Quentin R. Bufogle's Blog, page 16

WELCOME TO HELL

They were in Hell. Had been for all eternity. Well, Frank had. Bill was a new arrival. Frank was still showing him the ropes. It wasn't so bad really. Most days they just hung out in their Ray-Bans and Speedos shootin' the shit, and once a week they each got to suck on an ice cube for fifteen minutes.

"Anything good on the tube?" Bill asked.

"Nah, the usual. They're running an all-week "Meryl Streep-A-Thon" on both channels."

"An entire week of Meryl Streep? If I wasn't already dead, I'd kill myself."

"Hey, suicide's a mortal sin!"

They looked at each other and burst into a fit of laughter.

"Frank . . . you're a real card."

"Yeah. Well, ya gotta do something to keep your spirits up when you don't get HBO."

"I hear they even get Cinemax up there."

"And the Playboy Channel."

"If only I'd known. Hey Frank, what'd you do to get sent to Hell anyway?"

"I burned down an orphanage, had sex with a horse, and drew a mustache on a portrait of Pat Robertson. How 'bout you?"

"I voted for McCain."

"Wow."

Just then the Iceman arrived, grunting and straining as he pushed a wheelbarrow piled-high with ice cubes. He was wearing a loincloth and had a huge thermometer tied around his neck; his hair on fire.

"What's up gents? It's Sunday. Time for your ice."

Frank checked the thermometer.

"Hmmm. 900 degrees. Not too bad. Think I'll skip the ice this week."

"Suit yourself. How about you newbie?"

"I'm with Frank. Pass."

The Iceman smiled, "Hey, you'll never guess who just checked in."

"Who?"

"Paris Hilton."

"No shit!"

"Yeah. She's lying out on the sundeck with Jerry Falwell."

"Paris Hilton . . ." Frank shook his head, "How'd she go?"

"Zapped. She was using her curling iron in the shower."

"How does she look?"

"Hot -- no pun intended. Well, I gotta book guys. Paris asked me to bring her a strawberry daiquiri and some zinc oxide cream."

"By the way, do you know your hair's on fire?"

"Again? Jesus, I have a real problem with that."

A siren blared; a fog horn sounded; along with a buzzer, bells and a steam whistle. A red light flashed.

"What's all the commotion?" Bill asked.

"Oh, that's just Satan." The Iceman said, "We're not allowed to say "Jesus" down here. Really pisses him off."

"Ever think of wearing a helmet to keep your hair from catching fire?"

The Iceman rolled his eyes, "Wear a helmet? In this heat?"

The Iceman took off with his wheelbarrow.

"Ironic; how Falwell got sent here and they made Larry Flynt a saint."

"Yeah. Why did they make Larry a saint? Bill asked, "Wasn't he a pornographer?"

"Funny story. Larry was on the set of a porno flick, when one of the new, high-speed vibrators they were using developed an overload. Even though he was in a wheelchair, Larry managed to throw himself on it just before it exploded. Saved the lives of the entire crew -- including the fluffer."

"Jesus!"

There went the bells, whistles and fog horn again.

"Damn."

"Yeah. You really gotta watch that."

"So, whattaya feel like doing today?"

"There's always Meryl Streep."

"I never did see 'Sophie's Choice'."

"I did -- 485,444 times. You're in for a real friggin' treat."

A ROOSTER FOR PADMA (FOR ALL YOU 'TOP CHEF' FANS)

"Get out of my kitchen you idiot! You are fired!"

What else was new?

George was The Great Pierre's sous chef. Chef Pierre was a diminutive tyrant with a Napoleon Complex, and an ego larger than Mario Batali's thong -- and French. He called himself "The Great Pierre" (trademark pending), and routinely fired George an average of 4-5 times per week; re-hiring, then firing him again -- once for putting too much tarragon in the Bernaise Sauce.

"But Chef, I just wanna know how much tarragon to put in the Bernaise."

The Great Pierre was unmoved.

"Idiot! How many times must I tell you zis? Just a kiss . . . just a kiss of tarragon."

"But Chef --"

"Ahh! Enough! Talk to the hand!" The Great Pierre thrust his palm in George's face. "No more excuses. Put on your hat and shoes and stand in the corner."

It was The Great Pierre's method for maintaining discipline in the kitchen. George slipped out of his chef's hat and clogs and into the dunce cap and black, stiletto heel pumps Pierre kept in his file cabinet. George was a hulk of a guy. Size 12 extra wide. It was murder trying to squeeze into those pumps.

"There! You are a big sissy! Now cry like a girl!"

"Chef, there's something you should know. That lady from 'Top Chef' is in the dining room."

