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Mack Smasher: Renegade Straw Cop – Chapter 8

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As I walked out into the restaurant, Humberto’s words echoed through my soul.  “A strawsassin always has back-up.”

              I walked slowly, studying the face of each customer as I walked by.  Everyone looked like a dopey loser with a face full of fattening chow.  The idea that one of these morons could be a hired killer seemed unlikely and yet, Humberto knew his stuff.

I reached our table.  Rosie was on her third chimichanga cheese stick.  “Smasher!  Where’d you go?  While you were gone, someone ate all your…oh, OK.  Fine.  It was me.”

I grabbed Rosie’s arm.  “Get up.”

“God,” Rosie said.  “Don’t shit a brick.  I will buy you another plate of cheese sticks, alright?  It’s no big deal.”

“We need to move,” I said.

By the look on Rosie’s face, I could tell she realized we weren’t talking about heat lamp warmed piehole stuffers.  “What’s wrong?”

“Do you trust me?”

“Not at all.”

“Will you this one time?”

“Do I have to?”

“Yes.”

Rosie stood and walked with me.  I looked around.  I could still hear Humberto, and not because he was still monologuing in the bathroom.  By now, I was sure he was gone, but his words were not forgotten.  “There are bloodthirsty killers intermixed with the customers.  They’ve got to great lengths to hide their identities.  Any person out there on the restaurant floor could be a homicidal maniac.”

My partner and I walked past families celebrating birthdays.  College kids avoiding their homework with drinks and potato skins.  Old and young alike, having a good time being entertained by that insipid jackass in the Golly Gopher costume.

As we neared the exit, my Shaolin training kicked in.  A cold chill ran up my spine. I stopped in my tracks.  To my left, I clocked a fat bearded bartender, running the same dirty dishrag across the nice, clean bar over and over again.  He didn’t do anything else.  He just eyeballed me and worked that rag.

To my right, a young family appeared to be enjoying a night out.  They were all decked out in their best finery.  I suspected Mom might have been some type of kept woman, her ensemble looking like it had taken time to put together.  Nothing a working woman could have whipped up on a minute’s notice, that’s for sure.  Dad looked like a professor.  Tweed coat.  Patches on the elbows. Mom was feeding baby a jar of strained carrots she’d pulled out of her purse, her own plate of barbecued chicken, ribs, and pulled pork going uneaten.

“Come on, sweetheart,” Mom said as she moved the spoon towards the baby’s mouth.  “Here comes the airplane into the hangar.”

“Rosie,” I said.

“Yeah?”

Dad cracked open a newspaper.  The Washington Telegraph-Dispatch.  He shook his head disapprovingly as he summarized the news for the missus.  “Can you believe it, honey?  Those nitwits in Congress raised the interest rates again!”

“Sorry to hear that dear,” Mom cooed.

“Get down,” I said to my partner.

“What?” Rosie asked.

I walked up to a round table, where a frumpy, overweight, middle-aged couple sat.  Both silently stuffed their faces, using food to fill the hole caused by the unrelentingly depressing fact that they were going to have to stare at each other until the end of time, because both knew full well that at this late stage of the game, neither would be able to do better.

I kicked over their table.

“Hey!” the middle-aged man shouted.

I drew Thunder and pointed it at the man.  “Run.”

The middle-aged couple did as they were told.  I grabbed Rosie and pulled her behind the table, which was now flipped on its side.  It didn’t provide cover from all angles, but it was the best I was able to do at the moment.

I shrugged off my leather jacket.  There I was now, my rippling pecs poking through my tight black t-shirt.  I drew Lightning.  She was made out of silver so pure that she’d make a vampire hiss.

I pointed Thunder at the barkeep.  I pointed Lightning at the young family.  I looked into the barkeep’s eyes with my left eye.  I looked into Mom and Dad’s eyes with my right.  Yes, this was uncomfortable and yes, I went cross-eyed for a second.

I lowered my sunglasses over my heads.  “Put on your dancing shoes, kids, because Satan is ready to samba.”

Customers freaked out.  Dishes clattered to the floor as they ran for the exit.  Rosie poked up head up.  “Smasher, what the hell are you doing?”

She looked over to the young family.  “I’m so sorry.  He gets like this sometimes.”

On my left, the barkeep put down his rag.  He cracked the muscles in his neck.  On my right, Dad put down his paper and Mom put down her spoon.  The parents cracked their knuckles.

“You ready to boogie?” I asked the barkeep.

“All over your face like America’s 1990s era sweetheart, Paul Abdul, bitch,” the barkeep replied.

I turned to Mom and Dad. “You two ready to waltz?”

“Like fucking Fred Astaire,” Dad said.

“And fucking Ginger Rogers,” Mom added.

I cocked the hammers of both gats.  “Good, but just so you all know…”

Rosie pulled her Glock.  “Smasher…what’s going on?”

I hate it when my snappy lines are interrupted.  “…it’ll be you three that will be singing…in the blood.”

At this point, you should imagine shit going down in slow motion.  After all, that’s what I did at the time, because as you’ll recall, I always have that sweet little mind’s eye trick in my back pocket.  It really helps to perform a number of vital movements in rapid secession when every second counts and the slightest mistake can get you killed.

Like a ninja, I fell backward, firing hot lead at my assailants on opposite sides of the room.  The barkeep reached under the counter and pulled out a tactical shotgun, a real nasty looking one too.  Pistol grip with extra storage for red shells on the side.  It was something a pro would use, not some lame ass booze jockey just trying to protect himself from a stick-up.

