Is This the PERFECT Absurdist Meme?

Is It Possible? Could One Bizarre Line Fit All?

by Joe Buonfiglio

MEMES: Those addictive digitally transmitted photos captioned with humorous expressions designed to lampoon or call attention to that which the creator feels deserves a little public ridicule or even societal examination. However, they often do not aspire to such loftier satirical ideals and just try to be funny for funny’s sake or, in my case, WEIRD for weirdness’ sake.

As a self-proclaimed “Literary Absurdist,” I found myself on a quest to create not just the perfect meme, but the perfect ABSURDIST meme. Was there one meme-formatted caption that could speak the language of Absurdism so well that it translated any picture to which it attached itself into the type of Absurdist-meme gold that would make Albert Camus or Salvador Dali sigh with utter joy?

While this may be an entirely unattainable goal, I nonetheless shall endeavor to make the attempt.

The absurdist phrase that my grey cells eventually concocted and settle upon:


To my mind, it is a flawless randomly bizarre caption. Now, does it express itself as the true representation of absurdist wonder by translating that arbitrary strangeness to any photo or illustration it adorns?

Let’s find out, shall we? Here are 25 images randomly selected (Yes, honestly!) from my digital library to use as backdrop in combination with the “perfect absurdist caption” to create memes d’ ludicrous art:


I think I’ve made my point.

You’re welcome, by the way.


© 2017 Joseph P. Buonfiglio     All Rights Reserved.





In the coming months, (AKA 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.


— Joe Buonfiglio


Twitter-Induced Trumpian Political Commentary


Joe Buonfiglio

As the idiomatic curtain begins to fall on the presidential campaigns for 2016 — the act of which may finally prove the existence of a loving God — I’d like to offer up some Trump-inspired delights delivered unto the Twitterverse through the Absurdist filter of my admittedly warped grey matter. While these tweets reflect the political-campaign mayhem over an extended period of time, it is my intent this will only help you properly reminisce via the nightmarish memories you’ve suppressed deep, DEEP, DEEP down about this year’s incredibly classy and utterly civil presidential campaign season.

With this in mind, I hope you enjoy my TWUMPS!

No, not a $20 dollar bag of dope! I mean THIS….


What is it that really scares the hell out of me?

Things that go Trump in the night.


FBI: Hillary eats live babies while she’s naked on The Haunted Mansion ride at Disneyland.

ME: STILL better than the gropin’ racist A-hole!


“I love her for her intelligence and her strong sense of self.”

*Things you should never hold your breath waiting for Trump to say.*


I just awoke from a nap where I dreamt Donald Trump was the US president. Actually, it– How did this wall get built around my genitalia?


If I win tonight’s $1.5 billion Powerball lottery, I’m going to sue Donald Trump just for the fun of it. Hey, what’s good for the goose…


The Republican debate just started. It’s better than tickets to the circus… although, the circus has far less elephant shit.


I just saw “DONALD TRUMP: Night of the Living Hair.” It’s the scariest horror ever! The Muslim jump-scare scene made me piss myself.


ME: “There’s nothing in the Trump of my car, officer. Why? Is there a problem?”

COP: “We’ve gotten reports that he’s– What did you say?!”


Pope Francis on Donald Trump: Building walls instead of bridges is “not Christian.” How pissed do you think God gets if you sue the Pope?


Generally speaking about nobody specific, can you develop and run a casino-resort and not be in bed with the mob? I’m asking for a friend.


I’m amazed at how Christian “believers” devotedly follow Donald Trump. In my opinion, the guy PERFECTLY fits the profile of the Antichrist.


So, here’s what I’ve learned from the American system of political debates…


Build a wall across the South? We should build a quarantine wall around the whole country, because we Americans have lost our fucking minds.


You know why Trump has to do a combover? So news cameras can’t see the 666.

Okay, please don’t sue me, I’m– aaand I’m being served papers.


Dragging my ass. I couldn’t sleep last night thinking of the GOP debate and the big question:

Did Ted Cruz eat a booger on live television?


There is only one reason why I’d want Trump to become the next US president.

I own one of these still in the box:



Voting today feels as if shopping at a secondhand store and deciding which cuckoo clock I want to live in for 4-8 years.


ME: “I’ve decided to buy a gun to protect us from all the NRA gun nuts.”

HER: “Okay…. … … Wait. What?”


Donald Trump running for president is all just an April Fools’ joke, right?

Oh, thank God. For a minute there, I–




Trump and what he represents scare the hell out of me, but not because he isn’t in touch with the American people…

…but because he is.


Interesting point: My worst-performing tweets mention Donald Trump or anal.


Oh, I think not, my little friend. I think not.


Conservatives: You do know gay folks won’t show up at your church naked and screw on your altar, right?

Except Bob and Gary.

Total freaks.


What would Jesus do?

Well, move out of North Carolina for a start.



No, I think we should keep billionaires out of the country until we can find out “what’s going on.”


