Daily Archives: May 10, 2017

Point/Counterpoint – BQB vs. A Smelly Raccoon – Should Smelly Raccoons Be Allowed to Knock Over BQB’s Trash Cans?

Hey 3.5 readers.

BQB here.

A new feature on this awesome blog.  Point/Counterpoint.  Various esteemed pundits will take each other one regarding the important issues of the day.

First up, I, Bookshelf Q. Battler, debate a smelly raccoon on whether or not he should be allowed to knock over my trash cans and feed on the disgusting insides.

Care to weigh in?  Let me know who you think won the debate in the comments.

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POINT – The Smelly Raccoon – BQB’s Trash is Delicious

COUNTERPOINT – BQB – I Do Not Have Time to Clean Up After Trash Rodents

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Counterpoint – I Do Not Have Time to Clean Up After Trash Eating Rodents

By:  Bookshelf Q. Battler, Blogger-in-Chief, Bookshelf Battle Blog

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I am a busy man.

I work all day at Beige Corp.

At night, I take care of my magic bookshelf, feed the Yeti, tend to the needs of all the inhabitants of BQB HQ, work on saving the world from the Mighty Potentate through my writing and then if I’m lucky, I might get five minutes to say hello to my main squeeze, Video Game Rack Fighter, before I go to sleep and get up just to do it all over again.

Thus, it is very upsetting when the smelly raccoon and his smelly raccoon friends knock over my trash cans and leave a huge mess by the side of my curb.

In theory, is it so bad if they want to gobble up what I throw away?

No.

In reality, is that all they do?

No.

These little turd burglars spend all night making loud noises as they knock my cans over and root around inside them.  Then, when I wake up, I find that they’ve left trash strewn all over the place.

Banana peels.  Frozen pizza boxes.  Used bathroom related products that have been in my butt, Video Game Rack Fighter’s butt, the Yeti’s butt, or the butt of one of my many esteemed blog columnists.

You know what the worst part is?  That trash won’t be on the ground for less than five minutes before some grumpy old bastard from the neighborhood walks by and shakes his fist at me and shouts, “Clean up your place!  You’re bringing down my property values!”

Sure.  Like I planned for this to happen.  I’m sorry.  I don’t have the time to sit out in the middle of the night with a broom and a dust pan at the ready just so I can follow dirty little bandit mask wearing furballs around as they destroy my trash cans.

Smelly raccoons are evil and they should be thrown in jail.  There, I said it.  Better yet, transport them all to the dump and let them at it.  Maybe they can eat all the crap that won’t biodegrade.  Maybe those little shits are the key to stopping global warming.  Just feed them all the shit that can’t be recycled.

Whatever you do, just get them away from my trash cans.

 

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Point – Bookshelf Q. Battler’s Trash is Delicious

By: A Smelly Raccoon, Special Guest Columnist

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Hello 3.5 readers.  A smelly raccoon here, and I for one would like to thank Bookshelf Q. Battler for providing me the opportunity to debate the very important issue of whether or not that nerd deserves to have his trash cans knocked over.

The answer is an unmitigated yes.  Yes, he does.  BQB pretends like he’s so important.  “Oh look at me.  I’m a magic bookshelf caretaker.  Oh I work at Beige Corporation.  Oh I’m saving the world from the Mighty Potentate through my writing.”

Please.  I’ve looked in his window.  The man spends three hours a night drawing faces around his belly button.  The belly button becomes the mouth.  He makes it talk.  It’s gross and I know gross.  I’m a smelly raccoon.

Trash!  It’s like gold to a smelly raccoon and while Bookshelf Q. Battler whines, “Oh woe is me, I have to clean up so much trash!” the truth is that it is very little effort for him versus something that provides a tremendous amount of happiness for me and my smelly raccoon friends.

Sure, you humans think we raccoons are dirty trash rodents but in reality, we’re all about recycling, going green, and using the junk that you throw away to fill our bellies.  You call that trash can full of old coffee filters, used toilet paper, used condoms, moldy spaghetti, moldy Chinese take-out, six day old pizza and last year’s tuna noodle casserole you finally pulled out of the back of your fridge, all sprinkled with the little broken pieces of that vase your broke, swept up and threw away…A DELICIOUS FEAST!

You don’t want it?  We do.  That’s good eating for us raccoons and you should be ashamed of yourself for complaining.  We are your guests, uninvited or not, and all we are asking is for the sustenance you discarded.

Could we be neater?  Maybe…but it’s night and we have no opposable thumbs, so back off, loser, and enjoy cleaning up after us.

Also, don’t do that thing where you put the rock on top of your can.  We’ll just knock the whole thing over.  Talk about a mess.

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Toilet Gator – Chapter 33.2

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While Maude fielded the freaks, Sharon and Gordon grilled Irving St. John. It was Sharon’s turn to hang back, while Gordon leered over Cole’s desk at the crooked agent. Irving had been allowed to put on a pair of sweat pants and a white T-shirt before the SWAT team hauled him up to Sitwell.

“Anything you want to say before I get started?” Gordon asked.

