Getting bitten on the butt by a toilet gator is hazardous to your health.
But don’t take my word for it. Here’s a doctor to fill you in…
Bookshelf Battle
The only site where new bestsellers are forced to do battle for space on a nerd's bookshelf.
Category Archives: Toilet Gator
And Now a Public Service Announcement From a Doctor on the Dangers of Being Bitten On the Butt By a Toilet Gator
Hey 3.5 readers.
Bookshelf Q. Battler here. As you know, I am a civic minded humanitarian. In fact, after writing two chapters of my upcoming novel, Toilet Gator, I became so concerned about the serious medical conditions that could result from being bitten on the butt by a toilet gator that I secured the services of an esteemed doctor to warn the public in this very important public service announcement:
Hmm. Come to think of it, I didn’t check her medical credentials or anything, but this seems hella legit.
By the way, if you want to read the first two rough draft chapters of toilet gator, you can do so by clicking here.
And thank you to this wonderful doctor for caring enough to warn the public about the dangerous effects of toilet gator butt bites. If you want to hire Dr. Lisa Marie to make a video for you, check her out on Fiverr.
Curse you, Fiverr. You’ve become my new addiction.
Toilet Gator – Chapter 2
Geriatric Oaks Retirement Home
Boca Raton, Florida
9:00 P.M.
Nurse Sheila was a living saint. For the past twenty years, she’d diligently kept watch over her elderly charges, many of which were dazed, confused, and filled to the brim with anger over the fact that their lives had become a sad, ironic joke.
“What is this?” Mr. Bromstein asked as pulled out the elastic waistband of his boxer shorts and stared downward. “This is supposed to be my schmekel but it looks like a day old slice of pastrami.”
“Have you been putting your cream on?” Nurse Sheila asked.
‘Oy,” Mr. Bromstein answered as he turned to his roommate, Raul. Raul feasted on jello as he watched an old Western film.
“Do you hear what she asks me?” Mr. Bromstein asked Raul. “‘Have I put the cream on?’ she says. Of course I put the cream on. The doctor tells me I have a diseased schmekel and that I need to put some cream on it so I put some cream on it. Why would I not put the cream on it if I’m told that my schmekel requires the assistance of a medical cream?”
“I’m just trying to help, Murray,” Nurse Sheila said. “I’ll ask the doctor to stop by.”
“Yes,” Mr. Bromstein said as he took a seat next to Raul. “See that you do, please. The last thing I need is for my schmekel to turn gangrenous so some quack can waltz in here and tell me that he has to chop it off with a rusty butcher knife and turn me into a lady.”
“Let me know if it gets any worse,” Nurse Sheila said.
“Oy gevalt,” Mr. Bromstein said as he stared at the screen. “Worse? ‘Worse’ she says. How can my life get any worse? I was a good boy. I was nice to my mama and my papa. I grew into a good man. I worked hard. I met a nice girl. Got married. Raised three wonderful children and provided for them but do any of them visit me? No. Always busy, busy busy. Bah, what a letdown for my life to be ending with me having to beg for help with my rotten schmekel.”
Raul lifted up his Army veteran ball cap, scratched his bald head, then covered his dome. He coughed to clear his throat, then offered, “Life’s a joke and death’s the punchline, man.”
Mr. Bromstein shook his head, then turned to Nurse Sheila. “Will you get a load of this putz? Three years I live with this one and not a peep and now that I’m baking up a fungus in my pants he’s got something to say.”
Raul spooned some jello into his mouth, gulped it and then continued on without taking his gaze away from the cowboys on TV. “You’re born. You struggle. You do your best. Whether you’re a king or a pauper, it all ends the same with, with an old, broken down body with a broken dick or a broken ass or a broken something or other keeping from doing the shit that you want to do. Sooner or later, we all just end up waiting to die.”
“Aw, who asked you?” Mr. Bromstein said as he looked at the TV. “And what’s with this goy? Seventeen fellows I’ve seen him shoot now with the same gun and I haven’t seen him reload his gun once. What hack writing. I have a good mind to write a strongly worded letter to the studio.”
“Film’s sixty years old,” Raul said.
“You’re kidding,” Mr. Bromstein said. “It feels like it was just yesterday I saw this picture with my papa. Five pence would get you three shows and all the popcorn you could stick in your pockets. Oh it was so much better then than it is now what with these films about ignoramuses flying around in tights and capes. Don’t get me started.”
