Daily Archives: May 2, 2017

Toilet Gator – Chapter 31

“Look at that beauty,” Moses said as he admired Cole’s hand cannon. “Foot long barrel. Point five hundred caliber rounds. Chrome shinier than a nun’s beaver during Lent. You gotta let me shoot it.”

“How many years have you been asking that?” Cole asked.

“Shit, I dunno,” Moses said. “Decade at least.”

“And how many times have I said, ‘No?’” Cole asked.

“Every time,” Moses said. “And frankly Cole, I’m painfully offended that you don’t think a marksman with a resume of confirmed enemy kills as long as my arm wouldn’t be able to handle such a splendiferous piece.”

“It’s nothing personal, Mo,” Cole said. “I just don’t want to see you get hurt.”

“Me, get hurt?” Moses asked. “Please.”

“Hell,” Cole said. “First time I fired this thing it knocked me on my ass.”

“That’s ‘cuz you cops only know how to handle those little baby service weapons they give you,” Moses said. “You gotta be a real swingin’ dick to handle the big shit. Come on, give it here.”

“No,” Cole said.

“I need to fire that metal masterpiece Cole,” Moses said. “Shit, ever since you brought that bad boy in here I’ve been obsessed with it. Do you know there’s a video on the inter webs where a dude shoots a charging bull elephant in the face at fifty paces and drops the sucker like its nothing?”

“I don’t do the Internet,” Cole said.

“You should,” Moses said. “Lot of top notch stuff on there. Did you know that the UN is conspiring to give us all ball cancer so that we’ll be too sick to fight their new world order shock troops?”

“I did not,” Cole said.

“Yup,” Moses said. “Read it on the inter webs and you know, if it’s on the inter webs, it must be true. Give it here.”

“Nope,” Cole said.

“Anything, Cole” Moses said. “I know. Asking to touch another man’s gun is the virtual equivalent of asking that man to let you stick three fingers up his wife’s heiney hole but seriously…I’ll do anything.”
“No,” Cole said.

“I’ll suck your dick,” Moses said.

Cole recoiled with revulsion. “What?”

Moses laughed and lightly punched Cole in the shoulder. “Ha! Got you, ya’ dumb shit! You really think I’d suck your dick?”

Cole expelled a deep breath and laughed. “Yeah, you got me.”

Moses slapped his knee. “Yeah, I sure did.”

The shooting instructor straightened up his face and looked at Cole. “But seriously, is that not on the table?”

“Of course it’s not on the table,” Cole said.

Moses laughed again. “Bah ha, got you again, dip shit!”

“Yeah well,” Cole said. “If you’ll excuse me…”

“Free shootin,’” Moses said.

“What?” Cole asked.

“Your gun range fees?” Moses said. “Free. On me. For the rest of your life. Just let me squeeze one off on that sexy son of a bitch.”

Cole was still concerned for Moses’ well-being, but he was no dummy. Free gun range fees meant he’d be able to shoot his massive revolver for free whenever he wanted. That was important to him, seeing as how it was the one activity that ever de-stressed him.

“Deal,” Cole said as he handed the butt of the big gun over to Moses.

Moses marveled at the weapon. “Shit. It’s got some weight to it, huh?”

“Sure does,” Cole said.

“It’s heavier than my dick,” Moses said.

“Nah,” Cole said. “Nothing’s that light.”

“Well, look at you,” Moses said. “Mr. Serious making a funny.”

“Happens maybe once a year,” Cole said. “I’m good now until January.”

Moses aimed the gun at the target and closed one eye. “Damn it. I’ve been looking all over for an Angry Barracuda. Every dealer I know says this puppy is hard to find on account of it was discontinued after that big lawsuit where that kid blew his Daddy’s nuts off. Cryin’ shame that more parents don’t educate their younguns on the ins and outs of proper gun safety protocol if you ask me. You could make a pretty penny if you sell it. Shit, I’d give you nuts and Felix’s nuts for it.”

“Not for sale,” Cole said.

