by Joe Buonfiglio
Okay. When you’re as frucking dunk as I spam, putting your Last Twill and Estimate down on paper may not be the beastest— uh, beattiest— bestest— BEST! BEST idea in the worbed. WORLD! Admittenabably, putting back 5 or 6 or 23 Manhattans when you’re a diabowlatic— Diane bowling tick— DIABETIC! That’s not a— See, that’s probababababubbly not a very God— GOOD! Not a GOOD idea. So—
Hold on a minute. Let me put a pot of Goofy— COFFEE! A poot of Krupke on the— Just hold the fuck on. I’ll be back in a cupola whores— HOURS! Back in a couple of hours.
Holy fuck! My hangover has a hangover!
Where was I?
Oh. Right. So, let’s get on with it. I’m overdoing the “hair of the dog” remedy more than a little bit, so I could easily slip back into a state of intoxication at any moment….
THE LAST WILL AND TESTAMENT OF JOE BUONFIGLIO
You may be wondering why I’m drinking so heavily at such a critical juncture in the annals of my legal documentation. The truth is that just thinking about this shit gets me fixated on my own death … which depresses me … which sends me deep into both the resources and recesses of my liquor shelves. In other words, contemplating the inevitable conclusion to my journey along the mortal coil first fucks me up, and then gets me fucked up. Having the Grim Reaper pull up a barstool next to mine just isn’t something with which I can deal in any dignified manner whatsoever.
I have no problem accepting other people’s deaths. Hey, that’s just how it goes, right? But my own? The thought leaves me slumped over on the floor having shat myself and mumbling some sort of bizarre negotiation for a “Get Out of Death Free” card with an invisible and conspicuously unresponsive Almighty.
“Just grant me immortality and I will go to church every Sunday, stop drinking, lay off the cigars and never masturbate again…. … … Okay, how many extra days can I tack on for just backing off the smokes? You know. Kind of ease into things.”
All right, goddamn it! Let’s get this over with!
TO my son, I leave my pet monkey, Cyril. Quite frankly, he’s a horny little prick that can teach him many things. The monkey is, not my son.
TO my beloved wife, I bequeath absolutely nothing. After all the shit she has had to put up with from me over the years, my death is enough of a gift. Enjoy, honey.
TO the town in which I reside at this moment, I leave my ass. That’s right, my ass. Just have it surgically removed at the time of my death as if part of some kind of warped organ-donor program, and present it to the mayor and town council sitting in power at the time of this writing. They’ll know why. They. Will. Know. Why.
TO my church, I leave my signed copy of Douglas Adams’ The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy. One good book of fiction deserves another.
Aaaaaaand here come the emails and letters. It’s a joke people, just a joke. If God — should He/She/It exist — doesn’t have a sense of humor, we’re all fucked anyway; so calm the hell down, okay? Geez!
TO my former life in Los Angeles, I leave my soul. Oh. Wait. LA took that from me years ago. Never mind. Enjoy it nonetheless, Tinseltown. It’s not as if I’m using it, anyway.
TO my non-New Jersey friends and relatives, I bequeath my “Seaside Heights Special” sausage-n-peppers recipe. Quite frankly, you all need some Jersey Shore in ya’, you loveable bastards! (On a sub roll? Of course, you fuckin’ heathens!)
TO my New Jersey friends and relatives, I leave— Oh, wait. You pricks all died years before me. Fuggetaboutit.
TO my cable company, I bestow a stack of unpaid bills. Ha-ha, you fuckers! Try to collect now that I’m worm food. What’s that? You want my next of kin to pay you. Well, your call is important to us. Please hold for the next available representative.
TO the collective known as Humanity, I leave— That’s it. I just leave. Glad to be gone before having to live through whatever cataclysmic apocalypse you dumbasses are incessantly marching yourselves toward with reckless, feckless abandon. I will miss you, though. The Human Race’s propensity for self-destruction is the only thing that overshadowed my own lack of self-preservation to the point that I looked fucking brilliant by comparison.
Rock on, you indomitably suicidal Humankind. Rock on.
Now, af yoob axe booze me, I think I’m getting sly knee titsy— TIPSY! Slightly tips— ah, fuck it. I’m dead. You’re on the phone— on your bone— OWN!
Boo crow what I spleen.
© 2015 Joseph P. Buonfiglio All Rights Reserved.