Have a good day, 3.5 Halloweeners.
Have a good day, 3.5 Halloweeners.
It began in 2017 and lasted until 2030. By the end of the gruesome conflict, over a hundred thousand protestors on various sides of the political spectrum and with little more to do than go out and hold signs about their individual causes while their poor oppressed parents footed the bill, would be dead.
Millions more Americans who just wanted to turn on the TV and not see outbreaks of tomfoolery would be severely annoyed.
What, you might ask, was the Second American Civil War over, you might ask?
It was over what to do with the monuments dedicated to the First American Civil War that ended approximately 160 years ago. Yeah. We know. Stop shaking your head.
It all began with General Toke-It-All Jackson, the unemployed and unemployable pot fan/purple haired fifth level otherkin hipster leader of the Social Justice Brigade. “As nothing as my witness, because the idea of a God is oppressive to atheists everywhere, I will never allow a statue of some old racist fuck sit in a park while no one gives a shit while his head gets pooped on by pigeons ever again!”
And so the Social Justice Brigade marched through the South, using their limited upper body strength to pull down one statue of a traitorous rebel racist fucker after another, rather than, you know, maybe just submit a proposal to the local city governments to ask that the statues be removed through the democratic process and be put into museums where nerdy Civil War re-enactors can continue to delay losing their virginity by master bating all over these monuments to a failed effort to double-cross the United States of America.
Meanwhile, the Modern Southerners would not stand for this. Their leader, General Hushpuppy Beauregard, who sounded very similar to Foghorn Leghorn, publicly said, “We Modern Southerners do not see these statues as a tribute to racism, but rather, as a tribute to our ancestors. Why, my Great Great Great Great Great Great Grandpappy Rufus Beauregard was General Lee’s personal horn blower. Why, old Grandpappy blew General Lee’s horn long and hard, sometimes slowly, sometimes fast, always being sure to use plenty of tongue and not any teeth and sometimes for hours on necessary if need be. He looked clean and crisp and respectable in his uniform and we are all proud of Grandpappy’s service.”
When pressed on the fact that the Confederacy was set up to continue the wretched institution of slavery, General Hushpuppy said, “I do declare sir, we Modern Southerners are not racist at all. We love black folk just fine and want to see them do well and get good jobs and be successful and have good lives and I suppose if our daughters bring one of them home we will begrudgingly acknowledge them and then yell at our dumb wives for telling our dumb daughters for this is somehow ok but regardless, we bear black folk no ill will. In our minds, the Civil War has been homogenized in pop culture and the hundreds of Civil War films we have seen just display the conflict as a disagreement between two sides of gentlemen gone awry. Those movies rarely mention the slavery aspect or if they do, they don’t focus too hard on it. I add that I am no racist sir for I have all of Jay-Z’s songs on my iPhone and I masterbate to the sight of Beyoncé’s luxurious rear end at all times.”
When pressed again, General Hushpuppy added, “Look, we love black folk, but we like to brandish our Confederate memorabilia from time to time to remind those uppity Northern folk that if they keep trying to switch our barbecue ribs for kale and our pick-up trucks for Priuses and our shootin’ irons for therapy, we’ll split off from the country and by God, we’ll do it right this time.”
But it wasn’t that easy. There were two more sides. Next, there were the Racist Manboys. These dudes were all kind of chubby. Some were Nazis who, like their hero, Hitler, were trying to compensate for small penises. Some were Ku Klux Klansmen who stole their mothers’ bedsheets and cut eyeholes in them, leaving their mothers to cry, “This is why we can’t have nice things!”
Their leader, General Honkey von Cracker, said, “The white man is better and more smarter and interesting-er than all the other mongrel races and I do be the one who should be knowing this as I took ten years to grad-u-a-mate from night school GED class. I would have done it sooner but one time a black man cut me in line at the Burger Hut and I seethed with rage over it for years. I’m not still quite over it but with therapy I have faith I will be.”
The Racist Manboys really, really, really loved the statues of Confederates because they often fantasized about traveling back in time just so they could join the confederacy and fight in a war to oppress black people. The Racist Manboys divide their time between efforts to build a time machine that will allow them to travel back to the 1860s so they might join the Confederacy and to lobby for laws that will make slavery legal again because the only way they will ever be laid is if it becomes legal to kidnap hot black chicks and hold them against their will.
