Wednesday, February 27, 2008
New Buncocky Cast! Episode 2! Treat yourself to an hour of:
Special appearances by Dauber from Coach and Bull from Nightcourt
Interview With Satan J, Gravedigger Extraordinaire
This Week On Our Non-Netflix
The Devastating Conclusion of the Nutrament Diet Experiment
We’d love any and all feedback, be they suggestions, love or hate mail, or naked picture of your mom. Also, When you click on the link to listen to our podcast (which I know you will, because it was a gift, and only bad people don’t accept gifts) be sure to rate us however many stars you think our show is worth.
I haven’t been writing much lately because college weaseled its way into my mental and zap fried all my creativity. Plus, the Nutrament has me weak and feeble. Actually, it’s kind of hard to find time for more than one project right now, and the Buncocky Podcast is the soup of the day. I am going to recruit the help of some underground crazy holed up fucks so there’s more content on this garbage. So, if you would like to contribute I will put an email address at the bottom of this post and we can work some shit out.
You can email Buncocky Podcast at firstname.lastname@example.org
You can submit to this site at email@example.com
And, you can check my Buncocky partner, Mike Dikk, at dumpin.net
Wednesday, February 20, 2008
This is the new Podcast I made with Mike Dikk from dumpin.net. It's our first episode so we have some kinks to work out for the next one, but we hope you all dig it. Rate us or give us feedback if you're feeling saucy. If you have something you'd urgently like to discuss, or passively want to send to us you can email us at buncocky@ gmail.com.
Buncocky Cast Episode 1: Chad Allen
Introduction to us
The great Nutrament diet experiment
This week on our Netflix
Friday, February 15, 2008
There’s a black lady who comes into the gas station where I work. She drives a silver Honda SUV. Her name is Wanda. She is fifty years old, but looks a wretched thirty-five. Her skin is leathery and cratered and her eyeballs pop from her head and dance around as if looking for something to go horribly wrong so that she can unleash her pent up rage that regenerates itself at superhuman speed. She wears shiny jewelry whether she’s in her going out mini-skirt or her going to work scrubs. She comes to the gas station because she refuses to pump her own gas.
“What the fuck do I look like? You pump gas, motherfucker. Pump my motherfucking gas,” she said to me one day when the gas had run out and I told her that the truck was late, so she’d have to go somewhere else and pump her own gas.
I love Wanda. She is one of my favorite people in the world.
I first met Wanda when she pulled into the gas station at seven-thirty on a Friday evening. She was playing Prince so loud that the bass crashed against the glass of her SUV. I danced my way over to her car in my Sunoco blue work shirt, my shoulders and head loosely bobbing to and fro, my bottom lip snug between my teeth. I arrived at her window, let loose a smooth improvised spin, and with a shit eating smile I said, “What could I getcha?”
I saw the rage in her eyes as I had crashed her personal dance party. Then, my smile steadfast, I saw that rage melt into a bewildered grin. “What the fuck do you know about Prince?” she asked me, gripping the ledge of her window as if to keep her balance.
“What the fuck do you know about me?” I said.
She gave me the warmest smile I had ever seen, as if she thought her entire life that she was the last human on earth and then, fifty years in, she stumbled upon me, one of the living, the breathing, the bleeding, the fucking. As Wanda’s gas pumped we shot the shit.
“I’m on my way to the motherfucking liquor store to get me some Coronas and Hennessey. It’s Friday, motherfucker. I’m about to get my drink on and find me some men.”
“Well. you have fun” I said, admiring her liberal use of the word motherfucker and her unadulterated bluntness. “I’m stuck here until eleven.”
“Shit. If I get to the liquor store I’ll come back and drink a
“Hell yes,” I said, lying but unwilling to break our bond over semantics. Besides, it’s not as if I wouldn’t drink Hennessey. I choose not to because anything that’s not cheap whiskey tastes like vomit, especially cognacs.
And so it would go. Wanda would come by the gas station on random nights and drink a
One day Wanda came in for gas. It was still day time but clouds painted the sky grey. She was parked at the pump, her car facing the entrance because she came in through the exit, as was her style. As her gas pumped, a blonde-haired white girl in her early twenties drove up in a red Taurus and edged past Wanda so that she could get to the pump just beyond her SUV. She drove with care and made it to the pump safely, no real chance of collision.
I went to her gas tank and opened the door, and as I did so the pretty white girl got out of the car and walked over to me so she could tell me what she wanted. I began pumping her gas, and out of the corner of my eye I saw Wanda get out of her SUV.
