Category Archives: Tomfoolery

The Tim Horton’s Poop Thrower

Mother of God, 3.5 readers.  Mother of God, indeed.

Have you seen this video yet?  Thank God if you haven’t.  If you haven’t, maybe don’t watch it and retain your faith in humanity for another day.  If you have, holy crap, right?

If you are a brave person, watch this video that has been making the rounds and then reconvene below to discuss.  Do keep in mind though that it features: a) a lady pooping on the floor of a coffee shop b) the woman picking up the poop and throwing it at the employee and c) the women wiping her butt and throwing the poopy napkins at the employee.

And even though the poop part is blurry, you can still make out what’s happening sooo…OK my attorney says I have given you all fair warning and if you are traumatized by this then don’t say I didn’t warn you:

 

So, let’s discuss my salient observations:

#1 – Note this takes place in Canada.  Tim Horton’s is their version of Starbucks or Dunkin Donuts.  Canadians like to act all high and mighty, acting like they’re so much better than Americans but clearly there is one Canadian exhibiting some very shitty behavior.  Pun intended.

#2 – So, she grabs a napkin, then poops on the floor….and I can’t tell but I assume she uses the napkin to pick up the poop…so she doesn’t want to touch her own poop but she thinks its ok to throw the poop at the employee.

#3 – Apparently, based on news reports I’ve read, this was a dispute gone very, very wrong after the employee refused to let the woman use the bathroom and apparently, according to reports, the woman has had a history of causing trouble in this store.  I mean, holy crap, at this point, between Starbucks being accused of racism and now a lady throwing her poop…I mean, if I’m working at a coffee shop I’m just going to be like, screw it.  Sure, use the bathroom.  I’d rather clean up dookie off the floor with cleaning supplies than have one thrown at me or be accused of being a klansman or something.

#4 – Is Jane Goodall available for an interview?  I think her theory on how man evolved from monkeys has been proven given that this lady has monkey like poop throwing skills.

#5 – So…it wasn’t enough that she threw the poop, she had to also throw the poop wipes for an extra flourish.

#6 – Obviously, she really had to poop.  Like, you can’t fake that or poop on command.  She had a hot turd in the chamber because it was ready to go.

#7 – I have to give this lady some credit because she must be eating her roughage and getting lots of fiber in her diet.  You think I’m joking but I have studied this issue.  What you really want to shoot for is for your poops to just sail right out of your butt with little to no straining, and that’s often accomplished by drinking plenty of water and eating your vegetables.  But, if you’re skipping the vegetables and eating a lot of cheese and dairy and candy and junk food, well, let’s just say if that were me, I’d be like, “Oh yeah? You won’t let me use the bathroom?  Well, I’ll show you!  Ungh!  Ungh!  Unnnnnnnghhh!   Damn it, get me a newspaper!  Ungh…ungh…ungh…fuck!  Maybe if I hum this will go faster….tall and tan and long and lovely, the girl from Ipanema comes walking….UNGH!!!”

And that would leave the employee plenty of time to call the cops and by the time the fuzz arrives I’d still be pushing and the security footage would show like my face turning red and a vein popping out of my head.

So…disgusting as this is and frankly, she should do jail time for this, I have to hand it to this lady, maybe she has saved some lives here, because if your poops aren’t coming out in a clean, quick pinch like above, then you’ve definitely got to work on your diet and eat healthier.

Do you have any poopy observations?  Leave your shitty comments below.

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I Have Received Over 100,000 Views

3.5 readers, stop the presses (do newspapers even use presses anymore?) because this fine blog has received over 100,000 views.

100,988 to be exact.

100,000 views were provided by my Aunt Gertie.

900 were provided by Internet web searchers who were looking for directions on how to get away from here.

88 were provided by my 3.5 readers.

Thank you, 3.5 readers.

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Why I Can’t Wish You A Happy Cinco De Mayo

…it would be cultural appropriation, for I am cis gendered, white, male privileged scum.

It’s too bad I can’t wish you a happy Cinco de Mayo, because up until I realized it was going to be cultural appropriation, I was going to invite you all over to BQB for chips, salsa, guacamole, nachos, burritos and margaritas.

But I’m not Mexican, so I can’t offer you any such delicious treats.

As discussed in a previous post, I am part-Scandanavian, so I can enjoy a plate of hot, salted codfish balls, the same kind that were enjoyed by my Viking ancestors.

You can’t have any though unless you are of Viking descent.

So, tell you what.  Let’s just throw a party called, “The Fifth of May” and everyone bring food that is appropriate for their own personal culture and please do not share it with anyone outside of your culture.

