Daily Discussion with BQB – Life…uh…Finds a way

Life…uh…finds a way, 3.5 readers, and it has been reported that Jeff Goldblum has…uh…found a way into the Jurassic World sequel.

Is this a good development?  Bring an original cast member into the project?  Is it silly?  Should the folks behind the new film bring us new characters and not recycle old ones?

Also…does life really…uh…find a way?

Will life…uh…ever find me with more than 3.5 readers?

Discuss, 3.5 readers.

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BQB’s Classic Movie Reviews – Escape from New York (1981)

A big ass scoped revolver!  A silenced Uzi!  Kurt Russell in his prime!

BQB here with a review of the 1980s action thriller, Escape from New York.

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I’m surprised I never got around to seeing this one, 3.5 readers.  Made in 1981, it envisions a futuristic 1997, one where crime has risen so dramatically that the entire island of Manhattan has been turned into one giant prison to hold all the riff raff.

While the outskirts of the island are heavily guarded by a security team lead by Warden Hauk (Lee Van Cleef), prisoners on the island are allowed to wander about freely and do whatever they please – killing, maiming, and destroying as much as they want.

Seems like a foolproof plan for ridding America of it’s ne’er-do-wells…until the President’s plane crashes right in the middle of it.

As luck would have it, war hero turned bank robber, the ultra macho, constantly brooding, eye-patch wearing Snake Plissken (Kurt Russell) is about to be deposited on the island as a prisoner when the shit hits the fan.

Hauk and Snake play let’s make a deal.  If Snake saves the President (Donald Pleasance), he’ll go free.

High stakes, huh?  To double the stakes, the President was on the way to a conference with important information in his possession that could stop a nuclear war from breaking out.  Thus, the world will be screwed if Snake fails.

Moreover, to triple the stakes, a device is implanted in Snake’s neck that will blow his head off if he doesn’t return with the president within twenty-two hours.  No pressure.

It’s Snake to the rescue as he fights all sorts of weirdoes, and even makes some allies along the way.  Ernest Borgnine provides comic relief as Cabbie, a molotov cocktail wielding yellow cab driver.  Harry Dean Stanton stars as Snake’s frenemy (friend/enemy), “Brain” while Adrienne Barbeau is eye candy Maggie, although she has sort of an odd hair style that never really made it out of the 1980s.

What’s a movie without a villain?  That role goes to Isaac Hayes, “the Duke of New York,” who holds the president hostage.  He does his best to be menacing, though whenever he speaks, I have a hard time not thinking of Chef from South Park.

Meanwhile, Van Cleef’s Hauk is sort of a good villain, a man who puts the screws to Snake in order to get him to do something good.

Van Cleef, who passed away in 1989, was mostly known for playing villains, especially the roles he played opposite Clint Eastwood in For a Few Dollars More and The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly.

I’ve seen these films, but it took me a minute to recognize him without a cowboy outfit on.

The 1980s is the Golden Age of action cinema.  The special effects were just starting to get good.  Audiences were less turned off by violence.  The country was still getting over Vietnam, so moviegoers were sympathetic to an action hero trapped in a shitty situation by forces bigger than he was.

As a kid, I grew up on a steady diet of Schwarzenegger and Stallone, so I am surprised it took me so long to see this one.  It’s got all the standard action tropes, but for whatever reason, I just don’t recall it being as popular as say, The Terminator, a film that everyone was talking about in those days.

One part that made me sad – the World Trade Center plays a prominent role in the film.  To avoid detection, Snake flies a silent glider into the city and lands it on the roof of one of the towers, with the intention of flying it off the tower later, seeing as how it is the only building tall enough for a glider to take off from.

It made me sad, seeing as how those buildings aren’t there anymore, though I suppose technically, the movie still holds up as they were there in 1997, the year the film is set in.

STATUS:  Shelf-worthy.  There is some cheesiness and the special effects, though not up to modern snuff, were likely the best available at the time.  Also, it was directed by John Carpenter, who gave us the Halloween franchise.  Watch it on Netflix.

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Things That Really Frost My Ass – Nordstrom’s $425 Muddy Jeans

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By: Uncle Hardass, Official Bookshelf Battle Blog Grumpy Old Man Correspondent

Hello degenerate 3.5 readers.

Still working on your writing careers I see.  No, no.  Don’t get up.  Whatever you do, don’t do anything productive whatsoever.  It’s not like there aren’t more important jobs out there that could be done.  By all means, continue to record your thoughts and feelings.  That’s what is truly important.

So here’s the latest thing that frosts my ass, besides your generation’s lousy, non-existent work ethic.

Muddy jeans.  Jeez Louise.  Just when I thought you lowlife millennials couldn’t get any worse.

On the off chance that one of you 3.5 readers were actually out there, oh, I don’t know, doing some honest to God work and therefore you were too busy to watch television, let me fill you in.

Nordstrom’s, a store for ultra rich hipster scumbags who made way too much money before turning thirty than anyone should, has just put out a pair of jeans made to look as though they are covered in mud.

The mud’s not real.  It’s fake mud.  Holy shit.  That’s what this world has come to.  There are so many facets of this story that frost my ass that I don’t know where to begin.  Here are the complaints that come to mind.

#1 – Do some work!

You want muddy jeans?  Good.  Go buy a pair at the drug store like every other American.  They’ve got a three for ten dollar special this month only.  Put ’em on, then…wait for it…do some work!

Mow a lawn.  Trim a hedge.  Change the oil in your car.  Get down on your knees and plant some flowers in your garden.  Pull some weeds.  Plant some seeds.

