by Joe Buonfiglio

Let’s say I’m dead.

What? How did I die?

I don’t know. Probably one of the normal ways: slipped in the shower, fell down the stairs, blown up by fireworks, ravaged by disease, rammed by a maniac with road rage, one Big Mac too many, impaled by a pumpkin-carving tool …. I’m an American; we practically live to figure out ways to kill ourselves. This is a hypothetical, so don’t get bogged down in the details of my demise. The particulars don’t matter beyond needing a body to bury for illustrative purposes. No, not being eaten by a T-Rex while hiding on a toilet seat in Jurassic Park; that’s the only lethal scenario that won’t work.

So anyway, I’m dead.

What will people say about me when I’m gone? It makes me shudder to even briefly contemplate how some of you bastards will talk about me behind my back; or to be more accurate, behind my corpse….

“He was a quiet man. Kept to himself. I guess we shouldn’t have been surprised when they found his body surrounded by all those empty doughnut boxes…. So many empty doughnut boxes…. So. Many. Doughnuts. Damn, man, how about a little self-respect!”

“What’s up with the squirrels? No, seriously, he had a thing for squirrels. It was weird…. … … It was fucking unnatural, is what it was.”

 “What can I say? He was an asshole.”

“Good God, the guy could put back some cheese! Cheap store-brand shit, high-end hoity-toity stinky cheese; didn’t matter. He always had some kind of cheese hanging out of his face at all times. Just a cheese freak, really…. … … I’m pretty sure I saw him bang a smoked gouda in high school once.”

“I always thought someone would have shot him.”

“He was a hoarder. Oh yeah. A lot of people didn’t know that about him. He hoarded stationery goods. Paper, pens, pencils, Sharpies, Scotch tape, address labels, Post-it Notes, index cards, glue, paperclips, et cetera. Mounds of the stuff. He claimed it was because he was a writer, but we all knew the truth. The crazy bastard loved getting deliveries from the office-supply store. It was his only form of social interaction, really…. … … He carried around a picture of Lucrezia Borgia naked eating a baloney baguette in his wallet, too, but that’s a story for another day.”


“Joe was a gentle and kind soul, and he will be missed…. … … Okay, he was a rageful lunatic and we’re ALL gonna piss on his grave as soon as the service is over!”

“In college, he purposely ran over a cyclist with his old Ford pickup and just kept going. The fucker should be in prison. No, seriously, I don’t care if he’s dead; he should be locked up!”

“He enjoyed licking the icing off of cupcakes and then putting them back in the box. What kind of animal does such a thing?”

 “I once saw him shove a kaleidoscope up a bus driver’s butt.”

 “I once saw a bus driver shove a kaleidoscope up his butt.”

 “I once saw a bus shove him up a kaleidoscope’s butt.”

 “He picked his nose. A lot. I mean the guy LOVED picking his nose. Anybody’s nose really. He wasn’t beyond shoving his pinky finger up the nostril of whomever was sitting on the barstool next to him. Weird. Caused all sorts of problems…. … … Come to think of it, he still owes me bail money.”

“In the small of his back, he had a little tramp stamp. Quite literally. It was a tat of Charlie Chaplin…. … … You don’t want to know where on his body Laurel and Hardy were tattooed.”

“He drank coffee through a straw … up his ass.  Tried it out as a Vegas act, but it never really caught on.  He was pretty big in Seattle, though.”

 “He’d take money out of the collection plate at church. Any church. EVERY church. The guy went around town stealing church money every Sunday to fund his all-you-can-eat Chinese buffet habit.”

“You sure he’s dead? No, seriously, poke him with a stick or something. I need to make sure that prick isn’t coming back…. … … Not like last time…. … … Oh, Jesus, not like last time.”

Yeah. That sounds about right.

Oh well, you can’t take it with you. And with the friends and “fans” I attract, why would I want to.

Now where did I put that box of doughnuts?


© 2017 Joseph P. Buonfiglio     All Rights Reserved.


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