Daily Archives: April 14, 2017

In Case You Missed It – Top Ten Warning Signs Your Boyfriend Might Be a Wizard

Is your boyfriend always polishing his wand?  Does he know how to bring the magic to a relationship?

Most importantly, does he have a long ass gray beard and a pointy star hat?

Well ma’am, I hate to bring you bad news, but you may very well be dating a wizard.

Check out these warning signs to be sure.

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A Joke About the Mother of All Bombs (MOAB)

Hey 3.5 readers.

So I wrote a joke about the Mother of All Bombs.  Tasteless?  Sorry.  Did you come here on accident while you were looking for Masterpiece Theater or something?

Here goes:

“Today the U.S. military announced that they dropped the largest non-nuclear bomb on terrorists in Afghanistan.  Sources say the terrorists will be digging copies of Pootie Tang out of the desert for years.”

Bah ha ha!  Jimmy Fallon, Jimmy Kimmel, any of you late night talk show hosts, feel free to use that one but just be sure to credit me, BQB.  I’m here all week, folks.  Don’t forget to tip your waitresses.

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Best Pickup Lines #151- 175

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#151 – Girl, you look all kinds of tasty.

#152 – Come on.  This thing isn’t going to touch itself.

#153 – Pardon me.  Do you have any Gray Vag-pon?

#154 – Am I famous?  Well, as it so happens I’m a repeat guest on Cops.

#155 – Yes, I farted.  Yes, I’m a big enough man to claim my own farts.  What about it?

#156 – Wanna wrassle?

#157 – I’ve got a can of whipped cream at home.  Let’s use it before it goes bad.

#158 – You are way hotter than my wife.

#159 – I want to ride off into the sunset with you…and then lock you in my basement.

#160 – Has anyone ever told you that you were beautiful?  They have?  What the hell?  Do you hang out with a lot of blind people or something?

#161 – Hold on.  I need to grease myself up first.

#162 – I love it when you laugh.  Your laughter, unlike my syphilis, is contagious.

#163 – I’m open to butt stuff.

#164 – I’m undressing you with my mind.  Nice girdle.

#165 – I can’t promise you that I won’t get you drunk and sell you to a group of unscrupulous international sex slave traffickers…but I’ll try my best not to.

#166 – I can’t promise that I won’t get you drunk and sell one of your kidneys to a black market organ dealer…but I’ll try my best not to.

#167 – I can’t promise that I’ll take a shower every day…but I’ll try my best not to.

#168 – Not interested?  I knew you were a lesbian.  I can spot a daughter of Sappho from fifty paces.

#169 – Wanna come back to my place?  I have a hot tub that’s virtually bacteria free.  There’s maybe one, two amoebas tops.

#170 – You’re looking good baby but you’re not quite there yet.  Drop twenty pounds and you’ll be on the train to pound town.

#171 – I’ll look better after my spray tan appointment.

#172 – What will fifty bucks get me?

#173 – Would you care to have a brief conversation in order to gauge whether or not we share any mutual interests and continue thereafter if we do?  Or should I just ruin everything by talking about my penis right away?

#174 – I’m a lawyer.

#175 – I’d like to buy you a drink, but I’ve been out of work for six years.  Can I offer you the juice box that’s been warming in my back pocket all evening instead?

 

 

 

 

 

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Charlie Murphy Kicks Habitual Line Stepper Rick James

Hey 3.5 readers.  Still feeling bummed about Charlie Murphy.  There ought to be a law that everyone gets at least 100 years, no matter what.

Anyway, I’ve been watching Charlie’s True Hollywood Stories from Chapelle’s Show, where he recounts how he met lost a basketball game to and was later served pancakes by Prince and how he kicked Rick James because Rick had punched him the face and left a big mark on his forehead earlier in the evening.

Here’s a GIF I made to memorialize the kick.  For some reason, I can’t get it to embed unless I post it as my Twitter comment.

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Toilet Gator – Chapter 13

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The girls had been whisked away to Grove County Hospital. The water pipe had been shut off, but Cole and Rusty still had to slosh across the wet bathroom floor as they observed the crime scene.

“Well,” Rusty said as he stared at the blood stained tile walls. “I’m just gonna say it.”

“Don’t say it,” Cole replied.

“This is the work of the work of the Al Qaedas.”

Cole slapped his forehead. “You think everything is the work of the Al Qaedas.”

