by Joe Buonfiglio
I will eventually die. And I’m sorry to be the bearer of bad news, but so will you. For some reason, being kicked off the mortal coil against our will is the best plan “Mister Intelligent Design” could come up with. Between this and menstruation, it doesn’t leave me with a lot of confidence in whomever or whatever is running The Big Show. I’m sincerely worried that He/She/It may not be the brightest star in the universe, if you catch my cosmic drift.
Although, He does get brownie points for the whole sex thing.
The reality is that the universe doesn’t give two shakes of Uranus about the time you spent on the Little Blue Planet. The cosmos has bigger engines to keep running than your beating heart. Sorry. Your existence has not, is not, and will never be that important to the intergalactic big picture of things.
Even when considering the details, the minutiae, the “small picture” perspective, it won’t take long before you don’t even amount to an arcane vapor in the vastness of time. As with the rest of accursed Humanity, you’ll eventually be relegated to a set of obscure and deteriorating digital images swept into a dump-pile of some future version of the Internet.
You will be … forgotten.
No? I’m wrong?
Okay then, tell me all about your great-great-great grandfather.
Uh-huh; that’s what I thought.
Look, I’m not criticizing. There aren’t any historians out there salivating at the chance to study my ass. My list of accomplishments reads like an inventory of rusty parts at a dilapidated salvage yard. And that has me wondering…
Whose lives have I touched? Even in the short run, who will remember me when I’m gone? Will anyone even come to my funeral?
When my Twitter-feed and Facebook posts just stop one day; will the evidence that I was once here, that I existed, slowly “unfollow” and “unfriend” into oblivion?
For what will I be remembered? Anything?
When I’m on my deathbed and the highlight reel of my ephemeral existence starts flashing before my eyes, what legacy will it reveal?
I WILL BE REMEMBERED FOR…
I will be remembered for… THE BLACK WAVE. My bouts with depression are legendary within my circle of family and friends. When I’m in one of my moods, it is said that time itself is afraid to advance for fear of being sucked into the void of my noir-disposition. There is a town in Florida STILL WAITING to celebrate New Year’s 1993 simply because I lived there at the time. Mirrors have been known to stop reflecting for the mere reason that I happened to glance into them while battling my demon of darkness. At these most unfortunate and all-too frequent moments in my life, you can find me cascading into the abyss.
But you know, it’s not all bad. They have birch beer down there.
Don’t look at me like that. Nobody carries birch beer any more.
Hey, fuck you; when was the last time you were able to get your hands on an ice-cold birch beer anywhere?
I like birch beer.
I’m just sayin’.
I will be remembered for… I KNOW, DAMN IT! YOU’VE TOLD ME A HUNDRED TIMES! Ah, my lifelong dance with OCD. Some find Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder debilitating, because … well … it is. But nobody — NOBODY — has a cleaner bathroom than me! Maid service? Fuck that! At my place, you can use the damn toilet as a dinner plate. Seriously. I downed a chicken Kiev right off the shitter last night. So if anyone tells you OCD is a problem, you call bullshit on that; because it never gets in the way of my ability to function as a normal member of societ—
Tell me I didn’t just fucking see that! Did you just pee in there?! I know it’s the bathroom, but I JUST cleaned it like thirty minutes ago. Well I just— I know, but I— WELL, FOR YOUR SAKE, I BETTER NOT BE OUT OF THE BLEACH TOILET DUCK!
Sorry. I’ll be back.
That’s better. Okay, where was I?
I will be remembered for… TERROR-DREAM DRIVEN INSOMNIA.
Well, at least not at night. It’s hard to tell whether the axe-wielding giant penis with gorilla appendages causes the insomnia, or if the lack of “normal” sleep patterns stimulates the Rob Zombie horror-freak show in my brain every time I muster up the audacity to shut my eyelids. This much I do know: No sleepy-time makes Joey a very, very crazy boy.
Think that’s hyperbole?
I once sent a national radio-network programming executive a shellacked blowfish giftwrapped with a handmade card featuring a snowman’s head on a fly’s body that read, “Have yourself an absurd little Christmas.”
… or was it a fly’s head on a snowman’s body?
At any rate, the point is this: Do you still want me babysitting your kids tonight?
I will be remembered for… HUMOR. No, not your normal “guy walks into a bar” shit. Dark. Twisted. Absurd. Bizarro. Give me an old-fashioned bellman’s cap and uniform; I AM your trained monkey. You grind the organ and I’ll pass the tin cup. We’ll take these suckers for all they’re worth.
Fart jokes cost extra.
Dick jokes, doubly so.
Forget vajayjay jokes. You can’t afford it.
I will be remembered for… THE FRILLY PANTY LINER. Yes, the lacy panty-shield. As the inventor of this Victorian Era-influenced feminine “spotting” product, I will forever be remembered as the man courageous enough to risk tarnishing his reputation by becoming the sole visionary capable of recognizing the need for—
Oh, who the fuck am I kidding? I have no legacy. I won’t be remembered for — or even by — Jack Shit. When I’m gone, my family will probably cremate me and spread my ashes on the Hoover-demonstration rug at Sears. And they won’t remember me any longer than the time it takes to leave the mall parking lot and pull into the Burger King drive-thru.
Forget me not? Shit. By the time I mentioned the Toilet Duck, you probably already forgot who the hell’s blog this is.
… and that’s the point.
© 2014 Joseph P. Buonfiglio All Rights Reserved.