“Zero F*cks Given” (Scene 4)

This is from the beginning of Dave Lundy’s new novel (still in development) called “Zero F*cks Given”, a prequel to the best-selling comedy “Squish the Fish: A Tale of Dating and Debauchery”.

Chad Stanwick had the type of face you wanted to punch — handsome, yet with a permanent smirk that screamed “douchebag.” He also was the type that never missed an opportunity to tell people he was from Newton, Massachusetts — an affluent Boston suburb.

The previous spring, he won the Sigma Alpha Mu presidency by mercilessly berating the incumbent, Billy Schmear. “Do we still have the best parties?! Do we hook up with the hottest chicks anymore?!” he yelled to his fraternity brothers during his campaign. “The answer is no! And who’s fault is it?” He pointed at Billy Schmear. “Mrs. Pap Schmear’s, that’s who! He’s to blame, and only I, Chad Stanwick, can fix it!”

Chad was standing inside his fraternity house, a few weeks away from the start of fall semester, and the place was in shambles — warped hardwood floors, cracked ceilings, and walls soiled with who knew what. It was his duty to ensure the house was impeccable before for the Sammies’, the name they called themselves, had their first party of the year.

There was a knock, and Chad popped his pink Polo shirt’s collar before walking to the front door and opening it. “Hello,” he said to a man holding a clipboard.

“Hi, I’m John, the foreman. We were hired to fix up your house.” The man glanced at his paperwork. “Are you Chad?”

“Yes, I’m Chad, Sigma Alpha Mu’s president. I’ll be telling your crew what to do.”

The foreman raised an eyebrow. “Uh, it doesn’t work that way.”

“The fuck it doesn’t. I know better than anyone how to get this place into tip-top shape.” Chad looked at the Mexican workers leaning against the company truck. “Round up your hombres,” he circled his finger in the air, “and let’s get started. The hardwood floors are the most important so start by tearing them out, then paint the walls and patch the ceiling.”

The foreman shook his head. “I recommend we do the opposite of that — work top down. The reason is…”

Chad cut him off. “Listen, do you want this job or not? There are plenty of other contractors that would be happy to take my business.”

He looked at Chad sideways and contemplated punching him square in the nose. He took a deep breath and said, “Doing it your way will add an extra week.”

“I don’t think so. You’ll get it done on schedule like we agreed or you can vámonos the hell outta here.”

The owner of the contracting company he worked for reminded him of Chad — obnoxious, arrogant, and stupid — and wouldn’t hesitate to fire someone that lost him a job. Knowing this, the foreman caved and agreed to Chad’s demands. He stuck two fingers from each hand in his mouth and blew an ear-piercingly loud whistle. The workers grabbed their tools and walked to the house.

Scene 3 | Scene 4

zerofucksgiven

“Zero F*cks Given” (Scene 3)

This is from the beginning of Dave Lundy’s new novel (still in development) called “Zero F*cks Given”, a prequel to the best-selling comedy “Squish the Fish: A Tale of Dating and Debauchery”.

Zabka turned his black Camaro off of the New York State Thruway and headed north on highway 290. He sang along with the Grateful Dead song on the radio — “Livin’ on reds, vitamin C, and cocaine. All a friend can say is ‘Ain’t it a shame?’ Truckin’, up to Buffalo!” An eighteen-wheeler merged slowly in front of him, wrecking his joyous mood. He laid on the horn, slammed the Camaro’s gas pedal to the floor, and veered around the trucker, taking the exit’s curvy offramp at a screeching 75 mph.

Zabka loosened his grip of the steering wheel after straightening out on Main Street. “Did you see that asshole?” he said to his passengers.

“Yeah, the nerve of that guy,” Bob answered from the seat beside him. He looked back at Lighthouse, cramped between their luggage, and they chuckled.

It was a sunny afternoon, and Zabka stuck his arm out the window. He floated his hand up and down like a plane as it cut through the wind.

