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.

 

World’s WORST Jump-Scares

by Joe Buonfiglio

I’m introducing a new playlist feature on my YouTube channel: The “World’s WORST Jump-Scares.”  (And no, I don’t mean “worst” as in terrifying.)  This week’s blog is more of a vlog and is fairly self-explanatory, so have at it and enjoy!

 

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

GIVE ME A BREAK!

by Joe Buonfiglio

I need a little respite, some R&R, a cooling-off period, a breather, a timeout, a life pause, a furlough, vakay,  downtime, a hiatus…

I NEED A FREAKIN’ BREAK, OKAY!

Even a professional absurdist can get overly absurded– uh, absurdied out?  Absurditated?  Absurdtaneously Abs–  Look, I’m toast to an absurd degree.  But never fear, I shall return next week with something weird and wonderful.  Until then, let me impregnate your already fragile mind with this little tidbit:

America has become as if a funnel cake at the bottom of an abyss.  You know there’s something good deep down there in the darkness, but at this point, it seems completely unreachable.

See you next week.

© 2017 Joseph P. Buonfiglio     All Rights Reserved.

 

Rocky Mountain (Too) High?

by Joe Buonfiglio

And the Colorado Rocky Mountain high;
I’ve seen it raining fire in the sky.
You can talk to God and listen to the casual reply.
Rocky Mountain high….
— John Denver

Ah, Rocky Mountain High by the late, great John Denver; was there ever a song that lifted your spirits higher?  This tune would come on the radio and your cares would simply … if but for a few moments … dissipate into the ether and, thus, render your soul lighter than it had a right to be.

Rocky Mountain High.

Yes, but is it too high?

What first strikes you when traversing Colorado and its slice of the Rocky Mountains is the breathtaking beauty.  Scenes such as this…

And this…

This…

And these…

And then, Colorado voters passed Amendment 64 on November 6, 2012 outlining a statewide drug policy for cannabis.  This led to its “official” legalization of recreational marijuana in January 2014 whereby authorized stores could sell it.  So while I should have been focused on nature’s grandeur as depicted in the heavenly scenes above — be it the thin air delightfully dancing around the hardcore brownies or the flavorful Gummies of the kine bud washed down with the generously poured vodka in myriad libations of choice —  I found myself engaged in more absurdly inexplicable Colorado Rocky Mountain High visions such as these…

And what in the name of all that’s holy is this thing?

And this monstrosity from the bowels of tourist Hell…

You’re kidding, right?  I mean, I like tea and all, but really?

Come on.  Seriously?  The historic Stanley Hotel (where Stephen King wrote The Shining) is doing this on purpose, right?  The place can’t just naturally be this creepy…. … … Can it?

OH, MOTHER OF—  Not a good place to be after a brownie binge!

What does it say on that old typewriter’s manuscript?

HEEEEEEEEERE’S JOHNNY!

I am definitely — DEFINITELY — too Rocky Mountain High.

 

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

DEEP… DARK… SECRETS

Comedy Ain’t Pretty

by Joe Buonfiglio

My favorite comedy club in the world… a place of hilarious improvisational madness in which I have frequented and loved being in the audience, as well as having twice performed onstage… is closing next month under the specter of sexual harassment and discrimination by its owner. I never saw any of this; he always showed me nothing but kindness, patience and supportive encouragement. Apparently, others disagree and saw more of a monster than a mentor.

For me, this is an unbelievably sad day.

I am beside myself.

It was not that long ago that I accepted an invitation to appear as a “guest storyteller” at this locally renowned comedy theatre. I was to present four vignettes that could then be used as the basis for improvisational comedy by the club’s pros.

My theme for the evening, ironically enough in light of recent events, was:

DEEP… DARK… SECRETS!

As indicated in my “last-minute reminder” notes pictured above, the “shameful” skeletons hidden in the closet of my past that I chose to reveal to the audience that night were: I used to be in— PUBLIC RELATIONS; I used to be a member of— the KU KLUX KLAN (Don’t freak out until you’ve heard the whole story.); I hate dogs; and finally, astronaut Neil Armstrong once saved my ass.

The premise of “I used to be in public relations” was quite simple, really. I admitted to having once been in PR as if it was some kind of sin, and then proceeded to explain the obvious reasons why I had to leave the oft-maligned profession.

