Happy Thank—GOD I GOT A PRESIDENTIAL PARDON!

Gobble Gobble Gobble My Ass!

by Joe Buonfiglio

Well, Thanksgiving week is in high gear around here; family has crashed in every corner of the old homestead while the wine and whiskey flows without end. Needless to say, I’m outta here when it comes to my office and all the literary Absurdism that dwells within. So let me simply wish a Happy Turkey Day to you and yours, and leave you with this one thought….

Sure, the president “pardoned” a turkey or two on the White House grounds as is tradition. However, what if string theory imploded and we were somehow absorbed into a Bizarro opposite-world where the TURKEY was president and it did the pardoning? What would that look like?

Would it pardon a human while the rest of its fowl brethren devoured free-range humankind with holiday carnivore carnage?

Would it cut the head off a wild human and, after cooking it and gobble-gobble-gobbling it down, make a wish by pulling apart the flightless ape’s pelvis?

What the hell would it put in a gravy boat? If it ate cranberry sauce, would it prefer freshly homemade or the jellied kind that still have the ridges on them when slid out of a can?

Would President Turkey know what a can opener was?

Would it know what a can was?

And speaking of cans, would it use a toilet the morning after its family feast or just shit out in the White House Rose Garden?

I shudder to think about it. Thank God for the tryptophan or the nightmares from this alternate reality would never let me sleep.

So enjoy your tryptophan-induced slumber, my friends. I’ll be back a little closer to the time when the fat guy in the red coat steals all the cookies off any unattended plate in the house.

“No, not you, Uncle Tony! Grab another boilermaker and go back to watching the game. I’ll be right there.”

 

© 2017 Joseph P. Buonfiglio     All Rights Reserved.

I’VE SNAPPED!

WHY I LAUNCHED THE “ABSURDISTS’ PARTY”

by Joe Buonfiglio

THAT’S IT! I’VE HAD IT! I CAN’T TAKE IT ANYMORE! I am descending— no, cascading into madness.

I’m not “woke”; I’ve snapped. The politically driven lunacy gripping these not-so United States by its metaphoric libidinous cotillions has rendered me insane. It has created a circus atmosphere bordering on a clown’s view of Nihilism. However, I am absolutely intent on bathing in this new Carnival of Chaos. Therefore, Republicans and Democrats be damned; welcome to my newly formed ABSURDISTS’ PARTY.

My party platform is as follows:

Every party member must spend all Thursday afternoons soaking their genitalia in red dye #3 and then have sex with a partner in a manner that a selfie of their conjoined privates resembles a ballpark hot brat on a bun. Said selfies must be texted to the CIA no later than 6:09 a.m. the following day of business.

The nation’s official bird must become the New Jersey garbage-dump seagull.

The law of the land will be that marriage is officially between a man and a woman … and a duck … and day-old bread … and a Model T Ford … and raw scrapple … all dressed for the ball at Cinderella’s castle.

From now on, all first-born sons will be named “Anthony” and all first-born daughters shall be named “Rusty Soup Can III.”

Any citizen who does not like Monty Python’s Flying Circus shall lose the right to vote. Any citizen who does not know what the Pythons even are shall be executed by The Ministry of Silly Walks.

Only people born outside of the country named “Geppetto” are eligible to be President of the United States.

All citizens will be injected with an electronic tracking device in their right butt-cheek that also lets them use the EZ-Pay toll lane if riding in a golf cart, as well as one free small latte at any coffeehouse except Starbucks.

The country’s official currency will be flatulence, as it makes as much sense as Bitcoin and ransomware hackers have no interest in it. Except for Black Hat Henry, who can’t get enough of the stuff.

Yeah, we got your number, asshole.

Thanksgiving must now be celebrated by the consumption of deep-fried Little Debbie cakes and self-flagellation with animatronic weasels with tinsel stuck in their teeth.

The age of consent is now 63.

— Free Liquid-Plumr will be distributed every Taco Tuesday to all American families that don’t cheat on their taxes.