“No,” Moses said. “Shit, I don’t blame you.”

Moses cocked the hammer and hovered his finger over the trigger.

“Careful,” Cole said. “It’s got a kick to it.”

“I’m sure it does, Cole,” Moses said. “What, you think I’m some geek off the street that’s never fired a gun before? I was in the shit.”

“I know,” Cole said.

“Were you in the shit?” Moses asked.

“Just some local shit,” Cole said.

Moses sighed. “Yeah, I know and you’re going to milk that shit forever, Cole. ‘Boo hoo freakin’ hoo! My name is Cole and I got no damn leg so now I’m depressed and moodier than a teenage girl all the time.”

A moment of silence passed.

“Cole, I’m sorry,” Moses said. “That felt like too much. Was that too much?”

“Don’t worry about it.” Cole walked six feet to the left. “I’m just going to stand over here.”

“Don’t blame you,” Moses said. “I wouldn’t want to see another man handle my gun better than I ever…”

BOOM! The paper target disintegrated as Moses flew ten feet backward through the air until he crashed into the wall. Cole sauntered over and offered the marksman a hand. “I tried to warn you.”

Moses looked happier than he’d ever been before. He grinned like an idiot and sniffed the smoking barrel. “Hooo-wee! Smells better than pussy!”

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Toilet Gator – Chapter 30


Freedom Firepower. It was Sitwell’s top gun store/shooting range. On any given day, many a Sitwell resident could be found plugging paper cutouts of bad hombres full of red hot lead.

The owner was used to it. He loved the sounds of gunfire and the smell of gunpowder. Although he wore a pair of mirrored aviator sunglasses, a trucker’s cap and a sleeveless T-shirt, he walked with perfect posture. He took a sip of beer, then enjoyed the cool feeling of a frosty can in his hand.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” the owner said. “I am Gunnery Sergeant Moses T. Malone, United States Marine Corps, Retired. In my day, I took many a pile of cow shit dropped off on my doorstep by Uncle Sam and turned them into bloodthirsty killing machines. I’m talking trained killers who devour their enemies in one bite and then laugh in the glow of the moonlight as they shit out their bones.”

Moses looked to the clerk standing behind the counter near the door to the gun range. “Felix!”

Felix was half the size of Moses. His hair was brown and bushy, completely untamed. He looked like he hadn’t shaved in months and wore a black patch over his right eye. He was a man of few words. “Hmm?”

“Have you collected the requisite entry fee of eight-hundred and seventy-five dollars from each and every one of these pupils?” Moses asked.

“Affirmative,” Felix replied.

“Excellent!” Moses said. He clasped his hands behind his back and paced back and forth in front of his class.

“You unsavory ass maggots are in the gun range section of my humble establishment,” Moses said. “Here, you will learn how to fire with great precision and acute accuracy, for a true shot is, more often than not, the only thing standing between the protection of your life and the lives of those who love and a gruesome death at the hands of a crack pipe hitting lunatic criminal, the kind of which all those commie pinko hippies will gladly fill the streets with if they get their way. Isn’t that right, Felix?”

Felix nodded. “Mmm hmm.”

“Felix, my hetero, non-gay life mate and I saw a whole heap of shit in the war,” Moses said. “And God knows I’d be lying if I said we didn’t bring some of that pain back with us. I don’t know how Felix deals with his doldrums because he doesn’t talk much and frankly, that’s why we get along.”

Moses took another sip of beer, then drew a pistol from a holster on his belt. He walked over to an empty booth on the range, pointed his weapon at the paper target down range, then fired over and over again until the target’s head was blown completely off. “As for me, I get my kicks taking little sissy fairies like yourselves and turning you into stone cold killers.”

The instructor holstered his women. “Any questions?”

Multiple tiny hands shot up into the air.

“Yes,” Moses said as he pointed to a little girl with pigtails. “What is it,

“My Momma said she’s gonna divorce my Daddy for signing me up for Gun Scouts ‘cuz she says guns are bad,” Chloe said.

