Author Archives: bookshelfbattle

Jul 21 2015
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Pop Culture Mysteries: And then…

And then after Roundtree asks how Hatcher learned to throw a punch like that, the novel would go back to Hatcher’s days as a prize fighter, how he had a shot at being a winner but the mob forced him to take a dive, how he’d always wanted to redeem himself and finally gets the chance to do so when he’s recruited for a secret mission to punch Hitler in the face.

It’s kind of a dose of Abraham Lincoln Vampire Hunter in rewriting history in a fun yet semi-serious manner.

This is all top secret stuff the government doesn’t want you to know so luckily only 3.5 people read this damn thing.

Your feedback as to if this is a viable novel is welcome.  As always, if you see problems, tell me.

Jul 21 2015
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POP CULTURE MYSTERIES: OPERATION FUHRERPUNSCHEN (Chapter 3)

I was surrounded.

Tucked snugly in my waistband and hidden under my tank top, Betsy was my only back-up.

The leader dismounted his horse and pointed his sword at me, bidding me to reach for the sky.  I wasn’t in a position to argue.

“I am Amal Al-Karim,”  the man said as he removed the scarf that once covered his mouth, revealing a bushy black beard.  “Son of Imran, descendant of a tribe that traces its roots in this land to the 7th Century.”

Silence.  They were all waiting on me.

“I’m Hatcher,”  I replied.  “Jake Hatcher.  Son of Gus.  I’m from Bayonne.”

“Hatcher, Son of Gus,”  Amal said.  “You’re not a German.”

“I should say not,”  I said.  “In fact, there’s some egg on your face there, chief, because my boys and I are here to make the Germans go boom boom for ya’ so if you’ll take a hike we’ll be on our way as soon as we can.”

Amal walked around to my other side, studying me as if I were some kind of puzzle.  Little did he know I wasn’t that deep.

“You’re not a Frenchman.”

“What tipped you off?”  I asked.  “That we shot at you a couple of times before giving up?”

Ouch.  Yeah, I know.  Low blow.  The whole situation in France and her greater territories was a real, to borrow a modern phrase, “shit show.”

You had your Vichy French.  They collaborated with Hitler’s goons.  Then you had the Free French, the Frenchies who answered to the so-called government in exile under Charles Degaulle.  There was a whole French underground movement that fought the Germans valiantly.

The Vichy French were collaborating with the Germans in North Africa at the time as well, though I heard it wasn’t unheard of for the occasional Frenchman to switch sides once the Allies came rolling in.

“And you’re not British,”  Amal said.  “Where is this, ‘Bayonne?’”

“You’re looking at a bonafide Stars and Stripes waving American, Abu.”

“Amal.”

“Whatever.”

“Why are Americans here?”

“That’s a helluva yarn,”  I said.  “Long story short, the Japanese bombed us, the Japanese and the Nazis are buddies, so now we hate the Germans and so now we’re here to make the Nazis go bye bye.”

“The French as well?”

“Only if they get in the way,”  I said.

Amal looked around at a few of his men.  I was outnumbered and like the Queen of England after a night with Prince Phillip, screwed royally.

“Surely these lands will return to us when this war is over?”

“Pbbbhhhhht…”

That was my only response.  I tried to stall but the breathe slipped out of my lips like I was a leaky balloon.

“You know, Armando…”

“Amal.”

“Right,”  I said.  “I’m just a tiny cog in a much larger machine.  The brass doesn’t fill me in on the big picture questions like that.  They tell me where to go and who to shoot and I do it.  You know how it is.”

Without warning, Amal grabbed my knogan and slammed it up against the tank tread.

“YOU WILL ANSWER ME!”

“All right!”  I said.  “Jesus.  I’m not a betting man, but I’d say when the dust settles, the French will be calling the shots in these parts again.”

Amal raised his sword and I felt a few drips of my own urine leak out in terror as the sun’s rays glistened off the shiny steel.

Me?  Jake Hatcher?  Get separated from my squash in the name of French imperialism?

No thank you.

I reached into my pants and pulled out my weapon.

The other one.

Betsy had six shots on her and I was going to use all of them.

SHOT 1 – Into Amal’s foot, putting him in so much pain that he was forced to release me.

SHOT 2 – The head of the palooka who charged at me screaming various mumbo jumbo words I didn’t understand.

SHOT 3 – A fella’s head, stopping him before he could jam his damn sword into my neck.