Finally, there was one last group of non-combatants, the People Who Had Shit to Do. Ironically, their leader was an African American by the name of Fred Wilbur, who said, “How in the Hell do all you people have so much time on your damn hands that you can go out in the middle of a weekday and beat the shit out of each other over a bunch of statues of some racist white folk from the 1800s? I mean, holy shit, as a taxpayer, I don’t like to see my taxes go toward the upkeep of a statue of some ass face who wanted to keep me in chains, but shit, I have a wife and kids. I have bills to pay and mouths to feed. I work a day job, a night job, and a weekend job. I got three Goddamn jobs and you weirdoes don’t have any. Get a job, get Jesus in your life. I mean, shit, I don’t like the statues but if all you dumbass white people are just going to beat the shit out of each other then fuck it, just let the pigeons shit all over those dumb old statues of those racist pricks until the end of time.”
And so the battle raged on for 13 years as the three sides fought one another while people with jobs like Fred would just come home after work, pop open a beer, curse at all the idiots without jobs then rent a movie on pay per view, preferably one with a lot of action and chicks with big ass titties.
Finally, the war ended when a peaceful solution was offered. The Confederate statues would remain, but statues of freed black slaves rogering statues of the white wives of the Confederate soldiers would be erected next to the Confederate statues. All were happy by this compromise which, ironically, was proposed by President Bookshelf Q. Battler, the greatest president America has ever had ever and will also ever have.
Everything was good for awhile until the Third World War broke out in 2034. That one was over whether or not to get rid of statues of George Washington, not because of the fact that he was a slave owner, but because George, as was the custom in his day, wore a gray haired wig to make him look older and wiser as elders were respected for their wisdom at the time. Alas, by 2034, youth took over the world and anyone over 35 was required to sit down on an iceberg and be floated off to sea. No one with gray hair was ever seen again and anyone who used to have gray hair in the past was considered a piece of shit who had to be erased from history.
Finally, in the year 2200, the Fourth American Civil War broke out over the proposed removal of statues of JFK, FDR, Abraham Lincoln, Teddy Roosevelt, President Flava Flav and President Bookshelf Q. Battler.
You see, by the year 2200, a pill was invented that made it so people don’t have to shit anymore. Yes, by taking this pill, humans were able to absorb all necessary nutrients from their foods without producing poop. Anyone pre-2200 who never took this pill was considered a dirty pooping Neanderthal.
Thus, a great debate began. Yes, JFK, FDR, Lincoln, Roosevelt, President Flava Flav and President Battler had all done great things. In fact, President BQB provided all men with free sex robots, which made them happy because they were never without sex again and their wives happy because they didn’t have to suffer their smelly husbands flopping on top of them ever again.
However, all these men pooped, and so, the Anti-Poop front declared that any traces of anyone who ever took a shit had to be erased from history as they were dirty pooping savages.
That was the last American Civil War. After that, America, like the rest of Earth, was conquered by an alien race. The population of the entire world was wiped out and the aliens used the planet to store their excess tennis shoes.
Later, a war would break out amongst the aliens over a statue of an alien wearing tennis shoes when it was decided that dock siders were much more stylish.
Dear 3.5 Readers,
I quit. It’s been a real blast, but I’m at the point where I’m so old it wouldn’t matter if I sell enough copies of Toilet Gator (the best book ever written about toilets or gators) to buy a Malibu Beach House and fill it full of hot chicks with loose morals.
I mean, had it happened ten years ago, I could have fooled myself into thinking the hot chicks wanted me for my manliness and charm. Now that my balls are all wrinkly and my face looks like I stepped on a rake 5,000 times, what would it matter? I would be fully aware that the women aren’t hanging out with me for me but for all of my Toilet Gator money.
So, I enjoyed writing this blog but I have decided to turn it over to my arch nemesis, the International War Criminal/Incredibly Boring Fuzzy Snow Monster, The Yeti. He will post boring posts until the end of time. Expect many photos of his toe nail clippings.
I had a good run. No, my last post can’t include a lie. It was a terrible run. Literally every bad thing that could have possibly happened did and now I am going to ask Alien Jones to put me in one of his spare space ships and auto pilot me into the sun…that way, a little piece of me will always shine down on you 3.5 readers.
Well…maybe I won’t go that far. I changed my mind. I will move to Tibet and become a monk. Are monks allowed to eat pizza? I hope so. I’ll find out.
Thank you 3.5 readers. You are the Yeti’s 3.5 readers now. Enjoy.
Hey 3.5 readers.
Just wanted to give you 3.5 readers a handy tip – if you’re thinking about going to a strip club, don’t bother.
Now honestly, that’s been good advice for a long time, no matter the time period. You get sad, a strange woman briefly slaps you in the face with her knockers, you feel better for five minutes but then ultimately, you’d of been better of if you’d of saved your money. That money in a bank account with compounding interest would have done more for you than using it to pay for a brief breast slap to the face, fun as that may be.
But according to my colleague, the Alleged Man i.e. the man that people think pretends to be me and all the other characters on this illustrious site, strip clubs are pretty much a big let down these days because millennial strippers are the worst.
