Category Archives: Things That Really Frost My Ass

Things that Really Frost My Ass – I Wish Cell Phones Had Never Been Invented

By: Uncle Hardass, Official Bookshelf Battle Blog Grumpy Old Man Correspondent

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Hello degenerate 3.5 readers.  Your old Uncle Hardass here.  Happy New Year.  None of you have resolved to get jobs, I see.  Everyone’s resolved to try even harder to be writers, I take it.  “Oh, look at me!  Fiddle dee dee!  I want to be a writer because my thoughts are so important they must be shared with the world!”

Oh, screw it, write away.  See if I care.  I don’t want to complain about that.  I feel like complaining about cell phones instead, because I’m telling you, the cell phone is truly the worst contraption ever invented.  I rue that day that Sir Isaac Cellington figured out how to make them.  Screw that guy and the horse he rode in on.

3.5 readers, when I was a kid, if you needed to get in touch with someone when they were not in your presence…well, you basically didn’t.  99% of the shit you had to say to this person could wait until said individual returned home.

For that 1%, you might have to track that person down.  So like, if a family member is dying (and only the person can save them), or you just found out a hit man is trying to kill this person imminently, I mean, even then it was considered pretty rude, but you might be able to slide on the etiquette rules and get away with calling the restaurant or the store or the place you thought that person was going to be and asking the employee who answers, “Hey, I need to talk to this schmuck that’s there.  He’s tall and has black hair and is kinda ugly and has crooked teeth and dresses like an asshole.  Oh, you see him?  Great, put him on the phone please.”

So let’s recap.  Prior to like, oh, I want to say maybe 2006, if you contacted someone who wasn’t in your general vicinity, the reasons had to be:

  1. A family member is dying imminently and this person is the ONLY one who can save him/her.  Couldn’t be a friend, had to be a family member (and really, nuclear family only) and the death had to be within, say, an hour at best.  Like you couldn’t bother someone while they’re out shopping to help save your third cousin twice-removed who was advised by doctors that he’d be dying six hours from now.
  2. You had to have credible evidence that a hit man was hired to murder this person and you wanted to warn him/her.  “Credible” meaning corroborated by witnesses or physical evidence (i.e. testimony from two responsible citizens or barring that, a copy of the signed murder contract.) Even then, you had to be aware that the hit was going to happen within the hour.

That’s literally it.  Otherwise, you DID NOT bother people while they were out and about.  And honestly, cell phones starting getting pretty popular and affordable by the late 1990s/early 2000s, but even then, most responsible adults used them sparingly.  I just had one I kept in my glove compartment in case my car broke down but otherwise I never used it because I never knew anyone whose dying family member I could save within the hour and no one ever tried to be a hit on me.  Well, at least no one ever heard of a plot that was going to go down against me within an hour anyway.

Today, it’s all different.  Now, everyone has a damn cell phone and my phone is constantly ringing off the hook (phones used to be kept on hooks, 3.5 readers) and there’s no limit, no limit at all as to what people will call you with:

  • Hi, I want to call you to tell you my ass hurts.  No, there’s nothing you can do while you are at work but I just want to tell you that my ass hurts.  You should be aware I have a broken ass.
  • Please pick up ten things for me on the way home.
  • Hello, I need to call and tell you a bunch of shit while you are operating a car i.e. a ten ton machine of death that could easily mow down a small child if you aren’t giving the operation of this gigantic contraption YOUR COMPLETE AND FULL ATTENTION, but anyway, please listen to this trivial story of how someone offended me.
  • I had tacos for lunch.
  • Hi, this is your boss.  I’m calling you at midnight to remind you to do that thing I don’t remember you did last week and you have already told me you did it but I don’t remember.
  • Hi, this is some jackass.  Your number is one digit off of a friend of mine and I’m calling you twenty times until I figure it out.
  • Hi, my ass still hurts.
  • Hi this is your doctor.  You have penis warts and though it could have waited I’m telling you now.
  • Hi, I’m a telemarketer and I’d like to sell you a time share.  Wouldn’t you like to spend your life’s savings on 1/1000th of a shitty condo in Tahiti?

I can’t stand it.  I just can’t.  You know what?  Can we just go back to the early 2000s?  I’m going to shut my cell phone off, throw it in the glove box, and then I’ll just have it in the event that I get into an accident.  That’s it.  Nothing else.

And I know you’ll all be like, “Well, BQB what if someone needs to call you while you’re out?”  No, screw that.  I’d like to remind you that from the time the phone was invented until like, ten years ago, the only acceptable reasons to call someone while they weren’t home were a) if a family member was going to die within the hour and this person was the only one able to save him/her and/or b) you had credible knowledge that a hit man was hired to murder this person within the hour, ergo the person needed to be warned.

That’s it!  Those are the TWO AND ONLY TWO reasons why anyone would ever, EVER need to be called while they aren’t home and I say we should all go back to that.

By the way, did you know that before the invention of the phone, people just…didn’t even talk to people unless they were seeing them face to face?  If you needed to tell the person something, you had to either rip a feather off of a duck’s ass and use it as a quill to write a note on a piece of parchment that you’d then give to a neighborhood boy to walk ten miles to deliver the message in exchange for a six pence, or b, if it was really important, you’d rustle up a horse and go tell the person.

