I’m late in wishing you a Happy Halloween but I hope you had a good one.
I’m late in wishing you a Happy Halloween but I hope you had a good one.
Salem, MA – 1692
Prudence Goodhope sighed and lamented her fate as she struggled against the ropes that held her tight against a wooden pole buried in the earth. Villagers came and went, dropping off handfuls of twigs and kindling at her feet. With each drop, the pile grew larger and larger until it reached her waist.
The stern looking Reverend Cotton Snerdway approached with a lit torch in hand. “Right then, time to send you to hell witch. Have you got any last words before I set you ablaze for the committing the crime of witchcraft?”
“Yes!” Prudence shouted. “I’m not a witch! Please believe me! I swear I’m not a witch at all!”
A hushed gasp overtook the crowd of villagers.
“She just accused her accusers of lying!” a random farmer cried.
A random old woman swooned and was about to fall when her fellow villagers caught her. “Fi on thee, witch! Your words cut my ears like knives! How dare thee mistreat thine accusers so!”
The reverend held up his torch. “Now, see here, you dirty witch. If your accusers say you’re a witch, then you’re a witch and that’s all there is to it. So shut your gob and enjoy your burning.”
“Please!” Prudence said. “Good reverend, allow me to plead my case.”
“Sorry,” Reverend Snerdway said. “Once you’ve been accused, that’s all there is. If we let people start denying accusations then people who make accusations will get their feelings hurt and then the next time someone sees a witch they’ll just shut their traps and not tell anyone because they won’t want to feel as bad as your accusers will when you start runnin’ your dirty witch face about your so-called innocence of witchcraft and then before you know it, the whole bloody colony will be overrun with witches, flying around on their broomsticks, turning children into newts, cackling at all hours of the night. We can’t have that. Not on my watch. Come on, now. It will just hurt for a minute.”
“But I can prove I am not a witch!” Prudence said. “I have, at all times, been in the company of my family and if they had seen me dabble in witchery, then surely they would have said something.”
“They’re probably all witches too,” the reverend said. “Fear not. We’ll burn them next.”
“Wait!” Prudence said.
“What now?” Reverend Snerdway asked.
“I’ve never flown on a broomstick,” Prudence said. “I’ve never turned a child into a newt. I’m not green. I don’t know any spells. You can search my home top to bottom and you’ll find nary a wand or a book of incantations, not even a single potion…”
“My hands are tied,” Reverend Snerdway said. “If your accusers say you’re a witch, then you’re a witch. But rest assured that your imminent burning is most assuredly deserved because if you hadn’t been a witch, then surely, your accusers would not have accused you of being a witch.”
Prudence’s eyes grew wide with shock. “Wait? Reverend, you mean to say that accusers never get their accusations wrong?”
“Not at all,” the reverend said. “Since the dawn of time, not one single accuser has ever made a false accusation, either on purpose or accidentally due to a misunderstanding of the pertinent facts relative to the issue at hand. You were called a witch and ergo, you are a witch. If you weren’t a witch, then you would have never been called a witch, so which witch is a witch? That’d be you, witch.”
Prudence sighed. “I can’t argue with that impeccable logic. You have convinced me, sir. I must be a witch.”
“Finally,” the reverend said as he leaned down. He was about to set the kindling ablaze when Prudence called out. “Wait!”
“Blast!” Reverend Snerdway said. “What now, witch?”
“What if there’s a tiny, absurdly small chance my accusers are wrong?” Prudence asked.
The reverend shrugged his shoulders. “Unlikely, but no matter. Most assuredly, you are a witch, and so when I set you on fire, you will die a painful death, shrieking in agony and being justly punished as the witch that you are. But, in the unlikely event that you are not a witch, you’ll still die and just get to Heaven that much sooner, enjoying all the rights and privileges thereto that a good Christian death can offer and I’m sure our Lord will be there to offer his condolences for the mix-up.”
“Hmm,” Prudence said. “Well, I should very much like to meet the Lord.”
“And meet him you shall,” the reverend said. “Unless you’re a witch, and then you’ll go straight to hell.”