“OK gentlemen,” Nurse Sheila said as she stepped out into the hallway. “If you need anything, let me know.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Mr. Bromstein said. “Unless you can whip me up a new schmekel you’re useless to me but thank you anyway, dear.”
Nurse Sheila entered the next room to find Mr. Petersen curled up on his bed in the fetal position with a tinfoil hat perched atop his head.
“Them aliens say I was the one what killed JFK but I was nowhere near the grassy knoll at the time, no sir,” Mr. Petersen said.
“Mr. Petersen,” Nurse Sheila said. “How are you this evening?”
Mr. Petersen wrapped his arms around himself and rocked back and forth in bed. “J. Edgar Hoover. J. Edgar Hoover put fluoride in the water to keep us all under control so the mole people could build a colony right under our nose.”
“That good, huh?” Nurse Sheila asked.
“When I look in my brain’s retrograde celery basket I can see all the ebbs and flows of the grand conspiracy behind the free masons and their never-ending plot to wrap the world in polyester and sell us all down the river to the intergalactic robot consortium,” Mr. Petersen said.
“I think we’re going to talk to the resident psychiatrist to see about upping your dosage,” Nurse Sheila said.
The nurse looked to the right to find an empty bed. “Mr. Petersen. Where’s Mr. Hogan?”
“Hogan,” Mr. Petersen said. “That man’s not Hogan. He’s a spy working deep cover on a joint operation conducted by the CIA and MI6 to find out what I know about the lizard people.”
Nurse Sheila opened the bathroom door and took a peak. It was empty.
“How long has he been gone?” Nurse Sheila asked.
Mr. Petersen glared at the nurse. “How long are the federales going to insist that the moon landing was fake when we all know that it was just a dog and pony show designed to appease their corporate overlords into so that we’d all be too stupid and ignorant to realize that powerful hallucinatory drugs are added to the world’s supply of pancake batter on a monthly basis?”
Nurse Sheila sighed. “Try to get some sleep.”
The nurse picked up speed as she hurried down the hall. “Has anyone seen Mr. Hogan?” she called out. There was no answer.
A strapping young orderly came down the hall.
“Ted,” Nurse Sheila said. “Mr. Hogan’s not in his room.”
“Shit,” Ted replied. “He was ten minutes ago. I’ll do a sweep.”
“Do that,” Nurse Sheila said. “In the meantime, I have a hunch.”
A candy striper walked down the hall, pushing a cart filled with covered dishes.
“Tara,” Nurse Sheila said. “Have you seen Mr. Hogan around?”
“No,” Tara said. “Uh oh. Do you think he and…”
“Absolutely,” Nurse Sheila said.
Tara shuddered. “Ugh. To think about those two going at it. Oh my God. I need to pour bleach directly into my brain.”
“Sadly, you’ll eventually get used to it, kid,” Nurse Sheila said.
The nurse hurried down the hallway until she reached room 798. She banged on the door. No answer. She banged louder. She turned the knob. The door was locked.
“Mrs. Nelson,” Nurse Sheila said. “Open the door, please.”
“Screw off, copper!” came the voice of a sweet, little old lady. “You’ve got nothing on me.”
Nurse Sheila closed her eyes, took a deep breathe, then collected herself. “Ted! Hey, Ted!”
Upon hearing his name, Ted hurried to the nurse’s position.
“Can you get this door open?” Nurse Sheila asked.
“I think I’ve got it,” Ted said as he fumbled through a large key ring.
Nurse Sheila felt water sopping its way into her comfortable shoes. She looked down to find water seeping out from under the door.
“What in the world?” Nurse Sheila asked.
“Got it,” Ted said as he settled on a key and inserted it into the lock. He turned it, heard the click, then opened the door.
Inside the room, wrinkly old Dolores Nelson stood in her petticoat, ranting and raving. “You pigs can’t just barge in here without a warrant! I know my rights!”
“Where’s Mr. Hogan, Dolores?” Nurse Sheila asked.
“I’m not saying another word until I can speak with my lawyer,” Dolores replied.
“How many times do I have to tell you that this nursing home has a strict, zero tolerance policy on fraternizing between residents?” Nurse Sheila asked.
“Oh stick your policy where the sun doesn’t shine, honey,” Dolores said. “That man rocks my world and at my age, I don’t have much of a world left to rock.”
