Sooo…yeah. I had to go see this cartoon based on desk toys that have been around forever.
It was better than I expected and that was largely based on music…i.e. the trolls sing a variety of hits. They are some very musically inclined trolls.
Oh and one of them farts sprinkles and sings in autotune.
Honestly, without the cloud that demands a high five the whole thing would have been pointless.
That’s about it 3.5 readers. See it or don’t.
The following is a political advertisement…
Leo McKoy.
He likes to go on and on about how he once delivered a sandwich to Dawson’s Creek actor James Van Der Beek.
But did he?
Did he really?
Did any of you see Leo deliver a sandwich to James VDB?
Seems like there would have been at least one witness to corroborate the delivery of the aforementioned sandwich, but Bookshelf Q. Battler’s campaign staffers have not been able to find one single witness willing to testify that the sandwich in question was delivered or that James Van Der Beek ever even stepped foot into East Randomtown.
Why would a top notch actor like James Van Der Beek with a hit show on the WB, which was as good as it got in the 1990s, be bothered to with a chump burg like East Randomtown?
Further…can anyone even confirm that sandwiches exist?
If Leo McKoy would lie about sandwiches and delivering them to James Van Der Beek, then what else would he lie about?
Would he, for example….LIE ABOUT THE FACT THAT HE’S A DAMN ROBOT?
That’s right, 3.5 readers. Leo McKoy has to be a damn robot, most like constructed by some evil organization, to conquer East Randomtown and take advantage of all East Randomtownians because they are so stupid.
Bookshelf Q. Battler saw Leo McKoy get eaten by a pack of wild zombies during the zombie apocalypse that struck the town last year.
The real Leo McKoy was turned into zombie poop long ago.
Don’t vote for a damn robot.
PAID FOR THE COMMITTEE TO CONVINCE YOU THAT LEO MCKOY IS A GIANT SCHMUCK FACE AND ALSO A DAMN ROBOT AND HE’S PROBABLY LYING ABOUT MEETING JAMES VAN DER BEEK AND/OR DELIVERING HIM A SANDWICH, IF SANDWICHES EVEN EXIST, BECAUSE WE’RE PRETTY SURE THEY DON’T.
A shirtless Bowie sat in a rickety chair in the residence of the esteemed Dr. Thomas Maddox, a decrepit old man with a withered face, spectacles, and a lengthy white beard.
The good doctor’s hands trembled. In an effort to calm his nerves, he took a belt of whiskey, then for good measure, dropped a splash of the good stuff on his patient’s arm wound.
“Ow.”
“Oh hush,” Dr. Maddox said as he pushed a needle into Bowie’s skin, then worked a piece of thread through the nasty cut. “I should hate to see the other fellow.”
“Depends on which fellow,” Bowie said. “The man who took the bullet meant for me is stone dead.”
“And the man who fired?” the doctor asked.
“Norris Wright.”
“Ah,” Dr. Maddox said. “You and that big mouth of yours.”
“What?”
“Word that you accosted the sheriff’s reputation had infiltrated my ears as of late,” Dr. Maddox said as he squinted at the stitches he was making. “I assumed it would only be a matter of time before he challenged you to a duel.”
“I accepted,” Bowie said.
The good doctor sighed. “Of course you did.”
“What of it?” Bowie asked.
Dr. Maddox examined his patient’s back. A healed over bullet wound. A number of slashes and scrapes.
“So many scars,” Dr. Maddox said. “I should hate to be your guardian angel.”
“Huh?”
“It may sound like poppycock,” the doctor said. “But I believe that every man has an angel looking after him.”
As soon as the wound was stitched shut, the doctor pulled on the thread tightly, then snipped off the end of the thread with a pair of scissors.
“You might consider putting your life ahead of your ego, my boy,” Dr. Maddox said. “You might live longer and your angel will thank you.”
Bowie grabbed the doctor’s bottle, took a swig, then set it down. “It’s not about ego. It’s about honor.”
“It’s about a set up,” Dr. Maddox said.
“A what?” Bowie asked.
Dr. Maddox stroked his beard. “James, you do have a knack for charging head first into a mess as though you were a rabid rhinoceros, oblivious to all consequences, concerned only in the imminent moment and not day after.
“Stop speaking gibberish old man.”
The doctor snipped the end off of a cigar, held it over a lit candle, then puffed on it. He inhaled, exhaled, coughed, then spoke again.
“Dueling is a gentleman’s sport,” Dr. Maddox said. “And you, lad, are no gentleman.”
