Daily Archives: February 26, 2017

Toilet Gator – Chapter 2

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Geriatric Oaks Retirement Home

Boca Raton, Florida

9:00 P.M.

Nurse Sheila was a living saint. For the past twenty years, she’d diligently kept watch over her elderly charges, many of which were dazed, confused, and filled to the brim with anger over the fact that their lives had become a sad, ironic joke.

“What is this?” Mr. Bromstein asked as pulled out the elastic waistband of his boxer shorts and stared downward. “This is supposed to be my schmekel but it looks like a day old slice of pastrami.”

“Have you been putting your cream on?” Nurse Sheila asked.

‘Oy,” Mr. Bromstein answered as he turned to his roommate, Raul. Raul feasted on jello as he watched an old Western film.

“Do you hear what she asks me?” Mr. Bromstein asked Raul. “‘Have I put the cream on?’ she says. Of course I put the cream on. The doctor tells me I have a diseased schmekel and that I need to put some cream on it so I put some cream on it. Why would I not put the cream on it if I’m told that my schmekel requires the assistance of a medical cream?”

“I’m just trying to help, Murray,” Nurse Sheila said. “I’ll ask the doctor to stop by.”

“Yes,” Mr. Bromstein said as he took a seat next to Raul. “See that you do, please. The last thing I need is for my schmekel to turn gangrenous so some quack can waltz in here and tell me that he has to chop it off with a rusty butcher knife and turn me into a lady.”

“Let me know if it gets any worse,” Nurse Sheila said.

“Oy gevalt,” Mr. Bromstein said as he stared at the screen. “Worse? ‘Worse’ she says. How can my life get any worse? I was a good boy. I was nice to my mama and my papa. I grew into a good man. I worked hard. I met a nice girl. Got married. Raised three wonderful children and provided for them but do any of them visit me? No. Always busy, busy busy. Bah, what a letdown for my life to be ending with me having to beg for help with my rotten schmekel.”

Raul lifted up his Army veteran ball cap, scratched his bald head, then covered his dome. He coughed to clear his throat, then offered, “Life’s a joke and death’s the punchline, man.”

Mr. Bromstein shook his head, then turned to Nurse Sheila. “Will you get a load of this putz? Three years I live with this one and not a peep and now that I’m baking up a fungus in my pants he’s got something to say.”

Raul spooned some jello into his mouth, gulped it and then continued on without taking his gaze away from the cowboys on TV. “You’re born. You struggle. You do your best. Whether you’re a king or a pauper, it all ends the same with, with an old, broken down body with a broken dick or a broken ass or a broken something or other keeping from doing the shit that you want to do. Sooner or later, we all just end up waiting to die.”

“Aw, who asked you?” Mr. Bromstein said as he looked at the TV. “And what’s with this goy? Seventeen fellows I’ve seen him shoot now with the same gun and I haven’t seen him reload his gun once. What hack writing. I have a good mind to write a strongly worded letter to the studio.”

“Film’s sixty years old,” Raul said.

“You’re kidding,” Mr. Bromstein said. “It feels like it was just yesterday I saw this picture with my papa. Five pence would get you three shows and all the popcorn you could stick in your pockets. Oh it was so much better then than it is now what with these films about ignoramuses flying around in tights and capes. Don’t get me started.”

“OK gentlemen,” Nurse Sheila said as she stepped out into the hallway. “If you need anything, let me know.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Mr. Bromstein said. “Unless you can whip me up a new schmekel you’re useless to me but thank you anyway, dear.”

Nurse Sheila entered the next room to find Mr. Petersen curled up on his bed in the fetal position with a tinfoil hat perched atop his head.

“Them aliens say I was the one what killed JFK but I was nowhere near the grassy knoll at the time, no sir,” Mr. Petersen said.

“Mr. Petersen,” Nurse Sheila said. “How are you this evening?”

Mr. Petersen wrapped his arms around himself and rocked back and forth in bed. “J. Edgar Hoover. J. Edgar Hoover put fluoride in the water to keep us all under control so the mole people could build a colony right under our nose.”

