In one or two thirty-minute sessions, Kane will come to your house and judge your sorry ass. He’ll pinpoint all the dumb shit that has turned you into an inauthentic, robotic douchebag. Once your flaws have been identified and roundly disparaged, just like your dad used to, Kane will set you on a path to be a more viable and interesting person.

The good news is there isn’t some phony book with a seven-point plan, yoga, or podcasts to listen to. And mercifully, there’s no touchy-feely journey of self-discovery, and no bullshit mindfulness practice. It’s just the local author in your home scrutinizing you and your stupid lifestyle.

Here’s how it works: Say, there’s a Ford F-250 Super Duty Tremor, with 37-inch BF Goodrich Mud Terrain tires mounted on 22-inch Fuel Off-Road Maverick wheels in your driveway, and you don’t work in construction. After Kane stops laughing at you and making the universal sign for an itsy bitsy teeny weeny, he’ll remind you that worse than having a miniature penis is being an overcompensating douche with a miniature penis and point you in the direction of a very functional Chevy Colorado. 

Then, Amazon’s 1.5 millionth-most-popular author might follow that up by inspecting all the garbage in your streaming services, and ask how you came to have such shitty taste in music, movies/TV? What dark path led you to love Hall & Oats, Supertramp, and fucking Jackson Browne? 

He’ll want to know how you became so brain-dead that you find entertainment in these poorly written, mass-produced shows on HBO, like Rooster? You know, the new vomit-inducing release with the formerly funny Steve Carell, playing a successful beach-read writer turned author-in-residence at a posh New England college, where his daughter also teaches, and is going through a divorce after her husband sleeps with a grad student—just like every third episode of Dr.Phil.

In the first episode alone, the daughter burns down a house, Carell turns down sex from a faculty member twenty years his junior, and the dean parades around his office half-naked. In what universe does any of this shit happen? Don’t answer—it’s a rhetorical question because it only happens in the low-frequency studios of HBO, whose job it is to fill queues with half-baked, unrealistic bullshit that makes everyone boring, uninteresting losers. Turn on PBS and watch NOVA or Downton Abbey—something with rich characters who face real-life conflict and struggle.

These are just two examples. But Kane will also judge your diet—Fish oil pills? Eat a piece of salmon, fuckhead; Tattoos—What message are you trying to send with that Tweety bird tat? Duh—I have to have ink because everyone has ink—Duh; Coffee? What are you getting out of a Grande double latte with skim milk and sweetener that can’t be found in a Tim Hortons double double, you disingenuous poser? And much more.

To receive your own personalized judgment from P.A.Kane, please contact him at: buffalomud@gmail.com

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The primary reason for all the stupidity is that nobody really knows what Dyngus Day is about, other than drinking.

“Yeah,” said Kolwaski, “no one can decide if they’re celebrating the end of Lent, Prince Mieszko, or if it’s just about getting laid. Usually, people end up arguing. They call out each other’s mothers’ pierogies and threaten to shove pussy willows where the sun doesn’t shine—and not in a loving, freaky way.”

The most reasonable revelers Kowalski said, are those who have observed a restrictive Lenten practice. One of those revelers is Karol Kaminski, an Actuary for the City of Buffalo. 

“Since the first of the year, my bowl has been filled with a $109 million budget hole, and for the last forty days, my dinner bowl has been filled with gulumki soup. You know what the main ingredient in gulumki soup is? Cabbage—I’ve been eating cabbage fucking soup for forty days. So yes, I’ve earned my Krupnik, sausages, and paczki. And, I’m going to sit here and get shitfaced, listening to the dulcet sounds of “Who Stole the Keeshka?,” and “Too Fat Polka.”

The focus of arguments usually revolve around Prince Mieszko. As a Duke, he unified Poland into a single state during his reign from 960 to 992. He also taught the Polish people not to stand in a circle when stoning someone to death (very handy with the invention of firearms in the 14th century), and not to go home to get a ladder when the bartender says drinks are on the house. He also instructed people about language. That, Odwracać kota ogonem (“To turn the cat around by its tail”) is an expression about distorting facts, not an invitation to spin a cat around by its tail because Zbigniew got caught wearing his wife’s undergarments that somehow ended up in his kufer (chest).   

