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.


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.


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.


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.


This is Only a Test

by Joe Buonfiglio

This is a test of the EMERGENCY BLOGCAST SYSTEM. This is only a test. Had this been an actual literary-absurdist emergency, you would have been directed to your nearest alternative-reality fallout shelter for cosmetic surgery to enable advanced melatonin levels in your genitalia.

Reality? Reality adjacent?

Not even close.

Look at this as sort of an experiment in the philosophical realm driven by the author’s punishing insecurity. Given this…

If a tree falls in a forest and no one is around to hear it, does it make a sound?

Likewise, as a variation on a theme for this philosophic conundrum…

If a blog is written and no one is around to read it, was it ever posted?

Sure, Friedrich Nietzsche declared, “God is dead,” as did the cover of Time magazine query about the matter in 1966. But as philosophy and theology bang heads over the state of God’s health, the same dispute must be applied to the epicenter of the digital literati:

Is the blog… DEAD?

And if not the collective “blog” and those toiling away in the blogosphere, then what about that which you now read… or don’t (as the fallen tree might observe)? Has this blog, my child so aptly named Potpourri of the Damned, simply run its course? Have I gotten too weird for some of you, perhaps too political for others?

Am I only doing this for myself at this point? That possibility is a rather chilling prospect, I must admit.

I have a decent number of subscribers, but there are rarely any comments submitted by them. Is that natural? After all, I’m not a celebrity and you’re all busy people. I do sometimes wonder if you all follow me and this strange little blogtastic machine out of not sincere interest, but some warped sense of politeness? Although, in the modern age of social media, even the casual observer can see that doesn’t make much sense. Hell, do you even read the thing?

Is there anybody out there?

Perhaps that is an answer I’d rather not know, eh?

So, until next week’s post, PLEASE STAND BY….


© 2017 Joseph P. Buonfiglio     All Rights Reserved.



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.

JOE’S BAR (blog)

by Joe Buonfiglio

My Potpourri of the Damned blog started off as a simple idea. It was to be a weird forum for releasing upon an unsuspecting world the Absurdist tidbits of darkly humorous mayhem theretofore buried in the deeper recesses of my warped little brain; somewhere between a lark and a malady.


This con-man simpleton overtakes my soul generating a combination of bemusement, fear and intense anger driven to the point of seditious hatred. Watching this orange-tinged putz and his idiot-convention entourage systematically clog America’s collective toilet by shoving all that’s good about this country down it with the plunger of his narcissistic Trumpian ego sends my fingers tap-tap-tapping furiously upon my computer’s keyboard to the point of rendering the action on the typewriter-esque buttons nearly unresponsive.

TRANSLATION: Our dumbass POTUS makes me more than a little crazy.

Next thing I know, I’ve endangered the absurdist-humor brand of my Potpourri of the Damned blog with numerous anti-45 rants.

In my last blog-post, I teased that this — my (AKA site — would be evolving into “Something absurdly wonderful. Something wonderfully absurd,” and Potpourri of the Damned will MOST DEFINITELY be a part of that. However, if my head is not to blow clean off my shoulders in a blood-pressure rush that could launch a ballistic missile armed with the most nuclear of warheads, I will still need to find a home, some suitable outlet, for all my anti-Trump, anti-societal-injustice, anti-anything-that-really-pisses-me-off-to-the-point-of-vigilantism rants. And so, welcome to…

When introduced into the new website coming within the next month or two, Joe’s Bar Blog will be the new home for me to … well … get things off my chest.

Joe’s Bar Blog will be written while I’m sitting at my bar (Yes, at the time of this writing, I own a bar.), and will feature whatever beverage I am imbibing at the time of the given literary endeavor.  For example, at this moment, I am sipping upon the cool libation that is a 12-year-old special reserve Jameson Irish whiskey on the rocks. Additionally, while Potpourri of the Damned comes out (for the most part) every Wednesday, Joe’s Bar Blog is written “as the spirit … and spirits … move me.” This creative process will most likely lead to such commentary as:

Hey, Alt-Right. Looks like your boy Trump is kicking you and Bannon to the back of the bus.

How’s it feel?



You can’t even organize an Easter egg event? How the hell are you going to organize foreign policy … or a war?


What are Trump’s plans for America? Follow the money. Slash the State Department’s budget; raise the military’s by billions.

Any questions?

As well as…

Listening to Donald Trump speak, I now realize that George W. Bush was relatively an outright intellectual.


It’s 12:24 a.m.

… and Trump just dropped in to see what condition my sedition was in.

Not to mention…

The Right is devolving into Theatre of the Absurd. They believe in the Rapture, so get on with it; God can have them all ASAP.