SHOT 4 – Some nimrod that tried to slice my stomach open.

SHOTS 5 and 6 – Two galoots that made a run for me, each dispatched in quick secession.

I was out and Betsy was back in my waistband for safekeeping.

Amal and a few of his goons circled me as the others watched.  Why they all didn’t just jump me, I don’t know.  Maybe it was customary to let their leader duke it out.  Maybe they just thought by hanging back, it would make for a more dramatic effect.

  For an injured man, Amal was pretty handy with the steel.  He lunged at me and I bypassed him quickly, then introduced one of his cronies to the business end of my fist. 

Yet another attacker screamed some gibberish and slashed away at me only to meet my left hook, followed up by a sweet right cross.

These fellas were hungry and I had an unlimited supply of knuckle sandwiches.

Amal flipped his sword around, performing various tricks until finally I delivered a clothesline punch right to his kisser.

He hit the ground like a ton of bricks.  I let my fists fly, one by one knocking the sword swinging madmen off their feet with my fists of fury.

Amal was back up.  Once more, he raised his sword and was about to bring it down when….BLAKATKATKAT!!!!

A barrage of machine gun fire ripped him to shreds.  A dozen or so more palookas were cut down until the rest of them hopped on their high horses and got while the getting was good.

Like an old Western, the cavalry had come at the last minute.  Except they were rapidly approaching in the form of ten tanks with British markings.

I’d never been happier to see the Union Jack.

They pulled up to a halt.  The hatch on one of them opened and a man with a handlebar mustache popped out.

“I say,”  the Brit said.  “What the bloody hell are you yanks doing out here in the middle of nowhere all by yourselves?”

The hatch of my tank popped open and Dag shoved his stupid head out, only to loudly shout, “God save the Queen!”

“I love you guys!”  my mechanic continued as he jumped out and walked over.  Sam and Larry soon followed.

“I love tea,”  Dag continued.  “I love crumpets.  I love your muffins.”

The Brit came out to meet us and I answered his original question after shaking his hand.

“Good help is hard to find.”

“Yes,”  the Brit said.  “And my good man, you are…”

“Hatcher,”  I said.  “Sergent Jake Hatcher.  Third U.S. Army.”

“Major Nigel Roundtree, at your service.  You’re a bit far from General Patton.”

“Yeah,”  I said, pointing at my rig, and then at Dag.

“Lousy ride…lousier mechanic.”

“Hey!”

“No worries, old boy,” Roundtree said as his men began exiting their tanks.  “My men will have a look at it.  You chaps look famished.”

“I could eat,”  Sam said.

“Come, come,”  my new friend said as he put his arm around me.  “We’ll have a drink and get you fixed up.”

“No arguments here,”  I said.

“But Hatcher, you must tell me something.”

“What’s that?”

“Where on Earth did you learn to throw a punch like that?”

Copyright 2015 Bookshelf Q. Battler.

Jul 21 2015
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Pop Culture Mysteries

Pop Culture Mysteries: Operation Fuhrerpunschen (Chapter 2)

“What do you think they want?”  Larry asked as we sat in the hull like a bunch of packed sardines.

“To buy us some flowers and take us on a date,”  Dag said.  “To kill us, you jackass!  What do you think?”

“That doesn’t make any sense,”  Larry said.  “We aren’t here to hurt them.”

I peered into the scope and got a better look at our incoming attackers.

“To them we’re just another bunch of assholes fighting over their shit, kid,”  I said.  “Load ‘er up, Sam.”

Sam couldn’t have possibly been comfortable in such a confined space.  I’m surprised he never developed a hunchback.

The Texan loaded up a high caliber shell.

Our ride was immobile but the turret still worked and I while I hated to fire on a bunch of locals who weren’t thrilled with the sight of new visitors, it was them or me and I was suddenly overcome by an overwhelming desire for it to be them.

“Two clicks out, Dag.”

“Ay, ay, mon Capitan.”

Dag adjusted the turret and…wait for it…wait for it…

“FIRE IN THE HOLE!”

Through the scope, I saw a powerful blast take out the first few rows of the oncoming formation. 

OK.  Before there’s a Twitter campaign for Bookshelf Q. Battler to resign from the Bookshelf Battle Blog for allowing me to write about how I ordered a bunch of Moroccans AND their horses to be wiped out, I’d like to once again remind you 3.5 readers:

1) It was war.

2)  It was them or me.

