Damn right the word of the day is bumfuzzle.  Because why the hell not.

Despite my dirtiest hopes, bumfuzzle is not something you’ll find on the menu of one of those horrible quasi-brothels in downtown London with the dead-eyed Slavic chicks (though the next time I’m in one of those wretched places, I might order a bumfuzzle and just see what happens.
Anyway, bumfuzzle is indeed a real word and not some gibberish I scrawled in my journal when I woke from this afternoon’s Ny-Quil-influenced fever dream.  It’s an olden goldie from the deep South, dating back to the mid-19th century. And no,  it doesn’t mean your bum’s gotten into a fight with a puzzle.  It’s a verb that means to confuse, perplex, or fluster.

Enrique found himself unexpectantly bumfuzzled before the day had even really started when, upon picking up his usual venti mocha with whip, the heavily bearded yet totally bald, six-foot-four baristo suddenly began bellowing angrily about being misgendered. 

“…the fuck you talking about?” Enrique asked, annoyed to have to turn around in the midst of his hurried exit.

“You called me ‘sir.'”

Enrique had uttered an unusually polite “thank you, sir,” when he was handed his coffee.  That was maybe two seconds ago, and already Enrique regretted trying to be polite today. 

“Yes, I called you ‘sir.’  What’s the problem?”

“It’s ‘ma’am…I identify as female,” the baristo yelled deeply. 

Enrique took a few steps closer to read the nametag: Stanya.  Enrique noticed for the first time Stanya’s clothing, which, rather than a dress or assless chaps or anything at all that would have indicated that this idiot was pretending to be a woman, consisted of men’s jeans and a Motorhead t-shirt. 

“…The fuck outta here.  You’ve got more beard than ZZ Top.  You wanna pretend to be a women, first thing you need to do is fuckin’ shave.”

This caused Stanya to plunge into instant and deep conniption and apoplexy.  He lunged at Enrique, who deftly dodged the charging Stanya in exactly the same way a matador would dodge a freight train.  Stanya’s own massive motion sent him through the front window of the coffee shop, where he came to rest as a cut-up mess several feet outside of the coffee shop.  Enrique passed gracefully through the remnants of the front door to find himself standing over Stanya’s prone adiposity. 

“You are whatever I say you are, cupcake,” said Enrique.  “I rescind my ‘thank you,’ and replace it with an enthusiastic ‘go fuck yourself.’ 
Back in his car, Enrique, who had been in the United States illegally for several months now and deeply regretted spending so much money to get to this absurd and unserious country, decided he’d had enough and began to make plans to get back to Mexico as soon as possible. 

N.P.: “I’m a Man” – Black Strobe