It shall be a crime NOT to steal cable.

And finally…

We will end the Culture Wars by making sure not that everyone can say, “Merry Christmas!” again, but can say, “Get the fuck out of my Uber, you one-star dickweed!” again.

WELCOME TO THE ABSURDISTS’ PARTY!  Now repeat after me: “I— state your name…”

Jesus, I’m making more sense than the Republicans and the Democrats, aren’t I?

 

© 2017 Joseph P. Buonfiglio     All Rights Reserved.

Blame The Ministry of Silly Walks

by Joe Buonfiglio

“Wait. Hold on,” you blurt out in confused recognition. “This isn’t a blog post. This is blow-it-off phone-it-in BULLSHIT!”

“Why yes, it is,” I slyly respond, “but don’t blame me. Blame The Ministry of Silly Walks.”

Sort of.

Okay, admittedly, this week’s edition of Potpourri of the Damned isn’t the usual slipstream-genre dive into absurdist humor I try to make happen every week American politics doesn’t see me pound at my PC keyboard in a rageful rant until my family can break down my locked office door and slip the straightjacket back on for the night. However, there is a good reason — to my mind, the BEST reason in the world — for that:

I’m going to see John Cleese live tonight!

To understand what it means for me to FINALLY get to see one of my heroes “live and in person” is to understand me (and how I got this way).

See, years and years ago when I was but a young, impressionable schoolboy, a dear friend took me to a secluded room within his family home. Did we experiment with drugs? Did we delve into forbidden sexuality? Did we read dangerous poetry together?

NO! In this dimly lit childhood sanctuary, my good friend Paul introduced me to the absolute absurd-humor wonder that is Monty Python’s Flying Circus.

You have to understand; for better or worse, the absurdist-humor writing to which I have been unwaveringly devoted my whole life may have been nurtured by reading authors such as Douglas Adams and Kurt Vonnegut, but it was launched by my wide-eyed fascination with the Pythons. That now-classic British TV show, for which John Cleese was a founding member, wasn’t just a source of entertainment for me. It manifested into a philosophy; became a prism through which I view life. It became the foundation on which I built my vocation.

It was fucking funny.

So yes, I am openly and most certainly slightly, somewhat, kind of blowing you all off to rush out and listen to one of my all-time idols speak. As he (and I) are both getting on in years, who knows if the Fates will afford me an opportunity such as this ever again, so I hope you understand and give me a literary pass this week. If not, I refer you to The Ministry of Silly Walks to register your complaint.

And if you don’t know what I mean by that, not only should you Google it or catch a video on YouTube (below), but I’m not really sure why you follow this blog in the first place.

© 2017 Joseph P. Buonfiglio     All Rights Reserved.

(Copyright for video and associate Python visuals are held by the BBC and the show’s creators.)

Joe Buonfiglio’s FAKE NEWS EXTRAVAGANZA!

All the News That’s NOT Fit to Print!

by Joe Buonfiglio

Let me get this simple confession out of the way: I LOVE “FAKE NEWS”! Well, that is to say I enjoy fake news that is obvious and easy to spot by even the most dimwitted of the population. With this concession toward an admiration of “alternative facts” so blatant, so outrageous that you’d have to be a total moron not to realize it’s fictional (the American electorate excepted), I not-so proudly present to you for your cerebral consumption…

Joe Buonfiglio’s
FAKE NEWS EXTRAVAGANZA!

BREAKING NEWS #1: November is International Monkey-Fucking Month. During the month of November, it is perfectly legal to have the most personal of sexual intimacies with tail-inclusive primates in public.

Except, of course, in Vancouver, British Columbia, where monkey-fucking is restricted to the first and third Tuesdays of the celebratory period.

BREAKING NEWS #2: American public-school lunches will consist of nothing but German stollen and black coffee after January 1st. Students allergic to Germanic baked goods may be offered a Polynesian poi and cucumber-water alternative by filing the proper documents in triplicate with the US Department of Education.