The radio station switched to a commercial, and Lighthouse asked, “Dude, what happened to the tunes?”

“Yeah, Bob.” Zabka whacked his buddy. “You’re in charge, fix it.”

Bob slid in a Jackyl CD, selected the song he wanted, and turned up the volume. Soon into it, the guitar riff got their heads banging. Zabka eyed a car full of girls with a UB bumper sticker and sped up next to it. He looked over at the girls and sung along with the chorus, “But she loves my cock! — Loves my cock! Loves my cock! Loves my cock!”

The girls were beyond repulsed — so much so that their faces seemed to throw up.

Having witnessed Zabka’s behavior many times before, Bob wasn’t at all shocked — his friend was the poster-child for “not giving a fuck.” But, on the flip-side, the girls’ reactions did make Bob take notice. And a few of their faces seemed familiar — Were those girls from Third Base?

As expected, Zabka was incredibly pleased with himself. He gunned the engine and took off down the road.

Bob turned down the music. “You know, not to sound lame or anything, but I feel like the way we approach girls might be a touch off-putting and could probably use… oh, I don’t know… some refinement. Whaddya guys think?”

“What are you talking about?” Zabka replied. “Those bitches ate that shit up!”

Lighthouse offered his thoughts, “No offense, Zabka, but I didn’t get that impression. Women aren’t exactly throwing themselves at our feet. Bob might be on to something.”

Bob added, “Yeah, Zabka. You don’t really have the Don Juan seduction-thing goin’ on.”

Zabka brushed off his friends. “You guys are crazy.”

“No, really,” Bob said. “Okay, so how many girls did we have in our house last year?”

Zabka shrugged. “Plenty, I’m sure.” He contemplated for a moment. “To start, there was Earthshaker — that ginormous chick from the Base that you banged. Good lord, you truly have no shame.”

“First of all, I did not ‘fuck her.’ We barely got outta the bar before her mouth was playing Hungry Hungry Hippos with my balls. She was like, ‘Nom, nom, nom…’ She just went to town. It was nuts — literally! I’ve never had a girl laser-focused on my sack like that.”

From the peanut gallery, Lighthouse remarked, “I bet you’ve had dudes laser-focused on your sack like that.”

Bob rolled his eyes. “Also, as I recall, we didn’t go to our house. We went to her place around the corner. And finally, she wasn’t that big — you’re always exaggerating. She just had a bitta junk-in-the-trunk.”

Zabka threw his head back and laughed. “Haha! She didn’t have a bit, she had a ton! Her ass looked like two garbage bags filled with marshmallows!”

Lighthouse looked up and tapped his chin. “Oh, I know. There was the woman that hooked up our cable. She was kinda hot.”

Bob replied, “Dude, she was as old as your mom. Plus, she worked for the cable company, so that doesn’t really count. Okay, so who else?”

Hmm… oh, I remember.” His redheaded friend pushed an imaginary button. “These girls rang our doorbell and I invited them inside.”

“You mean the ones selling cookies?” Bob shook his head. “The Girl Scout and her mom? Come on.”

The three of them sat in silence, racking their brains.

“You see my point now? We did a pathetic job last year.” Bob glanced back at Lighthouse and then at Zabka to make sure they absorbed what he was saying. “But here’s the good news — this is a new year and we’re in a new house — the reset button has been pressed. Plus it’s our last year in college. We need to go out on a high note.”

“Should we set a goal?” Lighthouse asked. “Like the number of women?”

“Well, there are six of us in the house, soooo… we should easily be able to pull in two girls each. Real girls — not girls working for a utility company or selling shit door to door.” Bob did the easy math. “So that’s twelve.”

Zabka offered, “Shit, I could pull in a dozen myself. What are you guys gonna do?”

Lighthouse said, “Yeah, I could do that too.”

Bob laughed along with Zabka who was slapping his knee.