Donald Trump criticizing Chuck Todd’s appearance is like the Alien calling the Predator ugly.


“Remnants of treasonous criminality” refers to:
A) Trump
B) His administration
C) Me on the toilet the morning after 20-alarm chili night

Or perhaps even…

AGENT: “You’re ruining your writer’s brand with all this Trump shit!”

PEER: “Wait. You have an agent?”

WIFE: “Wait. You’re a writer?”

So keep your eye out for Joe’s Bar Blog in the new that is on its way to this space. As Potpourri of the Damned again reverts back to content designed to engulf your grey cells in that which is madly absurd, Joe’s Bar Blog will delve into that which will make you absurdly mad.

What’s your pleasure?


© 2017 Joseph P. Buonfiglio     All Rights Reserved.

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


…sort of

 Birthday Blues kid

by Joe Buonfiglio

I am one of those folks who simply does not take his birthday well. There’ll be none of that accepting of the passage of time with style and grace bullshit going on here. As The Black Wave of depression rushes over me to swamp the ship of my existence, I usually crawl into a bottle of Irish whiskey the night before and stay there for about 48 hours in a desperate attempt to avoid all those with a cheerful “HAPPY BIRTHDAY!” gleefully waiting to burst over their lips.

Thoughtless pricks.

So whenever my birthday happens to fall on my blog-post day as it does this year, I use it as an excuse to enable the more indolent side of my nature and hang a “Gone Fishing” sign out on that edition of Potpourri of the Damned.

This was supposed to be one of THOSE birthday blog blow-off days.

However, as I slogged through the inky pages of the local newspaper having stopped on the obituary page as — for some unknown reason other than possibly the excessive fear surrounding the realization of my own mortality — has now evolved into yet one more obsessive indulgence as I get older, my teenage son took a moment to divert his eyes from his phone’s touchscreen to take notice of this.

“Jesus, Dad,” he uttered with the confusion of a deer in the headlights of a semi barreling down on it on a hot summer night, “the newspaper? The obits? How the hell old are you anyway?”

Little bastard.

Yes, he’s six-foot three, but he’s still a little bastard for saying that … and on my birthday, too.

How could I let such an insensitive interruption of my monumental display of lethargy go without the proper documentation for posterity?  I can’t … which is why you’re left reading this inane bit of self-indulgent drivel at this very moment.

Oh well. Depression’s ugly face is at my back psychically willing me to return beneath the sheets I arose from just a scant few hours ago. Besides, this bottle of Jameson isn’t gonna drink itself, now is it? So happy birthday to me … and to all a good night.

Joe out.


© 2016 Joseph P. Buonfiglio     All Rights Reserved.

.Sin título-1.  .twitter-buttonyoutubelogo-20120605T021741-6mjjuus.


 (AKA Betting Against the House)

Joker in the deck

by Joe Buonfiglio


Now before you have a knee-jerk reaction leading to your writing in the response-comment section something intimating that I should have unprotected sex with a member of a reptilian species, and then promptly “unfollowing” whilst vowing to bop me in the head with a rock sending me plummeting down the mountainside to my death a la Lord of the Flies without so much as a “poor Piggy” being muttered under your breath in fleeting remorse; let me explain.

After your initial “Go fuck yourself!” rejoinder to my original declaration in this post, you may have noticed the contradictory nature of my opening statement — my opening salvo, really — in that I started off my writing this week’s blog-post by announcing, in no uncertain terms, that I would not be writing a blog-post this week.

Now, if instead of stopping to calm the waters of audience opinion with an explanation or some form of mea culpa, I had simply continued to blog about how I would not be blogging even more vehemently than ever, that would be “doubling down.”

“Completely absurd!” you say. “The approach of an immature child.”

I couldn’t agree more … if it were any other time in politics.

However, as led by the example of a certain US presidential candidate at the time of this writing, we seem to have entered what I see as A NEW AGE OF DOUBLING DOWN.

If we are to follow the lead of such narcissistic fame-whores, not only should we never, EVER admit to even the smallest of mistakes; we should hammer you so badly about being so wrong at pointing out even our most blatant errors screaming “Unfair treatment!” until a throng of followers wants to run YOU out on a rail for having the elitist journalistic gall to bring it to light in the first place.

This approach used to make me furious as I saw it as evidence of the conspiratorial and purposeful dismantling of our education system in order to create an electorate of angry dumbasses that can be easily manipulated even within the confines of a free press and a democratic society. However, remembering the wisdom of the great huckster P. T. Barnum, “There’s a sucker born every minute.”