Why such controversy over Trump University? Students were promised they’d learn to be more like Donald Trump.

They certainly learned that.


I’m sorry for all of the Trump jokes I’ve been tweeting lately. I just couldn’t help myself.

I never could resist low-hanging fruit.


Every time Donald Trump says “Believe me” and it makes your skin crawl, do a shot of top-shelf tequila.

I’ve been drunk for months now.


Just listened to Donald Trump speaking in NC.

Is it just me, or does he sound like Willy Wonka after an LSD binge.


Listening to Trump speak at a rally in Ohio.

Sorry, folks, but I want my president’s vocabulary to be more expansive than a 3rd grader’s.


If white guy after white guy got killed by black cops in the same way, would Fox News still say the videos don’t tell the whole story.


NEWS ANCHOR: “How do you respond to the accusation that you speak on the level of a 5-year-old child?”

DONALD TRUMP: “I poopied.”


When they say they’re tired of the “elites” running things, are they talking about … smart people?

So, they want dumbasses in charge?


So, you believe if we give massive tax breaks to the ultra-wealthy, they won’t just pocket the money, but it will “trickle down” to … you?


For a couple of homophobes, this is the gayest logo I’ve ever seen…


Sure they’re both raging homophobes, but this logo makes me realize this ticket will put Trump on top.



I don’t understand why everyone is so surprised that Melania plagiarized Michelle. The Donald plagiarized Mussolini, for Christ’s sake!


Twenty bucks if you go into the convention wearing a “Black Lives Matter” T-shirt and spark up a nice, fat blunt in front of Rudy Giuliani.


I’m convinced God created Donald Trump simply because He wanted Johnny Depp to have a character to play later in life.


Uh, maybe Trump ending his acceptance speech with “LET THE HUNGER GAMES BEGIN!” was a little over the top.


“Open carry,” because it’s what Jesus would have wanted.


“Great Leader” Trump is an authoritarian seeking to manipulate the masses by inflaming raw emotion.

Now where in history have we seen that?


I LOVE Mexican food. But after that all-you-can-eat taco bar, I just took the biggest Trump of my life.


What typo?


How political currency works: one pence = two trumps, but one pence and one trump = two assholes. Two assholes = one Republican ticket.


How will I get through the Democrats’ convention? Every time the Bernie supporters boo Hillary, I do a shot.

I’ve been drunk since noon.


“I’m an energy voter.”

“Fuck you.”

“But I’m an en–”

“No, go fuck yourself. Shove your frack up your crack.”


“Frack. Your crack.”


Bill Clinton gave a great speech last night. I just wish Robert Palmer’s “Addicted to Love” didn’t play in my mind’s ear whenever I see him.


Turns out Trump is a relative of mine. He’s my Auntie Christ.


Jesus, can we just vote now?! By November, news reporters will be getting the “But he was quiet; kept to himself” speech from my neighbors.


Those of us who live in the South aren’t all racist, homophobic, gun-nut pieces of shit.

Granted, some of us are.

Okay, a LOT of us are.


Okay, all you political naysayers dissing the current state of presidential campaigning in America, here’s something good…

I got nuthin’.


Trump is so far behind Clinton, is there still a path to the White House for him?

Of course! He’ll just stay on the sociopath he’s been on.


Trump’s big last-ditch outreach to African-American voters is, “What have you got to lose?”


Uh, try “a fuckload.”


What do Trump and an illegal immigrant have in common?

They’re both different people depending on what side of Mexico’s border they’re on.


I’m not buying Gary Johnson’s excuse that he thought Aleppo was one of the Marx Brothers.


It’s as if Giuliani is Gollum and Trump is “My precious!”


America is “a house divided.” Each half thinks the other half are assholes.

We must come together and accept that we are all assholes.


If the karmic forces of the universe want to reveal their existence to humankind, Donald Trump must be run over by a Cheetos delivery truck.


A debate between Trump and Clinton will do a lot to change people’s minds and sway voters.

And by “a lot” I mean “absolutely nothing.”



If Clinton is highly professional and cures cancer, she wins.

If Trump acts human and doesn’t drop the N-word, he wins.


Trump’s naked twerk was the highlight of the debate.

Although Clinton’s coming in like a wrecking ball was highly entertaining, too.


The Trump-Clinton presidential debate last night was as if witnessing a crab pissed off about being boiled argue with an overly oiled robot.


Lead post-debate story on Fox News: “Hillary forced to admit Trump was able to hold that big glass of water with those tiny, tiny hands.”


Okay, new disclaimer for politics in America:

“Seek help for an election lasting more than 4 hours.”


If the citizenry of this country still supports Donald Trump in any significant way after P-gate, perhaps he is the president we deserve.


How can my wilted salad solve the problem if it can’t even say the words “radical balsamic terror”?




If Hillary Clinton said, “I can grab them by their dicks,” you think the Basket of Deplorables would say, “Oh, it’s just locker room talk.”


Will somebody PLEASE invent time travel already, so we can transport ourselves to November 9th.

