… or Happy Geek Pride Day!

 Geek Girl

by Joe Buonfiglio

As I write this, it is May 25, national “Geek Pride Day.” Now, woe to you who slip and call it national Nerd Pride Day; do so at your own peril. National “Nerd Day” is traditionally celebrated April 16, but in reality, ONLY because social media had extensive chatter on that day claiming it as such. For some reason, it does not appear to be as “official” as Geek Pride Day.

Which begs the question, “Why?”

Perhaps it is because within the general population, there is much confusion as to exactly what the hell the difference is between a geek and a nerd.

And what of “crossover” nerds/geeks?

Are they “Gerds”?


Should they be ostracized from the mainstream of polite society more or less than their “pure” brethren?

While most Americans care less about this than even their collective yawn about the hipster man-bun, from within the confines of Geek/Nerd culture, it is still noteworthy to recognize that all of this confuses the public with greater inducement of dumbfounded headshaking than the North Carolina General Assembly trying to figure out what bathroom transgender people should use.

Perhaps “geeks” have the more colorful of the backstories. Traveling carnival sideshows of the early 1900s would often employ and feature a “geek” performer. In a nutshell, the geek’s job was to create entertainment value for a midway audience by engaging in sickeningly strange acts of nauseating tastelessness for shock value such as biting the head off a live chicken. This unique “specialization” somehow evolved into the less-repulsive nature of today’s geeks and their pride in a given vocational or avocational focus. The word “geek” itself derives from the Low German word “geck,” meaning fool or freak.

The modern “geek” computer programmers and associate techies originally adopted that self-descriptive nomenclature to distinguish themselves as experts in that respective field. However, it expressed not just a superior skillset and knowledge base in the technology arena, but an outright passionate obsession taking it way beyond a mere job into the realm of a culture unto itself.

However, a peculiar bastardization of what it means to be “geek” has occurred in recent years as mainstream society began to usurp the geek technology-based principles. Now “to be geek” can refer to a person with any fanatical fixation with a singular focus designed to make the bearer of the geek label stand out for their distinctive passion. You can still be a coder-geek, but now also a wine-geek, a Harry Potter-geek, a foodie-geek, a car-geek a la Top Gear-head, a Team Fortress 2-geek, a fitness-geek, a book-geek, and on and on. All you need is to be obsessed about “your thing” and you’re a member of Club Geek.

Enter the Nerds.

The earliest record of the word “nerd” being used was when American writer and illustrator Theodor Seuss Geisel (Dr. Seuss) first used the term in his children’s book, If I Ran the Zoo, originally published in 1950.

“And then, just to show them, I’ll sail to Ka-Troo. And Bring Back an It-Kutch, a Preep and a Proo, a Nerkle, a Nerd and a Seersucker, too!”

A year after that book was published, a Newsweek magazine article is attributed with the first use of “nerd” in the way we use it today: a probably off-the-charts smart, but socially inept, wash-your-hair optional, tends to be unattractive, still thinks pocket-protectors are cool, sees the 1984 movie Revenge of the Nerds as the best historical-documentary ever, destined to be money-machines in spite of themselves person.

Make no mistake, nerds and geeks are both obsessively passionate about their interests. However, how that is expressed is a wholly different matter.  Both may like the British TV series Doctor Who.  However, where a geek will go into detail on everything from the exact shade of blue that the TARDIS is and how many stiches were in the fourth doctor’s scarf, a nerd will incorporate it into an illuminating conversation on all of sci-fi television throughout history and how it relates to modern astrophysics theory.

A geek exhibits more — shall we say — normalized social skills, although they tend to be garrulously pretentious, especially if you hit upon a topic that is in their core wheelhouse. They crave the micro-world and desire to demonstrate their knowledge of every bit of the component minutiae of their single-minded fixation.

A nerd, on the other hand, exhibits a disinterest, almost a disdain, for the small details of life … such as personal grooming or hygiene or the art of small-talk with the opposite sex or how to do laundry or how to pump gas without it spilling all over the place…. They go about things in a more macro big-picture approach on their topic of personal pursuit. Nerds are happy to talk about the direction time-travel theory is heading and why, or what must be the track evolution is taking.