Honestly people, before you call me or anyone else, think to yourself, “Is this message so important that if we were in the 1800s, would I steal a fucking horse and gallop thirty miles just to inform the person about it?”

If yes, call away.  If no, shut your cake hole and go have a cookie.

Bah!  Cell phones are the worst.

 

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REBLOG: A Very Hardass Thanksgiving

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Thanksgiving?  Try Complaints-giving with my grumpy Uncle Hardass:

https://bookshelfbattle.com/2015/11/21/things-that-really-frost-my-ass-thanksgiving-edition/

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Things That Really Frost My Ass – Fun Sized Candy Bars Are Not Fun at All

By: Uncle Hardass, Official Bookshelf Battle Blog Grumpy Old Man Correspondent

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Hello 3.5 degenerate readers.

Your Old Uncle Hardass here.  Still trying to be writers I see.  Oh well, I guess it’s good it’s Halloween then.  Your parents can just gorge on some Halloween candy to distract themselves about how disappointed they are in you.  Can’t say as I blame them.  Get jobs, losers!

Anyway, I suppose I’ll wish you a Happy Halloween though I don’t know why.  All this holiday is, is an excuse for dummies to put on fake costumes so they can pretend to be something they aren’t but wish they were while putting their hand out, demanding I give them free shit. In other words, Halloween is basically what the world will look like everyday if the blasted Democrats take over.  Mark my words.  Seriously people.  Don’t I pay enough taxes?  You all need my candy too?  Shiftless clowns.

I mean, maybe it’s ok for five year olds to participate in this waste of time, although really, by four, I had a job and a mortgage and my first case of the gout but whatever, I guess we just spoil young people until the end of time now.  Whatever.

So I want to talk to you 3.5 turkeys about “fun sized candy bars.”  What a big time hoax this bull shit is.  The candy companies sell these bags of little candy bars, call them fun sized and then they basically have figured out a way to charge you more for less candy.

Honestly.  What do you dum-dums do every year?  You buy one bag but then you worry that your house will be overrun by little turds so you buy five bags.  Then, at best, five kids show up, so you then you just eat the rest of it like the fat fuck you are and then you resolve…never again!  You’ll only buy one bag next year.  Then you’ll do the same thing next year.

Look, just take the same amount of money, buy five regular sized candy bars, the first five kids who got to your door first get the big candy bars and the rest of the little monkeys get Jack Squat.  Teach ’em an important life lesson.  People who get there early get a reward.  People who take their time and fuck around get a big heaping handful of nothing.  Really, you’re not doing them any favors by delaying this important lesson.

Are small candy bars fun?  No.  That’s because nothing in the history of time that is fun has ever been small.  Disagree?  I knew you would, you contentious freak of nature.  Consult my handy list of things that are only fun if they are large:

Titties – Small titties are not fun.  Females with small titties, I’m sorry, but your boyfriend is just lying about liking your tiny knockers and is simply waiting for a broad with jumbo jugs to come along.

Santa Clause – No one wants a small, skinny Santa.  Christmas is only happy if that fat fuck laughs and shakes his belly like a bowlful of jelly.  Fun sized Santa’s belly is flat as a board.  Get Santa off Jenny Craig immediately.

SUVS – I see these tiny bitch SUVS all the time.  You know how that shit got started?  Big men used to buy big trucks.  Then they put covers on the back.  Then they started putting seats in the back.  Then women started driving them and they wanted them smaller and smaller and smaller until you’ve got a little shitbox that’s high off the ground.  No fun at all!

Texas – Everything is bigger in the Lone Star State.  Try asking for small sizes there.  See how fast you get laughed outta town.

Movies – You know what they call a fun sized movie?  A TV show.  And if you ask me, most TV shows suck.  They haven’t made good television since 1959.

CONCLUSIONS:

Nothing is fun when it is small.  Just ask a midget.  Midgets are not happy. Their size is not fun.  Sure, they’re still people and should be treated as such, but their size is not fun when no matter where they look, they’re staring at a full sized person’s crotch.  That’s not fun at all, unless you’re a midget pervert, then I guess, yeah, you’re having a blast.  So OK, that’s the only case where being small is fun, i.e. if you are an over-sexed little person.

Any other time, small is not a fun size.  So, just buy five full sized candy bars, reward the early bird children who did not rest on their laurels, then tell the other kids to head down to the food stamp line where apparently they will be for the rest of their miserable lives because they can’t get their costumes on time and report for trick or treating at a reasonable time.

Happy Halloween, 3.5 jackasses, though what’s so happy about it I’ll never know.

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Things That Really Frost My Ass – Amber Rose’s Cooter Pic

By: Uncle Hardass, Official Bookshelf Battle Blog Grumpy Old Man Correspondent

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Hello 3.5 degenerate readers.

Your old Uncle Hardass here.  Still working on your writing careers I see.  Good for you.  Never let reality get in the way of a good daydream.  I’m sure your parents don’t mind subsidizing your hubris until the end of time.

You know what just frosted my ass?  This photo:

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In case you’re not hip like your old Uncle Hardass, that’s Amber Rose who is famous for…uh…well she does…I think she’s on TV or some shit.  She’s a professional hot chick like Kim Kardashian or something.