“He’s got a heart condition,” Nurse Sheila said. “He can’t handle excitement.”
“What excitement?” Dolores asked. “I’m the one that’s getting the excitement. Where else is a ninety year old cougar like me going to find a strapping young, seventy-five year old buck who’s a virtual Rembrandt when it comes to cunnilingus?”
“OK,” Nurse Sheila said. “I don’t need to hear the details. Where is he?”
“Oh, don’t be upset with him, sweetheart,” Dolores said. “I know he’s got a bum ticker but really, there’s nothing about this that’s going to put undue stress on him. It’s like asking him to chew on a pound of musty roast beef is all.”
Nurse Sheila looked at the water building up on the floor, then turned her attention to the bathroom. She knocked on the door.
“Mr. Hogan?” Nurse Sheila said. She knocked again. “Mr. Hogan. Come out right now. We need to talk.”
Nurse Sheila knocked again. “Are you decent? I’m going to send the orderly in if you don’t come out right now.”
“I think he’s indisposed, dearie,” Dolores said. “He had a bowl of chili at lunch and it’s been giving him gas all afternoon. He’s been in there a long time. For a moment there I heard such terrible noises coming from in there. I think he might have broken the toilet.”
“You think?” Nurse Sheila asked in a sarcastic tone. She looked at Ted. “Open it.”
Ted fumbled through his key ring once more. As he did, Nurse Sheila looked down to see that the water coming out from underneath the bathroom door was starting to turn red.
“Oh my God,” Nurse Sheila said. “Hurry up, Ted.”
Ted found the right key and used it to open the door. He and the nurse entered the bathroom to find blood and guts all over the walls, a giant hole in the floor, a busted pipe, and blood and guts all over the walls. The toilet was gone and only thousands of porcelain shards remained.
Nurse Sheila was dumbstruck. “What in the…”
Dolores slowly moseyed on over and looked inside the bathroom. “Huh. Well, maybe it was more exciting for him than I thought.”
Toilet Gator Sundays Continue…
Just when you thought it was safe to drop a deuce…
Vote for Your Favorite Toilet Gator
The Toilet Gator Book Cover Design Contest is underway and thus far, the artists have submitted a plethora, a cornucopia, a virtual smorgasbord of terrifying toilet gators. I would not want my buns on a crapper with one of these scaly fellows nearby, let me tell you.
Toilet Gator Sundays (Or, BQB’s Production Schedule)
Hello. My name is Bookshelf Q. Battler and I am a Book Cover Design Contest addict.
So here’s the deal. I have finally reached the point where I can’t afford to buy any more book covers without publishing a book and getting some kind of return on investment, even if it is just enough to pay for the cost of the book cover.
So this will be my last book cover design contest for awhile. Also, I hereby pledge to all 3.5 of you readers that I will not, not, not, start a new idea until all my previously started ideas are published. I have to have some discipline or else nothing will ever make it to market.
Bookshelf Q. Battler’s Big Book of Badass Writing Prompts is almost there. A pro is actually going over it and everything so there is light at the end of that tunnel.
I hereby declare my production schedule as follows:
- BQB’s Writing Prompts – should be out well, I don’t know when, but I feel like April at the latest. Could be sooner. Doubt it will be later.
- Zom Fu – Novel I am currently working on.
- Toilet Gator – The idea popped in my head and I laughed and laughed and laughed. Then I started a design cover contest and laughed and laughed and laughed. Then I wrote the first chapter and laughed and laughed and laughed. I’m going to have fun with this, but I don’t want it getting in the way of Zom Fu. So, from now on, look forward to Toilet Gator Sundays. Every Sunday, a new installment of Toilet Gator. If I limit Toilet Gator to Sundays, then I still can find time to work on Zom Fu during the week.
- Zomcation is half-written. I just need to find the time to finish it.
- Zombie Westerns – those will come next.
So there you have it. Writing Prompts. Zom Fu. Toilet Gator. Zomcation. Zombie Westerns. And then if I’m still kicking, my other ideas will see the light of day.
I’d love it if Prompts, Fu, Gator, and Zomcation could be done this year, and then next year is solely a Zombie Western year, and then 2019 I bring forth new ideas, but I realize things don’t always go to schedule.
At any rate, I must complete the books I have bought covers for before moving on. I won’t buy covers for unfinished books in the future, but I had to do it this time around as I was losing faith and the seeing book covers made this all seem real.