Doctor Who be real Doctor Who be real….


I agree with Trump 100% on this one; for the sake of the country, his supporters absolutely must get out and vote for him on November 28th.


Donald Trump wants to be president only because the position of God wasn’t open.


How can so many Americans still support Trump?

Paraphrasing Alfred in the The Dark Knight, “Some people just want to watch the world burn.”


Don’t tweet about Trump today. Don’t tweet about Trump today. Don’t twee– TRUMP’S A DEPLORABLE RACIST HOMOPHOBIC SEXUAL PREDATOR!



The only thing truly impacted by this election is my colon.

No, seriously, I need a ride to the emergency room.


I want to take a moment to talk about all the important world events cable news covered besides US politics.

There was– no.

So– no.



I’d call Donald Trump a pig, but I have too much respect for pigs, relatively speaking.

More bacon?


White shirts? Trump would look better in a brown shirt, no?

Custom fit, of course.

And made in China, because, you know, “good business.”


Try to get into someone’s pants by taking them furniture shopping?

I gotta admit, Donny, it’s different.

Still deplorable, but different.


To my mind, there are only two possible explanations for Donald Trump: raging narcissism or demon possession.


And finally, this tweet, because some things just aren’t remotely funny:

If I lose, the election is rigged?


Trump isn’t just being a big baby with this; he’s a threat to American democracy itself.


*Sin título-1.twitter-button.youtubelogo-20120605T021741-6mjjuus*

© 2016 Joseph P. Buonfiglio     All Rights Reserved.

“Trump-in-a-Box” photo © 2016 Joseph P. Buonfiglio with All Rights Reserved.


Something Absurd This Way Comes…

Something wonderfully absurd is coming….
… Something absurdly wonderful!


from the mind of Joe Buonfiglio

In the coming months, (AKA will undergo a bizarre transformation from its currently simplistic little pupa of a website into the darkly humorous absurd butterfly it deserves to be. So don’t miss any of the delightfully weird splendor to come…


Go to the subscription-sidebar on this page or click on the “Follow Joe” button down in the corner and you won’t miss a second of my Bizarro Blast that’s inching its way toward this website’s reality as you read this.

See you soon!

No, really. I’m outside your bedroom window with a cellphone camera, a box of wine and some Twinkies right now.

(But the beginning is nearer.)


© 2016 Joseph P. Buonfiglio     All Rights Reserved.
All photos are © 2016 Joseph P. Buonfiglio with All Rights Reserved.

*twitter-button*Sin título-1*youtubelogo-20120605T021741-6mjjuus*

“Donny, Donny, Donny!” Revisited…

Donny Revisited Art

by Joe Buonfiglio

 WHAT?! You say you’re not a fan of 2016 presidential candidate Donald J. Trump and you STILL have not heard the song Donny, Donny, Donny! by Unintentional Martyrs™?

While I forgive you your ignorance of this tune in light of the fact that Trump running for president should only exist in a Bizarro World alternative universe, I still must protest on some level and offer up to you a resounding WTF!

No seriously, what the fuck—er, I mean WTF?

Well, my good but wayward soul, languish no more in your wretched state of anti-Trumpian woe, and enjoy….


Want to know what those lyrics say? You’re in luck! Here’s the version with the lyrics included.


*Sin título-1    twitter-button    youtubelogo-20120605T021741-6mjjuus*

© 2016 Joseph P. Buonfiglio     All Rights Reserved.

All videos, music, lyrics and graphics are © 2016 Unintentional Martyrs™ with All Rights Reserved.


Are These Potatoes Undercooked?


by Joe Buonfiglio

Potpourri of the Damned is going on an extremely brief hiatus next week, as I feel the need to play catch-up on a book manuscript running woefully behind schedule. My original plan was to simply launch right into the bit of fictional weirdness that follows without offering you any explanation whatsoever, but I decided to momentarily break The Fourth Wall here to … well … frankly … let you know what I just let you know.

Having clearly succeeded in this with my customary style and grace — Shut up! — I’ll hang my “MISSION ACCOMPLISHED” banner outside of this literary vessel’s bridge, and we may now move toward turning this battleship around, so to speak, to its intended direction.

So until I return to next write upon these virtual pages, let me leave you with this digital ditty that popped into my head over cold Pop-Tarts and lukewarm coffee this morning. I hope you enjoy this not patented (but DEFINITELY copyrighted) Super-Micro-Short Story…


The smell of hot maple-glazed ham happily fills the house as the oven door is opened one last time. The doorbell announces that my high-school senior is back from his track practice.

“Buddy’s here!” joyfully proclaims my little one who immediately runs to the door to let her brother in.

“Dad,” Buddy says casually acknowledging my presence on planet Earth before dropping his gym bag to the floor.

“How’d it go today?”

“Personal best in discus,” he calmly states. “Well over a hundred.”

“Well done.”


“Mom made ham,” my little one tells her brother as if the delightful aroma overtaking the whole house didn’t broadcast this fact from the moment he stepped in.

