Quentin R. Bufogle's Blog, page 7

JOSEPH AND THE AMAZING TECHNICOLOR BULLSHIT, OR, HEY! THAT'S NOT AYATOLLAH KHOMEINI, IT'S CAT STEVENS!

REMEMBER CAT STEVENS? The platinum-selling, soulful-voiced Brit whose career once rivaled that of Elton John? Back in the early '70s, Stevens was the man. His songs seemed to play in an endless loop on local AM stations across the country. "Wild World," "Father and Son," "Moonshadow." Good stuff. Then, one day -- "POOF." Stevens suddenly vanished from the charts.

In a move that left both music fans and record execs alike reeling, Stevens ditched his lucrative recording career; grew a cleric's beard, and converted to Islam. Stevens became a devout Muslim. Changing his name to "Yusuf Islam," he swapped a life of gold records and sold out concert venues, for the higher calling of building Mosques and Muslim schools in his native Britain. Why, we wondered???

I vividly recall a television interviewer putting that very question to the newly converted Stevens. The Rock God whose poster had once papered the bedroom walls of teenage girls all across America, now more closely resembling an Ayatollah, responded in this way ... one day, while reading the Quran, he'd happened upon the story of "Yusuf;" found it so moving, so heart-rending, that he immediately realized it could only have been written by the hand of God (Allah) himself. Stevens was converted on the spot.

WOW! I thought. That must be one helluva friggin' story -- one so powerful, so profound, it actually altered the course of a man's life. As a writer, I was intrigued. I had to check it out. Next day I headed down to my local bookstore, found a copy of the Quran, and read the story of the Prophet Yusuf. Guess what? Turns out the story of Yusuf is actually none other than that of "Joseph" from Genesis (remember "Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat?" -- Yeah, that dude). One and the same. The story that moved Cat Stevens to abandon a multimillion dollar career and convert wholeheartedly to Islam did not originate in the Quran; nor was it uniquely rooted in the Muslim faith. It was, in fact, the product of Judaism; a story found in the Old Testament of the Christian Bible.

Like Stevens, I experienced a life-altering event; an epiphany of such mind-bending clarity, that I now understood the pure, shimmering irrationality -- the utter absurdity -- of all religious belief. Christians, Muslims and Jews all trying to kill each other not because they were reading from a different book -- but because they were reading from the VERY SAME book! The same made-up, antiquated stories written by a different hand; told in a different tongue. And for but one of these simple, unremarkable stories, a man had immersed himself in a faith which hadn't authored it. If only Yusuf Islam -- son of a an Orthodox Greek father and Baptist mother; raised as a Roman Catholic -- had bothered to check.

V.P. DEBATE: PENCE 1, TRUMP 0

So the albino Ken doll looked cool and composed while lying through his capped teeth about Boss Trump? Punish women who have abortions? ... Nope. Never said it. Let the Saudis have a nuke? ... Sorry. Doesn't ring a bell. Forcibly deport 12 million Mexicans? ... C'mon, Tim. Can't ya take a joke?

Pence lied like a used car salesman for 90 minutes and -- unlike boss man Trump -- looked very "presidential" in the process (and did absolutely nothing to save The Donald's ass -- nice suit though). Score: Pence 1, Trump 0. As for pit bull Kaine? He did exactly as intended: trussed up "Mr. Piggy" Trump complete with apple in mouth for the roasting Hillary's gonna give him on Sunday ...

TAKE OUR GUNS ... PLEASE!

Dear Editor:

My name is Quentin R. Bufogle. I'm an American writer and novelist. I was honored by the fact that you quoted me in a recent IRISH INDEPENDENT editorial (7-9-16) regarding racial tension and gun violence in the U.S. I wonder if I might trouble you for a favor? ...

I'm calling (actually, begging) for an intervention of international proportions. Ireland, Britain, Australia, France, Germany -- you all need to sit us down and calmly but resolutely explain that when it comes to the issue of guns, AMERICA has lost its collective mind. Please, don't spare our feelings. We've really lost it. We need someone far removed from the insanity (with no dog in the fight) who can explain to us that 13,000 gun-related deaths each year is not the norm -- not the price that must be paid for liberty; for living without fear of the yoke of some tyrannical, shadow government which might sprout from a pod even as we sleep (land of the free; home of the paranoid).