“It is generally accepted that those who want to make the day about Mieszko are the most argumentative and the biggest assholes,” said Kowalski. 

The last thing Dyngus Day might be about is love, or at least getting laid. Integral to the celebration is the handing out of pussy willows to people for whom you have amorous feelings. 

Kowalski explained, “By the end of the day these Polish dudes, thick with Krupnik and Tyski, are incapable of expressing a coherent thought, and stupidly try to make the sale by whipping out their kielbasas. Often they’ll ask the ladies to touch, taste, or give them a little tug. It’s ridiculous because everybody knows a kielbasa has some length and girth, and these losers are packing all of two inches. So to save them the embarrassment of using words or exposing themselves, some genius dumbed it down to the pussy willows for these idiots.” 

As trying as the day can be, Kowalski still loves the celebration and the stupidity of it all. She’s just glad she’s not Irish, because stupidity is a month-long thing with them.     

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Pandingham was relieved of his duties at Geneseo because of the general rot and decay of the American mind, which wouldn’t know the road less traveled from the long and winding road or the Yellow Brick Road. Cuts to staff caused by low enrollment also contributed to his dismissal.

Due to high driver turnover Pandingham was fast-tracked into his new position with FedEx, which used to absolutely positively get it there overnight, but now gets it there if the weather is pretty good and there aren’t too many call-ins. He likes the quick-paced, physical nature of the job, but is having some trouble assimilating with his co-workers because of his intellectual past.

An issue arose in his first few days during the mundane task of “balancing” with the delivery routes around him. Balancing ensures that all the routes have roughly the same amount of work on any given day. Pandingham responded to a request for his stop and package counts with some verse:   

Packages, there are a-many
Stops there are a-lot
Help, I would take any
That’d save my soul
From this wicked plot…

While the verse produced several curious looks and some whispering among co-workers, an incident a few days later almost turned violent. During the morning sort, where trucks are loaded with that day’s deliveries, the guy who runs the Lackawanna route, Lenny Lazaroni, was caught up with a package that needed retaping, just as Demi Lovato’s “Really Don’t Care” came on the radio. Lazaroni asked Pandingham to forward the station because the song reminded him of his whore ex-wife, who took all his money, his kids, and was living in his house with some fuckhead named Brad.

Pandingham did as requested, and the search landed on the classical station, which happened to be playing “Rhapsody in Blue,” with Khatia Buniatishvili at the piano. Pandingham was over the moon for this version of the classic Gershwin composition. So taken, he waved his arms playfully in the air, on his way over to help Lazaroni with the package, and said, “I just love Khatia’s Rhapsody—she’s so capricious and sensuous.”

Lazaroni dropped the tape gun, grabbed Pandingham by the collar, and said, “Look, man, I don’t fucking go that way—I like girls. If you ever say shit like that to me again, I’ll fuck you up. Don’t try me. I got nothing, so I got nothing to lose.”

Pandingham was able to smooth that over, but just barely, and was making some progress with co-workers—bitching about dogs on his route and Dumper Dave, a co-worker who routinely dumped all his stops and went home early. Then, one afternoon, just as he was heading out to do a pickup run, Laura showed up.

Laura was his old Geneseeo colleague and paramour. She was waiting for him outside the building with her Shakespeare and Keats. Laura refused to go on antidepressants because she didn’t want to dull her senses. She wanted to feel the hot blood course through her veins. She wanted to feel her own fire. Once, she stabbed Pandingham in the side due to a disagreement over a line in Byron.

He was smitten looking at her as she leaned up against her beat-up 2009 Volvo, pulling on her Marlboro, thick with Jim Beam. Though he needed this job, like a bowtie goes to a pretentious windbag’s neck or a beret goes to a self-important asshole’s head, he went straight for her.

Pandingham managed to escape with a warning after blowing off the pickup route. He’s unsure how long he can keep up this charade, especially if Laura keeps coming around. But until they send him on sabbatical, he’ll keep punching in and trying to hide his intellectual past.  

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Originally from Cattaraugus County, as a teen, Buttonbottom started messing around with ephedrine, toluene, salt, kerosene, and a bunch of other components to make methamphetamine. Eventually, he came up with a sweet mix that rocked the entire Southern tier. Taking his pay from Dollar General and a little backing from his daddy, he invested in supplies and equipment and built a respectable lab in the family trailer—the one Uncle John spent summers in when he was up from Florida.