“You think you’re cute, don’t you. You think that was some pretty driving. Well I’m gonna fuck you up. Say I won’t,” she said, marching over to the white girl, rolling up her sleeves, the devil in her eyes.
The white girl looked over to her, then back to me, unsure of what was going on. She said nothing. I said nothing.
Wanda marched forward until she was within an arm’s reach of the girl and began to wag a finger in her face. I watched, smiling, completely thrown off guard, but smiling nonetheless.
“If you’da hit my car I’d rip your fucking face off, bitch,” she shouted in her face.
The girl began to shake and, near tears, slid out of Wanda’s reach and into her car. Wanda stood there for a moment, watched her retreat, and then went back to her car cursing the whole way.
I finished up the pretty white girl’s gas and collected her money. She gave me a two dollar tip, but neither of us spoke of the event. It was all in her eyes and she was clearly happy to leave.
As she pulled away I went over to Wanda’s car to finish up her gas.
“Damn. You’re ready for a fucking fight today, huh?”
“Stupid bitch thinks I won’t do it,” she said, pulling an unopened bottle of Hennessey from the backseat. She opened it, took a swig, and held it out to me. “Here, baby. Have a little something.”
I took a swig of the nasty liquor, collected her money, and bid adieu to my white hating friend who, for some reason, found a reason not to white hate on me.
Sunday, February 10, 2008
If you want to read more about it I am going to post some links somewhere over to the left.
Riphouse 151: Could've Been's & Wanna Be's Documentary Trailer
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It's a great doc and if he ever becomes famous you can brag to all your friends about how you went to the indie theater and saw the movie before it got big. That might get you some pussy, but at the very least it will make you seem cool while your at the coffee house drinking a frapalatte and smoking a Misty.
Or you can take a date, probably a first date would be best, maybe one who likes to write poems and shit, and blow her fucking mind with all of the underground shit you know, and then take her back to her dorm room (or your mom's basement), and tell her that she's the most prettiest girl in the whole world and that her poetry is reminiscent of Emily Dickinson and that if she were a flower, she'd totally be a rose, because she's beautiful and her poetry pricks you heart with sweet fragrances.
Or, if you are a girl, you can show off how you don't need a man to be metal. You can make shit happen. And honestly, metal chicks, you guys need that shit. Stand on your own two feet. Round up the girls, throw on some chaps, and get lessoned on the power of metal.
Show some support.
Riphouse 151: Could've Been's & Wanna Be's
WORLD PREMIER SCREENING
Thursday March 27th, 2008 7pm
(Riverspace) Helen Hayes Theater
119 Main Street
$7.00 (All Proceeds go to Charity)
Saturday, February 9, 2008
My daughter is a Brownie. Every other week she goes to the meeting in the art room of her school. I always figured that they did shit like I used to do in the Cub Scouts: make wooden phalluses on wheels and have competitions to see whose could go down the plywood ramp fastest, pretend to learn how to tie knots, drink fruit punch, stuff that eight year olds could do when dressed in fruity little uniforms and left under the supervision of someone who likes the company of children enough to seek out a way to be around them in closed quarters. That’s usually one of three types of people: pretty young women with high-pitched voices who like to make popcorn ball Christmas tree ornaments and wear long flowing skirts, perverts, or soccer moms under some kind of social pressure to give back to the childrens despite their hatred for their own offspring. My daughter is stuck with the latter, just slightly more preferable than the perverts because the after-effects could be washed away with a little bit of TLC.
These two haggard women hated their children for making them big and fat, as if the prettiness of their high school years fled out of their vaginas with the amniotic fluids and placentas, and not through the self administered Twinkies and Big Macs (just a number one. No, maybe a super-sized number one, and plus a cheeseburger because the number one just isn’t filling enough. I swear for dinner tonight I’m going to eat a Weight Watchers. Isn’t The Biggest Loser on tonight? I’m going to join that show and lose a bunch of weight, and all the guys are going to want to eat me out just like in high school. How come we never go out to dinner anymore or have sex? Is it because I’m fat? Well, you’re not exactly Tom Selleck yourself. SHUT UP AND CLEAN YOUR GODDAMN ROOM! I’m making a kielbasa. You want a kielbasa?). The taller of the two was a stout blonde woman with the type of pretty face tainted with the ugliness of being a bitch, while the shorter one (more of a Brownie sidekick) was a pork-nosed brunette who brought her younger child (maybe 5) to the meetings and could be heard yelling “Shut up, Katie! Leave me alone!” at constant intervals throughout.
