On bung holes, the bung factory, and on being called a bung hole. With Jimmy Fallon cameo.

Bung Factory

This time last year, I walked by the old Bung Factory on Jefferson Street. I was on my way to my favorite bar with a box full of gourds. My favorite bar’s name, translated from French into English, is “The Royal Palace.” I don’t remember why I had a box full of gourds, but it was more than twenty of the little things and I felt as if I had to be rid of them. I decided to adorn a 1962 Ford Galaxy with them, unshellacked and overripe on the roof and hood. I knew who owned the car but we never met. He was a photography for the local paper, and wears a funny hat. Once, he took a photo of me on the same stage as Jimmy Fallon. He was the commencement speaker at the college where I teach. I sat on the stage with all the other professors who wore long robes and funny hats. One photo he took was of me applauding, probably after some funny joke made by Jimmy Fallon. Because of the tight seating and because my robe’s sleeves were so long, my arms looked like they were too short for my body, like fins or vestigial T. Rex limbs. After it appeared online, I received this photo in my email from a friend, who had seen in in the local paper. The subject line was “you are such a bung hole.”

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