Anyway, thanks for being my 3.5 readers.
Toilet Gator – Chapter 1
After the show, a tired, sweaty, worn-out Countess Cucamonga walked through a backstage hallway. She was flanked on each side by her burly, bald-headed, sunglass sporting security goons. Meanwhile, her dutiful manager Irving, a spindly little twerp stuffed in a designer suit, heaped praise on his client.
“Outstanding performance, Countess,” Irving said. “Positively outstanding. Butt Peace is climbing the charts even faster than Buttstravaganza ever did.”
“What fabulous news, darling,” the Countess replied.
“I think we’re going to see a dramatic decline in violent outbreaks across the world thanks to your song,” Irving said.
“Yes, well, I do what I can darling,” the Countess said. “I really do.”
Irving craned his neck to see that his client was being followed down the hall by Natalie Brock. Struggling to keep up behind the affiliate reporter was Walter, her hefty, huffing and puffing cameraman.
“Goddamn it, Walter,” Natalie said. “Hurry up. We’re going to lose her.”
“I’m union,” Walter groaned. “I don’t care.”
“Countess!” Natalie shouted. “Countess!”
The entourage came to a halt. The two goons formed a human wall.
“Countess,” Natalie said. “Natalie Brock for NN1’s Miami affiliate. Can we get a few words?”
“This is a secure area, ma’am,” the first goon said.
“We need to ask you to leave,” the second goon added.
Natalie struggled to look around the goons but they blocked her at every turn.
“Irving!” Natalie yelled. “Irving! I know you’re back there.”
Natalie and Irving resorted to having a conversation between the goon wall.
“Natalie, this entire floor has been blocked off for the Countess’ safety,” Irving said. “I could have you arrested and carted off to Guantanamo Bay on celebrity harassment charges.”
The intrepid reporter belted out her question. “What would you say to critics who believe that Butt Peace is just an example of the Countess recycling her same old tired buttsploitation songs into a faux humanitarian package?”
“The Countess does not have to answer such outrageous accusations!” Irving said. “Get out or be thrown out!”
“No,” the Countess said as she pushed her way through the goons to Natalie’s side. “I want to speak. ‘Faux,’ you say?”
Natalie held her microphone up to the Countess’ mouth. “Yes, some say that you really don’t care about world peace, that this song is just your way of scamming the public into thinking you care about the world while still raking in the dough from perverted men who love to pretend that you are singing directly to them about your butt, as well as women who wished they had the kind of butt that would motivate perverted men to give up all of their many. Is your interest in world peace fake?”
“I assure your there’s nothing fake about it, darling,” the Countess said. “What is war other than a conflict over limited resources and why do men fight over limited resources in the first place? I submit that men go to war in order to prove themselves worthy of women with fabulous butts. All I’m trying to say to those angry men is that they should abandon their violent ways, for whenever they feel like committing mass genocide in order to placate their feelings of sexual inadequacy, they should just put on one of my butt songs instead. My butt doesn’t just belong to me, it belongs to the world, and as long as everyone has a chance to stare at it, there’s no reason for us not to come together in the spirit of peace and harmony.”
Natalie blinked. “That was actually the nicest thing I’ve ever heard.”
“Thank you,” the Countess said. “Now if you’ll excuse me.”
The Countess and her contingent pressed forward down the hall.
“Tell me you got that, Walter,” Natalie said.
“Uh huh,” the grumpy cameraman replied.
The entourage reached the Countess’ private dressing room.
“Countess,” Irving said. “We’ve got to talk about your stop in New York. The choreographer was thinking about switching things up a bit, maybe adding at least seventy-percent twerking. Our focus groups can’t get enough of it.”
The Countess’ stomach gurgled. “Ugh. Not now, darling. I think all that twerking shook something loose. Ta ta.”
The pop star entered her dressing room and slammed the door. Her goons took up their positions.
“Wow,” Irving said as he squeezed the first goon’s arm. “That’s solid. You guys must work out. You work out?”
“Ergh,” the first goon replied.
“Do some curls, work on your biceps?” Irving asked. “Triceps? Lats? Delts? Quads. Yeah, I like to lift myself. I’ve got these little red dumbbells that I…”
“Ergh,” the first goon said.
“OK,” Irving said as he lightly slapped the first goon’s arm. “Good talk.”
As the manager walked down the hallway, he spotted Natalie going over her notes.
