terror TWILIGHT!

Fuck all of you. Noononsaturdaycigaretteberhatel.blogspot.com is bigger than Jesus. How dare you think it could ever fold. It’s a social phenomenon. A juggernaught. An eternal marshmellow man.

whattttt

Noononsat... has always taken a rather lighthearted, if bigoted and meanspirited, approach to friendships and life in general. I’ll never forget the first time an entry caused hurt souls and feelings of betrayal. And we remember thinking: this could be interesting and, most importantly, distracting. But as time has calloused the skin of An Doof Ass’s hobbit like appendages and as the readership has grown increasingly detached from the adventures of one wandering soul in the urban jungle that is full-employment and general well-being, so has the biting wit and sharp pointies of this dignified and under appreciated site been filed and dulled. And so it is with a heavy heart that I regretfully inform you that Noononsaturdaycigarrettebreathe.blogspot.com will be no more.

Of course, we all knew this day was coming. For Noononsat was the monk in the dessert, communing intimately with the all powerful fuzzy deity of truth-like-ness, who had neither the time nor the inclination to pay heed to the tired and delusion idols of his heathen friends. And we’ve kept things real through it all. And by real we mean shrugged shoulders and a lower case "eh." (Example: One of Thousands: How could you?! Noononsat: eh.) And as the saying goes: All great prophets after a while just kind of get bored.
And so this is our final act of decency as we put aside our bowler of journalistic integrity and titillation for the fedora of faggery and chum. Goodnight, goodnight, parting is such a sweet, etc...

In other news, stay tuned for tomorrow’s biting new faggery and chum: a phenomenology of rejection.

Greater CONcENTRATION!!!

Psychiatrist: What’s wrong Working Boy?
Working Boy: Why do you ask?
P: Because you pay me to.
W.B: I see.
P: So what’s wrong.
W.B: I’m horribly depressed Doctor.
P: Don’t call me doctor.
W.B: Why?
P: It’s just a technicality, continue.
W.B: I’ve been horribly depressed. I can’t eat past 11 p.m. Whiskey just tates like sweet candy instead of sweet, sweet candy. And, I’m reading that book again.
P: Which one?
W.B: The one that makes me want to kill myself.
P: I don’t remember such a book.
W.B: are you kidding? That’s why i started coming to you in the first place.
P: Oh sure right, right. Of course I remeber. Continue...
W.B: Well, I thought I could handle this time. You know, fuck all and just enjoy the jokes about large bottoms and Presbyterians.
P: And...
W.B: they were pretty funny.
P: Was that enough?
W.B: It was until I got to the crippled half-brother. I’m a sucker for invalids.
P: Who isn’t?
W.B: I started crying like it was a Wednesday at 8:00.
P: What happens at 8 o’clock on Wednesday?
W.B: Top Model ends.
P: I see.
W.B: Yeah, I love that show. Renee is such a bitch.
P: I’m a Jael man myself.
W.B: Who isn’t? She’s so authentic.
P: Athentically hot!
P: and W.B: Booya!
......

W.B: So, what were we talking about again?
P: Bottoms and Presbyterians.
W.B: Oh yeah, so I don’t think i know any Presbyterians actually. I woke up a pile of garbage the other day and this dog was licking my face and I thought to myself: Do you even know any Presbyterians?
P: This is very serious.
W.B: Tell me about it. What would I do if one of them came up to me on the street and started talking all about stocks and bonds and life insurance? I mean, geez, where do they even come from?
P: I think Nova Scotia.

.......

W.B: Anyway. I think we were really talking about something else.
P: You mean your horrible depression?
W.B: my horrible depression?
P: Oh, yes it’s quite severe in fact.
W.B: Huh, sounds serious.
P: It is. Do you want some advice?
W.B: Isn’t that what I pay you for?
P: Um, technically you pay me to fill up your car with gas, which I’m doing right now.
W.B: I see. Well, you’re really going above and beyond.
P: I wouldn’t trade these 125 dollar 5 minute sessions for the world.
W.B: Neither would I....Or would I?
P: No you wouldn’t.
W.B: You’re the boss, chief.

........

P: So have you tried talking to your wife about the dpression and anti-Presbyterianism?
W.B: No she’s always too busy with all her friends and co-workers.
P: How about your friends?
W.B: What friends? All I’ve got is like 25 friends.
P: What about An Doof Ass? He loves to hear the sound of his own voice pontificating on subjects he's shoe horned into otherwise enjoyable conversations.
W.B: Are you kidding? He’s all about scotch and eating fancy seafood meals in large groups of mixed company like some big shot.
P: That sounds like your kind of bag.
W.B: Yeah, except I only like those things when he’s down in the gutter. My greatest joy was calling and talking about my dinner on the 65th floor of the Stock Exchange while he’s drinking Vermouth and eating Kraft Singles. The bastard’s taken joy away from me. Him and the repo agencies.
P: He doesn’t sound like a very good friend.
W.B: The worst kind, always trying to move up. That son of bitch. The next time I see him, I’ll slip a little gin into his peaty highland single malt and then we’ll see whose all cultivated and east coast.

