So before things went totally south Evenwood whipped out his One Foot Cock, which instantly drew a crowd. Curious onlookers asked if they could hold the hefty One Foot Cock. Once in their hands they admired the texture and the rich golden coloring of the One Foot Cock as they moved it gingerly from person to person. Eventually, someone asked if they could have a taste of the One Foot Cock. The magnanimous Evenwood was more than happy to share his One Foot Cock with anyone that wanted to sample it. 

Word passed quickly and it wasn’t long before everyone at the barbecue was downing Evenwood’s One Foot Cock. It was a huge hit. The One Foot Cock totally changed the vibe of the entire barbecue. The low energy boring gathering now saw people laughing and dancing and having a great time. More than that, as they greedily devoured the One Foot Cock new friendships were formed and old grudges melted away. The power of that One Foot Cock was amazing. 

Here’s what some of the barbecue guests had to say about the One Foot Cock:

Paxton Popple – Prior to this I never had a One Foot Cock. It was a little hard going down at first, but I knew there was something there so I stuck with it. I moved it around in my mouth and let it wash over my palate and tongue and got to know it in a deep satisfying way. By giving it a little time and being patient I found the rich decadent flavor of that One Foot Cock.

Gina Gladroo– In all honesty at first I gagged on that One Foot Cock. But there was something intoxicating about the grainy taste. You know, I like a good Old Spice body wash smelling dude as much as the next lady, but sometimes the light in my easy bake oven flips on when a dude is all gnarly from woodworking or mountaineering or whatever. The wooden, fresh from the barrel taste of that One Foot Cock did it for me the way a skanky low-frequency dude can sometimes hit all my pressure points. So good.

Nancy Neubauer – I couldn’t wait to down that One Foot Cock. I was at some snoozer barbecues before, but this was the worst with all these stuck up bitches sipping their White Claws like they were prom queens. Fuck that, give me that delicious One Foot Cock and let’s have a party. I’m buttoned up and polite all week and having that One Foot Cock explode in my mouth was so amazing and fun. So much fun that maybe I’ll get a One Foot Cock for the office and pull on it after lunch to make the afternoon go by faster.  

One Foot Cock is a product of the Buffalo Distilling Company – 860 Seneca Street Buffalo, NY 14210. While the publishers of Buffalo Mud have enjoyed many Buffalo Distilling products they are partial to the One Foot Cock single barrel bourbon.  

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West Seneca, NY— Donna Issatwink was surprised and quite frankly a little hurt at the reaction her short innocuous letter-to-the-editor in Buffalo News received this past week from internet commenters. Issatwink, a Bingo Manager at Christ Life Church in West Seneca and an avid gardener commented in the News how the Tim Russert “Children’s Garden,” at the corner of South Park and Choate Avenue in South Buffalo was looking so beautifully peaceful this spring and how urban neighborhoods would benefit from more of these green sanctuaries. 

Issatwink began her little epistle by stating how the “Children’s Garden” caught her eye driving home from a walk at the Outer Harbor. Someone going by the handle: GoFukYrself49, instructed her to mind her own business, worry about what happens in her own dumb suburban neighborhood and maybe think about killing herself.

When Issatwink mentioned the many vacant lots throughout the city and how all of us could benefit from the healing effects of blossoming flowers, a commenter named Meatslop23 said that city people didn’t have the luxury of gardening because they had to work multiple jobs just to stay alive in the gentrifying squalor that is Buffalo and she should stick her lettuce where the sun rearly shines. Meatslop also suggested that if she likes playing in the dirt so much maybe her hay-seed ass could dig a hole about six-feet deep and then have someone—maybe a grateful husband—bury her and her big-mouth in it.

And finally, when Issatwink cited a research article which highlighted the positive outcomes on crime, violence and fear from rehabbing vacant city lots, Mozillacreamcheese accused her of perpetrating “fake news” and said she was a naïve suburban bitch who had zero idea what city life entailed. Mozilla challenged her to sell her little white picket delusion and the house that went with it and move into the city and start rehabbing these shithole lots instead of writing cutesy little useless letters to the Buffalo News.

Issatwink, who doesn’t have a social media presence on any of the various platforms was surprised by the vitriol she received and said, “I was also a little hurt.” In response to these bullying comments she asked for guidance from the Lord while sipping a glass of wine. When the Lord didn’t provide any answers into her third glass of wine, Issatwink took matters into her own hands and told GoFukYrself49 to: “. . . kiss my big white ass.” She then admonished Meatslop23 for needing multiple jobs, stating: “You should have paid attention in school rather than sniffing glue in your mom’s basement.” And finally she asked Mozillacreamcheese to: “. . . meet my naïve suburban bitch ass and let me show you what I can do with my white picket delusion.”

