SIDESHOW OF THE (Absurdly) DAMNED!

by Joe Buonfiglio

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Explore the magnificence of the incredible shrinking newspaper industry.

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

Quake at the sight of the House of Wax Condoms.

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

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

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

… and a day-old Dunkin’ jelly-filled.

 

© 2017 Joseph P. Buonfiglio     All Rights Reserved.

 

I CAN’T TOP THAT!

EVERY ABSURDIST HAS HIS LIMITS

by Joe Buonfiglio

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

NAZIS, FOR CHRIST’S SAKE!

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

Are you fucking kidding me?!

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

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

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

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

Besides.

Everybody loves The Stooges.

 

© 2017 Joseph P. Buonfiglio     All Rights Reserved.

 

Pencils Down, My Absurdist Friends

by Joe Buonfiglio

Time’s up, my fellow Absurdists. Time to turn in those philosophic test papers.

Didn’t finish?

Didn’t even start?

Too bad. So sad. The cosmic forces of the universe say take your “F” like a grownup and stop your whining. They couldn’t care less. Next time set your existential alarm clock or just get it over with and become a Nihilist.

Me? Oh, for me it was like “WHAT THE HELL IS WRONG WITH YOU PEOPLE?! YOU ACT AS IF YOU’VE NEVER SEEN A NAKED WRITER BRUSH HIS TEETH IN THE PUBLIC LIBRARY BEFORE!

Why? How did you start your day?

What’s the point to all this?

Nothing. Not a goddamn thing!

And that’s the point.

Look, consider this…

Today I watched a truly terrible little Italian film titled ABSURD released in 1981. Here is the trailer for this delightfully cheap little piece of cinematic drivel:

Now in all fairness, original tape of this film goes for big bucks and is considered an honest-to-God collectible by fans. And if you’re anything like me — unable to go to your grave without having consumed every horrifically produced B-movie in existence from the cinematic world of the bizarrely damned — and, after the trailer, you think you might possibly muster up the strength to mentally absorb the entire film in all its splendorous glory as it unabashedly attempts to rip off John Carpenter’s Halloween, I’ll place it at the bottom of this blog-post for all to… well… uh… enjoy?

Now, what drew me to ABSURD was not just its title. ABSURD was one of those films that became known in the United Kingdom as a “video nasty,” a colloquial designation for films (distributed on videocassette) that were deemed unacceptably offensive and judged utterly obscene by religious organizations, the press and various conservative commentators due to the excessively violent nature of their content. And in 1984, ABSURD was actually prosecuted under the Obscene Publications Acts.

What struck me was that when compared to today’s grisly slasher films, one has to wonder what all the ruckus was back in the 1980s; ABSURD seems somewhat tame and rather silly now.

Have we all just become desensitized to gory fictional terror when, in light of today’s real-world horrors, it seems on par with learning your A-B-Cs on Sesame Street? And if this is the case, what does that mean for the state of Absurdism today?

ABSURDISM is defined not only as “of an intentionally ridiculous or bizarre behavior or character,” but also “the belief that human beings exist in a purposeless, chaotic universe.” This is the core tenet of vocational existence for we professional Absurdists.

However, is the current state of global affairs — particularly in the Age of Trumpism — simply proving Absurdists right … or rendering us obsolete? How can anything we generate in theory or philosophy via fictional expression for the purpose of demonstration or enlightenment utilizing the literary, screen or stage media vehicles compare to the actual, seemingly random madness and irrational pandemonium being generated by the players in our world today. We Absurdists of the modern era engage in mere philosophic parlor tricks compared to the unparalleled insanity demonstrated by those “real” people who see such absolute logic in their daily exhibitions of unfounded irrationality.

And so…

Well…

I’m afraid it’s time for the metaphoric cheap gold watch and early retirement, my fellow gentry of Absurdism.  Life’s test for you is fait accompli. Or, as our Italian filmmaker friends might say, “Destino completo.”

Matite giù. Pencils down.

 

© 2017 Joseph P. Buonfiglio     All Rights Reserved.

MY SUNDAY BRUNCH WITH GOD

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

by Joe Buonfiglio

Sunday. 11:37 a.m.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Huh? …. Oh. Right. Sorry.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“It sounds so vulgar when you say it.”

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

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

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

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

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

Oh, how I know.

There will be duck-fucking in my future.

 

© 2017 Joseph P. Buonfiglio     All Rights Reserved.

Stream of MY Consciousness?

by Joe Buonfiglio

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

Not a damn thing.

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

ALL. DAY. LONG.

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

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

STREAM OF CONSCIOUSNESS.

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

So, here we go:

Joe Buonfiglio’s
Stream of MY Consciousness

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

Wait.

Those were Whoppers, not Milk Duds.

My bad.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Now where did I put those WHOPPERS?

 

© 2017 Joseph P. Buonfiglio     All Rights Reserved.

WHO AM I?

(And It Ain’t Pretty!)

by Joe Buonfiglio

At this point in my life, I am fully cooked; I am who I am. Oh sure, a few changes here and there to sand down some of the shaper edges might be possible in the time remaining to me, my steps yet left to traverse the mortal coil. However, for the most part, I’m pretty much all in and playing the hand I’ve been dealt.

So, who — or what — is it I think I see looking back at me when I gaze into the mirror?

Sigh.

I have become an obscene thing; a vulgar ghost floating across the Earth giving the living the middle finger even though I know they can’t see me.

I am the last taco shell into which the overly greasy end-of-the-day meat has been placed and handed to some unsuspecting stoner through the roach coach window; both of us blissfully unaware of the emergency room visit that awaits us a scant hour or so from now.