So by God, you’d be nuts not to take advantage of the willfully dimwitted.

Now on my newfound quest to “join ’em” who double down in order to gain the upper hand, I, too, have entered the metaphoric temple of Narcissus.

You say it’s absurd that I wrote a blog-post this week stating that I will not be writing a blog-post this week. I simply respond, “I never wrote that.”

“But, it’s online,” you reply with that delightful expression of confusion on your face. “It has a ‘by Joe Buonfiglio’ byline. Now you say you didn’t write it?”

“I never said that. I never said that. You people say this stuff. I don’t know where you get it from.”

And should you accuse me of road rage or shooting my neighbor over his dog pooping on my lawn for the millionth time….

“I was not at all angry. And I don’t even own a car, let alone a gun.”

“But Joe,” you say, “your banged up car is in your driveway and your literally smoking gun is on the front seat.”

“I never did that. You’re really, really unfair to Joe Buonfiglio; I don’t know why. Somebody’s really doing some really bad fact-checking on your team.”

Or, perhaps I’ll shift the adverse focus to you by using the name-calling bully’s technique of negative labelling.

“Dad,” my disappointed progeny proclaims, “You ate all the ice cream again!”

“There he goes again, my lying son. He’s such a lyin’ son, isn’t he folks?”

“The ice cream was full before you entered the kitchen,” says my annoyed wife, “and now it’s empty.”

“There she goes, the crooked wife taking the lying son’s side. Crooked wife crooked wife crooked wife!”

She looks at me with a scowl, before uttering, “But you still have melted chocolate ice cream on your mustache.”

“No I don’t!”

“You took a selfie of it all smeared on your face and posted it online saying how delicious it was.”

“Where do you get this stuff? I don’t even like chocolate.”

“Chocolate has been your favorite since we were dating!”

“Vanilla has always been my favorite, crooked wifey.”

“We had to change our wedding cake from Italian rum cake to a chocolate cake, because you’re such a chocolate nut!”

“No we didn’t, crooked wife. Are you bleeding down there or something?”

I’m not going to be able to insult my way into the power position, you say? Just watch me, stupid reader.

Hey, I know what you’re thinking: This goes against the way it has always been done. It’s a big middle finger in the face of the power structure. It’s betting against the house, so to speak.

Betting against the house — be it in blackjack, politics or life — eventually goes against you, doesn’t it? What seems as if a winning streak goes sour if you don’t know when to abandon that strategy, if you stay in that game too long, no? Should I take pause in that I have lost damn near every time I have doubled down in a casino?

Not true, stupid reader. I ALWAYS win big.


Then again, maybe I should be content to simply remain the joker in the deck. Pretending to be a king comes at a price.

Certain of us on the national stage would do well to remember that.


© 2016 Joseph P. Buonfiglio     All Rights Reserved.

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


death bench

by Joe Buonfiglio

The wind has gone still.

The outdoor cacophony of neighborhood lawnmowers and leaf blowers and barking dogs and rumbling delivery trucks forming annoyances in and distractions for my otherwise imagination-engaged brain are suddenly silent.

The office clock that incessantly ticks in the background is conspicuous by its abrupt muting.

The labored breathing sounds of this perpetually allergic man aren’t just alarmingly shallow; they’re imperceptible.

In addition, I have writer’s block.

No, you don’t understand. Yes, I am a writer. No, I do not get blocked. I NEVER get writer’s block. To the contrary, I don’t know when to stop writing, not find it difficult to start. “Killing my darlings” editing down is my problem, NOT struggling to fill a page.

Any one of these by themselves is not cause for concern. However, taking into account the simultaneous manifestation of each event, it begs the question…

Am I … DEAD?

At this moment, I gaze upon the framed $25 check I received for the first story I had published in which I was bestowed with actual payment to write. (No, it was not my last check, smartass.) It was many years ago from the publisher of Skylight magazine out of St. Augustine, Florida, for a fun little piece about fictional theoretical formulas relating to the physics of cats titled, “Feline Physics.”

Now I sit in my chilly little office on an unseasonably cold spring day staring at the blank digital page …. dead. My brain appears to have seized up even on the most instinctual level, let alone giving way to any higher functions such as creativity.

Is this the end of the line?

Oh, I could resort to mindlessly pounding on my computer keyboard and banging out some fart jokes, throw out the word “FUCK!” every other sentence or once again flirt with the notion of the masturbatory practices of the Emperor penguin. And believe me; I’m certainly not beyond ANY of that should the spirit move my Muse in such a direction. However, at the moment, those don’t offer any inspiration. It would only be a forced march that you’d all see through instantly.