“You ever pull a stunt like that and you’ll never work in broadcasting again, capiche?”
“Oh, don’t you ‘capiche’ me, Irving,” Natalie said. “Besides, this is a win for you. For once in her life, your girl didn’t sound like a total moron.”
Irving’s face turned red. “That’s the image we’re going for and if you ever publicly imply that she is anything but a total moron I will sue you for slander!”
Meanwhile, the stoic goons were unable to maintain their rugged facades as loud fart noises emanated from inside their client’s dressing room. “Pbbbht…pbbhht…pbbbhhhhttt!”
“Huh huh,” the first goon chuckled.
“Must have been that chimichanga,” the second goon said.
Back down the hallway, the manager continued to lock horns with the reporter.
“I want that recording erased,” Natalie said.
“Not happening,” Natalie said. “She gave a statement voluntarily and it’s going on air.”
Walter stared at the back of his camera, slapped it a few times, then scratched his head. “Hey, Natalie…”
“I am her agent,” Irving said. “All press inquiries must go through me. That statement was unauthorized.”
“She authorized it herself,” Natalie said.
“Hey Natalie,” Walter repeated.
“Fine,” Irving said. “You want to go tit for tat on this? Mano y mano? Tit for tat? You want to bring down the god of thunder to make it rain all over you?”
“Knock it off, Irv,” Natalie said.
“Let’s get nuts,” Irving said. “I’m not afraid to go to court over this. I love going to court. I live for litigation. You call your Jews, I’ll call my Jews.”
“That’s racist and offensive,” Natalie said.
“That’s not racist to say that Jews are good lawyers,” Irving said. “Do you know how long it takes to go to law school?”
Walter interrupted again. “Natalie…”
Natalie snapped. “What?!”
“I didn’t get the thing where the girl with the big butt was talking,” Walter said.
Irving grinned. Natalie clenched her fists. “Are you kidding me?”
“Yeah,” Walter said as he stared at his camera. “I mixed up the buttons. There’s so many of them, you know.”
“Damn it, Walter,” Natalie said. “You know, I try my best to be nice to everyone. I try not to be one of those catty news bitches who thinks their shit doesn’t stink and they have a God given right to shit all over everyone, but damn it Walter, a monkey could do your job. A literal, honest to go, chimpanzee could work that camera and save the station a lot of money.”
“Take it up with my union,” Walter replied.
Irving laughed and laughed.
“Oh, blow it out your ass, Irv,” Natalie said.
Suddenly, the hallway was filled with a loud rumbling sound, followed by the noises of porcelain and drywall being smashed and bashed. Then there were screams. High pitched, blood curdling, female screams.
“What’s going on?” Irving asked.
The first goon tried the door knob, but it was locked. The second goon threw his weight against the door again and again until finally, he broke it open.
“Stay back!” the first goon shouted to everyone in the hallway. He drew his sidearm and followed the second goon into the room. Irving ignored the command and entered.
Natalie wagged her finger in Walter’s face. “Look at me Walter. You’re going to turn that camera on and you’re going to record every single thing that happens and if I find out that you didn’t, I’m going to drop kick you in the balls until you can’t father children anymore.”
“I’m filing a grievance,” Walter said.
“There,” Natalie said as she pointed to a red button on the camera. “That’s the record button. Push that one, then don’t push anything else. Got it?”
Walter pushed the red button. “Got it.
Irving’s shocked voice carried out into the hallway. “Jesus H. Fuck!”
Natalie’s eyes lit up with the twisted delight that only a reporter gets upon learning that something has gone awry. She and her cameraman entered the dressing room, where Irving was holding his hand in his hands.
“I don’t get it,” Irving said. “How is that even possible?”
The goons stepped out of the bathroom. The first goon dialed 911. “We need everyone you’ve got down here now…yeah…Sunnyside Arena…I don’t know how to describe it…there’s been a murder…”
Natalie sidestepped the men and poked her head into the bathroom. There, she saw that the toilet had been smashed to smithereens, little pieces of porcelain everywhere. A hole had been ripped open in the floor. The pipe leading to the sewer system had been split apart.
Worse of all, every square inch of the bathroom was covered in blood and guts. Ever so timidly, Natalie walked into the room, being careful not to get any blood on her clothes. She waved for Walter to follow.
The news reporter kneeled down and stared at a blood soaked plastic bag filled with gloppy silicone.
