SIDESHOW OF THE (Absurdly) DAMNED!

by Joe Buonfiglio

STEP RIGHT UP, ONE AND ALL. WELCOME TO UNCLE JOE’S CARNIVAL MIDWAY FREAK SHOW! Be astounded by all our delightfully horrific oddities and aberrations of God’s plan as they place before you the absurd and the bizarre for your amazement, your amusement and your bemusement by things most unnatural.

Behold and witness the wonder of the man who can make you cry (and bend forks) with the power of his ass.

See the toddler who can turn a potato into French fries with nothing more than his tantrums.

Witness the 500-pound woman who can shop a 24-hour Walmart donning nothing more than her inadequately sized undergarments soiled to the point of modern art.

Marvel at the orange man; able to dominate an entire country with nothing more than the sheer bellicosity of his narcissism.

Cringe at the soft-serve ice cream cone that can recite the entire Bible before melting into a puddle of its own sugary self-righteousness.

Be amazed by the pile of dog poo with its doctorate in advanced nanotechnology as it redefines the Theory of Relativity’s parameters all within the confines of city and county littering ordinances.

Explore the magnificence of the incredible shrinking newspaper industry.

Shiver to be in the presence of the snow cone of doom as it lays to waste the hope and promise of modern dentistry.

Quake at the sight of the House of Wax Condoms.

Laugh as the senior senators from each state fling their own feces at each other whilst riding seatless tricycles wearing nothing but diapers and “Make America Great Again” ball caps.

… and, of course, there is the obligatory dancing bear.

IT’S ALL FOR YOU HERE AT UNCLE JOE’S SIDESHOW OF THE (absurdly) DAMNED! All for the low cost of one Bitcoin bathed in the broken dreams of the forgotten man…

… and a day-old Dunkin’ jelly-filled.

 

© 2017 Joseph P. Buonfiglio     All Rights Reserved.

 

World’s WORST Jump-Scares

by Joe Buonfiglio

I’m introducing a new playlist feature on my YouTube channel: The “World’s WORST Jump-Scares.”  (And no, I don’t mean “worst” as in terrifying.)  This week’s blog is more of a vlog and is fairly self-explanatory, so have at it and enjoy!

 

© 2017 Joseph P. Buonfiglio     All Rights Reserved.
All photos/videos are © 2017 Joseph P. Buonfiglio with All Rights Reserved.

AN Absurdist WORD TO THE Not-So WISE

by Joe Buonfiglio

For the longest time, I was actually not a big fan of inserting famous quotes into my pieces of bizarre object d’ literati. Reinforcing a talking point or narrative’s pursuit seemed cheapened by such an obvious literary trick designed to act as filler to boost word count. I always felt it made the writer seem … oh, I don’t know … lazy perhaps.

And then I realized, “Joe, my Absurdist friend, is there any more lazy sack of shit on the planet that you, literarily or otherwise?”

Certainly not! Thus, I should not only engage such a blatantly slovenly approach to my obscure scribblings, I should comprise my un-master works ENTIRELY of famous quotes; randomly injected and absurdly twisted, of course.

So, with melted caramel dripping from my chin and toilet paper securely clung to the bottom of my shoe, enjoy:

Farting is such sweaty sorrow.

My fellow Absurdicans, ask not what your country-fried steak can do for you, ask what you can do for your country-fried steak.

That which does not kill you will regroup and try again.

If you want something done right, you’re overly ambitious.

Better to have gloved in frost, than to have never gloved all fall.

Obesity is the motherfucker of interventions.

To err with cumin; to forgive while you dine.

Give a man a fish and you feed him for a day; teach a man to fish and you create a drunken dockside layabout for a lifetime.

With great power comes great imbecility.

The penis is mightier than the headboard.

Life is like a box of chocolates. You never know what is going to constipate you.

Familiarity bleeds verklempt.

It is always Starkist just before the prawn.

If you are sewing through hell, keep sewing.

A hose by any other name would smell as meat.