Things were going great—brain cells and teeth were disappearing in Cat County faster than Patron at a Bills tailgate. But one night, Buttonbottom was a little careless and blew up the trailer. After that incident, Buttonbottom’s daddy thought his talents would be better served with proper schoolin’. So he went to the big city, got a degree from the University of Buffalo, and a job at Van DeMark.  

Things were going well at his job until Buttonbottom’s redneck past started to surface. When a spectrophotometer, which measures light intensity, went down, he pulled a roll of trusty duct tape from his briefcase and attempted a temporary fix. As he got to work, he surprised co-workers with the way he talked through the repairs—in a high-pitched yokel voice: “Well, hell, there it is. That cuvette gizmo’s the troublemaker. Hang on—I’m gonna back this door out a turn, mash this little arm down, and snake some duct tape through there so it quits floppin’ around. Yep… there we go. That’ll hold her together for now. She ain’t pretty, but she’ll run till the parts show up and we can do it the right way.”

Then there was the incident when he was dropping off some reports at the front office. A radio tuned to WYRK was playing “Achy Breaky Heart” at a low volume, and Buttonbottom couldn’t help himself. He grabbed Mrs. Trout, the office secretary, by the hand and proceeded to two-step with her. He went through the Pivot Turn, the Kick-Ball-Change, and only realized what he was doing once he was crossing his feet in Jazz Box. He apologized profusely to Mrs. Trout and exited the office, red-faced.

If he already wasn’t having enough trouble hiding his redneck past, his cousin Bobby was waiting for him outside the plant this past Friday in her 1987 F150. He and Bobby had a thing all through their teens. Buttonbotom once said, when they were together, they were explosive—like a frog with a lit M-80 jammed in its mouth. And on several occasions, Bobby pleaded to have his seven-toed baby. 

Yet, like a mullet is drawn to cheap beer at the county fair, he went straight for her.

Buttonbottom doesn’t know how long he can keep up this charade, but he’ll keep showing up at VanDeMark until they send him back home to a simpler life in Cat County of fishin’, Walmart, and bangin’ his cousin.

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In addition to being a bartending legend, McNamara has worked his way up through the floating ranks to be a world-class practitioner. His unwavering commitment to sloth and sipping cocktails has been instrumental in his rise. People assumed he was just some lazy tosser with an insatiable taste for tequila, but in reality, on those scorching summer days in Charlotte, while his friends, neighbors, and family were retreating to the frosty safety and comfort of air-conditioning, McNamara was in the pool training, honing his skills for the day floating achieves international recognition and possibly a spot in the summer Olympic games.

Though looking like a cross between Angelica Huston and Jughead’s grandfather, some in the floating game have started to refer to him as the Josh Allen of floaters. McNamara says, “The recognition is cool, but this isn’t a game to me. I’ve been at this for some time, and I’ve seen ‘em come and I’ve seen ‘em go—the contenders and the pretenders. These pretenders think they can crack open a fucking High Noon, drop their fat asses into any old waterborne device, and be a floater. Well, let me tell you that’s not only a recipe for failure, but also for cramping and soft-tissue injuries. The floating game requires effort, discipline, and patience.”

With the warmer weather just around the corner in Charlotte, McNamara has been in grind mode. He says one of the keys to being a successful floater is preparation—both mentally and physically. Since January, he has been lying around, ignoring his wife and letting his house go to shit. He has also been watching reruns of The Jeffersons on a loop. “I get inspiration from George and Weezie’s story of movin’ on up. It helps me to mentally prepare for the grind of the floating season.”

Being physically ready is mostly a matter of hydration. Since January, McNamara has been increasing his intake of Gatorade and water, while limiting his tequila consumption. “I go 6:3:1 (six parts Gatorade, three parts water, one part tequila). By the start of floating season in May, my body will be fully prepped, and I’ll be able to turn that around—six parts tequila, three parts water, one part Gatorade, all of which I’ll chase with a shitload of Blue Lights. Once I get my body right, there are no limits to what I might accomplish this floating season.”

McNamara will take a short break over St. Patrick’s Day weekend to visit family and friends in Buffalo. But after that, he will return to Charlotte and resume his strict training regimen.    