After Zabka composed himself, he said “But seriously, we need to think this through. The others in the house are Satan, Jimmy the Italian, and Narong — a stoner, a short guy who’s prematurely-balding and talks like he’s been kicked in the nuts, and a puny theatre major from Thailand. Something tells me their contributions ain’t gonna be shit.”

Bob agreed. “Yeah, they’re completely useless.”

Zabka nodded his head. “Yep, so that just leaves me and you, Bob.”

“Hey, what about me?” Lighthouse asked.

“What about you?” Zabka replied. “No offense,” he winked at Bob, “but this is clearly a two-man operation.”

“Yeah, Zabka’s right.” Bob grinned. “But don’t let that stop you from giving it the old college try.”

“I’ll show you guys.” Lighthouse folded his arms. “I may even decide to get a girlfriend.”

“Highly doubtful. But even if you did, that’s not gonna help us much with the numbers.” Zabka passed Grover Cleveland Golf Course — named after the former mayor of Buffalo and President of the United States — and crossed Bailey Avenue. “Hey, there’s south campus. We’re officially back in Buffalo!” He honked the horn twice. “And it feels daaaaamn good!”

A mile or so later, Zabka pulled the Camero into the driveway of their house on Winspear Avenue and drove straight into a pothole, scraping the car’s front bumper. “Fuck!” he yelled.

“Relax,” Bob said, “I’m sure your precious pussy-magnet is just fine.”

Zabka parked and jumped out to inspect the damage. He bent down in front of his car and rubbed the bumper. “It’s not too bad. She’ll be alright.”

“Phew,” Lighthouse commented as he exited the vehicle. “Thank god for that.”

Bob stood and stared at their house. “Home sweet home.” The roof over the large front porch was covered in bird shit, and the siding was rickety with badly chipped paint. To top things off, a rat had torn into a bag of garbage and made an impressive mess outside the side door.

“You think Satan is here?” Lighthouse asked.

“I don’t see his piece-of-shit car, so I’m guessing no,” Zabka replied.

Bob pulled his bags out of the car. “Alright, let’s put our stuff inside.”

Zabka unlocked the side door and the three of them walked in. The odor hit them immediately — the type of skunky air that lingered after a reggae show.

Lighthouse said, “It definitely smells like Satan lives here.”

One set of stairs went down to a scary-looking basement where there was a spare room and the laundry. They followed the other short set of stairs up to the hallway between the kitchen and living room. The ragged interior of their living quarters helped strengthen the case that the structure should be condemned. Zabka turned toward his room which was down a small hallway off the kitchen. Bob and Lighthouse continued upstairs to their respective rooms.

As Zabka got closer to his bedroom, he heard an odd noise — one that oscillated between something sounding like a rabid squirrel and someone stroking a balloon. He paused and listened to confirm he wasn’t imagining things. He opened the door expecting to find a rodent, but walked in on something far worse — a guy, fully nude, holding a blowup doll’s head between his legs while he did unimaginable things to “her” oral cavity. The plastic squeaked from one last thrust.

The stranger and Zabka locked eyes in the most uncomfortable way. They stood still like statues in a Mexican-standoff, entangled in an unwanted three-way. Slowly, Zabka’s eyes turned to rage. Sensing impending doom, the doll-fucker panicked and kicked Zabka in the balls while screaming bloody murder.

Zabka curled-over in pain, his nuts thumping like the bass in an Ice Cube song. He looked up, calmly said, “You picked the wrong nigga ta fuck wit,” and karate chopped the doll’s head free from the guy’s engorged appendage.

The intruder covered himself and stammered incoherently.

At that point, Zabka was done being friendly. He swung a left-hook and nailed the guy in the eye.

Having heard the commotion, Bob and Lighthouse came running down from upstairs. When they got to their friend’s bedroom, they found Zabka standing over a naked guy their age, hogtied with a deflated French-maid doll, and a dirty sock shoved in his mouth.

