H13-24 Necrosis

by Joe Buonfiglio

Let’s face it.  Be it due to Global Climate Change knocking us into the back bleachers; some giant planet-killer asteroid smashing into our little blue planet with extinction-event consequences; a good old-fashioned nuclear war; the cosmic forces of the universe deciding it’s time to shove a rogue black hole up our internationally communal ass; a pandemic that makes Ebola look as if the common cold; a solar storm launched off the sun and ripping across our relative backyard; a post-Rapture Hellscape of biblical proportions; maybe we’re all just somebody’s dream and the dreamer simply wakes up; all the sustenance on the planet gets wiped out and the only food supply are the leftovers from state fairs in the Deep South…  Whatever cataclysmic nightmare the Natural, Unnatural or the Supernatural throws at us, this much is certain: Humanity will eventually be on its own Endangered Species List.  Don’t bother packing your bags.  You probably won’t have the time to figure out if it’s the heavy coat or short sleeves for radioactive snow alternating with searing hellfire.  And even if you do, to where in the name of all that’s holy and unholy do you think you’re going to escape with your high-end custom-pink suitcase, anyway?

We’re all going to be “50 Shades of Fucked.”  Make peace with the concept, because there is no getting out of the way of The Four Horsemen once they pull their steeds out of the stable and start riding in earnest … … … FOR YOU, that is.

I, on the other hand, will do just fine enduring the tribulations of the End Times.  How is it that I have the audacity to exhibit such confidence in my ability to survive the Apocalypse whilst you will be going the way of the Dodo?

This is because I know something you don’t.  I’m prepared!  As civilization slips into an obscure footnote in history, I will have advantages that you will not.  Here are the…


#1 — BLEU CHEESE DRESSING: My survivalist’s cellar is stocked with copious amounts of liquefied fromage bleu or, as my American compatriots would say, “chunky blue cheese dressing.”

Oh, sure.  Go ahead and laugh at my compulsion.  This irrational rationale is a holdover from my coastal-Florida hurricane days.  For some reason, whenever a hurricane hit while I lived on the west coast of the Sunshine State or an earthquake rocked my world during the time I lived in Los Angeles, I’d feel the need to binge-consume bleu cheese dressing.

Think that’s weird.  Pretty sure you won’t be following me down into the bunker when the world’s big goodbye to everything comes knocking at Humankind’s door.


Chunky blue cheese dressing has H2O in it, protein and the mold Penicillium that is the foundation for our most basic antibiotic.  Not only that, but I’m pretty sure that if the Apocalypse turns out to be the Zombie Apocalypse, the large quantities of dressing continually oozing out of my pores will mask my “scent of the living” from the zombie hordes.

So you go right ahead and wind up on a zombie brunch menu.  As for me, I’m sticking to my cheesy delight.

#2 — PRINTED PORN: That’s right.  You chastised me for hanging on to my Playboy and Penthouse and Big-Ass Biker Babes of Sturgis magazine subscriptions.  When the end comes, what are you gonna do with your Internet streaming download on-demand portal porn bullshit, huh?  No electricity, muthafuckha!  Who’s the dumbass now?!

Nope.  I’m not carin’ and I’m not sharin’!  Cry me a river.  HA!

#3 — CANCER-STICK ADVANTAGE: Oooooooooh, Joe.  Those cigars are so disgusting.  Cigarettes are vile.  You’re ruining our meal.  You’re ruining the meeting.  You’re ruining our daughter’s wedding.  Well, it’s the end of the world and what’s that in my pocket?  Could it be … a lighter?!  Matches?!

Enjoy eating your uncooked rat in the darkness, loser!

#4 — “REAL” BOOKS: How’s that eBook working for you now?  When it all heads south, not only can I read my pulp-fiction printed wonder, I can burn the fucker if I need to.  But it’s not all bad; you can smash your Kindle and use the glass shards to stab the zombies in the head if things get too rough out there.  So at least you’ll have that going for you.

#5 — NO MORAL COMPASS: “You’re such a dickhead, Joe.  What a selfish narcissist!  You have no values.  No compassion for your fellow man.  NO.  MORAL.  COMPASS!