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The study found that the preponderance of Josh Allen-related mental activity was focused on football. However, the MVP quarterback loomed large in people’s minds across a wide range of other circumstances:
— Numerous disappointed fathers cited QB1 in their thoughts while pondering where they went wrong with their Cheeto-eating, Fortnite-playing sons.
—Senior citizens being moved out of their homes mentioned that Josh Allen would never put his Papa or Nana in a nursing facility.
—Teachers, being thrown under the bus by administrators, would never suffer that fate with Josh Allen as their leader—even if their name was Stefon Diggs.
—Budget deputies in the new Sean Ryan administration freely admit that the only person who could possibly save the city from fiscal meltdown is Josh Allen.

Voices from Western New York and their Josh Allen thoughts:
Harmon Hawthorn—I used to think about Jesus and all that salvation bullshit, but now I’m consumed with how Josh can beat a cover three, double shell defense.
Bucky Blatenbutt—I’m in the midst of a breakup. Brandon ran off with a trumpet player named Kenny, who supposedly has this really crisp tongue and a balanced embouchure. When I’m not preoccupied with that, I spend a lot of time imagining myself on the business end of a Josh Allen tush push.  
Heidi Handcrafter—At some point during a recent string of bad dates, I found myself daydreaming about rugged #17 and how he wouldn’t waste my evening rambling about on about a vintage toy soldier collection, axe-throwing leagues, the wheel size on his F-250, or any of the other dumb guy shit meant to compensate for a lack of being funny, interesting or having an acceptable penis.
Black Betty—When I’m not Bam Ba Lamming, I’m thinking about Josh Allen. 
Brandon Beane—I think about how Josh has papered over, and saved my ass from all my shitty picks: Boogie Bashim, Cody Ford, Kaiir Elam, to name a few. The biggest miss might be Keon Coleman. If we don’t make the Super Bowl, a tub of Preparation H won’t keep my seat from being red hot. Please Josh, save my ass again.

Rounding out the top-ten things Western New Yorkers think about: 
—Work Conflicts, such as dealing with assholes like Holly, from accounting, who is always riding everyone’s ass about expense reports.
—Family Drama, where out-of-town siblings pop in at the end and steal your parents’ silverware while you’re at Hospice caring for your mom.
—Aldis: ground beef costs eight fucking dollars per pound?
—Porn.
—Chicken Wings.
—Pot Holes.
—Kids: when the fuck are they going to move out?
—When will the Sabres start their ten-game skid?
—County Executive Mark Poloncarz—what a douche!
—Will the Bills draft Josh Allen and Hailee Steinfeld’s baby in 2048?

The Bills and Josh Allen play in the divisional round of the NFL Playoffs on Saturday, January 17th, at 4:30 in Denver against the Broncos.  

The post Study Finds Western New Yorkers Think About Josh Allen Two Hundred Seventy-One Minutes Per Day appeared first on buffalomud.com.

In the thirty-minute talk, Kane points out that there are still heroically masculine monoliths like Larry Plumb among us, despite the overwhelming presence of beer-swilling, donut-eating Homer Simpsons and loudmouth podcast bros who, one moment, are nuclear energy experts and, the next, constitutional law scholars—despite having failed high school chemistry and learning civics by way of Schoolhouse Rock. Amid the noise of these low-frequency also-rans, Larry Plumb reminds us that there are men who think critically, honor their commitments, and hold themselves accountable—men who show up every day and make accommodations for others.

The group sat in rapt attention as Kane shared an anecdote about workshopping a small portion of the book in a Zoom class through the Iowa Writers Summer Workshop. He recounted a tense exchange from an early chapter in the book with the Zoom class, where Larry drops an “F bomb” on his daughter. A female classmate commented that both Larry and Kane might benefit from a sensitivity coach. Kane was a little taken aback by this comment, but after turning it over in his head for a minute, he had a suggestion for his classmate: “Why don’t you get some organic sliquid, lube up a mauve-colored Gwyneth Paltrow tennis coach vibrator, and stick your stupid comment and that purple pocket rocket in your ear.”

Shaking his head, the author said he never got a straight answer as to why he wasn’t welcomed back into the Zoom class.

