(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?


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…


I am.




© 2017 Joseph P. Buonfiglio     All Rights Reserved.



by Joe Buonfiglio

Pig.  Swine.  Sus scrofa domesticus.

Now, when I say “confessions of a pig lover,” I know what you’re thinking: This guy is going to break into tears and publicly admit he secretly fucks pigs!

Well, no … and yes … but no, at least not in the depraved manner manifesting in your brain, El Pervo.  So with apologies to Ned Beatty’s brilliant performance in Deliverance, if you can get your mind out of the gutter for a moment, the “pig lovin'” to which I refer is more along the lines of consumption for the sake of nourishment.

Now I get that many of you may not view the ingestion of butchered hog as having anything to do with nutrition on any level.  Extracting one’s nourishment via pig products is exceedingly politically incorrect these days; thus, my being a “closet” pig lover.  People just don’t view the eating of swine-based fare as acceptable behavior in polite society.

For example, take my wife’s viewpoint on the subject of “pig loving.”  Even though I have long suspected this is how she refers to having sex with me to her friends, when it comes to her comestible practices, my beloved does not “do the pig.”  She simply won’t touch the stuff.  No bacon with her eggs.  No Easter ham.  No ham-n-Swiss sandwiches.  No split pea soup with ham chunks.  No ham and pineapple pizza.  No pork sausage.  No scrapple.  No … pig … PERIOD!

She says they are disgusting beasts that roll around in and consume their own feces, for God’s sake.  Why the hell would you consume them?


… perhaps …

… because …

… I’m a guy … and guys think … that …


Most guys — and women touched by the grace of the carnivore god Lard Fryitaltanius — have long known that anything — ANYTHING — tastes better with bacon on it or in it.







Green beans?

A shitload better.

I’d be willing to bet that if you shove some bacon into maple-flavored ice cream, it would make that taste better, too!

Wait.  Hold on.  Let me just test that.

Damn straight that tastes better.  Ram a honkin’ big dollop of maple ice cream with a few slices of bacon between two nicely toasted Eggo waffles and I dare you to tell me your taste buds haven’t died and gone to taste-bud Heaven.  That’s just goooooooood eatin’!

Do I know that pigs eat their own poop?  Sure!  I’m well acquainted with the whole “like a pig in shit” thing.  Hell, the smell of a pig farm alone should turn anyone vegan.

Is it cool to slaughter any animal?  No.  We should all be vegetarians and I know it.

Is that stuff going to clog my arteries and send me to an early grave?  Of course it fucking is!  I’m not an idiot.

I know downing the piggy is a horrible thing to do from any angle you look at it.  Nevertheless, I can’t help it.  I’m addicted.  I’m fucking addicted!  And don’t try to sell me on that turkey bacon crap.  I’d rather cup my balls, yank ’em up to the side of my face and play out the “shot put at the Olympics of Ancient Greece” all-nude fantasy while singing I’m a Little Teapot in the middle of a biker bar on “Murder All Non-Gang Members” night.

What the hell in the name of Green Acres does that mean?  I don’t know; haven’t a damn clue.  What I do know is that I am completely hooked on the real deal: 100% pure, unadulterated, drenched in grease right out of the pan, Porky-fuckin’-Pig; the fattier the better!  If I could figure out how to shoot up sizzling bacon-drippings without scorching my veins, I’d be all over that shit in a second.

My birthday?

I want a bacon-flavored cake.


Put a spiral-cut ham under the tree with my name on it.

The Apocalypse?

I’ll be ready.  Know why?  Ham radio, motherfucker!

Hell, if they came up with bacon-flavored vodka, I’d never be sober.

Do you know what the only book I ever read to my kid was when he was young?  That’s right.  Green Eggs and Ham.  Sometimes I’d skip over the green eggs part to get right to the good stuff.  To this day, he can’t hear the name Dr. Seuss without having a Pavlovian response directing him to seek out fresh-baked rye bread, Alpine Lace and some Grey Poupon.

So yes, I truly am an unrelenting, unrepentant and unredeemable pig lover — a pig fucker, even, if taking the metaphoric context to the extreme — but only for the love of a good BLT.

Mmmmmmmmmmmm bacon.


© 2015 Joseph P. Buonfiglio     All Rights Reserved.

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