Hell, maybe even get a respectable where you perform menial labor.  Work at a construction site.  Become a plumber or an electrician or one of those assholes that keeps the world turning.  Do something like that so your parents don’t have to lie to all of your relatives that things are going really great with your $100,000 + college degree in East Peruvian Literary Studies.

By the way, why did you waste all your parents’ money on that degree?  Didn’t you know your Old Uncle Hardass would have gladly given you the college graduate job search experience by kicking you in the nuts for ten bucks?  You could have saved Mom and Dad $999,990.  Dumb ass.

But I digress.  This really frosts my ass.  You know why?  Because…

#2 – This is Unearned Mud

You ever hear about stolen valor?  That’s when the Army prosecutes dip shits who run around claiming they’re war heroes when they never even wore a uniform a day in their lives.

Same concept.  The mud on these fancy jeans is stolen mud!  Unearned mud!  You want mud on your jeans?  You gotta do some work to get that mud on your jeans!

Don’t want to work for your mud?  Fine.  Then at least be smart and buy some cheap jeans, turn on hose on a patch of dirt in your lawn, then roll around in the mud.  There, I just saved you $425.

Too lazy?  Fine.  Just give your Uncle Hardass your cheapest pair of jeans and I’ll wipe my ass with them after the monthly chili cook-off at the old folks’ home.  Looks like mud and stains just as well.

And now, my third and final complaint:

#3 – No Normal Person Wants Mud on Their Jeans

You know who doesn’t want mud on their jeans?  The people who actually get mud on their jeans while they’re working.  These hardworking men and yes, even women (though broads in the workplace is another subject that frosts my ass), work all day long, dreaming that maybe a day will come when they are promoted to a decent job that pays a living wage and doesn’t require them to roll around in filth, ruining all of their good clothing.

They yearn for that day, the day when they can buy nice clothes and those clothes stay nice and clean because they didn’t have to pull shit out of a toilet or do a landscaping project or resurface a section of highway by pouring hot tar on a hot as balls summer day.

And you?  You filthy hipster.  What happened?  You saw one of these hardworking people  walking around and you thought, “Oh, I’d look so genuine if I’d just have a dirty pair of jeans like that!  But how can I get a pair of muddy jeans without breaking a sweat?”

You know kids, when I was your age, a long, long, incredibly long time ago, people always kept at least one good set of clothes in the house.  If you went shopping, or to the movies, or out to dinner, or hell, if you just did anything outside of your house that wasn’t work, you put on a suit if you were a man or a lovely dress if you were a woman.  Even the lowliest ditch digger had a suit he’d wear to go buy some ointment at the pharmacy to put on the back he injured while he was digging ditches.

Why?  Because people strived to be better.  But now all you rich hipsters.  “Oh, I feel so bad I have so much money!  I want to look like one of the common people!”

Please, hipsters.  Don’t come anywhere near me if you’ve got a pair of fake muddy jeans on.  I’ll put some real mud on those jeans…some butt mud.

 

 

 

 

 

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Toilet Gator – Chapter 23

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Maude gave up on her knitting and moved on to a crossword puzzle. She chewed on the end of a pencil as she stared blankly at a particularly confounding clue.

“Hmm…number fourteen across,” the old gal mumbled. “An eight letter world that starts with N. ‘This small fellow rode high in the saddle until he got his Waterloo.’”

At the desk to Maude’s right sat Officer Burt Duncan. He was a year older than Maude and only a year away from retirement. Thus, he didn’t really try to hide the fact that he was openly sleeping at his desk during his shift.

“Burt?” Maude asked.

Burt snored.

“Hey!” Maude shouted. “Burt!”

Burt snored some more.

Maude wadded up a piece of paper into a ball and chucked it at Burt’s head. The old, gray haired man jumped up with a start. “Huh? What?”

“What’s an eight letter word that starts with N and is a small fellow who rode high in the saddle until he got his Waterloo?” Maude asked.

“Oh, hell, Maude,” Burt said. “You woke me up for that?”

“You’re an officer of the law, numb nuts,” Maude said. “You should be awake already.”

“Eight letter word that starts with N,” Burt said. “Let me think.”

“OK,” Maude said as she studied her crossword puzzle. “Don’t hurt yourself.”

“Nipples?” Burt said.

Maude mouthed the letters as she counted them on her fingers. “N-I-P-P-L-E-S…you dumb ass, that’s seven letters.”

“Close enough,” Burt said.

“It needs to be better than ‘close enough,” Maude said. “And ‘Nipples’ isn’t even the name of a person.”

“Oh well,” Burt said as he closed his eyes. “I tried.”

Maude’s phone rang.

“Hello. Sitwell Police Department.”
The voice of a frazzled woman was on the other line. “I’m gonna kill him!”

Maude rolled her eyes. “Henrietta Wilkinson, is that you?”

“Yeah!” Henrietta shouted. “Ernie done come home drunk again! He’s fat, lazy, don’t got no job, and I’m sick of cleanin’ up after his loser ass.”

“Calm down,” Henrietta said.

“I’m gonna shoot his ass!” Henrietta shouted. “You better send someone down here to stop me!”

Maude sighed. She covered up the receiver then looked over to Burt. “You feel like breaking up the Wilkinsons’ weekly bru ha ha?”

Burt pulled his hat down over his eyes. “Not particularly. She sound serious?”

“About as serious as the hundred other times she’s pulled this stunt,” Maude said.

“She’s bluffing,” Burt said.

Maude spoke into the phone. “Henrietta are you bluffing?”