BREAKING NEWS #3: Public displays of flatulence is an act of treason upon cruise ships docked in the Port of New Orleans (with the exception of Fat Tuesdays).

BREAKING NEWS #4: Herman K. Funt of Ann Arbor, Michigan, survived a rabid beaver attack by shoving a bicycle pump into his animal assailant, inflating it, and letting it drift off into the sky. Unfortunately, he was later arrested for manslaughter when the foaming creature eventually descended into little Cindy Plourde’s 4th-birthday party.

BREAKING NEWS #5: The name “Charlie” is actually an ancient Celtic greeting meaning, “You may not want to shake my hand, Sean, as I’ve just shit myself.”

BREAKING NEWS #6: A little piece of Satan’s soul lives in every Trumpeter Swan.

BREAKING NEWS #7: Every new Pope is handed an ancient box within which is a note from God which reads, “I got nuthin’. You’re on your own.”

BREAKING NEWS #8: Modern plumbing and toilet paper was invented by Betty Frumplemeyer of Rapid City, South Dakota, after The Great Thanksgiving Dysentery Outbreak of 1867. The recipe for Mrs. Frumplemeyer’s homemade oyster stuffing has been outlawed ever since and is under lock-and-key in the National Archives.

BREAKING NEWS #9: There is a house on Ferrers Road in Lewes, East Sussex, England, where Russia’s nuclear launch-codes have been tucked into the seat cushion of an old, red couch for decades … right next to a tour-bus ticket to Stonehenge and the undiscovered remains of American shorthair “Miss Boots.”

BREAKING NEWS #10: It is a little known fact that jury duty in all 50 states is “clothing optional,” save Indiana, which requires the use of “pasties” by law for all cases involving the selling of tainted tuna to minors, the bathtub brewing of high-fructose corn syrup, or the cannibalization of any relative genetically closer than a second cousin.

Who knew?!

 

© 2017 Joseph P. Buonfiglio     All Rights Reserved.

If That Helps You Sleep at Night

by Joe Buonfiglio

I suffer from the curse of “anticipatory fear.” This is a perpetual state of living with the abject terror of not something that is actually going on in my life at the present, but rather the expectation of something bad happening down the road. Coupled with the ever-increasing burden of a personal tapestry of both obsessive and compulsive behaviors, it offers the promise of mental paralysis on a grand scale; a spectacular display of emotional pyrotechnics.

For example, as I get older, I try my best to watch what I eat. In particular, this manifests itself in the arena of comestible quantities by way of self-imposed portion-control. In other words, “Try to apply some reasonable limits upon the prodigious amount of foodstuffs you shove down your gullet, fat boy!”

Admittedly, this is a rather self-deprecating form of mantra as opposed to the ego-boosting encouraging affirmations which you might find more familiar.

Now, do I do this for health reasons?

Hell no! It’s because I know the deep, dark secret we who pilot the vast sea of Humanity dare not speak of; the unmentionable thing we only admit quietly amongst ourselves in moments of uncontrollably ribald bouts of silliness or extreme inebriation: When you die, you shit yourself. Almost everyone does Death’s Defecation Dance in his or her final moments. I don’t want some poor paramedic forced to manage the unbearable stench of my mercilessly soiled pajama bottoms simply because he or she had the misfortune to be on call when my heart finally decides it has had enough of my bullshit.

See?

Projected embarrassment. Anticipatory fear.

Now, obviously if I am to have any hope of not melting into a puddle of quivering cerebral goo every waking minute of my trek along the mortal coil, I had to come up with some at least rudimentary mind game to cope with the nervous horror of moments and events yet unrealized. This is why I invented IF THAT HELPS YOU SLEEP AT NIGHT.

As I came to recognize that most of my irrational anticipatory fears were actually impregnating my fertile mind via the power of suggestion inflicted upon me by others, I created a counterpunch mechanism that belittles their negatively charged hypnotic impression with a simple catchphrase: “If that helps you sleep at night.”

Here’s how it works.

