Category Archives: Uncle Hardass

Things That Really Frost My Ass – Thanksgiving Edition

By:  Uncle Hardass, Grumpy Old Man Correspondent


Hardassimo J. Scrambler

Hello Degenerate 3.5 Readers,

I see none of you have taken my advice to give up on all this writing horse shit and get a job at the salt mines yet.

Salt Mines Inc. is waiting there, ready to pay you good money for every chunk of salt you pull out of the ground but are you clowns interested?


“Look at me!  I’m a blogger!  I’m super smart and special and the whole entire world needs to know!”

Baaah!  Who needs ya’?

Wait, wait.  Come back.  Don’t leave yet.  I have to bitch about Thanksgiving first and then you can go.

This is a holiday about “giving thanks” but if you people have been paying any attention (and why would you because this blog sucks with the gale force wind of a thousand Dysons) then you know I don’t give any thanks whatsoever for anything.  EVER!

So instead, I’m going to rename this holiday, “Complaintsgiving.”  Here are my complaints about this bogus excuse for a holiday which, lets face it, was invented by no good lazy as hell hippies just to get out of a day of work.

In fact, it has been the hippies’ goal for as long as I can remember to declare every single day on the calendar to be a holiday so that no one has to work anymore.

That’s fine.  I know that’s the way this socialist nation is headed.

One day I’ll be the last asshole doing any work at all and the government will just tax me at a rate of 10 bazillion percent.  I’ll take on the entire country’s debt myself so the rest of you losers can have a jolly good old time on my back.  It’s ok.  By no means feel bad about yourselves.  I’m just an old man committing micro aggressions against your safe space.

But I digress.  My complaints:

  • Pumpkins – This is the dumbest vegetable I’ve ever seen in all of my days.  They make everything taste like ear wax.  Pumpkins are universally unseen the entire year BECAUSE they taste like ear wax but for some ungodly reason every fall every dumbass lines up around the corner for pumpkin spice lattes and pumpkin pie.  I hate pumpkin pie.  You might as well empty your dirty ear holes straight onto a pie crust and serve it up.
  • Cranberries – Similar to pumpkins, unless you’re an unwashed broad with a urinary tract infection, nobody gives a shit about these berries all year long except for Thanksgiving.  Then suddenly everyone’s a friggin’ cranberry lover.  Love it all year long or not at all I always say.
  • Biscuit Cans – Whatever the science is behind how they make biscuit dough pop out of cans with the force of an oncoming train, the government should take it and use it against the Al Qaedas.
  • Parades – Who in the hell is the butt faced rube that decided Thanksgiving is the day of all days to throw a damn parade?  A bunch of jerks walking around in arctic temperatures carrying balloons of cartoon characters used by the media to manipulate children into becoming hippies.  The only thing a Thanksgiving Day parade does is block traffic, thus making it harder for responsible Americans to get to their jobs at the salt mines.
  • Stuffing – Allow me to share with you the exact quote that led to the invention of stuffing:

“Oh!  Hello!  I’m an idiot and I think it might be a good idea to shove a shit ton of bread crumbs up a dead game bird’s ass, cook the whole shebang, then dig it all out and serve dead bird ass bacteria covered bread crumbs to my guests!”

  • Football – What an idiotic idea to have football games on Thanksgiving.  All it leads to is a bunch of drunk morons gathering around the TV to live out their fantasies vicariously through people who are better athletes than they ever were!


WHAT THEY REALLY MEAN:  I wanted so badly to play for the NFL when I was 17 but no college would draft me because I ran around like I had a sack of doody in my pants so now the only joy I get out of life is pretending like my cheering for the group of mercenaries hired to play on my geographic location’s behalf is actually accomplishing something.