“That good, huh?” Nurse Sheila asked.

“When I look in my brain’s retrograde celery basket I can see all the ebbs and flows of the grand conspiracy behind the free masons and their never-ending plot to wrap the world in polyester and sell us all down the river to the intergalactic robot consortium,” Mr. Petersen said.

“I think we’re going to talk to the resident psychiatrist to see about upping your dosage,” Nurse Sheila said.

The nurse looked to the right to find an empty bed. “Mr. Petersen. Where’s Mr. Hogan?”

“Hogan,” Mr. Petersen said. “That man’s not Hogan. He’s a spy working deep cover on a joint operation conducted by the CIA and MI6 to find out what I know about the lizard people.”
Nurse Sheila opened the bathroom door and took a peak. It was empty.

“How long has he been gone?” Nurse Sheila asked.

Mr. Petersen glared at the nurse. “How long are the federales going to insist that the moon landing was fake when we all know that it was just a dog and pony show designed to appease their corporate overlords into so that we’d all be too stupid and ignorant to realize that powerful hallucinatory drugs are added to the world’s supply of pancake batter on a monthly basis?”

Nurse Sheila sighed. “Try to get some sleep.”

The nurse picked up speed as she hurried down the hall. “Has anyone seen Mr. Hogan?” she called out. There was no answer.

A strapping young orderly came down the hall.

“Ted,” Nurse Sheila said. “Mr. Hogan’s not in his room.”

“Shit,” Ted replied. “He was ten minutes ago. I’ll do a sweep.”

“Do that,” Nurse Sheila said. “In the meantime, I have a hunch.”

A candy striper walked down the hall, pushing a cart filled with covered dishes.

“Tara,” Nurse Sheila said. “Have you seen Mr. Hogan around?”

“No,” Tara said. “Uh oh. Do you think he and…”

“Absolutely,” Nurse Sheila said.

Tara shuddered. “Ugh. To think about those two going at it. Oh my God. I need to pour bleach directly into my brain.”

“Sadly, you’ll eventually get used to it, kid,” Nurse Sheila said.

The nurse hurried down the hallway until she reached room 798. She banged on the door. No answer. She banged louder. She turned the knob. The door was locked.

“Mrs. Nelson,” Nurse Sheila said. “Open the door, please.”

“Screw off, copper!” came the voice of a sweet, little old lady. “You’ve got nothing on me.”

Nurse Sheila closed her eyes, took a deep breathe, then collected herself. “Ted! Hey, Ted!”

Upon hearing his name, Ted hurried to the nurse’s position.

“Can you get this door open?” Nurse Sheila asked.

“I think I’ve got it,” Ted said as he fumbled through a large key ring.

Nurse Sheila felt water sopping its way into her comfortable shoes. She looked down to find water seeping out from under the door.

“What in the world?” Nurse Sheila asked.

“Got it,” Ted said as he settled on a key and inserted it into the lock. He turned it, heard the click, then opened the door.

Inside the room, wrinkly old Dolores Nelson stood in her petticoat, ranting and raving. “You pigs can’t just barge in here without a warrant! I know my rights!”

“Where’s Mr. Hogan, Dolores?” Nurse Sheila asked.

“I’m not saying another word until I can speak with my lawyer,” Dolores replied.

“How many times do I have to tell you that this nursing home has a strict, zero tolerance policy on fraternizing between residents?” Nurse Sheila asked.

“Oh stick your policy where the sun doesn’t shine, honey,” Dolores said. “That man rocks my world and at my age, I don’t have much of a world left to rock.”

“He’s got a heart condition,” Nurse Sheila said. “He can’t handle excitement.”

“What excitement?” Dolores asked. “I’m the one that’s getting the excitement. Where else is a ninety year old cougar like me going to find a strapping young, seventy-five year old buck who’s a virtual Rembrandt when it comes to cunnilingus?”

“OK,” Nurse Sheila said. “I don’t need to hear the details. Where is he?”

