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.

DON’T BLOW YOUR HAND OFF!

… UNTIL I GET BACK!

I’m taking a little break from my insanely inane scribblings to celebrate Old Glory, watch some fireworks and baseball, as well as indulge in more than my fair share of hot dogs and cold ones.  So be safe while I’m on hiatus and, for God’s sake, don’t blow your hand off!  You won’t be able to bitch-slap me when next we meet.  Not to mention… well… you know.

I’LL BE BACK BEFORE YOU KNOW IT
WITH MORE
DELIGHTFUL ABSURDITY!

PS – Why not catch up on all the lovely POTPOURRI OF THE DAMNED archived posts you missed: 

http://www.joebuonfiglio.com/2017/06/

http://www.joebuonfiglio.com/2017/05/

http://www.joebuonfiglio.com/2017/04/

And there’s plenty more.  Just scroll down or find the “ARCHIVE” widget on this site.  See you soon….

WITH LOVE AND UTTER DISDAIN FOR THE TOILET-CLEANSING INDUSTRY,
Joe Buonfiglio

 

 

 

Is This the PERFECT Absurdist Meme?

Is It Possible? Could One Bizarre Line Fit All?

by Joe Buonfiglio

MEMES: Those addictive digitally transmitted photos captioned with humorous expressions designed to lampoon or call attention to that which the creator feels deserves a little public ridicule or even societal examination. However, they often do not aspire to such loftier satirical ideals and just try to be funny for funny’s sake or, in my case, WEIRD for weirdness’ sake.

As a self-proclaimed “Literary Absurdist,” I found myself on a quest to create not just the perfect meme, but the perfect ABSURDIST meme. Was there one meme-formatted caption that could speak the language of Absurdism so well that it translated any picture to which it attached itself into the type of Absurdist-meme gold that would make Albert Camus or Salvador Dali sigh with utter joy?

While this may be an entirely unattainable goal, I nonetheless shall endeavor to make the attempt.

The absurdist phrase that my grey cells eventually concocted and settle upon:

IT IS A SAD DAY IN THE LITERARY WORLD
WHEN PLEASURING ONESELF CANNOT REPRESENT THE ARCHETYPAL CHARACTER ARC

To my mind, it is a flawless randomly bizarre caption. Now, does it express itself as the true representation of absurdist wonder by translating that arbitrary strangeness to any photo or illustration it adorns?

Let’s find out, shall we? Here are 25 images randomly selected (Yes, honestly!) from my digital library to use as backdrop in combination with the “perfect absurdist caption” to create memes d’ ludicrous art:

 

I think I’ve made my point.

You’re welcome, by the way.

 

© 2017 Joseph P. Buonfiglio     All Rights Reserved.

WHO AM I?

(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?

Sigh.

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…

Why.

I am.

Still.

Here.

 

© 2017 Joseph P. Buonfiglio     All Rights Reserved.

THIS IS A TEST!

This is Only a Test

by Joe Buonfiglio

This is a test of the EMERGENCY BLOGCAST SYSTEM. This is only a test. Had this been an actual literary-absurdist emergency, you would have been directed to your nearest alternative-reality fallout shelter for cosmetic surgery to enable advanced melatonin levels in your genitalia.

Reality? Reality adjacent?

Not even close.

Look at this as sort of an experiment in the philosophical realm driven by the author’s punishing insecurity. Given this…

If a tree falls in a forest and no one is around to hear it, does it make a sound?

Likewise, as a variation on a theme for this philosophic conundrum…

If a blog is written and no one is around to read it, was it ever posted?

Sure, Friedrich Nietzsche declared, “God is dead,” as did the cover of Time magazine query about the matter in 1966. But as philosophy and theology bang heads over the state of God’s health, the same dispute must be applied to the epicenter of the digital literati:

Is the blog… DEAD?

And if not the collective “blog” and those toiling away in the blogosphere, then what about that which you now read… or don’t (as the fallen tree might observe)? Has this blog, my child so aptly named Potpourri of the Damned, simply run its course? Have I gotten too weird for some of you, perhaps too political for others?

Am I only doing this for myself at this point? That possibility is a rather chilling prospect, I must admit.