“No!” Henrietta said. “I’mma put two in Ernie’s ass! One in each cheek!”

Maude turned to Ernie. “She says she’s not bluffing.”

Burt shrugged his shoulders. “Eh. Ernie had a good run.”

“Maude!” Henrietta said. “You better do somethin’ quick or else I’ll…”

An angry look took over Maude’s face. “Henrietta Dorothea Wilkinson!”

The other end was quiet for a minute. There was some light sobbing before Henrietta finally answered. “Yes, ma’am?”

“Don’t you sit there and bark orders at me, young lady!” Maude shouted. “You used to be such a nice girl when you’d come over to my house and play with my granddaughter, Bernice, but lord have mercy, I just don’t know what’s come over you, girl.”

“I’m sorry,” Henrietta said. “I just feel down.”

“We all do, darlin,’” Maude said. “But that doesn’t give you the right to go and threaten your husband and call the police department, making all kinds of crazy demands. That’s a good way to get yourself locked up.”

“I know,” Henrietta said.

“Look, girl,” Maude said. “I know Ernie isn’t much to look at. Lord knows that on the day he was born he must have fallen out of an ugly tree and hit every single branch on the way down, but you gotta be honest and realize you’re no prize pig at the county fair either.”

“I know,” Henrietta said.

“Sure, Ernie doesn’t have a job,” Maude said. “She’s he’s dumber than a box of rocks and he drinks like a fish but honey, we all know that big sore on your lip isn’t a zit like you keep telling everyone. I know a herpes sore when I see one.”

“I tried rubbin’ some cream on it,” Henrietta said.

“Herpes is for life, sweetheart,” Maude said. “So what’s your big plan? You’re gonna shoot Ernie and then what? Prince Charming is gonna ride on in on his noble steed and whisk you and that big purple golf ball on your lip away to a better life in his castle?”

“Well,” Henrietta said. “When you say it like that…”

“Truth is you’re both ugly as sin and no one else wants either of you so you two had better make the most of it,” Maude said.

Henrietta sniffed. “We will.”

“Good,” Maude said. “Are you lying to me about having a gun?”

“Yeah,” Henrietta said.

“I thought so,” Maude said. “I thought Chief Walker took your piece the last time you pulled this.”

“He did,” Henrietta said.

“Good,” Maude said. “Now baby girl, this line is for serious police business so you can’t be calling it just because you want some attention. You want attention, you go on over to the library and join the ladies’ book club or flash your titties to strangers on the inter webs or something.”

“OK,” Henrietta said.

“I mean it,” Maude said. “Our officers are too busy chasing down the killer that did in that singer with the fat ass to worry about your bullshit.”

Henrietta blew her nose…loudly. It was a snotstravaganza, right in Maude’s ear.

“Oh yeah,” Henrietta said. “I been hunkerin’ down in my house watchin’ Network News One around the clock like that handsome anchorman fella told me to. They catch whodunnit yet?”

“That’s classified,” Maude said.

“Oh,” Henrietta said. “Say, Maude. Do you think it’s safe to shit?”

Maude was taken aback. “What kind of question is that?”

“Well,” Henrietta said. “You got three people who all died when they were trying to take a shit so, I figure this killer has got it in for people who take shits.”

“Young lady that is the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard and I’ve answered this line in a town full of degenerate drunk ass hill billies for thirty years,” Maude said. “You go and get off this line and think about what you’ve done.”

“OK,” Henrietta said.

“And go take a shit!” Maude said. “Maybe you’re all backed up and that’s what’s causing you to have a screw loose.”

“OK,” Henrietta said. “Bye.”

“Goodbye,” Maude said.

Maude hanged up the phone. She turned on her computer and logged on to the Network News One website. “Big story our little town is wrapped up in, huh?”

Burt was back to snoring again. Maude looked at the old man and shook her head. “Sitwell’s finest.”

The phone rang again. “Hello. Sitwell Police Department.”

A random male voice was on the other end of the line. “Hi. I had a question about something I saw on the news.”

“You’re talking about the famous girl with the big butt and the other two people that got killed?” Maude asked.

“Yeah,” the man said.

“I’m not sure I have much information to give you sir,” Maude said.

“Well,” the man said. “I was just wondering. Do you think it’s safe to go to the bathroom?”

“Pardon me?” Maude asked.

“I got one giant, angry turd in the chamber, lady,” the man said. “But these people on the news, constantly talking about people getting murdered while they’re on the toilet…kinda makes me afraid to go to the toilet.”

“Sir,” Maude said. “I’m not an expert on toilet related homicide, but I’d say the odds of you getting murdered on the toilet are pretty slim.”

“But,” the man said. “It’s still possible. I mean, Countess Cucamonga and that old guy and that college guy probably thought the odds of them getting murdered on the toilet were slim, right?”

“I suppose so,” Maude said. “Look, sir. You’re a grown man. You need to make your own decisions vis a vis your bowel movements. I can’t decide for you.”

“OK,” the man said. “I think I’m gonna try to hold it for a little while longer. It’s just gonna be hard because I had a deep dish pizza with stuffed crust and extra sausage last night and I’m prairie dogging like there’s no tomorrow.

“Prairie dogging?” Maude asked.

“That’s when the shit pokes out of your butthole like it’s trying to take a look around because, you know, it’s ready to come on out into the world, but then it pops back up there because you’re trying to hold it,” the man said.

“Sorry I asked,” Maude said.

“OK,” the man said. “Thanks.”

“Don’t mention it,” Maude said.