“Oh, don’t be upset with him, sweetheart,” Dolores said. “I know he’s got a bum ticker but really, there’s nothing about this that’s going to put undue stress on him. It’s like asking him to chew on a pound of musty roast beef is all.”

Nurse Sheila looked at the water building up on the floor, then turned her attention to the bathroom. She knocked on the door.

“Mr. Hogan?” Nurse Sheila said. She knocked again. “Mr. Hogan. Come out right now. We need to talk.”

Nurse Sheila knocked again. “Are you decent? I’m going to send the orderly in if you don’t come out right now.”

“I think he’s indisposed, dearie,” Dolores said. “He had a bowl of chili at lunch and it’s been giving him gas all afternoon. He’s been in there a long time. For a moment there I heard such terrible noises coming from in there. I think he might have broken the toilet.”

“You think?” Nurse Sheila asked in a sarcastic tone. She looked at Ted. “Open it.”

Ted fumbled through his key ring once more. As he did, Nurse Sheila looked down to see that the water coming out from underneath the bathroom door was starting to turn red.

“Oh my God,” Nurse Sheila said. “Hurry up, Ted.”

Ted found the right key and used it to open the door. He and the nurse entered the bathroom to find blood and guts all over the walls, a giant hole in the floor, a busted pipe, and blood and guts all over the walls. The toilet was gone and only thousands of porcelain shards remained.

Nurse Sheila was dumbstruck. “What in the…”

Dolores slowly moseyed on over and looked inside the bathroom. “Huh. Well, maybe it was more exciting for him than I thought.”

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RIP Judge Joe Wapner

Hey 3.5 readers.  What a sad day.  First Bill Paxton and now the news is reporting that Judge Joe Wapner has died at 97.  Millennials, Judge Joe Wapner was the first TV judge and the People’s Court was the first TV court show.  You wouldn’t have all of these TV court shows without Judge Joe Wapner, his trusty bailiff Rusty and his announcer Doug Llewelyn who would interview people on their way out of the court to see if they were happy or sad about the Judge’s decision.

Yes, I know.  It sounds like I know a lot about this topic.  That’s because when I was a kid there were like three channels and so you had to watch a certain amount of People’s Court just to get through the afternoon.

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RIP Bill Paxton

Hey 3.5 readers.

Sad news as actor Bill Paxton has died at 61 due to complications from surgery.  Off the top of my head, his most memorable credits include playing the dick older brother in Weird Science, that dick who pretends to be a spy in order to seduce Jamie Lee Curtis in True Lies and that dick in Aliens who shouts, “Game over, man.”

Yes, he build a career on playing dicks but he wasn’t a dick in real life.

 

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Toilet Gator – Chapter 1

LAST WEEK ON TOILET GATOR…

Network News One reporter Natalie Brock happens upon the scene after Countess Cucamonga dies a mysterious death…on the toilet.

Bookshelf Battle

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After the show, a tired, sweaty, worn-out Countess Cucamonga walked through a backstage hallway. She was flanked on each side by her burly, bald-headed, sunglass sporting security goons. Meanwhile, her dutiful manager Irving, a spindly little twerp stuffed in a designer suit, heaped praise on his client.

“Outstanding performance, Countess,” Irving said. “Positively outstanding. Butt Peace is climbing the charts even faster than Buttstravaganza ever did.”

“What fabulous news, darling,” the Countess replied.

“I think we’re going to see a dramatic decline in violent outbreaks across the world thanks to your song,” Irving said.

“Yes, well, I do what I can darling,” the Countess said. “I really do.”

Irving craned his neck to see that his client was being followed down the hall by Natalie Brock. Struggling to keep up behind the affiliate reporter was Walter, her hefty, huffing and puffing cameraman.

“Goddamn it, Walter,” Natalie said. “Hurry up. We’re…

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Toilet Gator – Network News One Transcript #1

LAST WEEK ON TOILET GATOR…

Network News One affiliate reporter Natalie Brock was assigned to cover the highly anticipated return tour of pop star Countess Cucamonga.