Nerds can be identified by their introverted nature, particularly outside of being in their comfort zone of likeminded nerds. Geeks tend to be more extroverted, often going on and on and on about some bit of miniscule detail to just about anyone who’ll listen on a topic for which they were never asked about in the first place.

Nerds can tell if you’re “one of them” when you know and use the obscure jargon they embrace. Conversely, for the most part, geeks avoid such clique-esque references finding that as beneath them. Both camps will often talk about the same subjects, but express it in totally different manners.

Geeks find employment in many sectors; as long as they can spout off about what and ALL they know, they’re happy. Sure, it might be in IT, but could easily be in game design or art or bartending. As long as there’s someone at the office willing to listen to them drone on, they’re good.

Nerds are engineers and rocket scientists and, occasionally, tech guys. Period. They only hang out with other engineers, rocket scientists and, occasionally, tech guys.

Geeks can find love with anyone … as long as that “anyone” likes listening to them talk incessantly about whatever they’re into at the moment.

A nerd’s only hope of finding love is with another nerd. That significant other MUST have tape holding together both halves of their broken eyeglasses, too, or it just won’t work in the bedroom … or the kitchen … or the living room when Neil deGrasse Tyson is on TV.

To make matters worse, an intellectual interbreeding of late has rendered the unthinkable: The rise of the GERD (not to be confused with gastroesophageal reflux disease or slang for “Graduate, Earn, Retire, Die”) , or the better-known NEEK depending on which base of cerebral DNA you lean toward. This bizarre amalgam of geeks and nerds leads to mindboggling muddle and philosophic pandemonium.

More and more, the detail-oriented craft-beer enthusiast astronautical engineer and the Bordeaux aficionado web-designer motivational speaker are emerging from the womb of Mother Misfit, a product of an unholy metaphoric fornication; defying classification, evolving into a new species unto itself.

It is the arrival of something novel: the introverted extrovert; the extroverted introvert.

So as we celebrate this Geek Pride Day, remember this: your son or your daughter could be dating — procreating with — one of these new animals at this very moment.




The geek foot soldiers lying down with nerd locals, thus creating a secret Army of the Neeks.

The only hope for humanity?

Travel back in time to kill Dr. Seuss.

Ironically, it will take an Army of Neeks to figure out how to do that.


© 2016 Joseph P. Buonfiglio     All Rights Reserved.

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death bench

by Joe Buonfiglio

The wind has gone still.

The outdoor cacophony of neighborhood lawnmowers and leaf blowers and barking dogs and rumbling delivery trucks forming annoyances in and distractions for my otherwise imagination-engaged brain are suddenly silent.

The office clock that incessantly ticks in the background is conspicuous by its abrupt muting.

The labored breathing sounds of this perpetually allergic man aren’t just alarmingly shallow; they’re imperceptible.

In addition, I have writer’s block.

No, you don’t understand. Yes, I am a writer. No, I do not get blocked. I NEVER get writer’s block. To the contrary, I don’t know when to stop writing, not find it difficult to start. “Killing my darlings” editing down is my problem, NOT struggling to fill a page.

Any one of these by themselves is not cause for concern. However, taking into account the simultaneous manifestation of each event, it begs the question…

Am I … DEAD?

At this moment, I gaze upon the framed $25 check I received for the first story I had published in which I was bestowed with actual payment to write. (No, it was not my last check, smartass.) It was many years ago from the publisher of Skylight magazine out of St. Augustine, Florida, for a fun little piece about fictional theoretical formulas relating to the physics of cats titled, “Feline Physics.”

Now I sit in my chilly little office on an unseasonably cold spring day staring at the blank digital page …. dead. My brain appears to have seized up even on the most instinctual level, let alone giving way to any higher functions such as creativity.

Is this the end of the line?

Oh, I could resort to mindlessly pounding on my computer keyboard and banging out some fart jokes, throw out the word “FUCK!” every other sentence or once again flirt with the notion of the masturbatory practices of the Emperor penguin. And believe me; I’m certainly not beyond ANY of that should the spirit move my Muse in such a direction. However, at the moment, those don’t offer any inspiration. It would only be a forced march that you’d all see through instantly.

Even my fallback monkey-fucker witticisms don’t seem to offer a hope of bringing a smile to my face.

An emotionless face.

A face reflecting an impotency of thought.

