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.


short pants

by Joe Buonfiglio

My wife works very hard and very smart. She’s one of those people who doesn’t just give 110%, she gives 210%. And while generous in spirit most of the time, she has absolutely NO TOLERANCE for indolence-driven “poor me” syndrome, particularly in the workplace. If you’re lazy or content with the status quo as being “good enough,” it’s probably best not to work with my wife. And believe me, if you’re one of those apathetic people when it comes to the quality of your work, you sure as hell don’t want to work for her.

Now, if she sees you giving it your all, but still failing, she’ll go out of her way to not only get you up to speed, but to advance. However, if she sees you not trying, not giving it an honest effort or, God forbid, not giving a damn, but still looking for sympathy; watch out. That well is dry, my friend.

Now, to you, this probably appears as if I’m just trying to suck up to my significant other. I’m not. Even if I desired to pull off such a sycophantic coup, there’s no way it would work. Just the opposite, as a matter of fact.

First of all, my wife can smell bullshit before your steer even comes into view. If all this was just a thinly veiled attempt to use a public forum for some private benefit, I’d be fucked. She’d see through it in a nanosecond.

No, where I’m going with all this is that if she identifies you as a slacker looking for compassion, what you’re likely to hear from her is the infamous, “We’re all adults here, so put on your big-boy pants.”

Big. Boy. Pants.

I’m a writer; filled to the brim and beyond with insecurities, self-doubt and self-deprecation; probably a little self-loathing thrown in for good measure. To hear the tough-love mantra of “Put on your big-boy pants!” when I become the now-proverbial “whiny little bitch” resonates in my mind’s ear as having foolishly provided the perfect fodder for my better half’s ire.

When I start complaining how “that editor is being mean to me” or my now omnipresent Eeyore-mumble of “rejected again” even though I know damn well I spent the week binge-watching Doctor Who and missing deadlines, it’s bound to stoke those fires of disapproval in my beloved and deservedly so. I may want “tea & sympathy,” but I’m gonna get the “big-boy pants” reaction for sure. You can almost hear Tears of a Clown playing in the background as the dreaded phrase reveals itself once again.

I have to admit, though, the last manifestation of the accusatory axiom with me in the crosshairs got me to thinking. Have I been going around my whole life metaphorically dressed as if Angus Young from the band AC/DC, short pants and all? Am I a grown (some say overgrown) man stuck in the first grade of attire, figuratively speaking?

Is it worse than that? Do I act as if Peter Pan determined to never grow up and prancing about in hand-cut shorts and green tights?

I mean sure, Tinker Bell is hot and anyone could be conflicted, but is that an excuse not to “man up” in life?

Can publishers tell that my big-boy pants aren’t on? Literary agents? Producers? The cable guy?

What about the neighbors? That bartender? Can the crepe chef at the food-truck rodeo tell I don’t have my big-boy pants on?

Holy shit! This is more serious than I thought! Not only does my wife know my deep, dark secret of knee-exposure in the symbolic khakis department, EVERYBODY knows! I’m not fooling anyone!

There’s only one thing for it; time to grow up. Yes, by God, I shall wear my big-boy pants in the execution of my chosen vocation. Yes, I will wear my big-boy pants in the pursuit of my various avocations. Yes, I am going to wear my big-boy pants for the rest of my life! Yes, I’m going to finally get my shit together, not blaming others or circumstance for my own shortcomings! Yes, I shall put on those wonderful BIG-BOY PAN

Hold it. The Yankees are on. Doubleheader.

Yeah, I know I’m on deadline for that feature piece, but come on; it’s the ballgame. I’m sure it’s cool if it’s a day late.

Or two.



© 2016 Joseph P. Buonfiglio     All Rights Reserved.

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