Maude hanged up the phone. She worked on her crossword puzzle for a little while. “Eight letter word that starts with…”

Ring! Maude picked up the phone. “Hello. Sitwell Police Department.”

The voice of an angry old man was on the other end of the line. “Do you have any idea how much I pay in taxes every year just to pay the salaries of all you useless people?”

“I have no idea, sir,” Maude said.

“I practically want to slit my wrists every time I pay my taxes,” the old man said. “But I pay them anyway because I’m a good, God fearing American.”

“Are we going somewhere with this, sir?” Maude asked.

“Yes,” the old man said. “I want to know why is it that with all the taxes I pay, you morons can’t make it safe for everyone to shit.”

“Huh?” Maude asked.

“The news!” the old man shouted. “People are dying as they shit and you people haven’t done a damn thing about it. My wife just had to shit in the woods like a bear. I feel one coming on in a minute and now I’m going to have to shit under a tree because I don’t dare use the commode while a lunatic is running around killing people on the can!”

“I’m very sorry for the inconvenience, sir,” Maude said.

“You better be!” the old man said. “I’m going to write the governor, my congressman, both senators, the president and…”

“OK sir,” Maude said. “I have to go do anything but be on this call now. Bye.”

Maude hanged up the phone. Over the course of the next ten minutes, the calls came in at a fast and furious pace. All of the callers had one word on their minds – “shit.” As the calls came in, Maude jotted the details of each one in her notebook:

Ed Larson – wants to know if it is safe to shit.

Sarah Michaels – is it safe to shit?

Terry Bradford – Is it possible to throw the killer off the trail by shitting in a neighbor’s toilet instead of your own toilet?

Jenny Waterman – What if you just have to pee? Does the killer have anything against people who pee?

Mitch Douglas – Is it safe for me to shit in a box and then bury the box in my back yard?

Kate Rooney – Has the town considered setting up police monitored port-a-potties?

Finally, there was a lull in the calls. “Burt,” Maude said.

Burt snored.

“Burt!” Maude shouted.

Burt kept snoring. Maude threw another wadded up paper ball at the old man’s head. “Burt!”

“Damn it, Maude!” Burt shouted. “What now?”

“Do you think it’s safe to shit?” Maude asked.

“I don’t know,” Burt said. “What’s the alternative?”

Maude was about to turn back to her crossword puzzle when she noticed something peculiar about the items on her desk. The photo of her and her grand daughter, her cup of pens and pencils, even her cup of coffee – everything was shaking.

“What in the…”

Maude looked out the front window of the building. There, in the parking lot, a giant, jet black RV with government plates pulled up. The door opened and Sharon stepped out, her eyes masked by her sunglasses.

“Aw shit,” Maude said.

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Things I Worry About with Lloyd Bunson – Sex and Boogers

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Lloyd Bunson, Professional Worrier

Hello 3.5 readers.

Are you a worry wart like me?  I’m so worried that don’t worry and thus you’ll find my worries trite and boring.  But then again, maybe you do worry as much as me and in fact, telling you about my worries will only add to your long list of worries!

Oh, so much to worry about!

Here are my latest worries:

Hydration

I worry that one day, I will forget to drink enough liquids and will dry up like a sponge left out in the sun.  Worse, maybe I’ll just turn to dust and all of my little dust particles will fly away.

I once thought that carrying a bottle of water with me wherever I go would solve the problem.  That way, I never have to worry that I won’t be able to find a drink when I’m thirsty.  I’m a hundred percent certain that if I don’t get any water into me at the exact second I feel thirsty, I will turn into a dry sponge, or dust, or worse, a dry, dusty sponge.

But then I nixed the water bottle idea because, you know, what if I drink too much water and can’t find a bathroom?  Then my bladder will surely explode in a horrifying manner, raining bloody bits and pieces of my shredded bladder all over everyone in the blast radius.  I’ll be dead and everyone around me will be traumatized, all because I worried so much about dehydration.

So then I figured I’d split the difference.  I’ll carry a bottle of water AND I’ll pee in the empty bottle if I can’t find a bathroom.  However, I became concerned that I might be arrested for public lewdness.

Sadly, I don’t think I will ever find a solution to this problem.

Tipping

I always worry that I might tip too much or too little.

What if the waiter is trying to make rent this month and I tip too little?  This person will end out in the street, turning tricks for cents on the dollar, all because of my lousy math skills.

But what if I tip too much?  Then this waiter will get used to it.  He’ll stop trying hard.  He’ll assume he can just coast by and everyone will give him a big tip.  He’ll never move up to management.  He’ll end up being a seventy year old waiter.

So, I just don’t go out to eat anymore.  I cook all my meals out home, then I serve them to myself.  Then I worry a lot about what I should tip myself.  Sure, it’s my own money, but I still want to do right by myself.

Picking Boogers

Sometimes I’ll feel a booger lodged in my nose.  I’ll start to pick it, but then I become very concerned that I’ll push my finger up my nasal cavity with so much force that I’ll end up stabbing myself in the brain.  So I stop.

Then I start worrying that the booger is cutting off my supply of oxygen and will surely cause me to suffocate.  So I start picking again.

It’s a vicious cycle.

Sexually Transmitted Diseases

I worry I’ll die alone, so I get out there on the dating scene and try to mix and mingle.

Once in awhile I’ll meet a woman.  She’ll invite me back to her place but I have no idea about this woman’s sexual history.  It’s rude to ask and even I were to ask, how do I know she’s not a pathological liar pretending to be clean and pure when in fact, she’s made her way through the entire NFL?

