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Bookshelf Battle
The only site where new bestsellers are forced to do battle for space on a nerd's bookshelf.
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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.
POINT – The Smelly Raccoon – BQB’s Trash is Delicious
COUNTERPOINT – BQB – I Do Not Have Time to Clean Up After Trash Rodents
Counterpoint – I Do Not Have Time to Clean Up After Trash Eating Rodents
By: Bookshelf Q. Battler, Blogger-in-Chief, Bookshelf Battle Blog
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.
Point – Bookshelf Q. Battler’s Trash is Delicious
By: A Smelly Raccoon, Special Guest Columnist
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.
Toilet Gator – Chapter 33.2
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…”
Rap Philosophy – Sir Mix-a-Lot Likes Big Butts and He Cannot Lie
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.
TV Review – Better Call Saul (2015 – Present)
Drugs! Crooked lawyers! Cinnabon!
BQB here with a review of the Breaking Bad prequel, Better Call Saul.
Once upon a time, Bob Odenkirk brought the comic relief to Breaking Bad as notorious ambulance chaser, Saul Goodman. On that series, Jesse Pinkman (Aaron Paul) informs meth cook partner Walter White (Bryan Cranston) that they need a “criminal” lawyer, emphasis on the criminal – not just a lawyer who specializes in criminal law but one who engages in criminal activities to get his clients off.
And the rest is history.
Better Call Saul is a prequel of the life perpetually down on his luck attorney, Jimmy McGill, led, long before he took the name Saul Goodman or became Walter White’s lawyer.
You’ve probably seen shows that paint the law as a fantastic profession to be in. TV lawyers are often portrayed as wealthy, fast talking beautiful people who drive fancy cars, eat at the best restaurants and make out with other beautiful people.
This show gives us a look at the grimier side of the legal profession. Jimmy McGill practices out of a literal closet in a nail salon, drives a car with mismatched doors and barely makes ends meet.
He has a love/hate relationship with his brother Chuck (Michael McKeen), one of New Mexico’s most respected lawyers. Chuck is a rabid electro-phone, meaning that he is convinced that anything that uses electricity is sending electric waves into his body that could kill him.
Michael McKean displays some of the best acting of his career as he sits in a dark house, eats food out of a cooler full of ice instead of a fridge, forces visitors to leave their cell phones in his mail box, and covers his home and his body with tin foil space blankets.
Meanwhile, there’s an on-again/off-again romance between Jimmy and Kim Wexler (Rhea Seehorn), an attorney that actually strives to do honest work. Sometimes she serves as Jimmy’s conscience. Other times, she gets dragged down into Jimmy’s world of crap.
Rounding out the cast is grizzly ex-cop Mike Ehrmantraut, the fan favorite of many a Breaking Bad viewer. We find Mike in a lowly state at the beginning of the series, working as a parking lot booth operator who regularly feuds with Jimmy over his inability to remember to obtain the required parking validation stickers.
From there, the two start going down the rabbit hole of the Mexican drug cartel world, that same world that Walter White gives a big giant enema to in Breaking Bad.
To be clear, the show is nowhere near as good as Breaking Bad. That’s not an insult to Better Call Saul but rather, a compliment to Breaking Bad, as that show captured lightning in a bottle and is a rare commodity.
However, just as its predecessor took an unlikely concept, i.e. a terminally ill chemistry teacher who stops giving a shit and rises through the drug underworld to become a kingpin, and spin it into gold, this show does the same with an unequally unlikely idea, namely, that the comic relief of the previous show should get a show that’s all about him.
The show has heart. Jimmy has a dream to become a great, powerful lawyer, yet there are so many obstacles in the way. Maybe you, the viewer, never tried to become a lawyer, but you probably had some dream. Maybe you achieved it, maybe you didn’t but either way, most people can relate to obstacles getting in the way of their dreams.