I sat on a table in the room. It was my wife’s turn to bring the snacks and stay for the meeting (all the parents take turns. Molester proofing, I think), but she was at work earning the money that I’m not man enough to earn for her. So there I sat, Vincent Van Gogh’s “Starry Starry Night” painted onto a tile on the ceiling next to the flat fluorescents. Drawings of insects and birds were taped to the walls and three large tables stood in the middle of the room, all of them covered in speckles of paint and magic marker. A stack of papers were next to me and I looked over at them. They were disciplinary reports meant to be filled out by the child gone wild. They said something to the effect of:
“While I was sent to another place (I’m guessing this meant time out or sitting in the corner) and reflected on what I did, I realized that___________”
and a bunch of other foofoo questions that no kid in their right mind would answer honestly. Then I heard the door open accompanied by the march of little feet, the clamber of little voices. The Brownies had entered the room dressed in their brown vests and followed by Bitchface and Porknose. I sat on the table, trying to remain low-key, but my daughter saw me and smiled. I smiled back, and wasn’t offended when her attention was diverted. She had business to take care of.
“Okay, everybody circle up into The Triad,” said Bitchface through a heavy breath.
What’s I triad, I thought to myself, worried about the cultish name of the circle they formed. Maybe it was in some ancient secret Brownie lore that a circling of little girls was to be called a triad. Still, it wasn’t a triangle, and there weren’t three of anything, so what did it all mean?
The little girls circled around Bitchface and Porknose, throwing their bags and jackets onto one of the tables beforehand. I remained the silent observer atop my table. When all the girls were seated, Bitchface addressed them with a scowl across her heavily made up kisser. “I want you all to say the Brownies credo, both aloud and in sign language.”
Sign language? My daughter knows no sign language.
But what I did not know would shock me. All of the girls, in a drab and possessed monotone, joined in a unison chorus of sign language and chanting. “I promise to serve the
A chill ran down my spine. The
“Katie, shut up and sit down,” Porknose yelled over the chant when her little daughter tugged on her shirt and asked for a piece of paper to color on.
“Okay,” said Bitchface when the kids were done, empowered by the chant as if she had just sipped on the blood of those she had killed. “Now,” what did we talk about last week?”
One of the little Brownies raised her hand, and in a voice that I can only relate to that of a robot ninja, said, “Nutrition.”
Nutrition? Was my daughter learning about nutrition from a woman that seemed to force feed herself Doritos and Hohos? That’s why I swear no allegiances: hypocrisy and misinformation. Plus, I hate being told what to do.
“Nutrition. Right. Now, what I want you to do this week is to cook a healthy meal for your family. Can you tell me what’s in a healthy meal?”
I pulled myself away, fished out my Moleskine and began to take well detailed notes of what had gone on thus far, just in case I had to take action, or at the very least forewarn as I am now. Bitchface saw me take out my notebook and shot me a dirty glance, as if I was bootlegging her movie. I did not back down, though. I kept scribbling within the black confines of my notebook. I knew my daughter would not be completing that homework assignment, as she was eight and did not know how to cook. But then, she didn’t know sign language last time I checked and there she was, not 5 minutes ago, signing away. I will teach my daughter how to cook so that she will be able to feed herself without relying on anyone to do it for her, and I will be more than happy to teach her how to cook well if she shows the love for the craft that I have. I will not, though, let her cook because some piece of shit Bitchface Brownie head molester thinks that little girls should learn how to cook nutritious food for their family. That’s the exact kind of bullshit that I am trying to help my daughter avoid. I do not want her falling into any kind of stupid shit gender role. If she is a fuck up, I want it to be her fault, not the world’s. If that means that my daughter may turn out to be a dyke, at least I can be assured that she will live a dick-free life, which is perfectly fine with me.
“Katie, shut up!” yelled Porknose as Katie stood and whispered in her ear.
Anyways, The Triad broke up and Bitchface had them all go to a table and make coupons promising to clean some shit for their family members. Fuck that. I can clean up after myself if I wanted to. I don’t want my daughter learning how to clean for other people, to become a cog in the white man’s socialization machine, damned forever to work as a teacher or at a customer service job and never knowing the what it feels like to tell somebody to fuck off and have them wonder whether or not you’re all business or just another poser, but not willing to risk it because you have something a little bit off in your eyes and your clothes are kind of ratty. I want her to have that. All of it. All of the shits that I get to do because I’m a guy. If someone ever looks at her tits, I want her to tell him to get his bitch eyes off of them or else she’ll fuck him up. I don’t want her to grin and bare it. Fuck that.