Issatwink later said she was not proud of how she responded to the comments about her letter, but indicated she now felt oddly compelled to share other opinions. She plans to write them down while sipping a glass of wine after Bingo this coming Saturday. 

The post Local Woman Surprised At How Mean People Are On The Internet appeared first on buffalomud.com.

Buffalo, NY—As Buffalo Mud reestablishes its web presence after going dark for several months it conducted a short survey with readers asking what stories they most wanted to hear about going forward. As always, there was great interest in Amazon’s 1.5 millionth ranked author, P.A.Kane. There also was a clamor for stories about crybaby white people whose freedom is imperiled by a life saving vaccine, Donald Trump’s mutant penis and and everyone’s favorite South Buffalonian—Jack Conrad. While there was a great desire for more stories about Conrad and his missing ass, his encounters with Grub hub drivers and women leery of becoming Facebook friends with him, there was a preference to have these encounters at a distance.

Though the South Buffalo legend can be loud and boorish, he does have a bit of self-awareness and was surprised as anyone people were clamoring for him- see below. And while people overwhelmingly wanted to know what he was up to, it was apparent they desired this information in the abstract. They wanted to hear a second hand story about Jack pontificating at the bar rail on his pitching exploits at South Park High School in the 1980’s. They would be thrilled to be in their car and see him chiding his neighbor about snow blowing “like an asshole” on a cold winter day. And they wanted to be fly on the wall at the Brick Oven Bistro as he gets some facts about single payer healthcare wrong, but wins the argument because he is louder, more passionate than his counterpart. 

Here’s a smattering of survey responses from Buffalo Mud readers regarding the legend that is Jack Conrad. Names have been changed to protect the innocent.

Nolan Zuchoid– This stupid rag endlessly focuses on local author P.A. Kane and his self-indulgent, shit for brains books. Waaa—you went bald when you were twenty. Get over yourself you narcissistic tosser. We need more stories about edgy, interesting people like Jack Conrad, who blows shit up every time he opens his mouth. I don’t necessarily want to be in his presence, but I’d to hear about his over the top shit-talking second hand.

Morgan Ala-Marita– I’d like more Jack Conrad profiles. He’s a sweet guy with a good heart and I’m always pulling for him. Further personal growth on his part would mean I might be able to come out from the shadows and rescind the restraining order I had put in place against him in the 90’s. That would be great for the both of us.  

Pistachio Ferry– You know since I became a twelve-stepper I can’t really hang with Jack anymore, but I love living vicariously through him and thinking about all the good times we had at the Stone Bridge in Caz Park. I also like to think about how we’re so not gay straight because we never actually kissed on the Stone Bridge. We did some other things—wink wink—but we never kissed.

Curtimo Keuin– I love Jack Conrad, but whenever I’m around him I end up on a three day bender and question all of my life choices. I also always end up smelling like a bag of dirty laundry. So, to keep the Jack Conrad demons at bay I’ve taken to carrying a pocket full of Tide Pods around with me, which I almost never ingest. Okay, so I do a few Tide Pods here and there but they never take me to that dark Jack Conrad place and I’m always one cycle away from fresh boxers and clean socks.

Look for more Jack Conrad in the coming issues of Buffalo Mud.

The post Survey Reveals Everybody Wants More Jack Conrad- But Mostly From A Distance appeared first on buffalomud.com.

Buffalo, NY—In an over the top voice everybody’s favorite South Buffalonian, Jack Conrad held court among a socially distanced, pandemic appropriate crowd at the Blackthorn on Seneca Street this past weekend. In his unique Conradian way, which produced severe eye rolls and head shakes from a table of nearby ladies, he rambled on about his neighbor being a “complete asshole” for his shoddy snow-removal technique. Like Ralph Kramden speaking to his brothers at the Racoon Lodge, Conrad squawked,  “Everybody knows you don’t push the snow up against the house. You throw it in your yard or move it forward until you can throw it in your yard. The guy packs it right up against the foundation. He’s a complete asshole.”

An unidentified lady at the table said, “I used to think Jack was kind of funny. Now, he reminds me of a “Karen”—a “Karen” with a Guinness problem.”

Big laughs followed and another one of the ladies asked, “Why do we need these guys at all?”