“Now I’m very uncertain of this whole ordeal,” Prudence said.
“Woman,” the reverend said. “Please stop questioning this for in the end, the important thing is that your accusers not be offended. If I don’t set you on fire and allow hot flames to lick the very skin off of your bones, then they will think I do not take their accusations seriously. If I ask them simple questions like, ‘Say, accusers, why do you think Prudence is a witch?’ or ‘Did you even see Prudence ride around in the night sky on a broom?’ then your accusers will be cross and their feelings will be hurt and do you have any idea how inconvenient it is to make an accusation?”
“OK,” Prudence said. “You make a fine point, reverend. It would be easier to just burn me than offend an accuser with basic lines of inquiry. Have at it then. Lord, here I come!”
And so, Reverend Snerdway burned over 100 accused witches without even bothering to find out if they had ever even owned a broomstick because, holy shit, you can’t ask an accuser a question, you un-woke sack of crap.
Imagine this in Morgan Freeman’s voice.
My friend, Andy Dufresne. He was a kind and gentle man. I’ll never forget when he walked into the doors of Shawshank all those years ago. He told me he was innocent of the accusations that had landed him in the hoosegow. You see, his wife was cheating on him with another fella when a random hoodlum broke in, shot the two dead and robbed them. Poor Andy ended up being the patsy. The fall guy. The cops didn’t know who to pin the case on so they figured as a jilted husband, Andy had motive and that’s all they needed to make an accusation.
And so, the years passed us by. After a couple of decades, Andy got it into his head that he was going to make an elaborate break for it.
I managed to procure a tiny rock hammer for Andy. He was allowed to keep it on the idea that he was using it to carve chess pieces but in secret, why, old Andy would stay up all night, removing an inch of wall here and there and then sneaking the chiseled off cement out into the yard in his shoes.
After ten years of doing this, Andy had finally created a tunnel, which he had hidden behind a poster of Rita Hayworth. When the tunnel to freedom was finally dug, Andy stopped and appeared to be lost, deep in thought.
“Well,” I said. “Aren’t you going to make a break for it?”
“Nah,” Andy said.
“What?” I asked. “Why not?”
“I’ve been thinking about it, Red,” Andy said. “And, well, even though I did not shoot my wife, someone went to all the trouble of accusing me of shooting my wife and well, shucks, golly, it sure would be rude of me to offend someone who took the time out of their busy schedule to accuse me of something I didn’t do.”
“But Andy,” Red said. “Your life has been ruined. You didn’t do anything to deserve being sent to this Godforsaken place and look what has happened to you. You were butt raped daily by psychos. You became the warden’s bitch. And a fellow inmate was even willing to testify to the fact that he once overheard his bunkmate admit to doing the crime you were falsely accused of.”
“Yeah,” Andy said. “And I’m glad the warden shot that inmate to keep him from providing the testimony that would have secured my freedom because, hey, my life isn’t that important. What’s really important is that all accusers, whether they are making true or false accusations, should be able to make them and why, if you defend yourself against the accusations, then that means you are a piece of shit who literally hates everyone who has ever been a victim of anything.”
“Holy shit,” Red said. “The art of nuanced debate is dead.”
“Huh?” Andy asked.
“Nuanced debate,” Red said. “When you say something like, ‘I agree accusers should be treated with respect, not dumped on, given their chance to make their claims and not received repercussions for doing so but that also people who are accused must be given a chance to defend themselves lest innocent men be put behind bars for crimes they did not do.”
“Right,” Andy said. “People are too dumb to wade into all that, Red. All I know is if I escape through this tunnel, I’ll be hurting the feelings of the people who accused me and albeit a false accusation, that still took a lot of guts to falsely accuse me, so I respect that. I don’t want them to feel bad and I don’t want people making true accusations to feel bad and so, even though in this particular case, I didn’t do it, I’d be a piece of shit for standing up for myself.”
And so, Andy put the poster back up the wall and went back to bed. Over the next ten years, he snuck the cement pieces he’d snuck out back into his cell, again in his shoes and patched up the wall like nothing had ever happened.