The little girls sat around the table making coupons out of precut construction paper. They chatted it up about the things they were going to promise to do, and about how the lunch lady was a total bitch that day, and about how the latest episode of iCarly was so funny. Bitchface and Porknose were off to the side talking about how great the new BJ’s was, and how Porknose bought a whole case of Slim Fast on the super cheap. Then Bitchface left the conversation to check on the girls, asking them what they were making coupons for.
“I’m gonna clean up the guest room where my daddy sleeps,” said the little red haired Irish girl.
“I’m gonna promise not to fight with my sisters,” said the girl with long brown hair and
I had brought in some Capri Suns and Chips Ahoy for snack. I was amazed that the little girl found a way to get
“And what are you doing,” Bitchface asked her daughter who seemed exuberantly proud to be a Brownie.
“I’m going to clean up my sister’s room every day for a week,” she said with glee.
“How are you going to do that when you can’t even keep your own room clean,” snapped Bitchface, contempt all over her face.
Sick burn. She put her daughter on front street while her little Brownie friends watched. Bitchface’s Karma was soaked with the frustration of her lot as a housewife, surely engrained in her as a child, probably when she was a Brownie herself. I could hear it in Porknose’s voice every time she told her daughter to shut the fuck up, as well. I wanted none of that for my daughter.
The meeting eventually came to a close. The cookie sales slips were handed out so that my daughter could be whored out by the Girl Scouts. I took them, and we left, me all the wiser.
On the way home my daughter looked at me, her blonde hair falling in her face, unable to hide the wry smile that I gave her from my DNA, and showed me the coupons. My daughter knows to question shit, and she knows that most things are pretty much bullshit. She still has the unabashed optimism of childhood, but she is not one to be duped. I was happy to see that she promised nothing more than was expected of her. She would clean her room. She would feed her cats. She would take care of the shit she had to take care of anyways. I was proud. I don’t know why I worry.
Tuesday, February 5, 2008
Among his many other talents, my friend Mike Dikk is an underground top secret photography ninja. He's a maniac with the camera. His fame as a secret underground photography ninja had him taking pictures at a nightclub event held by the Food Network after hours when the shit gets salty. What was supposed to be a regular evening of snapping shots of the most famous chefs in the world turned all kinds of hairy and, well, Mike will keep us all posted on the saga of Food Network underground.
Go visit Mike Dikk and friends for all kinds of tomfoolery at dumpin.net
Saturday, February 2, 2008
This is a new segment I am trying out. I've worked about twenty five different jobs in my life, and as any journeyman knows, some wacky ass things happen when you need money and have little moral fiber and even less integrity. Comment with any fucked up thing you've had to do. The only rules are you could have only made twelve dollars or less on the job.
I used to work as a cook at a restaurant. It was a TGIF type of deal, only it wasn’t a chain. It was owned by a tall, grey haired, Lincoln Continental driving Italian guy named Mickey who was teetering the line of insanity. To me, he was in one of the most beautiful stages of mental collapse. He had a strong moral sense that worked in great contradictions, a product of years of power, of getting what he wanted because he was the man in charge. His mind was so fucked from lack of any formidable authority that he was able to do (or in most cases, have done for him) whatever crazy idea popped into his head, no matter how backwards it was. In this particular instance, he had heard of a guy who bought a shitload of rabbits to feed to his snake (snakes?), and all of a sudden he got all animal liberation and shit, despite the fact that he owned a fucking steakhouse and had me cook him a
Mickey knew that I was a hard worker and needed money, so he used to give me extra work to do when I wasn’t at the restaurant. He had me breaking down sheetrock with a sledge hammer in a club he was opening, or helping him move from his office above Taco Bell to the office in a shoddy ass mansion he just bought. The usual side-work type shit for the most part. Occasionally, though, he’d have me do some wacked-out shady stuff. I didn’t really care. He kept me on the clock while I was working, which was fine with me. Twelve dollars an hour was pretty good for a twenty year old, dirt-stained, perennially stoned punk with his seed blossoming inside his would-be wife’s belly. And besides, I liked Mickey, and completely respected his liberal insanity. It was charming as fuck. I hope that when my mental shits the bed, it does it the same way Mickey’s did.
And so, I agreed to help steal the rabbits.