As the scene switched to the Brick Oven Bistro on Abbott Road later that night Conrad stood on the foot rail of the bar and adjusted his man parts as if he was at home on his couch watching Judge Judy and retold his hole-in-one story for the millionth time—seventh hole at Caz, a mis-hit a six iron catches the lip of the trap causing his ball to pop up in the air and into the hole as if it was a basketball three pointer. Of course, after telling the story again, Conrad’s laughter was way too loud and went on way too long.

Within earshot was a group of ladies at a table with whom Conrad had history.
One said, “I can’t believe I spent ninth-grade making out with Jack. Almost as bad as making out with him was listening to his shitty Jackson Browne records. What was I thinking?” 

“I’m so glad you did,” another said. “I had such a crush on him, but you were always in the way.”

“A third woman jumped in, as Conrad again stood on the foot rail, this time unbunching the underwear that was gathering in his ass, saying, “We’re all making fun of Jack, but none of these other shlubs are any better.”

She then went on to explain how she was seeing a guy at the end of last summer and they went golfing. “He was going to show me how to play,” she said making little air quotes with her fingers. “But then he missed a two-foot putt and lost his shit. So, while he was throwing his clubs in a tree I was having a cool drink and enjoying a beautiful warm day. After he dropped me off, I went inside, poured myself a big glass of wine, lit some candles, got out The Thumper and went to town on myself. Afterwards, I watched a dumb movie on the Hallmark Channel and not one person was there to complain about it.”

“Yeah, the hell with these guys, who needs them?” thundered another one of the ladies at the table. “Did you ever see their underwear? None of them know how to wipe their asses. And past forty—forget about a solider standing at attention without a little blue pill.”

One of the women in a funny voice crowed, “They tell us we’re fragile and emotional, but did you see their big crocodile tears when the Bills lost in the playoffs? They were like six-year old’s finding out Santa wasn’t real. Screw these guys.”

Just then, the woman that used to makeout with Conrad in ninth-grade stood up and yelled, “Hey Jack, shut the hell up or tell a different goddamn story.” 

Conrad responded by buying the ladies a round of beers and with a big smile told the bartender, “She totally digs me. We made out all through ninth grade—loves Jackson Browne.”

March is International Women’s History Month, which not only celebrates female asperation and achievement, but also raises the questions about the necessity of men, especially among the women who know Jack Conrad.    

By P.A. Kane

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Buffalo, NY—Early Monday morning dog walkers crossing the icy suspension bridge at the third hole of Caz Golf Course came upon a horrifying of scene. At least a thirty-pack of empty beer cans were strewn carelessly all over the snowy ground at the base of the bridge. News of the atrocity quickly spread throughout the community leaving many residents shaking their heads at the continued decay of the neighborhood.  

For generations teenagers drinking in the park has been a feature of life in South Buffalo. But with the advent of cell phones, gaming systems, social media and all the rest, teens have become withdrawn and more likely to stayed holed up in their rooms. Parents have dealt with this dilemma by forcing their annoying, screen addicted teens to get out of the house and have beers at the park like true South Buffalonians. Members of the community will tell you however, part of the responsibility of drinking in the park is cleaning up after yourself. And it’s taught from an early age.

Lefty McLaughten, a seventy-four year old retired postal worker recalls growing up on Amber Street and learning his South Buffalo ABC’s: “Before I even went to school I would sing the ABC song with my mom and at the end she always had a subtle extra message: “. . . qrs, tuv, wx, y and z—throw your beer cans in the garbage please.” I never had to think about it twice once I started pounding Gennies at Mulroy Park. But these goddamn kids today—no respect.”

Whitey Smith, a thirty-four year old spin-instructor at Planet Fitness didn’t  receive such gentle instruction. “I was maybe seven or eight and my friend Timmy Baush was over playing and we left a couple of empty juice boxes on my front steps. When my dad saw the juice boxes he got really mad and said, “You know what happens to people who don’t clean up after themselves—they go to jail.” And he locked Timmy and I in our front hall closet. Longest six hours of my life. I never forgot that lesson once I started drinking at Hillary Park.” 

This was the topic of conversation among the morning crowd at Stankey’s Cafe. From behind the timber the barmaid Bev said, “Maybe if we weren’t a bunch of prissy little snowflakes stuff like this wouldn’t happen. I’m not saying you have to beat’em or anything, but a few well-placed backhands to the side of their heads would more than motivate these little assholes to pick up after themselves.” 

John O’Brien struck a defeated tone, “What are you gonna do? You start pounding on these kids like our parents did to us, who’s going to help reset our passwords or show us how to do a search on Hulu?”

“It’s all coming apart,” said Abby Fitzgerald sipping a Fireball, “First they stop coming home when the church bells ring, next they’re leaving their beer cans all over the place. It’s a giant shit show.”  