Bowie scoffed. “What’s that got to do with a hill of beans, old man? I’m just as good as those fancy fucks. I’ve wheeled and dealed my way into more money than they’ve got, that’s for damn sure.”
“You have,” Dr. Maddox said. “But I resubmit the fact that you are no gentleman.”
The patient put on his shirt and buttoned it up.
“You see,” Dr. Maddox said. “When our forefathers took up arms against the British and drove their cursed hides from this land, it was assumed that the concept of royalty exited this country with them.”
“Didn’t it?” Bowie asked.
The doctor winked his left eye. “An aristocracy remains. To be certain, there are no lords, dukes, or princes here but…there are Governors. Senators. Wright, he was once Major Wright and is now Sheriff Wright, though he is free to use both titles interchangeably. And I, of course, have never been one for battlefield combat so I studied until I earned the right to be called ‘Doctor.’”
“What are you getting at?” Bowie asked.
“The titles changed but the titles remain, just the same,” Dr. Maddox said. “Whether you are in Jolly Old England or in the United States of America, if you have a title then you are a gentleman and there are rules for gentlemen.”
Dr. Maddox puffed on his cigar.
“Titled gentlemen obtain and maintain their power through the favors they perform for and receive from other titled gentlemen,” Dr. Maddox explained.
“I could buy and sell the lot of them,” Bowie said.
“No doubt,” Dr. Maddox said. “But you have no title and thus no position, the power of which could be bartered for assistance from other titled men. Thus, you are no gentleman.”
“We’ve established that,” Bowie said.
“Dueling,” Dr. Maddox said. “Is the means by which titled gentlemen regain their good name when it is besmirched by another titled gentleman. As such, gentlemen must follow the rules when squaring off with other gentlemen. But with a commoner such as yourself, Sheriff Wright will be able to violate the sanctity of the duel in any way he pleases and as long as you die, no gentlemen will think ill of him.”
“Sure they would,” Bowie said. “He’d be branded a cheater.”
Dr. Maddox laughed. “Oh my boy,” Dr. Maddox said. “That’s what titled gentlemen do. They sit around in parlors and smoke cigars and imbibe alcohol and plot out their intentions to cheat lowly commoners such as yourself.”
The good doctor noticed the smoke in his hand and the booze on his table, then cleared his throat.
“Naturally, I would never use my title to harm another,” Dr. Maddox said. “But Sheriff Wright would and will and as you hold no title, his fellow gentlemen will heap praise upon him for snuffing out the commoner who dared to speak up against him, rules be damned.”
Bowie’s lungs expelled a sigh of deep, forlorn exasperation. “Fuck.”
“Indeed,” Dr. Maddox said.
“Well,” Bowie said. “There’s nothing I can do about it now.”
“Preposterous,” Dr. Maddox replied. “Of course there is. Do not show up at the duel.”
“Then I’d be yellow,” Bowie said.
“My boy,” Dr. Maddox said. “I have spent eighty some odd years avoiding one fight after another and I assure you, being ‘yellow’ has allowed me to live a long, healthy life.”
Bowie looked around the doctor’s empty house. “What have you got to show for it?”
Now the doctor looked around his sparse home. “Touche.”
Dr. Maddox waved his hand through the air. “I have given you my counsel. Do with it what you will.”
Bowie put on his coat. “Be my second?”
The doctor choked on his smoke. “Don’t be absurd!”
“Every duelist needs a second,” Bowie said.
“And what good would I be to you as a second if you will not heed my advice?” Dr. Maddox asked.
“I don’t know,” Bowie replied. “You could patch me up like you always do?”
Dr. Maddox rubbed his aching cranium. “Oh fine. As we speak I can feel the eyes of your father, who had a head as hot as yours, burning a hole into my soul with his livid eyes, demanding that I assist you. I shall be your second.”
“Much obliged,” Bowie said.
“If only hot headedness could skip a generation,” Dr. Maddox said.
Bowie grinned. “Now where would the fun be in that?”
E Pluribus Hardass
Hello degenerate 3.5 readers.
We meet again and I see you’re all still working on those writing careers.
In fact my incompetent nephew Bookshelf Q. Battler just informed me that November is “National Novel Writing Month” or “NaNoWriMo.”
You know what I call it? “LosersFindAnotherWayToNotWorkMo.”
Get a job, 3.5 readers. You people are an embarrassment to all 7 of your parents.
Moving on, the big presidential election is Tuesday, November 8.