“I know,” he says. “Smells great.”

“Dinner’s ready. Go wash up,” my wife’s order dictates and her dutiful son immediately carries out.

“About damn time,” grandpa grumbles. “I’m stavin’ here.”

“Honey, isn’t it unusual to have track practice on a Sunday?” mother queried as if she didn’t already know the fucking answer.

“It’s just because we have the big statewide meet tomorrow, mom,” the stupid bastard replies.

Jesus, this premeal banter makes me want to poke my own eyes out with the nearest sharpened stick!  For the love of God, can’t we just get down to slamming back some pig flesh while we’re all still young?!

Well, except for grandpa, of course.

“I’ll bet you’re the best thrower in the whole state this year, Buddy,” said the little bundle of cuteness that is his sister.

I stare at her approvingly, all the while wishing I had gotten a shotgun as I really wanted for Christmas last year, as opposed to one more useless piece-of-shit self-actualization book.

One by one, they go past on the way to the dining room. Each one offers me a reassuring, if but glancing smile. I’m not fooled; not for one stinking minute. I know what they’re really thinking: “Evil…. Horror…. Monster.”

Maybe they’re right.

I’ve tried to be a good father, good husband, good son, a good man my whole life, but that creature within always waits just beneath the surface as if lava pushing upward, pressuring, demanding to break through the skin of the Earth.

Not tonight. Tonight is Sunday dinner. Tonight is sacrosanct.

Suck it up.

Take one for the team (even though it’s Team Dumbass).

We sit down to dinner. The inane banter masks the gorging we do upon the amalgam of meat and carbohydrate and plant matter enveloped in an unnatural swirling of preservatives and hydrogenated oils and high-fructose corn syrup.

Thank Heaven for the wine; the nectar of the grape is the only thing getting me through this nightmare of a—


I should have put a pillow over that old bastard’s face years ago. He’s been an increasing burden on our quality of life and resources for the past deca—


“We’ve all been chatting up like a bunch of giggly schoolgirls on a sleepover, but you haven’t said a word, dear.”  My wife’s announcement silences the room.  “You have the floor. Is there anything you’d like to say, or are you just going to remain silently dumb the whole meal?”


Silently DUMB?!



Don’t be a monster. Don’t be a monster. Don’t be a monster.

“Come on, honey,” she relentlessly prods. “Don’t let it be yet another Sunday dinner without you contributing to the discussion. Join in. We’re your family. Tell us what’s on your mind.”

“Yeah, dipshit. It’s Sunday,” grandpa’s unfiltered mouth flings my way. “Confess.”

You know what? That’s a great idea.

“Well, honey, I thought the potatoes we’re slightly undercooked.”

“Oh,” she kneejerk utters with a meld of both surprise and hurt.

“And then … well … there’s this….”

“Oh sweet God, I’ve never seen anything like—” The patrolman hurls volumes of oatmealesque goo that spews forth across his lips in a seemingly never-ending geyser before he can finish his sentence.

“I know. It’s insane. It looks as if a wild animal ate them right there at Sunday dinner,” the homicide detective replies with a grimace as the officer tries to regain his composure.

“Animal?!” the cop retorts. “Something consumed them like they were on the menu. Bit their heads off one-by-one before any of them could even react. That was no goddamn animal. That was a… MONSTER!

The detective goes back inside the house. It’s his fourth or fifth time inside, but the crime scene still leaves him stunned. He emerges rubbing his forehead. “Hey,” he says, “The father’s remains aren’t in there….

“Where’s the dad?”


© 2016 Joseph P. Buonfiglio     All Rights Reserved.

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What I’d REALLY Like to See in the New STAR WARS Movie

Darth Vader partial face

by Joe Buonfiglio

So here we go; yet another manifestation of the science-fiction saga that just refuses to die: Star Wars.  Blah-blah-blah here comes the Galactic Empire blah-blah-bah the allies face a new threat from an unconscionable evil blah-blah-blah there’ll be a shitload of stormtroopers running around blah-blah-blah rake in the mountains of cash.

Don’t get me wrong.  I know this sounds as if I don’t appreciate the iconic series of movies in all its cinematic incarnations.  However, nothing could be further from the truth.  Let me make this perfectly clear:


I do.  I really, REALLY do!

It’s just that … well … there are some things I was hoping to see as part of the script for this latest version of the films.  And so, with that in mind, here are the things I REALLY would like to appear up on the big screen in the new Star Wars flick:

In a bizarre plot twist born of a time warp from an alternate universe driven by the singularity of a black hole, the Starship Enterprise mysteriously appears out of nowhere.  Captain Kirk dramatically walks up to his bridge viewscreen to gaze upon the Star Wars astronomical battlefront and utters the immortal words, “What the fuck?”

Clones appear not in protective headgear, but in classic mime whiteface.  As if willed by The Force itself, armies of clones must simultaneously perform the “I’m stuck in a box!” shtick with precision choreography prior to launching an attack.  This way, killing them will be far more satisfying for the audience.   