Thank you.

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My Fingernail is About to Fall Off

Hey 3.5 readers.

This is some serious shit.

Two months ago, I slammed my left middle finger in a door because…well, I blame everyone but me, as I do with all of my problems.  Some say it’s a sign of low moral character to blame others for your own mistakes but if you ask me, the people who say that are to blame for everything.

But I digress.

For two months, I’ve been walking around with a left middle fingernail that was blacker than the darkest night on the wrong side of the moon.

I figured this problem would heal itself, like a bruise that eventually goes away.

But it was more than that, blood trapped under the fingernail, you see.

And so, last week I noticed the nail was beginning the bulge, like it was expanding a bit.

This week, I notice it’s getting a bit crusty, and there’s a hole between the nail and the part where the skin meets the nail at the bottom.

And some crusty blood has come out around the edges.

So, I broke down and saw a doctor, which I hate to do, because frankly, I believe all doctors are secretly trying to declare me dead over the slightest malady in order to harvest my organs.

“What?  This man has a black fingernail?  Knock him on the head with a mallet and donate his penis to science immediately!”

Damn penis scientists always trying to research my penis.

Anyway, the doctor said the nail is going to fall off.  She said a new nail would grow in.  I’m a little nervous about that, but I will take this doctor’s word and hope and pray for the best.

In the meantime, I’m concerned for the fate of this fine blog.  Soon, I will have to bandage the finger, keep it sanitary, soak it in anti-bacterial ointments and use it sparingly.  That could affect my tying, so I worry about the future of this fine blog and also, Toilet Gator, which I am in the last stages of completing the second draft.

Further, I worry about my ability to scratch my butt…by that, I mean, my butthole.  Oh my God.  It gets so itchy up there.  Like, unbelievably itchy.  And I have to go spelunking up there and well, I won’t be able to use my left hand and honestly, the right hand is probably out because what if I use my right hand and then I touch my left hand?

Ugh.  If any of you want to volunteer to be a butt scratched for say, the next 4 months until a new nail grows in, I’d appreciate it.  It’s the least you could do since I do so much to entertain you, but that’s OK, I understand if you don’t want to help, you lousy ingrates.

Please pray for me, pray that my new nail will be hearty, strong, and impressive to the ladies and that there are no complications that lead me to being a nail-less freak or that cause me to declared dead so that my penis can be experimented on by mad penis scientists.

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BQB and the Search for Culturally Appropriate Food – A Short Story of One Man’s Search for Elusive Woke-ness

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Can’t prove you’re from the boot?  Don’t even think about it.

I was hungry tonight, 3.5 readers.  I should have skipped dinner because I’m fat but screw it.  My tummy wanted foody, yum yum.

I went to a strip mall, where there was a pizza joint and a Chinese restaurant.  Normally, I would enter one or the other place, order, stuff my face and leave fatter than ever and none the wiser that I had committed a hate crime that made me worse than Hitler, namely, that I ate food that did not hail from my culture.

You see, I’m not Chinese.  Of that, we can be certain.  And even though that nice Chinese couple who moved to town and spent their savings to open up a business in which they would utilize their skill in cooking and serving their native dishes to anyone willing to pay, I knew better than they did.

Up until yesterday, I didn’t know better.  I thought it was OK for me to stuff orange chicken and pork fried rice and beef teriyaki and won ton soup and crab rangoons and moo goo gai pan and chow mein into my pie hole with reckless abandon.

But then, yesterday, I read about that girl who wore a Chinese dress to her prom even though she was not Chinese and I realized that I was a monster for eating Chinese food all of this time without being Chinese.

So I stuck my head in the doorway (I didn’t think I deserved to even enter a restaurant that was decorated in a Chinese style because again, I’m not Chinese) and I told the nice couple that I would not be able to purchase their food again because I am not Chinese.  They looked at me and smiled and then when I tried to explain further, the wife grabbed a broom and whacked me in the ass and told me, “Get lost, hipster scum!”

Anyway, so the other place at the strip mall was a pizza joint.  I go there often.  They have good pizza.  However, it dawned on me that I am not Italian.

I thought about it for a moment.  Although I am not Italian, I am of English, Scandanavian and German ancestry.  As you might be aware (you probably aren’t because you attended public schools), there was a time when Europe was conquered by the Roman Empire.

So…I guess you could make the argument that I am the descendant of subjects who were under the rule of Ancient Italians.