Lighthouse entered the room in full alert-mode, his head spinning like a top.

“Zabka, is there something you want to share?” Bob asked. “Trust us, we’re not judging you.”

With a half-smile, Lighthouse agreed, “Yep, this is a judgment-free zone.” He and Bob nodded their heads vigorously. “No judgments whatsoever.”

Zabka responded, “I found this dickhead in my room gettin’ it on with blowup Betty. I don’t know who the fuck he is, but we’re about to find out. Either the easy way… or the hard way. That part’s upta him.”

Scene 2 | Scene 3 | Scene 4

zerofucksgiven

“Zero F*cks Given” (Scene 2)

This is from the beginning of Dave Lundy’s new novel (still in development) called “Zero F*cks Given”, a prequel to the best-selling comedy “Squish the Fish: A Tale of Dating and Debauchery”.

Friday (one day earlier)…

Tracy Cohenstein sat on her couch with a box of tissues as the final scene in Pretty Woman began. Having watched it nearly a dozen times, she was able to quote practically every line. She’s been told she looked like a younger, and perhaps even more attractive, version of Julia Roberts, the female star of the movie. Tracy’s dark brown eyes were the kind that pulled you in and could’ve been Van Morrison’s inspiration for “Brown Eyed Girl” had she been born when he wrote the song. Her appearance was unblemished except for one flaw — one embarrassing, well-hidden flaw.

Tracy watched intently as Richard Gere’s character stood through the limousine’s sunroof — a bouquet of red roses in hand and Verdi’s La Traviata opera playing for all to hear. Julia Robert’s character came out of her top-floor apartment and onto the fire escape as he began to climb. When the couple met in the middle, their lips inches apart, Tracy pulled out a few tissues.

She mouthed along while Richard Gere asked Julia Roberts, “So what happened after he climbed up the tower and rescued her?”

With a half-smile, Julia answered, “She rescues him right back,” and they kissed.

Tears ran down Tracy’s cheeks — just your average day in Hollywood where a rich businessman “saves” a prostitute. Not feeling the least bit odd about longing to be Julia Robert’s character, Tracy’d gladly turn a few tricks to have a fairytale like this one come true. While the closing credits rolled, she wiped her tears and wished Chad Stanwick, the president of Sigma Alpha Mu, would be her “knight in shining armor.” Ironically, if the rumors were true, her two crushes, Richard Gere and Chad Stanwick, shared the same fetish — a peculiar one that could only be satisfied by a prostate-tickling gerbil.

Tracy moved from the couch into her office and shut the door. On her desk was a studio microphone, and behind that, a VCR and small TV. She retrieved a set of headphones out of a drawer and plugged them into the TV. A videotape labeled “When Harry Ate Sally” waited for her — a play-on-words for what happened to be her favorite romantic-comedy. Frightened, yet curious, she shrugged — Work is work. You see, Tracy had the type of voice that oozed sex. One time at temple, while reading a passage from the Torah, she managed to arouse ninety-percent of the congregation. Now a broadcast major at the University at Buffalo, one of her audition tapes landed in the right hands and led to a part-time job doing voice-overs — actually, more like moan-overs — for pornographic movies.

Tracy popped in the tape and watched Harry and Sally start their drive from Chicago to New York City. The atrocious acting, horrific dialogue, and road-head that followed was par for the course. She fast-forwarded the movie, watching the actors boink at high-speed like rabbits until she reached the famous diner scene — the one where Harry and Sally banter about women faking orgasms. Harry claimed that no woman has ever faked it with him, and then he proceeded to climb under the table to prove it. In sync with Sally’s crescendoing orgasm, Tracy pounded the table and shouted her own version of “Yes! Yes! Oh! Oh!” into the microphone. When Sally finished, and all eyes were on her, a woman at another table repeated the original movie’s line and told her waiter, “I’ll have what she’s having.” Naturally, the waiter was more than happy to oblige and, like Harry, serviced the woman. Then, just like in real life, an orgy broke out.