Five police officers killed, nine other individuals wounded, mere blocks from the very spot where one of our most beloved presidents was assassinated with a mail-order firearm purchased without a background check. And yet with all the killing, all the carnage, it's only for our guns that we fear. Please, you need to explain to us that there's no bogeyman hiding under the bed waiting to confiscate our semi-automatic weapons. Our guns are safe. It's "we the people" who are in imminent peril ...

Sincerely,

Quentin R. Bufogle


**Author's Note** The IRISH INDEPENDENT is the largest-selling daily newspaper in Ireland.


www.independent.ie/opinion/editorial/...

ARIANNA HUFFINGTON: THE SLEEP REVOLUTION

In her new book, "The Sleep Revolution," Arianna Huffington extols the benefits of getting a solid 8 hours' rest each night.

HERE'S A "REVOLUTIONARY" IDEA: PAY YOUR FRIGGIN' WRITERS!!!

Despite selling the Huffington Post to AOL for $315 million, Arianna Huffington pays her bloggers zippity-doo-dah. It's a business model that would've made plantation owners in the old South green with envy. Really Arianna, difficult to get 8 hours uninterrupted, when you're working a double at Chipotle and driving an Uber to subsidize all the free blogging you do for the Huff.

I know Huff Post contributors who now make iPhones in China, because being shackled to a workbench 18 hours a day for a bowl of rice represents upward mobility.

HI! MY NAME'S TOBY, AND I'M A TRUMP SUPPORTER!

Hi! My name's Toby. I'm a forty-something, white Caucasian; love Jesus, guns and the Confederate flag (not necessarily in that order) -- and boy, am I mad as HELL! Last year I got laid off from my job circumcising gators at a Tampa theme park. A few weeks later, Bambi, my common law wife, fractured her vertebrae when she lost control of her rig at a monster truck rally. Things could've been much worse if the family seated in the front row hadn't served as a wheel chock. Even so, Bambi wound up in a full body cast.

Thankfully, Governor Rick Scott isn't some socialist fuckwad, so Bambi didn't have to worry about being euthanized by any Obamacare death panel. Things are rough though with no paycheck and my insurance being cancelled -- and since Obama now owns all the drug companies and jacked up prices sky-high, the only way we can afford Bambi's pain meds is to search Rush Limbaugh's fat rolls for mashed-up Oxycontin tabs.

Our faith in the Lord keeps us strong. The guy Bambi's mom is dating is an ordained minister. Last week, he stopped by our trailer and performed the ritual "laying of the hands" on Bambi to exercise the evil spirits from her spine (all maladies are caused by evil spirits), then -- overtaken by the rapture of the Holy Spirit -- danced around while wrapped in venomous snakes. For the first time in months, Bambi was able to wiggle her toes. Afterwards, we had Reverend Bob airlifted to the poison control center in Boca Raton, and gave thanks to our Savior Jesus Christ.

Which brings me to why I'm voting for Donald Trump. Donald Trump is a man of faith -- not a devil-worshipping, socialist Jew (or worse: someone who's had sex with Bill Clinton). When elected president, Mr. Trump will see to it that our children start each school day with prayer -- followed by an hour of target practice (he's also in favor of concealed carry for 6-year-olds). Not only will Mr. Trump solve the gun shortage in our schools, but he'll kick that Kenyan Obama's ass back to Afghanistan where it belongs ... and not just Obama! He's gonna round-up all those illegal aliens robbing honest, hard-working homegrown patriots of our shot at the American dream (working the deep fryer at Hooters). So please, won't you join me in supporting Mr. Trump? Together, we can make America great again! (Maybe even as good as Canada.)

THE DONALD GETS TRUMPED

It's the year 2022. In her second term, President Hillary Clinton has lifted the nation to a new level of prosperity. There's a chicken in every pot. (And pot is legal!) Things are good.

Not so in the Independent Nation of Nevada, which seceded from the union shortly after the re-election of President Barack Obama.

With the state now under the iron-fisted rule of Sheldon Adelson and his minions, unions are a thing of the past, and the average hourly wage has dipped below that of a fluffer in a Bangkok brothel ...

"Mr. Adelson? Mr. Trump is here to see you."

"Again, Karl? Can't you put him off?"

"Sorry, sir. He insisted."

"OK, OK. Send him in -- then give it 10 minutes and call me on your cell. I'll pretend it's Mitt threatening to jump again."

