I, Hardassimo (Hardass for short) J. Scrambler, being of sound enough mind and old as shit body, do hereby state the following:
That my nephew, Bookshelf Q. Battler, is a colossal disappointment. Typing on a “blog” for 3.5 readers. Doesn’t anybody work anymore? All my life, I slaved away in the salt mines for ten cents a day and I was glad to have it. You didn’t see me trying to be a writer. You young people, I tell ya’. “Ooo I wanna be a writer! Ooo I wanna be a rock star! Ooo I wanna be an astronaut!’ Shut up and get a job in the salt mines already, ya buncha no good unwashed hippy bums. Is a job at the salt mines a fun time? Hell no, but it pays the bills so stop acting like you’re all too good for it.
- That as of the writing of this will, my Doctor informs me that my declining health is the direct result of eating five bacon sandwiches a day. Bullshit, I say. Everyone knows that bacon sandwiches are chock full of necessary vitamins and minerals.
- That if I die, it will actually be the result of the intense disappointment I feel over my nephew Bookshelf Q’ Battler’s ridiculous insistence on “writing.” Newsflash, turds. Only like a handful of people every generation get to be famous writers. The rest of you? SALT MINES!
- That after I croak, my wife Gertrude aka Aunt Gertie, who encourages my bumbling nephew in his stupidity by being one of his 3.5 readers, should burn our house down rather than give it to Bookshelf Q. Battler when she decides to head off for the old folks’ home.
- In the event Gertie goes against my wishes and hands over our house to my idiot nephew, which he’ll probably run around pretending it’s a secret compound or something, I reserve the right to wander the halls and haunt the shit out of that place.
- My nephew should never forget that he did not live up to my expectations and I blame Gertie. She was always coddling the boy. Why, I remember one day I came home from an 18-hour shift at the salt mines and found that little twerp having a party with a bunch of his stupid friends. I said, “Hey, ya’ moron! Why don’t you do something productive for once and get a job in the salt mines?” And you know what Gertie said? “Hardass, BQB’s only three years old. Let him enjoy his little birthday party.” And I said, “That’s no excuse! I was working in the salt mines the day after I was born!”
- Finally, in the event that my lousy excuse for a nephew decides to write a serialized story called “Bookshelf Q. Battler and the Meaning of Life” (due out May 15) nobody should read it. You’re just encouraging his buffoonery. You want to know the meaning of life? You’re born. You work at the salt mines. You kick the bucket it. That’s it. That’s all you do.
Signed: Uncle Hardassimo (Hardass) J. Scrambler
Don’t listen to Uncle Hardass. He’s probably just cranky because he makes a cameo in BQB’s upcoming blog serial. You should totally read it unless you’re not too busy working at the salt mines.
Grumpy old man photo courtesy of a shutterstock.com license.