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

The post Local Author Will Come To Your House And Judge You appeared first on buffalomud.com.

I first became aware of Jack from the neighborhood and Stingray football at Okell Field in the early 70’s, but it wasn’t until high school when he transferred from Timon to South Park that I really got to know him. We sat at the same lunch table and we played on the Spark baseball team. Jack was a pitcher and his lively arm was a welcome addition to our pedestrian rotation. But there was more to Jack than just throwing a baseball, and it was evident from the moment you met him—he was a character. Loud, outspoken, kind hearted, inappropriate, exasperating and freaking hilarious—a character. A high South Buffalo honor.

I lost track of Jack after high school except for occasionally seeing him at Caz Golf Course on a few select Sunday nights at 6pm when I tried to get a quick nine in for five bucks. By that time of day Jack was surrounded by empty pitchers of beer, all red-faced with his car backed up in front of the clubhouse blaring his beloved Jackson Browne. You know, just being the character known as Jack Conrad. 

The arrival of social media made it possible to connect with Jack again. Not much had changed—he was still the same vexing and lovable Jack: bitching about a Grubhub driver who went to his side door despite getting explicit instructions to go to the back door. Or in a post describing a neighbor as an “asshole” for the way he cleared the snow with his snowblower. And who could forget his unflinching support of Nathan Peterman as the Bills starting quarterback, even after the former Pitt Panther threw five first-half interceptions in his 2018 NFL debut. 

In all, Jack was the subject of ten Buffalo Mud articles. In the beginning, when I had an idea for a post I would ask if he was alright with it because not everyone likes having the Mud style of fun poked at them. He told me flat out— “You never have to ask, I love this.” Then he proceeded to inform me about a woman who stopped him in Wegmans and asked: “Are you that guy from the Buffalo Mud articles?” That’s also what was endearing about Jack, he was always in on the joke even when it was at his expense, especially when it was at his expense.

So let us take a moment of silence to honor the son, brother, father, friend Jack was as he passes on to his next destination. South Buffalo and the world is a little less colorful, less rich with him gone. 

Deepest condolences to the entire Conrad family.

South Buffalo Man Misplaces His Ass
South Buffalo Man’s Misplaced Ass: FOUND
Ambiguous Door Leads To Verbal Exchange Between Grubhub Driver And Customer
Local Woman Unsure If She Should Accept Friend Request From Jack Conrad
Update: Jack Conrad Is Now A Crazy Cat Lady
Jack Conrad Prompts Area Women To Question The Necessity Of Men
Survey Reveals Everybody Wants More Jack Conrad- But Mostly From A Distance
Crush On Georgia Congresswoman Leads Jack Conrad to Join GOP
Christmas Shopping With Jack Conrad
Jack Conrad’s Two Day Mighty Taco Binge Triggers West Seneca Earthquake

The post A Moment Of Silence For South Buffalo Legend Jack Conrad appeared first on buffalomud.com.