Let’s say someone dear to me has a political view I find aberrant at best, causing them to blurt out something along the lines of “Donald Trump is a GREAT president.” My knee-jerk reactive response of “If that helps you sleep at night” quells the dread of what my future self imagines it will be dealing with after years with that president at the helm, and thus, removing the anxiety induced by the anticipatory fear. This can work in myriad situations.

SUGGESTION: “We should invite the whole family to stay with us from Thanksgiving through New Year.”
ANSWER: “If that helps you sleep at night.”

S: “Maybe we should see other people.”
A: “If that helps you sleep at night.”

S: “What are the odds that the IRS would actually audit us?”
A: “If that helps you sleep at night.”

S: “New tires? We can get at least another couple thousand miles out of those babies.”
A: “If that helps you sleep at night.”

S: “What happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas.”
A: “If that helps you sleep at night.”

S: “It’s my brother’s birthday present. Airport security is never gonna notice that Bowie knife in my carry-on.”
A: “If that helps you sleep at night.”

S: “Before we get the party into high gear, the illegality and overall taboo nature of bestiality in a modern society is really a hackneyed concept, don’t you agree?”
A: “If that helps you sleep at night.”

S: “No really, the quality of box wine has significantly improved over the years. Drink up.”
A: “If that helps you slee— FUCK YOU!

Even I have my limits when it comes to the willing suspension of disbelief.

 

© 2017 Joseph P. Buonfiglio     All Rights Reserved.

I’m NOT Batman!

by Joe Buonfiglio

As I paddle along the slipstream of life, the definition of what is “good” versus what is considered “evil” is not as black and white as it all seemed in my youth. As the gray, even white hairs invade my once pitch-black signature beard, the line between the guardians of Heaven and their counterparts in Hell becomes a tightrope much harder to maneuver along than when confidently traversed by the younger version of myself. However, one thing is certain:

I am no superhero.

Talking into the anonymous speaker at the drive-through menu of my local Wendy’s fast-food eatery, my son — without any thought to immediate harm, let alone long-term health — orders the “Baconator” from this fine establishment’s long list of artery-clogging comestible fare.

As an increasingly raging river of fat-infused juices dribbles down his chin with each bite of the Devil’s own sandwich, the name “Baconator” bounces around my synaptic highway stimulating a sort of absurd reverence for this diabolical food product and its uncommon name.

BACONATOR.

It sounds as if the perfect supervillain, no?

“The Baconator.”

Now, I’m NOT Batman! I would never be so delusional as to self-identify as the hero of my dark world; but “The Baconator”?

Yes.

YES! That I could see.

Squirting fat behind my Pigmobile and laughing maniacally as the pursuant patrol cars slid off the road into a fiery pile somewhere along Gotham’s dismal streets. Attacking vegans as they gather to socially condescend toward their flesh-consuming brethren within the broader context of that which is Humanity.

The Baconator.

Or, perhaps I could be “The Puddler,” a representative of the vile underbelly of society so sociopathic as to abundantly piss himself at the mere mention of anything kind or charitable.

I know. I could be “The Flu.” I’d run around town sneezing mucus and green goo upon every innocent soul I encountered; schoolyards and buffet-style cafeteria diners enjoying the early-bird special would be my targets of choice. No surface “sanitized for your protection” would be safe from “The Flu.”

How about “The Smoker”? I could run around in a Hugh Hefner-style 60’s smoking jacket puffing on a fat stogie in clearly marked “no smoking” sections in the gathering venues of the pompously healthy.

No?

I could be “Mr. Breeze,” sneaking around at private parties leaving a trail of silent-but-deadlies near the dessert tables of celebratory events.

Maybe I could be the “Mad Fatter,” guilting people into eating my cooking until entering a metaphoric abyss where they are hopelessly beyond full and feeling really bad about themselves.

No. Sounds too much like my mother.

Perhaps I should just be… … … … me. Because when you get down to it, there’s no face-painted scoundrel out there who could top the machination of this clown prince of absurdist mayhem, is there? So throw the fool’s makeup, the hacksaw and the lye in the trunk and let’s get going; our friends at Arkham are waiting and it’s gonna be a long, dark night.