You all laughed at me when I announced my bid earlier this year.
But now after you got to know the two frontrunners, suddenly old Uncle Hardass doesn’t seem like such a bad option, does he?
Sure, I’m old and I’ve never worked anywhere but the Salt Mines (which you should apply to) but I’ve never grabbed anyone by the pussy, that’s for damn sure.
Not only is that rude but it is also highly unsanitary. I’ll have you know my ex-wife, BQB’s Aunt Gertie, tried to get me touch her there all throughout our many years of marital bliss and my response was always, “No dice! Do you have any idea how many germs are on that thing?!”
Also, I’ve never had an e-mail scandal because I don’t e-mail, or use phones. Whenever I want someone to know something, I just should at them very loudly and wherever they are in the world, they hear it. I call it Uncle Hardass mail.
I don’t write crazy tweets because I think anyone who uses social media is an asshole, and that goes double for my lazy nephew, who you should not follow on Twitter – @bookshelfbattle
Seriously. Don’t follow him. You’ll just encourage him to keep this useless blog going and then he’ll never get a job at the salt mines.
Where was I? Oh right. Comparing myself to the candidates. Also, I don’t engage in pay for play or take big donations in exchange for favors.
That’s not because I don’t want the money but because I don’t do shit for anyone.
That’s right. Whatever you want done, you should do it yourself. Sure, I could do all your shit for you but then what would you learn? What would you get for it?
When I was a kid if I wanted a road I had to build a road.
If I wanted to go to school I had to build the school then teach myself.
If someone needed to be arrested I just arrested them.
If another country declared war, I had to fight the war single handed. I personally fought and won 29 wars all by myself and I’m damn proud of it.
So no, I’m not going to take your money to do a political favor for you. You keep your money and you get off your lazy ass and do whatever it is that needs doing.
Oh. BQB’s meddling attorney just handed me an envelope. “This blog is in no way encouraging people to undertake any kinds of official actions that they do not have the authority to do.”
For crying out loud. Ban all the lawyers! That’ll be the first thing I’ll do when I’m elected and then after that I’ll take a nap for a year.
In summation, here are more reasons why you should vote for me, Uncle Hardass, this Tuesday, November 8.
Thank you, degenerate lazy 3.5 readers.
In conclusion of my summation, your writing ambitions are a waste of time and utterly pointless and also do something useful for a change and vote for me, Uncle Hardass.
Official Poll.
Choose the BQB-a-verse character you’d like to see as America’s Chief Executive:
I’m sure I forgot someone but vote for your favorite in the comments.
Statesman. Barfly. Deliverer of Sandwiches to the Stars. Leo McKoy Needs Your Vote.
Bookshelf Q. Battler.
He thinks he’s a real great hero, what because he saved East Randomtown from a zombie apocalypse.
And sure, he has a WordPress blog with 3.5 readers.
Leo McKoy could pull rank and mention how he once delivered a sandwich to James Van Der Beek, the actor who played Dawson on Dawson’s Creek.
But Leo would rather talk about the issues.
FREE POTATO AND FIXINGS BAR
Leo McKoy has been saying it for years. “What? This town doesn’t have a free potato bar? When did I fall asleep and get transported to Communist Russia?”
That’s right. Because the Communist Russians do not have free potato bars because they hate freedom and also potatoes.
If Leo McKoy is elected, he will personally provide over a free potato bar in the town square every Monday or, if Monday is a holiday, then he will hold the potato bar on Tuesday because you shouldn’t expect him to give up his Monday holiday, you ingrates.
Bacon bits. Sour cream. Butter. Chives. Chili. Refried beans. Tabasco sauce. Ketchup. Mustard. Ninety-five different kinds of ice cream. Thousand island dressing. Ranch dressing. Honey mustard.
If you can put it on a potato, then your free town potato bar will have it.
East Randomtownians will never have to put shoes on their hands and gloves on their feet and walk around on their hands as if their hands were feet on Leo McKoy’s watch.
Leo McKoy was the only candidate to pledge that our dear townsfolk will never be subjugated to a law that requires them to wear shoes on their hands and use their hands as their feet and their feet as their hands.
That would be a ridiculous law and Leo McKoy does not care that such a method of walking is required by the town’s bylaws. McKoy will not rest until that bylaw is repealed and East Randomtownians are walking on their feet like honest, God fearing folk.