Sally, now engaged in a threesome, said the dirtiest things in the rare times her mouth was phallus-free. Slurping and voicing-over these parts was easy for Tracy, but she recognized her muffled-gagging skills still needed some work. Fully immersed in the film, Tracy closed her eyes and genuinely moaned. She then had a worrisome feeling — not because of the unholy things being done to Sally’s holes, but because the men sandwiching her onscreen-identity reminded her of Zabka and Lighthouse — an unexpected turn-on. She admonished herself, I’d never!

Tracy thought back to the shit those two dimwits pulled when they all lived in the Ellicott dorm. Her anger grew, coincidentally, in perfect timing with the scene and came across as intense pleasure. While Sally got stuck more than a pincushion, the well-hung gentleman with a curly blond mullet — Zabka’s twin from the waist up — flexed his pecks. At the same time, the other stallion’s bright red hair reminded her of Lighthouse. His face, buried so deep between Sally’s legs that only the top of his head showed, he looked like Ronald McDonald eating a Happy Meal. As the scene came to a dramatic, DNA-filled conclusion, the only logical recommendation the Department of Public Health could make was to torch the diner.

Tracy stopped the video, took off her headphones, and wiped sweat from her forehead. Having not thought about Zabka and Lighthouse in a while, her feelings were conflicted as she wondered, Whatever happened to those campus idiots?

Scene 1 | Scene 2 | Scene 3

zerofucksgiven

“Zero F*cks Given” (Scene 1)

This is from the beginning of Dave Lundy’s new novel (still in development) called “Zero F*cks Given”, a prequel to the best-selling comedy “Squish the Fish: A Tale of Dating and Debauchery”.

Saturday, many years ago…

Zabka stabbed his fork through a cherry tomato and some lettuce, and brought it to his mouth, careful not to drip any dressing on his sale-rack suit.

Bob glared at his friend and said, “Who the fuck orders a salad?” He threw his polyester tie over his shoulder and took a bite of his greasy cheeseburger. “You know no good story ever started with a salad — unless we’re talkin’ ’bout salad-tossing, of course. Anyway, it’s your fault if we don’t have an awesome time at Earl’s wedding.”

“Whatever.” Zabka’s hand shook as he sipped his Bloody Mary. “I couldn’t make it to the gym today, so I’m eating something light. You don’t get a ripped body like mine without sacrificing every once in a while.”

Lighthouse, their college housemate, asked, “Seriously, why bother? You’re gonna drink a hundred beers at the reception. What’s the use?”

As buddies do, they called each other by their nicknames — Zabka, because his doppelgänger is William Zabka, the blond actor whose character in The Karate Kid is an arrogant prick; Lighthouse, for his bright-red hair, tall stature, and penchant for walking on his tiptoes with his head spinning on the lookout for trouble; and Bob, the jovial moniker for Robert.

The Steer, the restaurant-bar they were dining in, was busy on that muggy summer day. Located near the University at Buffalo’s city campus, it was mostly frequented by students from Long Island. Its dark wood interior and the bull’s skull and horns that hung on the wall gave the place a western vibe. A country song by Billy Ray Cyrus was playing in the bar.

Bob said, “Good lord this song sucks. Achy-fuckin’-Breaky Heart? What is this bullshit? Why’d you make us come to this hellhole, Zabka? I hate this fucking place.” He watched a group of girls in matching sorority shirts and with matching nose jobs, chat up the bartender. “Oh, that’s right… because you’re sniffing around for Tracy Cohenstein.”

Lighthouse’s eyes grew wide as he thought about the last time he saw Tracy during junior year, at the end of spring semester. She was sunbathing in her backyard, and he was perched in a tree with binoculars.

Zabka put down his fork. “Screw you, Bob. Stop trying to stir the pot.”