Artistically dead.


But if I’m dead, where am I?

Am I in Heaven?

No, there’s no beer and pizza.


No. There’s no reality TV.

Am I in New Jersey?

No, it doesn’t smell bad.  Well, no worse than my office usually smells.

So, am I really dead?  I must be, because I never, ever get writer’s block.


Did I just finish my blog post?

Never mind.

Oh, and the office clock’s batteries are just out of juice … … … as, apparently, am I.

© 2016 Joseph P. Buonfiglio     All Rights Reserved.

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void jar - black

by Joe Buonfiglio

We humans are unable to deal with the empty holes in our lives; “voids,” if you will. We fill the voids prior to birth and after death with explanation we weave out of the vast compilation of tales we collectively refer to as “religion.”

The voids during life we fill with doughnuts.

Preferably chocolate-glazed.

However, lately we have not only stepped from the platform at Void Station onto the express train to Crazytown, we’ve all gone off the proverbial rails themselves. In the process, we’ve not only intentionally reached out to touch the cosmic third rail of existence; we’ve moistened our metaphoric tongue and given it a good lick, too. I guess there are only so many voids that can be satisfied with God and a jelly-filled.

Not sure what I mean by all that esoterically existential flapdoodle? Try this:

Our solution to gun violence is to buy more guns on a societal level. We want to solve problems with other nations not with more diplomatic relations, but with isolationism; we talk of building walls between countries and carpet-bombing our way to safety. We don’t care about our fellow humans; we just want to make sure we get what’s coming to us. We roll back education and environmental protection as if billionaires and wildcat frackers are our friends, and teachers and glaciers are our enemies. Some of us seek to take over the world through acts of excessive violence upon the innocent. Self-serving madmen are the new leaders to admire and emulate; moving us deeper into the potential for nuclear mayhem, not farther away. We find new categories of the suppressed and disenfranchised upon which to impose a new breed of Jim Crow mentality. Hate is the new kindness. Selfishness the new love. Greed the new ideal to be held in reverence. Fear the new driver.

In short, we’ve become utter assholes.

Oh, not all of us, of course, just the ones holding most of the power and the Army of the Dumbasses who are their willing recruits. The promise of the meek inheriting the Earth was either total bullshit or it just faded away quicker than my interest in watching a round of golf on TV.

It is my sincere hope that we can use Jurassic Park technology to reintroduce the one-eyed, one-horned flyin’ Purple People Eater species back onto the planet, because…


A-bye-bye. See-ya’. Sayonara. It was fun, but the fun is done!

We just couldn’t leave well enough alone, could we? The voids in our lives are currently being filled with a completely new kind of nuts, and I don’t mean filberts.

God — should He-She-It actually exist — right about now must be thinking, “You know, I’ve got some perfectly good cockroaches down there just dying for their chance at bat.”

So goodbye to Yellow Brick Road, Mr. Chips and probably my testicles; we go out not with a whimper, but one obnoxiously loud bang courtesy of Kim Jong-un or Vladimir Putin or whatever Insane Fucker Du Jour is threatening to bring down our Little Global Shop of Horrors by the time you read this.

As for me, I’m going to fill my doughnut hole and any other willing orifice with as many of the eponymous fried confectionery treats as I can in the hopes that I pop like a tick overly gorged with blood from the ass of a rabid raccoon. Because, my fellow people of Earth, I want to exit this mortal coil on my terms before the collective monsoon of dipshits that is humankind engages in what I’m sure will be a spectacular, if but asinine final act of self-annihilation.

Now hand me those sugar-sprinkles; this doughnut ain’t gonna decorate itself.


© 2016 Joseph P. Buonfiglio     All Rights Reserved.

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Why I Should be Banned for Life from the Academy of American Poets

poetry - bad

by Joe Buonfiglio

This April marks the 20th anniversary of National Poetry Month, celebrated by the Academy of American Poets since it inaugurated this hoity–toity bit of pretentious self-promotion back in 1996. Over the years, National Poetry Month has aimed to drive home the notion that poetry commands some sort of vital presence in our society and deserves acknowledgement of its robust contribution to our culture.

So as not to appear ungrateful to and for this self-aggrandizing breed of literati, here is my input to the cause, so to speak… in that annoying rhythmic cadence found in smoky dark bars on open mic night.