I am the makeup upon the serial-killer clown’s face, unable to scream to the children, “Run! Do not accept his offer to take you to his funhouse just a little bit deeper into the woods!”

I am the night terror that was meant to be a premonition of what to avoid in the new day, but forgotten as the sun rises… and you board the plane uneasy, but trusting.

I am the wisp of flatulence camouflaged by the on-screen explosion that you hoped would render me unnoticed in the crowded movie theater, but which betrays you by silently screaming out with a stench to all in close proximity that you have once again fallen prey to your concession-stand chili-nacho fries addiction.

I am the ’65 pop-top Mustang that once drew every eye as it slowly cruised down the beachside boulevard on a steamy summer’s night, but now just slowly rusts into the earth nothing more than a nest for a few rats and one slowly dying rabid raccoon.

I am a malted milkshake ordered, delivered ice cold and delicious, but never consumed as the voice on the smartphone says, “I’ve got some bad news.”

I am the only barstool that no one is allowed to sit upon out of respect in memoriam for the one who virtually owned it years before, a tab now never to be paid.

I am the flypaper hanging in the old gas station that the interstate bypassed years ago, clinging to the illusion of purpose with the same futile tenacity of the station’s aged, sole proprietor.

I am the water theme park closed for the winter, eagerly awaiting the return of the children, unaware that the beachfront property on which I stand is far more valuable to the condominium developer’s 55+ plans than the laughter of children.

I am the cold beer opened, forgotten, and left to go warm and stale.

I am the paper graded with an “A” turned in the day before by the normally failing student, but never picked up as a sign of a potential turning point thanks to the lead foot of a teenager now part of a tapestry of wreckage down a ravine where his body won’t be discovered for days.

I am popcorn regrettably ordered without extra butter; a good idea not nearly as satisfying as it could have been.

I am the joke that was once funny, but over time lost its context and now barely makes sense.

However, I am a writer. I have hope. Every blank page makes me feel as if God to the universe I am about to create. That is why…

Why.

I am.

Still.

Here.

 

© 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

The Earth is Flat (Like Your Head)

The Song of the
SCIENCE DENIER

by Joe Buonfiglio

As sad a commentary as it is for its people, the United States of America has clearly entered into the Age of the Science Denier. We no longer keep politics in the halls of government, keep God in the pews of church and allow science to guide us through the realities of the physical world. Those in power have not just pivoted away from our revered “separation of church and state,” but now impose the blurred line of the Church-State Theocratic Complex upon the fact-based laboratory of science in an attempt to bend it to the will of both God and lobbyist.

If the human race is to survive this onslaught of shortsighted, simple-minded idiocy, we must all fight back within our limited, but passionate capacity to do so. As I am a writer, my contribution to the cause is literary. So along with the brilliant musical composition, vocals and performance of Paul Austin Kelly, I humbly provided lyrics and Unintentional Martyrs™ was born. One of its best creations is the pro-science satire:

SCIENCE DENIER
by
Unintentional Martyrs™

 

Please explain what you had in mind

     When you said Global Warming ain’t real.

It seems you won’t be happy

     ’til Miami’s gone and our skins peel.

 

I guess what’s old is new again

     ’cause the Earth is flat’s what you said.

But it’s not our world that lacks curvature;

   The flat you sense is just your head.

 

Science denier, science denier;

     Liar, liar, pants on fire.

Science denier, science denier,

     Do you believe it’s all God’s will

Or did you just take a stupid pill?

 

Evolution is just a bad dream.

     There’s no way you’re a monkey’s son.

Darwin was just another jerk-off;

     Have those finches on the run.

 

Vaccines are of the Devil.

     They do more harm than good.

Then your kid came down with the German measles.

     Guess you somehow misunderstood.

 

Science denier, science denier;

     Liar, liar, pants on fire.

Science denier, science denier,

     Do you believe it’s all God’s will

Or did you just take a stupid pill?

 

You say dinosaurs walked our blue-green Earth

     Less than six thousand years ago.

And man saddled the beasts, rode them like tame horses

     At the Moses’ Dino Wild West Show.

 

Climate change just isn’t true;

     This is something of which you know.

It’s all only Liberal propaganda;

     Fox News done told you so.

 

You deny all the science.

     You drive bigger and bigger cars.

Thanks to you we must all leave the Earth,

     So now you can go fuck up Mars.

 

Science denier, science denier;

     Liar, liar, pants on fire.

Science denier, science denier,

     Do you believe it’s all God’s will

Or did you just take a stupid pill?

 

Science denier, science denier;

     Liar, liar, pants on fire.

Science denier, science denier,

     Do you believe it’s all God’s will?

 

Science denier, science denier….

Want to hear the song in its entirety? It’s on my YouTube page at: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OM9xbx5Qp4w

Or, just listen here:

 

Wait. You want to OWN the Science Denier song FOR ONLY 99¢? Well, looks as if this is your lucky day! You can buy this and all of the great Unintentional Martyrs™ songs here: https://bamazoo.com/unintentionallymartyredmusic

 

Lyrics © 2016 Unintentional Martyrs™ All Rights Reserved.
Music recording/performance 2016 Unintentional Martyrs™   All Rights Reserved.

 

© 2017 Joseph P. Buonfiglio     All Rights Reserved.
All photos/videos are © 2017 Unintentional Martyrs™ 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.

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.

AND THEN ALONG COMES DONALD TRUMP.

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 JoeBuonfiglio.com (AKA LiteraryAbsurdist.com) 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?

Ironic?

And…

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

And…

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.

And…

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.

Or…

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

And…

“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 JoeBuonfiglio.com 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.

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