“Who, me?” Bob placed his hand over his heart. “I would never.”

Zabka shook his head. “Yeah, never.”

Bob was indeed stirring the pot, knowing that both of his friends had a thing for Tracy. Zabka’s yearning was on the healthy, red-blooded male side of the spectrum, while Lighthouse’s pursuits leaned more toward an unbalanced obsession.

Bob gulped down some beer and shoved a handful of fries into his mouth. “Hey, remember the last time we came here? The bouncer launched some douchebag off the steps outside and into the street.”

“Oh yeah, that was hilarious,” Lighthouse responded. “No offense, Zabka, but I’m shocked that’s never happened to you.”

Zabka threw his arms up and leaned in. “Who’s got the balls to try to throw ME out?!” He looked around. “Show me! I dare someone!”

Bob paid no attention to Zabka’s outburst. “Actually, I’m surprised they didn’t toss you outta Third Base last night. What a shitshow.”

“Please,” Zabka scoffed. “They’d never. Plus most of that had nothing to do with me.”

Lighthouse shook his head. “Yesterday was a fiasco.”

“Fiasco isn’t quite the right word… It was a clusterfuck.” Bob studied his scraped knuckles. “One huge clusterfuck.”

Lighthouse asked, “Can we talk about something else?”

“Sure. How about hangovers?” Bob finished his beer and raised the bottle. “Hair of the dog.”

“More like shit of the dog. Dog shit — that’s what I feel like. So no, I don’t want to talk about hangovers.”

“Okay, then how about the Bills? You guys know if it’s preseason yet?”

“Yeah, I think the first game is tomorrow.” Zabka picked up his fork and speared a piece of chicken along with his next helping of salad. “But I don’t know how they get motivated. After losing three Super Bowls in a row, it’s gotta be tough.” As he gnawed on the meat, his face turned green. He spit the chicken out onto the table and inspected the flesh. “What the fuck?! It’s pink inside!”

Their waitress heard the commotion and hustled over. “Is there a problem with your order?”

“A problem?! You’re damn right there’s a problem! The chicken is under-fucking-cooked!”

“I’m so sorry. Let me take care of that and get you a new salad.”

“No. I’ll handle this myself.” Zabka stood with his plate, marched toward the kitchen, and slammed through the aluminum swinging-door. “Who the fuck made my salad?!”

The kitchen staff froze, alarmed by their uninvited guest.

Zabka scanned for the most-likely culprit and landed on the man who’d been chopping lettuce. “Hey, fuckface! Did you do this?! Did you put raw chicken in my salad?!”

“No, sir. I just make the vegetables.” The food preparer’s nervous eyes implicated the man at the grill.

“I see.” Zabka walked over and dumped his salad on the cook’s head. “Why the hell did you do this? Tell me right now, or I swear I’ll strangle your neck.”

The man gulped, fully believing the threat. “Okay, okay. Some girl paid me fifty bucks to do it. Please don’t tell my boss. I beg you.”

“Some girl?!” Zabka looked around. “So, a conniving cunt is in our midst, eh? Where is she? Keep talking and I might let you off the hook.”

“She’s out at the bar.”

“Good. Take me to her.” Zabka punched his palm. “Let’s go, motherfucker.”

Scene 1 | Scene 2

zerofucksgiven

Wait! There’s a “Squish the Fish” Song?!

The lyrics below are from the funny and catchy song “Squish the Fish (feat. Sticky)”. It accompanies the hilarious novel “Squish the Fish: A Tale of Dating and Debauchery” by Dave Lundy.

When I first saw her, I grabbed my fishing pole.
She gave me that look, ta slip it in her waterhole.
Advance down her field, ta penetrate that vertical line.
No block below the waist, and now it’s time to dine.

(Chorus)
Oh girl from Miami, there’s one thing I gotta do.
For this boy from Buffalo, it all ain’t nothin’ new.
Inhale your ocean breeze, goddamn it smells dee-lish.
Time ta do my favorite thing and, squish, squish, squish the fish.