Joe Buonfiglio

Come and listen to my story about a man named Jed
A poor mountaineer, barely kept his family fed.
And then one day he was shootin’ at—



Those are The Ballad of Jed Clampett lyrics by Paul Henning for the 1962 sitcom The Beverly Hillbillies.

Here. Try this.

Joe Buonfiglio

Just sit right back and you’ll hear a tale,
A tale of a fateful trip
That started from this tropic port
Aboard this tiny—

Oh, goddamn it! Those are the George Wyle and Sherwood Shwartz lyrics for The Ballad of Gilligan’s Island. Gilligan’s Island is another 1960s’ sitcom.

Look, maybe I should just face the fact that my brain seems stuck in 1960s’ television before I plagiarize the lyrics to My Mother the Car. And nobody wants that.

Shall we give it another go sans the formulaic TV of the sexual revolution era?

Joe Buonfiglio

Of all the fucks I’ve given with a sad, but sincere heart,
You never acknowledge their presence, friend;
Unless I’m drunk and fart.

You call me vulgar, rude and not worthy of my art,
Through bloodshot eyes from whiskey’s blend;
Your words wound as if by dart.

You focus on arcane vapors that do roam as my cheeks part.
It is most unkind, I must contend
To mock my butt-trumpet de’ shart.

So if some cold shudder should overtake you with a start.
Don’t try and say my ass doth offend;
For the aroma you do bogart.

Yes you, my accuser, are a harlequin tart.
A fool and a strumpet with anal portend.
Don’t stand in judgement looking oh so smart.
You smelt it and dealt it, your lie fell apart.

You smelt it and dealt it; this truth is now penned.

You smelt it.

You dealt it.

And this is the end.

Holy fuck, that’s hard. All you hardcore poets out there: RESPECT!

Now go away. I’m watching that channel with all 60s sitcoms and Batman is about to come on. Just look at those tights! Wow.

Somebody should write a poem about that.


© 2016 Joseph P. Buonfiglio     All Rights Reserved.

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It’s THE Definite Article

THE sign

by Joe Buonfiglio


Defined in grammar as the “definite article,” it is deployed before a noun when the speaker or writer believes that the listener or reader already knows to what he or she is referring:

THE dog;

THE dress;

THE kinky whip-n-chains playset with bonus nipple-clamps.

(Sorry. Just rented 50 Shades of Grey on Netflix.)

Anyway, to my point, “the” is the wonderful little team player of the English language; willing to bring up the rear of any noun. (THE rear. See how I did that?)

However, it hasn’t always been sunshine and roses for our old friend THE. There were dark times, too; hopeless, wicked, lost times.

THE alcoholism.

THE drug addiction.

And dare I say it? That evil association with THE Nazis.

These were terrible, shameful, loathsome times in a shadowy chapter of the language arts.

For example, how will people remember the 2016 presidential primaries and dear little “the”?

In 2016, the world is less concerned with all the good little “the” can do. Instead, we are drawn into the controversy surrounding the’s seedier side; the dark truth that makes “a” and “an” grateful to be mere indefinite articles.

2016 was the year that a certain rat-haired presidential candidate was saying so many — so fucking many — outrageous statements on the campaign trail, the news media and blogosphere alike were able to dig up a quote by said rodent-maned mogul on an Albany, NY talk-radio show before he formally announced that he had decided not to pursue the Republican nomination for the 2012 presidential election. And while only one of many heinous and reprehensible statements made by this indisputable narcissist, “I have a great relationship with the blacks. I’ve always had a great relationship with the blacks” is probably right up there on the Appalling Hit Parade.

THE blacks.



What … THE … fuck?!

Is THE a willing accomplice to this not-so subtle evidence of racist tendencies? Is it just passively complicit by way of its own apathy?

Sure, we’ve taken our friend “The” for granted for far too long. We assume he’ll always be there when we need him, because … well … he is. This is exactly why it is this author’s sincere hope, overwhelming desire and linguistic need that THE not be found wanton in this nasty business that reared its ugly head during our great nation’s electoral exhibition, our demonstration of democracy; that THE is sincere in its efforts to overcome “this” hurdle, “this” humiliation, by “this” utterly disgraceful bit of unpleasantness….