CATS WILL NOT BE ALLOWED TO READ YOUR MINDS
That’s right. If you believe your cat is trying to read your mind, report said feline to Mayor McKoy and your cat will spend the rest of his or her nine lives in cat prison.
Also, Mayor McKoy will expend most of the town’s treasury on the construction of a cat prison.
WE WILL CREATE AN ALL MILF POLICE FORCE
East Randomtown’s police force will be staffed by a bevy of forty year old babes who have given birth yet still managed to keep their shit hella tight and defy gravity.
If you are going to do some shit that’s going to get you arrested, you’ll feel a lot better if you’re hauled in by a MILF.
NO ONE WILL BE ALLOWED TO QUESTION IF MAYOR MCKOY IS A ROBOT
Bookshelf Q. Battler lied when he said he saw McKoy get eaten by zombies. McKoy is not a robot and he is so certain the townsfolk trust him that he will make it illegal to have politicians checked for metal balls.
MONEY WILL NOT BE WASTED ON RIDICULOUS THINGS
A McKoy administration will tighten the town’s belt by doing the following:
A STATUTE OF JAMES AND LEO
That’s right. A solid gold statute will be built to memorialize the glorious time when Leo McKoy delivered a sandwich to James Van Der Beek.
BAN THE BOOKSHELF BATTLE BLOG
You know with all the zombie attacks, and the yeti always going on a tear, and the space aliens always parking their ships on our front lawns and probing people in unflattering places, life sure isn’t easy in East Randomtown.
But has anyone noticed that life got worse around the same time Bookshelf Q. Battler started his stupid blog?
BQB’s blog is a magnet that pulls every last supernatural asshole in the universe to our humble town.
Thus, when Leo McKoy is elected, he will shut down BQB’s entire operation. All the weirdo monsters that keep descending on our town will get lost and BQB’s 3.5 readers will never be entertained again.
CONCLUSION
A lot of people talk about delivering a sandwich to a 1990s teen heart throb but Leo McKoy was the only man with the guts to actually do it.
Did you do it? No? Then shut your suck hole and be a man and vote for Leo McKoy, because he’ll stop BQB and his dumb blog from destroying our lousy ass town.
PAID FOR BY THE COMMITTEE TO CONVINCE YOU THAT BOOKSHELF Q. BATTLER IS A STUPID DOUCHEFACE WHOSE BLOG SHOULD BE SHUT DOWN SO VOTE FOR LEO MCKOY OR EVERYTHING BAD THAT HAPPENS IN THIS TOWN IS YOUR FAULT BECAUSE HE TRIED TO WARN YOU
“What in the hell are you on about, Wright?”
Wright slid off a pair of black leather gloves as he stepped forward.
“It has been brought to my attention that you have disgraced yourself sir,” Wright said with an air of sophistication.
“Is that so?” Bowie asked.
“It is, sir,” Wright said as he pounded the floor with the end of his cane. “You have been spreading a most scandalous fabrication that has proven to be quite injurious to my character.”
“You’ll have to dumb it down for me, sheriff,” Bowie said. “I don’t speak fop.”
“Did you or did you not state a claim to a collaboration of ruffians that I stole the election?” Wright asked.
“I did,” Bowie replied.
Wright raised his cane in the air. “Aha! So you do not deny that you have slandered me, do you sir?”
“I do deny it,” Bowie said.
“Speak plainly, man,” Wright said. “How can you admit and deny the same offense?”
“I admit that I told a few of my drinking buddies that you stole the election,” Bowie said. “I deny that I slandered you because the truth is not slander.”
Wright gasped. “How dare you sir? You slander me again!”
“Well,” Bowie said. “If the shoe fits…”
The knifeman walked to the bar and ordered a whisky. Wright followed him.
“And now you turn your back on me!”
“What?” Bowie asked as he accepted a full shot glass from Brent. “I thought we were done.”
“Not by a long shot,” Wright said. “Until you publicly retract your villainous lie, this matter will not be put to rest.”
Bowie gulped his shot. “Wright, I personally witnessed those Blanchard boys you got in your back pocket stuffing those ballot boxes with more paper than Tavish’s sister shoves in her brassiere.”
Tavish shook his head up and down, then burped. “It’s true. Old Maude is flatter than a carving board.”
“Look, Wright,” Bowie said. “Everyone knows that the political game is like a hyena’s dick. They’re both crooked and they’re both ugly. I didn’t tell anyone anything they didn’t already know so untwist your knickers, quit your bellyaching, and get out of my face.”
Bowie turned his back on Wright once more, but Wright refused to be ignored. He tapped on Bowie’s shoulder.