AM used to visit strip clubs when he was younger and he advises that the Generation X strippers were really a bunch of go-getters. You’d walk into the joint and within 5 minutes they’d be sitting on your lap, offering you lap dances, doing yeoman’s work to use their giant fake breasts to convince you to part with your hard earned cash.
Hell, many of them were even pests about it. AM recalls many an occasion when he just wanted to hang out and not spend much money and ogle the stripper on the pole while nursing a drink all night. Gen X strippers would pester him for lap dances. AM would say no, sorry, he’s all out of money. But the savvy, hard working Gen X strippers would be all like, “Oh, you know we have an ATM…oh, you know, we take credit cards, oh you know, there’s a place nearby that will cash a check, oh you know you could do this, or that…”
I mean really, the Gen X strippers went the extra mile. Sometimes the AM felt like any second they were going to put on a green eye shade and pull out a calculator and like a used car salesman trying to close a deal, say, “What’s it going to take to put my butt on your lap today?”
AM stopped that though. Too expensive. Bad habit really. He grew up and learned money in the bank is worth more than a brief dalliance with a skank. (That rhymed.)
But he felt sad lately and visited one and he is sad to say that millennial strippers are the worst.
First, they all choose their stripper names based on pop culture. “Chastity” and “Misty” and “Amber” are all gone. Now it’s all, “Coming up on the main stage, Khaleesi!” Seriously. Khaleesi. Oh and Elsa. A lot of Frozen and Game of Thrones fans among the millennial stripper community apparently.
Second, the work ethic is gone. While those Generation X strippers would descend upon AM and get him on his way in no time, leaving him briefly enticed followed by sad and broke, the millennial strippers just mill about on their cell phones. They text, they do social media, they take selfies, they talk to each other, play phone games, everything but get out there and earn some green from all the losers who have come in willing to part with their cash to the first pretty face they see.
I mean, really, AM had half a mind to raise his hand and say, “Excuse me, what do I have to do to spend an absurd amount of money to get slapped in the face with a pair of bosoms around here?”
Yes, AM misses the days of the early 2000s when Generation X strippers really worked hard for those dirty, wrinkly, sweaty dollar bills. Sadly, like every other group within the millennial generation, millennial strippers just think the dirty, wrinkly sweaty dollar bills are going to magically pop into their G-strings without doing all the leg work…or grind work or what have you.
Oh, FYI my lawyer says to tell you this is just a story, a musing, none of this happened. AM is a teetotalling bible studier and he spends most of his free time studying the bible and washing leper feet. The only way he’d ever go to a strip club would be to tell the strippers to repent, pray for their souls and beg for the Lord’s forgiveness and to find a more dignified means of supporting themselves.
Hey 3.5 readers.
You may have noticed there wasn’t much in the way of good writing on this website in July.
First of all, there has never been any good writing on this website so why you would expect any now is beyond me.
Second, my alter ego, the Alleged Man, supposedly the man pretending to be me, BQB, has been suffering in the dating scene and for some reason, when AM suffers, my writing suffers. Are the two related? Probably not.
Anyway, AM is, God help us, 38 years old. Yes, his first car was a brontosaurus and Abe Lincoln was his next door neighbor.
AM scored a couple of dates with a nice woman his age, also 38. She was nice, but she dropped during conversation in date 1 that she didn’t want kids and on date 2 she repeated it.
AM pressed a little on how serious she was about this. Perhaps she’d just encountered a terrible kid that day and it was fresh on her mind. Perhaps she never met a man that would be a good father.
She doubled down. Nope. I don’t want kids.
So then it was like AM woke up from a coma. He’d been depressed since turning 35, his lifelong dream of knocking up a woman with his super potent man seed seemed like it was becoming less likely with each passing year.
It began to concern AM that he might have missed his kid having window. AM is pretty ugly. That’s not a joke. He’s a very ugly man and his ugliness causes most vaginas in his general vicinity to dry up like the Great Mojave Desert. One time AM walked by a woman and a damn tumbleweed popped out of her vagina. That’s how ugly AM is.
Seriously. Don’t assume AM is just being down on himself. The dude is ugly. And fat. He has a hardcore pizza addiction. Also, he’s bald and gray. He went gray so early. His pubes look like he’s got Gandalf in a leg lock.
So, anyway, AM began worrying – well, what if my window has past? Sure, a 100 year old man can father a child but that 100 year old man still needs to find a willing younger female. Only men as rich and famous as our 45th POTUS can pull off getting a younger babe.
So AM’s worry was that if he had missed his baby making window, he’d be very sad, but he must turn his attention to finding a nice female companion to hold his hand into death which, holy shit, is getting closer and closer because that dickwad is 38.