Even my fallback monkey-fucker witticisms don’t seem to offer a hope of bringing a smile to my face.

An emotionless face.

A face reflecting an impotency of thought.

Artistically dead.


But if I’m dead, where am I?

Am I in Heaven?

No, there’s no beer and pizza.


No. There’s no reality TV.

Am I in New Jersey?

No, it doesn’t smell bad.  Well, no worse than my office usually smells.

So, am I really dead?  I must be, because I never, ever get writer’s block.


Did I just finish my blog post?

Never mind.

Oh, and the office clock’s batteries are just out of juice … … … as, apparently, am I.

© 2016 Joseph P. Buonfiglio     All Rights Reserved.

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



by Joe Buonfiglio


That’s kind of an odd phrase, don’t you think? Meaning “to quit,” this idiom originates from the world of boxing.  From the side, a boxer’s “cornerman” coach or trainer can literally throw the towel used to clean blood and sweat off the pugilist’s face during the course of a prizefight into the ring to signal the fighter has had enough.  He quits.  The fight is over.

It used to be a sponge in the old days. “Throwing in the sponge,” however, seems even weirder to me … and significantly more disgusting.

Anyway, I’ve been wondering of late if it is time for me to throw in the towel, idiomatically speaking. No, I’m not talking suicide here (although, with me that is never completely off the table).  I’m talking professionally.

Has my literary vocation simply run its course?

Empires rise. Empires fall.  Is it time to take my writing quill and lay it to rest beside the bones of Caesar — or perhaps more appropriately, the bones of Douglas Adams?

I used to feel as I imagined God did; creating something from nothing, out of not much more than the spark of an idea and the sheer force of my mind.

But now?

Is there more pain than pleasure derived from starting my day staring at the blank page? Is writing becoming more selling than literary craft?  What if I just woke up one day and stopped doing it.  Quit.  Threw in the towel.

Would anyone care?

Would anyone even notice?

This isn’t merely a pity party. A person reaches a stage of his or her life where, with more days behind them than in front of them, they wonder if they’re on track or so far off the mark that a course correction may be out of the question.

Too many bad decisions.

Too many vices and self-indulgences.

Too many doughnuts.

And that got me to thinking; what other things could I be doing with my life if I wasn’t writing … this … this blog, right now?

Sure, I could be out on the road in search of coffee and doughnuts, or even circumstance that rewarded my shaved primate fetish. But, is that enough?  Wouldn’t it take more to get me to abandon the calling of a lifetime?

I suppose I could hunt down, torture and ultimately murder Beppo, the clubfoot circus clown. That might not only be fun, but serve to end the tortured nightmares that have plagued me since the days of my youth.

I could fulfill my dream of selling fresh bait out of the back of a 1972 Dodge Dart to help out needy anglers on piers and docks across this great nation of ours.

Practicing my erotic massage technique on the corpse of a clubfooted circus clown I just happen to be in possession of could be good for a few hours a day.

I could spend hours and hours and hours on social media such as Facebook and Twitter.


I do that now. And that’s writing, technically, so I’d probably have to stop doing that.

I always thought being a baker might be nice. Perhaps I could become a Danish pastry chef.  That’s a Danish-pastry chef, not a Danish pastry-chef.  Not to knock the Danes, but I’m not moving all the way to Denmark just to get a flakier crust for some culinary hobby I engaged in on a whim in order to—  Oh, fuck it.  I can buy goddamn pastries in bulk at Costco, for Christ’s sake.  It’s certainly not a valid reason to give up writing.

What if I took an artistically tangential approach and became an urban-wildlife photographer. I could waste away hour after hour taking snaps of statue-defiling pigeons and their various defecation methodologies, or thoroughly exam squirrel nuts in all their nuanced—

I just wrote a whole blog, didn’t I?

I just wrote a whole blog piece based on the premise that I would no longer write blog pieces, didn’t I?

SON OF A BITCH!  This isn’t a vocation, it’s a goddamn addiction!

Well, no sir!  Not me, brother!  I’m no literary junkie.  I can stop anytime I want.


Just because I wrote this damn thing, doesn’t mean I have to post it. That’s right. I’m in control of my destiny.  I simply won’t allow the fucker to see the light of digital day.  Let it lay fallow, for all I care.  Let it rot on the vine.

Nope, I am simply not going to po


© 2016 Joseph P. Buonfiglio     All Rights Reserved.

Sin título-1       twitter-button

This is NOT a Blog, Dammit!

Crush paper

by Joe Buonfiglio

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

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

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

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

I like Twitter.  Twitter’s fun.


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

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

Hell no!