The Great Pierre's eyes were wide as crepes, "Which lady?"

"Y'know. The one with the dark hair and eyes and the big, beautiful --"

"Ahh! The one with the derriere like an onion?"

"Yeah, her. Padma."

Chef Pierre was obsessed with Padma. He fantasized about covering her with orange marmalade and forcing her to make a Creme Brulee -- then spanking her with a piping bag filled with Mascarpone cheese and calling her an idiot.

"Padma! . . . Ahh! I love Padma! We will make a special 'tasting menu' for her. Quick! Get me my prep cook, Felippe!"

"You fired him yesterday Chef."

"Then get me Miguel."

"You fired him too. You fired the entire kitchen staff."

"Never mind. Get me my server, Suzette."

"You fired --"

"NEVER MIND! NEVER MIND! I will cook and you wil serve. Now get me a rooster from the pen."

Chef Pierre had turned the employees' break room into a rooster pen. His signature dish was Coq au Vin. He'd once been dismissed as Executive Chef at a prominent New York eatery for refusing to cook anything but the dish: A French classic, prepared with an old rooster.

"Which rooster should I bring Chef?"

"The big, red one I call 'Bobby Flay' . . . and take off the high heels and dunce cap -- idiot! . . ."



A flurry of activity ensued: The Great Pierre plying his culinary chops, while George acted as server for the beautiful Padma. Chef Pierre pulled out all the stops -- all the dishes on his tasting menu a variation of the traditional Coq au Vin: There was Coq au Vin sashimi; Coq au Vin cutlets; Coq au Vin on a shingle -- and for desert, a Coq au Vin Jell-O mold.

Finishing his culinary tour de force, The Great Pierre slumped over the prep sink exhausted. Dowsing himself with cold water, he waited for the final verdict from Padma.

"Well, how did it go?" Chef Pierre eagerly asked, once George had finished serving desert.

"Not so good Chef. She looks a little green around the gills. Although she did say the Coq au Vin Jell-O mold was interesting."

Chef Pierre turned a deep shade of purple -- about the color of an eggplant.

"You idiot! This is all your fault! You put too much tarragon in the Bernaise Sauce! You always put too much tarragon in the Bernaise Sauce!"

George gave Chef Pierre a weary look.

"The hat and shoes?"

Chef Pierre said nothing. No need to. There was a price to be paid for basking in the warm glow of genius.

THANK GOD FOR DIM-WITTED TERRORISTS

It's happened again. Another son of Radical Islam attempted to blow up a plane full of Americans. This time with a bomb hidden in his underwear. I'll repeat that, because it bears repeating: the guy was hiding an incendiary device in his drawers. Fortunately, thanks to some quick thinking -- and acting -- passengers were able to subdue the man before the device could be detonated.

So, what have we learned fom this? 2 things: 1) If you're wearing a thong, never, ever try to hide anything in it larger than your genitals. 2) Never, ever mess with any group of people who've been subjected to ridiculously long lines; embarassing body searches; a three hour wait on the tarmac; then told the in-flight movie will be a Pauly Shore double feature. Oh, and one more thing: we're not dealing with fucking rocket scientists here folks. Remember good ol' Richard Reid, the "Shoe Bomber?" . . . No doubt another graduate of the Mohamed Ben Salom Achmed -- Cecil Sexton -- Momar El Habib Institute of Terrorism and Camel Herding. I mean who'd a thought having a lit fuse dangling from your sneaker, and the letters "TNT" stenciled on the side would send up a red flag? No. I can pretty much guarantee neither of these morons were a member of the Harvard Debating Team.

Now, I'm the last guy to say anything nice about the Nazis, but let's be honest; Adolf Hitler might've been bat-shit, but the guy really knew how to wage war. You didn't see any of the S.S. running around with grenades in their shorts, or dynamite in their jackboots. No. When it came to evil, those guys really had their shit together. They were a true threat, not only to America, but to every Democratic nation on the planet. And though it pains me to say it, they were smart. This current crop of bad guys we're dealing with, read more like Radical Islam's answer to Goober Pyle. We're giving these guys way too much credit. Remember that bit about the 72 virgins waiting for them in paradise? These rubes actually believe that by blowing themselves and at least one infidel to kingdom come, they're gonna instantly be transformed from goatherds, into Hugh Hefner -- be rolling around on a shag carpet with Barbi Benton somewhere in the Great Hereafter. In the words of my ol' pal Vinny, these guys are a bunch a mo-mos. They rank about 5 notches below Scientologists on the official idiot-meter.