Nope. Andy never achieved his dream of moving to Mexico and buying a boat. Instead, he rotted away in that cell until he was 101 years old. I should know because I lasted until 120.
Andy’s last dying words? “I sure am glad I stayed here and wasted the one and only life God will ever give me. Escaping and offending my accuser would have been a total dick move.”
EDITORIAL NOTE: I’ll just leave this here, for no particular reason.
And so, gentlemanly country lawyer Atticus Finch did call his client, Tom Robinson, into his law office. Tom Robinson, a black man, had been falsely accused of rape and since it was the Jim Crow south, no lawyer other than Atticus was willing to help the poor man.
“I swear I didn’t rape that woman, Atticus,” Tom said. “I swear, I didn’t. Do you think you’ll be able to save me at trial?”
“Well,” Atticus said as he sipped a mint julep. “I’m just a simple country lawyer who likes to sit on his rocking chair and enjoy a nice cool breeze on a summer’s evening, but I say, I do declare that whether we should save you is not the proper consideration but rather, the appropriate issue is should we save you?”
“Should we save me?” Tom asked. “But sir, I have been falsely accused!”
“Sir!” Atticus said. “Lower your voice! I shall not have such triggering hate speech in my office.”
“What?” Tom asked.
“You see, Tom,” Atticus said. “It doesn’t matter if you were falsely accused or not because all accusers have the right to be instantly and automatically believed. Why, if you don’t believe an accusation without further question or inquiry, then you are not just insulting the individual accuser in this case but anyone and everyone who has ever dared to stand up and accuse someone of anything.
“But Mr. Finch,” Tom said. “I’m not trying to tarnish the reputation of anyone who has ever made an accusation. I realize that for the world to keep turning that people need to be able to stand up and say when something bad happened. I’m just saying that in this case, when my accuser makes a false accusation, I need you to present my case and prove the truth. I didn’t do it, sir. I’m innocent and that fact must be presented to the jury.”
Atticus brushed a piece of lint off his clean, white suit. “Sir, I say, I do declare I’m sorry but I just can’t go on with this hateful discussion. All accusers are to be believed, sir and frankly, whether or not you are guilty or innocent is immaterial. If you do not skip this trial and skip straight to hanging yourself then your accuser’s feelings, as well as the feelings as anyone who has ever made an accusation against anyone since the beginning of all time will be hurt and we can’t have that, so please, go hang yourself now.”
Tom stood up. “Sir, if I may be so bold, if you’re not going to defend me against an accusation then why are you here?”
“Why, I do declare I’m just here to sip mint juleps and look good in this white suit,” Atticus said. “Good day, sir. Please go see the proprietor of our local mercantile and acquire a length of rope. I’ll see to it that your estate will handle the bill just as soon as you hang yourself promptly.”
Tom shook Atticus’ hand. “Very well, sir. You make a fine point. I don’t want accusers to feel bad and even if the accusation against me is false, my life must be over now because if it isn’t then people with true accusations will feel bad and true accusers just won’t be intelligent enough to be able to figure out that in this particular case, the accusation was false. I will go hang myself posthaste.”
“Glad to hear it,” Atticus said. “Enjoy your hanging, Tom.”
Tom left the room. Atticus’ young daughter, Scout, had been playing with a doll in a corner of the room the entire time.
“Daddy?” Scout said.
“Yes, dear?” Atticus replied.
“The world sure has gotten fucked up, ain’t it, Daddy?” Scout asked.
“It sure has, Scout,” Atticus said. “It sure has.”
BQB: Hello, welcome to the BQB Network’s hurricane news coverage. First, because everyone at home is too dumb to imagine what heavy winds and rain look like, here’s some asshole reporter we lashed to a post in the middle of the storm. Asshole reporter, are you there?
ASSHOLE REPORTER LASHED TO A POST: I’m here, BQB! Boy, this hurricane sure does suck big hairy donkey balls! As you can see, the water is rising, rising, rising but I’m at the top of this post so I should be fine for awhile and…aw shit, the water’s at my waist, isn’t it?
