Andy Was

“Oh, fuck off.”

You’re back on the Bud Light. I like that.

“Seriously, fuck off.”

Were there not bottles of water for sale? Or someone who could piss in your mouth for a dollar?

“Forget about the Bud Light.”

I can’t! It’s fascinating to me! You’re in the closest thing 2018 has to the parking lot of a Grateful Dead concert in Colorado and you’re drinking a Bud Light. There’s gotta be a more acceptable beverage available. Jesus, man, it’s not even ironically bad.

“I need you to stop talking to me.”

But you’re the only one of John’s friends I like. And Chapelle.

“Him and John called me real late one night to pitch a show. Real Housewives of Wherever The Fuck In The Middle Of Ohio Chapelle Lives. Dave and John were gonna be Housewives.”

You mean househusbands.

“Nope. Full-on Bosom Buddies routine.”

That sounds terrible.

“Dreadful. They really wanted to do it.”

What did you do?

“Called their bluff. Told ’em we’d rush the show into production and sent over the shooting schedules. As I anticipated, neither wanted to spend 14 hours a day making a fake reality show.”

Very smart.

“Yes, I am. Now go away.”

“Would you like some mango to go with your Bud Light?”

“Oy. Fuck off with the…oh, hi.”

“I am Michael Gordon. I perform with the Phish. We’re from Vermont. Please enjoy these succulent and nutritious fruits and berries.”

“Ugh, you’re a lifesaver. My blood sugar dropped out of my asshole ten minutes ago.”

“They are from my garden, which I cultivate and fertilize.”

“Fertilize?”

“Yes.”

“Did you use your own feces to fertilize this fruit, Mike?”

“Yes.”

VIOLENT EXPUNGATION OF MANGO SLICE NOISE

“You should maybe tell people that first.”

“I consume many plant-based calories, as you can see from my torso. Much like a gorilla, I am evolved to slowly digest leaves and grasses in my elongated gut.”

“Interesting.”

“May I photograph you, Andrew?”

“Sure, shoot away.”

“Can you remove your shorts?”

“I can’t, no.”

“What if I dress you in a frilly bathing suit and have a small dog tug at it like in the old Coppertone ads?”

“You don’t have a dog.”

“I have access to dogs. Dogs can be procured.”

“Pass.”

“Would you like to see my trick?”

“Maybe?”

“I manipulate my belly into the shape of a giant mouth. Then I speak through my bellymouth in the voice of a character I call The Admiral. He will say anything!”

“I don’t want to see that.”

“Many people enjoy it. I am going to find them.”

FRUIT-BEARING BASSIST DEPARTING NOISE

“What the fuck was that?”

It was Mike Gordon.

“No, I know who it was.”

Where are you?

“Another Rando got me.”

His shirt is very clever.

“I’m thinking about buying it.”

And so is yours.

“It’s Bobby’s shorts! But stylized. Anyway, what the fuck was up with Gordon?”

Nothing. He’s just like that.

“He made me eat poopfruit.”

He didn’t make you. More like tricked you into it.

“There’s no difference.”

Of course there is. A guy swindling you out of a thousand bucks is different than getting mugged at knifepoint.

“I ate Mike Gordon’s doodyberries and you’re arguing semantics. This is why I hate you and this whole little summer stock thing you’ve got going.”

Hire me.

“No! You’re talentless and weird.”

I’m sorry.

“You’re sorry for what? What did you…oh, shit.”

“Look at the beard on the tall one, sir. I know you’re a poker player.”

“I am, Gleason. A damned good one. And, uh, you are correct. The beard is what’s called a tell.”

“There is almost certainly an explosive device in Little Tim Leary’s fanny pack!”

“My God, Gleason! Assassins!”

TALL HIPPIE WITH A BEARD BEING SNIPED NOISE

“Jesus!”

Andy, you should run.

“I hate you!”

I’m sorry, Andy Cohen. Someone has to be Daffy Duck in this routine, and it’s just your turn.

“Fuck you.”