 

© 2017 Joseph P. Buonfiglio     All Rights Reserved.
All photos are © 2017 Joseph P. Buonfiglio with All Rights Reserved.

I’M BACK WITH A VENGEANCE

… AND FLAMING DRAPERIES

by Joe Buonfiglio

Well, my little Potpourri of the Damned blog is finally back from its short hiatus, and I feel the need to address the elephant in the room.

No, there is an elephant literally in the room with me at this very moment. This, of course, is somewhat shocking in that for most of the time it was disguised as an 800-pound gorilla. I’m not sure why, but this massive grey assailant upon my weak tethering to even a semblance of reality did mumble something about “Sure I’m a pachyderm, but I self-identify as an ape.” In today’s world, that’s a political hot potato I simply refuse to touch … even drenched in butter with a generous dollop of chive sour cream.

Now, why it’s here in the first place is a bit of a mystery. Perhaps these were not shiitake mushrooms I pilfered from my sister-in-law’s fridge she claimed to be adding to a soufflé that night. When will I learn? It’s not as if I hadn’t raided her pantry last month for some of her homemade brownies and wound up running naked through the fairgrounds’ Sunday flea market dazzled by all the “pretty colors” yelling, “The British are coming! The British are coming!” On a side note, however, who knew used Lionel miniature-train locomotives had such lovely auras? Granted, not as impressive as that of the haunted Madame Alexander dolls, but vibrantly spectacular nonetheless.

And speaking of auras…

Years and years ago, I worked in a call center for the Southern Bell Yellow Pages in Florida. (Yes, I’m old.) As I recall, there was this unusual gentleman who also worked there as a fellow member of the Make Ends Meet Club; a Mae West impersonator named Frank. (Yes, I have a colorful past.) A delightful human being who claimed to have psychic abilities, Frank said he could see and “read” people’s auras. As I made my inaugural ingress onto the call-center floor, he immediately told me that I had multiple auras competing with one another as if some sort of angry rainbow, but each struggling against a pitch-black aura of immense power desperate to consume all the others. He said he’d never seen anything like it, literally began to tremble with fear, and then ran out of the room declaring he would not return while I worked there.

So yeah.

There’s that.

Did I mention I have a colorful past?

So anyway, while I’ve been away from my blogging duties in a futile attempt to seek out a brief respite from the— aaaaaaaaaaaaaaand the elephant in the room just tried lighting a fart and set my draperies on fire. I don’t know which is worse: the fact that I am currently bearing witness to the rapid consumption of my domicile in a hellish inferno brought into reality by a surreal creature of my shroom-impaired mind, or that my nostrils are under assault by the overwhelmingly ever-present flatulent aroma of overly roasted peanuts still hanging in the air.

I’ve got to call 911 now. However, rest assured, I shall return next week with more absurdist curiosities for your cerebral ingestion. Until then, why not get a jump on tax season; trick-or-treat this Halloween costumed as an IRS auditor. You’ll be glad you did.

Jesus, Jumbo, how many damn nuts did you eat!

 

© 2017 Joseph P. Buonfiglio     All Rights Reserved.

I’M NOT A RABBIT!

AND HEY, I’VE GOT SHIT TO DO.

by Joe Buonfiglio

To quote the late, great Madeline Kahn as the Teutonic spy and dance hall singer Lili von Shtupp in Mel Brooks’ groundbreaking comedy Blazing Saddles, “I’m not a rabbit.  I need some rest.”

Writer’s block?  Hell, I’ve got the entire writer’s Lower East Side!  Not only do I need a break to recharge the batteries, heal up and (if I’m honest) dry out, I’ve got to play catch-up on a number of literary projects on which I’ve fallen WAY behind.  So whether you believe it or not, I’ve got shit to do!