  • The Pilgrim Story – Yeah yeah.  A million years ago, the British settlers couldn’t figure out how to farm and shit so the natives helped ’em and they broke bread together.  Beautiful story.  Lovely.  Oh and then ALL THE NATIVE AMERICANS WERE KILLED AND POISONED AND BLOWN UP AND SHIT AND ONLY A FEW OF THEM ARE LEFT NOW AND THEIR SOLE MEANS OF SUPPORT COMES FROM CASINOS THAT LURE YOUR AUNT GERTIE INTO DROPPING HER ENTIRE SOCIAL SECURITY CHECK ON PENNY SLOTS EVERY MONTH!!!
  • Overeating – You feel like this holiday gives you an excuse to eat like a pig.  Fair enough.  What’s your excuse for the other 364 days, tubby?  Yeah.  I know.  I could stand to lose a few too.  Well, I never said I’m not a hypocrite, did I?
  • Turkey Pardons – Every year the President of the United States pardons a turkey, declaring that it will go uneaten and be sent to a turkey preserve.  The press eats it up like its so adorable.  What they don’t tell you is that these turkeys are tax dodging, drug dealing, gun running, murderous lowlife criminal turkeys who have just gotten away with all their crimes thanks to an unjust pardon.
  • Gravy – Thanks, but if I wanted a sticky liquid on my meal I’d just sneeze on it.
  • Passing the Dishes – Pick a direction and stick with it.  Pass left.  Pass right.  Doesn’t matter.  And keep up with the pass flow.  There’s always one pathetic excuse for a human being who a) is passing the dishes the wrong way so that the other side of the table doesn’t get anything or b) is taking so long that the dishes start to pile up in front of him like a 20 car pile up on the Interstate.
  • Your Kids’ Artwork – Look, just because you traced your hand and glued some googly eyes on it doesn’t mean you’re the next Picasso.  Get an application for the Salt Mines, kid.  Can you dig up salt?  Can you collect money for digging up salt?  Congratulations.  You got the job.  Get to work.  Stop drawing shit.
  • Black Friday –Why is it that despite being a geriatric, I’m the only one who understands you can get on a computer, go online and have all the useless shit that you’re wasting your money on sent directly to your door?  Why are you wastes of space giving up your part of your holiday to wait in line with a bunch of bozos just to fight over a discount gizmo just so you can wave it around in the air and act like you just bagged a trophy?  Why don’t you just stay home, jam another heaping helping of earwax pie into your dumb face hole and give those people who work at the stores a day off?  You ever hear about this “work” thing?  You should try it sometime ya’ lousy bums!

Finally, I’d like to end this column by sharing the one thing I can’t stand above all else when it comes to Thanksgiving:

  • Dealing With Judgmental Elderly Relatives – I can’t stand ’em, can you?  Always blah blah blah-ing about how good shit was a hundred years ago and criticizing everything you do, calling you lazy and stupid and if you ever stand up for yourself you get accused of being mean to an old person.  So you just have to suck it up and bite your tongue but you feel a little piece of you dying inside every time they say something nasty to you and you realize its pointless to do anything but nod politely.  Ugh.  I hate them.  They complain so much that I can barely get any of my complaints in edgewise and what…what are you looking at?  GET A JOB, HIPPY!

Uncle Hardass is BQB’s Late Uncle.  Although he passed on many years ago due to a pastrami induced heart explosion, he still haunts BQB HQ in ghost form, informing our noble blog host about everything he does wrong in excruciating detail.

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And Now a Message from Uncle Hardass…

By:  Uncle Hardassimo “Hardass” J. Scrambler, Bookshelf Q. Battler’s Extremely Cranky and Deceased Uncle

Uncle Hardass

Uncle Hardass J. Scrambler

Mother of God.  You people actually read this nonsense?  “Oh look at me!  I’m friends with an alien!”  “Oh look at me!  I have a blog!”  “Oh look at me!  I have 3.5 readers!”

Well la dee freakin’ da.  Everyone wants to be a writer anymore.  No one can be bothered to roll up their sleeves and put a good honest day’s work in at the Salt Mines.  You all want your salt but you want some other guy to get it.

Here’s a newsflash ya’ bunch of unwashed hippy good-fer-nothins!  While you’re all tappity tapping on your electro-thingy-ma-whosits, people are busting their asses just to bring salt to your table.

Think my good for nothing nephew cares?  Nah.  He’s too busy “blogging.”  Jesus.  I’m glad I’m dead so I don’t have to be reminded of the fact that all the work I put into raising that kid amounted to him writing a “blog” for the benefit of 3.5 readers.

In fact, here’s how it all went down on my death-bed:

BQB:  Uncle Hardass!  Don’t die!  I’ll do anything!  I’ll even get a job at the Salt Mines!

UNCLE HARDASS:  Aack!  Too late!  Thank God I’m dying.  If I live long enough, you’ll probably disappoint me by taking all the effort I put into raising you and starting a blog for the benefit of 3.5 readers!

BQB:  That actually sounds like a good idea…

UNCLE HARDASS:  Aack!  Oh God!  This is it!  I hope there’s no hippies in the afterlife!  Aaack!

