ATTACK OF THE “UNBLOG”

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by Joe Buonfiglio

My dog ate my blog.  Sorry, but this week’s post will simply not make it into the—

Wait.  I don’t write on paper.  I use a computer.  They’ll see right through that.  How the hell could my dumb mutt have conceivably been able to literally consume my—

Wait.  I don’t have a dog.  Anyone who knows me realizes that I’m allergic to the hairy canine sons-a bit—

Wait.  This excuse is taking up too much white space right out of the gate.  I could have just about written my blog-post in the time it’s taking me to—  Oh, goddamn it!  Look, here are my…

TOP TEN EXCUSES
WHY I WON’T BE POSTING TO MY BLOG THIS WEEK

EXCUSE #1: Too much cheese.  I’m an Italian-American.  The period from Thanksgiving through New Year’s involves an overconsumption of cheese.  Between being in things, on things and the massive quantities of standalone product, I’m lucky if I can walk, let alone relieve myself.  Cheese is more binding than a billionaire’s prenup contract.  If the constipation doesn’t kill me, I hope to be writing again by Valentine’s Day.  It’s hard to stimulate the Muse when your body is on the cusp of making the Hindenburg explosion look like a balloon popping at little Billy’s third-birthday party.

EXCUSE #2: Bleach poisoning.  The level of mold in my shower had reached such dangerous levels; I required nothing less than a complete “scorched earth” bleaching of the entire stall before I could bring myself to bathe this morning.  Unfortunately, this level of toxicity left me with a modicum of brain damage in a sector of the cerebrum germane to generating the necessary creativity needed to launch one of my little mind-farts required to jumpstart these infantile blog-posts.

However, don’t worry, my friends.  I think I’m okay.  In fact, the magic unicorn fondling my bottom has assured me that this is a temporary condition and, if I’m a good boy and eat all my white-trash green beans, he’ll insert his mystical horn in my ass and all will be healed.

No.  Wait.  Sorry.  He informs me this is actually his cure for “Excuse #1.”

EXCUSE #3:  The Internet.  I’m easily distracted.  I can’t help it.  I’m like a kitten with a shiny ribbon dangling before it.  But maybe if I can just step back from the Internet’s lure of porn-site naughty bits and adorable cat videos for a little while, I’ll be able to focus on my literary endeavors just long enough to bang out a short—  Oooooo.  Is that a new fantasy football league?

EXCUSE #4: Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder.  My OCD has taken a strange turn today.  I can’t stop reciting the writings of the Marquis de Sade over and over and over again.

“If it is the dirty element that gives pleasure to the act of lust, then the dirtier it is, the more pleasurable it is bound to be.  If it is the dirty element that gives pleasure to the act of lust, then the dirtier it is, the more pleasurable it is bound to be.  If it is the dirty element that gives pleasure to the act of lust…”

My grey matter couldn’t latch on to a historical figure such as Gandhi?  Oh noooooooo.  That would be too much of a class act for the likes of me, right?  Fucking brain!

EXCUSE #5: Zombies.  Oh, they’re out there.  You and I both know it.  Maybe you’re not so paranoid about them as to drastically inhibit your ability to post to your blog, but that’s why you’re a damned fool and I am not.  I’ll stay right here under my bed, thank you very much.

I’m not sure if my prodigious stockpile of creamed corn and Bud Light is enough to get me through the Apocalypse.  Can creamed-corn labels double for TP?

EXCUSE #6: I have a penis.  Oh, right.  Like the rest of you in the vaginally challenged department have never let that distract you from getting your priorities straight.  Go ahead.  Keep living the lie, if you must (but you know exactly what I mean).  When Mister Willie wants to come out and play, Mister Brain bows to his will. And Mister Willie always — ALWAYS — wants to come out and play.

You’re thinking about it right now, aren’t you?

EXCUSE #7: I was kidnapped.  A band of thespians from a medieval-themed dinner theater forced me to be their mead-n-mutton serving wench for the family-friendly matinee.  As they were method actors, electronic devices were not accessible.

Hey, you try banging out a blog post on parchment.

EXCUSE #8: I discovered time travel … and got caught in a paradox.  I built a time machine out of a shitbox-brown 1984 Dodge Omni, the almost mythical Ghost OG Kush cannabis strain and nuts surgically removed from a Mr. Goodbar, and then went back in time to kill my own grandfather as he meticulously repaired a typewriter in the garage of his home in New Jersey.

At that enigmatic moment, the ability to post to my blog was either splintered along an infinite number of potential realities or rendered inconsequential within my own timeline.  Either way, it was brown-undies time for me.

EXCUSE #9: I’ve taken up scrapbooking.  I didn’t post to my blog, because my mind got lost in my memory-book collection of celebrity plastic-fruit obsessions.  I can’t stop looking at Fellini’s eggplant.

Yes, eggplant is a fruit.

Yes, it is.

It is.

IS!  IT TOTALLY IS!  IT HAS SEEDS!

NO I WON’T CALM DOWN!

Who cares?  We’re talking plastic here.  You’re not gonna eat the—  HOW THE HELL SHOULD I KNOW WHY FELLINI KEPT A PLASTIC FUCKING EGGPLANT?!  HE WAS FELLINI!

EXCUSE #10: My loved ones just had me committed … not that I can really blame them.  Mental note: a case of Jameson Irish whiskey, a paranormal dwarf hooker and an all-night Gilligan’s Island marathon has no chance of ending well.  It’s hard to write for your blog when your hands are handcuffed to the back bumper of a police cruiser and your private parts are covered in honey-barbecue sauce … in the parking lot of Disney World …  at three in the morning … donning your best “Transvestite Tuesday” attire.

No, not that dress.  The nice blue one.

And that’s why I don’t have anything ready to post to my blog for you.  I’ll try to do better next week … unless there’s a full moon.  Then I have to do the whole “turn into a wolf and shred the flesh of the innocent” thing.

I know.  Excuses, excuses.

 

© 2015 Joseph P. Buonfiglio     All Rights Reserved.

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