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.

“Stream” of Consciousness?

More like a Tidal Wave of Absurdity!

by
Joe Buonfiglio

So, I had this notion to write a “stream of consciousness” piece a la Jack Kerouac with On the Road, but in microcosm. The problem, of course, is that I’m a self-branded “Literary Absurdist.” Everything I craft tends to devolve into an unreasonably foolish manifesto; my attempts at stream-of-consciousness writing doomed to become a tidal wave of absurdity destined to walk with the ghosts of Kierkegaard and Camus.

Nevertheless, I feel the bold experiment is worthy of the attempt. Thus, I will now write down in the realm of the blogosphere my thoughts as they pop into my head without governor or censor.

Enjoy.

Why are Monkey Puzzle trees an accepted form of vegetation, but I tell people I drive a classic Barracuda and all of a sudden I’M the weirdo?

“Plucky” rhyming with “sucky” is just a coincidence? I don’t think so!

A candlelight dinner is romantic, but I burn down my employer’s place of business and suddenly I’m an “arsonist.”

Bite the ears off a chocolate bunny and you’re the life of the Easter-egg-hunt party. Bite the ears off a real bunny at the same party and you get 3-10 months in the county lockup for animal cruelty and child-endangerment through “traumatization.” WTF?

There cannot be a God, because if there was a God, you could eat all the meat-lover’s pizza you want without getting fat or gastroesophageal reflux disease complicated by bouts of uncontrollable flatulence…. … … I’m just sayin’.

Thinking about how many people are using toilets on a global scale at any given moment scares the shit out of me… … … which is more than a little ironic.

Why isn’t the male urinary tract a place to plant and grow penises?

Wait. Singularity is a state of space-time and not the condition of being perpetually unmarried?

Ponce de Leon searched for the Fountain of Youth, but you catch me naked searching for loose change in your couch at three in the morning and that somehow makes me the bad guy.

Why tell people they can do “whatever floats your boat” if they are not nautically inclined?

Do owls know they are annoying?

Is reality a thing you win in the lottery?

Does whipped cream ever cry out in pain?

Does this look infected?

Just who the hell was the first one to consider pairing piss with vinegar, and did he or she prepare the takeout salad I’m eating right now?

Why isn’t “teaching the world to sing” the highest-salaried profession ever?

Shouldn’t God offer a lifetime warranty?  No!  Wait! An ETERNAL warranty!

Holy shit! Birds really do appear every time you are near!  Stop that.

Why don’t meter maids clean your car?

If I keep digging in my backyard — I mean REALLY keep digging down deep — will I eventually find my dignity?

Fuck salamanders with the knowledge to cure all human illnesses!  Am I right?

Clowns aren’t creepy … unless you find one in bed with your mom … after hours … in the middle of a department store … reenacting Lord of the Flies.

Mailboxes; what are they up to?

Son of a bitch, mom was right! If you do THAT you really will go blind! … … … Wait. No. The lightbulb just burned out. My bad.

Turns out I really am the only one who can prevent forest fires. And I’m sorry Sierra National Forest burned to the ground, but back off; as you can imagine, my hands are pretty full right now.

And finally, it all comes down to this: The only people who wholly understand the true nature of the universe are those who wash their clothes in a pay-launderette at three in the morning. Who knew enlightenment cost exactly $9.75.

Roll on, Cosmic Black Wave. Roll on.

 

© 2017 Joseph P. Buonfiglio     All Rights Reserved.

SOMETHING (DELIGHTFULLY STRANGE) THIS WAY COMES….

SOMETHING ABSURDLY WONDERFUL.

SOMETHING WONDERFULLY ABSURD.

 

In the coming months, JoeBuonfiglio.com (AKA LiteraryAbsurdist.com) will undergo an absurdly wonderful and wonderfully absurd transformation.  Keep checking back to get in on all the preposterous amusement … and probably more than a little bemusement.

PLEASE STAND BY….

— Joe Buonfiglio

Tryin’ to Catch Me Dietin’ Dirty

(with apologies to Chamillionaire)

by Joe Buonfiglio

The blue-and-red rollers in my rearview mirror left me with no doubt; the PoPo were trying to catch me dietin’ dirty.

COP: “License and registration.”

FAT JOE (Uh, that’s “ME.”): “Sure, officer. Did I do something wrong?”

COP: “License and registration.”

I tentatively hand the deeply tinted-bespectacled representative of North Carolinian law enforcement the requested documents. This was no American version of the serious, yet genteel French gendarme. This bear of a man would just as soon see me dare to resist his Carolina mountain-bred charms unto the inevitable hellish consequence.

ME: “Yes, officer. Here you go, sir.”

He viewed the state-issued papers for so long, it seemed as if time was being rendered a mere illusion.

ME: “Is there something wrong officer?”

He peered into my car, grimaced, and then handed me my vehicular-oriented documents.

COP: “Step out of the car.”

ME: “What? Why?”

COP: “Step out of the car, sir. NOW!”

Was it that cold? Why could I not stop shivering as I complied with his much-more-than-a request.

COP: “Do you know why I pulled you over?”

ME: “Was I speeding? I may have been a little, but it couldn’t have been more than 5 miles per hour over the limit. Isn’t there like some kind of grace zone of at least 5 miles an—”

COP: “Do you know you damn near killed a family of five back there?”

ME: “What?! How?”

COP: “Stay there.”

The police officer walked back to his car and removed four bloodstained family-sized bags of cool ranch Doritos from its backseat.