3)  It was pretty much Dag’s fault for not fixing the engine.  Had we been where we were supposed to be, those dead Moroccans could have been dead Nazis.  When it comes to dead Nazis, I always prefer more of them.

Sam loaded ‘er up, I advised, and Dag let ‘em have it again.

Between the two shots, we’d managed to cut the incoming force by half, but it was still about fifty to four.

Clank.  Clank.  Clank.

It wasn’t Dag’s wrench this time.  They’d reached the tank and were no doubt riding around us in circles, slapping the hull with their swords as an intimidation tactic.

Suddenly, a knock on the hull.

We all looked at each other, stupefied looks on our faces.

Finally, the muffled words came from the outside.

“Send out your leader.”

More dumb looks.

“Congratulations Dag my boy,”  I said as I slapped my mechanic on the shoulder,  “I’ve just resigned and gave you a field promotion as my last official act.”

“Oh F…”

Yeah.  Bookshelf Q. Battler tells me his readers aren’t cool with the “F” word so we’ll move along.

“You can’t do that!”

Dag was right.  I couldn’t.  And I wasn’t going to.  That tank was my ship and if it was going down, I was going to go with it.

“Send out your leader,”  the voice repeated.  “And the rest of you may live.”

“It was nice knowing you, Sarge,”  Dag said as he returned a slap on my shoulder.

“Screw that,”  Sam said.  “We’re in a metal fortress.  They’ve got swords and some Winchesters.  We’re fine.  We can stay in here forever.”

Sam had a point.

But then a hissing sound made me realize he didn’t have one after all.

Larry looked more worried than usual.

“Is that…”

“Dynamite,”  I said.

“You have thirty seconds until the wick burns down, invaders…”

“Put Lorraine’s picture on a stick and shove it up the hatch,”  Sam said.  “They’ll run like hell.”

Larry punched the Texan in the arm.

“OK!”  I shouted.

“No!”  Sam yelled as he loaded up a machine gun.  “If you’re going out, Sarge, we’re going out with you.”

“Right,”  Dag said.  “You guys go out first and I’ll be right behind you I swear.”

I ignored the peanut gallery.

“I’m coming out!”

The hissing stopped.  The wick was extinguished.

“Sarge,”  Sam said.  “We can take them.”

“Don’t be stupid,”  I said.  “I’m giving myself up and whatever happens, you’re all under a direct order to shut that hatch after I leave and don’t open it until the coast is clear.”

Sam nodded.

“You’re a brave man, Sarge.”

“Yes,”  Dag added as I climbed the ladder.  “I’d stop you, sir, but you just put me under a direct order so…”

“I really hate you, Dag.”

Copyright Bookshelf Q. Battler. All Rights Reserved.

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Jul 21 2015
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Pop Culture Mysteries

Pop Culture Mysteries: Operation Fuhrerpunschen (Chapter 1)

In theory, if Jake were to write a second novel after Mr. Devil Man about his time in World War II and specifically about how he punched a certain dictator in the face, these three chapters might be how it would begin.

Feedback, criticism (especially negative) welcomed and appreciated.

Operation Torch

November, 1942

French Morocco

The last drop of water tumbled out of my canteen and onto my tongue, providing momentary refreshment until a grim reality set in:

None of us had a clue where our next source of hydration was going to come from.

Clank.  Clank.  Clank.

“I hate your guts Dag,”  I said as I laid down across the side of the M4 Sherman Tank under my command.  “Before we all die of heatstroke out here I just want you to know that.”

Clank.  Clank.  Clank.

Victor “Dag” D’Agostino was my mechanic, a fast talking Italian fella from Brooklyn, not all that far from my hometown of Bayonne, New Jersey in the grand scheme of things.  He was a decent enough guy, though a little twitchy.  He was a real bundle of nerves, able to fly into a blind rage at the slightest provocation.

Luckily, he was a small fry so he wasn’t able to do too much damage.

“Got any 7’s?”

On the opposite side of the turret, a no holds barred game of Go Fish was underway.

“Go fish.”

“No.  Look, right here.  You have a seven.  If someone asks you if you have a seven, you’re supposed to fork it over dummy.”

I closed my eyes and listened to the Southern drawl of my second-in-command, Corporal Samuel T. Calhoun.  He was a big fella, at least 6’5” and packing two-bucks and some change of solid muscle.  It was a bitch to share a tank him on account of his massive size, but I was glad he was on our side.

