Works by
Janice Moster
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Unforgettable Reader’s Digest Article: Andy What’s-His-Name
By Janice Moster
"You are more like a god than a man." Anthony Newley, The Roar of the Greasepaint, the Smell of the Crowd
In a haystack in New York City, on the fourth of July, Andy was born. Precocious even as an infant, he cried during fireworks in Central Park. Years afterwards, when reporters searched for early biographical material to pad their feature stories, bystanders in Coney Island would swear they heard the newborn say (in between baby babble, of course): "The refreshments stink, and my pants are too tight." Business writers later interpreted these words as proof positive of Andy's gift for seeing the negative in every situation.
At an early age, Andy parlayed his unusual ability to complain nonstop into a talent for foul play. "He cheated everyone on our block," said Mario, his former next-door-neighbor. "It didn't matter whether it was marbles, candy, or money. Andy would suck up to you, then laugh uproariously. Before you knew it, he was running off with your stuff."
These activities fed Andy's huge appetite for ego worship. "He developed a lot of self confidence," said Manny, the block bully and Andy's favorite go-fer. "It encouraged him to get into crime. We crayoled obscene graffiti throughout the Manhattan Subway system. After we got caught, we stole toilet paper from the obsessive-compulsive guy down the block and t-p-ed a few expensive split levels in Tenafly."
Luckily, however, Andy was blessed with a short attention span, so he soon tired of these childish attention-getters. By the age of 10, he knew the only way to cultivate respect among pseudo-intellectuals was to critique foreign language films. He mastered that and went on to become the youngest cocktail conversationalist in Manhattan. "Andy could blend literary metaphors, ghetto English, and Seinfeld jokes into the quintessential party mix. Everyone--from the Trumps to the mayor to taxi drivers who chauffeured Woody Allen--wanted to invite Andy to their next soiree."
But as it turned out, Andy entered the awkward stage of adolescence and no one could get him on the phone. Suddenly the tables were turned. Besieged by acne and humiliated by expulsion from Bartenders College (for failure to mix a really dry martini), Andy was visited by an epiphany. "It wasn't like he saw the Madonna on someone's back door," says his mother, a retiree living in Clearwater, Florida. "But he realized he could no longer get by on charm alone."
So Andy decided to commit himself to a few socially relevant causes. First off, he became a militant prohibitionist. Yup, for a few wild months, Andy raided storehouses stocked with tiny booze bottles. He dumped cocktail napkins into the East River and picketed "happy hours." He even quit watching "Cheers" reruns.
Rewarding as this work was, Andy knew it was only temporary. One day while cruising the streets, busily collecting aluminum beer cans with which to bombard unsympathetic legislators, he got rear-ended by a ten-wheeler hauling several million gallons of crystal-clear bottled water. Well, you can probably guess what happened.
There Andy lay—supine and drooling, happily dreaming of the product recall of one billion red plastic stirrers mysteriously tainted with human excrement. He thought he was on "Fear Factor" or a virtual reality trip to Lake Michigan, where he was swimming with a school of wide-mouthed bass.
"He kept repeating the words 'rebirth, purification, symbolism,'" says the truck driver who crashed into Andy. "When he left the hospital, he refused to accept money from my insurance company or PI attorney. All he wanted was an advertising job."
Andy knew this much: If he could sufficiently inflate his language, learn some jargon, catchwords, and meaningless gibberish, he could snare a decent job. And sure enough, he did. It was satisfying work for Andy. Chicanery, trickery, and sales gimmicks filled his days. Nights, he worked on small, personal projects. First, it was the revolutionary concept "B.B.O"-Better Business through Obsolescence. Then, he thumbed through the dictionary until he coined the still-very-popular buzzword "state of the art."
Andy died unexpectedly on Superbowl Sunday--the CSI New York team agreed it was either from choking on a beer nut or from heart fibrillations during halftime. Still, even in the midst of a crack forensic team collecting enough physical evidence to sink the Queen Mary, Andy managed to give his friends, relatives, and co-workers another good reason to down another pitcher of vodka martinis.
Bud Zorn, who rode the bus each day with Andy, remembers how the "little stinker" tried to trip the other passengers.
"Yeah, he was quite a guy," reminisces Zorn. "Used to open every bus window just to see who would pass out first from the exhaust fumes. But he was at his best throwing cherry bombs into open manholes."
Amy Barlow, who shared an office with Andy, says, "Andy was pure vermin. He deleted my e-mail, and when my dog Pixie took sick, Andy sent me a vivisection manual."
Fred Larner, a former drug dealer and now a major network executive, shared his thoughts: "Andy taught me all I know about deceptive advertising and appealing to the sexual fantasies of the average American housewife. I don't know what I'll do without him."
At the funeral, thousands of people packed the church. Many people took to the pulpit to reflect on Andy's life, but computer mogul Bill Yeats said it best: "His life inspired others to bear the cross of crookery for a shot at a fistful of dollars. Andy was a man who deflected positive criticism the way cockroaches resist chemical sprays. And he did it with crudeness, pugnacity and a true disrespect for life."
What a work of art! What an American legend in his own slime! What a Yankee Doodle Andy!
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