The definition of “insanity” is doing the same thing over and over again, and expecting a pumpkin to fly out of your ass and sing Nickelback songs all night long, because … well … you’re fucking nuts.

A penny saved is a penny indicating your lack of modern financial literacy.

Ignorance is piss. (Oh right, like you’ve cornered the market on “smart” urine.)

Geek awfully and carry a big dick.

If you love somebody, let them go; for if they return, they were always yours. If they don’t, fuck ’em and sell their nudie pics as revenge porn.

If at first you don’t succeed, give up and head to an all-you-can-eat taco bar as fast as humanly possible.

I stink therefore I spam.

I have a dream that my little children will one day live in a nation where they will not be judged by the color of their skin, but by the content of their YouTube channel.

Hell has no fury like a woman the morning after being drunk at a tattoo parlor.

Idle hands are the Devil’s gay clown.

Time is funny.

All the world’s a cage, and all the men and women merely taxpayers.

When the going gets tough, pop open a beer and say, “Fuck it!”

That’s one small crêpe for a man, a giant leap for pancakekind.

Power corrupts; absolute power is a shitload of fun. Absolutely!

Live fast, die young, and leave a good-looking corpse in the trunk of the rental car where the cops won’t find it until you’re long gone.

People who live in glass houses shouldn’t shower until they’ve dropped a few pounds.

One man’s trash is another man’s raccoon infestation.

And finally…

Nothing is certain except for death and taxes … and flatulence … and having a wino try to convince me to give him $10 for gas so he can complete his journey to visit his ailing mother … and always having the losing lottery ticket … and having the boss walk in and catch me looking at porn on the company computer … and bad haircuts … and running out of coffee … and accidentally catching a dog licking his balls as I try to eat ice cream on the bench outside of the ice cream parlor … … … Did I mention flatulence already?

And death?

And taxes?

Mostly flatulence, though.

Lots and lots of flatulence.

 

© 2017 Joseph P. Buonfiglio     All Rights Reserved.

GIVE ME A BREAK!

by Joe Buonfiglio

I need a little respite, some R&R, a cooling-off period, a breather, a timeout, a life pause, a furlough, vakay,  downtime, a hiatus…

I NEED A FREAKIN’ BREAK, OKAY!

Even a professional absurdist can get overly absurded– uh, absurdied out?  Absurditated?  Absurdtaneously Abs–  Look, I’m toast to an absurd degree.  But never fear, I shall return next week with something weird and wonderful.  Until then, let me impregnate your already fragile mind with this little tidbit:

America has become as if a funnel cake at the bottom of an abyss.  You know there’s something good deep down there in the darkness, but at this point, it seems completely unreachable.

See you next week.

© 2017 Joseph P. Buonfiglio     All Rights Reserved.

 

I CAN’T TOP THAT!

EVERY ABSURDIST HAS HIS LIMITS

by Joe Buonfiglio

Russian espionage and collusion. Deep State leaking. Sexual deviancy. Special Counsel. Nuclear saber-rattling. Violent protests. White supremacists and the Ku Klux Klan….

NAZIS, FOR CHRIST’S SAKE!

All dancing in the Tiki torchlight with the freakin’ President of the United States?

Are you fucking kidding me?!

How the hell is a humble Literary Absurdist such as myself supposed to compete with that insanity, that level of absolute and all-consuming absurdity?

The answer is simple: I CAN’T! I just cannot. It isn’t possible. And so, I won’t even try. Until the denizens of these United States decide to jump off the Trump Train to Crazytown, I’m on sabbatical. Because when politicians and the “common man” start getting better at the meaningless and random nature of existence than the professional and practiced artisans in the field of the philosophically bizarre, it’s time to hang up one’s mantle of farcicality.

Yes, my compatriots in the realm of surreality, until that time when I can resume my place as an apprentice of the great Albert Camus and can once more embrace the absurd essence of the human condition in a manner befitting a practitioner of the existentially ludicrous, I leave you with this:

I’m afraid that’s all I can muster these days.

Besides.

Everybody loves The Stooges.

 

© 2017 Joseph P. Buonfiglio     All Rights Reserved.