Moses laughed. “Young lady, no offense, but your mother sounds like a radical left-wing lesbian who daydreams all day about crawling inside Hillary Clinton’s vagina and taking a nap. If she’s really going to divorce your father for enrolling you in a fine organization like Gun Scouts, then he should thank his lucky stars that he won’t be wasting another day of his precious life with such a contemptible shrew.”

A little boy raised his hand.

“Yes,” Moses said. “Kevin.”

“What was the war like?” Kevin asked.

Moses chuckled. He looked to Felix. “You hear this kid? ‘What was the war like?’”

Felix smiled, then picked up a remote off the counter. He pointed it at the big flat screen TV mounted on the wall to the left of his work area and turned on NN1. Countess Cucamonga coverage, as usual.

Moses put his hand on the little boy’s arm. “Son, if there’s one universal truth of life, it’s this. It is impossible to explain what something ‘is like’ to someone who has never experienced it. An astronaut can’t adequately describe to me what it is like to be shot up into this space because I’ve never been there. Therefore, it stands to reason that I can’t tell you what it’s like to gut a man with a rusty razer blade, then pull his rotting carcass on top of my body in order to hide from a roving enemy patrol. No, young man, I could never explain to you what it was like to stare into the cold, motionless eyes of a dead man for three days while being scared out of my mind that I was about to be just like him. I can’t tell you what sorrow I felt as I stared into that man’s eyes and thought about that man and what he must have once been as a human being – how he once had a family, probably a wife, children, how he had hopes and dreams and with one quick flick of a sharp piece of steel, I took that all away from him and turned him into a human shaped pile of trash for me to burrow under like some kind of two-bit junkyard dog.”

“Oh,” Kevin said. “OK.”

“Any other questions?” Moses asked.

Billy, a chubby lad, raised his hand.
“God damn it,” Moses said. “I’m gonna have to make you do some push ups, boy. What the hell do you want?”

“Mister Moses, sir,” Billy said.

“That’s Sergeant to you, pork rind,” Moses said.

“When do we get to shoot the guns?” Billy asked.

Moses guffawed. He looked towards his hetero life mate. “You hear this kid?”

Felix smiled. Moses looked at Billy and mimicked the boy’s squeaky voice. “‘When do we get to shoot the guns?’ That’s you. That’s what you sound like.”

“Well,” Billy said. “When?”

“Son, your Momma must have ingested a heaping helping of crystal meth while she was cooking you up in her baby maker because you sound like a meth baby to me,” Moses said. “Are you a meth baby?”

“No sir,” Billy said.

“You think I’d just hand you a gun on your first day, when you don’t know Jack Shit about anything?” Moses asked.

Billy shrugged his shoulders. “Yeah?”

Moses shot the boy a sour look, then smiled. “You’re Goddamn right I would!”

The instructor turned to the clerk. “Felix!”

“Hmm?” Felix asked.

“Take these little patriots out around back to the kids’ gun range,” Moses said. “Give ‘em each a man stopper and show ‘em what to do.”

“Hooray!” the kids shouted in unison. They all swarmed around Felix’s ankles as the quiet man ushered the students out the door.

“You kids listen to Felix, now!” Moses shouted. “I have deputized him with all my powers and authority as a licensed gun safety instructor! Just be sure to stay on the side of his good eye so he knows what the hell all you little shits are up to!”

As soon as his class was gone, Moses smiled. “Aww, kids. They grow up so fast.”

The instructor paced the length of the gun range, critiquing the stance and technique of each customer all the way.

Blam! Blam! Blam! A little old lady pumped multiple rounds into her target’s chest.
“Worst grouping I have ever seen in my life, Ethel,” Moses said.

“I’m trying, Sonny,” Ethel said.

“Yeah,” Moses said. “You know who else is trying? The gangbanger whose soul purpose in life is to break into your house and have his way with every one of your orifices! Are you going to let him get away with that shit?”