Rove smiled. "You're the best."

Trump was ushered into Adelson's palatial office at the Venetian, where the mogul, seated on a throne, held court. The years hadn't been kind to The Donald. After the Democrats took over, "The Apprentice" plummeted in the ratings and was cancelled. Now operating out of a discarded refrigerator crate, the once-proud real estate tycoon hustled Trump-brand silk ties on the Strip.

"Shel, thanks for seeing me -- ya look fantastic! Mind if I don't genuflect and kiss your ring? I've been on my feet all day and the knees are killin' me."

"Donald, no need to stand on ceremony. We're old friends -- and it's 'Mr. Adelson.'"

"If you'll excuse me, Mr. Adelson," Rove said, "I have an important phone call to make."

Adelson winked. "The sooner, the better."

"Hey," Trump said once Rove had left, "Karl looks like he's dropped a few pounds."

"Yeah. I keep him pretty busy around here.'

"The 'consigliere' thing?"

"That, and I have him fill in whenever someone calls out sick."

"Are you serious?"

"Sure. Takes an awful long time to work off $53 million at $6.50 an hour! Yesterday I had him deal blackjack. Night before he worked a shift for a fry cook in the coffee shop. Tonight he'll be filling in for a cocktail waitress who's having bunion surgery."

"Shel, I like your style!"

"It's 'Mr. Adelson.' By the way, how's business?"

"Not bad. Sold six ties today. Even thinking of expanding! Got a guy with a refrigerator crate outside the Fashion Show Mall who wants to franchise. Speaking of business, I'll get right to the point. The Donald is ready for a comeback -- Trump-style! All I need is 50 or 60 mil to get me rollin' again ..."

"A loan? Are you pulling my leg?"

"Shel ... er, Mr. Adelson, we go back a long way. You know I'm good for it."

"Out of the question."

"But you gave 50 million to Rove and that idiot Romney!"

"Really, Donald ... I'd like to help, but times are tough. I'm shelling out $6.50 an hour to run this place. This isn't China, y'know ..."

Adelson's telephone rang. "Hello? Oh, Mitt! How're things? Mitt, Mitt, I KNOW he was born in Kenya, but that election's over ..." He turned to Trump. "Look, Donald, it's Romney. He's off his meds again. I'm gonna have to take this. We'll talk soon!"

"Nice work, Karl," Adelson said once Trump was out of earshot. "I thought I was gonna have to call security to get rid of him. By the way, make sure you're on time for your cocktail shift tonight -- and easy on the lipstick and mascara. It makes you look cheap ..."


(Originally appeared under the title "Future Imperfect." Las Vegas CityLife blog, 11-14-12)

THE PUNCTUATION NAZIS

; ... It's called a semicolon. And I use too many of 'em ... or so I'm told by those who fancy themselves keepers of the sacred laws of punctuation: that immutable and intractable text handed down in granite from the summit of Mount Sinai. (Praise be to Strunk & White!) Ask six English professors about the semicolon and you'll get seven different opinions. Ask Kurt Vonnegut and he would've told you never to use the goddamn things. Ask John Irving (Vonnegut's student) and he'll tell you it's the most undervalued and underused punctuation mark in writing. Had you asked Hemingway, or Shakespeare, or your 5th grade composition teacher, I'm sure they all would've had an opinion too.

But "The Keepers of the Punkt" ... "The Knights Templar of the Grave Accent" ... the referees and whistle-blowers ready to call FOUL on anyone who forgoes a comma to lend elasticity to their syntax, or (F**K NO!) uses the verboten ellipsis!? They who live not only fastidiously by the rules, but solely and exclusively for them. The same garden variety, chronically-unimaginative, tight-ass bores who once hollered, YO! ... You can't do that Hendrix! ... You can't do that Pollock! ... You can't do that Whitman! ... RULES ARE RULES!!! And hey, we can all thank our lucky stars the heads of those giants loomed too far above the clouds to notice the chirp of the crickets they trod upon.