“Larry,”  Sam said.  “I can’ t for the life of me figure out how we’ve been playing this all damn day and you still don’t know the rules.”

“I can’t figure out why two red blooded American males aren’t playing poker,”  I interjected.

“Nothing to bet with Sarge,” came Sam’s reply.  “Except sand, sand and more sand.”

Clank.  Clank.  Clank.

“I can’t gamble anyway,”  Larry added.  “I promised Lorraine before I left that this war wasn’t going to turn me into a disciple of the devil and by God I’m going to keep that promise.”

Sam and I groaned.  I don’t remember what we each said, but it was along the lines of “Oh for the love of” and “not this again.”  We made our lamentations at the same time.

Private Larry Torkilsen was a freckle faced, red-haired Iowa boy, straight out of the corn field and as naive about the world as he was goofy looking.  None of us had the heart to tell him that Lorraine had probably run off with a Good Time Charlie as soon as he shipped out.

“Does this girl even exist?”  Sam asked. 

“Of course she does, here’s a picture.”

A moment passed.  A few more clanks and then a, “BLECH!.”

Larry walked around the turret to visit me.  I was feeling feint from being baked alive under the hot North African sun so naturally, there was a part of me that wanted to tell the kid where to shove his photograph.

On the other hand, the private’s scrawny carcass blocked the sun’s rays, giving me a little relief, but not much.

“Wanna see my girl, Sarge?”

“Give it here.”

I opened my eyes to see a snaggle toothed walrus of a gal, but even under the stress of the predicament I was in, I recalled two of Ma Hatcher’s most important lessons:

1)  It’s what’s on the inside that matters.

2)  If you can’t say something nice, don’t say anything at all.

“Top notch broad you’ve got there, Larry,”  I said as I handed the photograph back.  “If I were you I’d be all over that like stink on a monkey.”

Clank.  Clank.  Clank.

“Thanks Sarge,”  Larry said.  The kid sat down a few inches from my feet and allowed his to dangle over the side of the giant metal beast.

Crapola.  He was probably going to want to talk.

“You ever get scared, Sarge?”

I could literally feel my flesh searing.  I felt like a nice juicy porterhouse must feel when it hits the frying pan.

“Please,”  Sam interrupted as he took a seat on top of the turret.  “The Sarge has a big ole pair of brass clankers.”

“Everyone gets scared now and then,”  I said.  “Anyone who tells you they don’t is a damn liar.”

Finally, some silence….but not for long.

Clank.  Clank.  Clank.

“But the person who should be scared is Dag, who was given…”

I raised my voice to make sure the little twerp would be able to hear me through all the racket he was making.

“…A DIRECT ORDER TO HAVE THIS CONTRAPTION IN TIP TOP SHAPE BEFORE WE LEFT!”

“What?!”

Dag lifted his head away from the engine.  He was still wearing his leather helmet with the goggles that made his beady little eyes look bigger than they wear. 

“What do you want?!  Do you think I asked for this?!”

I sat up.  The three of us became an audience ready to take in a comedy show we’d seen plenty of times before.

“Do you think I was sitting there one day in my ma’s kitchen, gobbling up one of her delicious Sunday dinners, thinking to myself, ‘Holy Shit, I really hope that a bunch of shit head politicians will decide that I have to travel all the way across the Atlantic Ocean to some Godforsaken desert wasteland just so I can fight a bunch of Krauts who stole a wasteland from the Frogs who, by the way, stole it from Ali Baba and the Forty Thieves or whoever the shit owned this shit hole first.”

I apologize, modern 3.5 readers.  People weren’t very nice when it came to talking about race back in those days.  Looking back on it, I was ahead of my time in my progressiveness.  I never used words like, “Krauts” or “Frogs” when “Germans” and “French” would do.

“You’re right, Sarge,”  Dag continued.  “This is all my fault, because after I wished to be snatched up and sent over here, I also got down on my hands and knees and prayed to God every single night to please, please stick me in the shittiest excuse for a tank in the Third U.S. Army.”

“It’s been three days, Dag,”  I said.  “Can you fix the engine or not?”

Ever the clown, Dag reached a hand down into the back of his pants and fished around.

“I dunno,”  Dag said.  “Let me see if I have any spare parts up my ass.”

“Probably not with your head taking up all the room,”  Sam said.

Dag lifted up his goggles, threw down his wrench and put up his dukes.