Also, she does this thing called a Slut Walk which, hey, I’m not complaining.  Hell, twenty years ago I’d of invited all those sluts to take a walk past my front door but today?  Meh.  It’s just like a big lump of taffy down there.  Pull it all day and nothing happens.

Now, I know what you’re thinking.  “Uncle Hardass is mad that a woman posed nude in a photo.”  Nope, nope.  Again, as I just said, twenty years ago I’d of retired to the bathroom with this photo in one hand and a bottle of Jergen’s in the other but, I might remind you, it’s like pulling taffy.  I could yank on it for hours and the only thing would come out is one of those “Womp womp” sounds they play when you guess the wrong price on “The Price is Right.”

It frosts my ass because there’s literally no response that a man can make to a photo like this that a woman would find acceptable.

MALE RESPONSE:                                           FEMALE RESPONSE:

Wow!  What a lovely cooter shot!                   PIG!

I’m outraged at such nudity!                        How dare you demonize the female form?

You’re right.  It’s a lovely photo.                 Pervert!

See?  You can’t win.  All these super hot chicks who are famous for being hot post naked photos of themselves all the time.  And if you’re a man, there’s absolutely nothing you can say about it without getting in trouble with any woman who overhears you.

Really, the only thing you can do is just appreciate the fact that she posted it, then use it to inspire a monkey spanking session except, you know, I have to skip that because…taffy.  Just a big lump of taffy.

Personally, I applaud Amber Rose for posting this photo.  A)  You can’t see it because I had to censor it due to the fact that my nephew, BQB, runs a classy blog (or so he says), but in the original photo, Amber is sporting a serious bush.  Like, a big, giant, overgrowth.  Seriously.  It looks like she’s got Llhasa Apso trapped in a leg lock and try all he might, the little fella can’t budge.

That’s fine by me.  Back in my day, it was the hairier the better.  Hell, breaking out a weedwacker and a flashlight just to find your way to the thing was considered foreplay.  You youngsters and your silky smooth lady parts have no idea what you’re missing.

Secondly, I thought it was pretty cool that Amber wears the same sunglasses I do.  My doctor put those giant boxy sunglasses on me after I had my cataracts surgery and I assumed that only people my age are considered fashionable when they walk around looking like they’re playing a virtual reality game.

In conclusion, men, say nothing when you see these photos.  There’s nothing you can say that will not leave a woman angry at you.  Come to think of it, that doesn’t just apply to this photo but to literally everything else in life as well.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to go pull my taffy.  I think I felt a tingle.  Then again, it could be gas.

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Things that Really Frost My Ass – A Message to the Class of 2017 from Your Graduation Speaker, Uncle Hardass

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By: Uncle Hardass, Official Bookshelf Battle Blog Grumpy Old Man Correspondent

Dun da dun dun dun…ok, that’s enough.  Cut it.  Cut the music!  Everybody sit down and shut your filthy sewer holes!  I’m a busy man.  Time is money and you people are not worth my time.  Let’s get this bullshit dog and pony show that you all think is so important now but none of you will be able to remember a damn thing about it in twenty years over with.

Class of 2017, it’s your Grumpy Uncle Hardass, here with some words of wisdom that you won’t listen to because you all think you’re hot shits who know everything even though what you don’t know could fill that government warehouse in Indiana Jones where the Feds keep all of the mysterious shit they don’t want the world to know about.

Here is, in no particular order, the top five pieces of advice I have for you.  Take it or leave it.  If you don’t want to take it, it’s no sweat off of my wrinkly old sack, I’ll tell you that.

#1 – Get Jobs

Immediately.  Right now.  Seriously, why are you idiots standing around in the hot sun wearing heavy robes like a bunch of dumb asses.  You could have spent the time you’re spending today on patting each other on the back on making money.

Always make money, kids.  Always make money.  At all times.  No matter what you are doing.  Have a day job.  Have a night job.  Have side jobs to do when you can steal five minutes away from you day and night jobs.

Have a job while you are sleeping.  Don’t just sleep at home.  Sleep in a lab where scientists want to pay you to study you sleep patterns.

Don’t eat breakfast for free.  Get paid by a cereal company to eat their latest cereal, then fill out a report about what gastrointestinal distress it caused you.

Don’t shit for free.  There’s a scientist somewhere who wants to study your shit.

Are you having sex for free like a bunch of idiots?  Why, when the prostitution market has never been better.  Beer and hookers.  The two products that everyone will need, and even more so when the economy tanks.  When people are out of work, they get depressed…and they need hookers.

And I’m not just talking to the women.  Men, don’t be too proud to sell your bodies for cents on the dollar.  What, you think your old Uncle Hardass never engaged in unpleasant activities just to make ends meet?

Actually, go on thinking that.  I have a reputation to uphold.

#4 – Always Carry Rubbers

You are all very ugly and I can’t imagine anyone would ever want to see any of you naked.  Frankly, I feel like I’m going to be sick and you’re all covered from head to toe in long black gowns.

Even so, you never know when someone will take pity on one of you uggos and want to get freaky.  Do you want that to happen while you don’t have protection?  I think not.