 

Rocky Mountain (Too) High?

by Joe Buonfiglio

And the Colorado Rocky Mountain high;
I’ve seen it raining fire in the sky.
You can talk to God and listen to the casual reply.
Rocky Mountain high….
— John Denver

Ah, Rocky Mountain High by the late, great John Denver; was there ever a song that lifted your spirits higher?  This tune would come on the radio and your cares would simply … if but for a few moments … dissipate into the ether and, thus, render your soul lighter than it had a right to be.

Rocky Mountain High.

Yes, but is it too high?

What first strikes you when traversing Colorado and its slice of the Rocky Mountains is the breathtaking beauty.  Scenes such as this…

And this…

This…

And these…

And then, Colorado voters passed Amendment 64 on November 6, 2012 outlining a statewide drug policy for cannabis.  This led to its “official” legalization of recreational marijuana in January 2014 whereby authorized stores could sell it.  So while I should have been focused on nature’s grandeur as depicted in the heavenly scenes above — be it the thin air delightfully dancing around the hardcore brownies or the flavorful Gummies of the kine bud washed down with the generously poured vodka in myriad libations of choice —  I found myself engaged in more absurdly inexplicable Colorado Rocky Mountain High visions such as these…

And what in the name of all that’s holy is this thing?

And this monstrosity from the bowels of tourist Hell…

You’re kidding, right?  I mean, I like tea and all, but really?

Come on.  Seriously?  The historic Stanley Hotel (where Stephen King wrote The Shining) is doing this on purpose, right?  The place can’t just naturally be this creepy…. … … Can it?

OH, MOTHER OF—  Not a good place to be after a brownie binge!

What does it say on that old typewriter’s manuscript?

HEEEEEEEEERE’S JOHNNY!

I am definitely — DEFINITELY — too Rocky Mountain High.

 

© 2017 Joseph P. Buonfiglio     All Rights Reserved.
All photos, art and logos are © 2017 Joseph P. Buonfiglio with All Rights Reserved.

 

MY SUNDAY BRUNCH WITH GOD

Another in My “Holy Shit, God is an Absurdist!” Series

by Joe Buonfiglio

Sunday. 11:37 a.m.

God is running late for Sunday brunch. In His defense, He has a shitload of the devout to check in on any given Sunday morning; I get that. Nevertheless, it is more than a little rude to invite somebody out to brunch and then be late. This particularly adds the proverbial “insult to injury” when you consider that I’m an Agnostic and could have been sleeping in. An Agnostic writer having “shit, showered and shaved” by 10 a.m. any day, let alone a sleepy Sunday, is a fairly big accomplishment that should not be poo-pooed upon with the discourtesy of tardiness… even by the all-powerful Alpha and Omega.

“You’re late,” I say stating the obvious with more than a little irritation in my voice.

“And now,” God says waving his hand in a brushing-off motion as He sits down, “I’m not.”

My wristwatch, along with every other timepiece in the building — and probably the world — had just rolled back 37 minutes.

“Eleven o’clock just as we agreed,” He says with an impish grin on His face.

“Of course it is,” I say shaking my head in mild contempt. “I ordered a Bloody Mary while I was waiting. Would You like one?”

“What?” he says with a scowl. “You’re kidding, right?”

“Huh? …. Oh. Right. Sorry.”

Even though the common, yet beloved cocktail — a staple of the Sunday brunch along with the Mimosa — is named after the notoriously violent, ruthless and murderous Queen Mary I who became the first-ever woman ruler of England in 1553, Mister Supposed-to-be-Omniscient seemed to think it referred to a different Mary; one much nearer and dearer to His own heart.

“So,” I say unable to suppress a yawn at that most inopportune moment, “Why does the Man Behind the Universe’s Curtain need to meet me for Sunday brunch? Couldn’t you have just sent me a Burning Bush-a-Gram or something?”

“I need you to—” It was obvious He was suppressing a laugh. “I need you to let everyone on the entire planet know that the end of the world will be here in three days, and I will only Rapture true believers who are having intercourse with a duck at the exact commencement of that End Time moment. Only duck-lovers will get a Fast Pass into Heaven.”