Ethel got mad. She pointed at the target and squinted. Blam! She put one right in the target’s head.

“Atta girl, Ethel,” Moses said. “No one’s touching your old lady parts without your say so, that’s for damn sure.”

Moses moved on. A bespectacled geek in a polo shirt was aiming his gun with his hand tilted to the left, gangster style. He squeezed off a few rounds, but his bullets flew past the target.

“Son of a bitch, Clyde!” Moses said. “What in Sam Hill are you doing?”

“I…I don’t know, Moses,” Clyde said.

“Why don’t you just do yourself a favor and go back to your restaurant, take all your money out of the cash register and wave it around in the air and shout, ‘Come and get it, lowlives! I’m a failure as a man and I’m literally powerless to stop you from depriving me of my livelihood!’”

Clyde hanged his head low. “I’m sorry.”

“Shit,” Moses said as he grabbed Clyde’s wrist and turned his hand straight. “Don’t apologize to me. Apologize to yourself. What is this shit you’re doing?”

“It’s gangster style,” Clyde said. “It’s how Tupac and Biggie used to shit.”

Moses scoffed. “Oh, you want to shoot just like Biggie and Tupac?”

“Yeah,” Clyde said.

“Yeah, well, don’t,” Moses said. “Maybe if Biggie and Tupac had held their guns straight they’d of iced the punks who capped them and then they’d still be out there putting out albums today? Ever think of that?”

“No,” Clyde said.

“That’s the problem,” Moses said. “None of you young people ever think at all.”

Moses pointed Clyde’s hand directly at the target. Blam! A hole opened up in the target’s shoulder. Clyde smiled. “I hit it! I actually hit it!”

“That’s a shitty hit,” Moses said. “Your perp could still steal your cash with his other hand and if he were so inclined, could probably still have the strength to push you down and have his way with your man hole but…at least it’s progress. Keep it up kid, and you’re be popping heads like ripe casaba melons in no time.”

Clyde threw his arms around Moses. “Thank you, Moses! Thank you!”

Moses extracted himself from the hug. “Whoa, whoa, hold the phone, Jack. What do you think this is, some kind of homosexual love shack?”

“Huh?” Clyde asked. “No. No, I was just so happy that I…”

Moses walked away. “Keep it in your pants, compadre. The only thing that will ever go near my butt is the colonoscope of a trained medical doctor and even then I’ll have my reservations.”

Blam! Blam! Blam! As Moses reached the last booth on the rang, the “blams!” grew deafeningly loud. “Well holy shit, if it isn’t Cole Walker!”

Cole pulled off his protective ear phones and nodded at Moses.

“I knew I heard the sweet siren song of an Angry Barracuda,” Moses said.

Cole flipped open the chamber and dumped his spent casings all over the counter in his booth. Moses held his hand out. “May I?”

The chief handed over his massive hand cannon. Moses hovered his nostrils over the barrel and sniffed away. “Mmm…mmm…oh how I love the smell of an Angry Barracuda in the morning!”

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Top Ten Politically Correct Yo Momma Jokes


Ah, the Yo Momma joke.  What is it about a good Yo Momma joke that can leave an opponent fuming with anger?  Perhaps the strength of these jokes, in an ironic way, displays the love people have for their mothers.  After all, these jokes make people mad because people love their mothers.  You might disagree, but when was the last time you ever heard someone tell a “Yo Papa” joke.  Probably never.

Oh, the happy memories I have of gathering together with my fellow school chums as we made inappropriate jests about each other’s mothers.

But times have changed.  It is necessary to be politically correct now.  Safe spaces.  Trigger warnings.  All are necessary to be a woke citizen of 2017 (or current year.)

From BQB HQ in East Randomtown, it’s the Top Ten Politically Correct Yo Momma Jokes:

#10 – Yo Momma is So Fat…

TRANSLATION:  Sir, your mother is so obese that I considered referring her to a reputable weight loss program.  However, I realized that she’s perfect just the way she is and that I am the one with the problem for thinking otherwise.  Ergo, I will seek a support group for people who are literally Hitler who are trying to stop being literally Hitler.