Back in my day, the worst that would happen if you had unprotected sex is you’d get itchy until the doctor would shoot you up with penicillin.  Or worst case scenario, you get a kid that you can browbeat the shit out of until it grows up and gives up all of its dreams and joins you in working in the salt mines.

Today, there are exotic sex diseases that will turn your organs into liquefied shit.  I don’t care how ugly you are and how attractive your partner is.  Ain’t no one got time for that.

Honestly, you should control yourselves and wait for marriage but if you can’t control yourself, then be sure to bag it before you tag it.

#3 – Save Your Money

A fool and his money are soon parted.  However, a penny saved is a penny earned.  Put your pennies in a bank and your interest will grow and compound.  When a rainy day comes, you’ll be surprised at how much your pennies have grown.  It’s as if your pennies have been fucking all this time, getting each other pregnant and giving birth to new pennies who would, in turn, fuck and make more pennies.  While you were out busy living your life, your pennies were having a Caligula-like Roman orgy and now that you’re older, you can reap the benefits of all that hardcore penny fucking.

So save your pennies, because if you spend your pennies on frivolous shit, then your pennies are just going to fuck for some other asshole’s benefit.  You don’t want that.  You want your pennies fucking for you.

#2 – Fart Often

Life is too short to pretend like we all don’t have to fart.  Stop holding them in.  Let them out…right now…then wave the stench in the direction of all of these lowlife college administrators who keep tacking extra charges to your tuition to fund all kinds of frivolous bullshit even though we all know that the degrees you are about to receive have never been more meaningless and though you’re all convinced you’re about to become great captains of industry, you will all most likely go home and ride Mom and Dad’s couch until the end of time.

So, you might as well be happy and fart.

#1 – Don’t Become Bloggers

Seriously.  Don’t do it.  My lousy, incompetent, good for nothing nephew, Bookshelf Q. Battler, has been blogging for literally 3.5 years now and all he has to show for it is a lousy 3.5 readers.

You want to be a writer?  Good for you.  Knock knock.  Who’s there?  The world.  We do not give a shit what you have to say.  We all have our own problems.

There are more productive ways to spend your time, like clipping your toe nails and waxing your bikini zone.

Your Advice

Do you have advice for the Class of 2017?  Share it in the comments.

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Things That Really Frost My Ass – Nordstrom’s $425 Muddy Jeans

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By: Uncle Hardass, Official Bookshelf Battle Blog Grumpy Old Man Correspondent

Hello degenerate 3.5 readers.

Still working on your writing careers I see.  No, no.  Don’t get up.  Whatever you do, don’t do anything productive whatsoever.  It’s not like there aren’t more important jobs out there that could be done.  By all means, continue to record your thoughts and feelings.  That’s what is truly important.

So here’s the latest thing that frosts my ass, besides your generation’s lousy, non-existent work ethic.

Muddy jeans.  Jeez Louise.  Just when I thought you lowlife millennials couldn’t get any worse.

On the off chance that one of you 3.5 readers were actually out there, oh, I don’t know, doing some honest to God work and therefore you were too busy to watch television, let me fill you in.

Nordstrom’s, a store for ultra rich hipster scumbags who made way too much money before turning thirty than anyone should, has just put out a pair of jeans made to look as though they are covered in mud.

The mud’s not real.  It’s fake mud.  Holy shit.  That’s what this world has come to.  There are so many facets of this story that frost my ass that I don’t know where to begin.  Here are the complaints that come to mind.

#1 – Do some work!

You want muddy jeans?  Good.  Go buy a pair at the drug store like every other American.  They’ve got a three for ten dollar special this month only.  Put ’em on, then…wait for it…do some work!

Mow a lawn.  Trim a hedge.  Change the oil in your car.  Get down on your knees and plant some flowers in your garden.  Pull some weeds.  Plant some seeds.

Hell, maybe even get a respectable where you perform menial labor.  Work at a construction site.  Become a plumber or an electrician or one of those assholes that keeps the world turning.  Do something like that so your parents don’t have to lie to all of your relatives that things are going really great with your $100,000 + college degree in East Peruvian Literary Studies.

By the way, why did you waste all your parents’ money on that degree?  Didn’t you know your Old Uncle Hardass would have gladly given you the college graduate job search experience by kicking you in the nuts for ten bucks?  You could have saved Mom and Dad $999,990.  Dumb ass.

But I digress.  This really frosts my ass.  You know why?  Because…

#2 – This is Unearned Mud

You ever hear about stolen valor?  That’s when the Army prosecutes dip shits who run around claiming they’re war heroes when they never even wore a uniform a day in their lives.

Same concept.  The mud on these fancy jeans is stolen mud!  Unearned mud!  You want mud on your jeans?  You gotta do some work to get that mud on your jeans!

Don’t want to work for your mud?  Fine.  Then at least be smart and buy some cheap jeans, turn on hose on a patch of dirt in your lawn, then roll around in the mud.  There, I just saved you $425.

Too lazy?  Fine.  Just give your Uncle Hardass your cheapest pair of jeans and I’ll wipe my ass with them after the monthly chili cook-off at the old folks’ home.  Looks like mud and stains just as well.