But then I thought, “Well…I can’t really prove that.  Maybe my ancestors were aware they were subjects of Ancient Italians, or maybe they were tree people who just danced around in the forest and had no idea about what was going on.  Further, I can’t draw a map of what the Roman Empire looked at during any one point in time, let alone during various times as it lasted a long time, and don’t even get me started on the Holy Roman Empire…”

Oh well.  I decided not to chance.  I got in my car.  By the way, my car is American made, so I think I’m OK, but I’m going to put a call into the manufacturer tomorrow to ask if I share the same heritage as the people who assembled the car on the manufacturing line.  I mean, if the car was made by a man who isn’t English, Scandanavian, or German, then I’d be culturally appropriating this individual’s work and that would be wrong.

I drove for hours until I found a Norwegian Restaurant.  It was called “The Viking’s Helmet.”  Finally, I would be able to dine without it being a hate crime because, remember, I’m part-Scandanavian.

Once inside, I was greeted by a waiter dressed in full Viking battle regalia, horny helmet, battle axe, long beard and all.

“By Odin’s taint, I’m Uncle Sven and I’ll be your server,” said he.

“Glad to be here,” I said.  “I’m a descendant of the Ancient Viking peoples and I just learned it’s cultural appropriation to eat any food that my ancestors didn’t eat.”

Sven and I got to talking and found we were pissed off about the same offenses to our culture.  We were pissed that Marvel was making bank off of cartoonizing our deity, Thor, for he is the God of Thunder and to turn him into a superhero is apparently fine to everyone, yet everyone would shit solid gold bricks if Stan Lee were to churn out a series of comic books called, “The Stupendous Jesus!”  See Jesus cure the lepers in a single bound!

Further, we were pissed that there was an NFL team in the current year called the “Vikings” even though the Ancient Scandanavian heritage of any of the players had not been verified.  The Vikings were a proud lot of warriors who beat the shit out of their slaves to get them to row their long ships faster so they could get to foreign lands and steal their shit, pillage their villages, set their huts on fire, and abscond with their women so…unless you did all that and still looked good in a horny helmet, I’ll thank you to not refer to yourself as a “Viking.”

Soon enough, Thor brought me a steaming hot plate of salted codfish gonads, which surprised me because a) I didn’t know Vikings ate those and b) I didn’t know fish had gonads.  I mean, I guess I knew that but I didn’t know they were anything you could make a meal of, or that anyone would want to.

“Our ancient kinsman would spend many a night looking at their plundered booty and enjoying a plate of salted codfish gonads,” Uncle Sven said.

“Yeah,” I replied.  “It’s just that…well…up until now I was more of a pizza and/or beef teriyaki kind of guy.”

“That’s crazy talk, you un-woke, bigoted, unmitigated pile of whale shit!”  Uncle Sven said.  “You’re not Chinese OR Italian!!!”

“I know,” I replied.  “And had I know it was a hate crime to have eaten anything other than the salted codfish gonads that my Viking ancestors consumed while they burnt the villages of their enemies to the ground and defiled the women folk to prove their manliness, then I never would have developed a penchant for pepperoni and spare ribs.”

“Oh well,” Uncle Sven said.  “At least now you know you were a disgusting monster and now you can change.  What part of Scandanavia did your people hail from?”

“Beats me,” I said.

Uncle Sven gasped.  I explained that my family always told me we were part Scandanavian, but never specified which country.  Uncle Sven told me the specific country matters, for this was a Norwegian restaurant and Norwegians always cooked and salted their codfish gonads.  Meanwhile, the Swedes prefered unsalted codfish gonads and the Finns liked to mix their codfish gonads with a jelly-like substance made out of crushed radishes and the excised tumors of pickled herrings.

Thus, since I couldn’t prove I was a bonafide Norwegian, Uncle Sven could not risk taking part in cultural appropriation, because for all he knew, I could have been the descendant of Finns and he was fresh out of cancer laden pickled herrings.

I told Uncle Sven there were no hard feelings and set off for a German restaurant.  I am, part German, after all.  I found a restaurant called “Haus of Der Wunder Schnitzel.”

There I met a waiter in leiderhosen named Herr Gunter, who told me he would happy to serve me a delicious, hot pretzel, a frothy stein of German beer, bratwurst, as many weiner schnitzels I could eat, all doused with a heaping helping of sauerkraut.

I told Herr Gunter that all sounded delicious and I could eat all of this guilt free because I’m part German.  Alas, Herr Gunter gasped and cried, “Only part?!”