.........

P: Well I think you should go back to reading books by Jews. You love that stuff and all it does is make you want things you can’t possibly afford.
W.B: It’s true. I didn’t even know what Hermes was until I read that one book written by a Jew.
P: There you go. And when you’re not reading silly, horrible books, do you think about it?
W.B: I guess not.
P: And how many times have you thought about Hermes ties in the last 5 minutes.
W.B: I'd say about 13 times.
P: Sounds to me like you’re troubling yourself over nothing.
W.B: Yeah, I guess you’re right. I don’t care about various moviegoing individuals or their terrible existence! I care about kirmans!
P: And where did you find out about kirmans?
W.B: From that book written by that Jewish fellow whose name escapes me!
P: I think my work here is done.
W.B: I don’t know what I’d do without you.
P: You’d wither away and die.
W.B: That’s bad.
P: Yes indeed. You can never quit seeing me.
W.B: You’re the boss, chief!
P: So do you want a new pine tree air freshener for the road?
W.B: Um, how much?
P: 10 dollars.
W.B: I don’t know...
P: 15. It’s made in Italy.
W.B: I’ll take 3!

shine ON!!!

I find class to be the single most important thing in all of the entire universe. How do I embody this intergalactic importance? Well, for starters, I make custom blends of tobacco and thusly I do not “chainsmoke” but “indulge in a robust leaf.” I also age anything and everything. And even I eat organic eggs.

I once knew a man who said I had taught him that “you can do whatever the hell you want as long as you do it classy.” That sentiment touched me deeply and if I hadn’t thrown up only seconds later from a classy overindulgence in Drambuie, I probably would have shook his hand and/or offered him a finely scented business card. But even though I did throw up on those church steps that didn’t make his statement any less true or my utter classiness less real. For you see, classiness isn’t just crystal-like chandeliers and radishes pealed to resemble roses, it’s also a way of life that shows others that you are aware. Aware of yourself, your surrounding and others. Aware even when you’re so blitz out of your mind, you have no idea what the hell is going on. This, of course, takes much practice.

Now I will be the first to admit I haven’t always been able to comport myself in a classy way. In the past, I’ve let the circumstances get the better of me, but the classy gentleman always learns from his mistakes and I can safely say I can now be classy in any circumstances at all. I can make lighting a cigarette end found in the gutter look like caramelizing a creme brule. I am the Abelard of anonymous threatening notes to public officials. And at no point in recent memory did my classiness come more to my rescue than a few nights previous.

I had just gotten home from a long day at work and was informed that I would be joining a bunch of girls who were going out to eat fried fish and drink beers garnished with cirtus fruits. Classiness however demanded otherwise.

Working Boy: It wouldn’t be classy.
Wife: Why?
W.B: Oh, a myriad of reasons.
W: Where did you find that cigarette?
W.B: Not in a gutter if that’s what you’re thinking.
W: Why would I think that?
W.B: No reason.
W: So are you coming?
W.B: Not so much.

After freeing myself from the shackles of a public outing, I retired to the living room where I worked on my magnum opus and drank wine from the bottle. I was like that guy who wrote books and drank wine and smoked. It had all the makings of the greatest night in the history of this Working Boy.

By 9'o clock everything was coming up roses. The wine was drunkening me. The country music playing on the hi-fi was making me poetical. And, most importantly, the unseasonable warmth allowed me to enjoy all of this in my underwear.

That’s when the women returned from the bar....

70+++++++

Okay, things are a bit slow but they are picking up. For example, on Sunday I had a difficult interaction with an elderly man selling records from the back of a van on Canal Street.

Record Purveyor: Dats a good ‘un. To shure yes ‘ir.
Working Boy: I can’t understand you? Southern wife come over here! I need you to help me understand this fellow.
Southern Wife: Screw you “Roommate.”
W.B: I thought we were over that little episode. Like I said at the time, I don’t like people knowing my personal business unless it makes them resent their lives and I feel like being married doesn’t really have that kind pizzaz, you know?
S.W: I’ll punch you in the face.
W.B: Later. Right now I need you to translate with your Southerness.
S.W: I’m not really southern.
W.B: I know and it kills me inside. But you can still understand people who don’t speak like news anchors.
S.W: You could too if you ever tried to interact with people different than you.
W.B: That’s just liberal hooey. Besides I talk to that man at the liquor store.
S.W: The legless Vietnam vet?
W.B: Oh good lord no. The owner who lives in in Evanston.
S.W: If I help you I get to buy 600 dollars worth of shoes without telling you.
W.B.: Deal. Now ask this gentleman if this is a good record.

W asks question. R.P. responds.

W.B: What did he say.
S.W: It’s not very good, this one’s better.
W.B: But that one doesn’t have a man backlit and sitting at a piano in a smoke hotel bar.
R.P: What you talkin’ ‘bout!
W.B: Oh good heavens.
S.W: Well, I’m just telling you what he said.
W.B: Ask him this: If I left this record sleeve just casually displayed on the coffee table would people find me exclusive and above them.