“Are you kidding me?” I say having seen the Oh, God! and the Bruce/Evan Almighty movies; knowing full well it doesn’t go all that great for the protagonist of the story. “How am I supposed to get the word out to the whole world in just three days. Don’t You think that’s just a little unreasona— Wait. What?! Did you just say something about sex with ducks?”

“You want to get into Heaven? Gotta be doin’ it with a duck at the moment the Apocalypse launches.”

“Duck… … … fucking. You’re talking about literally fucking ducks?”

“It sounds so vulgar when you say it.”

“Uh, yeah. It sounds a little Sodom and Gomorrah-ish when You say it, too!”

“Oh, it doesn’t have to be a Mother Goose-type domestic duck per se,” shrugging off the ribald nature of His outlandish request. “Mallards would do fine. Muscovy would be okay; any of the dabblers. Divers are nice: goldeneyes; redhead; canvasback. Oh, the red-breasted merganser is nice. I really like those….”

I slam back what remains of my drink and, while munching on the vodka-soaked celery, leave the Magic Man in the Sky hovering over eggs Benedict while continuing to ramble on about His ultimate plan to save humankind via unnatural acts with the woodland creatures of the lake. His bizarre foul fowl fetish is more than my tiny monkey-brain is able to comprehend without leaving my body and floating between quantum dimensions within the dark space of String 6 and String 7 of proper String Theory.

While I hope — and in my own way pray — that my Agnostic doubts are still intact and this is just some random madman who somehow acquired temporary mastery over space and time as if Doctor Who on cosmic steroids, my subconscious fear of burning in the flames of Hell are ever-present at the moment.

And down in the core of whatever constitutes a soul in me, I know.

Oh, how I know.

There will be duck-fucking in my future.

 

© 2017 Joseph P. Buonfiglio     All Rights Reserved.

Stream of MY Consciousness?

by Joe Buonfiglio

The God’s-honest truth is, “I got nothin’.”

Not a damn thing.

I’ve been farting around with this freaking blog-post all day long.

ALL. DAY. LONG.

Nothing is working. Every idea runs me down a creative blind alley. Nothing makes me laugh enough. Nothing seems absurd enough. Nothing is dramatic enough, poignant enough, endearing enough, satirical enough… anything enough. It’s all just so much trivial drivel that isn’t clicking with my little grey cells on any level.

In short, it’s total bullshit! I’ve reached the point where I am utterly unable to string one coherent sentence together with another. And so, I’ve decided to not even try. I’m going gonzo; literarily “going commando,” if you will.

STREAM OF CONSCIOUSNESS.

Now, don’t get too excited. If you’re expecting Jack Kerouac’s On the Road, you’ve come to the wrong place. This is Potpourri of the Damned, not The New York Times Best-Sellers list.

So, here we go:

Joe Buonfiglio’s
Stream of MY Consciousness

Have you ever wondered what happened to Milk Duds. You know, the candy: Milk Duds. I used to love Milk Duds. They were my favorite candy to buy at a movie theater concession stand. During a film, you could pop one in your mouth and suck on it until its core started dissolving on your tongue as if your saliva consisted of pure acid.

Wait.

Those were Whoppers, not Milk Duds.

My bad.

The only material thing I have left on my bucket list of material things is a ’56 Buick Century. Now, you may be wondering why — out of ALL the classic cars I could choose from to place on my list of “before I die” possessions — I would choose an off-year Buick. Well, it’s a matter of personal history. See, my first car was a three-tone blue (The previous owner had tried to hand-paint it with spray cans of various “touch-up” shades.) 1956 Buick Century. God, I loved that car. A hideous sight to the casual motorist, it was an absolute beauty in my eyes; perfect in every way. Its only fault: varnish in the gas tank. It had sat in a rat-infested old barn for years before I bought it for $400. Well, my $100 and the $300 I owed my father for it. Even after spending most of my summer-job money on boiling out the fuel lines instead of paying my dad back, it was still the best thing that had EVER happened to me. Then, one fall afternoon, I came home and my beautiful Buick wasn’t in the driveway. “Where’s my car,” I apprehensively questioned my old man. “That thing was a piece of shit,” he burbled. “My friend needed parts for his tractor, so I gave it to him.”