So, I always insist on wrapping my entire body with garbage bags, and then wrapping the woman’s entire body with garbage bags before we cuddle.  So there we will be, cuddling in our garbage bags and sure enough, she’ll want to touch my little Lloyd Bunson.

Am I really supposed to let her touch it with her vagina?  Do you have any idea how many germs are in one of those things?  It boggles my mind to think about it.

So that’s the point where I usually run out of the building and down the street, still wearing all those garbage bags with my arms flailing around while I’m screaming out of sheer terror at the top of my lungs.

Eventually, I get home and I sit there on the couch in complete solitude.  My concerns about STDs fade and my concerns about being alone return.

I suppose one of these days I will have to touch one of those vaginas.  I just hope I can find one that isn’t too germy.  Surely, the right woman will submit to a battery of invasive vaginal germ tests.

Your Worries

Do you have any ridiculous worries?  I’m really worried that you’ll share them in the comments and then I’ll have no idea what to say.

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Movie Trailer – The Kingsman: Golden Circle

Hey 3.5 readers.

The Kingsman is back.  After a couple years, Eggsy (Taron Egerton) is back with Colin Firth and his band of British gentlemen spies.

I’m not entirely sure of the plot.  However, the trailer reveals a plethora of celebrities.  This is usually the case with a film like this.  When the original outperforms expectations, every actor and actress and their cousin wants to be a part of the sequel.

What say you, 3.5 readers?

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Toilet Gator – Chapter 22

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Natalie sat on a bench just outside the sorority house, checking Lifeboat for updates about the Countess Cucamonga case. Every media outlet was all over the story, and many were applauding Natalie’s crackerjack reporting skills. Unfortunately, these accolades were not directed at “Natalie Brock” but rather, “that Hot Ass Blonde Chick with Big Titties on Network News One.” Such was the plight of all female NN1 reporters – no one remembers their names. They just remember the blonde hair and the big titties.

Walter approached with a cardboard tray that contained two styrofoam coffee cups, sugar packets, cream containers, and a couple of swizzle sticks. The cameraman took a seat next to the reporter.

“I didn’t know how you take your coffee,” Walter said. “But I’ve got sugar and cream.”

“Thank you,” Natalie said as she took a cup. “That’s ok. I take it black.”

“Like your men?” Walter asked.

“Like my soul,” Natalie replied. “All my feminist heroes would stab me with a rusty butter knife if they could see me with…with…these things!”

Natalie stared down at her melon stuffed bra and hanged her head in shame.

“Buck up, buttercup,” Walter said. “Anyone who’s anyone in this business walked down a long road of shit before they got anywhere.”

Natalie perked up. “I suppose you’re right.”

“I know I’m right,” Walter said. “You think Kurt Manley got behind that anchor desk without sucking a bunch of dicks?”

Natalie sipped her coffee. “I never thought about it but yeah, I’m sure he had do go through a lot to get to where he is.”

“No,” Walter said. “I’m saying the man literally sucked a bunch of dicks. The board of directors of the NN1’s parent company called the man up to their meeting room and went full bukkake fest on the guy just to make sure they could control him.”

Natalie’s face contorted with disgust. “Ew.”

“You didn’t hear that from me,” Walter said.

Natalie’s phone buzzed. She looked at it. A new text from the unknown number.

“THAT WILL BE ALL FOR NOW.”

“Oh my God,” Natalie said. She showed the phone to Walter. He nodded. Natalie typed a reply.

“For now?”

A few seconds passed before the reply. “I HOPE THERE WILL BE NO FURTHER INCIDENTS.”

Natalie showed the phone to Walter. He nodded again.

“You hope?”

The reply came quickly. “I AM NOT IN CONTROL.”

“Wow,” Walter said as he read the text over Natalie’s shoulder.

“What should I do with this?” Natalie asked.

“Yeah,” Walter said. “About that. I’ve been thinking and…that’s got to be the killer.”

“Duh,” Natalie said. “You think?”

“It’s the killer or a friend of the killer or someone who knows something about the killer,” Walter said.

“Thank you, Captain Obvious,” Natalie said.

“You’ve got to talk to NN1,” Walter said. “Get their legal department involved. And you’ve got to tell Sharon Walker about this.”

“I do?” Natalie asked.

“Yup,” Walter said. “If it gets out that you had information vital to the case and sat on it, NN1 will be dragged through the mud and no reputable network will want to work with you, whether or not you stuff melons down your shirt.”

“This sucks,” Natalie said.

“Not necessarily,” Walter said.

“First thing they teach you in journalism school is to report the story, but don’t be the story,” Natalie said.

“Oh, who cares about journalism school?” Walter asked. “You get ahead of this thing and you’ll be the hero.”

“I will?” Natalie asked.

“Sure,” Walter said. “You’ll be the Hot Ass Blonde Chick with Big Titties from Network News One who helped crack a celebrity murder investigation wide open.”

“Yeah,” Natalie said. “But no one will remember my name.”

“Such is the burden of an NN1 Hot Ass Blonde Chick with Big Titties,” Walter said.

“Fine,” Natalie said. “Let’s go show my phone to the alleged lesbian.”

“Wait,” Walter said as he handed Natalie his phone. “We have to make a pit stop first.”

Natalie looked at Walter’s phone. Walter had cued up a video featuring Sitwell’s illustrious mayor. The reporter pushed play and the Mayor bursted into action.