Let's stop wasting money on expensive bombs and bullets. We need to strike at these sons-a-bitches right where they're the most vulnerable -- right in the ol' gray matter. Stupid is as stupid does. Remember those old Bugs Bunny/Elmer Fudd cartoons? That "Wascally Wabbit" really knew how to mess with your head. It's time we went "Looney Toons" on these assholes -- messed with their all too gullible heads. Let's declare the Grand Canyon the new "Mecca" -- start a rumor that Allah, the 72 virgins, and a guy selling falafels are waiting at the bottom; then give each of these camel jockeys a bungee cord that's just a wee bit too long. Not only will we be able to bring the troops home and save a ton of scratch, we can televise the entire event as an HBO special. It's certainly worth a shot.

BIG LOO: MY FRIEND FROM THE MOON

He arrived one Christmas Eve; in a box so big it didn't fit under the tree. My mother ordered him from the Spiegel Catalog for me. Big Loo: A 4 foot tall, toy robot. ("Your friend from the moon" -- if you believed the folks at the Marx Toy Company.)

Words fail me in trying to convey just how truly magnificent Big Loo was. No. For that I need to revert to my then 8-year-old vernacular: "Cool" -- "Outta sight" -- "Boss" -- "Ass kickin'" . . . Big Loo was all these things -- and more.

He launched plastic rockets from his wheeled feet. Shot rubber, suction cup darts from his bullet shaped head. His left arm was a bazooka from which he fired red, Nerf balls. And if that wasn't enough to ward off an alien invasion, he also squirted water from his robotic navel. Together we terrorized the neighborhood; frightening babies, small animals and old ladies suffering from nervous anxiety disorder. One old girl had to be rushed to the E.R. and revived by doctors, after Big Loo and I sprang from behind a tree, jolting her out of her orthopedic shoes. Ahhh! The memories!

Years passed. I grew up. Hit puberty. I no longer needed my robot friend from the moon. Girls and flesh and blood friends from the neighborhood were on the agenda. Big Loo was relegated to the attic. Eventually donated to The Salvation Army. Presumably to become some other, less fortunate kid's cherished companion. I never said goodbye. Never thanked him for all the childhood hijinx -- all the summer afternoons spent scaring the livin' bejesus out of old ladies.

Last I heard, Big Loo no longer lives on the moon. He now resides on eBay, as a rare collector's item -- and hey, if in these challenging economic times you've got a G-note to drop on nostalgia, more power to ya. For the rest of us, Big Loo will always live in the hearts of those children, now grown, whose Christmas he made just a bit brighter -- and in the tortured psyches of those we victimized.

SEX MAGNET

Well, it's happened. I've become a sex magnet. Okay. Now that I've got your attention, let me put it in reverse, back it up a bit; explain . . .

It all started a few months ago when Amazon began listing my novel, 'Horse Latitudes,' as "frequently bought together" with 'God Hates Us All' -- the ghostwritten magnum opus of 'Californication' author/satyr/anti-hero Hank Moody (brilliantly -- and libidinously -- portrayed by David Duchovny). I'm the first to admit, and at times shout from the rooftops, that Duchovny's character bears a striking resemblance to my character, Chester Sprockett: Both are floundering writers; vexed by the punani; put upon, at times preyed upon; driven to distraction by the female sex. Not only is Moody an almost carbon copy of Chester, I swear those sons-a-bitches at Showtime lifted the entire storyline for the show's current season from the sequel to H.L. I've been working on (spies y'know) -- but that's a whole 'nother blog post.

While the similarities haven't quite translated into book sales, there has been a rather bizarre fringe benefit: Seems I've now got some of Hank's mojo on my hang-low. Yep. I'm a "sex magnet." Lately I've seen more action than Tiger Woods handing out pardons at a women's prison. But it's getting out of hand. The situation has become so intolerable, that I can no longer purchase cucumbers or zucchini at the local market without being the subject of lewd comments or propositions. (I've told the manager if his stock boy doesn't knock it off, I'll be buying all my vegetables online.)

I've turned to friends and family for comfort -- but they've been no help. I called my ol' paesan Vinny for some advice. He told me to have a mirror installed over my bed -- and to get the guest room ready since he was leaving his wife and moving in with me. Even my beloved Aunt Katie was unable to console me. "I never understood what women see in you." Was all she could offer. So -- looks like I'm just gonna have to ride it out. The spell is bound to wear off sooner or later. In the meantime, if you don't see any activity on my Goodreads page, you'll know what I'm up to. Oh, and Vinny was right. The mirror totally rocks.