To the surprise of fanboys and fangirls everywhere, it is revealed that the entire Star Wars universe exists in a water closet within a long-forgotten gay bathhouse deep in the bowels of Doctor Who‘s TARDIS.

The main character is an intergalactic proctological dentist who spends the entire movie going around asking to examine all the Wookiees’ anal cavities.

C-3PO is melted down and sold in a late-night “buy gold” infomercial by actor William Duvane.

Han Solo commits suicide when he learns that the evil empire controlled by The Dark Side of The Force has been using his name to refer to the ancient art of manual self-pleasuring for years.

And finally…

 The return of Jar Jar Binks, only this time, he comes back as a less-reviled character with a ravenous appetite for the mutant asparagus-people of Tandoor 5 called “Pee Pee Stinks.”

There now.  You see?  That wasn’t so bad.  I’m sure all Star Wars fans everywhere can embrace these trivial changes in a way that we all will enj—

Uh-oh.  This is a problem.  I think The Force just awakened my Obi-Wan.  I’ve got a raging Kenobi right now.

No, I won’t stick it in your Endor.  What kind of Ewok do you take me for?!

Wait a minute.  Did Mel Brooks already do all this in Spaceballs?


© 2015 Joseph P. Buonfiglio     All Rights Reserved.

Sin título-1        twitter-button


Short Bursts of Madness

shopping cart rusting

by Joe Buonfiglio

I’m still catching a ton of flak from many of you for the length of these Potpourri of the Damned posts.

“I love your wonderfully weird stuff, Joe, but it’s too fucking long. It’s not like I don’t have shit to do.”

First of all, it is surely not my fault that in this newspapers-are-dead sound-bite-driven 140-characters-or-less world of ours that we have all developed the attention spans of gnats. If “patience is a virtue,” then clearly the contemporary state of Humanity is at a moral disadvantage.  So if you’re looking for short bursts of dark humor, you should head over to my Twitter page @JoeBuonfiglio (  You’ll find comicality more in line with your impatient persona there aplenty.

However, in a momentary skinny-dip into the pool of my own weakness, I will temporarily adapt the business mantra declaring that the customer is always right, and thus offer up some literary fare potentially less taxing on your cognitive inadequacies.

In the past, this blog has provided a mini-course in Absurdism; let this piece now serve as both a refresher and means of your continuing education….


“While Mrs. Bridalbaum wanders the Earth in search of fresh penguins, Pompeii decides it is time for the weenie roast to begin.”

“As Elizabeth worried that her lack of panties would be betrayed as she mounted her steed sidesaddle, the massive explosion at the cucumber processing plant left the whole town in a pickle.”

“Though distraught that the vacuum cleaner refused to release his genitalia, Mr. Blume was thrilled to see that his cupcakes had baked to perfection.”

“I was well aware that feeding the garden gnomes was punishable by excessive fines, but my artisanal flatulence protected me from the emotional spiral.”

“While the ironically sentient shopping cart spent an eternity rusting in its incessant abandonment, Colonel Pickering plotted a pincer movement against his own testicles.”

“While Bob sucked on the tailpipe of his broken dreams, his significant other exuded all the confidence necessary to defeat the Millennials horde.”

“If pink is the new black, then elderberries are the new Manifest Destiny.”

“Curly Sue recognized her departure from the traditions of fashion, but time-travel melancholy will always trump thee-of-a-kind in a pumpkin patch.”

“Don’t tell me of your inane problems when spread out before you like so much apple butter on toast is a world of edible underwear and discarded dignity.”

“I’d stop and smell the roses more often were it not for the unnerving uncertainty of unexpected alien anal probes.”

“The peach trees are trying to kill us. You can never take your eyes off their delicious children….  Not for even a moment….  Ever.”

“My toilet was clogged by the inevitable rush of pre-Yuletide indignation.”

“While Roseanne’s poops always resembled iconic western heroes, the glass museum’s admission prices moved beyond the reach of the lower-income classes.”

“The eggplant’s posture was excellent, but Uncle Tony’s ‘dance of the breadcrumbs’ left something to be desired.”

“As the crustaceans rose from the sea en masse to consume Los Angeles, Wee Willie Winkie yanked on his dinkie.”

“Painfully reclusive eighth-grade English teacher Esmerelda Langtooth dramatically choked on a chicken-parmesan sub alone in her Coney Island apartment, while simultaneously in Scotland, little Suzie McDermish twirled her hair in a most sinister manner while assessing the ramifications surrounding the moisture content of her undergarments.”

“I wanted to congratulate you on your unyielding survival techniques, but the radiator cap unceremoniously lodged within the teddy bear’s erogenous zone left the concerns of the stolen refrigerator-door handle unrequited.”

And finally…

“While Sister Sloth fleshed out a plan to chill the Earth’s core with cups of frozen yogurt, the end of Joe’s silly little blog was as inevitable as his propensity to throw meth parties and his suspicious addiction to bikini waxes.”