“You wanna go, Hayseed?”

Sam unfurled himself to his full standing length.  The Empire State Building with legs is the best description of the guy I can think of.

“Anytime, Dago!”

3.5 readers, it was the 1940’s, OK?  I’m not excusing it, but I can’t whitewash history either.

“Enough!”  I shouted.

The men piped down.

“Dag,”  I said.  “Do you realize we’re missing the war?”

“Yes,”  Dag replied.  “Hell, you should be thanking me.”

“Thanking you?”  I asked.  “Someday they’re going to sing songs about how Patton shoved his .357 Magnum up Rommel’s ass and the only thing I’m going to be able to tell my grandkids is that I sat around in the desert with a broke tank and a gallon of sand up my ass crack!”

“That’s if we make it back at all,”  Sam said.  “No water.  We can start walking now and it’ll be days before we reach any kind of civilization.”

“Maybe we should of started walking while we still had some water,”  Dag said with a smarmy look on his stupid puss.

“Maybe I thought you weren’t such a moron that you’d be able to fix this rust bucket!”

“Oh yeah?” 

In the distance, there was the slightest sound coming over the horizon.  Larry was the only one paying any attention.

“Hey…fellas?”

“Well,”  Dag said as he waved a finger in my face.  “Maybe YOU’RE the moron for thinking I’M not a moron!”

Dag instantly regretted that statement as Sam and I bursted out laughing.

The sound got louder.  It was a bunch of men yelling.

“Does anyone else hear that?”  Larry asked.

“Quit your bellyaching and get back in there,”  I said.  “I don’t want to see your ugly mug again until this rattle trap is ready to roll, see?”

“GUYS!”

Larry was whiter than a ghost that had fallen into a vat of vanilla ice cream.  We turned around to see what he was pointing at. 

“No,” I thought.  “It can’t be.”

I grabbed my binoculars and got a better gander.

There they were.  Over a hundred Moroccan riders galloping their horses faster than bats out of hell right at us.  They wore turbans, long flowing robes and scarves protected their faces from the sand that was whipping up into the air all around them.

They all had those fancy curved swords. Scimitars they called them.  Every rider had one and was swinging it around in the air.

Plink.  Plank.  A few of them had even embraced more modern weaponry, given the rifle shots that were ricocheting off the tank’s hull.

Dag made a run for the hatch and popped it open.

We all piled inside.

The last thing I heard before I pulled the hatch shut?

“LA LA LA LA LA LA LA LA LA LA!!!!”

Copyright Bookshelf Q. Battler 2015.  All Rights Reserved.

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Jul 21 2015
2 Comments
One Post a Day Challenge

I’m sorry…

I’ve tried my best not to do a throwaway post in this one post a day for a year challenge but here goes:

I live waffles!

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Jul 20 2015
4 Comments
Uncategorized

Do Zombies Poop?

We don’t like to talk about it, but scientifically speaking, the removal of waste is an important biological function.

It’s not only necessary for sustaining life, it’s a sign of life itself.

In short, what goes in, must come out.

Zombies are, by their very definition, dead.

But they eat. Specifically, they want to eat you.

Say we’re in the zombie apocalypse. You’re the slowest member of our pack and a zombie eats you for lunch.

We did our best to help but you know, this is the zombie apocalypse and shit happens.

But does that shit happen for a zombie? Because if a zombie eats you, me, and a dozen other people, eventually it’s going to get pretty crowded in there.

In short, if zombies don’t poop, then eventually the principles of science dictate they must reach a critical mass after which their zombie bodies can no longer hold in matter and then they explode, a sea of consumed body parts flying everywhere.

Do zombies poop?

Author Jack Flacco posed this very intriguing question on jackflacco.com

Check it out, 3.5 readers. As God as my witness, I will not rest until this very important question is answered.

– Bookshelf Q. Battler

Jack Flacco's avatarLooking to God

Whenever I write about something, I try to find an angle to the story. Although I may have an idea, and it may be a good idea, I won’t write about it until I discover the hook. When it comes to zombies, as much as I enjoy the genre, the hook may not be so obvious. The reason for this stems from the fact that the genre has a number of mysteries I have yet to answer. I’m sure someone out there has the answer, but I don’t.

Do Zombies Poop? Do Zombies Poop?

Today’s Monday Mayhem feature will concentrate on describing what three of those mysteries are.