“What is that?” Walter asked.
“Ungh,” Natalie said as she pulled a kleenex out of her pocket and wiped the blood away. In doing so, she revealed some writing.
“Plastilox Buttock Implant – Left – Patent #10999428432”
“I knew that ass was fake,” Natalie said.
Toilet Gator – Network News One Transcript #1
Network News One Transcript #1
(Open on Kurt Manley, stereotypically perfect looking news anchor, complete with square jaw, perfect hair and teeth).
KURT MANLEY: Witnesses on the scene reported that the Pope was heard to say, “That’s the last time I’ll go to Tijuana without a passport and a reach around. Coming up in the next hour, the ayatollah has released a series of photos of himself mooning a paper mache version of the president. Also, there’s a new report out in which seventeen out of twenty scientists claim that one of the breakfast cereals in your pantry might cause you to literally vomit out your entire spleen. We’ll tell you which cereal that is after sports and weather. But first, controversial pop star Countess Cucamonga is kicking off her highly anticipated comeback tour tonight. We take you live to Miami, where our local affiliate…Jesus…local affiliate…is that the best we could do?
(Local affiliate reporter Natalie Brock, an average looking brunette, appears on screen. She’s standing on the floor of a packed concert around, surrounded by screaming fans).
NATALIE BROCK: Good evening Kurt. I’m here at the Sunnyside Arena…
KURT MANLEY: Where’s Dan? Hey, Dan, we couldn’t have done better than a local affiliate reporter for this? Yeah…uh huh…sure but I mean, for Christ’s sake man, look at her tits. They’re A cups at best. Barely a handful. Utterly useless.
(Natalie stares blankly at the camera).
KURT MANLEY: Oh right. Take it away Natalie.
NATALIE BROCK: Kurt, I’m coming to you from the Sunnyside Arena in downtown Miami, where fans have turned out in droves for Countess Cucamonga’s first concert since her arrest and subsequent hospitalization for moki fish huffing addiction. For those unaware, moki fish huffing is the latest celebrity addiction to hit Hollywood. An addict will spend upwards of three hundred thousand dollars to illegally important the rare, virtually extinct Japanese moki fish, spoon model airplane glue into the fish’s hind quarters, and then somehow the combination of the glue and fish pheromones creates a potent high that can be achieved by sniffing the glue filled fish’s anus.
KURT MANLEY: Don’t bore me with information I already know for…um…news reporting purposes and only news reporting purposes, Natalie.
NATALIE BROCK: Sorry Kurt. Now, we’ve gotten word from Countess Cucamonga’s press agent that the Countess plans to debut a new song tonight, one that will showcase her range as a performer. According to the statement we’ve received, the Countess is tired of churning out the same old vulgar, sensationalized songs that capitalize on her ample posterior. Her time in rehab has given her perspective and now she wants to give back and do her part to bring about world peace.
KURT MANLEY: Aw, what the hell. I really love those butt songs. Countess Got Back. Cucamonga Crack. Twerk Dat Booty. Stuff Dem Jeans.
NATALIE BROCK: Indeed, Kurt. In fact, the Countess’ most famous single, Max Out My Extra Strength Stretch Pants, went quadruple platinum, but apparently the Countess has become a more civic minded entertainer now.
KURT MANLEY: Isn’t Countess Cucamonga’s posterior insured for three hundred million dollars?
NATALIE BROCK: There has been talk of that in the tabloids but I don’t believe anyone in the Countess’ entourage has ever given official confirmation. However, it is undeniable that Countess Cucamonga has one of the most infamous derrieres in show business.
(The lights dim. The crowd goes silent).
NATALIE BROCK: That’s our cue, Kurt. Let’s listen in as the Countess starts her new life as a world peace advocate.
(Countess Cucamonga, an insanely beautiful woman, flies over the crowd via wires attached to her body. She wears a pink wig and a sparkly gown. Her butt is enormous. She lands on stage. Smoke clouds burst and then dissipate, allowing her backup dancers to appear. The crowd goes wild. The Countess begins to sing a slow song.)
COUNTESS CUCAMONGA: War…famine…plague….destruction…death. So much can happen to take away our last breath…
(A giant globe depicting all of the continents is lowered behind the Countess. It spins slowly).
COUNTESS CUCAMONGA: Poverty…catastrophe…so much can come between you and me…
(Natalie appears on screen and whispers).