The knifeman turned only to be slapped in the face by a pair of gloves.
“I challenge you to a duel, sir!”
Bowie was quiet. Everyone in the bar was quiet.
When Bowie laughed, everyone took it as a cue to join in.
“I never figured you for a comedian, Wright,” Bowie said as he pointed a finger at the sheriff. “That’s a good one.”
Wap! Wright slapped Bowie in the face with his gloves a second time and in so doing, knocked the smile right off of Bowie’s face.
“That’s a good way to get yourself gutted from stem to stern, Wright,” Bowie said.
“Satisfaction will be mine!” Wright shouted.
“You’d be so easy to kill it wouldn’t be a fair fight,” Bowie said.
“And you are making excuses for your cowardice, sir!”
Bowie’s nostrils flared. He took a deep breath, then turned his back on Wright again.
“Well then,” Wright said as he drew his pistol. “If you are not man enough to face me then you leave me no choice.”
Bang!
Wright was known throughout Rapides Parish for being a horrendous shot. The bullet grazed Bowie’s shoulder, cutting a slight rut through the skin of the knifeman’s arm before it landed dead center in Tavish’s chest.
The drunk shouted several choice obscene phrases before falling off his stool. On the floor, he convulsed, then died.
Bowie wasted no time. He grabbed Wright’s arm and shoved him up against a wall. Wright closed his eyes as he felt the cold edge of a knife being held up against his throat.
“You think that does a damn thing for your honor?” Bowie asked. “You try to shoot a man in the back only to murder a useless old lecher instead?”
“This is all your doing, Bowie!” Wright said. “You are the one who refused to face me. That man’s death is on your hands!”
“Shit,” Bowie said. “And I was just starting to like that old coot.”
Brent interrupted. “You just held a knife on him a moment ago.”
“He was starting to grow on me,” Bowie said.
Bang!
Bowie looked to his left. Brent had walked over from the bar and was holding a rifle.
“Jim,” Brent said. “I don’t mean to tell you how to do your business but one dead body in my bar is too many.”
Bowie and Wright stared into each others’ eyes. Wright saw Bowie’s rage. Bowie saw Wright’s fear.
“And I’m no lawyer but you slitting the throat of a lawman who just fired the only shot in his pistol seems like it will end with you swinging at the end of a noose if you ask me.”
“No one asked you, Brent.”
Bowie leered at his hostage a bit longer, then released him.
“Wright, I accept your challenge.”
Wright coughed and clutched at his throat just to make sure it was still there. He then straightened up, dusted himself off, gripped the lapels of his jacket and turned up his nose at the knifeman.
“Pistols at dawn, sir.” Wright said. “Acquire your second and we shall meet at the sandbar.”
“Yes we will,” Bowie said.
Wright stormed off for the door.
“And Wright?”
The sheriff stopped but didn’t turn around.
“Do not miss,” Bowie said. “Because if you do, I assure you, my knife will not.”
1827 – Louisiana
The knife was, like its owner, one of a kind.
The blade was nine and a half inches long, thick and heavy yet sharp enough to split a cat’s whisker. The metal came to a point, then curved for a spell before it ran down to the handle.
The handle was polished oakwood and that curve at the end had been used to hook onto many a man’s gut as if it were a fish.
It wasn’t so much of a knife as it was a mini-machete.
On one evening in particular, Jim Bowie (rhymes with Louie), the knife’s illustrious inventor, sat at a bar inside a dimly lit tavern and peeled an apple with his infamous sticker. He might as well have been juggling gold nuggets with the way the barfly sitting next to him carried on.
Norman Tavish tossed back a brew and brought his stein down on the bar with a good, hard bang.
“Goddamn it, Jim,” the ugly mush mouthed drunk said. “That blade is a thing of beauty.”
Bowie had a lush lion’s mane of brown hair that came down the sides of his face in the form of two mutton chop side burns. Ever prideful, the perpetually angry looking Bowie didn’t find Tavish to be the type of man that was worth much of his time.
“Uh huh,” Bowie replied.
Tavish belched and scratched himself in assorted areas. “How much you want for it?”
Bowie rolled his knife around and around that apple until the peel was gone. “She’s not for sale.”
“Aw come on,” Flint said. “Everything’s got a price.”
Bowie tossed the naked apple up into the air as if it were a ball, then caught it in his hand. “Not everything.”
“I’ll give you anything you want,” Tavish said. “Shit, I’ll let you poke my sister.”