I have a decent number of subscribers, but there are rarely any comments submitted by them. Is that natural? After all, I’m not a celebrity and you’re all busy people. I do sometimes wonder if you all follow me and this strange little blogtastic machine out of not sincere interest, but some warped sense of politeness? Although, in the modern age of social media, even the casual observer can see that doesn’t make much sense. Hell, do you even read the thing?

Is there anybody out there?

Perhaps that is an answer I’d rather not know, eh?

So, until next week’s post, PLEASE STAND BY….

 

© 2017 Joseph P. Buonfiglio     All Rights Reserved.

 

Potpourri of the Damned STILL on Hiatus?

THAT’S ABSURD!

by Joe Buonfiglio

Why are you looking here?  Don’t you realize Potpourri of the Damned is STILL on hiatus while I heal up? (Believe me, you don’t want to know.)

Okay, granted, it’s only for another week, so it’s not THAT big of a deal.

What do you mean, “not that big of a deal”?  YOU BASTARD!

Anyway, as Dr. Frank N. Furter would say, “Babies, don’t you panic.”  While I and my “creation” are on this short break, why not enjoy seeing me LIVE and in person!  Here’s how:

If you’re in the Chapel Hill, NC area on Friday, 5/12, I’ll be a guest storyteller onstage at 10 p.m. with the improv geniuses of MISTER DIPLOMAT at DSI (Dirty South Comedy Theater).

Read more about it here:

http://www.dsicomedy.com/calendar/2017/5/12/mister-diplomat

So that’s Chapel Hill, NC, Friday, 5/12, 10pm at @DSIcomedy

 SEE YOU THERE!

NOBODY CARES ABOUT YOUR BLOG

Top Ten Absurdist Reasons Why Nobody Cares About Your Blog
(or Mine)
(Which You are Currently Reading)
(So, That’s Kind of Absurd in and of Itself Right There)

by Joe Buonfiglio

Nobody cares about your blog … or mine. Unless you’re already a celebrity or at least celebrity adjacent, it’s absurd to continue to pound away on your wireless keyboard pretending that anyone other than close friends and family gives a shit about your most recent blog piece.

And BREAKING NEWS: They really don’t give a shit either. They just don’t want to hurt your feelings.

Even though it is SO painfully absurd to continue our vainglorious attempt to make a mark in the blogosphere, I’m okay with that because … well … I’M AN ABSURDIST!

I actually revel in the chaotically futile. Mindlessly blogging is simply a natural extension of all that. So with a loose hold on anything resembling reality, here are my…

Top Ten ABSURDIST Reasons Why Nobody Cares About Your Blog (or Mine)

#10: NOBODY CARES ABOUT YOUR BLOG, BECAUSE pepper-spraying camels is not an indication of evolutionary superiority.

#9: NOBODY CARES ABOUT YOUR BLOG, BECAUSE melted cheddar has not and will never cure male-pattern baldness.

#8: NOBODY CARES ABOUT YOUR BLOG, BECAUSE even though Ford’s Model T did come in red, the color black was preferred by viper trainers throughout Canada.

#7: NOBODY CARES ABOUT YOUR BLOG, BECAUSE Ponce de León couldn’t find Mrs. de León’s G-spot if his life depended on it.

#6: NOBODY CARES ABOUT YOUR BLOG, BECAUSE free trade shouldn’t be a matter of cucumber girth.

#5: NOBODY CARES ABOUT YOUR BLOG, BECAUSE the literary arts no longer take into account that pillaging is a forgotten craft.

#4: NOBODY CARES ABOUT YOUR BLOG, BECAUSE the Center for Disease Control is completely ambivalent in all matters concerning buttered-popcorn flavored jellybeans.

#3: NOBODY CARES ABOUT YOUR BLOG, BECAUSE the zipper is down on society’s collective pants.

#2: NOBODY CARES ABOUT YOUR BLOG, BECAUSE springtime Frappuccinos should flow freely from a Panda’s ass, not be imprisoned until transactional payment is rendered unto the Starbucks Corporation. (refer to Starbucks vs. a Panda’s Ass, Third Circuit Court of Appeals circa 1864 following Brown vs. the Zookeeper’s Fantasy)

AND THE #1 REASON NOBODY CARES ABOUT YOUR BLOG: The ghost of Richard Nixon tickles President Trump’s balls from the moment he falls asleep in the Lincoln bedroom!

So blog away, my fellow Absurdists; blog away as if no one is watching … because no one is.