But what really hit home with the group was Kane’s journey to becoming a celebrated author. He spoke of his humble beginnings on Lockwood Avenue, where he drank powdered milk and ate bologna sandwiches—endless fucking bologna sandwiches. He thoughtfully recounted his travails with Oxford commas, dangling modifiers, and subject-verb agreement. He spoke of being rejected by girls throughout his aimless teen years and his unwavering perseverance, which later led those same girls to rue the day they jilted Amazon’s eventual 1.5 millionth-most-popular author. All of which led to this night—where he owned the West Seneca Public Library’s podium in front of four electrified book-loving witnesses. 

Exhausted yet triumphant, Kane closed the talk to the thunder of eight clapping hands and wished everyone a Merry Christmas and good tidings for the New Year.    

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Rippington has done her best to remain disciplined in her practice, both personally and professionally, but has had to adjust her approach to meet the bullshit of the world. In most cases, especially when it comes to Stoicism’s central tenet: control what you can and let go of the rest, she has been able to adhere to the philosophy.

She explained, “The world is chaotic, and to stay grounded, you must maintain control of your emotions. So when one of these overindulged sophomores sits down with me to hammer out a new schedule and can’t look away from their phone or is disrespectful, I don’t get mad or lash out, I just put the little shithead in Mr. Pulusi’s first-period English class. You see, Pulisi is an old-school gangster—he makes those kids secure multiple binders, notebooks, journals, colored pens, pencils, and markers. He makes them follow the rules of The Chicago Manual of Style to perfection and pummels the shit out of them with the Oxford comma, and the lady known as Macbeth. Don’t even try passing off an AI-written essay—his bullshit detector is set to eleven. It’s also not a good idea to have your mom call him to complain because he’ll dress her sloppy ass down too.” 

The Stoics also place great emphasis on virtue, encompassing wisdom, courage, justice, and temperance. In traffic, when someone flips off Rippington for texting while driving or for being a little too involved in one of her Khatia Buniatishvili playlists, she doesn’t respond in kind. Instead, she attempts to diffuse the situation by blowing kisses from her hand at the person flipping her off. Often, however, this only further enrages the motorist. Rippington is quick to point out, “My rejoinder cascades with peace, love, and temperance. It’s not on me if they can’t handle it, the fucking babies.”

As successful as she has been in assimilating Marcus Aurelius’ teachings into her everyday life, Rippington sometimes encounters unhinged people who pose a significant challenge, forcing an adjustment. There was an encounter at Home Depot, where a guy with one of those long, stupid beards and a bandana was trying to return a gallon of Feldgrau-colored paint he didn’t need for his WWII-themed man cave—Feldgrau is the same blue-gray color as Nazi uniforms. 

He was giving the customer service representative a horrible time, despite her patience explaining the store policy about not accepting returns on custom-mixed paint. Holding the shovel she was returning, Rippington had the urge to bash this guy’s skull in—in her mind’s eye, she saw him on the ground, blood trickling from his stupid smashed-in complaining head, while others waiting in line applauded her actions. 

But she dug deep and showed restraint. Instead, she leaned her shovel against a nearby Ryobi display. Then she stood behind this guy, and summoning all her strength, latched onto his barely visible tighty whiteys and proceeded to give him a thermo-nuclear wedgie, eventually tearing the band off his Fruit of the Looms. Stunned, the guy turned around, cursing and tried to hit Rippingerton with his can of paint. She smoothly ducked and store security quickly wrapped the guy up and walked him to his F150, which, of course, was equipped with balls tethered to the truck’s hitch.

Patting her on the back, people in line, store staff, and security asked if she was okay. Rippington said she was fine, and as she made her exchange, she was proud of how she kept herself in check and felt a sense of extreme peace—thanks to her Stoic practice.  

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Sargent Steven Sugarfish of the North Precinct said a detail has been assigned to look into three or ten incidents—he wasn’t quite sure of the number—allegedly committed by the geezer. Sargent Sugarfish said, “To be honest, I like that these little shitheads are afraid of this cranky fruit bomber. They don’t even run when we pull up anymore. They just stand there all entitled, sipping White Claws, like little princes and princesses, knowing that if we put them in the cruisers or arrest them, mommy and daddy will be pissed at us and sue the city.

A ”flyer of the old man with his backpack of oranges and his launcher has begun circulating in the community. The flyer reassures teens that they are welcome at the park and are treasured community members as dormant parts of their bodies blossom and become fully functional.  