“That’s because everything is the work of the Al Qaedas,” Rusty said.

“Last week when you lost your keys you blamed it on the Al Qaedas,” Cole said.

“I don’t think it was ever conclusively proven that was not the work of the Al Qaedas,” Rusty noted.

“You left them in your other pants,” Cole said.

“Did I?” Rusty asked. “Or did the Al Qaedas put them in my other pants?”

Cole groaned.

“Well,” Rusty said. “If this isn’t terrorism then what is it?”

“Hell if I know,” Cole said. “Maybe some dumb ass kid tried to flush a firecracker and it got out of hand?”

“That would have had to have been one gigantic firecracker,” Rusty said.

“Yup,” Cole said.

A few seconds passed.

“The kind of firecracker that the Al Qaedas could get their hands on,” Rusty said.

Cole flipped out. “Not another word about the Al Qaedas!”

The bathroom door swung open. A third set of boots sloshed into the room. They belonged to Grove County Sheriff Floyd Hammond. He was a skinny, spindly man in his early fifties with a receding hairline and a handlebar mustache. His dark brown uniform clashed with the classier navy blue uniforms Cole and Rusty were wearing.

“Hooo weee!” Floyd shouted as he took in all the carnage. “Remind me to never eat the chili in this school’s cafeteria!”
Cole despised his counterpart in the Sheriff’s department. He choked back the bile that was inching its way up his throat. It was a reaction Cole got whenever he saw his longtime nemesis.

“Sheriff,” Cole said.

“Chief,” Floyd replied. “What in the bloody blue blazes do we have here?”

“I have no idea,” Cole said. “The Al Qaedas, a firecracker stunt gone awry and now, high octane chili, are the latest working theories.”

“Well slap my ass and call me Sally,” Floyd said. “This has got to be the shittiest crime scene I have ever had the misfortune to lay my eyes on. Any witnesses?”

“All knocked unconscious,” Cole answered. “Except for one nerd who had stepped out of the room. He was useless.”

“As most of these fancy pants millennials with their precious degrees in bullshit studies are,” Floyd said.

“Yup,” Cole said.

Floyd stuck his pointer finger up his nose, fished around for awhile, then pulled out an economy size booger. Not wanting to contaminate the crime scene, he wiped it on his shirt. Cole and Rusty pretended as though they didn’t notice but…notice they certainly did.

“Heard you had a little run in with the Mayor this evening…”

“Did you now?” Cole asked.

“You know how people talk,” Floyd replied.

“Do you mean, ‘people?’” Cole asked. “Or do you mean the Mayor specifically talked to you? Or more specifically, he cried to you like a little bitch?”

Floyd snickered. “Let’s just say we had ourselves a little chat.”

Cole patted Floyd on the back. “Good for your, Floyd. It’s about time you found a friend you can share your love of wearing ladies’ underwear with.”

The Sheriff gnashed his teeth together. “Who the hell told you about that?!”

Cole and Rusty traded shocked expressions. “No one, Floyd,” Cole said. “I was just busting your balls.”

Floyd pulled out a dirty handkerchief and dabbed the sweat off his brow. “Oh…good. Yeah, I was uh…just busting your balls too.”

“Sure you were,” Cole said.
“Anyway,” Floyd said. “The Mayor solicited me with the most interesting proposal.”

“Aww,” Cole said. “And here I thought you weren’t the marrying kind, Floyd.”

“Not that kind of proposal!” Floyd barked. “Seems like the Mayor would very much like to see the Sitwell Police Department absorbed into Grove County Sheriff’s Department. Bigger budget for me, more competent officers for Sitwell. Sounds like a good deal but, oh, I do suppose you and your ginger lover would find yourselves on the unemployment line.”

Rusty raised his hand as if he were a kid in an elementary school class.

“Yes?” Floyd asked.

“Point of clarification,” Rusty said. “Cole and I are not lovers. We’re just longtime friends and colleagues.”

“No one asked you, Ron Weasley,” Floyd said.

“Floyd,” Cole said. “I could give two shits about what you and the Mayor talk about in your circle jerk sessions.”

“You should,” Floyd said. “And a word to the wise: don’t bite the hand that feeds you.”

“How bout you just bite me, Floyd?” Cole asked.

Floyd clicked his tongue in a disapproving manner. “Tsk, tsk, tsk. With a bad attitude like that, I doubt that you’ll ever cut it as one of my deputies, Cole. It will be such a shame when I have to let you go.”