Yes.  I asked if “only part German” was good enough and said it wasn’t.  You see, at this time, there doesn’t exist a process that would allow a doctor to determine which percentage of my stomach was German so there was no way to know how much food my stomach would be able to carry until it filled up the German part and overflowed into the English and Scandanavian parts.  The idea of German food mixing around in a stomach that shared ancestry with non-Germans was morally abhorrent and a definite act of cultural appropriation.

I thanked Herr Gunter for his time and left.  I had a similar exchange at Sir Nigel’s Kidney Pie Factory.  Sir Nigel was willing to sell me a kidney pie until I explained that I could not explain which part of my stomach was English, and then he told me I was banned from eating pies made out of the organs that eliminate toxins from the bodies of farm animals because, hey, that’s better than pizza I guess.

I asked Sir Nigel if he knew what a man of mixed heritage like me could do, because I was hungry and hadn’t eaten all day.  The kind man handed me a box of crackers, which he explained, had been invented by the Brits, for like the British, they are dry, tasteless, and have a history of invading your mouth and leaving crumbs in areas where they didn’t belong.  Hence, why my people would always be known as “Crackers.”

The catch was that I had to promise to eat only one cracker every four hours.  Thus, I’d be able to ensure the cracker would only stay in the English part of my stomach and not mix with the German and Scandanavian parts.

I agreed.  Sir Nigel also gave me a jug of water.  It was ok for me to drink water, the Brit noted, because all cultures have enjoyed water since the dawn of time.

I returned home, where I sat on the front steps to my house.  I ate a cracker, then checked my watch.  I took a sip of water.

A few minutes later, an angry, blue haired feminist wearing a Che Guevara t-shirt slapped the cracker box out of my hand, then seized the water bottle from my other hand and dumped it all over the sidewalk.

“Hey!”  I cried.

“Cultural appropriating scum!”  the angry feminist said.

“I’m not!”  I said.  “I researched this thoroughly!  I can eat crackers because I am a British cracker and also I have agreed to only eat one cracker every four hours so as to not allow the cracker to inter mingle with the non-British parts of my stomach.”

With a triumphant grin, the SJW pointed my direction to the bottom of the cracker box, which was prominently stamped, “Made in Taiwan.”

I looked to the heavens and, much as Capt. Kirk screamed the name of his nemesis, Khan, so too did I cry, “Damn you, Pacific Trade Partnership!!!”

I composed myself.  “But why did you dump out my water?  All cultures enjoy water.”

“Yeah,” the SJW said.  “But uh…hello?  Most anthropologists are in agreement that the first humans were born in Africa and so they were the first people to discover water so unless you’ve got a Ugandan passport on you…”

I sighed.  I told her I didn’t have such a passport and laid down on the stoop.  As the SJW walked away, I lost all hope.  The hours passed, the night went by, and in the morning, my throat was so dry.

As the time rolled on, various helpful social justice warriors stopped by to inform me that my hat, belt, shirt, pants, shoes, socks, and underwear had all been manufactured in other countries, none of which I could claim kinship with.  They were nice enough to take all of my clothing, throw them into a dumpster, pour gas on them and set my duds ablaze.

I returned to my front steps, where I laid their naked…until one of the women who complained about the origin of my clothing accused me of exercising male privilege and/or engaging in Harvey Weinstein-esque activity and so, she called the police.

Not wanting to go to jail, I found a sharp object and was about to stab myself to death when another SJW pointed out that if I were to do so, I would be committing a form of the ancient art of hare kare, i.e. the Ancient Japanese tradition of killing yourself in order to preserve your honor when you have engaged in an epic fail.

So, I wrapped myself in a burlap sack.  I felt bad because I could not figure out which country had invented burlap, but it was my only option.  I headed South, all the way to Antarctica, where I found peace…

…until the world’s only talking penguin accused me of appropriating penguin culture by trying to catch a fish with my mouth.

The End.

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This Blog is Meaningless So I Must Start a New One

3.5 readers, are you aware that in March, it will be the fourth anniversary of this exceptional blog?

That’s more years than I have readers.

Although you are all wonderful, I must admit that four years to gain such a paltry sum of readers wasn’t worth it.

I could continue this blog but lately, the issues of the day really weigh heavily on my mind and soul.  So much fighting.  So much disharmony and discord.  So many problems in the world, so much unrest.  So many people struggling, looking for hope and finding none.

I can no longer waste my time on writing fart jokes.  Fart jokes are crass and they help no one.  I must, instead, make a difference, so I have decided to start a new blog, one in which I will discuss the many important issues of the day.  Further, I will reach out to experts from a variety of backgrounds to get their take on how the world might improve.

