(And Neither Do You)

Screenshot 2015-06-10 17.02.14

by Joe Buonfiglio

In today’s fast-paced hustle-n-bustle beat-the-clock can’t-think-of-any-more clichés for needing more hours in the day — Wait. That’s one right there. — lifestyle madness, there is just not enough time to get it all done.  This goes doubly so for writers and their deadlines.

Writers need deadlines.  I get it.  Without deadlines — be they thrust upon us or self-imposed — we’d all tinker and tweak a piece forever; no literary work would ever make it to the point of actualization upon the printed or digital page.  Hell, the Bible would never have made it beyond “In the beginning,” for Christ’s sake.  Therefore, my compatriots within the literary realm, my beloved fellow littérateurs, my lesson for the day is encapsulated in the title…


“How to Write on the Fly” is a necessary skillset for the writer on the go.  Now granted, it always turns out to be crap.  That’s just a reality when you write on the fly.  You may hope it will be something sweet, but it always ends up being a steaming pile of shit.  Just deal with it.

Besides avoidance of the flapping wings, the miniaturization process itself is also a hurdle most difficult to get over.  However, if one is to be able to “write on the fly,” it is unconditionally compulsory in order to—

That’s it.  That’s the moment when it hit me like an IBM Selectric typewriter flung into a wormhole in 1982 and belched out the other end into my face today as I polished off my last bottle of Jameson Irish…


Yup, that’s all there is.  I’m officially out of ideas.  It’s not so much writer’s block, per se.  I just realized that I must have woke up this morning without one more thing in my brain to put down on paper ever again.  In other words, nuthin’.  Not one damn thing, not one freakin’ good idea is left.  Other than maintaining my autonomic functions and this inescapable desire I’ve had since childhood to see what humping an overripe mango might feel like, there is absolutely nothing left rolling down the waterslide attraction that collectively are my synapses.


All gone.

I mean, oh my God.  What the holy flying fuck was I doing?  Had I actually made a conscious decision to venture down the comedic path of seeing how long my readers would go before they realized that the fly to which I referred was not meant as the act of hurrying about — being “on the fly” — but rather quite literally to pursue one’s craft on the back of the reviled and unhygienic insect?

Was it absurdist?  Absolutely.

But humor?  Humor?!

Like I said, “I got nuthin’.”  However, neither do you.

That’s right, my condescending little friend.  Don’t sit there so smugly looking down your nose at me with pity.  You’re in the same metaphysically challenged boat that I am.


Because in both our defenses, we don’t really exist.  Nothing does.  Not you.  Not me.  Not my ideas.  Not your incontinent beagle you don’t have the heart to put to sleep even though he shits under your immaculately decorated Frasier fir every Christmas.  Not the hottie your significant other has been banging every Thursday night under the guise of being in a “running group” in order to make it perfectly logical to come home drenched in sweat and needing to hop right in the shower.  Not professional competitive hot dog-eating.  Not muscle cars, muscle men, mussels in a nice white wine garlic sauce.  Not the Great Lakes, the Los Angeles Lakers or even Ricki Lake.  Not fudge, caramel apples or saltwater taffy (even though everyone wishes saltwater taffy wasn’t a real thing, anyway).  Not Uncle Louie’s incessant wet-farting at the annual Fourth of July family reunion.  (For the love of God, keep him away from the watermelon).   Not late-night porn … midday porn … breakfast porn.  NONE OF IT!  None of it exists.

Reality has taken the last train out of the universe and didn’t even give us a halfhearted kiss on the station platform before gleefully boarding.

Don’t concern yourself, though; we are guilt-free.  My lack of ideas and our mutual lack of walking through a real world is not our fault.  Quantum physicists are to blame!

You see, these egghead sons-a bitches thought it would be a good idea to conduct what is called the “Double Slit Experiment.”  I won’t bother you with the details.  You can Google it as easily as I did.  The bottom line is that when matter (particularly in motion) is measured, observed, watched, it changes how it acts.  That once only philosophical flapdoodle goes even further.  It doesn’t even exist until it is measured!

There is no reality until we consciously watch and observe it.  In other words, esse is percipi: to be is to be perceived.  It would seem that science has finally proven Anglo-Irish philosopher George Berkeley right.  The table and chairs don’t exist without first being perceived; such items are only ideas in the minds of the perceivers.  Thus, there is no such thing as “reality.”

Fucking Irish.

So, the bottom line is that it’s not my fault.  I’m sorry, but my ideas for a blog-post don’t really exist.  My blog doesn’t really exist.  I don’t really exist in order to write them.  Hell, you don’t really exist in order to read them!

Existential crisis complete.

Hey, wait a minute.  Back up there, chief.  If this blog doesn’t really exist, what are you reading right now?

Mind.  Blown.

Well, I’ll tell you this much.  If that loaded pizza and rocky road ice cream doesn’t really exist, my diet can get fucked.  Time to eat ’til I pop like a tick.  Tonight, I’m having a Surrealist’s banquet!


© 2015 Joseph P. Buonfiglio     All Rights Reserved.

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2 thoughts on “I GOT NUTHIN’

  1. avatar Shirley Burley says:

    Full of hatred. You are under 40 years old? Uh-ha. Enjoyed this story and the sentence structures enhance a vocal reading. Nice one.

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