Every drunk in the joint laughed. Caleb Brent, the old bald barkeep, polished a glass and snickered.
“Fuck, Tavish. I’ve seen alligators more appetizing than your sister. You’ll have to do better than that.”
Tavish opened up his coat and tapped his finger on the side of a flint lock pistol hanging from his belt.
“I’ll trade you for it. Fair and square, like.”
Bowie snickered. “A pistol is a woman’s weapon. I rue the day they were ever invented.”
Tavish drank some courage. “Do my ears deceive me or did you just call me a woman?”
“I didn’t call you a woman,” Bowie replied. “I said you’ve got a woman’s weapon. Draw whatever inference you like.”
Brent laughed. Soon, everyone else in the bar was laughing.
Tavish looked around the bar. “Oh, you all think that’s funny, huh?”
The drunk drew his pistol and cocked the hammer. “You think I’m funny, Bowie?”
The calm and cool knifeman carefully calibrated his response. “You are whatever you think you are, friend.”
Tavish pointed his pistol at Bowie. “Well I think I’m the man that’s going to blow your damn head off, friend.”
Bowie set his apple down on the bar and stared deeply, intently into Tavish’s eyes.
Clang! The knifeman’s blade bashed Tavish’s pistol to the right, towards the collection of liquor bottles behind the bar. Reflexively, the drunk pulled the trigger and a nice big bottle of bourbon exploded, sending shards of glass and drops of brown liquid everywhere.
Bowie grabbed Tavish by the scalp and bashed the drunk’s’ face into the bar. When Tavish was allowed to lift his head up, he found himself staring at the point of Bowie’s knife, which was being held less than a quarter of an inch away from his eyeball.
“A pistol is a woman’s weapon because it isn’t that difficult for a drunken fool to take a shot at one of his betters,” Bowie explained. “Many a man has fired a pistol in a fit of rage only to live to regret pulling the trigger at a later date. Pistols make killing far too easy but a knife? I don’t care what anyone says. I don’t care how hot the fire in a man’s belly burns. I don’t care how many times he claims after the fact that he lost his mind in the heat of the moment. To kill a man with a knife, you have to use every muscle you have. You have to break through bone and sinew and dig through guts. Sometimes you’ve got to rip that knife out and stab him again and again, three, four, five times. You got to look that man right in the eye and not give a fuck that you are extinguishing all his hopes and dreams as you plunge that knife right into his still beating heart. Make no mistake about it. If a man dies at the edge of a blade it is because the man holding the knife wanted that death to happen.”
Bowie pulled his knife back. Tavish sat up.
“And so my point was, before you so rudely interrupted me, is that women use pistols. Men use knives.”
Brent, who had hunkered down behind the bar, rose to his feet and breathed a sigh of relief upon realizing the coast was clear.
“I’m sorry, Jim,” Tavish said. “It was just the drink talking. I didn’t mean to insult your knife.”
“I know you didn’t.”
Bowie tossed his apple three feet above the bar, then stood up, and threw his knife toward the fruit.
The knife struck right into the center of the apple and blade and fruit become one until they struck the wall. Two perfectly cut slices fell to the bar.
After walking to the end of the bar and pulling his knife out of the wall, Bowie returned, handed Tavish a slice, and took a bite out of the other piece.
“Just remember,” Bowie said as he slapped Tavish on the back. “It’s not for sale.”
Tavish nodded.
“And if I find out you didn’t reimburse Caleb for his bourbon…”
The drunk threw up his hands. “I will.”
“I know you will,” Bowie said.
With the spectacle over, all patrons in the bar returned to their usual doings. Brent went to work on cleanup. Tavish persisted in drowning his sorrows.
All was quiet until the double doors at the front of the bar swung open.
In stepped Sheriff Norris Wright, a former army major turned sheriff. He had a thick, bushy mustache and slicked back hair.
“Bowie!”
The knifeman craned his neck just enough to acknowledge the lawman.
“You have offended my honor, sir, and I demand satisfaction!”
“Hey, where my baes at? Wicky wicky!”
Slather on some extra lipstick and hike up your pants, 3.5 readers.
BQB here with a review of Miranda Sings’ TV debut with Haters Back Off, streamable now on Netflix.
As a pop culture nerd, I’ve been aware of Miranda Sings’ YouTube channel for awhile. I can’t quite put my finger on when I first learned of her. Rather, it seems like the sun or water, she’s just always been there.
