Tony Fly: “Every Morning, I Unwrap My Lips From Around The Barrel Of A Shotgun So That One Day I Can Again Act As The Proverbial Shepherd To The Metaphorical Sheep That Comprise The Aimlessly Wandering Populace Of The Twin Cities Metropolitan Area”

“Wow, that headline looks really bad on paper. Allow me to ameliorate that quote,” said recently displaced radio personality Tony Fly from a recliner in his den.

“I am not, I repeat, NOT going to kill myself. It’s like this — I…well, the past few months have been rough. I had to pawn off all my silverware, so when I eat breakfast in the morning, I have to jam pappy’s old shotgun directly into my bucket of ice cream. It gets caked up in the barrel, so then I kind of unhinge my jaw — like a boa constrictor — and suck the cream out. Crude? Yes. Delicious? Even more yes. Once I’m done with that though, I absolutely crush it on Monster.com, because the Twin Cities need me back in action.”

Let’s backtrack for a moment. Unless you’ve been living in a wi-fi deficient shanty town since August, you undoubtedly know that Tony Fly, the legendary radiotronic demigod that once blessed the greater Minneapolis-St. Paul metropolitan area with his divine insight and wit on various programs, was relieved of his morning show duties on the area’s adult contemporary station 96.3 K-Twin. Fly has also appeared in Taco Bell commercials endorsing Doritos Locos Tacos during syndicated episodes of The Simpsons on local channel 45.

“I make sure the gun isn’t loaded when I’m using it to eat. Safety first, kids,” Fly said into a microphone, the wire of which could be seen coiling out from under Fly’s Transformers blanket onto the floor and eventually ending, not plugged into anything, near an empty box of Cocoa Puffs.

“No one does it better. He’s a consummate professional. Would I hire him? Absolutely not, unless he finds a way to regenerate himself into a hot 23 year-old girl every few years,” said Dave Ryan, a noted supporter of hot 23 year-old girls, and longtime host of KDWB’s morning show. “We just wouldn’t have a place for him on the show,” Ryan went on, “Unless he was, you know, a hot 23 year-old girl.”

Fly, on how he was let go: “Well, when we switched formats from 96 Now to K-Twin a few months back, a guy came into the studio and told me to start saying “K-Twin” instead of “96 Now” while I was on the air. I asked him if, due to the changes, I would still be receiving a bi-weekly paycheck. He said yes, so I quickly said to myself ‘K-Twin K-Twin K-Twin,’ while slapping myself on the forehead so I would remember. Flash forward a few months, and I’m out on my ass. A lot of good all that studying did.”

On if he’s open to new opportunities: “I’ve been in radio for so long, I don’t really know any other way. The people of the Twin Cities need me. Imagine a world where I’m not there to break down the rich, multi-tiered symbolism Adam Levine injects into Maroon 5 songs. Imagine a world where people don’t know what I thought of last night’s American Idol episode. Well let me tell you something — you don’t have to imagine that world. It’s here. These people are nothing but lost and wandering sheep. And one day, I hope not too long from now, I will rise from the ashes, like a phoenix, and a shepherd, too — like a shepherd phoenix — to guide them back to the celestial waters of radio perfection.”

At this point, Fly took a potty break. In the den, a prolonged, guttural, world-weary sigh could be heard emanating from the restroom. Upon his return, he picked his nose a little, and said “Well, we can head down to Taco Bell if you want. Sometimes they recognize me in there, and I get a small discount.”

The interview ended shortly after that.

Flatulent Doofus Ruins Vikings Game

In what’s being hailed as a calamity in the world of football fandom, a freak accident has left thousands dead and even more hurting at the Metrodome in Minneapolis, Minnesota. Officials are still sifting through the details, but here is what this reporter has deduced thus far — dirty fart dust from a low-level Dome employee entered the main ventricle of the building’s ventilation network, mixed with 30 year’s worth of bacteria buildup, and then began to expand, mutate, and clone itself as it gained wide distribution throughout the structure. It went on to shut down the respiratory systems of thousands of football fans, and sent those who didn’t perish into varying degrees of dilapidated consciousness and shortness of breath.

“At first, the blast seemed to be harmless, but when circulated by the propellers used to support the roof, it was amplified twenty-fold,” said David H. Geiger*, designer of the Metrodome’s innovative roof system.

“We usually install safeguards against this type of disaster, but air filtration technology has only advanced so far,” Geiger went on.

“Filter too much, and the air gets stagnant. Don’t filter enough, and this happens,” he said. “This exact event is every inflatable roof engineer’s nightmare.”