“Howdy doo, ladies and germs! I’m Mayor Beaumont Dufresne of Beaumont Dufresne’s Slighty Used Car Emporium. Exit 93 off Route 199. If you pass the titty bar, then you’ve gone too far! Folks, I got trucks. I got cars. I got SUVs. I got big cars. Little cars. Medium sized cars. I got hatchbacks and full backs. Hell, if I look around the place long enough I might even find a quarterback or a running back. Look people, my prices are lower than a snake slithering under a limbo stick and I just want to…”

Natalie pushed the pause button. “Did he just refer to himself as, ‘the Mayor?’”

“He sure did,” Walter said. “Saw a few kids making fun of his commercial on the TV in the cafe.”

“So what?” Natalie asked. “He seems like an asshole.”

“Natalie,” Walter said. “Is the police chief returning your calls?”

“No,” Natalie said.

“And Agent Walker is a by the book Fed with a stick up her ass?” Walter asked.

“Yes,” Natalie said.

“Well,” Walter said as he took back his phone. “You see an asshole, but I see a public official who is prone to say crazy things and loves being on camera.”

Natalie launched up to her feet. “Start the van!”

Walter stood up. “Way ahead of you.”

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Toilet Gator – Network News One Transcript #4

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KURT MANLEY: …witnesses on the scene said that the Secretary of State will be fine and all he needed was a fresh pair of pants and a spatula. In other news, an incredibly depressed man in Wichita, Kansas snapped today. The man, one Joe Allen Babcock, age fifty-nine, lost control, grabbed his gun, and then publicly stated, “Hey, just because I’m fucking nuts and ready to end it all doesn’t mean that all the other people around me have to die as well. Nope, there’s no need for me to take anyone with me while I blow my brains out. No need whatsoever.” Not only did Mr. Babcock not shoot anyone before he shot himself, he even walked outside and shot himself over the fresh, green grass to save a clean up crew the trouble of having to wipe his brains off the walls. A representative of the Wichita police department stated this was by far the most considerate suicide they had ever seen.

(Kurt shuffles some papers and changes camera angles)

KURT MANLEY: In world news, a ceasefire agreement was reached last night in the civil war that has been raging its way through No-One-Can-Pronounce-This-Shitty-Country’s-Name-istan.” UN Secretary General Boodie Boodie A’Mumugavi reports that it was a full five minutes before the “DoWhatWeSayorTakeaMacheteUpYourTaint-tarians” and the “ObeyUsOrGetanRPGUpTheButt-ians stopped trying to stab and explode each others’ taints and butts. Mr. A’Mumugavi believes next time these warring factions may very well go ten minutes before resorting to violence. Sounds like progress to this newshound.

(Kurt changes camera angles again)

KURT MANLEY: Good morning, USA. If you’re just tuning in, I’m America’s favorite news anchor, Kurt Manley and you’re watching Network News One. Yes, that’s Network News One, where he have the hottest blonde chicks with the biggest titties and oh yeah, we occasionally report the news and shit.

You’re no doubt standing by for more news of the unbelievably tragic death of Countess Cucamonga. She was widely recognized as the world’s most beloved pop diva, largely for her catchy tunes about her ginormous bum. Goodness gracious, even this desk jockey wasn’t immune to the Countess’ charms. I know I spent many a lonely night sitting behind this very desk during a commercial break, listening to the Countess sing about her delectable backdoor while flogging my…

(Kurt coughs into his hand and straightens his tie)

KURT MANLEY: And my producer has reminded me that I’ve meandered off the teleprompter. Time to veer this story back on track. Natalie Brock, who I’m pleased to report has been named NN1’s newest Hot Ass Blonde Chick with Big Titties is covering this story like stink on a monkey. She’s ready to feed us some more information like the hungry little savages that we are. Hot Ass Blonde Chick with Big Titties, are you there?

(The screen switches to Natalie Brock who is standing in front of the sorority house. Her fake wig is still blonde and her bra is once again stuffed with ripe melons.)

NATALIE BROCK: I’m here Kurt. A shocking new development in what the media has now dubbed, “The Great Potty Caper.” A third victim, twenty-eight year old perpetual college student and energy beer drink enthusiast Chad Becker, has died in circumstances similar to those of the other two victims. Like Countess Cucamonga in Miami and Hugh Hogan in Boca Raton, authorities found Mr. Becker’s remains splattered all over the walls of a restroom in this sorority house. The toilet was smashed, a water pipe broken. Four students were knocked unconscious when the wall of the stall Mr. Becker was sitting in landed on them.

KURT MANLEY: That’s incredible, Natalie. While I have no law enforcement experience of any kind and only have a tentative grasp on the facts of this case, based solely on your reporting, I think it is safe for me to conclude that this has got to be the work of a psychotic serial killer, an unstable madman who could lash out at any one of our viewers at any moment and therefore they should all keep their eyes glued on Network News One around the clock for further details on when they can breathe easy again. Have the authorities confirmed this?

NATALIE BROCK: Not as of yet, Kurt. At this time, Sitwell Police Chief Cole Walker has refused to respond to press inquiries, while FBI Agent Sharon Walker, the lead investigator on this case, has stated she will not engage in speculation until the facts are known.

KURT MANLEY: Well she doesn’t sound like fun at all. I believe we have a clip of Agent Walker’s press conference from earlier this morning. Maybe if my producer will pull his thumb out of his ass for five minutes he could roll it for us….Dan? Hey, Dan? Yeah, roll the clip. Holy shit Dan. Maybe spend less time worrying about what I’m doing and focus on doing your job.

(A clip of a press conference rolls. FBI Agent Karen Walker takes questions from the press).