The character is so larger than life that you might be surprised there’s a real person under those pants.
Colleen Ballinger (honestly, I never knew the name of the person behind Miranda until she got her own Netflix show) has explained the genesis of her alter ego and I’ll try to do it justice (with some of my own assumptions that may or may not be accurate.)
Years ago, Colleen was an aspiring singer and as such, she was surrounded by all kinds of egotistical “look at me girls” who performed song covers in their bed rooms in front of video cameras, posted the videos on YouTube and then immediately thought doing so would launch a music career.
The odds of getting discovered like that aren’t great, so rather join them, she invented Miranda and made fun of them.
It was 2008, the early days of YouTube and Colleen aka Miranda became a comic genius. She not only lampooned the egotistical “I want to be a success overnight by posting dumb videos” phenomenon that so many millennials have become swept up in, but she also got the chance to make fun of a variety of music stars in the process.
Great plan if you ask me, because if you head on over to YouTube and do a search for your favorite modern pop hit, chances are, if you scroll down far enough, you’ll see Miranda with her poorly applied lipstick and Steve Urkel-esque pants singing a cover of the song terribly yet congratulating herself on a job well done in her nasal voice anyway.
To Colleen’s credit, she’s embraced Miranda to the hilt low these many years. She’s gone on tour and appeared on TV shows as Miranda and only as Miranda i.e. similar to the way Sascha Baron Cohen would go on a TV show as Borat and everyone would treat him as Borat.
Like Lady Gaga, Colleen has kept her poker face. Go to Miranda Sings’ Twitter and you’ll find a bevy of misspelled yet egotistical tweets as Miranda compliments herself on her latest activities whilst being clueless as to her skills, talent, or rather, lack thereof.
And Miranda has even developed all sorts of catch phrases. With “Haters Back Off” she has essentially immunized herself from YouTube criticism. YouTube commenters are notorious for savagely ripping into YouTubers, often being a little too harsh on people who are just trying to show the world their interest in song, dance, entertainment or what have you.
But since Miranda is already parodying the “Oh my God someone wrote a bad comment about me on the Internet and it has ruined my life” lifestyle, it is hard to bring her down with a negative comment. (Well, its hard to bring Colleen down. Miranda, for humorous purposes as we see in the first episode of her show, gets emotionally ruined by the slightest online criticism.)
Her other catchphrase is, “No porn.” Miranda fancies herself classy. If you dress in a skimpy outfit, she’ll likely accuse you of “doing porn.”
Social Media has truly exploded over the last decade and not always for the better. This election, with friends and neighbors squabbling over their preferred candidate, is proof of that.
But the best thing about social media is it has allowed people with talent to shine and be discovered in a way that is usually reserved for people with connections, contacts, agents, and/or just a tremendous amount of luck.
Therefore, I tip my hat to this YouTuber as she took an idea, produced it out of her bedroom, nurtured, grew it, kept it going and eight years later, has her own TV show.
Now with many pop culture sensations, a TV show or movie based on said sensation usually ends up being crap. Hollywood suits get together, attempt to ride a popular name for as long as they can, but then don’t give a lot of thought to the plot.
That’s not the case here.
In this show, we see Miranda’s life, and not just the parts from YouTube.
A homeschooled nerd devoid of style, manners, common sense, and/or talent yet overflowing with (you might say undeserved) self-confidence, the show begins with Miranda recording a poorly performed song and loading it to YouTube.
Miranda’s Uncle Jim is an assistant fish store manager and is as clueless and egotistical as Miranda is, convinced that he’s going to manage his niece’s entertainment career all the way to the top.
FYI Jim is played by Steve Little who you might remember as Kenny Powers’ clueless weirdo friend from HBO’s Eastbound and Down. Steve did such a good job with that role he is apparently going to be playing clueless weirdos forever now.
Eh, there are worse jobs, right?
Angela Kinsey (Angela the accountant from The Office who was always judging Pam when she wasn’t busy being Dwight’s creepy love interest) plays Miranda’s mother Bethany.
Bethany is convinced she has undiagnosed fibromyalgia (but more likely has hypochondria) and has a dress and a casual wrist brace, neither of which are necessary.
She nurtures Miranda to a fault and encourages Miranda’s unlikely music career and caters to her every egotistical whim (Miranda bosses her mother around similar to how Zach Galifinakis bosses his mother around in The Hangover.)
Rounding out the family is Emily (Francesca Reale) who is Miranda’s sister and the only normal, level-headed member of the family.