© 2015 Joseph P. Buonfiglio     All Rights Reserved.

Sin título-1         twitter-button


H13-24 Necrosis

by Joe Buonfiglio

Let’s face it.  Be it due to Global Climate Change knocking us into the back bleachers; some giant planet-killer asteroid smashing into our little blue planet with extinction-event consequences; a good old-fashioned nuclear war; the cosmic forces of the universe deciding it’s time to shove a rogue black hole up our internationally communal ass; a pandemic that makes Ebola look as if the common cold; a solar storm launched off the sun and ripping across our relative backyard; a post-Rapture Hellscape of biblical proportions; maybe we’re all just somebody’s dream and the dreamer simply wakes up; all the sustenance on the planet gets wiped out and the only food supply are the leftovers from state fairs in the Deep South…  Whatever cataclysmic nightmare the Natural, Unnatural or the Supernatural throws at us, this much is certain: Humanity will eventually be on its own Endangered Species List.  Don’t bother packing your bags.  You probably won’t have the time to figure out if it’s the heavy coat or short sleeves for radioactive snow alternating with searing hellfire.  And even if you do, to where in the name of all that’s holy and unholy do you think you’re going to escape with your high-end custom-pink suitcase, anyway?

We’re all going to be “50 Shades of Fucked.”  Make peace with the concept, because there is no getting out of the way of The Four Horsemen once they pull their steeds out of the stable and start riding in earnest … … … FOR YOU, that is.

I, on the other hand, will do just fine enduring the tribulations of the End Times.  How is it that I have the audacity to exhibit such confidence in my ability to survive the Apocalypse whilst you will be going the way of the Dodo?

This is because I know something you don’t.  I’m prepared!  As civilization slips into an obscure footnote in history, I will have advantages that you will not.  Here are the…


#1 — BLEU CHEESE DRESSING: My survivalist’s cellar is stocked with copious amounts of liquefied fromage bleu or, as my American compatriots would say, “chunky blue cheese dressing.”

Oh, sure.  Go ahead and laugh at my compulsion.  This irrational rationale is a holdover from my coastal-Florida hurricane days.  For some reason, whenever a hurricane hit while I lived on the west coast of the Sunshine State or an earthquake rocked my world during the time I lived in Los Angeles, I’d feel the need to binge-consume bleu cheese dressing.

Think that’s weird.  Pretty sure you won’t be following me down into the bunker when the world’s big goodbye to everything comes knocking at Humankind’s door.


Chunky blue cheese dressing has H2O in it, protein and the mold Penicillium that is the foundation for our most basic antibiotic.  Not only that, but I’m pretty sure that if the Apocalypse turns out to be the Zombie Apocalypse, the large quantities of dressing continually oozing out of my pores will mask my “scent of the living” from the zombie hordes.

So you go right ahead and wind up on a zombie brunch menu.  As for me, I’m sticking to my cheesy delight.

#2 — PRINTED PORN: That’s right.  You chastised me for hanging on to my Playboy and Penthouse and Big-Ass Biker Babes of Sturgis magazine subscriptions.  When the end comes, what are you gonna do with your Internet streaming download on-demand portal porn bullshit, huh?  No electricity, muthafuckha!  Who’s the dumbass now?!

Nope.  I’m not carin’ and I’m not sharin’!  Cry me a river.  HA!

#3 — CANCER-STICK ADVANTAGE: Oooooooooh, Joe.  Those cigars are so disgusting.  Cigarettes are vile.  You’re ruining our meal.  You’re ruining the meeting.  You’re ruining our daughter’s wedding.  Well, it’s the end of the world and what’s that in my pocket?  Could it be … a lighter?!  Matches?!

Enjoy eating your uncooked rat in the darkness, loser!

#4 — “REAL” BOOKS: How’s that eBook working for you now?  When it all heads south, not only can I read my pulp-fiction printed wonder, I can burn the fucker if I need to.  But it’s not all bad; you can smash your Kindle and use the glass shards to stab the zombies in the head if things get too rough out there.  So at least you’ll have that going for you.

#5 — NO MORAL COMPASS: “You’re such a dickhead, Joe.  What a selfish narcissist!  You have no values.  No compassion for your fellow man.  NO.  MORAL.  COMPASS!

Yeah.  Right.  I wonder how that moral compass will be working out for you at The Big Ciao party when it’s every man for himself?  At least I’m not going to spend my final moments wandering the Earth ceaselessly stunned that I wasn’t taken up into Heaven in The Rapture.

Shocker.  Sucks to be you, huh?

Wonder what went wrong?

#6 — INSOMNIA: I don’t sleep.  Well, that’s not quite true.  To be more accurate, I don’t sleep at night.  This is a real bitch in the “normie” world.  But in the Apocalyptic Realm?  Let’s just say good luck to you trying to sleep with one eye open, my friend.

For you, it’ll be many a long, long, loooooooong night ahead.  For me, just another night in paradise.