… Which is why THIS is taking over for a while. Perhaps THE will be able to get THE relief it deserves as the rest of English takes on the idiosyncratic blathering of THIS billionaire butt-plug….

… of whom from this point on we will refer to as just THE butt-plug.

Who knows? Maybe redemption will be found in the pages of a gently crafted children’s book; Donny THE Butt-Plug has picture-book title written all over it.



© 2016 Joseph P. Buonfiglio     All Rights Reserved.

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How Does One Become a “Literary Absurdist”?

Joe Clown - 1 with negative

by Joe Buonfiglio

“I take offense at that,” I replied to her insinuation with an air of holy indignation. “What makes you think I play the clown?”

To my mind, there is a distinct difference to absurdist-based humor and clowning in the traditional sense of the profession. While it is true that at any given moment both may rely upon the arbitrary disarray whirling all about us, I can see that many of you may not appreciate the role the Literary Absurdist plays in the cosmic fart that is the universe.

So, I’m going to now take a moment here to step out of my usual strange-humor persona to break the fourth wall and speak directly to you in a more professorial fashion in order to offer up a little insight into my favorite subject matter … ME.

How does one become a “Literary Absurdist,” an absurd-humor writer? What dark forces of the universal landscape are at work there, eh?

Right out of the gate, you need to realize that I am a creature of Jekyll and Hyde Syndrome. (It’s a real condition. Google it, if you’re so inclined. I’m not your mommy; do your own homework.) I can be funny one second, and then turn on a dime with intense anger the next; jocular, and then for no obvious reason, turn hostile without warning. This creates a natural irrationality to my existence and, as you might expect, easily translates to the absurdity within my chosen craft. It is a life generating a haphazard bedlam that reveals itself in my view of the world that consequentially emerges in my literary works.

My angels and my demons are one and the same, and my Muse cannot distinguish between the two. Darkness from light, light from dark; comedy from tragedy; tragedy becoming comedy.

Even as far back as high school, I felt split in two; as if I had a foot in each of two worlds, but I never fit into either … never really felt comfortable … never really accepted. So now, I create my own little world unto itself; a world where I fit in; a world where I … make sense.

I see our ephemeral walk upon this Earth as both ridiculous and utterly meaningless outside of our own parochial perception of “self.” Once you recognize this, even the horror cutting into us as we slide along our mortal coil has a humor to it. It’s almost impossible not to see once you recognize life as an arcane vapor farted out of God’s ass due to an overconsumption of His own self-importance.

However, what was placed into the primordial ooze of my soul that evolved into this obscene thing, a preposterous hyena now attempting to enlighten you as if you give a pretty penguin poop about any of it?

Let me explain.

Ever since a dear friend of mine introduced me to Monty Pythons Flying Circus when I was but a mere child in middle school, my love of the absurd — specifically absurd humor — has been my life’s passion-project. (He also introduced me to The Rolling Stones’ Sympathy for the Devil, but that’s another part of the story for another day.) My vocational pursuits became this peculiar blend of the ribald bizarre with an underlying intelligentsia influence. I craved British television (particularly comedy and sci-fi); this melded with a fascination of artists such as Salvador Dali. I realized that the artistry of the Marx Brothers was not just lowbrow antics, but a magnificently timed dance with a wonderful intelligence behind it.

I am a creature of fantasy. I don’t make sense in the “real” world. But in the realm of the blank page?

Not only do I fit in; I’M GOD! Nothing happens unless I will it to happen.

In the so-called real world, I’m just one more down-on-his-luck schmuck. In the worlds I create, I’m Superman, Batman, Deadpool, Doctor Who and Lou Costello all rolled into one brilliantly irrational package!

I remember, years ago, sitting on the old Warner Brothers’ lot with reps from a production company interested in a screenplay I had co-written. At one point, we were sitting outside eating while pieces of various sets were walked by us as we casually discussed how Fox had fucked up a real opportunity when it took on the long-running BBC science-fiction television program Doctor Who back in the 90s. Everyone took all this nonsense completely seriously in this atmosphere of make-believe revolving all around us as if it had anything to do with any sort of grounding in reality.

It was completely absurd and delightfully humorous within its own little esoteric context of authenticity.

For that brief, shining moment, I felt alive.

I felt at home.