Bookshelf Battle

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Network News One Transcript #1

(Open on Kurt Manley, stereotypically perfect looking news anchor, complete with square jaw, perfect hair and teeth).

KURT MANLEY: Witnesses on the scene reported that the Pope was heard to say, “That’s the last time I’ll go to Tijuana without a passport and a reach around. Coming up in the next hour, the ayatollah has released a series of photos of himself mooning a paper mache version of the president. Also, there’s a new report out in which seventeen out of twenty scientists claim that one of the breakfast cereals in your pantry might cause you to literally vomit out your entire spleen. We’ll tell you which cereal that is after sports and weather. But first, controversial pop star Countess Cucamonga is kicking off her highly anticipated comeback tour tonight. We take you live to Miami, where our local affiliate…Jesus…local affiliate…is that the best we…

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Toilet Gator Sundays Continue…

Just when you thought it was safe to drop a deuce…

toilet-gator-book-1

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BQB’s Annual #OscarsSoPretty Speech

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Noted Ugly Rights Advocate Bookshelf Q. Battler

Beauty.  They say it’s in the eye of the beholder but the eyes of the world will never behold the sight of an ugly man up on the big screen.  Buck tooth, speak the truth, bad skin, let them in, warts, schmorts, boils, schmoils, you’ve got a zit, who gives a shit?

Oh, I’m tired 3.5 readers.  I’m tired, tired, tired I say I am tired of the chains of oppression that have been cast upon my aesthetically challenged brothers and sisters.  Go tell it on the mountain for Jesus Christ is born and Jesus said unto all of us that he loves the little children, all the little children of the world, black and yellow, red or white, all are beautiful in his sight and he also thinks you’re beautiful if you’re ugly.

We didn’t choose to look like Plymouth Rock landed on our faces.  We were born looking like it landed on us!  We were just born that way.  Consult with Lady Gaga and she’ll tell you that we were born this way-ay, we were born this way-ay, we are on the right track baby and we were born this way-ay.

In a perfect world, the ugly man and the handsome man should be friends, neighbors, brothers.  But alas, this world is far, so very far from perfect and therefore, that vile demon known as anti-ugly prejudice rears its ugly head from time to time, looking to take a bite out of the hides of anyone looking to walk down the righteous path to a glorious future where the ugly and the pretty walk hand in hand on the road to tomorrow.

The statistics don’t lie, folks.  Praise be to the statisticians for they do not lie.  According to the Fake Institute for Bogus Research, 99.999% of all ugly people will experience some type of anti-ugly discrimination within their lifetime.  The other .001% were too ugly to be given the reporting form.  They tried to get one and the person handing out the form was all like, “Go away!  You’re too damn ugly!”

An ugly man can’t hail a cab because the cab drivers think the ugly man is some kind of hideous mutant.  An ugly man can’t get a job because the boss only wants to stare at pretty people all day.  An ugly man can’t rent an apartment because the landlord doesn’t want an ugly man living in his building, uglying up the place.  An ugly man can’t get served at a restaurant because none of the waitresses want to look at his ugly ass.  An ugly man can’t get a date because he’s just too damn ugly.

Did you know that the top one percent of the most handsome men in the world are pulling down 100% of the most beautiful babes?  That’s babe distributive inequality.  We need to convert to a communistic system whereby we redistribute the babes so that the ugly man gets a chance.

By the way, ugly sisters, know that by “ugly man” I incorporate you into this speech and besides, it’s technically accurate because you all look like men anyway.

But enough about the daily struggles of the ugly man.  Let’s talk about that bastion of anti-ugly discrimination known as the Academy Awards.

Say it loud.  Say it proud.  The Oscars are too damn pretty.  Let me hear you say it.  Oh Lord, have mercy on all those pretty people for they know not what they do to the ugly.  The Oscars are too damn pretty.  Can you hear me Lord?  Can you hear this ugly man all the way down here hiding in his ugly cave?  Can you hear me all the way up there in heaven on your white, fluffy cloud?  Lord, I say it now and I’ll say it again.  The Oscars are too damn pretty.  #OscarsSoPretty

Praise be to Jesus.  Now there was a swarthy, handsome ass man but he never turned his nose up to an ugly member of his flock.  No sir.  You think Jesus looked the other way when the lepers came a-calling?  Was Jesus like, “No, I can’t help you ugly ass lepers?”  No.  Jesus washed the ugly ass feet of those ugly ass lepers.  That’s what he did.

