Call Him Mr. Success

Good Old Freddy Buffoone

Good old Freddy Buffoone.

Freddy Buffoone was a pathetic, useless, skinny little man. He ate a lot of doughnuts—morning, noon, and night. No matter how much he ate, he never gained weight. Doughnuts, doughnuts, doughnuts. They were the only good thing he enjoyed in his life. Otherwise, he never got to do what he wanted. He was an out-of-fashion man. Even his job was outdated. He repaired watches for a living. Who the hell still wears watches?

Good old Freddy Buffoone. 

He married the first woman he fucked. She badgered him from day one. She constantly criticized him. He second-guessed everything he did, asking himself whether he was doing it the right way, the correct way. She had him even double-thinking about the simple act of walking, one foot ahead of the other. The two couldn’t have kids, but Freddy thought that was good. There was no reason to add another person to the hellhole he called home.

Good old Freddy Buffoone. 

He knew he was an idiot and a loser, and there was nothing he could do about it. Even though he was only 30 years old, he felt a lot older. He tried to change, oh he tried. Sometimes for a few weeks maybe, but not long term. Nothing ever really changed. At his core, he was selfish, not hateful or mean, just selfish. He was a good guy. Everyone agreed. But as a husband, he was only a placemat.

Good old Freddy Buffoone. 

Every day, as he drove to his shop, he would direct rage at himself, yelling and screaming phrases of self-hate. He despised himself. Sometimes, he would break down after the self-abuse, but most times, he just doubled down with another verbal tirade. The words came from so far deep inside that they were almost guttural in sound. Occasionally, his voice changed, as though more than one person led the barrage. At times, he recorded it to listen to again in quieter moments to remind him how lost he was. 

Good old Freddy Buffoone

He thought his mind was like a sewer hole he could crawl out of daily. Full of mush and waste. He could also dive back into the gutter when he saw any cute, young, sweet thing walking around. He tried to imagine a world where a lovely thing like that would still let him ravish her - fuck the hell out of her. Oh, he needed that. He wanted to get at that young thing so badly. 

Good old Freddy Buffoone. 

Faded hopes and broken dreams overwhelmed the guy. The ultimate underachiever. Lazy. A man of no initiative. Every day after closing his shop, he would take the long way home, but the long way home was never long enough. Sometimes, he would think about driving into oncoming traffic, but he always chickened out at the last second - not wanting to ruin a stranger’s life. 

Good old Freddy Buffoone. 

One day, he got home early, and the house was empty. He walked into the bare hallway. He yelled out, “fuck you!”

“Hey, yeah, you, fuck you. Fuck you and you and you and you,” he said, pointing off into the distance. He spun around and pointed again as though he had a gun. 

“Fuck you! Yes, fuck you and you.” 

Then he turned and peered into a nearby mirror. 

“Who are you looking at? Huh? Asshole! Who the fuck are you looking at? Well, who the fuck are you? Fuck you too, you motherfuckin’ loser! Fuck you and the horse you rode in on, motherfucker.” 

He kept yelling fuck you until his voice gave out. No one ever heard a word he said. Yes, his name was Freddy Buffoone, and he was utterly forgettable.

Good old Freddy Buffoone.