Homepage / Fake News / My Week as an Assistant to Andy Warhol During the “Oxidation” Series
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My Week as an Assistant to Andy Warhol During the “Oxidation” Series


Monday: Woke up before my alarm today. Was too excited to sleep much – I couldn’t believe Andy Warhol picked me to be his new assistant! I took the train down to his building and they buzzed me up. I found Mr. Warhol in front of a large canvas primed with copper-colored paint laid out on his studio floor. He was staring at it with a curious expression on his face.

Hello, Mr. Warhol. It’s me, George Jankins, your new assistant!” I said to him, trying to hide my excitement.

“Hello, George,” Mr. Warhol replied without looking at me. “Please piss on this canvas.”

Was this how he greeted all his assistants? “I…don’t have to take a piss,” I stammered.

Mr. Warhol turned to me, face contorted with rage. “You can go. Come back tomorrow,” he hissed. “Be ready.”

Mr. Warhol is a true visionary.

Tuesday: I drank two cups of coffee and three cups of orange juice before leaving my house today. If Mr. Warhol wants my piss to help with his art, I’ll be ready! My train was delayed and I was in unimaginable pain the entire time.

I arrived and went up to his studio to find him contemplating the same canvas.

“I’m back, Mr. Warhol,” I squeaked out.

“Hello, George,” Mr. Warhol replied without looking at me. “Please piss on this canvas.”

Without further ado, I unzipped my pants and unloaded all over the copper-colored canvas. Soon the stream began to weaken and Mr. Warhol turned to me, face contorted with rage. “You can go. Come back tomorrow,” he hissed. “Be ready. And eat tuna. Rich in Vitamin B.”

I zipped my pants back up, in awe of Mr. Warhol’s mastery of the visual arts, and left the studio.

Wednesday: After pissing out 6 cups of coffee, 8 cups of orange juice, and a bottle of Gatorade purchased on my walk from the train to the studio, I collapsed to the floor in a state of near catatonia. Mr. Warhol turned to me, face contorted with rage. I believe he is beginning to appreciate how I suffer for his art, the same way he suffers for his, how Beethoven, Van Gogh, Plath all suffered for theirs (I consumed three tuna salad sandwiches last night).

Staggering back up to my feet, I watched as Mr. Warhol pulled down his pants to the ankles and began spraying his own piss over the canvas. It was a sight to behold; a radiant arc emanating forth from a radiant man. I fought back a tear.

As his mighty stream dried up, he gestured to me.

“On my work table. The glass. Bring it here.”

I stumbled over to the table, still dazed from the ecstasy of release, and took the glass of water. I handed it to Mr. Warhol and watched as he lifted it to his lips. No sooner had the first drops entered his throat then the stream began anew, with godlike vigor. He downed the glass of water and pissed it out at the same time, coating the canvas with pure, hot artistic genius.

I am watching history being made.

Thursday: Mr. Warhol and I took turns pissing on the canvas today. He has taught me his secrets, like which vitamins produce the finest colors in piss, or how to drink water and piss it out simultaneously. I am able to drink 8 ounces of water, yet piss 24 ounces out.

Mr. Warhol no longer looks at me with normal rage, but with the rage that a mentor feels towards a valued pupil. Together we are creating art the likes of which the world has never seen. Future scholars will look back upon our collaborations with awe and wonder. I nearly piss myself just thinking about it.

Friday: I dragged myself up the three flights to Mr. Warhol’s studio this morning, bladder engorged to a debilitating degree. It was not entirely unpleasant. I have come to associate this sensation with creativity.

But Mr. Warhol was not in his usual spot. There was no copper-colored canvas, no face contorted with the rage of a virtuoso. The smell of piss? Barely there. It was eerily quiet save for the occasional grunt coming from a mysterious door on the other side of the studio.

Suddenly the door opened and a tall man strode through. He was completely naked and completely erect.

“Are you George Jankins?” he asked me.

“Yes, I am George, Mr. Warhol’s valued assistant and protege,” I answered, unzipping my pants and readying myself to aim.

The man’s face contorted with rage. I began pissing a little bit in a Pavlovian response.

“You can put that away and go,” he said. “I am Mr. Warhol’s new assistant. We are creating art with semen. We are coming all over the canvas in the other room. You can’t go in. It’s really something.”

My stream stopped. Could it be? After all that Mr. Warhol and I shared, after the skills and life lessons he had taught me, had he really cast me aside for another bodily fluid?

“I see,” I said sadly. I zipped my pants back up and asked the naked man for directions to the restroom. All that piss, all that art that could have been, gone down the drain.

Genius works in mysterious ways, I guess. I will forever cherish the wisdom Mr. Warhol has imparted to me, even though my bladder has grown to the size of a burlap sack and protrudes worrisomely from my body.

Tomorrow I’m gonna throw my poop at a wall.

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