Do Zombies Die?—I’ll have to admit I haven’t watched or read all the zombie stories out there. Yes, I also feel it is a travesty. Other than Warm Bodies, where, after some time, the zombies become Boneys, and in The Walking Dead, where the…

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Jul 20 2015
1 Comment
Movies

Sharktopus vs. Whalewolf (SyFy Channel Movie Trailer)

I smell Oscar…

New Trailers Buzz – Sharktopus vs. Whalewolf (Roger Corman, SyFy Channel)

Shark+Octopus=Sharktopus

Whale+Wolf=Whalewolf

What say you, 3.5 readers?

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Jul 20 2015
3 Comments
Pop Culture Mysteries

Pop Culture Mysteries: BQB’s Working On It

Hello 3.5 Readers.

WOMAN: I'm scared! OPERATOR: Because there's a man in your house? WOMAN: No because BQB hasn't posted any new Pop Culture Mysteries yet!

WOMAN: I’m scared!
OPERATOR: Because there’s a man in your house?
WOMAN: No because BQB hasn’t posted any new Pop Culture Mysteries yet!

Bookshelf Q. Battler here.

Funny thing about being an aspiring writer.

Literally no one respects the process.

Here’s how my past week has been.

BQB:  Uh, HELLO?!  Can everyone leave me alone?  I’m trying to write a whimsically fun story about a private dick who woke up after a 59 year nap and now solves mysteries related to popular culture!

EVERYONE:  BAH HA HA HA! F*&K YOU AND DO OUR BIDDING, SLAVE!

Here’s hoping there will be more free time in the week ahead.

My problem has never been one of writer’s block.

I have too many ideas.  I just never have enough time.

But I know I have to pick one and this seems like a good one, with a structure that fits my life.  I can post pieces of a mystery, form an ongoing story, and then hopefully manage to produce a book at the end of the season.

Until next time, 3.5.

Photo courtesy of a shutterstock.com license.

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Jul 19 2015
3 Comments
The Yeti

Bookshelf Q. Battler on Facebook

By:  The Yeti, International War Criminal/Fuzzy Snow Monster

The Yeti, Uninvited Correspondent

The Yeti, Uninvited Correspondent/BQB’s Nemesis

Obligatory roar.

What is this, this Facebook nonsense that you pathetic Americans insist on foisting onto the world?

I got on to my super charged Commodore 64 and here’s what I found:

“Oh look at me, I’m eating a burrito for lunch!  Let me take 507 photos of it and post them immediately.”

“Oh, yes, my smelly child said something adorable today.  Allow me to tell you all about it in excruciating detail.”

“I spent my morning shopping for sandals.  Aren’t I the incorrigible one?”

“Here’s my polarizing political opinion.  Disagree with me and you are the devil!”

“When it comes to candy, I’m for it!”

“Look, my dog is adorable.”

“Ahh, here’s me with a drink in my hand.  I am such a free spirit!”

“PATOOIE!” says this Yeti.

As you non-Yetis are aware, I was from Siberia.  (At least I was, until my sworn enemy Bookshelf Q. Battler imprisoned me deep below the bowels of the Bookshelf Battle Compound for my International Yeti War Crimes.

(There was an incident.  I tried to take down the Bookshelf Battle Blog to prevent it from spreading awesomeness across the globe.  I believe the only forms of entertainment that should be consumed are Olga’s Stewstravaganza and my book, 101 Ways to Ration Your Toilet Paper).

Anyway, Facebook is just another dumb example of evil American capitalist exploitation.  Sure, you all laugh and trade pictures of your lives on it, but Zuckerberg will have the last laugh when he uses your info to declare himself Emperor of the World.

Until then, I suppose you could check out Facebook.com/bookshelfqbattler – BQB’s Facebook Page 

Like it and you’ll get BQB’s nonsense directly into your feed, though why you’d want to read more of that jerk face’s ramblings I don’t know.

Yes yes, you all have fun on your blogs and social media and so on, living carefree lives while ignoring the plight of smelly yetis everywhere.

All I want to know is how you all share your damn vacation photos and mundane anecdotes all day long without passing out from the boredom.

Want to know how we used to punish people in the Siberian gulag?  We showed them our vacation photos and told them mundane anecdotes!

“Muah ha ha!  Confess to your crimes against Siberia or I’ll tell you about that Diet Coke I spilled on myself and show you photos of the lasagna I ate for dinner!”

Foolish Americans.  The fine videos provided by Paint Drying Media are the only form of American entertainment I like.