The show features Vince Gilligan’s signature storytelling style. It’s “show, don’t tell” to the max. The viewer is presented with a lot of mysterious, ominous stuff. None of it is clear at first but if you keep paying attention, the mental energy you expend will not be wasted. Everything that happens in the show means something. There’s very little filler or fluff that can be cast aside.
I admit when I heard this show was in the works, I had my doubts. Breaking Bad could never be topped and perhaps if this show sucked, it would taint the legacy. But somehow, the show, while not surpassing the first show, still holds its own and is a boon to fans who still want to see that Gilligan style on the screen again.
STATUS: Shelf-worthy.
Daily Discussion with BQB – Genderless Acting Awards Are Dumb
Hey 3.5 readers.
BQB here.
As reported by E News and other outlets, Emma Watson has won MTV’s first ever genderless acting award for Beauty and the Beast.
Apparently, “Best Actor” and “Best Actress” are un-woke constructs, and MTV is now going to dole out awards based on the acting and not on whether or not the person doing the action has a penis or a vagina.
Where’s Uncle Hardass when you need him? He could complain about this so much better than I can, but I’ll do my best.
This is dumb. In an effort to take the focus away from genitalia, you’re just going to put more emphasis on genitalia.
Suppose the Oscars adopts this idea. What happens when:
- Five men win five years in a row. No, surely there will never be an #OscarsSoMale hashtag.
- Five women win five years in a row. No, surely there will never be an #OscarsSoFemale hashtag.
Plus, aren’t you cutting down on the recognition? Two “people doing acting” (because apparently words like “actor” and “actress” are not woke) get awards every year. Now you are cutting back on the recognition.
Were “Best Actor” and “Best Actress” ever really meant to offend anyone? Sheesh.
This is just silliness. It will lead to more silliness.
However, if you don’t think it is silly, tell me why in the comments and I will try my best to read your arguments with the requisite amount of woke-ness.
Top Ten Things I Would Do If I Could Become a Time Traveler
Ahh, time travel. To dare to surpass the surly bounds of time and space and end up in a different time period that this one.
The experts say that time travel could be reckless! Every thing happened for a reason even the slightest change could destroy life as we know it.
Meh. Who cares? Throw caution to the wind, I say. When it comes to time travel, I go balls out or I go home.
From BQB HQ in Fabulous East Random Town, it’s the Top Ten Things I’d Do if I Could Become a Time Traveler:
#1 – Change shit. Like a lot of shit…with reckless abandon for no rhyme or reason.
Give an iPad to a caveman! Give Napoleon a wedgie! Kick Genghis Kahn in the nads!
Fart in the presence of Queen Victoria. Pick a flower from the Jurassic period and plant it in 1702.
Kidnap a dinosaur and ride it into an Ancient Trojan battle.
Sneak into Einstein’s office and move things around without telling him.
Switch out George Washington’s wooden teeth for state of the art dentures.
Visit Jesus at the Last Supper and give everyone Big Macs.
#2 – Bang Hot Historical Chicks
Possible talent includes:
- Marie Antoinette – Easily bribed with cake.
- Cleopatra – “De Nile” might be a river in Egypt, but that fine ass Queen won’t be denyin’ this time traveling stud muffin.
- Joan of Arc – Yes she was holy. However, she was also a French chick so, you know…
- Queen Elizabeth – Not the current one, the one that was the daughter of Henry the Eighth. Her Dad was so obsessed with leaving behind a male heir that he lopped off the heads of many a wife and even changed England’s entire religion. So yeah, there was a lot of pressure for Lizzy to keep the throne in the family. In other words, I think she probably could have used a friend with benefits, a little casual fling with no strings attached. I don’t want England. I just want that royal booty.
- Lady Godiva – Total slut if you can get her off that horse.
#3 – Tell Historical People How the World Turns Out in the Future, then Laugh at Their Reactions
“We’ve figured out how to drop contraptions out of the sky that are capable of destroying entire cities. We have mechanical transports that can be used to move us from place to place. We’re all super fat, they’ve got pills that can give you boners (sorry, historical people, ‘apothecary renderings that can engorge a man,’) the leader of the greatest nation in the world has talked about his penis in public, and women act like they’re the boss of everyone! WTF, am I right?”