With this in mind, I’m going to take a short 2-3 week hiatus from this little blog d’ absurdité.  While I’m gone, why not hit the JoeBuonfiglio.com HOME and scroll down to enjoy some of the Potpourri of the Damned blog-post gems and junk from weeks gone by that you may have missed.

I’ll be back soon with more high weirdness before you know it.  Ciao.

 

© 2017 Joseph P. Buonfiglio     All Rights Reserved.

Blazing Saddles is © 1974 Warner Bros. with All Rights Reserved.

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.

 

AN Absurdist WORD TO THE Not-So WISE

by Joe Buonfiglio

For the longest time, I was actually not a big fan of inserting famous quotes into my pieces of bizarre object d’ literati. Reinforcing a talking point or narrative’s pursuit seemed cheapened by such an obvious literary trick designed to act as filler to boost word count. I always felt it made the writer seem … oh, I don’t know … lazy perhaps.

And then I realized, “Joe, my Absurdist friend, is there any more lazy sack of shit on the planet that you, literarily or otherwise?”

Certainly not! Thus, I should not only engage such a blatantly slovenly approach to my obscure scribblings, I should comprise my un-master works ENTIRELY of famous quotes; randomly injected and absurdly twisted, of course.

So, with melted caramel dripping from my chin and toilet paper securely clung to the bottom of my shoe, enjoy:

Farting is such sweaty sorrow.

My fellow Absurdicans, ask not what your country-fried steak can do for you, ask what you can do for your country-fried steak.

That which does not kill you will regroup and try again.

If you want something done right, you’re overly ambitious.

Better to have gloved in frost, than to have never gloved all fall.

Obesity is the motherfucker of interventions.

To err with cumin; to forgive while you dine.

Give a man a fish and you feed him for a day; teach a man to fish and you create a drunken dockside layabout for a lifetime.

With great power comes great imbecility.

The penis is mightier than the headboard.

Life is like a box of chocolates. You never know what is going to constipate you.

Familiarity bleeds verklempt.

It is always Starkist just before the prawn.

If you are sewing through hell, keep sewing.

A hose by any other name would smell as meat.

The definition of “insanity” is doing the same thing over and over again, and expecting a pumpkin to fly out of your ass and sing Nickelback songs all night long, because … well … you’re fucking nuts.

A penny saved is a penny indicating your lack of modern financial literacy.

Ignorance is piss. (Oh right, like you’ve cornered the market on “smart” urine.)

Geek awfully and carry a big dick.

If you love somebody, let them go; for if they return, they were always yours. If they don’t, fuck ’em and sell their nudie pics as revenge porn.

If at first you don’t succeed, give up and head to an all-you-can-eat taco bar as fast as humanly possible.

I stink therefore I spam.

I have a dream that my little children will one day live in a nation where they will not be judged by the color of their skin, but by the content of their YouTube channel.

Hell has no fury like a woman the morning after being drunk at a tattoo parlor.

Idle hands are the Devil’s gay clown.

Time is funny.

All the world’s a cage, and all the men and women merely taxpayers.

When the going gets tough, pop open a beer and say, “Fuck it!”

That’s one small crêpe for a man, a giant leap for pancakekind.

Power corrupts; absolute power is a shitload of fun. Absolutely!

Live fast, die young, and leave a good-looking corpse in the trunk of the rental car where the cops won’t find it until you’re long gone.

People who live in glass houses shouldn’t shower until they’ve dropped a few pounds.

One man’s trash is another man’s raccoon infestation.

And finally…

Nothing is certain except for death and taxes … and flatulence … and having a wino try to convince me to give him $10 for gas so he can complete his journey to visit his ailing mother … and always having the losing lottery ticket … and having the boss walk in and catch me looking at porn on the company computer … and bad haircuts … and running out of coffee … and accidentally catching a dog licking his balls as I try to eat ice cream on the bench outside of the ice cream parlor … … … Did I mention flatulence already?

And death?

And taxes?

Mostly flatulence, though.

Lots and lots of flatulence.

 

© 2017 Joseph P. Buonfiglio     All Rights Reserved.