While a good amount of blame can be placed on Geiger’s shoulders, a small amount should also be directed at the guy who farted. Emilio Consuela-Rodriguez-Smith, a backup peanut vendor who was waiting in a hallway in the event that he would be called up, reported that he was trying to lift a heavy case of pickles when “it” happened.

“I bent down to pick up the case. It was heavier than I thought, and I floated an air biscuit in front of what I believed at the time to be a vent that led outdoors. Turns out it was a vital roof-supporting intake fan. My bad.”

His bad, indeed. The intake fan immediately sucked in Consuela-Rodriguez-Smith’s effluvium, and wasted no time in distributing it to the entire crowd present at the Vikings-Titans game. The after-effects were instant.

“I’ve. Never. Seen. So. Much. Vomit,” Vikings coach Leslie Frazier said from his hospital room, using a DECtalk© speech synthesizer (the same device that Stephen Hawking uses) to communicate, after losing conversational faculties due to a collapsed lung.

Figures from the Hennepin County Medical Center cemented the incident as a Level Seven Flatulence Disaster. How a single fluff from a clueless idiot could have such a ridiculous and improbable impact remain the source of much speculation, hilarity, and hotness.

In other news, iron lung sales are skyrocketing in the greater Minneapolis-St. Paul area, creating a few jobs that will last for a couple of weeks.

*It was just brought to my attention, by me, that Geiger passed away in 1989. Everything else in this article has been fact-checked and verified.

Columbus Day

In honor of Christopher Columbus, I went exploring the other day. I drove south and discovered Minneapolis. Though I did forget to demand gold from the natives and cut off their hands when they didn’t bring me enough. Next time.

 

Oh, Let’s Just Talk For Awhile

I was thinking about this the other day, and I was all like, “Man, you really put the “log” in Blogging!” Actually, that can’t be right. I put the “Blo” in Blogging? No, that’s obviously wrong. The “Gin”? Well I don’t really like gin, so that wasn’t it. The “Bloggi”? What does that even mean? Is that the plural of Blog? Where am I, and what am I doing for lunch? I think the point of what I was trying to say is that I put something into Blogging, but even that is getting further and further from the truth. Not sure where I was going with that. Read the next paragraph.

As you may or may not know, I have been covertly working on an album of so-called “music,” despite having no musical talent whatsoever. Don’t worry, I’m not going to sing or rap or anything, that would be a true American Tragedy. It’s all instrumental. For the most part. On second thought, I’m pretty good at singing. And rapping. Maybe that will be the next one. But probably not.  But anyhoo, I’ve been running on a steady diet of Government Cheese, plucky Minnesotan gumption, and my greatest ally–my abnormally astute brain. It is a veritable field of fertility in there. It’s like every autumn, some hillbilly on a tractor goes in there, spreads some horse manure around (my Mom tells me that is the best kind), lets it ferment, and comes back in the spring to plant the seeds that eventually take root and mature into this very Blog. Fascinating, no? Well, you big galoot, some of that horse-poopy mojo got directed into the creation of so far, seven songs, and one video. But don’t worry, there will be a video for every song, and possibly even a short story to accompany that. Or maybe I’ll just write a book. Man, look how talented I am! I can honestly do it all. Did I mention that I used to be really good at drawing?! Maybe I’ll take that up again too. And not to toot my own horn here, but a lot of people compliment me on my penmanship. It’s small, elegant, and for the most part, let’s just say it gets the job done.  I’m also ambidextrous! Could I possibly have any more talents? The answer is no, I can’t. That is about all I can do.

Well, here’s the first video. It was for a class. My Dad asked me what it was supposed to mean, and I wish I could say that it represents the Duality of Man or something cool like that, but it is honestly just some shots of Minneapolis groovin’ along with the tune. Plus, it’s got a duck in it!

Bev’s Wine Bar

Ah yes, the month of June.  A season when the dreaded male variant of homo-sapien, the douchebaggus-erectus, emerges from tanning booths at Lifetime Fitness Clubs across the nation, equipped with popped collars, “athletic-fit” T’s, and protein shakes in hand.  These orange-ish, shrunken-testicled oafs are what I was expecting I would be dealing with upon being invited to a quick Happy Hour beer at Bev’s Wine Bar in Minneapolis.  I mean, if you have “wine bar” in your title, one would expect these specimens to flock around it like an overturned semi full of creatine on the freeway.  But alas, the place was almost empty, and it was just my luck that the Twins also happen to be out of town this week (see older posts for the lowdown on that whole deal.)

But anyways, the conditions appeared to be right for a venture into this little nook nestled quietly onto Third Ave.  I sauntered there with two of my associates, The Red-Headed Ghost in the Canadian Tuxedo, and Slim. And as a fun little exercise, I decided to test my versatility as a writer by assuming the identity of a snooty Englishman. Lets call him Doctor Professor Arthur Esquire Floppingtonsworth, M.D.,  the Third. I also ended up learning quite a bit of British slang in the process.