It'll happen to you fellow scribe. Play fast 'n' loose with your semicolons; swap a dash for a period, and you can bet Auntie Pearl's jam, some beady-eyed twerp is gonna pop out of the woodwork waving a dog-eared copy of The Chicago Manual of Style hollering, GOTCHA!!! ... Gotcha Pynchon! ... Gotcha Kerouac! ... Gotcha Joyce! ... You're not following the RULES!!! Yep! When they do, take a page from yours truly. Cup your hand and place it firmly under your armpit, then squeeze off a few extra loud ones. 'Cause that's all it is Cuz ... a resounding brain fart produced by a flatulent, gasbag-of-a-mind. Continue on your way. Hold your nose and move away from the stench.

It's only the pikers, the hacks, the know-nothings who cling to the rules like a life preserver. And why not? It's all they've got! Sure as an Israelite hung from the cross, they don't possess a DNA strand's worth of genuine talent or imagination. You and I, the ones with vision; the ones without blinders; the ones who can see not only forest and trees, but the spider spinning a web on a withered leaf; a ham sandwich in the outline of a cloud, or like Michelangelo, perhaps even the face of GOD. We got the great, cosmic memo: IT'S ART AND THERE AIN'T NO FRIGGING RULES!

FINALLY, THE ANSWER TO MASS SHOOTINGS: RENT-A-GAT!

IT TAKES A GOOD GUY WITH A GUN, TO STOP A BAD GUY WITH A GUN! ... Now that well-armed, 2nd Amendment patriot can be YOU -- anytime, anywhere, with RENT-A-GAT!

We all know getting quick, easy access to lethal firepower can be a real hassle. Some states require intrusive background checks, and if you're on the no-fly list, the wait can be as long as 3 days! Why be waiting, when you could be shooting???

RENT-A-GAT automated vending kiosks provide quick, easy access to the semi-automatic weapon of your choice: select a lightweight, easy-to-use Glock, or go "Rambo" with an AR-15 assault rifle, complete with extended magazine! All it takes is a major credit card and a healthy trigger finger. Just insert your credit card; select the semi-automatic weapon of your choice ... and START SHOOTING! No background check required -- it's that easy! Once you've snuffed that domestic terrorist or mouthy 7-11 clerk, simply return your firearm at one of our convenient drop boxes located at churches, college campuses, preschools, abortion clinics -- anywhere mass shootings are likely to occur (just remember to wipe off the fingerprints and replace any used bullets).

Stop domestic terrorism, prevent crime, and settle that argument over whose parking spot it really is faster than you can say "justified shooting." Don't be a victim; always go strapped, with RENT-A-GAT!

**WARNING** The Surgeon General has determined that bullets may be hazardous to your health.

ONE GUN TOO MANY

LEE HARVEY OSWALD altered the course of history with an antiquated, junk-wagon Italian WWII surplus firearm -- a pretty inconsequential specimen compared with today's high-powered, semi-automatic variety. Oswald purchased the rifle via mail order from a sporting goods store in Chicago, after spotting an ad in "American Rifleman" -- a two-bit rag published by the NRA. There it was alongside the Charles Atlas "Dynamic Tension" course, and the secret, how-to manual guaranteed to get any woman into the sack. A genuine Mannlicher-Carcano bolt-action rifle, model 91/38. Price $19.50 (postage included). No background check required. The rest, as they say, is ... well ...

Background checks are an inconvenience; an affront to the all-sacred 2nd Amendment -- and hey, how many lives do they really save anyhow? If they save just ONE life: mine; yours; your kid's -- then they're worth the trouble an inconvenience. I like my ass without the bullet holes, thanks ... how 'bout you? No one will ever completely solve the problem of gun violence in this country. But given the grave and far-reaching consequences, it behooves us to do everything -- EVERYTHING -- in our power to ensure that one particular gun doesn't find its way into the hands of one particular maniac ... EVERYTHING! No measure taken in that cause is either too great ... or too small.

GUNS N' LIBERTY

In the year 2016, why do we still cling to the intellectually retarded notion that liberty can be obtained, maintained, or lost at the end of a gun barrel? While America was busy watching and waiting for Obama and his black copters to come for its guns, the big banks and corporations were looting the store. They took EVERYTHING: Your paycheck. Your chance to retire at a decent age. Your kid's future. The second revolution came and went without a single shot being fired. When you're working 3 minimum wage jobs to make the minimum payment on a pair of socks you bought 12 years ago because your credit card company slapped you with an interest rate that a would make a loan shark holler WTF! ... well, no one needs to hold a gun to your head. Your ass has already been sold down the river.