Cole pointed at the door. “Get the hell outta here you booger picking transvestite! You’re screwing up my crime scene!”

“Very well, Cole,” Floyd said. “I’ll just sit back and laugh myself silly as you botch the case of the century.”

Cole furrowed his brow. “Case of the century?”

‘You mean you don’t…” Floyd stopped talking and grabbed his sides to keep them from bursting as he laughed and laughed. He then walked out the door, but not before saying, “Better check out the Internet, loser!”

Cole pulled out his old school flip phone. He flipped it open. “Does this thing get Internet?”

“Holy shit, Cole,” Rusty said. “Did you kick Fred Flintstone in the nut sack and run off with his phone?”

“What?” Cole asked incredulously. “This is a perfectly fine phone!”

Rusty pulled out his much more modern smart phone and started punching buttons. “All you can do on that thing is make phone calls.”

“All I need to do on this thing is make phone calls,” Cole said.

Boop. Rusty pushed the button on his Network News One live stream app. “Let’s see what that old sack of farts is on about.”

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Clinically Depressed Werewolf – Dropped Ice Cream as a Metaphor for Life

By: Clinically Depressed Werewolf, Official Bookshelf Battle Blog Sad Lycan Correspondent

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Arr…arr…arrrwooooooo…oh who am I kidding?  Howl today, gone tomorrow.  What am I even howling at?  Whatever it is, it is only a temporary blip on the endlessly changing radar screen of life.

I went to the ice cream parlor the other day, 3.5 readers.  I was hungry because, you know, I’m a werewolf and the one good thing about being a werewolf is that we can eat as much as we want and never gain any weight.  You’d think that’s a positive thing but honestly, I can turn any positive into a negative.  Frankly, if you’re constantly eating and never gaining any weight then it’s like it doesn’t even matter, like pushing a boulder up a hill only for it to fall down and then you have to push it up the hill again.

Where was I?  Does it even matter?  Oh right.  So I went to the ice cream parlor and I got a three scoop cone.  I got a scoop of rocky road, a scoop of strawberry, and a scoop of peanut butter fudge.  Three diverse scoops, all bringing their own benefits and detriments into the mix.

I got it into my mind that I could not exist without these three flavors missed together.  But alas, a freak gust of win blew in and knocked the peanut butter fudge off the top of my cone.

Oh, how I cheated I felt as I stared at that glop of peanut butter fudge ice cream lying on the ground.  I didn’t have any idea what to do next.

I’d already paid for it so I felt cheated.  I paid for three scoops so I should have gotten three scoops.  But it wasn’t the ice cream parlor’s fault.  They don’t owe me what they already gave me.

Then I was mad at myself but why?  It’s not like I could have preconceived that the wind was going to knock the scoop off my cone.

Suddenly, I was mad at the weather, the forces of nature, the world.  It felt like the fates were conspiring against me to prevent me from having any kind of enjoyment.  Oh, what a depressing feeling.

At one point it popped into my head that I should just lick the ice cream off of the ground.  I mean, sure it had germs on it but who am I?  The King of England?  I’m a werewolf.  I eat people, like, all the time.  And you know what?  People are dirty.  They’re extremely filthy, you have no idea.

I’ve eaten people who haven’t bathed for days.  I’ve eaten people who just got off of a sixteen-hour double shift at a hot, sweaty machine shop who tasted disgusting.

Hell, I’ve even eaten people who were sitting on the toilet who were right in the middle of doing their dirty business, a half pinched loaf stuck you know where.

Yet, all of a sudden, I’m all like, “Look at me.  I’m so fancy.  I shouldn’t have to lick peanut butter fudge ice cream off of the ground.”

Then I felt an internal struggle inside of me.  Am I a pretentious prude for not eating ice cream off of the ground?  Am I just being a proud werewolf, that I believe in myself too much to do something so disgusting and better yet, I deserve to feel that way?

Was all this mental turmoil really about the ice cream?  Was it about life instead?  Are we all just a bunch of ice cream scoops, happy to be a loved and desirable part of a cone one minute only to be knocked off our pedestal and left alone to rot in the mud the next?

Ahh…such is life.

So many questions.  So few answers.  I got so upset that I ran to a farm and ate seventeen sheep.  For awhile I was starting to feel better…until the eighteenth sheep fell on the ground.

 

 

 

 

 

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