The atmosphere, while palpable, held distinct notes of pretension, while the furnishings suggested the eroticism of a bygone era.  The bare, gray walls offered a hint of minamalistic opulence. Unfinished 10 meter-high ceilings, whether intentional on the proprietor’s part, or a by-product of brash American ennui, invite the patron to unzip his knickers and wallow in the crapulence of Western culture. One might assume that the bloke behind the bar had not cleaned it any more often than I brush my teeth. This being a winebar, we partook in a lager described to us as a full-bodied wheatbrew. Arthur will be the judge of that. As the collective U.S. waistline continues to expand at an alarming rate, one would expect a so-called full-bodied beverage to have a little more heft to its girth. These people are off their trolley! Gobsmacked that this fermented wheat drink they attempted to serve me was no more malleable than a day old bowl of mum’s figgy pudding, I had half a mind to box the barkeep’s ears right then and there. What a load of codswallop! If this is what Americans are using to get primed for rumpy-pumpy in the hoo-hah(what?), then I must bid them a squiffy ta-ta. Aren’t us Englishmen just adorable with our wonky yakking? Well, I have flapped my gums long enough, and have undoubtedly wasted precious moments of your life that you will never, ever, get back. Toodle-pip!

Today’s Blong (Blog Song) of the day comes to us from Cake. In the words a geeked-out skater once spoke to me, it’s soooooooo chiiiiiiill. Cool Blue Reason.

The New Twins Stadium is Ruining My Life

Outdoor baseball! Wahooooooooooooo!!! The days of sitting inside that big old inflatable protuberance have come and gone, and now the Twins have invaded the Warehouse District. It’s like having 40,000 inbred cows all trying to get to the same delicious feedbag at once. Only these cows kind of know how to drive, and they have  become sentient enough to talk, but they use their aptitude at vocalization to utter unfathomable mutterings over some guy playing with a wooden stick.  As horrible as crossing Washington Avenue was before, now you have to deal with rubes who obviously have no clue where they are, and who do not hesitate to whip a U-turn in the middle of a busy street. Every gameday, the area descends into complete and utter anarchy–the blood-curdling shrieks of women and children, people screaming at you from their car for directions, and, I’m not sure, but I think I saw a guy on fire one time.  Boozed up vagrants will ask you how to get to the stadium, when you can literally see it 200 yards behind them, to which I reply, “Go three blocks east, lead a life of blasphemy and hubris, and GO BACK TO HELL WHERE YOU CAME FROM.” And not to mention, the people who have been paying monthly rent to use the parking lot right next to that God-forsaken toilet, can’t even park there during games! And they raised the monthly rate! What if your landlord told you that your rent was going up, and several nights a week, you had to vacate your apartment while a chlamydia-ridden prostitute distributes ZJ’s for 3 hours? What’s a ZJ? I don’t know, and I don’t care to find out. I heard it in Beerfest.

Well, I’m off to go to other stuff. Have a good day. Here’s a song I keep hearing on Radio K.

Cogitations

Since I am feeling rather malapert (dictionary word of the day-unbecomingly bold or saucy) today, here are some random thoughts that have been kicking around in my head.

-(Talking in Jerry Seinfeld voice) When people say it’s hot as the dickens in here, what are the dickens, and why are they so hot?

-Here is one of my plans for the summer: I always see all these people outside Twins games with signs that say “need tickets.” Well, one of these days I’m going to go sit at happy hour inside J.D. Hoyt’s for awhile, get plastered, and draw up a bunch of tickets. I will then walk outside, and hand them to someone who needs tickets. They will look down and see that I have written “gun show” on the tickets. By the time they look up, I will be standing topless and flexing in front of them with an outstretched hand saying, “that will be 75 dollars you freak.”

-I hate to keep talking about the gentrification of Aldi, but they done did it again. This time, I saw a guy wearing a somewhat snug Abercrombie shirt in there. Him and his little lady acted like they were on a freaking safari. I could hear them, hiding behind the cheap lawn furniture, whispering to each other- “Oh honey, shhhhh…..look, it’s an immigrant! Here, hold out this 50 dollar bill and maybe he’ll get close enough so we can pet him.” Cutest couple EVER. How I pine for the days when it was just me and some deranged old lady complaining about the tax on marshmallows. We must keep these yuppies out of our grocery stores!

Anyways, that’s all I’ve really got. Here is some Japanese hip-hop. I would really love to learn the language so I could understand, but for now, I’ll just sit back and enjoy the Nintendo-esque beats.