Entering your end zone, you’re as excited as me.
Your eyes rolled back so far, no way ya can possibly see.
Excessive celebration flags, the refs just made the calls.
Yeah, yeah, caress me there, and deflate my balls.

(Chorus)
Oh girl from Miami, there’s one thing I gotta do.
For this boy from Buffalo, it all ain’t nothin’ new.
Was it good for you, to fulfill my wish?
Ya want me ta do it again? Ta squish, squish, squish the fish.

It was great at first, couldn’t imagine nothin’ better.
Got soaked in a hurricane, and you were much, much wetter.
Tired of dolphin-free tuna, at your tailgate party.
Hey, there goes a school-a snapper, I don’t wanna be tardy.

(Chorus)
Oh girl from Miami, there’s one thing I gotta do.
For this boy from Buffalo, I’m off to catch something new.
Don’t care what her name is, don’t matter if it’s Trish.
My clock’s at high-noon ta, squish, squish, squish the fish.
Squish, squish, squish the fish.
Squish, squish, squish the fish.
Squish, squish, squish that fish.
Squish, squish, squish the fish.

Copyright © 2017 by Bottoms Up Publishing. All rights reserved. No part of this song may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.

Only in Buffalo!

This excerpt is from the beginning of “Squish the Fish: A Tale of Dating and Debauchery” by Dave Lundy. The bestselling novel has won numerous comedic awards and been called “The Hangover” in Buffalo, NY.

Trapped like a turtle flipped on its shell, a man flails his limbs through the puffy snow. As he passes out, the alcohol in his bloodstream celebrates with wildly inappropriate dance-moves inspired by the night’s sins. The glow from a streetlamp punctures the darkness like a police helicopter’s spotlight and frames the helpless fool in his jagged snow-angel.

A few hours later, at dawn, an elderly woman is walking her Saint Bernard down the quiet street when she notices the collapsed body. Her first thought — What the fuck? — naturally is filled with compassion. But after she reminds herself of one critical detail, it all makes sense — This is Buffalo… of course there’s a drunk jackass lying in the snow. As she shrugs-off the aspiring Darwin Award winner, an alluring scent pulls the dog in the man’s direction. Tearing the leash from its master’s grasp, it dashes to investigate.

snow angel

Now above the lush, the shaggy beast pants and stares in wonder. Masked by a pair of pink cotton panties, the man looks like some sort of deranged bank robber. If the dog could form complex thoughts, it might speculate — For what ungodly reason is he wearing that? Is it a desperate attempt to prevent his face from freezing off? Perhaps it’s a provocative fashion statement? Or is it, quite possibly, some next-level form of perversion? But it can’t contemplate such things, so it just wags its tail in blissful ignorance. Incapable of resisting the undergarment’s exotic aroma, the hound licks the guy’s noggin like it’s a lollipop. The mutt’s tongue bursts with flavor and knows it’s struck gold — tangy, delicious gold.

Nearby, a fresh line of boot-prints mark a path up to the man and continue past him. “SUN 7:16 AM” displays on the frosty LCD of his Casio watch. Gusts of wind blow across the ground, fusing his bare hand with a frozen bottle of Genesee Cream Ale. In his other hand, a tattered envelope labeled “Buffalo Tickets” flaps and scatters a rainbow of glitter dust into the air.

The slobbering dog belongs to a breed known for saving people buried in snowstorms, however, this pooch’s glowing eyes foretell that a rescue is far from how things are about to go down. The inebriated fellow, unaware that his forehead is the soon-to-be target of an amorous assault, remains oblivious when the canine launches into its grand-finale. The funny thing is (which can only be said when you’re not on the receiving end of such an act) humiliations such as this can’t compare with what the city has endured throughout its outlandish history.