And now, my third and final complaint:

#3 – No Normal Person Wants Mud on Their Jeans

You know who doesn’t want mud on their jeans?  The people who actually get mud on their jeans while they’re working.  These hardworking men and yes, even women (though broads in the workplace is another subject that frosts my ass), work all day long, dreaming that maybe a day will come when they are promoted to a decent job that pays a living wage and doesn’t require them to roll around in filth, ruining all of their good clothing.

They yearn for that day, the day when they can buy nice clothes and those clothes stay nice and clean because they didn’t have to pull shit out of a toilet or do a landscaping project or resurface a section of highway by pouring hot tar on a hot as balls summer day.

And you?  You filthy hipster.  What happened?  You saw one of these hardworking people  walking around and you thought, “Oh, I’d look so genuine if I’d just have a dirty pair of jeans like that!  But how can I get a pair of muddy jeans without breaking a sweat?”

You know kids, when I was your age, a long, long, incredibly long time ago, people always kept at least one good set of clothes in the house.  If you went shopping, or to the movies, or out to dinner, or hell, if you just did anything outside of your house that wasn’t work, you put on a suit if you were a man or a lovely dress if you were a woman.  Even the lowliest ditch digger had a suit he’d wear to go buy some ointment at the pharmacy to put on the back he injured while he was digging ditches.

Why?  Because people strived to be better.  But now all you rich hipsters.  “Oh, I feel so bad I have so much money!  I want to look like one of the common people!”

Please, hipsters.  Don’t come anywhere near me if you’ve got a pair of fake muddy jeans on.  I’ll put some real mud on those jeans…some butt mud.

 

 

 

 

 

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Things That Really Frost My Ass – Uncle Hardass’ Random Complaints

The Complainer in Chief…

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#21 – Owning a Pickup Truck

I love pickup trucks.  A pickup truck is by far the best vehicle ever invented.  It gets you where you need to go, there’s plenty of space in the back to carry your stuff and its got four wheel drive to get you through the snow.

All that being said, while I love pickup trucks, I hate owning one.  I used to own one and I never will again.  Owning a pickup truck is the closest a human being will ever get to being a real live superhero.

Imagine how Superman must feel when he tries to chill out in his Fortress of Solitude.  He tries to watch a movie on that ice screen his dead father is always nagging him on, maybe eating a taco and drinking a beer, but he can’t relax because the voices of ten thousand people in need of help are passing into his ears.  “Oh, save me, Superman!  Save me!  I’m an idiot who got my dumbass stuck out on a ledge and now you have to drop everything you are doing this instant to come rescue me!”

Similarly, if you buy a pickup truck, you will be surprised how many so-called friends and long lost family members you suddenly have.  Your phone will be ringing off the hook day and night.  “Oh, this is your cousin Matilda.  I’m moving to a new apartment.  Will you help me move all your shit with your pickup truck?”

And really, if you’re a responsible citizen, what can you do?  Say no?  You can’t say no.  You’re “Truck Owner Man,” the world’s greatest superhero, able to cart people’s shit all over creation with your power of having the foresight to purchase a vehicle with ample cargo space.

Do you think there aren’t times when Superman doesn’t shake his head and say, “Screw that moron on the ledge.  It’s super beer and taco time!”  Of course he does.  But he always does the right thing in the end.

I’m not as nice as Superman.  I used to chew people like Cousin Matilda out for not buying a truck.  “If you can afford to drive a second hand Prius then you can afford to drive a used pickup truck, so go get one and stop mooching off of mine,” I’d say.  Then I’d give up my lovely evening of watching Matlock and haul ass over to help the old broad because what am I supposed to do?  It’s not like I can sit at home watching TV and enjoy myself while Cousin Matilda is wheeling a ten foot boudoir stuffed full of her unmentionables across town on a dolly all by herself.  Superman couldn’t enjoy his super beer and super taco while that dumbass was trapped on the ledge either.  It’s not easy having super powers.

Luckily, I don’t own a pickup truck anymore.  I couldn’t handle the pressure of all the useless imbeciles who refused to buy their own pickup trucks.  I feel like Superman must have felt that time he temporarily gave up his powers.  I’m sure he would have preferred a life where he could have flown to work and opened up beer cans with his laser vision and checked out women naked with his X-ray vision, but he had to give that all up just to take a break from all the dummies who needed him.  I can relate, as I loved having a nice, spacious pickup trunk to haul all my garbage to the dump and pick up my multiple cases of  weapons grade strength hemorrhoid cream, but I had to give up that power just to save myself from truckless fools.

I hate people.  I love trucks.

#22 – Nesting Dolls

Nesting dolls are the dumbest thing ever invented by the Russians, second only to communism.  “Oh look!  It’s a doll inside a doll and that doll has a doll inside of it and then that doll has a doll inside of it…”

Seriously.  If that amuses you, then you have my pity.  That’s an amazing accomplishment because I have very little pity to give.

#23 – That Nimrod Who Blares on His Horn at the Exact Second the Light Turns Green

Oh, pardon me, Your Majesty!  I had no idea that you were the Queen of England and the entire second it took for my brain to register, “Oh, hey!  The light is green!” was a rude and unforgivable inconvenience to your ability to run England.