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Jul 19 2015
5 Comments
Ask the Alien

Ask the Alien – 7/19/15 – Marion Stein – Alien and/or Yoga Jones

By:  Alien Jones, Intergalactic Correspondent

Greetings Earth losers!

The magnanimous mind of Alien Jones here, once again bringing you the knowledge required to raise your planet above its current status as the laughing stock of the Milky Way.

Author Marion Stein asks:

https://twitter.com/Marionstein/status/620621723302559744

Ah, the confusion is understandable.  Madam, I do believe you have confused Yoga Jones with…

A Jones doing yoga.

… a Jones doing yoga.

Don’t worry about it.  Happens all the time.  While I’m at it, allow me to deny being the relative of:

  • Tommy Lee Jones (that craggy faced actor who once told The Fugitive he didn’t care and to put the gun down now.)
  • Shirley Jones (Matriarch of The Partridge Family)
  • Angus T. Jones (The half-man on the CBS sitcom Two and a Half Men)
  • Catherine Zeta-Jones (Welsh actress, ex-wife of Michael Douglas.)
  • James Earl Jones (Voice of Darth Vader, Mustafa, and CNN)
  • January Jones (Don Draper’s first wife, the one he cheated on a lot but wishes he hadn’t)

For the record, my name actually isn’t Alien Jones.  The closest written approximation of my real name is:

H’awa’lekquar Zalazalazalazalazaladimmadimaballa Koveenomix Tromphilogate Scriblero 17.5 Twanny Twim Twally Bolorolax Bek ZsaZsaGabor Heeka heeka heeka heeka AWOLLAGAX!

That translation really doesn’t do it justice.

You might have noticed there’s a “Zsa Zsa Gabor” in there.  No, I don’t share a name with an aristocratic Hungarian actress of the 1960’s.  In my language, “ZsaZsa” means “Peace” and “Gabor” means prosperity.  Thus, there’s the old tradition on my planet of saying, “Good day to you, and may much Zsa Zsa Gabor come your way!”

To properly pronounce my name, you’d have to:

  •  Pull out your tongue
  • Allow another person to jump over it like it was a jumprope
  • Tie it in a knot
  • Untie it again and…
  • Lick a frog

You don’t actually have to lick a frog.  I just wanted to see if someone out there would.

Thus, since my name is so difficult to pronounce, I just go with an Earthly last name, hence “Alien Jones.”

Are you a fan of Orange is the New Black?  Admittedly, my boss, the Mighty Potentate, is a fan as well.  With its mix of humor and drama, not to mention rich character development, His Supreme Fabulousness deems this program to be one more blow against the impending tide of unscripted reality television.  Quality fiction is the only thing that can stop the menace that is reality TV from spreading across the universe.

On Marion’s blog, marionstein.net, one can find a number of articles that can help humans improve their intelligence. Thank goodness I’m not the only one devoted to this Herculean effort.

Further, Bookshelf Q. Battler’s 3.5 readers can check out Marion’s Amazon Author Page.  “Blood Diva” seems like an especially saucy tale, one about a French courtesan turned vampire.

BQB:  Alien Jones!  What do aliens call vampires?

AJ:  Attorneys!

Bookshelf Battle Blog Legal Counsel Delilah K. Donnelly of Pop Culture Mysteries fame excluded, of course.

Interestingly, Marion’s author page notes she has a background as a social worker.  I view myself as a social worker of sorts.  What do I do if not help humans become better people by sharing with them the knowledge of my genius brain?

And believe you me, I do this work because it’s a labor of love on my part, and not, as rumored, because the Mighty Potentate has threatened to shoot me out of a cannon directly into one of my home planet’s many suns if I fail to do so.

Thank you for your question, Marion.  Continue to educate the humans with your words.  I can’t be the only one on the job.

Alien Jones is the Intergalactic Correspondent for the Bookshelf Battle. Do you have a question for the Esteemed Brainy One? Submit it to Bookshelf Q. Battler via a tweet to @bookshelfbattle, leave it in the comment section on this site, or drop it off on the Bookshelf Battle Google + page. If AJ likes your question, he might promote your book, blog, or other project while providing his answer.

Submit your questions by midnight Friday each week for a chance to be featured in his Sunday column. And if you don’t like his response, just let him know and he’ll file it into the recycling bin of his monolithic super computer. No muss, no fuss, no problem.

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