As I saw Emily reading a book entitled, Living with Crazy, I caught the point of the show.
Yes, a bunch of people got together and figured out a way to make a buck off the Miranda Sings character, but this show is much more than that.
This show puts “the other half” on full display, in all their glory.
So many shows are filled with beautiful people with beautiful people problems. “Oh no, which of my many suitors will I pick? Everyone loves me, whatever will I do?”
Or worse, there are so many sitcoms with perfect parents and perfect children.
In the real world, real families have real problems. Sometimes families aren’t even traditional, as in the case of a hypochondriac mother and a creepy uncle raising an egotistical daughter who is convinced she should be a superstar and another daughter who just yearns to live a normal life.
There’s something for everyone to relate to in this show. Maybe YOU are the one in your family with a crazy problem. Or maybe you are like Emily and you just want to be normal but you’re forced to deal with your family’s craziness.
And ultimately, the show is a lampooning of the quest for Internet fame.
Yes, people, you do live in an age where it is possible to bypass agents, auditions, and entertainment industry decision makers and gain notoriety on your own.
BUT – just because the technology is there doesn’t automatically mean you have the talent to make it happen.
Because you can do it doesn’t necessarily mean you should do it…and you just might make an ass out of yourself along the way.
Ahh, but here’s the rub. “Get some confidence” is the advice we’re always told when we pursue our dreams.
What happens if your confidence outweighs your talent?
Such is Miranda’s dilemma.
I hand it to Colleen/Miranda. Had she opted to be just another girl singing covers in her bedroom and posting the videos to YouTube, the odds are she wouldn’t have gone anywhere, but by creating a character to poke fun at these girls, she created an empire with little more than a pair of hitched up Urkel pants, some caked on lipstick, and a nasal nerd voice.
I hope this TV success doesn’t mean that Miranda is going to leave us anytime soon.
However, after seeing Colleen as herself on Jimmy Fallon, I can tell that it won’t be long before Hollywood starts knocking on her door with parts that are reserved for starlets and not nerds.
She deserves it but as her star rises, I just hope she doesn’t throw those hiked up pants away. She needs to keep them in the back of her closet to remember that so many of her fans are, in fact, more like Miranda than they are like a Hollywood star.
I’m in awe of people who got in on the ground floor of the social media craze.
My initial reaction then was, “Eh, this is interesting but why the shit do I want to be on a website where everyone talks about what they had for lunch and posts a photo of their lunch?”
But Colleen found her niche, made a bold decision to be funny and not take herself seriously by inventing a hilarious character and eight years later, people are taking her seriously now.
Impressive. Where my baes at?
Happy November, 3.5 Readers.
Halloween is over but my latest attempt at a novel has just begun.
I’m zombifying the Alamo, people. How you are all not excited about this I don’t know.
I wrote the first draft of How the West Was Zombed this year.
And then I let it sit for awhile as I considered how to turn the story of several cowboys into a Zombie Western series.
So Zombed became the second novel as I got myself partway through writing Undead Man’s Hand.
And then Zombed is becoming the third and Undead the second as Remember the Zombamo will be first.
The hook I finally thought of – as I read about the history of the Battle of the Alamo, I realized that the main heroes – William Travis, Jim Bowie, Davy Crockett, Sam Houston all headed to Texas because they screwed the pooch on something and were looking for a second chance.
I’ve said this before but my novels always end up being about losers in search for redemption. Probably because I am one.
So these men, based on circumstances that happen to them, end up in Texas taking on Santa Anna.
Its a tale of bravery because the Alamo defenders knew ahead of time they were vastly, ridiculously outnumbered but they stayed to fight rather than run.
But in my zombified version, these heroes come together to stop a great evil.
And then the series will progress…a new cowboy will be introduced in each subsequent book and by the end, five will come together through life circumstances to take on evil and then close out the series….and by then I can only assume this will all have made me awesomely rich.
Not because I will sell so many copies but because I will charge my readers a million dollars a piece so 3.5 sales = 3.5 million dollars.
I know it will be hard, 3.5 readers, but take out some usurious loans and procure the services of multiple loan sharks if you have to.
My attorney tells me to mention I am only kidding. Don’t do any of that.
Come along for the ride, 3.5 readers! I’m zombifying the Alamo!
So far, Santa Anna has been turned into a vampire and William Travis’ delusions of grandeur and epic debt have him headed to Texas in a hurry.
Next up – Jim Bowie and his Arkansas toothpick.
Bookshelf Battle 