(This is Humor?)


by Joe Buonfiglio

Depression.  The “Big ‘D.'”  The “Sad House.”  Or as I like to call it, “The Black Wave.”

As if a tsunami of gloom, this wretched disposition can overtake depression sufferers and swamp them without warning.  Even with medication and more holistic practices such as “visualization” techniques, my fellow travelers along the shadowy coil can still be taken by surprise and thrust into “The Dark Hole” of despair.

Now, I can tell I’ve already lost some of you.  If you haven’t just turned to less … well … depressing avenues of entertainment, you’re probably contemplating such a move at this moment.  (And with an opening salvo of misery such as this, who can really blame you?)  So let’s quickly segue to our ultimate destination before I completely sink this blogging vessel and you move on to your daily dose of Internet porn.  Let’s begin to explore…


Depression so dark that… the sight of a “beer hat” from which you can drink cans of your favorite frothy beverage no longer makes you smile.

Depression so dark that… your sexual partner greeting you at the door wearing nothing but Saran Wrap does nothing for you.

Depression so dark that… fuck, even masturbation isn’t fun.

Depression so dark that… not a single ribald joke comes to mind when your dog starts licking its balls.

Depression so dark that… all-you-can-eat Buffalo wings aren’t worth the effort to get out of bed and drive to the pub.

Depression so dark that… you politely close your blinds when the exhibitionists next door start showering together with their bathroom window wide open.

Depression so dark that… you get a raise at work and decide to donate the extra cash to a kids-in-need charity instead of blowing it all at the dog track.

Depression so dark that… “squeaker” farts don’t make you giggle.

Depression so dark that… the office prankster pulls the classic “Ex-Lax in your hot chocolate” gag and you just mutter “good one” without first beating him senseless with the paper-feeder tray from the copy machine.

Depression so dark that… when hookers show up at your poker night, all you can say to your buddies is “Are we gonna play cards or what?”

Depression so dark that… your mother-in-law incessantly taking digs at you for your weight and lack of proper employment seems, well, reasonable … and even the best mother-in-law jokes go unappreciated by your “bad brain.”

Depression so dark that… you projectile-vomit into your bucket list.

Depression so dark that… churros, NASCAR and yoga pants no longer make sense to you.

Depression so dark that… your drunken best friend bitch-slaps a costumed character at a theme park and you express concern instead of joining in by kicking the theme-park mascot in its genderless crotch.

Depression so dark that… your friend’s significant other suggests you and your significant other join them in their hot tub for “naked night” and all you say is “The game is still on.  You guys go ahead without me.”

Depression so dark that… the thought of gluten in your favorite wheat beer makes you cry.

Depression so dark that… your spouse is getting into the porn you’re watching; but sex is now out of the question, because you’re so sad that the delivery guy in the movie wasted a perfectly good pizza.

Depression so dark that… even though in your heart you know nobody gives a rat’s ass what you write in your blah-blah-blah-blog, you’re going to post yet another one anyway.  Why?  It’s either that or cut your wrists … or stick your head in the oven … or eat the warm takeout sushi from the gas-station store around the corner….

Okay, NOBODY is THAT fucking depressed!

Anyway, you get the—

What?  This post is making YOU depressed?

Huh.  For some reason, that makes me feel … better.

I’ll be damned.

Things are looking up.  I think I’ll just grab my beer hat and see if the hookers are still playing cards.  Hey, maybe I’ll see if that hot tub party is still going on.  I’ll bring some wheat beer … and porn … and churros … and my mother-in-law in her NASCAR-licensed yoga pants.

Okay, now I’m depressed again.


© 2015 Joseph P. Buonfiglio     All Rights Reserved.

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