Or How I Learned to Appreciate DMV Humor
by Joe Buonfiglio
Must. Post. To. Blog. Today.
Fuck City, I’m not up to the challenge.
Hung over? Yes.
Sleep deprived? Yes.
Unable to get up out of the chair into which I’ve spent the last 36 hours in various stages of soiled undergarments due to my inexorably fated condition of intense intoxication and my overall apathy toward anything resembling appreciation for personal hygiene?
In other words, WRITING STATUS: I’m up to my asshole in alligators! (READ: This week’s blog-post will be a tad abbreviated.)
What do you mean “Thank God”? Are you saying I don’t know when to leave the party, literarily speaking? Up yours, you ungrateful wanker! Here I am slaving away week after week just to tickle your funnybo–
Okay, it’s a fair cop. I do enjoy the sound of my own e-voice a bit too much. Nevertheless, fuck you!
NOTE TO SELF: Remember not to insult the good folks who pay the bills and keep the lights on. That’s not the best of business models.
Jesus! My brain fart has moved on to generate a brain cloud. Hell, it has graduated to a full-blown cerebral-flatulence mushroom cloud of literary disorientation!
Where was I?
Who was I?
Who the fuck are you and why are you in my bathroom?! Can’t a guy take a shit in peace?! Get the fuck out of–
Oh. Right. I do most of my writing in the shitter. Wait. This isn’t my bathroom. Why is there a Penthouse pinup calendar from 1967 on the filthy wall next to a rusted-metal Pennzoil sign?
Seriously, where the fuck am I? I remember the clutch going out on my old–
Oh yeah, my car went south just before the ill-planned departure on my bucket-list cross-country pub crawl.
Anyway, as you can plainly see, I’m all over the map toda– God, my butt itches!
Okay, so I’m getting my car repaired and trying to write (mostly in the waiting-lobby, but some in their restroom that obviously has never been graced by the presence of any sort of professional janitorial service) when my mind turns to transportation-oriented conundrums worthy of Batman’s arch-nemesis the Riddler.
QUESTION — Which is worse: Waiting in an auto-repair shop or waiting in the DMV?
ANSWER: Fuck you!
Yes, it was a trick question. Feeling cheated by this worthless bit of illogical absurdity spewed out from the confused grey matter festering in the darkest dungeon of my decaying brain?
Welcome to the Buonfiglio Brain Cloud, my friend…. Welcome to my world.
Now shove off! The unicorn voices are telling me they need fresh Kaiser rolls or they’ll refuse to paint the master bedroom with the blood of the kidnapped Congressional page in my basement.
© 2015 Joseph P. Buonfiglio