isopropyl alcohol. If you know what I mean? Booya!

And then there was the recent revelation that he would be presenting a paper at prestigious conference in Belgium. Being a good friend, I called him to congratulate him on his success:

Working Boy: Hey, An Doof Ass congratulations on your success. Maybe a big international philosophy star like you should get a new more prestigious nickname.
A.D.A: I believe something like that would be in order. After all, it’s not everyday one becomes a huge success in the prestigious and probing world of LGBT philosophy.
W.B: LGBT? Is that some exclusive philosophical society?
A.D.A: You know it. It’s the standard shorthand way to refer to the exciting world Lesbian Gay Bisexual and Transgender issues.
W.B: Um, I’m confused.
A.D.A: What? Do I have to spell it out for you? I’m presenting my paper, Man on Man Love in the Seducer’s Diary, at the prestigious Belgium Lesbian, Gay, Bisexual and Transgender Philo-Socio-Anthrotheological conference of the United Actualized Individiuals World Conference and Trade Show. I’m going to Belgium to hang out with Lesbians, Gays, Bisexuals and Transgenders. It’s all very prestigious.
W.B: I imagine so.

But other than that there really isn’t anything at all going on his life. In fact, I’ve come to realize I don’t know a damn thing about that dirty horrible son of a bitch anymore. Therefore, I’m embarking on an exciting and possibly revelatory journey through our archives to rediscover An Doof Ass’s legacy and how much of lame ass he really is.

Stay tuned. ...

super 160's

Yesterday I was kind of in a bad way. I had taken a shot of sugar like snow dumped into the blood, but it just wasn’t hitting me the way I wanted it to. So I was stuck: half high, half low. What to do? What to say? Simple. What to do? Go to tailor. What to say? Tino take in this jacket, I want to look sexy!

Working Boy: Tino take in this jacket, I want to look sexy!
Tino: You want me to take in?
W.B: Yes Tino, take it in.
T: How much, this much.
W.B: More Tino! More!
T: Okay, another ¼ inch under the arm.
W.B: Damnit Tino, in! No excuses, what do I almost pay you for? I want people to think I’m a heroin addict who wears children’s clothes.
T: But Working Boy, I-
W.B: Tino, my shriveled old friend, I’m in a bad way and I fear without a finely tailored blazer, well, well I just might die.
T: But Working Boy, I-
W.B: More! More!
T: It can’t go anymore. Please stop it too much you look like New York City homosexual.
W.B: Codlewop! Look at this picture I took from a fashion mag. Look how tight and small this blazer is!
T: But he looks stupide! Do you really want to look like that?
W.B: Are you kidding? I’d kill for his eyelashes!
T: Please stop you making Tino’s shop look like den of New York homosexuals.
W.B: Curse this midwestern fashion-hole and it's mac and cheese mentality! When will I be free of this stifling environment and run free in the accepting fields of haute couture?!

I'm considering a move!

I’ve never understood why I feel so much better than everyone else. It’s weird. Like sometimes, between lines, I’ll be sipping Campari from the cupped hands of some bikini model and I’ll look about my cadre of hangers-on and think: I’m better than anything that has ever existed or ever will exist. To tell you the truth, it’s kind of invigorating. The thrill of omnipotence. The silk pajamas. The pillowfights with fistfuls of college girls falling-.

?: What are you doing in there?
Working Boy: I’m, uh, writing an e-mail to my grandmother.
?: then why do I hear crying?
W.B: Um, because it’s about the Iraq war and broken trust and what not.
?: Listen to you! Since when did you care about politics?
W.B: what are you talking about? It’s always been a passion of mine.
?: Passion? The only thing I’ve seen you get passionate about was those glow sticks they were given away at the Jazz Fest.
W.B: Oh man those ruled. Do you remember how I’d shake them really fast to create cool patterns.
?: I think everyone who was on that bus remembers that.
W.B: Yeah. Anyway quit talking to me, I’m still working.

Over themselves in great piles of pajamas and the occasional stuffed animal. Sure. I give a lot away for nothing, but I expect something in return. The basics: a token title, a spot on the advisory board, a cigar humidor. Is that wrong? No, it’s business. And I know business like I’ve known thousands and thousands of beautiful--

?: Good lord! Did someone die?
W.B: what are you talking about?
?: You started balling the second you went back to typing.
W.B: Um, I wish you weren’t a horrible, jealous liar. Why are you so jealous of me?
?: Jealous of you? This from the man who is afraid to go into the stairwell after 7.
W.B: I told you I’m allergic to shadows! Besides when did you become a gristled old Jewish women with all that: This from a man nonsense? What happened to the Question Mark I’ve come to tolerate and accept as a financial benefit?
?: it died when you decided to start "pursuing bliss."
W.B: I told you, it’s important for my aura. Are you trying to disenchant my aura?
?: Oh goodness no. Heaven forbid I say anything against your life coach.
W.B. Listen I'm detecting some very negative energy emanating from you right now. Maybe you should light some incense and grab a couple glow sticks-
?: Um, I don’t know if your coach told you this but not everything can be solved with glow sticks. W.B:...Sharon warned me about people like you.

let the scandals rage!

So it was a long weekend and that of course meant more time to sit at home trying to shake the paranoia. Whatever. I’m used to it now and have learned just the right number of dirty manhattans (2 parts whiskey, 1 part throwing stuff) it takes to get me to sleep–14. That said, I arrived here at work today strangely chipper. Perhaps it was the cheerios I had this morning. Or possibly the orange juice. Or, it could even have been that handful of amphetamines in the break room this morning. Regardless, I feel great, and it’s not just because I took the weekend by storm. When do I not? Sure I went to the Polish Fest on Friday? Who wouldn’t? Now I know what some of you are thinking...Polish Fest? What did they have there? A Pink Floyd cover band and a dance troupe dressed up like cheerleaders jamming out to Van Halen’s Jump? And yes, of course, they did have that. But there’s so much more to Polish culture: there’s the anti-Semitism, the tight shirts, the beating up of non-polish guys. It’s all real classy.

In addition, I did some dancing at one of my favorite and most accepting clubs and even made it to the market to buy socks. I also ate barbeque and went bookstore shopping. I didn’t find anything I wanted but I did thumb through some of the more glossy photography books, which is always very educational.