 

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

JOE’S BAR (blog)

by Joe Buonfiglio

My Potpourri of the Damned blog started off as a simple idea. It was to be a weird forum for releasing upon an unsuspecting world the Absurdist tidbits of darkly humorous mayhem theretofore buried in the deeper recesses of my warped little brain; somewhere between a lark and a malady.

AND THEN ALONG COMES DONALD TRUMP.

This con-man simpleton overtakes my soul generating a combination of bemusement, fear and intense anger driven to the point of seditious hatred. Watching this orange-tinged putz and his idiot-convention entourage systematically clog America’s collective toilet by shoving all that’s good about this country down it with the plunger of his narcissistic Trumpian ego sends my fingers tap-tap-tapping furiously upon my computer’s keyboard to the point of rendering the action on the typewriter-esque buttons nearly unresponsive.

TRANSLATION: Our dumbass POTUS makes me more than a little crazy.

Next thing I know, I’ve endangered the absurdist-humor brand of my Potpourri of the Damned blog with numerous anti-45 rants.

In my last blog-post, I teased that this — my JoeBuonfiglio.com (AKA LiteraryAbsurdist.com) site — would be evolving into “Something absurdly wonderful. Something wonderfully absurd,” and Potpourri of the Damned will MOST DEFINITELY be a part of that. However, if my head is not to blow clean off my shoulders in a blood-pressure rush that could launch a ballistic missile armed with the most nuclear of warheads, I will still need to find a home, some suitable outlet, for all my anti-Trump, anti-societal-injustice, anti-anything-that-really-pisses-me-off-to-the-point-of-vigilantism rants. And so, welcome to…

When introduced into the new website coming within the next month or two, Joe’s Bar Blog will be the new home for me to … well … get things off my chest.

Joe’s Bar Blog will be written while I’m sitting at my bar (Yes, at the time of this writing, I own a bar.), and will feature whatever beverage I am imbibing at the time of the given literary endeavor.  For example, at this moment, I am sipping upon the cool libation that is a 12-year-old special reserve Jameson Irish whiskey on the rocks. Additionally, while Potpourri of the Damned comes out (for the most part) every Wednesday, Joe’s Bar Blog is written “as the spirit … and spirits … move me.” This creative process will most likely lead to such commentary as:

Hey, Alt-Right. Looks like your boy Trump is kicking you and Bannon to the back of the bus.

How’s it feel?

Ironic?

And…

You can’t even organize an Easter egg event? How the hell are you going to organize foreign policy … or a war?

And…

What are Trump’s plans for America? Follow the money. Slash the State Department’s budget; raise the military’s by billions.

Any questions?

As well as…

Listening to Donald Trump speak, I now realize that George W. Bush was relatively an outright intellectual.

And…

It’s 12:24 a.m.

… and Trump just dropped in to see what condition my sedition was in.

Not to mention…

The Right is devolving into Theatre of the Absurd. They believe in the Rapture, so get on with it; God can have them all ASAP.

Or…

Donald Trump criticizing Chuck Todd’s appearance is like the Alien calling the Predator ugly.

And…

“Remnants of treasonous criminality” refers to:
A) Trump
B) His administration
C) Me on the toilet the morning after 20-alarm chili night

Or perhaps even…

AGENT: “You’re ruining your writer’s brand with all this Trump shit!”

PEER: “Wait. You have an agent?”

WIFE: “Wait. You’re a writer?”

So keep your eye out for Joe’s Bar Blog in the new JoeBuonfiglio.com that is on its way to this space. As Potpourri of the Damned again reverts back to content designed to engulf your grey cells in that which is madly absurd, Joe’s Bar Blog will delve into that which will make you absurdly mad.

What’s your pleasure?

 

© 2017 Joseph P. Buonfiglio     All Rights Reserved.

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

SOMETHING (DELIGHTFULLY STRANGE) THIS WAY COMES….

SOMETHING ABSURDLY WONDERFUL.

SOMETHING WONDERFULLY ABSURD.

 

In the coming months, JoeBuonfiglio.com (AKA LiteraryAbsurdist.com) will undergo an absurdly wonderful and wonderfully absurd transformation.  Keep checking back to get in on all the preposterous amusement … and probably more than a little bemusement.

PLEASE STAND BY….

— Joe Buonfiglio