That is, I assume you are royalty and you have somewhere very important to get to and that the impending task waiting for you at your destination is so crucial that you were literally unable to wait an entire second.

What?  You aren’t royalty and you have nowhere to go because you’re a jobless jackass?  I thought so.  Do me a favor and shove that horn up your ass and then honk it about ten or twenty thousand times so you know how the rest of us feel, OK pal?  Then get a job.  No one likes a loser.

#24 – Diet Anything

Diet soda.  Low fat cookies.  Sugar free ice cream.  Look fatties, if you want to not be fat, then just eat less of whatever you are eating because all of that fake sugar and aspartame is pickling your brain and turning you into a mindless zombie.  You know what your good old Uncle Hardass does when he wants a Diet Coke?  He just drinks half a coke.  Pour the other out, let a thirsty bumblebee lick it off the grass or something.  Common sense is all it is, people.

#25 – College

College, schmollege.  You know what college is?  A four year party, peppered with occasional instances of learning that you take out an enormous loan for, a loan which is then paid off for the rest of your life?

Want the college experience?  You can get it all in one night.  Go to a titty bar, get drunk, talk to a bunch of dumb millennials and say thinks like “woke” and then read a summary of Plato online.  There you go, schmuck, I just saved you over a hundred grand easy.  You’re welcome.

#26 – People Who Wear Camouflage

If you’re wearing camouflage because you’re in the Army, then thank you for your service, soldier.  My only complaint is that there isn’t enough blood of America’s many, many enemies spilled all over your uniform.  I never washed my uniform.  I just let the blood of a thousand Nazis soak into it in order to scare away the other Nazis.  I kept it on after I got home because it worked just as well to scare off solicitors, bill collectors, and that neighbor who was a lowlife sponge, always asking to borrow a cup of sugar because he couldn’t be bothered to haul his ass to the store.

If you’re wearing camouflage because you think it looks cool, then take off that uniform like material because you haven’t earned the right to wear it.  Plus, how is camp going to make you bend in when you are walking through a big city?  If you want to blend into a city, just soak your dirtiest, most raggedy looking clothes in a bucket of cat urine for three days, then put them on and take a nap on a park bench while clutching a wine bottle in a brown paper bag.

Also, what’s up with the pink camo?  Ladies, until they invent a pink forest, we can still see you.

#27 – Paying for Extra Cheese on My Pizza

This is America, damn it.  A pizza comes with cheese, lots of cheese, and frankly, as much cheese as I damn well please.  The price should be the same no matter how much cheese I want and I reserve the right to demand piles upon piles of cheese be placed upon my pizza if I so choose.  Charging me for extra cheese is like charging me for extra air.  I shouldn’t be punished just because I love cheese.  My toilet is getting enough punishment already.

#28 – Poop Yogurt

I don’t get that commercial where they try to sell yogurt that makes women poop.  I mean, God bless you, constipated ladies.  I hope that you all poop soon, but it’s not like constipation is a male or female thing.  Sometimes I get backed up like the expressway on rush hour for five or six days and I think, “Hey maybe I’ll get some of that yogurt that makes you drop a deuce” but then I get afraid to buy it for fear that the cashier will accuse me of fraud for trying to buy pooping yogurt for constipated ladies while I have a penis.

#29 – Toilet Paper

Look people, Europeans are wrong on 99.99% of things.  You’ve got the Brits and their teeth that look like all they do is walk into doors all day.  You’ve got the French and their women who never share their pits and end up looking like they just put Bigfoot in a headlock.  Don’t even get me started on the Belgians.  They make one good waffle and they think that means they can just coast forever.

But, when someone’s right, I’m not afraid to say it, and the Europeans are right about bidets.  Just stick your fanny over a water jet, take a nice, cool water blast up your tucas and wowie, zowie, no more stink in your backdoor.

Why are we wasting money and trees on toilet paper when we can just use water, nature’s toilet paper?  Hell, with a good bidet, you’ll never be smelly and you’ll never be thirsty.  Wash your butt and take a drink.  I assume that’s OK but then again, I’m no scientist.

#30 – Nuts in Baked Goods

Ever have someone knock on your door and say, “Hello friend, I just baked you a nice batch of chocolate chip cookies!”  So then your mouth starts to water and you can’t wait to dig in to all that gooey chocolate and boom, there they are…nuts.  Bleh.

Don’t get me wrong.  I love nuts.  The more big nuts in my mouth, the better.  Shut up.  I know how that sounds but I don’t care.  I love nuts.  I just don’t like them in my cookies, or brownies, or bread, or any kind of bakery.  Put your nuts in my mouth, but not in my buns, thank you very much.

 

 

 

 

 

 

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Things that Really Frost My Ass – #16-20

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Uncle Hardass, America’s Angriest Uncle, is on a roll and can’t be stopped.  Here are his latest complaints:

#16 – Television

I used to like television a lot, but that was back when there were only three channels.  I don’t like to think and I don’t like to be overwhelmed.  Nowadays, there are way too many channels and too many shows to choose from.  How could anyone possibly watch them all?  I see commercials on TV for shows I’ll never have the time to watch and I feel like I’m missing out on something.  I say we get rid of all these lousy channels and go back to the three channel format.  I’ll watch one channel and two of you watch the other two and let me know what happened.