Early word is Father McDorf’s homily at Saint Tommy’s this coming weekend is: “Societal Decay: One Beer Can At A Time.”  

By P.A Kane

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Lakeland Fl.—After moving to Florida fifteen years ago from South Buffalo, George and Maureen O’Hara soon felt a giant void in their lives that they tried to fill with novelty Christmas decorations. Their collection includes two-hundred-seventy Santa figures from around the world, over sixty Nutcrackers and more than sixty Christmas villages.

To ease the transition when they moved the O’Hara’s brought as much of Buffalo as they could to Florida. Even today you’ll find a freezer full of Sahlen’s hot dogs, a cupboard packed with Frank’s Hot Sauce and a wall of Genny thirty packs out in the garage. Maureen also keeps an ice scraper in her glove box because, “ya never know.”  Yet, as much as they enjoyed these creature comforts from back home there was still something missing in their lives. 

They tried to fill the void with all kinds of things: yoga, meditation, naked sunbathing, which  landed their pasty white South Buffalo asses in the hospital with third degree burns. They also tried to assimilate into Floridian culture by attending NASCAR events and collecting mostly legal firearms. They found a certain satisfaction in amassing firearms until George accidently blew off his toe shit-talking about the Bills down at the Lakeland Rod & Gun. He was not having any revisionist history that day—Jim Kelly owned the Dolphins and Dan Marino for a decade. Four Super Bowl losses and Marino’s gaudy stats doesn’t change that one bit.

Still feeling a hole in their lives after these false starts they settled on collecting Santas and other Christmas decorations. No longer plagued by seasonal affective disorder, which always made both George and Maureen feel like they had been hit in the face with an iron shovel, they took their good moods and positive energy and channeled them into the joyous celebration of Christmas. And, for the O’Hara’s, Christmas starts the day after Halloween, when they start setting up their vast collection and ends  around Valentine’s Day when they have the last of their Santas and Nutcrackers packed away.   

Asked whether the Christmas collection had the effect they were hoping for and filled the void in their lives, the O’Hara’s pause and then look at each other for a moment before Maureen says: “Well…what do you think? We have almost three hundred freaking Santas from around the world, sixty Nutcrackers and more than sixty freaking Christmas Villages. I’m a grown-ass woman and for more than a month I set up little train stations, miniature snowmen and tiny snow covered houses and then spend another month taking them down. Would that fill the void in you life?”

Clearly annoyed Maureen stormed away saying, “George, I’m going to the bar. You coming?”

You can arrange to view the O’Hara’s Christmas collection by contacting them through social media. There is no fee, but donations are appreciated, especially donations of bourbon or vodka.         

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After going over a few bookstore items at the local non-profit he listened to three South Buffalo natives: P.A. Kane, Jesse Holmes and Jack Conrad talk about all the people they knew in common in South Buffalo.  

Helmbrecht said, “In Cheektavegas, where I come from, we do this crazy thing—we talk to each other, not about the people we know. Ya know, we ask about your job, kids, maybe some new project you have going on at the house. These three South Buffalo numbnuts spent two hours talking about this “Jackson” or that “Coughlin.” I don’t get it—South Buffalo people talking about other South Buffalo people. Listening to them made me feel, I don’t know—dumber. Like  I lost IQ points or something.”

After the Saint Patrick’s day recollections Helmbrecht noted the three most common elements in all the stories were: Caz Park . . . drinking . . . and fighting— with some poor lass getting knocked up on a pool table or in the back of a Corolla coming in a not so distant fourth. The stories went something like this: Someone named Mclaughlin or Quinn or Whalen would be at the Caz Golf Course bridge drinking with friends. One of those guys would accuse someone named McNamara or McCarthy or O’Sullivan of dumping their beer. A fight would follow. A girlfriend named Eileen or Margret or Katie would become upset and cry.

At that point, Kane, Holmes and Conrad would pause and ask, “Whatever happened to her, she was a good kid?” Invariably, the answer was that she got  knocked up by some guy named Ryan or O’Grady or McLanahan, who was either a cop or a fireman.

That was another thing that amazed Helmbrecht. Everybody from South Buffalo was either a cop or a fireman.

Shaking his head at the lack of traffic in the book store Helmbrecht said, “I get it why no one is buying any books. To get anyone in this neighborhood to buy a book we’d also have to be sell beer.”

Trying to drown out the inane conversation of Kane, Holmes and Conrad, Helmbrecht spent the remainder of his shift poking through local author  Patricia Reilly Panara’s arresting book: Sisterly Advice.  

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