Yeah.  Right.  I wonder how that moral compass will be working out for you at The Big Ciao party when it’s every man for himself?  At least I’m not going to spend my final moments wandering the Earth ceaselessly stunned that I wasn’t taken up into Heaven in The Rapture.

Shocker.  Sucks to be you, huh?

Wonder what went wrong?

#6 — INSOMNIA: I don’t sleep.  Well, that’s not quite true.  To be more accurate, I don’t sleep at night.  This is a real bitch in the “normie” world.  But in the Apocalyptic Realm?  Let’s just say good luck to you trying to sleep with one eye open, my friend.

For you, it’ll be many a long, long, loooooooong night ahead.  For me, just another night in paradise.

Insomnia; it’s God’s way of keeping all the Day People safe from me and my ilk … … … or is it the other way ’round?

#7 — A BUCKET: When it all starts falling apart and collapsing around us, I’ll remember to take one with me as we scramble out onto the open road and you won’t.  Ooooh, take jugs of water.  Ooooh, remember the flashlight.  Ooooh, grab the gas can.  Ooooh, let’s go back; we forgot grandma….

A bucket.

I’ll have a bucket.

I know what you’re thinking with that smug look on your face.  That’s right.  Have your little moment at my expense.  We’ll see.

Because sometimes … sometimes … you just need a bucket.

Just.  You.  Wait.

#8 — ABSURDISM & TERROR DREAMS: I’ve been a practicing Absurdist suffering from night terrors for years.  The End Times’ madness that will drag you to Hell?  It all makes sense to me.  Just another day in a long succession of weird days.

For me, “A Nightmare on Elm Street” is a documentary.

You’ll look out onto the Apocalypse and see an Escher drawing.  Me?  I’ll see Wednesday.

#9 — UNLIKE YOU, I HAVE A PLAN: I’ve always wondered how much of myself I could consume and still live.

Will I taste like chicken … or is that just a cliché?

Hey, that’s MY plan!  Get your own damn plan!

Don’t judge.

And finally…

#10 — I’M A WRITER: So you’re thinking, “WRITER?!  What the fuck good is being a writer when the Hand of God reaches down upon the testicles of Humanity with the intent to tightly squeeze until the Collective We passes out in a puddle of our own urine?”

Au contraire.  A writer is used to struggling against insurmountable odds in order to merely survive, metaphorically speaking.  We — the ranks of the literary sleepless, unfulfilled and gin-soaked — look Satan in the eye and stare him down on almost a daily basis.

Nuclear winter, rising seas boiling red with the blood of the dead, an exploding sun, alien invasion, rotting reanimated corpses moaning in search of living flesh to devour, black holes mindlessly ingesting the planet only to shit us out into a point of singularity where the physics of the known universe don’t exist, killer comets and angry asteroids, pandemics, global terrorism, some asshole actually making time-travel a reality and fucking up the entire space-time continuum, everyone on the planet realizing that we’re ALL gay so that the penis-vagina convergence is no more…

BABY SHIT!  Try being rejected 13 times in one week by a bunch of literary agents who “just don’t get the whole Absurdism thing” and low-level gatekeepers for publishers that “don’t agree that there’s a big enough market for the Bizarro genre and even if there was, you used the word ‘cunt.’  We NEVER even talk to authors who use the word ‘cunt.'”

The Apocalypse for a writer?  Cakewalk, my friend.  A fucking cakewalk.

And that’s why I’ll survive The Absolute, Last, Final, Finishing, Concluding, Ultimate, Total, Utter, Super-Duper, Big Belly-Up End of Everything and you won’t.  I’m an Absurdist writing insomniac accustomed to terror sans any sort of moral compass with actual books and matches in hand and a shitload of lifesaving bleu cheese dressing … and a bucket … and porn.

Lots and lots of porn.


© 2014 Joseph P. Buonfiglio     All Rights Reserved.

Sin título-1Picture1twitter-button


Go ahead and leave a reply. What the hell, right?