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

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

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



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

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



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



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

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


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

HER: “It’s almost 2 p.m.”

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


Twitter teaches that life is an absurd waste of time.

Facebook teaches to burden others with that absurdity.

Instagram teaches jack shit.


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

One by one, all of my heroes abandon me.


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

*an inspirational tweet by Joe Buonfiglio*


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

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


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

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


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

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





ME: “Shut up!”


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



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


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

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


I think rainy Mondays are wonderful.

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


You know what the funny thing about life is?

I got nothin’.


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

Weird, huh?



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


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



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

*Checks for abs.*


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

Except in Arkansas.  In Arkansas, it absolutely is.


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

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


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


ME: “What if you’re wrong?”

HER: “I don’t understand.”

ME: “What if you’ve made a mistake?”

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


Twitter is to Facebook as my colon is to:

A) shit

B) hyperspace

C) a duck named Lou

D) the Erie Canal

E) Holy fuck, I got drunk last night!


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


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

Oh, and cannoli.


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



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

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



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



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


Trust me on this.


… and on and on and on….

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



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

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


© 2015 Joseph P. Buonfiglio     All Rights Reserved.

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by Joe Buonfiglio

I recently received some unsolicited feedback about Potpourri of the Damned. Some of my regular Patrons d’ Absurdity were bitchin’ about the fact that this little blog of mine isn’t so … well … little. They were mostly positive in noting that they felt my shit is funny or at least interesting within its vulgar weirdness, but that the posts tend to be way too long for a blog; they read more like short stories than a simple blog post.

Awwwww. Do my meanderings into the realm of cerebral flatulence tax your poor little attention spans and make your “brains hurt” in the Gumby-esque sense of the phrase pilfered from the world of Monty Python?

Does the quantity matter if you feel the quality is there, or do you opt for the CliffsNotes version whenever it’s available?

Doesn’t content count? Would you say the Bible is too long? That the plays of William Shakespeare are too long? The works of Tolstoy?

Okay, those are dreadful examples. ALL of those are way too long to the point of mind-numbing tedium.

The Bible? It takes forever — FOR. EV. VER. — to get to the Resurrection. There’s a lot of creating, deciding if it’s any good, and then naming shit, bagging Egypt, grabbing some rules-of-the-road tablets, giving Santa a reason to do his thing, walking around the wilderness chattin’ up that one guy in your crew that always tries to get you to do the bad stuff, a little wine and bread action, something about a pilot washing his hands before taking off and— Look, I’m really not trying to be blasphemous here, but talk about burying the lead.

The Bard? Well, Big Will, if you prick us, do we not bleed? If you tickle us, do we not laugh? If you bore us to tears, do we not slit our own wrists to put an end to the bad jokes and melodramatic overreach?

Then there is Count Lev Nikolayevich Tolstoy…. Leo, baby, give it a rest. Next time do War OR Peace, but not both. You may be regarded as one of the greatest novelists of all time, but what’s with all the words. It’s no wonder Anna Karenina threw herself under that train.

Even with these poor examples, however, you get my drift; there is often purpose and good reason behind what may seem idiotic and inane on the surface when it comes to the length of a literary work.

First of all, I’d like to point out that unlike other blogs, mine is weekly, not daily (or hourly in the case of some of the more needy or OCD-driven bloggers), so I hope that affords me some leeway in the word-count department. Besides, being weekly, I want to make sure that you get your money’s worth … not that you cheap bastards aren’t getting all this quality humor for free, mind you.

So if you want short, I suggest you pick up a Little Golden Book. Might I recommend The Little Red Hen or The Shy Little Kitten. Perhaps they would be more to your liking. (Now, I have to admit that The Little Red Caboose is a real page-turner. That’s some quality shit right there.) That should satisfy the soundbite-length-only needs of your self-induced Attention Deficit Disorder. Or better yet, check out my “140 characters or less” entries on my Twitter page at (@JoeBuonfiglio). You want your humor in exceedingly short bursts? I’m virtually the Henny Youngman of Absurdist humor on the old tweet-machine. It’s as if I—

Son of a bitch. I am SO sorry. I did it again. This blog post is getting too fucking long, isn’t it?

Okay, I can see I’m losing you. No. Wait. Please don’t go. Let me just leave you with this tidbit of wisdom from the bowels of the literati. If you want to expand your mind — even in the puerile world of dark, ribald humor — you will need to adopt and nurture within yourself the patience and the perseverance to—



Uh, hello? Are you still there?


Dammit. I had to go with War and Peace again, didn’t I?

Fucking Tolstoy.


© 2015 Joseph P. Buonfiglio     All Rights Reserved.

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