AGENT SHARON WALKER: At this time, I can confirm that the remains of Sally Ann Dubawitz, age twenty-eight, better known by her stage name, “Countess Cucamonga,” the remains of retired history teacher Hugh Hogan, age eighty two, and the remains of Sitwell Community College student Chad Becker, age twenty-eight, were all found in similarly disturbing circumstances.

RANDOM REPORTER #1 – Agent Walker, can you elaborate on those circumstances?

AGENT WALKER: I’m not at liberty to discuss such details during an ongoing investigation.

RANDOM REPORTER #2 – But when you speak of similar circumstances, surely the only conclusion the public can draw is that a serial killer is on the loose?

AGENT WALKER: I don’t think it would be productive for me to entertain conspiracy theories. Believe me, when we have solid facts that can be shared, we will share them.

NATALIE BROCK: Hello, Agent Walker. I’m a Hot Ass Blonde Chick with Big Titties, reporting for Network News One.

AGENT WALKER: Hello, Hot Ass Blonde Chick with Big Titties.

NATALIE BROCK: Should the public panic over the very disturbing possibility that a serial killer is at large and ready to kill anyone and everyone?
AGENT WALKER: Absolutely not. I encourage everyone to go about their daily lives and rest assured that this case is being investigated with the utmost professionalism.

NATALIE BROCK: So the public is not in danger?

AGENT WALKER: I have no reason to believe that the public is in danger.

NATALIE BROCK: Do you have any information to indicate that the public is not, not in danger?

AGENT WALKER: I’m not sure I care for this line of questioning.

NATALIE BROCK: Are you any relation to Chief Cole Walker?

(Agent Walker pulls the microphone attached to her shirt collar off and throws it down on the podium).

AGENT WALKER: This press conference is over!

(Cut to Kurt Manley, back in the studio).

KURT MANLEY: Mee-ow! That Agent Walker seems like one feisty little kitten.

NATALIE BROCK: Indeed, Kurt.

KURT MANLEY: Were you able to figure out if she’s related to the police chief?

NATALIE BROCK: Yes, Kurt. A number of gossipy townsfolk with too much time on their hands indicated to this Hot Ass Blonde Chick with Big Titties that Sharon and Cole Walker were once married, but they divorced ten years ago. No one was able to give me a clear reason why, but theories ranged from an allegation that Agent Walker is, quote, “a big time clam diving lesbo,” to claims that Chief Walker cared more about alcohol than his marriage.

KURT MANLEY: Wowie zowie. Christmas has come early for Little Kurty because this is the story that keeps on giving. America, if you’re just joining us, Countess Cucamonga is dead. A retired school teacher is dead and a community college student is dead. Normally, we wouldn’t give a day old rat’s ass about those lost two were it not for the fact that they died in circumstances similar to that of the Countess. They were all found with their guts smeared all over the walls of bathrooms like some kind of grotesque Jackson Pollack painting. Their toilets were smashed to bits. The water pipes leading to the toilets were broken. Yes, you heard it here, folks. Three toilets have been broken and authorities have nothing to go on.

NATALIE BROCK: That’s very clever, Kurt.

KURT MANLEY: Thank you, Hot Ass Blonde Chick with Big Titties. Now America, even though the lead investigator of this case, a highly trained federal agent, has told the public there is no need to panic, I am going to go ahead and say that you’d have to be a complete and total moron if you didn’t go ahead and panic. I mean, even though we haven’t officially confirmed it yet, two of the investigators involved in this case got divorced because one of them is a deep sea muff diver and the other is a gin soaked rummy. As America’s favorite newsman, I feel confident throwing out those wild accusations, even without one shred of credible evidence in hand to back them up. Panic, people. Panic loud. Panic early. Panic often and be sure to hunker down in front of a television tuned to Network News One. Once your station is tuned to our top notch network, go ahead and break your controller in half so you won’t miss a single bit of information. After all, this is a matter of life and death, people. A serial killer is on the loose, possibly hiding in your bathroom at this very moment as we speak, and you won’t have any idea if you’re safe or not until we tell you, right here on NN1. Thank you, Hot Ass Blonde with Big Titties.

NATALIE BROCK: You’re welcome, Kurt.

KURT MANLEY: We’ll be sticking with the Great Potty Caper as it develops. Stay tuned for the upcoming commercial break and oh, do be sure to buy our advertisers’ wonderful products. Their support keeps us on the air and well, as you might have gathered, without their support, we won’t be able to stay on the air and if we can’t stay on the air then we can’t tell you when you don’t have to worry about a psychopath murdering you while you’re on the toilet. Coming up after the commercial break, we’ll share an adorable viral video of a squirrel making out with a tarantula. Also, have you read the latest study that cookies can give you face cancer? We’ll tell you which brand of cookies that is in the next hour, after sports and weather. But first, these messages…

NN1 ANNOUNCER: Network News One! The Hottest Blonde Chicks! The Biggest Titties! And oh yeah, occasionally we report the news and shit.

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Literary Poop with Professor Nannerpants – Analysis Ozymandias by Percy Bysshe Shelley

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Professor Horatio J. Nannerpants, Professional Simian Literary Professor/Semi-Professional Poop Flinger

Oh, 3.5 readers!  Get thee to Europe to see the glory of what once was.  The statues, the brilliant architecture and of course, the fine cuisine.  It’s all so lovely that it almost breaks my heart when I lose control and throw my poop all over it.

Yes, in this land rife with history, there are all sorts of lessons to be learned about history and culture, stories of monarchs who have come and gone.  And you’ll even find such tales written into various antiquities the world over, even in, say, Egypt.