Insomnia; it’s God’s way of keeping all the Day People safe from me and my ilk … … … or is it the other way ’round?

#7 — A BUCKET: When it all starts falling apart and collapsing around us, I’ll remember to take one with me as we scramble out onto the open road and you won’t.  Ooooh, take jugs of water.  Ooooh, remember the flashlight.  Ooooh, grab the gas can.  Ooooh, let’s go back; we forgot grandma….

A bucket.

I’ll have a bucket.

I know what you’re thinking with that smug look on your face.  That’s right.  Have your little moment at my expense.  We’ll see.

Because sometimes … sometimes … you just need a bucket.

Just.  You.  Wait.

#8 — ABSURDISM & TERROR DREAMS: I’ve been a practicing Absurdist suffering from night terrors for years.  The End Times’ madness that will drag you to Hell?  It all makes sense to me.  Just another day in a long succession of weird days.

For me, “A Nightmare on Elm Street” is a documentary.

You’ll look out onto the Apocalypse and see an Escher drawing.  Me?  I’ll see Wednesday.

#9 — UNLIKE YOU, I HAVE A PLAN: I’ve always wondered how much of myself I could consume and still live.

Will I taste like chicken … or is that just a cliché?

Hey, that’s MY plan!  Get your own damn plan!

Don’t judge.

And finally…

#10 — I’M A WRITER: So you’re thinking, “WRITER?!  What the fuck good is being a writer when the Hand of God reaches down upon the testicles of Humanity with the intent to tightly squeeze until the Collective We passes out in a puddle of our own urine?”

Au contraire.  A writer is used to struggling against insurmountable odds in order to merely survive, metaphorically speaking.  We — the ranks of the literary sleepless, unfulfilled and gin-soaked — look Satan in the eye and stare him down on almost a daily basis.

Nuclear winter, rising seas boiling red with the blood of the dead, an exploding sun, alien invasion, rotting reanimated corpses moaning in search of living flesh to devour, black holes mindlessly ingesting the planet only to shit us out into a point of singularity where the physics of the known universe don’t exist, killer comets and angry asteroids, pandemics, global terrorism, some asshole actually making time-travel a reality and fucking up the entire space-time continuum, everyone on the planet realizing that we’re ALL gay so that the penis-vagina convergence is no more…

BABY SHIT!  Try being rejected 13 times in one week by a bunch of literary agents who “just don’t get the whole Absurdism thing” and low-level gatekeepers for publishers that “don’t agree that there’s a big enough market for the Bizarro genre and even if there was, you used the word ‘cunt.’  We NEVER even talk to authors who use the word ‘cunt.'”

The Apocalypse for a writer?  Cakewalk, my friend.  A fucking cakewalk.

And that’s why I’ll survive The Absolute, Last, Final, Finishing, Concluding, Ultimate, Total, Utter, Super-Duper, Big Belly-Up End of Everything and you won’t.  I’m an Absurdist writing insomniac accustomed to terror sans any sort of moral compass with actual books and matches in hand and a shitload of lifesaving bleu cheese dressing … and a bucket … and porn.

Lots and lots of porn.


© 2014 Joseph P. Buonfiglio     All Rights Reserved.

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Ferdinand de Saussure's sign

by Joe Buonfiglio

With my sleep once again decimated by terror dream-driven insomnia, I found myself perusing my somewhat eclectic mix of books — collected in a most obsessive-compulsive manner over the years — in the hopes of finding a literary distraction to get me through the night.  It was there in the reading room that I stumbled across my embarrassingly dust-swathed signed edition of Douglas Adams’ The More Than Complete Hitchhiker’s Guide (to the Galaxy).

Ah, Douglas Adams.  He is truly one of my favorite authors.  The two main influences of my youth that ultimately led me to my life as a self-branded “Literary Absurdist” writer were the Pythons (“Monty Pythons Flying Circus“) and Douglas Adams.

I still clearly remember the night the late and unquestionably great Douglas Adams signed that book for me.  It was at a lecture he gave in Charlotte, North Carolina.  He spoke of his works, his “Digital Village” prophecy of the Internet’s promise of a “future” global-village site he intended to create, and so many more (at the time) visionary and often delightfully absurdist bits of craft that flowed forth from his brain that one did not want the night to end.  However, as with all good things, end it must; it was time for the obligatory Q&A.  And while there were many thoughtful questions from the audience followed by many insightful, humorous answers by the author, one gentleman’s input was — even now, decades later — unforgettable.

If you are familiar with Adams’ “Hitchhiker’s Guide,” then you know that in the book the supercomputer “Deep Thought” takes 7½ million years to compute the answer to “The Ultimate Question of Life, The Universe, and Everything” … which turns out to be 42.


To my mind, this is one of the most brilliant, memorable and enduring moments in absurdist fiction.

Now, this guy in the audience stands up and proceeds to spend a good twenty minutes explaining to Adams how he has spent years — quite literally years — calculating how Adams must have come up with the answer “42.”