#9 – Yo Momma is So Poor…

TRANSLATION:  Sir, your mother is so poor and personally, I blame this horribly oppressive capitalist society we live in, the one that, as we all know, is run by the top one percent.

#8 – Yo Momma is So Stupid…

TRANSLATION:  Sir, your mother’s lack of a formal education, though no fault of her own due to our failing public school system, which, by the way, the failure of which is no one’s fault but the top one percent who refuse to poor more money into our nation’s failing schools, is threatening her empowerment as a woman.  If she so chooses, I would gladly recommend a GED program, but I hope she understands I am in no way insinuating that she is somehow less than anyone else who holds a degree of any kind.  After all, we are all special in our own unique ways.

#7 – Yo Momma is So Ugly…

TRANSLATION:  Sir, your mother, while not bearing a strict resemblance to what society  deems to be, quote unquote, “beautiful,” should rest assured that beauty is nothing more than a societal construct, with no actual bearing in reality.  Beauty can mean many different things to different people and therefore, your mother qualifies as beautiful and should not be led to believe otherwise.

#6 – You Momma is Such a Ho…

TRANSLATION:  Sir, I’ll have you know that I heard a rumor that your mother is of a promiscuous character.  However, I shall have you know that I told the gossipy rapscallion that slut shaming is by far one of the most offensive trends to grip our nation and no reputable person of good character and moral decency should be engaging in it.  Promiscuity is a non-existent concept and your mother is of a sound mind and therefore, she should be free to exercise her own free will regarding her sexual needs without fear of judgment from others who have not had to walk in her shoes

#5 – Yo Momma is So Smelly…  

TRANSLATION:  Sir, it has come to my attention that your mother’s hygiene habits may be sub par.  Then again, let he who has never skipped brushing his teeth or taking a bath cast the first stone.  By the way, when I say, “cast the first stone,” I realize that some may construe that statement in a religious context.  I apologize to those who are offended by that interpretation and ask them to understand that I only mean it in a non-judgmental tone.  Further, I understand that one’s intent to offend or not offend should never be considered but rather, if someone was offended, then that is all that matters and an apology most be broadcasted immediately, regardless of a lack of ill intent.

#4 – Yo Momma is So Hairy…

TRANSLATION:  Sir, your mother is so hairy and I for one applaud her for not following traditional constructs of gender specific grooming habits, which as we all know, are perpetrated by the patriarchy, to make all women feel less than.  Women should never be hair shamed into shaving their legs or arm pits and all men who suggest otherwise should be thrown into reeducation camps until they change their insensitive ways.

#3 – Yo Momma is So Crazy…

TRANSLATION:  Sir, it has been brought to my attention that your mother suffers from a mental illness.  Please note that I am here for you and your mother in this trying time and I will gladly help her seek the requisite psychiatric attention required to help her either cure, treat, or otherwise live a functional life despite this mental condition.  Wait, please forgive me, as I now realize that I have offended you and your mother by implying that her mental condition is some kind of problem when instead, it should be considered a blessing because it makes her special and unique.  Please excuse me while I transport myself to a reeducation camp.

#2 – Yo Momma is So Flat Chested…

TRANSLATION:  Sir, some fellows that we are both acquainted with have implied that your mother’s breasts are small and not on par with women with larger breasts.  Fear not, for I informed these fellows that their statements were balderdash, and that it is an illogical fallacy to assume something as ridiculous as the idea that men actually prefer large breasts over small ones.  Everyone knows that love of breasts of any size is just a social construct and that men are fooled into believing they like breasts by an unfair society.  They don’t actually possess any inner desire or instinct to actually like breasts.

#1 – Your Momma’s Glasses are So Big…

TRANSLATION:  Sir, your mother’s glasses are large.  I am glad to hear it, for everyone with vision problems deserves nothing less than quick and convenient service from a reputable neighborhood optometrist.

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