There was a bitter chill in the air and a round Halloween moon lit the autumn night as we drove through town, looking to free the rabbits that our boss had commissioned us to save. They were to face inevitable doom in the lockjaws of a giant snake, and that actually intrigued me more than it triggered any kind of disgust. Can a snake really fit a whole rabbit down its gullet? If it could, well then why would I want to stop such an impressive feat? It would be like clipping the long-toenail lady’s nails, or shaving the bearded lady. But, fuck it. My wife was pregnant and out of work, and I had to pay rent for our shitty apartment (a 2 bedroom above an Italian deli).
Mick had paired me up with a fifty year old dope junkie who had just gotten out of jail. His name was Bobby. He wore a brown leather jacket to cover up his fat body and his salt and pepper hair was combed back in the faux-slickness popular amongst the Italians that crowded around Mickey at the restaurant. We cruised the back-roads in Mickey’s beaten maroon Ford Ranger, Bobby behind the wheel, running his mouth about how he never wanted to go back to “the joint,” and about how Mickey had looked out for him, and a bunch of other sappy garbage that made me wish that Goodfellas had never been made—that people like Bobby had no stereotypes to immerse their otherwise crappy personalities in. The classic rock station was playing on the radio and I would have much rather been listening to Billy Squire try to smooth talk girls into stroking his wang than this fuck tell stories about prison. Maybe the stories would have been a little more interesting if I knew they were true. But the truth would have gone something like, “Big black guys passed my ass around like a hookah in a hippy dorm room, and all I could do was pray that Rico the angry Mexican had some dope to ease the pain.” That would have been a good story—gory, but honest, like all good stories are.
We finally found the house and parked in front. I was a little surprised about how unsurprising it was. It was a little shack with crudded up wooden siding, dead weeds along the lawn, and a gravel driveway. It was the type of place where you would expect rabbits to get fed to snakes, amongst countless other heavy metal dreams come true. Bobby reached in the backseat and grabbed a pair of bolt cutters from the backseat. As we both got out of truck and walked up to the porch, lit by a lone bulb hanging from the ceiling, he handed them to me. They were big and heavy. The rubber grips were black and the metal was red, cold, and worn from years of use. He told me to go around back, open up the gate, and wait for him. He had obviously scouted the place out or something, because he knew there would be a gate, and he knew that the job would be made easier with bolt cutters. Or else it was just criminal instinct, which I could also believe. Either way, I walked slowly to the gravel driveway, trying to see what Bobby was up to.
He rang the doorbell. A skinny man with a longish brown hair opened the door. He was topless and his torso was tattooed. He seemed surprised enough. I couldn’t hear what Bobby said to him, but as he opened the screen door and pushed the man into his own house, I no longer thought of his ass as a hippy’s hookah. It was his hookah and his alone, passed along in prison because he liked to share, not because of the mannerless greed of its abusers, and also maybe for dope.
With Bobby and Snake Guy inside, I walked down the short gravel driveway in the dark, clutching the bolt cutters as if they were a ray gun and I was about to megablast seedy green aliens to hell, Shatner style. I arrived at the gate that led into Snake Guy’s back yard and curled the snapping turtle lips of the cutters around the arch of the rusted up gym lock that kept the chain that held the gate closed. I put some strength into the squeeze, wiggled it a little, and just as I got the lock free, the backyard light came on. Bobby came walking out of Snake Guy’s sliding glass doors and onto his splintered deck. Covering the far end of the back yard were dozens of wood and wire cages stacked next to and on top of one another, all of them filled with rabbits. Bobby came down into the backyard and I joined him once I got the gate open.
“Where’s Snake Guy?” I asked.
“Don’t worry about it,” Bobby answered with a contrived badass dip in his voice that made me want to smack him upside the head. “Let’s get these rabbits to Mickey.”
I rolled my eyes and did as I was told. We tripled up the rabbits into the cages so we could fit them into the truck. Snake Guy was nowhere to be seen. I tried to imagine what Bobby did or said to him, but I couldn’t. The only thing I could think about was how weird it would have been to see a fucking snake eat a whole rabbit.
We drove the rabbits to Mick’s mansion and unloaded them into the basement. He opened the door in the bathrobe that he always wore around the house and told us to bring them into the basement. Bobby and I did as we were told, and that’s the end of the story for right now.
Next time on “The Weirdest Things I Have Done for Twelve Dollars an Hour:” Mick, Bobby and me hunt the basement and backyard of the mansion for the loose rabbits and their childrens.