I’d love it if you all follow me to this new blog and hopefully it will have more than 3.5 readers.  If you would check it out and give me your feedback, I’d appreciate it.

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Top Ten Last Minute Gift Ideas for Your Girlfriend this Valentine’s Day

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Ahh, Valentine’s Day.  That day that you don’t want to screw up, for if you do, your source of vagina, er I mean your beloved lifelong best friend and companion, will go on lockdown.

Have you been too busy reading this fine blog to buy a gift?  From BQB HQ in Fabulous East Randomtown, here are my top ten last minute ideas:

#10 – Household Appliances – If 1950s advertising has taught me anything, it’s that you’ll be a hero in your household for getting your wife a dish washer, clothes washing machine, basically anything that will make less work for her around the house and frankly, you’re a good man for not being a stickler and making that lazy bitch clean clothes and dishes the better, old way of demanding that she put all that dirty shit in a sack and drag into down to the river and then spend three days washing it all in the river water and drying it all on a rock.

Make sure you let her know that you’re being a good guy by helping her out here.  “You know, honey, Mr. Tiddlybonker across the street makes his wife carry all the dirty clothes to the river…”

#9 – Money – Chicks dig money.   Oh, and if you don’t have a wife or girlfriend, I’ve heard that money can buy you a prostitute…so, rent a valentine!  (Don’t do it you’ll go to jail and be a bad man’s valentine).

#8 – IOU Coupons – Free backrubs, free this, free that.  Hand drawn.

#7 – Penis.  Consensual penis only.  Seek written, notarized, witnessed and videotaped consent.  Just to be sure, make her take a lie detector test while she’s consenting.

#6 – Karate lessons.  Once she’s a blackbelt, she can karate chop all of the unwanted, non-consensual penis.

#5 – A lifelike dummy replica – She can put this out and it will take all of the unwanted, unsolicited, non-consensual penis attacks while she goes about her daily business.

#4 – A song.  Write her a song.  Sing it.  If all else fails, sing your words over a Boyz II Men track.

#3 – Cake.  Women love cake.

#2 – Russel Stover heart shaped chocolate boxes.  Only squeeze 70 percent as you look for the one you want.

#1 – A poem.  Her eyes are like the ocean, her smile is like the sun…chicks love that shit.

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A Love Letter Using Only 1990s Song Titles

Dearest Macarena,

One Sweet Day, I’ll need you to Hit Me Baby One More Time.  I’m Too Sexy, I Swear, and I’m not a Loser.  Is this the End of the Road?  No, and No Scrubs could ever be Killing You Softly with His Song.  Will we be Livin’ La Vida Loca?  You Can’t Touch This?  That’s cold as Ice, Ice, Baby.

 

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How to Make Any Woman You Want Fall in Love With You

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Hey 3.5 readers.

Your old pal BQB here.

Look, I’m not gonna lie.  It’s tough out there in the dating world.  Women have very high, exacting standards and if you don’t meet them then it’s out on the curb you go.

If you’re reading this blog, then chances are you are a nerd.  I mean, if you were awash with hot ladies, you wouldn’t be sitting here reading my nonsense, would you?

Look, I’m a nerd but along the way I’ve managed to figure out some key tips, some crucial lessons that can help even the lowliest of dweebs score that fine ass hottie.  I’m not talking about settling for just any old woman – nay, I’m talking about how you, a dorky ass poindexter, can walk into a club and score any chick you want.

I figure it’s about time I give back, so I created an entirely new website, one that will give you all the answers you need to the questions you have about wrangling the hottest babes.  Watch one of my free seminar videos, read one of my articles, or if you’re still stuck, I’m happy to provide one on one consultations.

The thing to remember, 3.5 readers (who I assume are all male if you’re still reading) is this website WILL CHANGE YOUR LIFE.  No more lonely nights turning your socks ceramic.  No more lonely nights squinting at movies in the hopes of catching some side boob.  Nay, good sirs, all the boobs you want and then some will be yours if you simply visit my fine, excellent site today.

So it’s up to you, 3.5 male readers.  Are you a man or a mouse?  Are you going to sit back and waste your life, never experiencing the joys of being with a hot woman, or are you going to grab life by the balls and learn my secrets to picking up hotties today?

If you’re a mouse, then go eat some cheese, bitch, because I have no time for you.

If you’re a man, then click here.

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If you’re just joining us…

…I got tired of trying to explain to people what this fine blog is all about, so I paid this lady to do it for me:

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