THE KID WITH THE COSMIC PANTS

It was one of those days. Not much going on. I was just kickin' back by the handball courts in Sixty Park. Me and Byrnes and Zorb and a cooler full of beer. It was the beginning of summer -- a long, long ago summer: one that found me sullen and ass-whipped; nursing a broken heart.

That fall, I'd been dropped on my head by Dee-Dee Calabro -- a blonde bombshell from 85th Street. At 16, Dee-Dee was 5' 9"; 120 lbs; 36-24-36 -- with short, platinum blond hair and pale green eyes and a body like you read about. She told me I reminded her of Sly Stallone because I pumped iron and always sported a white wife beater. We were in love. Well, I was in love. At least I thought so. After we split, she hooked up with some kid who had a job slicing capicola down at the A&P. I took it hard.

Five afternoons a week, I trained down at the South Queens Boy's Club with Tommy Gallagher: taking out my teenage angst on the heavy bag, and a steady stream of sparring partners. Had my first "smoker" -- dropping a 3 rounder to a polished combination puncher with 40 fights and a KO win over that year's 147 lb, sub-novice Golden Gloves champ. I had the guy out on his feet in the 2nd round but ran outta gas. Too much Bud, not enough roadwork. Oh well. It was that combination of throwing leather and pounding Buds that seemed to work well for me. Until I met him.

He came cutting through the park that day. Headed straight for me. Big as life. Bigger, as I remember it now. 6' 2"; 240 lbs -- wearing a white fedora and denim jacket with the sleeves cut off; arms thick as tree trunks and inked all up and down; a diamond stud in his left ear; pulling hard on a Marlboro. It was as if the sky had opened up and he'd stepped out. Although we hung with different crews, we knew each other by reputation. He was "Big Doug" Merked. Just plain "Dougie" around the park. We exchanged nods and I tossed him a beer.

"Hey Quinn, think you could do a piece for the back of my jacket? I need somethin' to go with these pants Bubbles did up."

Doug was wearing a pair of white painter's pants on which Bubbles, a neighborhood artist, had gone all "Star Wars" -- cutting loose with a set of iridescent markers. There were scenes of exploding suns; wild, futuristic spaceships, and weird alien life forms -- heads shaped like crescent moons -- laying waste to crater-pocked planets. Truly cosmic shit.

I was in my 2nd year at the High School of Art & Design. A pretty good cartoonist with a bit of a neighborhood rep myself. Sure. I'd throw a piece on his denim. Why not?

I worked on Doug's jacket all that summer -- but I never did finish it. In the meantime, we became friends; then best friends; then something even closer than brothers. We were inseparable: like Cassady and Kerouac -- the road trip we took together more remarkable than any fiction. And so it was. And so it remains. Crazier than a hundred drunken Irishmen. Sixty Park, 4ever.

NO COMMUNION FOR KENNEDY

"Never discuss religion or politics in polite company." -- So goes the old adage. Never been much on old adages or polite company, and though I may be sailing into rough seas, here goes . . .

Laid up with a bad cold yesterday, and while channel surfing, caught part of Bill O'Reilly's interview with Bishop Thomas Tobin of Rhode Island. Seems the Bishop has his frock caught in his crack, and is righteously pissed (as Catholics always seem to be -- and this from one who was raised Catholic) at Representative Patrick Kennedy's pro-choice stance on abortion. The Bishop has publicly chastised Kennedy for being a bad Catholic (there's a compliment in there somewhere) and ordered him to abstain from receiving communion -- holy or otherwise.

Now, I'm no fan of the Kennedys or holy mother church. The Kennedys are the product of a bad gene pool. JFK was a wonderfully charismatic and charming man who probably would've gone down in history as a very mediocre president had it not been for an assassin's bullet. Bobby seemed a true humanitarian and probably the best of the lot -- but again, we'll never know. Joseph P. Kennedy, the family patriarch, was a creep with handles: not only a bootlegger and Nazi appeaser of epic proportions (as Ambassador to Great Britain, Joe was all for handing over the Jews, the Poles and half of Europe to Adolf Hitler, just so no precious Kennedy blood would be spilled in a war); but a Wall Street robber baron whose stock manipulation pools helped hasten the market crash of 1929 and the ensuing depression. Quite a guy.

As for the Catholic Church . . . well, at least they're not urging people to fly planes into buildings -- they're too busy acquiring real estate. Question: who is the largest holder of real estate on the isle of Manhattan? No. It ain't The Donald. It's the parish of Trinity Church; that little, gothic-spired house of worship that sits atop Wall Street. So much for the vow of poverty. But no, the hypocrisy doesn't end with the hording of the long green: parish priests driving BMWs and the Pope living in opulence which would cause a Saudi prince to seem like the denizen of a trailer park by comparison. Oh no. Let's get back to that communion thing . . .