As the animal’s pleasure-romp reaches a fever pitch, its owner strolls into the spectacle like it’s nothing out of the ordinary. While reaching for the leash, she halts abruptly and scratches her scalp. Anger builds as she reads a urine scribbled message in the snow that audaciously proclaims “GOD HATES BUF…” and trails off into a wavy drizzle.

Now in control of the tether, the old woman gives it a harsh tug. While dragging her pet away, she reflects for a moment and mutters to herself, “Is that clown right? Does God hate Buffalo?”

Copyright © 2017 by Bottoms Up Publishing. All rights reserved.

I’m a Buffalo Bills Fan. Am I an Idiot?

Published November 4th, 2017

Why would anyone in their right-mind choose to be a Buffalo Bills fan? I wasn’t born a fan, yet I am today. Four Super Bowl losses in a row — torturous. The Music City Miracle — a kick in the nuts. O.J. Simpson — let’s not even go there. In the past 17 years, Buffalo has had more drunk fans fall from the upper deck of their stadium (one) and more dildos thrown on their field (one) than they have playoff appearances (zero). So again, why am I a Buffalo Bills fan?

Five Bryan Cox
Mocking Bryan Cox of the Dolphins before the Miami game in Buffalo, 1995

I grew up in Binghamton, NY and, like most people there, I was a New York Giants fan and rooted for them against the Bills in the Super Bowl. In 1992, I transferred to the University at Buffalo in the spring semester. On January 26th, I watched Buffalo play in their second Super Bowl with my new friends in our Ellicott dorm. That year I was rooting for the Bills — admittedly, it was more like rooting against the Redskins — and again they fell short of victory. After the game, people were crying and throwing crushed beer cars out of windows — until everyone just said “fuck it” and we partied the rest of the night. I have a couple of good postgame stories but I think legally, I’m not allowed to share them.

The next two years of college brought two more Super Bowl losses, both at the hands of the Dallas Cowboys (F Dallas!). After I graduated, I took a job at a local company in Cheektowaga and finally went to my first game at Rich Stadium. It was a game against the Miami Dolphins and it may have been one of the greatest days of my life. I’m not lying, it was that much fun. I loved the tailgating, the fan spirit, and the love of the team. There was electricity — and booze — everywhere. I watched Kelly, Thomas, Smith, Tasker, and Christie lead the Bills to victory over Dan Marino (seriously, what’s up with those Isotoner gloves commercials?) and the much hated Bryan Cox (F U! You gave us the finger — we gave you 160,000 middle fingers back). That was the day I truly became a fan.

Now I live in San Francisco and gather with the rest of the Bills Backers at the Northstar on game day. There’s nothing like Zubaz pants and drinking Blue with great friends to make you feel at home. Last year, we met at the bar and took a charter bus over to Oakland when the Bills were in town. Our amazing organizers, Maggie and Jeff, set up an incredible spread with wings and garbage plates. But here’s the best part — Andre Reed hung out and tailgated with us! What a trip that was!! As for the game, however, I’m still trying to forget how we folded in the second half.

Earlier in the season, a bunch of us also flew down to LA for the Bills game, and I finally met the legendary Pinto Ron at Busby’s West during the Saturday welcome party. That was a great weekend and we won the game! I also was at the 49er game in Buffalo and partied in the famous Hammer Lot! It was incredibly fun! And we won that game too!!

Like in any twelve-step program, the first step is admitting you have a problem. So here it is — I’m a Buffalo Bills fan. And you know what? I wouldn’t change a thing, and I’m sure as hell not moving past step one. I’m a Bills fan for life. I love the Bills and everything about Buffalo so much that I wrote a book and a song, which, I imagine, might put me in a unique category of fans. So if you like Buffalo (how could you not?) and enjoy crazy comedy, check out “Squish the Fish: A Tale of Dating and Debauchery”. I can’t wait to party with all of you in Niagara Square when the Bills bring home the Lombardi Trophy! Until then, cheers!!!