#4 – Sit in the Back of Movie Theaters from the Past and Shout Out Spoilers
Also works with plays. “Hey, Lincoln! Behind you!”
#5 – Visit the Future
There are a lot of questions about the future that I don’t want to leave hanging.
What will future people be like? Will the world be better? Will it be worse?
Will there be inventions that people today never could have conceived of?
Will future people think we are awful?
Will the future be worse? We will regress into a Mad Maxian apocalypse world?
Will the world be run by damn dirty apes?
Will scientists ever invent robot hookers? (If they do, I’m staying the future.)
#6 – Warn Past People of Upcoming Tragedies
Experts say you’re not supposed to do this, that horrible events, as bad as they are, happened and to change them is to throw off the whole space-time continuum. Things happen for reasons we’ll never fully understand and who knows if changing the outcome of one event could cause a negative impact on the future?
But honestly, screw all that, because I keep it real and not warning people when you know some shit is about to go down just seems like a dick move.
Warnings I would give include, but are not limited to:
- “Hey Europe. Is it me or does this Hitler fella seem like a real turd sandwich? Better keep an eye on that guy. Appeasement doesn’t seem to be the way to go. Maybe, just maybe, if he tries to march into Poland, y’all might want to get together and raise a stink about it.”
- “Attention all Irish people. Make your cows and chickens hump more so you can have more meat to eat because some shit’s about to happen with your potatoes.”
- “Hey, everyone in 2001! See those dudes with the box cutters about to get on those planes? Let’s cock punch ’em!”
- “Archduke Ferdinand, JFK, RFK, MLK…DUCK!”
- “Hey Titanic travelers, why the rush? Let’s smoke a doobie and wait for the next ship. Europe will still be there.”
- Alternatively – “Hey Captain Buttface! Iceberg straight ahead!”
#7 – Take famous works from today. Give them to my past self. Reap the benefits.
What? That’s stealing? How dare you insult me, Bookshelf Q. Battler, writer of such famous songs as “What Does the Fox Say?” and “Baby Got Back?” Why, I’d give you a stern talking to, but I must cash my royalty checks from sales on my new novel, The Hunger Games. By the way, did you catch that new movie? You know, Avatar. Totally wrote the script for it.
#8 – The same thing as #7, but with inventions.
BQB here. Inventor of the iPhone, the iPad, the drone, the cronut (half croissant/half donut), social media and Kim Kardashian’s extra strength panty hose.
#9 – Tell My Past Self to Blog Sooner
I really thought blogging was a dumb idea. So far, I haven’t made any money yet, but what I lack in dollars, I make up in readers. 3.5 readers to be exact.
But seriously, the more you blog, the faster your blog grows. Start sooner, rather than later.
#10 – Give My Past Self A Lot of Advice
This is actually a serious one, although I wasn’t joking about getting busy with Marie Antoinette. I can picture her yelling, “Sacre Bleau, Mon Dieux, Ooo la la!” with that big tall hairdo waving all over the place.
But I digress. I feel like at every point in my past where I was called upon to make a decision, I made the wrong one. Granted, I have no idea if the other decision would have fared any better, but the path I took led me to working at Beige Corp and owning a blog read by only 3.5 readers, so advice to my former self as to some decisions he ought to change might improve my future.
Then again, I might just end up working at McDonalds and owning a blog read by 2.5 readers.
Sometimes the grass looks greener on the other side because it actually is greener. Then again, sometimes the grass on the other side looks greener because it is being fertilized by a lot of poop you’re going to step in.
What would you do if you could become a time traveler, 3.5 readers? Let me know in the comments.
Daily Discussion with BQB – Is it better to be loved or feared?
You can be loved but then people may walk all over you.
You can be feared. No one will like you but they’ll be too scared to cross you.
Which one is better, 3.5 readers?
Bookshelf Battle 