And my friends, if Jesus, the sexiest savior ever, was able to turn the other cheek and wash the greasy, grimy, fungus encrusted feet of those ugly lepers, then surely, I say surely, those beautiful people in Hollywood should be able to throw some Oscar love the way of our ugly brother, Mr. Michael Shannon, for his turn as a crazy cop in Nocturnal Animals.

Yes, my hideous brothers and sisters, I dream of a day when an ugly actor is hired to play a pillar of the community but for now an ugly actor playing a crazy person will have to do.  That is our lot in life.  People see how ugly we are and they don’t assume that we just dipped our toe into the bad side of the gene pool.  No, they see our ugliness and they assume we are bad people due to how ugly we are, never taking a look as to how pretty we are on the inside.

Can I get an Amen?  Can I get a Hallelujah?  Can I get a garden salad, hold the dressing because Lord knows that fat is considered ugly and I wouldn’t want to offend the pretty people who have, for far too long run the world.

Pretty privilege is real, folks.  Pretty privilege is real.  If you are pretty, you have talent managers tripping over each other to give you a multi-million dollar movie deal.  If you are ugly, the best you can hope for is that a fast food joint will hire you to sit in the back and put together the happy meals but only if you put a bag over your face and promise not to scare the children like the bridge troll you are.

Hear us, Academy!  Hear us, and hear us well.  There are so many ugly people in the world. People who look like they got beaten with every inch of the ugly stick.  People who look like God took them out of the oven early, when there was still five minutes of baking left, and now they’re all gross and dumpy and lumpy and yet you know they still taste just as good as a fresh batch.

These ugly people are tired of going to the movies by themselves because no one will go with them on a date and seeing no one as ugly as they are on the screen.  Sure, maybe once in a blue moon, an ugly person will be given a part, but that part is usually based on a stereotypical view of an ugly person.

Ugly actors, those brave souls who ventured off to Hollywood in pursuit of an acting career, ignoring the advice of friends and family who told them they were too ugly to act, deserve better parts than, “mugger number five” or “homicidal madman pervert number four” or “bridge troll that kidnaps the princess and tries to eat her before he is saved by the prince.”

We want more ugly actors and actresses on the big screen and we want to see them playing big, beautiful, respectable parts.  We want to know that we are loved by Hollywood despite our wretched ugliness.  Most importantly, we want all the little ugly children of the world to be able to turn on the Oscars, see an ugly actor/actress take home a statue and say, “If that ugly person can make it, then an ugly little kid like me can make it too.”

Ugly brothers and sisters, cast off the paper bags that society has put over our ugly heads for far too long.  Shout it loud and proud, “We’re here.  We’re ugly.  Get used to it.”

In conclusion, #OscarsSoPretty.  Thank you for listening, my fellow ugly Americans, and now, please, put your paper bags back on because you’re all too ugly for me and I’m super duper double triple quadruple strength ugly.

Godspeed, Brother Shannon.  Oh how I will weep tears of everlasting joy upon seeing your ugly face on the screen with an Oscar in your hand.  Only then will I know that the cause of the put upon ugly man has been taken seriously by the pretty masses in our ugly lifetime.

 

 

 

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If I Get 3,500 WordPress Followers…

Hey 3.5 readers.

So it has come to my attention that it is possible to hire a dude on Fiverr who will literally record a video of himself juggling a chainsaw with the name of your website written on the saw.

God bless you, Internet.

At the time of this post, I have 2,068 WordPress followers.  When I get to 3,500 I will hire chainsaw man to make a video and post it here.

So…hit that follow button.  Tell your friends.  3,500 WordPress followers = super awesome chainsaw juggling video.

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