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.

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

SOMETHING (DELIGHTFULLY STRANGE) THIS WAY COMES….

SOMETHING ABSURDLY WONDERFUL.

SOMETHING WONDERFULLY ABSURD.

 

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

PLEASE STAND BY….

— Joe Buonfiglio

Tryin’ to Catch Me Dietin’ Dirty

(with apologies to Chamillionaire)

by Joe Buonfiglio

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

COP: “License and registration.”

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

COP: “License and registration.”

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

ME: “Yes, officer. Here you go, sir.”

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

ME: “Is there something wrong officer?”

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

COP: “Step out of the car.”

ME: “What? Why?”

COP: “Step out of the car, sir. NOW!”

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

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

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

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

ME: “What?! How?”

COP: “Stay there.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

ME: “Oh boy. Look, I am so sor—”

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

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

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

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

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

ME: “I get hungry.”

The cop scowled.

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

© 2017 Joseph P. Buonfiglio   All Rights Reserved.

A Day Without Absurdist Humor

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

by Joe Buonfiglio

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

You know.

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

Wait.

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

Damn.

Anyway, no more writing today.

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

 

© 2017 Joseph P. Buonfiglio     All Rights Reserved.

Remember the Unintentional Martyrs!

by Joe Buonfiglio

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

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

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

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

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

UNINTENTIONALLY MARTYRED MUSIC™

Below are a couple samples from my YouTube Channel:

SCIENCE DENIER:

 

BAD WORDS:

 

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

ENJOY!

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

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

UNINTENTIONALLY MARTYRED MUSIC™