I felt as if—

… as if—

… as if I made sense.

God, there are times when I really miss LA.

Humor? That’s my coping mechanism…. No, it’s my defense mechanism.

Absurdism? That’s just how I see the world, isn’t it? The pointless confusion of the cosmos.

Yet, these seemingly incompatible forces (Shouldn’t indiscriminate disorder cause distress, not levity?) help me hold on to my sanity. Well, at least what passes for sanity for me. Here’s a real-life example of what I’m talking about.

Not too long ago relative to the time of this writing, I pissed off the sponsor and co-producer of a local radio show by incessantly interrupting the dramatic reading during what was an integral part of the show’s format with my trademark inane, irrelevant, irreverent, absurd commentary.

I mean to tell you, this guy was red-faced angry. I felt as if I was being chided by my first-grade teacher for engaging in class-clown activities that demolished the day’s lesson. Now mind you, the reading was from The Ox-Bow Incident, so it was dry, tedious and most likely lulled listeners to sleep; “sleep,” as in a welcoming overdose of sleeping pills to end the misery of having to go on.

However, in his defense, I did break with the program’s sacrosanct format and I could see where he may have felt I betrayed a sacred trust of the Theatre of the Mind or some such bullshit.

But afterwards, over a few beers with the show’s co-hosts, I had to laugh. The producer/sponsor had no problem with the fact that I brought fresh-baked baguettes into the studio and, on-air, told them all to shove them up their asses while we all sang the national anthem of Canada. That was okay. But interrupt the reading of an outdated, boring piece of literature and I’m banned from the show for life.

You get what I mean now? Are you coming around to embracing the weirdness of the world?



My sanctuary….

Oooooooooo Caaaaaaaaana-daaaaa!


© 2016 Joseph P. Buonfiglio     All Rights Reserved.
All photos are © 2016 Joseph P. Buonfiglio with All Rights Reserved.

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You Don’t Want to Know the Things I Do While You Slumber at Night

Night scene 2

by Joe Buonfiglio

I am an incurable insomniac; of this, there is no escape. Don’t try to offer me your “day walker’s” solution to my problem, for I’ve heard it all before. No amount of booze or warm milk or exercise or meds seem to be able to deliver on the promise of a decent eight hours for me. So while you get your beauty sleep to prepare for a productive tomorrow, here’s some of the stuff I’ll be doing tonight:

I will see how many doughnuts I can shove onto the dog’s tail before he wakes up all pissed off and chases the sugary goodness until he looks as if one of those spin-art machines along the carnival midway.

And yes, before you think to ask, I will still eat the doughnuts after the dog collapses to the floor in frustration.


Okay, the top half of that one; BUT JUST THE TOP HALF! I’m not an animal.

Then, I’ll search the TV’s guide trying to find the Penguin Porn channel. While I’ve written NatGeo for years, they still have not come through for me on this one.

Oh well.

One’s quest must continue undaunted by provisional disappointment.

I will follow this up by embracing my nocturnal opportunity and, unnoticed by family or polite society, attempt to obtain an accurate measure of the length of my butt-hair.

After you get over your immediate repulsion at the mere suggestion of this arduous task and allow your more inquisitive nature to override the fact that you just vomited ever so slightly into your mouth, the answer is yes; it can actually be done.

Should it be done?

That’s between you and your God.

Next up is “breakfast cereal buffet” time. All the boxes of innumerable varieties of cereal — of varying degrees of staleness and diverse heights of product — are unceremoniously yanked out of my pantry to all come together on the coffee table between the living room couch and the TV in a late-night smorgasbord of carbohydrate-n-high-fructose delight.

Diabetes, start your engines.

And finally, just as the dawn of a new day imposes itself on me and shines a spotlight upon my apparent pursuit of ill-health and utter exhaustion, I will down a mop bucket’s worth of leftover ten-alarm chili, step out onto the driveway with my battery-operated high-powered professional bullhorn-megaphone, drop trou and with an electronically enhanced flutter-blast of unsavory flatulence, herald the rising sun whilst also mocking the whole neighborhood with my auditory display of disdain.

Another night of torment survived. Another day of walking the Earth as if a zombie from a George Romero movie begins….


© 2016 Joseph P. Buonfiglio     All Rights Reserved.

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