Now it's been a while since I've done any genuflecting at the altar of Saint Thomas Apostle Church in Woodhaven, Queens. My days as a Catholic schoolboy long behind me. But I do vividly recall the story of the last supper: Jesus broke the bread and passed it to his disciples saying, "Eat this. This is my body which is given for you." Then he filled a cup with wine, passed it to them and said, "Drink this. This is my blood which is shed for you."

Let's remember the backstory here. Jesus was the son of God. An omnipotent being who knew full well that the men seated at his table were flawed. He knew that in a matter of hours, Judas Iscariot would betray him; deliver him up to the Romans for crucifixion. He knew that Peter, the "rock" upon which he would build his church, would deny him. Knew that all of them, at some point, would fail him. Yet he gave them communion.

The Bible tells us that before sitting down to their meal, Jesus knelt and washed the feet of each Apostle. The son of God, washing the feet of the men who would betray, deny and fail him. It's a parable of unequivocal power extolling the virtues of tolerance and forgiveness. And one which seems oddly lost on Bishop Tobin.

It never ceases to amaze me how the church that claims Jesus Christ as its founder, so often refuses to follow his example.

CROCODILE ELVIS . . . NEW FICTION IN THE LAS VEGAS WEEKLY!

What "really" went on behind the scenes during the filming of 'Viva Las Vegas' with Elvis, Colonel Tom Parker and . . . Oh lordy! . . . Ann-Margret! (And what about that crocodile?)

Find out for yourself at:

www.lasvegasweekly.com/news/2009/nov/...

You're gonna love Doug MacDonald's stunning graphic!

YOU HAVE A DIRTY MIND . . . AND I CAN PROVE IT!

The moon hung tilted and lazy in the night sky. A heifer dozed in the field -- dreaming peacefully of whatever it is heifers dream of -- tail swishing the persistent swoop of a horse fly.

A light shone in the barn window. Inside, Jake and Linda Lou lie exhausted on a mound of hay.

"Are you sure we done it right?" Linda Lou asked.

"Yep. Juss like it show'd in the manual." Jake said.

Linda Lou made a face, "I dunno. Seemed kinda tight. Maybe we shoulda used more grease?"

Jake licked his finger and stuck it in Linda Lou's belly button. She squealed and socked him in the arm. For a girl who couldn't weigh no more than a hunnerd pounds, she sure packed a wallop.

"Don't you go makin' fun a me Jake juss 'cause it was my first time an' you done it before!"

"Aww, I ain't makin' fun a ya Linda Lou. Like I tol' ya, ain't nothin' ta fixin' the wheel on a tractor. An' don't you worry. We used plenty a grease."

"Well, whataya wanna do now?" Linda Lou asked, resting her head on Jake's shoulder.

"That heifer's asleep out there. Why don't we go outside an' tip her over juss for fun?"

"Jake, you are a wild one!" Linda Lou said, and socked him again.

STEAL MY BOOK

Abbie Hoffman: Yippie leader, counterculture icon and prankster extraordinaire, published his legendary manifesto of the subversive, "Steal This Book," in 1971. In his tome -- basically a handbook for waging the new revolution -- Abbie instructed his readers on how to "F" with "The Man" in various ways ranging from building their own incendiary device; to placing several dead fish inside a safe deposit box at their local bank. (The fish would reek to high heaven, but as long as they continued to pay the rental fee, the capitalist pigs at the bank could do nothing about it.)

If Abbie's book were to be published today, in the looming shadow of The Patriot Act, he'd no doubt be cooling his heels at Gitmo -- or perhaps some ocean front property in Bermuda -- all courtesy of your tax dollars. Abbie was the consummate anti-capitalist. In an act which burned with all the pure, crystalline irony of a Zen Koan, Abbie urged people to steal his own book. So, in honor of Abbie, and to keep the spirit of the revolution alive, I urge all of you to please steal my book.

That's right. I know things are tough out there, and let's face it, those capitalist swine who published the thing have no business expecting people to cough up $24.95 for a lousy trade paperback. $24.95??? For Christ's sake, the thing is only 148 pages long! No wonder I can't get my own fucking grandmother to buy a copy!!! (Sorry Nana.) So please. If you happen to spot a copy of "Horse Latitudes" at your local bookstore -- go ahead and swipe the frigging thing. It would mean a lot to me. And don't just steal my book. Steal some others too. (I hear Bill O'Reilly's book is pretty good.) Michael Moore is right. Capitalism sucks. Power to the people! Your comrade -- Quinn