Gave it to him? My car? MY car! For… … … TRACTOR-FUCKING-PARTS?!

I never forgave him. Even now, so long after my dad’s death, there’s still a part of me that wants to find an old, rusted-out ’56 Century, sneak it into the cemetery and park it on his grave… leaking oil into the sanctified soil… … … drip… … … drip-drip-drip.

You ever wonder what the world would be like if we all communicated through flatulence? Two poots and an extended squeaker would mean, “Hey, Joe, how was your weekend?” A response of a bombastic blast and a wet tuba would say, “Great. We went to the Catskills. Thanks for asking.” Would that make “silent but deadlies” a form of telepathy? Perhaps successfully lighting one’s farts would make you a god. Jesus, how much money could you make as an interpreter then, huh? Working at the United Nations would be more a matter of survival, than diplomacy.

Isn’t it weird that social media is the least social place to interact with humans in the world… you know… besides Walmart at three o’clock Christmas morning.

Why is it that if I fornicate in public, people throw things at me and I go to jail, but rich folks will pay hundreds of thousands of dollars to watch a racehorse do it?

If I shit in a box and mail it to the president of the United States, will I go to jail? For what crime? Shit isn’t a threat, right? It’s not as if I’d be mailing him a dead fish wrapped in one of his vests a la Luca Brasi; that would be threatening. No, this is just a box of shit; that’s satiric commentary, no? I could see the Secret Service getting really bent out of shape if you go all The Godfather on the president’s ass, but shit in a box? That’s damn near a Christmas present in my family!

“Putz” is a word I simply don’t use enough. I’ll have to do something about that.

Parting is such sweet sorrow? Seriously? Will Shakespeare must have been sparking up the old Elizabethan narcotics when he penned that one. Sweet sorrow? Try kiss my ass, I am outta here. Stream THAT consciousness, Muth-a-fucker!

Now where did I put those WHOPPERS?

 

© 2017 Joseph P. Buonfiglio     All Rights Reserved.

TOO MUCH STUFF!

The Biggest Reason Why I Fear Death

by Joe Buonfiglio

I fear death.

No, please. Do not engage me in a debate about the existence of God and have I accepted your deity of choice and your path of spirituality as my only hope for salvation. This isn’t that type of blog piece.

No, I fear death because… I have too much STUFF!

It seems that over the course of my time traversing the mortal coil, I have accumulated and inordinate amount of— well — STUFF!

Oh sure, it all starts innocently enough. Grandpa gives you Keepsake-X from the first time you and he visited Place-X to celebrate Event-X, and then it seems hard to part with said memento after his soul or transcendent consciousness or inner-child reborn or whatever you believe is the driving engine behind our corporeal nature has left the Earth for whatever does or doesn’t happen to us after we depart from this Earthbound plane of existence. And if you haven’t already gone all religious zealot or existential on me, just think about that for a moment. You can probably remember that first thing you “collected” that started you on the path of your lifetime of stuff accumulation. For me, I believe this may have been the oversized Matchbox replica of an antique Model T Ford my Pop-Pop gave me to further stimulate my love of old vehicles. Yes, I still have it… sort of. Not able to part with it through embracing anything remotely resembling an acknowledgement that it is “just some old toy that’s taking up space,” I “gave” it to my son as — well — a keepsake.

And that’s how it starts; an accumulation of junk that gets spread out across your house as if rancid peanut butter across moldy toast. If this mighty assemblage of crap was ever all gathered together and piled item-to-item on top of one another, the stack of memorabilia and other insignificant trifles that mean nothing to anyone but yourself would result in a heap of sentimental rubbish easily compared to the classically clichéd height of the Empire State Building. Throw in a few house moves over the years where attempts to get rid of some of this amassed jumble turns into “The movers are here! Just box it and we’ll sort it out at the new place!” (which you never do), and bingo; the show Hoarders wants to start filming at your home next week.