“I think you should be saying something,” Irving said as he struggled against the handcuffs that bound his wrists around his back. “A lot of things. How about, ‘I’m sorry, Mr. St. John” and “Please do sic all your high priced Jew lawyers on me for being an idiot?’”

“That’s very offensive,” Sharon said.

“And racist,” Gordon added.

“Why do people keep saying that?” Irving asked. “Do you know how long it takes to go to law school?”

“Three years,” Sharon said. “Four if you go at night like I did.”

Irving appeared shocked at that answer. Sharon continued. “We aren’t a couple of rubes that you can bark at until we give one of you no talent clients some air time. You wouldn’t be here without a good reason.”

“A very, very good reason,” Gordon said.

“Well,” Irving said. “I can’t imagine what that reason could possibly be.”

Sharon and Gordon traded knowing looks. Gordon opened up a file folder. “In total, how much money would you say you stole from your client, Miss Sally Ann Dubawitz, better known by her stage name, ‘Countess Cucamonga?’”

Irving laughed. “That’s a good one.”

The agents stared at the suspect long enough for him to realize they weren’t laughing. “You’re serious.”

“Dead serious,” Gordon said.

“I’m not saying another word until I can speak to my attorney,” Irving said.

Gordon looked at Sharon and shook his head. “That’s too bad.”

“Yeah,” Sharon replied. “I really thought he’d want to help himself.”

“Apparently not,” Gordon said as he closed the folder. “OK. We’re done here.”

“Wait,” Irving said. “What’s this about helping myself?”

“You’ve invoked your right to counsel, Mr. St. John,” Sharon explained. “There’s little room left for us to discuss the matter with you now.”

“Discuss!” Irving shouted. “Discuss, discuss!”

“You’d have to wave your right to counsel,” Sharon said.

“Consider it waved!” Irving shouted.

“Mr. St. John,” Sharon said. “At this time, I have to advise you that you have the right to remain silent. If you wave that right, anything you say or do can and will be used against you in a court of law. You also have a right to an attorney. If you can’t afford an attorney…”

“Yeah, yeah, lady,” Irving said. “I watch Law and Order. Just tell me how to get out of this nightmare already!”

“Truthfully,” Sharon said. “I’m not sure how much help we can offer given the gravity of the crimes.”

“Best case scenario,” Gordon said. “We’re talking about multiple life sentences.”

“Life sentences?” Irving asked.

“At best,” Sharon said. “We might be able to talk about making the conditions of your lifetime confinement more comfortable.”

“Lifetime confinement?” Irving said. “Just for skimming a little cream off the top?!”

“For the murders of Miss Dubawitz, Mr. Hogan, and Mr. Becker,” Irving said.

“Who the hell are Mr. Hogan and Mr. Becker?” Irving asked.

“Interesting,” Gordon said.

“Yes,” Sharon said. “He’s copping to Dubawitz but wants to keep playing dumb on Hogan and Becker.”

“Playing dumb will get you nowhere,” Gordon said.

“I’m not playing dumb!” Irving shouted. “I am dumb!”

“We’ve got the goods on you, St. John,” Gordon said. “Countless files and bank statements weaving the cheap and tawdry tale of how robbed Countess Cucamonga blind.”

“Impossible,” Irving said. “You’ve got nothing.”

Gordon spread out several documents across Cole’s desk. Irving read them and frowned. “How did you…but…these have to be fakes. I wiped the Countess’ computer after she…”

Sharon’s eyes widened. Gordon pounded his fist down on the desk. “After you killed her!”

“What?” Irving asked. “No!”

“Stop jerking us around, dildo boy,” Gordon said. “The Countess figured you out. You somehow caught wind of that and you put her on ice.”

“And as you just freely admitted,” Sharon said. “You covered your tracks by erasing material evidence.”

“I’m not admitting anything,” Irving said. “I just know for a fact that those printouts cant be real.”

“Unless they represent files printed off of a device that was turned over to us by a concerned citizen,” Gordon said.

“One with a freshly inked immunity in exchange for testimony deal,” Sharon said.

Irving’s mind raced. He sat up. “That nerdy little stalker!”

“We can’t confirm or deny that,” Gordon said.

“I…I…I…” Irving stammered. “I can fight this. Those transactions are debatable. Justifiable, even. A good lawyer will be able to argue that they were owed to me based on a reasonable interpretation of the various contracts held between the Countess and myself. At best, they were legal payments to myself and at worst, they were accidental withdrawals based on a misunderstanding, one I’m truly remorseful for and I’ll gladly reimburse the late Countess’ estate immediately.”

Sharon and Gordon were silent.

“I went to law school at night too,” Irving said.

“The theft beef is the least of your worries,” Gordon said. “We get why you whacked the Countess. We just want to know why you killed Hogan and Becker. Give us the skinny so their families can have some closure.”

Irving looked at the agents with stone faced defiance. “I didn’t kill anyone. I kill with my charm, my good looks, my business savvy but with my hands? No. You’ve got the wrong guy.”

“Do we?” Gordon asked.

“Why would I kill the Countess?” Irving asked. “She was the proverbial goose that laid the golden egg and she laid a ton of ‘em, right out of that big gluteus maximus of hers. You think I ever wanted that gravy train to stop?”