Miraculously, shortly thereafter, AM scored some dates with a 32 year old. “Huzzah,” AM said. “I had a problem where I was worried I can’t find a woman to impregnate with my ultra manly super seed and then low and behold, a younger woman falls from the sky. Surely she will want my ultra manly seed. Problem solved. Literally, the fastest a problem has ever been solved in AM’s life.”
Sigh. On date 3, the 32 year old informs AM she doesn’t want kids either.
Thus, AM is in a bind. Two women like him. Neither wants kids. He wonders if he were to end up with one of them would he be able to charm them into having kids.
He feels like maybe both women were silly to mention such a thing so early…unless they really meant it in which case they did the right thing by being up front as a more devious woman might have waited a year to say she doesn’t want kids and by then the man is hooked.
So maybe he could try to talk one into having kids but…i mean, there’s the rub. If a woman is up front about not wanting kids, then a year from now if she doesn’t want kids, that’s the AM’s fault for not listening up front.
AM is torn. He has been alone for a very long time. Many years of solitude. He has no luck with babes and suddenly has luck. He doesn’t want to be alone but he doesn’t want to give up on kids either.
On one hand he feels it is a lot to ask- i.e. you just meet a woman and she basically says, “Hi I’m a stranger. Abandon all hope of fatherhood now to proceed.”
He fears he’ll grow bitter if he doesn’t have kids. However, he also fears that if just goes back to the drawing board, (i.e. says thank you for the dates, ladies, but i’d like to see if there are any uteruses out there that are still open for business) he will end up alone. He’ll end up 45, hopeless and alone, wishing he’d accepted defeat on the kid issue and just taken on of these ladies as a life companion.
Both women have their reasons. 38 year old is concerned of the health risks of having a baby as an older woman. 32 year old is a wacky feminist who believes that having a baby will keep her from “doing something important with her life.” BQB didn’t have the heart to tell her that she didn’t appear to be splitting the atom or curing cancer or doing anything really groundbreaking that a baby would interrupt. He knew that would go over like a lead balloon.
In short, AM’s choices are a) pick one of two women who don’t want kids and assume he will not change their minds b) go back to the drawing board. Maybe that means a woman who can’t wait to pop a kid out of her cooter will come soon, though more likely, AM will end up a very sad, lonely old man.
Also, before you get after AM about going out with 2 women – a) he hasn’t talked to the first in awhile and b) it’s just been like dinners and movies and shit. No horizontal mambo action.
Discuss. Help solve the Alleged Man’s problems as he is apparently so distraught this illustrious blog and the publication of Toilet Gator are on hold until he figures out what to do.
I felt you all should know.
I don’t want to write this dumb blog anymore. I’m going on strike.
I am uber bummed and have no idea what to say, 3.5 home slices.
Hey 3.5 readers.
My best buddy, “The Alleged Man” or the person everyone thinks is me but isn’t, has been pretty bummed as of late.
See, he’s 38, and since 35 the realization has been a slow trickle, now turning into a busted water faucet of a realization that his window to father children is getting narrower and narrower.
In theory, yes, if you can squeeze out some joy juice out of a one hundred year old man, you might be able to use it to knock up a chick. However, that 100 year old still needs to get the go ahead from a young, fertile chick…because, you know, otherwise he’d be a centenarian rapist.
NOTE TO SELF: “Centenarian Rapist” would be an awesome title for my next book. TAGLINE: He raped his way through the Great Depression and two world wars, now he’s raping his way into the grave. Begin plans for a 99 Design cover contest posthaste.
Back to the point. Do things look grim for this stud muffin? Should he just slap himself for not working harder to impregnate a chick in his early days, then forgive himself an accept his spawn-less existence?
I mean, our own 45th POTUS managed to knock up a hot younger woman at age 60 but, you know, he’s super rich and famous and also the POTUS and also has fantastic hair and I have heard rumors that he is often talked about on the news for some reason.
But do keep in mind AM not rich or famous or the POTUS. That probably won’t happen until I release “Son of Toilet Gator” and then everyone will be all like “Oh AM you’re so super awesome, please impregnate all the women, yay.”
Yeah, yeah, forget pity and condolences about “Hey, Alleged Man, maybe you can adopt or maybe you’ll meet a babe with kids of her own and the Dad has skipped town.”
The Alleged Man is wondering about his chances of actually getting his swimmers past the fallopian goal line.
Sadly, the “Sell a Billion Copies of Toilet Gator and impregnate a gold digging supermodel” looks like it is still years away from coming to fruition.
Plus, AM recently read something about how the older you get, the worse your sperm gets. AM is now highly concerned that a microscopic slide of his jism would bear a striking resemblance to a bunch of tiny tadpoles slapping each other around like the Three Stooges. Nyuk nyuk.