NATALIE BROCK: Looks like she really has turned over a new leaf, Kurt.
KURT MANLEY: Move your stupid head, Natalie. I’m trying to scope out the Countess’ turd cutter.
NATALIE BROCK: Sorry.
KURT MANLEY: Aww, who can see it through that long gown anyway.
(The Countess returns to screen).
COUNTESS CUCAMONGA: I’m here to tell you there’s a way that all this mayhem can cease. There is a road to international peace. The road is here, it is so clear, and the road to world peace runs through…
(The globe explodes, shooting confetti all over the crowd. A giant butt takes the globe’s place. The Countess rips off her dress, leaving her with nothing but a skimpy bikini and highly revealing panties printed with various world countries. Lights flash, the crowd cheers as the song picks up tempo…)
COUNTESS CUCAMONGA: …my butt!
(The Countess points her butt at the audience and twerks up a storm).
COUNTESS CUCAMONGA: Butt peace! It’s what the world needs now. Butt peace! You’ll drop your jaw and say, “Wow!” Butt peace! Drop your guns, stare at these buns. No time for war when your eyes are sore from staring at…
(The Countess slaps her right cheek).
COUNTESS CUCAMONGA: …my butt.
(Natalie Brock appears on screen).
NATALIE BROCK: Well, there you have it, Kurt. I’ve just received word that ‘Hashtag Butt Peace’ is trending on Lifebox and Butt Peace can be purchased through whichever music site you prefer to throw your money away on. There are also seven hundred online petitions demanding that Countess Cucamonga be named an official UN ambassador, thus allowing her to spread her message of butt related peace throughout the world.
(Kurt Manley appears on stage, grooving in his seat).
KURT MANLEY: Aw, yeah. Butt peace, baby! Woo! The Countess has done it again.
(Kurt stops dancing and ruffles through a stack of papers).
KURT MANLEY: That’ll do it for Natalie Brock, our Miami affiliate reporter and card carrying member of the Itty Bitty Titty Committee. Keep your TV locked on Network News One because in the next hour, we’re going to asking Congressman Hutchins why he supports HR4900, better known as the “Turn Every American’s Life into a Big Pile of Shit” Bill. But first, are there traces of rat poison in your toothpaste? Find out after this commercial break.
Toilet Gator – From the Desk of Bookshelf Q. Battler
From the Desk of Bookshelf Q. Battler
Dear Noble Reader,
Your butt. Yes, I want to talk about your butt, for your butt is the most important part of your body. If you’ve got a great one, people tend to stare at it. If you’ve got a flat one, you’ll need to put a pillow under it. If you’ve got an itchy one, you’ll need to scratch it. Sooner or later, some annoying problem is going to crawl up your butt the wrong way and don’t even get me started if you work in a stressful environment filled with backstabbing, duplicitous coworkers. In that case, you’d better cover your butt.
Speaking of covering your butt, do you know where your heiney is the least protected? The toilet. That’s right. The toilet. You go to work, you make sure you do the right thing so the boss doesn’t theoretically bite off a piece of your butt as he fires you. On your way home, you look over your shoulder to ensure that no one is trying to kick your butt. Alas, when you drop your trousers and take a seat in order to make a cheek squeak, your butt is left completely defenseless as it sits upon the porcelain throne.
“But BQB,” you will surely say. “What could possibly go wrong while I’m sitting on the toilet?”
I’m sorry. I know you are my beloved noble reader, but that’s a stupid question. Really. Pull your head out of your butt and get in the game here.
Have you ever thought about what happens to a turd after you flush it? You probably haven’t, you inconsiderate prick. That poop that was once food that nourished you goes down on a pipe, gets transferred through a line going underneath your property, where it travels until it reaches your community’s sewer system. From there, it makes the long journey to your local sewage treatment facility.
In other words, there is a whole freaking subterranean highway lurking below your ass crack and you’ve never even thought about it because you’re all like, “La dee da, look at me, my life is so important that I don’t have to think about what is going on underneath my butt while I’m pooping.”
Snap out of your self-obsessed existence, noble reader, for there is a whole other world full of devastation, death and intrigue going on in the lowly depths beneath your butt. Close your eyes, push with all your might, then wipe and get the hell off of the bowl as fast as you can because just when you thought it was safe to go number two, I present to you, Toilet Gator.
Bookshelf Battle 