Have you set a goal for yourself, 3.5 students?  Is it a big project?  Perhaps it’s causing you a great deal of anxiety.  In times such as these, I highly recommend flinging your poop against the wall.  I know it calms me right down, though I presume it creates all sorts of untoward feelings inside the poor individual who must clean up the poop.

Oh well.  That’s not my problem, for I am much, much too important to clean up poop.

Not only is life short and full of poop, but eventually, everything you do or say or even accomplish will, as a basic matter of fact, turn into poop.  Such is the point of Ozymandias, the old poem by Percy Bysshe Shelley:

“I met a traveler from an antique land
Who said: “Two vast and trunkless legs of stone
Stand in the desert . . . Near them, on the sand,
Half sunk, a shattered visage lies, whose frown,
And wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold command,
Tell that its sculptor well those passions read
Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things,
The hand that mocked them, and the heart that fed:
And on the pedestal these words appear:
‘My name is Ozymandias, king of kings:
Look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair!’
Nothing beside remains. Round the decay
Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare
The lone and level sands stretch far away.”

Pardon my French, 3.5 students, but that Percy Bysshe Shelley was one morose motherfucker.  To paraphrase the immortal Ben Affleck’s line delivered in that most seminal work, Jay and Silent Bob Strike Back, it’s as if someone shit in Percy’s breakfast cereal.

But the man has a point.  The poet speaks of Ozymandias, better known as Ramses II, the mightiest of all Egyptian pharaohs.

Ozymandias believed in himself so righteously that he had himself preserved in a giant statue.  The engraving boasts of Ozymandias’ power and warns other mighty kings to “look upon” his works “and despair.”

Despair about what?  All the broken statue pieces and shit littering the dessert sands?

What is Percy getting at?  The fragile nature of life.  Maybe one day you’ll accomplish as much as a great Egyptian pharaoh, but sooner or later, the poop will hit the fan.  You’ll kick the bucket and all the material possessions you acquired will end up broken and rotting underneath the sand, or dirt, depending on where your shit is doing its rotting.

Now, don’t get Percy wrong.  I don’t think he’s coming right out and saying, “Give the eff up.  Smoke a bone and stop trying because we’re all screwed anyway.”

I mean, it’s still pretty awesome that Ozymandias managed to do so many great things that he was eventually preserved in the form of a giant ass statue.  Sure, you can mock him, but it’s not like you ever did anything that led to your immortalization in a statue.

The lesson?  Do try, for there may be awesome rewards.  However, if you fail, don’t beat yourself up too badly about it.  After all, this is all turning to poop sooner or later.

Is there something you’re trying to achieve, 3.5 students?  Do you worry that one day it will all turn to poop?  Fling your poopy thoughts in the comments.

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BQB’s Confessions

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They say that confessions are good for the soul.  If that’s true, then I might as well get some things off my chest.

This could get embarrassing.  Good thing this website only has 3.5 readers

Confession #1 – Overeating

I eat too much.  There, I said it.

Everyone’s addicted to something.  Some people have drugs.  Some people have sex.  Some people have alcohol.  Some people have sex while they’re taking drugs and drinking alcohol.

Me?  I’m chasing that pizza dragon.  Sometimes on my way home from a hard day’s work at Beige Corp, I’ll stop off at East Randomtown House of Pizza and pick up an extra large pie with extra cheese, extra pepperoni, extra bacon, and extra pizza.  Yup.  That’s when they put another pizza on top of your pizza.

Then I go home, strip down to my underpants, and from there it becomes like a scene from a bad drug movie.  Like you know when there’s a character on drugs and they do a close up of the spoon as the heroin is melted over a fire and then loaded up into a needle and so on?

(Don’t do that shit, by the way kids.  I’m serious.)

Anyway, that’s me, but with pizza.  In my mind, I can actually here that eerie 1960s drug ballad “White Rabbit” by Jefferson Airplane.

It’s almost like I’m trapped in a scene in an addiction movie.  Just imagine me in my underpants, covered with pizza sauce, sticking another piece down my cake hole while I know I shouldn’t.

Then that song plays.  “One piece of pill makes you stronger and one pill makes you small and the ones that Mother gives you, don’t’ do anything at all…Go ask Alice…when she’s ten feet tall.”

I could rewrite the song but it would be something like, “One piece of pizza makes you larger….”

I Can’t Guarantee My Gym Farts Were Not Loud

I used to work out more.  I’d put in my earbuds, get a good song on, and then just do the elliptical.

When you’re in the zone, and your body is all loose and limber, well, hell, there was gas and it needed to get it out…so out it got.

I assumed they were silent.  I could feel the toots coming out of my pooter but I didn’t hear anything so I figured it was fine.  Smell?  Yeah, but it’s a gym.  The whole place smelled like Red Bull and old man balls.

It was only until years later that I realized the music in my ears may have prevented me from hearing the possible noise in my farts.

I want to be clear.  I don’t know for sure that I openly made noisy farts.  I just can’t tell you I didn’t with a reasonable degree of certainty due to the loud music in my head phones.

I Don’t Donate that Dollar

You ever go to a store and the cashier asks you if you’d like to donate a dollar to whatever organization that they are collecting for?  I never do.  I figure all those dollars add up and then what the hell?

I used to say yes because I felt bad.  Then I said no but I felt bad.  Now I say now and I don’t feel bad.

I am a monster.

Your Confessions

Do you have any funny confessions, 3.5 readers?  Share ’em in the comments and BQB will absolve you of your sins.

NOTE: My lawyer says don’t confess to like, an actual crime.  Just confess to funny, embarrassing yet legal things.  It is legal to eat too much, fart in public, and not donate a dollar, for example.

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