First of all, I can’t remember people’s names. This is a big problem if you’re in “public” (AKA “people”) relations. I brought a man up from the audience, which TOTALLY freaked out the cast as being — as one of them put it — “unprecedented.”

“You don’t have to do this,” one cast member nervously stated.

“No-no, yes you do!” I demanded. “Come on up here.”

What they didn’t discern was that the man being brought up onto the stage was my son and this had been prearranged earlier that day.

“What’s your name?” I questioned my shill from the audience.

“Tom,” he declared.

“Thank you, Betsy,” I said, “You can sit back down now.”

I also demonstrated that when I get nervous, such as when I meet people for the first time, I tend to kiss them. Bringing my son back up, I then proceeded to rather shockingly plant a smoocher on the “randomly selected” audience member “Betsy” right there onstage, further stressing the horrified comedians by my actions.

Next I did a little hand-sanitizer routine as to why being a germophobe isn’t such a good thing in the glad-handing world of public relations; admittedly, that didn’t seem to go over as well as the other two segments of the bit. Still, it was a good routine overall.

After the improv pros worked with that for a while, my next reveal from my past was the most dangerous. As I sort of stepped on the third rail of comedy, I’m told the look of horror on the faces of the comedians standing behind me was priceless.

No, I didn’t talk about Hitler, but the “next best thing” in the list of comedy “DON’TS,” as I announced that “I used to be a member of the Ku Klux Klan.”

Yep. I went there.

Let me explain.

My rather meandering tale surrounded the fact that I was a journalist in a past life, and that during my college years in this course of study, I had to do a project as a final exam involving investigative reporting. My subject of choice: the KKK.

To make the proverbial long story short, I infiltrated a cross-burning ceremony on a farm outside of Ocala, Florida. This involved me and a law student co-conspirator taking my old rusted-out pickup truck to the insidious event to research the story. What we didn’t realize was that we’d have to fill out paperwork to actually JOIN the reviled organization in order to even get in. Not only that, but there were enough Klansmen to start a small city, as the “Imperial Wizard” of the Klan was there to speak that night.

After our deception was discovered, we barely made it out with our skins having to literally make our escape with Klansmen in pursuit. The punchline to the tale was that as we raced into the parking area to find my truck for our getaway, we encountered a veritable SEA of old rusted-out pickup trucks that looked EXACTLY like mine. It would have been easier to find the idiomatic “needle in a haystack” than my chosen means of transportation.

As I am alive to tell the tale, we obviously got out of there before they caught up with us. Oh, and I was able to sneak my KKK-membership application off the pile of them when no one was looking. So yes, I WAS a member of the Ku Klux Klan… … … for about 15 seconds.

“Go ahead,” I said to the stunned comedic-improvisational professionals behind me, “do something with that!”

The next about-to-be-exposed tidbit pissed off people more than the KKK story:

I.

HATE.

DOGS!

I hate dogs. I knew this simple premise, while endearing me to cat-people, would make me the villain with dog owners. From goofy, cuddly puppies (“Oooooh, I’m alive! Look at me! I just peed on the rug. Yeeeeeeeea!”) to full-blown adult mutts who obediently await your arrival home to drop a fresh-killed smelly something-or-other at your feet, I hate dogs… and cats… and I’m not really fond of birds or snakes… or people.

Okay, basically, I hate everything.

And finally, the tale of how Neil Armstrong once saved my ass.

So, once again trying to come up with the elevator-pitch CliffsNotes account of this sliver along my personal timeline, the bottom line is that a creative partner and I needed a stretch-out-the-time filler piece to add to our Theatre of the Absurd radio show in order to get a national airing. Being the luckiest sons-a-bitches in the world, we accidentally discovered that if you play Armstrong’s “one small step for man” moon-landing speech backwards, it sounds as if he’s saying, “Man, this baseball smells bad.”

I shit you not.

Try it yourself, if you don’t believe me.

This saved our ass and the weird little show aired across the country. And speaking of asses, with the help of the comedy club’s DJ, I did an audio demonstration of this for the audience; they laughed their asses off.

“Next time,” I said concluding my bit, “I’ll tell you how John Glenn saved my nipples.”

Deep, dark secrets: whether you believe in their veracity or not, sometimes they can be funny as hell… and sometimes they can shut down a comedy club.

 

 

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