W asks question. R.P. begins packing up van.

W.B: I say, what’s going on.
S.W: He says he refuses to sell you any records.
W.B: The hell with this.

Then yesterday I went and got my haircut at the Polish hair cuttery on Wells run by a homosexual man and his cadre of what can only be Polish ladies of the night masquerading during the daytime as groomers.

Working Boy: I’m hair for a haircut.
Polish Man: Krishk!ca! Wash!
Kristhk!ca: Okay!
....
W.B: ow, you’re hurting my delicate hair follicles.
K: You man?
W.B: I like to believe so.
K: Man no care. Okay done.

Then of course there’s the actual haircut which begins wit you trying to explain how you want your haircut to someone who doesn’t speak English.

W.B: Ever so little off the top and sides.
K: haircut, yes?!
W.B: yes, but-
K: Okay, we give haircuts!

Then of course there’s the awkwardness of tipping at the end.

K: haircut over! Give money!
W.B: here you go and here is the traditional gratuity.
K: Huh?
W.B: the tip, Kircht!a.
K: Oh you a bad boy. You want the extra yes?
W.B: I don’t understand.
K: Oh sure, sure. Maybe not so much, huh?
W.B: not so much what? Oh good heavens.

I'm having cards printed up

Just call me Acting Director as this is my official title for the rest of the week. Yes, with a fabulous title comes fabulous responsibility. But don't worry, I may not forget the little people who have helped make these three glorious days possible. Whie most of you will soon have more impressive titles and paychecks, it is comforting to know that as Acting Director for 3 days, I may have a shot at usurping the best An Doof Ass will ever have to offer the world of illustrious job titles.

Is Visiting Interim-Associate Professor of Religion, Theology and Spirituality more impressive than Acting Director for 3 days? It's a tough call.

GGG-C-GGG-A-

I am a graceful man. Not so much socially or mentally, but physically I am poetry in motion. I’ve been told many times that my elegant motions are a beauty to be beholden by any holder of them. I move like those gazelles in the frozen tundra deftly avoiding the ravenous mandibles of various polar bears and jaguars. With my slender almost feminine fingers I can easily alter the trajectory of various tossable objects or bring them under my control through the fluid flutterings of my appendages. I probably should have been some kind of male ballerina or runway model.

All this has nothing to do with anything in the following but I just wanted to get that off my elegantly chiseled chest.

Okay. Part II:

I don’t really have a lot of friends, but the one’s I do have are pretty much worthless save for raging alcohol fueled wanderings or great feats of distasteful conversation. Usually we keep this all reasonably contained within the mahogany panels of the gentleman’s club or someone’s parent’s garage where faint hearts are not disturbed by the various gesticulations and exclamations. Sometimes however in a moment of weakness or from lack of foresight, such events have had to happen in my apartment at my kitchen table with my roommate trying to sleep or at least ignore the sounds of glass breaking and the pseudo-erotic bonding of drunk, lonely man-boys. EXAMPLE:

Working Boy: Let’s retell feats of sexual conquest.
Various Associates: Well this one time...
Roommate: This is offensive and inappropriate given my presence.
W.B: You ruin everything.
R: I live here and deserve respect.
W.B: It’s hard being a roommate and an awesome swinging dude with your friends.

Then usually I’m struck in the face and the parties over.

What’s this have to do with anything? Well, I’ll sort of tell you. I’ve always been mildly convinced that I’m not wrong for having no true personality. After all being everything to everyone is just better, like that song says. It’s only a problem when conflicting Working Boys collide and since there is no essential Working Boy, he can’t really be blamed for anything that happens. Not only that, but I’ve often made the case that my roommate probably does the same thing it’s just I don’t care about her other lives and have the decency not to get involved. She denies this. Whatever.

Well, this week I had the unique opportunity to be exposed to one of her friends. We were at the Hilton for a super exclusive party and had some extra tickets so she gave one to a co-worker she likes to drink maragaritas and smoke Virginia Slims with. OBSERVE.

Working Boy: So they’re all going fishing and I would love to go.
Roommate’s Friend: Oh you should go.
W.B: I can’t though
R.F: Why?
W.B: She won’t let me.
R.F: What? But she always says she’s so relaxed and laid back and cool.
R: What are you guys talking about?
W.B: How you won’t let me go have fun with my friends.
R.F: I of course don’t believe you would be that controlling.
R: What? Oh, no, of course, not. I’m super chill, you know me.
R.F: Well, I thought I did but what’s about-
W.B: She makes me do all the dishes and laundry and cooking while she eats chocolate-y things all the time and I can’t go out if she doesn’t want to.
R.F: What?! Is this true?!
R: Who needs another glass of champange. Huh?
W.B: Busted!

I still can’t go on the trip, but I’m feeling pretty good about the next time one of my totally awesome friend drops a cigarette between the couch cushions.