After a while, you step back and look at what it would take to declutter and downsize your stuff, your life, and it can become more than a bit overwhelming. However, do not allow yourself to be deterred from this daunting undertaking; if not for yourself, for your loved ones. Because if you don’t take on the horrific job of getting rid of all your pointless paraphernalia, it’ll fall on your next of kin or best friend to do it after you’re dead.

So, give the ones you care about most the best gift you can possibly give them; the gift of not having to deal with all your stuff while they’re trying to mourn the loss of your selfish ass. Don’t let “I miss him,” and “What will I do without her?” become “I can’t believe I’m the one who has to deal with all this shit! It’s a good thing they’re dead or I’d kill them myself!”

Remember, they have their own shit to deal with… not to mention death.

 

© 2017 Joseph P. Buonfiglio     All Rights Reserved.
All photos are © 2017 Joseph P. Buonfiglio with All Rights Reserved.

www.JoeBuonfiglio.com

NOBODY CARES ABOUT YOUR BLOG

Top Ten Absurdist Reasons Why Nobody Cares About Your Blog
(or Mine)
(Which You are Currently Reading)
(So, That’s Kind of Absurd in and of Itself Right There)

by Joe Buonfiglio

Nobody cares about your blog … or mine. Unless you’re already a celebrity or at least celebrity adjacent, it’s absurd to continue to pound away on your wireless keyboard pretending that anyone other than close friends and family gives a shit about your most recent blog piece.

And BREAKING NEWS: They really don’t give a shit either. They just don’t want to hurt your feelings.

Even though it is SO painfully absurd to continue our vainglorious attempt to make a mark in the blogosphere, I’m okay with that because … well … I’M AN ABSURDIST!

I actually revel in the chaotically futile. Mindlessly blogging is simply a natural extension of all that. So with a loose hold on anything resembling reality, here are my…

Top Ten ABSURDIST Reasons Why Nobody Cares About Your Blog (or Mine)

#10: NOBODY CARES ABOUT YOUR BLOG, BECAUSE pepper-spraying camels is not an indication of evolutionary superiority.

#9: NOBODY CARES ABOUT YOUR BLOG, BECAUSE melted cheddar has not and will never cure male-pattern baldness.

#8: NOBODY CARES ABOUT YOUR BLOG, BECAUSE even though Ford’s Model T did come in red, the color black was preferred by viper trainers throughout Canada.

#7: NOBODY CARES ABOUT YOUR BLOG, BECAUSE Ponce de León couldn’t find Mrs. de León’s G-spot if his life depended on it.

#6: NOBODY CARES ABOUT YOUR BLOG, BECAUSE free trade shouldn’t be a matter of cucumber girth.

#5: NOBODY CARES ABOUT YOUR BLOG, BECAUSE the literary arts no longer take into account that pillaging is a forgotten craft.

#4: NOBODY CARES ABOUT YOUR BLOG, BECAUSE the Center for Disease Control is completely ambivalent in all matters concerning buttered-popcorn flavored jellybeans.

#3: NOBODY CARES ABOUT YOUR BLOG, BECAUSE the zipper is down on society’s collective pants.

#2: NOBODY CARES ABOUT YOUR BLOG, BECAUSE springtime Frappuccinos should flow freely from a Panda’s ass, not be imprisoned until transactional payment is rendered unto the Starbucks Corporation. (refer to Starbucks vs. a Panda’s Ass, Third Circuit Court of Appeals circa 1864 following Brown vs. the Zookeeper’s Fantasy)

AND THE #1 REASON NOBODY CARES ABOUT YOUR BLOG: The ghost of Richard Nixon tickles President Trump’s balls from the moment he falls asleep in the Lincoln bedroom!

So blog away, my fellow Absurdists; blog away as if no one is watching … because no one is.

 

© 2017 Joseph P. Buonfiglio     All Rights Reserved.
All photos are © 2017 Joseph P. Buonfiglio with All Rights Reserved.