Marcus, a sixteen-year-old boy who aspires to be a “Car Diver,” was hit in the stomach by the oompa loompa colored fruit. He was quite traumatized by the event. “I was in the loop by Hoyt Lake playing Pokémon Go. I was closing in on that rascally Charmander when I heard some guy yelling, ‘No teens in the park.’ Then splat, I’m doubled over with a softball-size Sunkist. It’s so disappointing because I recently got my mom’s Prius up to thirty-five going through the S curves on Delaware, and could see my Uber career fully crystallizing, but now I don’t know…I just don’t know.”  

Another victim whose shield was down and suffered a direct hit in the upper left arm is fifteen-year-old Dawn, who wants to be a “Website Creator” when she grows up. The attack left Dawn very angry. “I was sitting on a bench in the Rose Garden off Lincoln Parkway waiting for my friend Donny, who wants to be a website creator too. I had been crushing on Donny for weeks, and I was hoping that after some website creator talk we would slip off into the bushes and mess around with those dormant parts of our bodies that had blossomed and were now fully functional. But, no, this blue-haired lunatic smashes me in the arm with a fucking watermelon or whatever just as Donny shows up. My arm is all gross, and Donny has this horrified look on his face like I would be the last girl on earth with dormant body parts that had blossomed and were fully functional that he would ever want to mess around with.  Me and my fully functional, blossoming body are so pissed.” 

A seventeen-year-old boy named Mitch, who aspires to be a “Male Doctor,” took a direct hit in the forehead. “I was walking in the circle that surrounds the golf course reciting the Herman Munster “Bone Song,” when this Marcus Welby motherfucker—that’s how deep and serious I am about this “Male Doctor,” thing, Munster and Welby—pelts me in the forehead and I fall and bounce my skull off the pavement. Not only do I look stupid with a contusion on my frontal region frons, but I might have suffered a mild traumatic brain injury (mTBI) or perhaps even a cranial fracture. How can anybody become a “Male Doctor,” with a madman like this on the loose? At least my thumbs, which are essential to being a “Male Doctor,” didn’t sustain any injuries.”

Sargent Sugarfish, wiping the icy goodness of a cruller from his lips, said he will keep the public updated as events continue to unfold.   

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Lisa Lemon, a Sloan middle school teacher, related that she’s really ready for a major bender. “Something about telling these kids to put their phones away seven hundred times a day just makes you want to go ape shit with a bottle of Patron. I’ve been visualizing it for weeks, and I just can’t wait to have that woozy lightheaded feeling. Unfortunately, I also see myself making the decision to be in the Walmart parking lot in the back of the school engineer Tony’s pickup truck. The way that guy fills out a flannel shirt—gabba gabba check my oil and all my gauges. I’ll hate myself in the morning, and seeing him when school resumes in the fall will be uncomfortable, but I’ll deal with that then. I need this shit now.”  

Aerial Acosta, a high school English teacher in Hamburg, expressed frustration at parents endlessly monitoring curriculum and her teaching style. “I’m here day after day trying to make goddamn Lady McBeth interesting and relatable to these over-indulged Gen Z slackers while their Mom’s For Liberty parents bust my ass about the appropriateness of Shakespeare, which I don’t know, has been part of sophomore English for about four-hundred-fucking-years. You bet I’m going to drink. And, I’m not looking for wine with hints of oak and a cocoa finish—I’m looking to get hammered. In preparation, I’ve been downing eight glasses of water daily for a month. Both my pee and my blood are translucent at this point.”  

Claude Carrintoad, an Earth Science teacher from Riverside, has been working his Peloton and consuming Gatorade for weeks. “I also have been trying to prepare three sections of disinterested, eye-rolling, yung kai obsessed, Nintendo Switch playing mutants for Regents exams. On top of that, I’ve been breaking up fights in both A & B lunches and after school as they get on buses. Oh yeah, and I saw a big chunk of my 403b plan evaporate. So my body, my head, and my bank account are all beaten to shit. You bet I’m ready to dive into a 1.75 liter bottle of Jack Daniels. And I’m going to listen to some real music like Led Zeppelin. None of this yung kai stuff—WTF is that anyway—yung kai?

Area teachers can cleanse and reset from the 24-25 year until September 2, when the 25-26 school year begins.  Drink up.         

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