First, I called it.  That buffoon went and started a blog for 3.5 readers.  I’d kick myself in the ass for giving him the idea but I’m a ghost and my foot would just go through my ass.

Second, there’s nothing but hippies here.  I’m not sure if I’m in Heaven or Hell.  I might be in my own personal Hell where I’m surrounded by hippies who just babble on about all the art they want to create while I bust my ass everyday until the end of time at the Afterlife Salt Mines.

Then again, this is probably Heaven, because I like working at the Salt Mines and bitching about useless hippies.

Anyway, what was my point?  Oh yeah.

My nephew’s story, “Bookshelf Q. Battler and the Meaning of Life” starts again tomorrow and I’m here to ask you to not read it. The more people read it, the bigger his ego will get and then he’ll never face facts and accept the solid employment that only the Salt Mines can offer.

He thinks he’s being real avant garde with this stuff.  You’ll learn his real name though I don’t know why you’d want to because I just refer to him as “the moocher.”


YOUNG BQB:  Uncle Hardass!  Will you read me a story?

UNCLE HARDASS:  A story?!  How the expletive deleted do you have time for a story?  Why don’t you have a job at the Salt Mines yet, ya moocher?

YOUNG BQB:  I’m three.

UNCLE HARDASS:  And?!  So what?  Are you going to use that excuse forever?  You sound just like your Aunt!  “He’s only three, Hardassimo!”  “Stop trying to make him get a job, Hardassimo!”  “Stop gluing a beard to his face in an attempt to pass him off at the Salt Mines as a little person day laborer, Hardassimo!”

YOUNG BQB:  Read this book to me!  It’s called “The Three Billy Goats Gruff.”

UNCLE HARDASS:  Oh alright.  Jesus H. Christ.  Shit like this is why the Japanes are beating us hands down.  You think those kids are reading stories right now?  No.  They’re too busy making transistors and practicing karate and shit.  All you kids who want to read and write will be crying your eyes out when your lack of hard work leads to the Good Ole U S of A being overtaken by the land of the rising sun but alright, here we go.  “Once upon a time…blah blah blah….there were some goats….”

YOUNG BQB:  You’re not reading it right!

UNCLE HARDASS:  I’m making improvements!  Alright, so there were three hard working goats who worked eighty hours a week at the Salt Mines and were happy to do it.  And once upon a time, they were walking across a bridge when an incredibly lazy troll popped out of nowhere and harassed the shit out of the hard working goats.

YOUNG BQB:  I don’t think that’s how it goes…

UNCLE HARDASS:  “Boo!”  said the hideous, lazy troll.  “I’m a writer!  I sit around and make up stories all day while hardworking goats like you slave away in the salt mines!  La dee da I’m so special!”

YOUNG BQB:  I’m going to bed.

UNCLE HARDASS:  Good!  And put your beard on tomorrow!  One of these days I’ll convince the foreman that you’re a little person day laborer and not my lazy moocher of a nephew!  I had three jobs when I was your age, you know.

And then I also hear that at some point in this lousy series, BQB is going to find himself a woman!

I don’t know whether I should be happy for him or sad for the gal.  I mean, hell, it’s about time my nephew settled down and started a family of his own but on the other hand, I have no idea how this clown will ever support a woman without a job at the Salt Mines.

I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised.  I was quite the ladies’ man myself in my day.  How else do you think I scored a fox like Gertie?  Well, she used to be quite the looker anyway.  Now she just kind of looks like a wrinkly basset hound with a wig on it.

Don’t tell her I said that.  She’ll find a way to nag me even though I’m deader than disco.  Nobody reads this thing anyway right?

Read BQB’s story.  Don’t read BQB’s story.  I don’t care.  I know everything but young people never want to listen to my advice.  Make your own mistakes I guess.  God knows my lousy excuse for a nephew has.

If you’ll excuse me now, I have to go haunt my old house.  It’s the one I told Gertie that she is under no circumstances to give to BQB when she goes to the old folks home, but she’s another one that never listened to me.

Oh, right, I’m supposed to refer to it as the “Bookshelf Battle Compound.”  More of BQB’s delusions of grandeur.

Kids these days.  I tell ya.

Get a job, ya bums.

Uncle Hardass croaked years ago after a steady diet of pastrami finally caught up to him.  Even so, BQB is certain he can hear him haunting the Bookshelf Battle Compound.  Occasionally, he even manages to post on BQB’s blog from the afterlife.

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