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.

“Stream” of Consciousness?

More like a Tidal Wave of Absurdity!

by
Joe Buonfiglio

So, I had this notion to write a “stream of consciousness” piece a la Jack Kerouac with On the Road, but in microcosm. The problem, of course, is that I’m a self-branded “Literary Absurdist.” Everything I craft tends to devolve into an unreasonably foolish manifesto; my attempts at stream-of-consciousness writing doomed to become a tidal wave of absurdity destined to walk with the ghosts of Kierkegaard and Camus.

Nevertheless, I feel the bold experiment is worthy of the attempt. Thus, I will now write down in the realm of the blogosphere my thoughts as they pop into my head without governor or censor.

Enjoy.

Why are Monkey Puzzle trees an accepted form of vegetation, but I tell people I drive a classic Barracuda and all of a sudden I’M the weirdo?

“Plucky” rhyming with “sucky” is just a coincidence? I don’t think so!

A candlelight dinner is romantic, but I burn down my employer’s place of business and suddenly I’m an “arsonist.”

Bite the ears off a chocolate bunny and you’re the life of the Easter-egg-hunt party. Bite the ears off a real bunny at the same party and you get 3-10 months in the county lockup for animal cruelty and child-endangerment through “traumatization.” WTF?

There cannot be a God, because if there was a God, you could eat all the meat-lover’s pizza you want without getting fat or gastroesophageal reflux disease complicated by bouts of uncontrollable flatulence…. … … I’m just sayin’.

Thinking about how many people are using toilets on a global scale at any given moment scares the shit out of me… … … which is more than a little ironic.

Why isn’t the male urinary tract a place to plant and grow penises?

Wait. Singularity is a state of space-time and not the condition of being perpetually unmarried?

Ponce de Leon searched for the Fountain of Youth, but you catch me naked searching for loose change in your couch at three in the morning and that somehow makes me the bad guy.

Why tell people they can do “whatever floats your boat” if they are not nautically inclined?

Do owls know they are annoying?

Is reality a thing you win in the lottery?

Does whipped cream ever cry out in pain?

Does this look infected?

Just who the hell was the first one to consider pairing piss with vinegar, and did he or she prepare the takeout salad I’m eating right now?

Why isn’t “teaching the world to sing” the highest-salaried profession ever?

Shouldn’t God offer a lifetime warranty?  No!  Wait! An ETERNAL warranty!

Holy shit! Birds really do appear every time you are near!  Stop that.

Why don’t meter maids clean your car?

If I keep digging in my backyard — I mean REALLY keep digging down deep — will I eventually find my dignity?

Fuck salamanders with the knowledge to cure all human illnesses!  Am I right?

Clowns aren’t creepy … unless you find one in bed with your mom … after hours … in the middle of a department store … reenacting Lord of the Flies.

Mailboxes; what are they up to?

Son of a bitch, mom was right! If you do THAT you really will go blind! … … … Wait. No. The lightbulb just burned out. My bad.

Turns out I really am the only one who can prevent forest fires. And I’m sorry Sierra National Forest burned to the ground, but back off; as you can imagine, my hands are pretty full right now.

And finally, it all comes down to this: The only people who wholly understand the true nature of the universe are those who wash their clothes in a pay-launderette at three in the morning. Who knew enlightenment cost exactly $9.75.

Roll on, Cosmic Black Wave. Roll on.

 

© 2017 Joseph P. Buonfiglio     All Rights Reserved.