BQB: You’ll be fine, Asshole Reporter. Moving on, here’s an interview with Some Dipshit Who Didn’t Listen to the Evacuation Order.
SOME DIPSHIT WHO DIDN’T LISTEN TO THE EVACUATION ORDER: Boy howdy, them government boys told me I got to leave but I said, no sirree, bob. I am staying put in this house because my great-grandpappy built this house with his bare hands and also I will be damned if I will allow looters to abscond with my precious collection of potato chips that bear a striking resemblance to Harry S. Truman. But I do thank the 50 emergency rescue team members who risked their lives to save me once the water got so high that I had to tap dance on top of my roof with my dog under my arm.
BQB: And here’s some Bubba who, well, we’re not making fun of him. I mean, it sounds like we are but he’s cool so we won’t.
BUBBA: My name is Bubba Bosephus Jones and I am from Kentucky and I done come here on my own accord so I could assist authorities in saving folks with my own rowboat and I done already saved 78 old ladies, 4 cats, 3 dogs and 1 hamster.
BQB: It’s like, I want to make fun of you, because the idea of volunteering to go to help people in a disaster is silly to me, but then when I say it out loud, I realize that you’re the good person and I’m the asshole. Anyway, let’s talk a Democrat to see the political fall out of the storm.
DEMOCRAT: Trump is a demon warlock who causes hurricanes!
BQB: And the president had this to say.
TRUMP: I will knock out the hurricane with my own penis. That’s right, people. My dong is so huge that it can knock out bad weather, believe me. The fake news media will tell you that it can’t but it totally can, believe me.
I almost have 2500 followers so I don’t understand how that only translates into 3.5 readers. At any rate, given the amount of followers, not many are actually reading or giving any hits to this fine blog.
So, all you followers, I hope you will start translating into readers and clickers. You don’t know what you are missing. Just ask my 3.5 readers.
Hey 3.5 readers. BQB here.
It seems every generation, a kid gets stuck in a hole and the media swarms on the rescue effort. When I was a kid, the news was all over Baby Jessica, who fell down a hole in her backyard and everyday there was an update on the efforts to get this baby out of the hole.
Now it’s the Thai soccer boys. You know, a little sidenote here. I have lived an overweight, unathletic existence. The bad news is that it has severely limited my life, kept me from doing things I want to do, brought me all manner of hardship and rejection, but I can safely say I’ll never get stuck in a cave. If I were to look at the entrance to a cave, why, when others might say, “That looks fun!” I would say, “Screw that! Too much effort. I wouldn’t fit anyway. I’m going to go get a pizza.”
Am I saying to eat more pizza so that you won’t end up stuck in a cave? Yes. Wait, no. OK, don’t eat too much pizza and then just stay away from caves. There we go.
Does prayer work? I don’t know. “Let’s say a prayer” often comes across as cliche but there’s not really anything else we can do. I just feel bad for those Thai soccer cave boys. And my first reaction is to think their coach is a dumbass but I suppose he meant well and was just taking the kids on an excursion.
Anyway. Here’s my prayer.
“Dear God. Please save the Thai cave boys. May you take your mighty hand and drain the water that blocks their exit out of the cave. This would be easier than having them dive and shit. I’m sorry I said shit. That was unnecessary. Anyway, if you could get the Thai cave boys and their coach out of the cave and to safety, it would be appreciated. There are so few news stories with happy endings and we need one here.”
Anyway, that’s my prayer for the Thai cave boys. Not to brag, but I’m told Jesus is one of my 3.5 readers, so if you have a prayer for the Thai cave boys, leave it in the comments and I assume J-Dawg will pass it along to his old man.
Frankenstein’s monster (who people confuse with his creator, Frankenstein)
Jack the Ripper
Anyone who needs to fart immediately
Russian spies, especially if the lady spy is much taller than the short male spy
Kangaroos with weaponized pouches
Shark rapists (as in, disgusting men who rape sharks, although sharks who rape would also not be pleasant)
The Right Said Fred Fan Club with a petition demanding you join their fine organization
Anyone holding a cactus
Boomerang wielding bison
Billy goats who want your tin cans
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.