This is NOT a Blog, Dammit!

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by Joe Buonfiglio

“Nobody gives a shit about your blog, dude!” said the intrepid asshole I once referred to as my “friend.”

I stare at him in the dimly lit locals’ bar where it was still “Pabst Blue Ribbon” or just “Pabst,” and never, ever, a fucking “PBR.”  My blood begins to boil as if the oceans when Satan dips his big toe in the water while on vacation during the Apocalypse.

“I’ve told you.  I’ve told you countless times in myriad ways,” I say while clenching my Manhattan so aggressively as to test the quality of the glass in the tumbler housing it.  “It is not — NOT — a blog, dammit!”

“Well, whatever the fuck it is,” he says while gazing forward much more concerned with getting the bartender to refresh his Jack-n-Coke than the retort he was currently formulating, “it’s too fucking long.  You should bag the blog and stick to Twitter.  I like Twitter.  Twitter’s fun.”

I like Twitter.  Twitter’s fun.


What I do with Potpourri of the Damned is more akin to a mirth factory pumping out vulgar vignettes with an Absurdist-academia bent than anything remotely resembling a blog.

Do I write three paragraphs a day on gardening tips or celebrity sightings or tech-gadget releases or cat products or fashion news or movie criticisms or bar reviews or any number of “normal” blog pump-it-out stuff?  Do my articles that take up column inches here at this site have ANYTHING to do with so-called “blogging”?  Do titles such as “HUGH LAURIE’S BALLS” and “LIFE LESSONS FROM ‘REAL’ AMERICA (or ‘What the Fuck Am I Doing in South Dakota?!’)” and “Time for Noah 2.0?” and ” ABSURDISM 101″ and “YOUR PENIS AND YOU with Apologies to Robert Louis Stevenson” and “SCREW YOU; IT’S CHRISTMAS!” and “FATHER TIME CAN KISS MY ASS!  This Time-Travel Shit is Harder Than It Looks” and “CONFESSIONS OF A CLOSET PIG-LOVER” and “WHY I’D MAKE A REALLY BAD DRUG MULE” and “NARCISSISM ON A STICK” or “IT’S THE END OF EVERYTHING! and What’s with All the Monkey Fucking?” and the recent “HAPPINESS vs. COMFORT or Tell Me That’s not a Dick Sleeve I’m Seeing” and many more tales of literati madness lurking in the archives of this un-blog relate in any way to the “normal” blogosphere?

Hell no!

Even so, I suppose the guy has a point, dipshit that he is.  In this mind-numbing age of “140 characters or less” tweets and “no more than 6 seconds” vines, it’s no wonder that anything in social media with as cumbersome a word-count as this weekly contribution to digital literature could easily be misconstrued as being blogesque.

And as the man expressed, folks don’t give a flying fuck about your blog.

So this week — and this is a one-time offer, my friends — let me just lay down a few somewhat recent and more popular tweets from my @JoeBuonfiglio Twitter account:



JUDGE: “You murdered them all in cold blood as they slept.”

ME: “But I woke up 11 minutes BEFORE the alarm went off.”



I could be a minimalist if it wasn’t for my love of owning stuff.



So I turn to flush the toilet and the doorknob goes right up my ass.

I may have to rethink this whole “I’m straight” thing.


ME: “I love waking up on a crisp fall Sunday morning.”

HER: “It’s almost 2 p.m.”

ME: “I love waking up on a crisp fall Sunday afternoon.”


Twitter teaches that life is an absurd waste of time.

Facebook teaches to burden others with that absurdity.

Instagram teaches jack shit.


Wait, are you saying “Psycho” wasn’t a documentary?

One by one, all of my heroes abandon me.


“I didn’t kill anyone today…. So I’ve got that going for me.”

*an inspirational tweet by Joe Buonfiglio*


HER: “I’ve been yelling and yelling. Why didn’t you answer me?”

ME: “I’ve been ignoring and ignoring. Why didn’t you stop yelling at me?”


Some people think I should consider it a compliment when they plagiarize me.

Other people don’t like being stabbed in the face.


ME: “I tried using my dick as a selfie stick today.”

HER: “Uh-huh. And how’d that work out for you?”





ME: “Shut up!”


Thanks to autocorrect, I announced that the kids on our Pop Warner team would put on their “game feces” for tomorrow’s big game.



If one shits one’s pants while riding the bus, the protocol is to look side to side and grimace as if you have no idea who did it, right?


Art, wine, movies… Fuck critics. “Good” is simply what you like.

Take me. Now, I like public sex with penguins while singing “O Canada!”


I think rainy Mondays are wonderful.

However, I also openly say “Macbeth” to the actors at a theatre just before wishing them “good luck.”


You know what the funny thing about life is?

I got nothin’.


Why is it that I can’t throw a baseball to save my life, but I can fling shit with dead-on accuracy?

Weird, huh?



If you wake up naked in the neighbor’s yard covered in beer cans with a penis drawn on your face, was it a good Halloween or a bad one?


It’s 3:06 Halloween morning. I can now confess that I lost my virginity to a bag of candy corn in 1975.



*Eats all the Halloween candy before the first trick-or-treater even comes to the door.*

*Checks for abs.*


Well, apparently, “May I have a napkin?” is not a request to sleep with a relative.

Except in Arkansas.  In Arkansas, it absolutely is.


After going to an all-you-can-eat taco place, my family comes home to two toilets for three people.

Now THAT’S the REAL “Game of Thrones.”


Nanoseconds were created by the scientific community as a unit of measurement to determine the exact velocity at which I consume doughnuts.


ME: “What if you’re wrong?”

HER: “I don’t understand.”

ME: “What if you’ve made a mistake?”

HER: “Again, you’re forming words,  buuut…”


Twitter is to Facebook as my colon is to:

A) shit

B) hyperspace

C) a duck named Lou

D) the Erie Canal

E) Holy fuck, I got drunk last night!


Stephen Hawking assures me that in an alternate universe chickens eat Kentucky Fried People.


My 15 minutes of fame will involve a missing politician, a carjacked limo with diplomatic plates and a dumpster on fire.

Oh, and cannoli.


I’m desperate to salvage the wreckage of my existence. But first things first; this chimichanga isn’t going to eat itself.



JUDGE: You killed everyone in the coffeehouse in cold blood.”

ME: “Hello? Ordered regular coffee. Got pumpkin spice.”



Okay, I know big booties are in. But if you can warm Pop-Tarts by inserting them into your butt crack, your ass is too big.



Never mix up an invitation for a night of marijuana and Donkey Kong with a night in Tijuana and a donkey show.


Trust me on this.


… and on and on and on….

Now, I know what you’re thinking: “Did he just blow off writing a blog this week by misleading me into thinking this was a criticism on the relevancy of the blog in the modern age of social media, but in reality, use it as an excuse just to rehash old tweets so he could sneak off to his favorite bar to beat ‘last call’ just under the wire?”



Okay, yes.  But in my defense, it is “double-shot Thursday.”

See you next week! … Hey, Mike.  Yeah, pull that Jameson 12-year off the shelf for me, will ya’?


© 2015 Joseph P. Buonfiglio     All Rights Reserved.

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