#17 – Crybabies Who Whine About Spoilers

Speaking of telling me what happened on television, do you realize there was a time when if you bumped into someone who hadn’t seen a TV show and you told them what happened, they thanked you for it?  The networks only ran the show the one time, see, and then that was it.  If you missed it, you were out of luck.  Now everyone thinks they’re so special just because they can watch TV whenever or wherever they want.  If a show comes out today, you’re not allowed to tell someone about twenty years from now because there’s an off chance the imbecile you’re talking to might watch it thirty years from now while he’s oggling his stupid phone while he’s dropping a stinker on the can.

What ever happened to free speech?  George Washington is rolling over in his grave.

 

#18 – Spice Racks

My ex-wife Gertie used to buy all these little spice bottles that she’d use one time, then put on a rack and just look at them but never use them ever again.  She thought that somehow that made her a gourmet chef.  I tried to tell her that to be considered a chef, she actually had to use the spices and not just stare at them for forty years like a dummy.  That woman has spices that have been in existence since Eisenhower was president and she refuses to use them.  I’ll never understand women.  If you ever figure them out, don’t tell me the secret.  You probably have to be insane or something just to grasp how their brains work.

#19 – People Who Say “Excuse Me” When They Burp or Fart

Eff that noise.  Where are we, Communist Russia?  Newsflash, Jack.  The Soviet Union collapsed a long, long time ago.  Farting and burping are natural bodily functions and should be done whenever needed and without apology.  In fact, I have it on good authority that protection of a man’s right to burp and fart was guaranteed in the original draft of the Constitution, but the Founding Fathers’ wives made them take it out.  Yeah, like women never fart.  They act like they don’t but between you, me and the four walls, Gertie used to squeeze out butt blasts that were rank enough to peel the paint off a barn.  Whoa nelly.

#20 – Rubber Bands

When was the last time you ever used a rubber band for its intended purpose of holding a plethora of items and/or large stacks of paper together?  Probably none.  People just make them into big rubber band balls, or they use them as little sling shots or something.  Somewhere a bunch of rubber tycoons are making a mint by convincing people this useless item should be a staple in every office in the world.  Don’t tell anyone I said this.  I don’t want Big Rubber to put a hit on me.

 

 

 

 

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Things That Really Frost My Ass – Complaints #11-15

The World’s Greatest Complainer can’t be stopped:

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#11 – Credit

Credit is the worst thing ever invented.  Credit cards.  Loans.  Financing.  Bull plop, I say.  If you can’t pay for it with cash on the barrelhead, then you shouldn’t be buying it.  When I was a kid, everything cost a nickel.  Candy, cars, houses, bread, a space in the cargo hold of a transatlantic freight liner – nickels all around.

Today everything costs so much that you start paying for it when you are young and the best case scenario is that you finally pay it off when you’re as old as I am.  Everything is expensive because of credit.  The real estate industry jacks up house prices because mortgages allow the cost to be spread out over time.  The same goes for all the crap you’re buying in the store with your credit cards.  The companies that make that crap know you don’t need it, you know you don’t need it but corporations know what you know – that you’ll charge all that useless crap on your credit card today as long as you don’t have to pay the piper tomorrow.

Don’t even get me started on college.  Know why your professor gets time off to take a sabbatical and write an article that no one will read about the indigenous tribal music preferences of the mushroom farmers of Papau New Guinea?  Because they can just tack the cost onto the tuition bills of students, who will never be able to afford to pay it all off because they insist on majoring in useless crap (like the indigenous tribal music preferences of the mushroom farmers of Papau New Guinea) and thus will never get a job.

Take it from your old Uncle Hardass.  If you don’t pay for it up front, then you’re going to be the credit industry’s bitch for the rest of your life.

#12 – People Who Ask How I Am

What is this, a police state?  Did we lose a war or something?  How I am is none of your business.  Stop pestering me.  I refuse to tell you how I am because you’re probably a spy and will no doubt report any news I share with you about my physical/mental/emotional status to the CIA.  How are you?  See?  Doesn’t feel good, does it?  Feels very invasive, right?  Also, I don’t care how you are.  I am way too busy to feign any interest in how you are so I’m not going to pretend like I care when I really don’t.  Plus, if I tell you I feel lousy, is there anything you can do about it?  Can you make me fifty years younger, give me an elephant sized dong and bring Marilyn Monroe back to life and make her my girlfriend?  No, you can’t.  That is literally what it would take to make me feel better so until you can do that, don’t bother me, schmuckface.

#13 – Mattress Stores

I mean, it’s not like the salesmen time you on how long you take to lie down on a showroom mattress before you make a decision, but in general, if I spend more than five minutes lying down in public, then I end up feeling like a dumbass.  Mattress stores should allow customers to come in at night and have a sleepover, maybe even allow us to live in the store for a month and test out one different mattress a night before coming to a decision.  You know what?  Just forward all my mail to the mattress store.