“You strike me as the kind of pussy that would kill a woman because you know you’re too delicate to last five minutes behind bars,” Gordon said.

“What about Hogan and Becker?” Sharon asked.

“What about them?” Irving asked. “Who are they?”

“Your victims,” Gordon said. “If you’re going to go around and around with stupid questions you know the answer to…”

“Wait,” Irving said. “Are you talking about the other two people who died on the can the same night as the Countess?”

Gordon leaned back in Cole’s chair. “For a guy who says he doesn’t know much about it, you seem to know a lot.”

“Everyone knows about it!” Irving said. “It’s been all over Network News One!”

“How do they fit into your twisted little game?” Sharon asked.

“Bullshit!” Gordon shouted.

“I have no idea who they are!” Irving said. “I’ve never met them. But I’ve been glued to the coverage like everyone else. Look idiots, do you really think I could have killed the Countess, even though her guards where with me the entire time, then spoke to you two that night in her dressing room and then, what? I magically transported myself with lightning speed to a nursing home in Boca Raton and then to a college in Sitwell? Only the Flash could move that fast.”

“You’re a wealthy man, Mr. St. John,” Sharon said.

“You’ve got pull,” Gordon said. “Connections. Power. Combine that with money and I’m sure you could have found a way to have others do your dirty work for you.”

“First, a cover up murder,” Sharon said. “Then two random murders committed by hired goons under similar circumstances in order to make the Countess’ death appear as though it was one part of a mysterious serial killer’s bizarre master plan.”

“OK,” Irving said. “You two have gone gonzo. Batshit bonkers. I’m not saying another word until I can speak to my lawyers. I want my Jews.”

“Mr. St. John,” Sharon said. “If you…”

“I want my Jews!” Irving said. “And I shall have my Jews! No more questions.”

Gordon stood up, walked around the desk, and helped Irving to his feet. He then grabbed the perp by the arm and led him out of Cole’s office. Sharon followed.

While Gordon led Irving to a holding cell, Sharon looked around the room, her mouth agape at the sheer number of loonies who had shown up with something to say about the Toilet Killer.

“Wow Maude,” Sharon said. “Looks like your hands are full.”

“Yes,” Maude replied. “Anytime you want to spare some of those agents you’ve got running around, installing this and that and tearing up the place, and put them on nutcase detail, I’d appreciate it.”

Natalie Brock, who had been sitting next to Maude’s desk, stood up. “Agent Walker?”

“Oh, right,” Maude said. “Sharon, this woman claims she’s a Hot Ass Blonde Chick with Big Titties from Network News One with some important information for you.”

Sharon squinted at Natalie and moved in for a closer look. “That can’t be right.”

“Why do you say that?” Natalie asked.

Sharon struggled to find the right words. “Because you aren’t…and you don’t have…”presentation01

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Rap Philosophy – Sir Mix-a-Lot Likes Big Butts and He Cannot Lie

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Sir Mix-a-Lot.  The greatest rapper to rap about his love of big butts.  I have no idea if this amazingly talented man released any other songs but let’s face it, other than “Baby Got Back,” you can’t name another one, can you?

Nope.  Neither can I.

He was pretty much a one and done.  He revealed his big butt love to the world and then he no longer had anything else to say.  Sometimes a song can so perfectly capture everything an artists wants to say that the artist need not speak further.

Personally, I would love to know the tale of daring-do that Sir Mix-a-Lot engaged in, in order to be named a knight of the British Realm, but that’s neither here nor there at this time.

Big butts!  Sir Mix not only loved them, but he could not lie about his love of them.  At the time, it was considered tawdry to declare one’s love of big butts to the world, yet Sir Mix loved them so much that he could not lie about it without denying a very important piece of his soul, the fabric of his very being.

Do you love big butts?  Then you shouldn’t lie about it.  But consider this.  There are many things we all like that we lie about for fear of public reprisal.  Perhaps it is time for people to embrace Sir Mix-a-Lot’s honesty and shout to the rooftops the things you like.

Perhaps you like to write, but you fear people around you will write you off as a hopeless dreamer.

Perhaps you like music, but don’t want to be considered a frivolous person who just sits around playing your trombone.

Perhaps you like art, but fear that people will just think you are a weirdo who just paints all day.

Stop.  Whatever your theoretical “big butt” is, stop lying on it.  Sir Mix-a-Lot climbed a giant butt mountain in a video surrounded by women with big butts just to proudly declare to the world that he would not be intimidated into saying that he likes small butts, and you shouldn’t be intimidated into saying you dislike things you like, especially when there really isn’t a good reason to say that you don’t like them.

Sir Mix-a-Lot didn’t have a problem with butts.  Those snotty girls in the locker room griping to Becky about big butts were the ones with the problem.  You don’t have a problem with writing, music or art, the people who are trying to get you to stop liking such things have the problem.

Look people, the man’s a knight, so he must have learned a thing or two in his travels, knowledge that entered his brain as he slayed dragons and trolls and orcs and defended Old Britannia from the forces of evil.

Is there a theoretical “big butt” that you love, that you can’t deny?  Discuss in the comments.

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