October 30, 2015
Bookshelf Battle Headquarters.
It all began years ago as a modest three bedroom, one and a half bath house owned by my Aunt Gertie and Uncle Hardass.
After Uncle Hardass died from a massive sandwich related heart attack, Aunt Gertie packed it in and moved to Decrepit Oaks, leaving me the home.
Lame that I never found my own place, I know, but you try getting by on the meager salary Beige Corp pays its assistant to the assistant of the vice president for corporate assistance.
Particularly noteworthy was the fact that Uncle Hardass expressly stated in his last will and testament that Aunt Gertie “should, under no circumstances, leave the house I worked my ass off for in the salt mines to Bookshelf Q. Battler, my lousy excuse for a nephew, so he can sit around and chase his hippy dream of becoming a writer.”
Gertie cared enough to take the matter before a Judge, who struck that particular provision down. I wonder if that’s why Uncle Hardass’ ghost continues to haunt the house to this very day? Can ghosts exert a supernatural claim to property?
Anyway, using the powers of my magic bookshelf (I’ll explain how later) I constructed a forty foot wall around the perimeter of my Aunt and Uncle’s former house. The result was a monstrosity of a fortress I dubbed, “Bookshelf Battle Headquarters” or alternatively, “The Bookshelf Battle Compound.”
I prefer “BQB HQ.” Sounds less culty.
Inside the walls, the thousand remaining residents of East Randomtown were camped out, using tents, sleeping bags, and blankets.
After checking on everyone, I entered my house, where I was able to squeeze in twenty of the town’s most frail and infirm citizens. My chairs, bed, floor, there were few spots left in the joint that weren’t occupied by an old person.
Thanks to the magic bookshelf, we had plenty of electricity, water, phone service, cable, and so on. Crap. I probably should have brought the gang back to BQB HQ sooner. Oh well. The past month would not have been as entertaining for you 3.5 readers if I had.
“I’ve never liked those walls,” Aunt Gertie protested from the couch. “Don’t you think they’re a manifestation of your jaded, closed-off inner psyche?”
“No,” I said. “I just don’t like the idea of neighbors peaking through the windows when I walk around naked.”
“Ugh,” Aunt Gertie said. “You don’t really do that, do you?”
“All the time,” VGRF said as she walked into the living room holding a bowl of tortilla chips. “It’s disgusting.”
“Who wants seven layer dip?” Alien Jones asked, carrying in a bowl of his own. “The best thing about being stuck in that zombie apocalypse is there’s now a backlog of Scandal on the DVR to watch.”
FYI – Thursday nights are Scandal night at BQB HQ. Alien Jones makes the dip. It’s out of this world. That’s not even a pun.
Thanks to “watch what you want, when you want it” technology, we were watching Scandal on a Friday night.
“FILTHY HUMANS NEED TO SHUT THEIR STUPID FACES WHEN DRAMATIC STYLINGS OF KERRY WASHINGTON ARE ON!”
Another FYI – “The Yeti,” an international fuzzy war criminal who happens to be my arch nemesis, has been held captive in my basement ever since he broke into my house in March and held me hostage for a month.
The Yeti believes the world should be as boring as his home, the frozen wasteland of Siberia, and has been on a mission to bring my blog down as he believes it may one day grow beyond 3.5 readers and stimulate the world into new levels of awesomeness.
So he’s like the Mighty Potentate in that he also believes in me, but unlike the MP, he wants me to fail.
Hate to say it but so far things are coming up Yeti.
“I wonder what scandal Kerry will bury this week!” VGRF said as she dipped a chip.
“DO NOT BOGART SEVEN LAYER DIP!” the Yeti shouted.
The Yeti, who by the way, is ten feet tall and thousand pounds, yells everything with a guttural snarl.
It may seem odd that I give my fuzzy prisoner a reprieve to watch Scandal, but like the rest of the world, he loves Kerry Washington, and he loves his dip. Just seemed cruel to not let the big lug in on the fun.
Besides, I’d gotten the impression that though the Yeti complains a big game about being held at BQB HQ, he’d secretly begun to enjoy it.
I mean, I just let him up to watch TV. I don’t shackle him or anything and he doesn’t run off or try to kill me. And you know, he is huge so, there’s a part of him that’s settled in.
The episode ended.
“Wow,” Alien Jones said. “What a scandal!”
“PUT ON THE NEXT ONE, GREEN WEIRDO!” the Yeti commanded.
“Hold on,” VGRF said as she grabbed the remote. “Let’s see what’s on the news.”