#14 – Rice Cakes

Who is the brain donor that decided dry, puffed up rice cakes that bear a striking resemblance, both in terms of taste and appearance to Styrofoam coasters, are a good snack for fat people trying to lose weight?  Holy shit.  Convince a man that all he’s allowed to snack on is a tasteless disc and he might just give up and belly up to the all you can eat buffet.

#15 – Dancing

Why do broads always insist on forcing their men to take them out dancing?  Where do people even go to dance?  All of these people who are running around, dancing like a bunch of dummies with ants in their pants, should get jobs and become productive members of society.  Then they won’t have time to dance.  I didn’t even dance at my own wedding.  A lifetime with Gertie as my own personal ball and chain, dragging me down at every turn no matter what I do.  That’s nothing to dance about, let me tell you.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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Things That Really Frost My Ass – Uncle Hardass’ Random Drive By Complaints

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Uncle Hardass is on a roll and can’t be stopped.  Here are his latest complaints:

#6 – Cell Phones

When I was young, people called you for three reasons: a) to tell you someone had died, b) to tell you they were about to die or c) to tell you that you had a disease that was going to cause you to die.  Even then, the deaths needed to be imminent, within a day at least, or else the caller was considered extremely rude.

Now everyone has a phone and they get calls all the time.  Most of these calls are total BS.  “Oh yakitty yak yak I want to yak to my friend all day long.”  Bah, friends.  Who needs ’em?  Not this guy.

Even worse, bosses have no problem calling their employees at midnight to give them a list of demands.  Hell, I just got a call from my boss to remind me to dig extra salt out of the salt mines tomorrow.  You know who will never call you on your cell phone?  Your boss….because you don’t have one.  Get a job, you disgusting hippie.

#7 – The Amish 

Let me be clear:  I’m not complaining about the Amish themselves.  They have a fine organization.  I applaud them and frankly, I don’t think people appreciate their work ethic.  I myself get up before dawn everyday and churn butter, milk cows, build furniture and raise at least ten barns, all by myself and all before breakfast.  My only complaint is that they won’t allow me to join them because they say I swear too much.  Bunch of  bullshit if you ask me.

I’d like to start my own Amish spinoff community except instead of stopping progress in the 1800s, I’d stop it right around 1950.  Ahh, the good old days when men where men and could come home from a long day at the salt mines, pop open a beer, and watch TV while the little woman cooks dinner.  Nowadays if you ask a woman to make you a sandwich it’s considered a hate crime and they try to lock you up like you’re Hannibal Lecter.

Who wants in on my 1950s community?  Ladies, I know you’re all in, right?

#8 – Gyms

Gyms are completely unnatural.  A long time ago, before cars and other modern conveniences, people just did a lot of shit.  They built their own houses, grew their own crops, raised, strangled, and butchered their own chickens.  If you needed to go anywhere, you had to walk up hill both ways.  In short, you had to do a lot of shit.  Even shitting was hard work.  If you were a rich socialite, you had to walk to your fancy outhouse.  If you were one of the common folk, you had to walk into the middle of the forest, wrestle a grizzly bear with your bare hands, then shit, then bury your shit so the smell would not attract more bears.  Bears like the smell of shit.  Don’t ask me why.  Who do I look like, Jungle Jack Hanna or some shit?

Anyway, doing shit wore the shit out of people.  Doing shit burned calories.  Doing shit was good exercise.  People didn’t even call it exercise.  They just called it “doing shit.”  Nobody even thought about doing shit.  They just did the shit.

People don’t do shit anymore, so now they head to these gyms, pay a big fee to be there, then run around on treadmills like a bunch of stupid hamsters on wheels in their cages.  If only they knew they could just do more shit, then they’d be able to burn more calories for free, just by doing the shit that needs to be done, because no one else wants to do that shit.

#9 – Exotic Pets

Dog or cat.  Cat or dog.  These are the only two forms of acceptable house pets.  You can’t pet a fish or a snake, and if you have a gerbil or a ferret, you might as well just turn your humble abode into a rodent flophouse.  Also, to put a bird capable of flight in a cage is a sin that makes Baby Jesus cry, you bunch of heathens.  Stop bringing home weird pets.  It does not make you interesting.  It just makes you weird.

#10 – People Who Put Food Boxes/Containers Back in the Cupboard or Fridge When They Are Empty

These people need to go straight to hell and be poked by a pitchfork wielding, pointy eared demon for all eternity.  There’s nothing worse than waking up in the morning, opening up the kitchen cupboard and assuming that I’m in for a big treat in the form of a heaping bowl of Raisin Bran only to find that some waste of space has already eaten it all.  Even worse, this disgrace to humanity has left the empty box there for me to throw away, instead of just throwing it away on his or her own.  Maybe I would have picked up some more Raisin Bran at the old person cereal store had I known that the box was empty bu t I assumed it was full because I am a good natured, trusting person and I did not realize that I was living with a monstrous abomination who would eat all the Raisin Bran, then leave the empty box in the cupboard.

Did you know Hitler used to do that shit?  Goebbels would regular go to the cupboard in Hitler’s bunker in the hopes of pouring himself a nice big bowl of Nazi Flakes, only to discover that Hitler had put a box of empty Nazi Flakes back on the shelf.  If you put empty boxes back on the shelf, you are literally worse than Hitler.

 

 

 

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