COP: “These flew out of your rear window a few miles back.”

ME: “Oh my God. I’m so sorry. I’m usually much more careful not to litter. If there is any associated fine, I will of course be happy to—”

COP: “They flew into the windshield of the minivan behind you.”

ME: “There was a minivan behind me? I had no idea there—”

COP: “Which completely obscured the driver’s vision.”

ME: “Oh boy. Look, I am so sor—”

COP: “The car full of kids went careening off the road.”

ME: “That’s terrible! Is everybody all ri—”

COP: “Breaking through the guardrail and plummeting down the mountainside.”

ME: “Well that’s not— That’s not good.”

The cop leaned in and looked into my car. It revealed itself to be a massive trash pile of chips’ bags, candy wrappers, empty soda cans, ice cream sticks and various forms of fast-food residue and leftover dietary carnage.

ME: “I get hungry.”

The cop scowled.

ME: “I’m on a REALLY strict diet and I just, well, snapped.”

The cop’s eyebrows bent downward in anger to the point that it looked as if they’d pop his nose right off his face.

ME: “You know how it is when you’re on a long road-trip. It doesn’t matter how good you’ve been on your diet; it becomes snacking warfare. All bets are off. It’s permission to chow down nonstop, because around each turn is a burger haven of comestible delight. Each gas stop offers up sweet—”

I’m not sure if it was an actual nightstick he slapped me with or just a heavy-duty flashlight. Regardless, I woke up with my car probably somewhere in Georgia on a used car lot with its VIN number filed off and me in a dank cell with no hope of ever even seeing a bail bondsman, let alone the light of day.

They had caught me dietin’ dirty and my penance was to become the cellmate of a somewhat aggressively flirtatious mountain of a drunk named “Homer.” With absolute certainty, I will not enjoy the odyssey on which he now wants to take me.

In retrospect, perhaps using my one phone call to order pizza delivery was not a smart move.

 

© 2017 Joseph P. Buonfiglio   All Rights Reserved.

A Day Without Absurdist Humor

One Man’s (Lame?) Attempt to Support Women
YOU GO, SISTERS!

by Joe Buonfiglio

At the time of this writing, it is International Women’s Day 2017. And in recognition of the coinciding strikes, walkouts, closings and Anti-Trump demonstrations labelled “A Day Without a Woman,” in solidarity with the sisters-in-womanhood protests here in America, I will be shutting down my Absurdist-humor literary efforts normally scheduled for release on Wednesdays. Thus, there will be no Potpourri of the Damned blog-post being released today or this week in an effort to show my support.

You know.

Other than this Potpourri of the Damned blog-post announcing that there will be no Potpourri of the Damned blog-post being … well … posted.

Wait.

Did I just inadvertently release an Absurdist-humor blog-post by announcing I would not be releasing an Absurdist-humor blog-post?

Damn.

Anyway, no more writing today.

Now, am I truly being socially conscious or just a lazy sack of shit? I guess that depends on which “fact vs. alternative fact” side of the political spectrum you call home. Either way, you go, sisters! Give ’em hell!

 

© 2017 Joseph P. Buonfiglio     All Rights Reserved.

JOEKU #3

Haiku with an Absurdist Twist

JOEKU #3: “Ghosts are my Friends”

by Joe Buonfiglio

Looking for Haiku with an Absurdist kick? Welcome to “Joeku™.” Episode #3, “Ghosts are my Friends,” features … well … my ass.

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

Remember the Unintentional Martyrs!

by Joe Buonfiglio

IT’S THE PERFECT GIFT!
(And Damned Inexpensive, Too!)

Didn’t quite finish the old underground survivalist’s prepper-bunker before Trump took office and now you have no idea how to ride out the impeding chaos of WWIII? Did you not give your sweetie a worthy Valentine’s Day gift, so the Apocalyptic onslaught of World War Three is the least of your problems?

NEVER FEAR!  Let me turn you on to some downloadable gifts that are fun, won’t break the bank and PERFECT for whiling away the mindless tedium of the endless desert of the post-Trumpian Era dystopia. It’s the music of UNINTENTIONAL MARTYRS™

With song titles such as Porn Pin Blues, Bad Words, Science Denier, Unintentional Martyrs (of course) and the Trumpian delight that started it all, Donny, Donny, Donny, you can delight in an entertaining way to fill the perpetual boredom of the Apocalyptic world (and remember what got us there in the first place).

Listen to them all (click on each song’s “WATCH TRAILER” at the site) and download for ONLY 99¢ each here:

UNINTENTIONALLY MARTYRED MUSIC™

Below are a couple samples from my YouTube Channel:

SCIENCE DENIER:

 

BAD WORDS:

 

Each song is under a buck, so what the fuck!

ENJOY!

© 2016-2017 Joseph P. Buonfiglio     All Rights Reserved.

All videos, music, lyrics and graphics on the UNINTENTIONALLY MARTYRED MUSIC™ site are © 2016 Unintentional Martyrs™ with All Rights Reserved.

UNINTENTIONALLY MARTYRED MUSIC™

JOEKU #2

Haiku with an Absurdist Twist

JOEKU #2: “Tricky Dick is Laughing”

by Joe Buonfiglio

Looking for Haiku with an Absurdist kick?  Welcome to “Joeku™.”  Episode #2, “Tricky Dick is Laughing,” features der Trumpenführer, so … … … enjoy?

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