With the man finally falling silent and exhausted by his lengthy attempt at what seemed to be an engineer’s version of enlightenment, the audience all looked to the renowned author to hear if this man’s detailed calculation was, in fact, how Adams arrived at Deep Thought’s comedic conclusion.

After expressing sincere wonder that a fan would put so much effort into such an evaluation of his work, Adams, unfortunately, in the name of honesty, felt compelled to inform the gentleman that his theory was off more than a bit.  Adams had simply picked the first number that popped into his head.  It could as easily have been 12 or 89 or 56½.  It didn’t matter.  The concept of a simple numerical answer just seemed absurdly funny to him.

Now, you have to understand; this guy had devoted YEARS of his life to figuring out how Adams had arrived at 42.  He stood there stunned — in shock, really — as if someone had just shoved a smelly gym-sock down his throat and cut off his air supply.  But before Adams could move on, the guy’s eyes rolled back in his head, he rebooted his brain, and he began arguing with the author as to why his calculations were correct and Adams’ explanation as to how he arrived at 42 was wrong.

“Look, I just like the way 42 sounded” didn’t work for this person.  He became so agitated at Adams’ refusal to acknowledge the genius behind his theory that the in-house security almost had to drag him out for disrupting the lecture.

So, what the fuck does this have to do with my little slice of Internet heaven, “Potpourri of the Damned”?

Well, it seems people have been sending me emails and direct messages via various social-media platforms with their theories as to how I came up with the title of my little offbeat dark-humor blog…

My pothead friends and followers assure me that it’s a reference to the smoke emitted from sparking up a nice, fat blunt.

Sorry, dude.  Don’t get your nose out of joint, but you’re wrong.

“Nose out of joint.”  See what I did there? … … … Yeah, right, like you don’t think you’re funnier than you are when you’re stoned.

My “hang out at the bar slamming back Buffalo wings and cheap beer until last call” friends insist “Potpourri of the Damned” is a reference to the end product of some of our more robust flatulence-release tournaments, the flame-enhanced competitive division in particular.  While I’m up for barroom fart-lighting challenges as much as the next guy, I’m afraid that this, too, is an incorrect assertion in relation to my blog’s somewhat unique titling nomenclature.

Some of my more religious associates have absolute faith in their insistence that I am making a statement whereby there is hope for all sinners condemned to an Afterlife of torment in the everlasting Lake of Fire.  They believe that my symbolic offering of a slight, albeit fragrant gesture of light within the most unbearably sulfuric stench of Hell’s dark promise is why this blog is so named.

First of all, I’m an Agnostic.  I’m not so sure that the concept of Hell in the Judeo-Christian sense of the word comes with any credibility.  Even if I was completely onboard with the notion of Satan’s Funhouse, I sure as hell (pardon the pun) wouldn’t belittle an eternity of writhing in agony by simply offering up some dried posies as a respite.  I would probably name it something more like “Winning Lottery Ticket of the Damned” or “Cure for Cancer of the Damned” or “Instantly Lose Thirty Pounds of the Damned.” “Three-Way of the Damned” is even a more likely title than my current one if I actually thought it was my path to be doing God’s public relations with a blog.  I mean shit, how shallow do you think I am?

My friends with more Eastern philosophies manifesting their core belief system are quite certain the “Potpourri of the Damned” title is Zen in nature.  Balance.  Lesser opposites synergistically combining to create a stronger whole.  Yin-yang, if you will.

Not even close!  Anyone who has known me for any length of time recognizes and accepts that my yin must have strangled my yang in the womb.

I’ve had some parents and grandparents of young children tell me that the name of my blog surely must represent the innocence of youth in contrast with the oft-jaded experience granted to the elderly.


The lightness of ignorance distinct from the burdensome heaviness of knowledge.


Life vs. Death?


Cold vs. Heat.


Passive vs. Active?  Matter vs. Spirit?  Female vs. Male?

No. No.  NO!

Look, as my beloved Douglas Adams’ attempted when he professed the reality of the situation to that sad and exceedingly disappointed little man in Charlotte that day, you must come to terms with the fact that I just like the way “Potpourri of the Damned” sounds.

I’m an Absurdist with a strange sense of humor. To me, “Potpourri of the Damned” is perfection, a sliver of Bizarro Heaven.  Seriously, if you aren’t just a teensy-weensy bit curious about a blog called “Potpourri of the Damned,” then there’s not much I can do for you in the weeks, months and hopefully years ahead of this blog.  But if you read through the archives of this random slice of the cosmic pie and decide it’s for you, then cry havoc and let slip the meerkat statues of Mrs. Penderghast’s 6th grade Advanced Ceramics 101 class.

Damn it!  I knew I should have called it “Potter’s Wheel of the Damned”!

“Kiln of the Accursed”?

“Smock of the Messy Extracurricular Cour— Oh, fuck it!


© 2014 Joseph P. Buonfiglio     All Rights Reserved.

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