The Boloney Confessions

God damn my felt innards -- I spend two hours drinking everything in sight to numb the pain, but to no relief. Johnny Walker, single malt, Rum Brughal, vanilla extract -- hell, I even downed a quart of Hai Karate looking for sweet chemical inebriation, but all I managed to do is soak through my little cotton suit and make my wooden neck all swelled-up and stiff.

Buddy Boloney is not in good shape. But, you know what I do in situations like these? I usually take out my colored pencils and draw a picture of what I think you and your wife (or husband) look like together, all happy and carefree making a tofu stir-fry, and I gouge it in a scarlet rage with an boxcutter until all I'm left with is little pulpy ribbons of lined notebook paper. I stare at the shreds, hoping that somehow you will be ruined in the fashion of my effigy; but then I realize it's all happening inside my wooden head, and I'm as unhappy as a dummy with a carved smile can be.

Your good pal Buddy Boloney has always had some success when he's tries to detach from the misery in his head and dive into his work. Better I focus on you, in the audience, than my own issues. But then, it always happens. From an open window, or passing car, I always wind up hearing Journey's "Open Arms," and the darkness creeps back into my soul. The wolf reappears at my door. Shame fills me with dread, yet again.

I think of the night my Uncle Woodpile touched me. It makes me feel sick to my woolen-stuffed stomach. He told me it was a secret between good old Uncle Woodpile and his favorite nephew Buddy Baloney.

I channel my pain into my art. That's always been me -- the ever-chipper dummy, looking to avoid the wood-chipper.

Hotcha-hotcha -- I gotcha!

Laughs on the outside, and a cancer of soul-searing pain on the inside.That's my deal. Christ, I hope he stuffs me in the box before I get a hold of a book of quick-strikes.