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.
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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.
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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.
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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.