Dad pulled an Uzi out of that tweed coat of his and I’ll be damned if that thing didn’t spit bullets with the swift precision of a laser beam.  With only a second to think, I noticed that the dipshit in the Golly Gopher costume was lunging about in a panic, unsure where to run.  I grabbed him around the neck and hid behind his massive furry girth, allowing the costume to absorb the blast.

Mom whipped a 99mm out of her purse and squeezed off a few bursts my way.  Golly accepted those too.

Blam!  Blam!  Blam!  The barkeep was tearing the room apart with his shot gun.  Dishes and glasses exploding with each blast.  I pivoted and moved Golly toward the bar, letting that fat bastard take all that heat.

As the trio of hired guns reloaded, I pulled off Golly’s head to check on the costume’s occupant.  Yeesh.  The man inside was uglier than the character.  Patchy red hair and warts all over his face.

“How did you know the costume would be able to take all those bullets?!” the man asked.

“Oh, right!” I said.  “I did know that!  Because, you know, science and ballistics and trajectories and shit.”

“Oh, hell no!” the mascot man cried as he bolted out the door.  “Daddy’s tux shop, here I come!”

“Damn it,” I said as I grabbed an empty table.  I set it in its side, its legs facing the bar.  Rosie’s table faced the young family.  Together, my partner and I huddled between the table legs.

“I just lost my human shield,” I said.

“You just lost your mind!” Rosie said.  “Are you kidding me?  Starting a shootout in a crowded public place?”

“Me?” I asked as I raised Thunder over the side of my table and fired blindly in the direction of the bar.  “They started it!”

“Be careful!” Rosie said.  “There are kids in here!”

“Well,” I said.  “We all gotta grow up sometime.”

The barkeep’s gunshots rattled my table.  Mom and Dad’s bullets pressed into Rosie’s table, showing it was only a matter of time before our makeshift covers would bust apart, leaving us with our asses in the wind.

“Back to back?” I asked.

Rosie nodded.  “Back to back.”

“You got another?”  I asked.

“No,” Rosie said.

“Why the hell not?”  I asked.

“Because I’m a straw cop,” Rosie said.

I pulled a .38 I kept strapped to my ankle and handed it to Rosie.  “Newsflash, baby.  Straw cops gotta be strapped.”

As you picture this next part, you should think of your favorite kickass rock and roll song.  Something between 1980 and 1992, because rock just fell apart after that.  Disagree?  Tweet my book’s self-publishing guru, Bookshelf Q. Battler @bookshelfbattle and chew his ear off then, why don’t you?  Don’t tweet me, because I’ll put your complaints in my circular file.

Back to the action.  Rosie and I stood up, taking our positions in a mini-phalanx.  I aimed at the barkeep.  She aimed at Mom and Dad.  Two humans.  Four guns.  What a rush.

I shot out the glasses hanging over the bar, sending a torrential pouring of shards down on the barkeep’s head.  Rosie matched Mom and Dad shot for shot.  No one landed a direct hit and miraculously, everyone managed to duck in the nick of time.

Customers ran out the front door.

“Shoot the baby,” I said.

“What?” Rosie asked.

“Shoot the baby!” I shouted.

“What?” Rosie repeated.

“Damn it!” I said.  “Switch!”

Rosie and I turned.  She hugged her arms around my mid-section and opened fire on the bartender.  I hugged my arms around Rosie’s waist and opened fire on…that damn baby.

Kaboom!  The baby exploded into a massive fireball, causing Mom and Dad to jump for cover.

“You just shot a baby!” Rosie snapped.

“That wasn’t a baby!” I said.

The barkeep cocked his gun.  I scored a hit in his shoulder, sending him down for what I hoped would be the count.  No such luck.  He sprang to his feet, ditched the gun, and grabbed a liquor bottle.  He twisted off the top, and stuffed his dirty rag down the neck.

The restaurant was devoid of all innocent bystanders now.  Mom and Dad pointed their guns at us.  Rosie and I pointed back.  It was a standoff and we all traded glares, waiting to see who would break the impromptu détente by pulling their trigger first.

Dad did it first.  Click!  Mom next.  Click!  Rosie followed.  Click, click!  Then me.  Click, click!

“Oh, come on!” Dad said as he spiked his Uzi on the floor.

“You just can’t get enough ammo anymore,” I said.

“Fucking anti-gun lobby,” Mom said.  “They’re making it harder and harder to  have a shoot-out in a crowded space anymore.”

“Bloody ridiculous,” Dad said.

“You’re British?” I asked.

“Yes, mate,” Dad answered.  “I was using my American accent earlier.  Did you take me for a Yank?”

“I did,” I said.  “You’re very good.”

“Thank you,” Dad said.  “You’re too kind.”

I reached into my pocket, pulled out two sets of brass knuckles and placed them over my fingers.  Dad whipped out a pair of nunchuks.  Mom unfurled a collapsible baton.

“Oh, come on!” Rosie said.  “You all have melee weapons!”

“Come on, yourself, Rosie,” I said.  “You’ve really got to come prepared.”

Rosie stomped her foot.  “I…am…a…straw…cop!”

I looked at Mom and Dad.  I pulled out a switchblade and pushed the button, releasing the sharp end.  “Do you mind?”

“Not at all,” Mom said.

“It’s only fair,” Dad added.

I handed Rosie the blade.

“I hate you, Smasher,” Rosie said.

“I know.”

The four of us paced about in the middle of the room.  At the bar, the fat guy was busy making Molotov cocktails.  He had at least six or seven of them sitting on the counter and was working on another one.

Dad came at me, nunchuku blazing.  I launched myself into the air and utilized a roundhouse kick to connect my foot with his face.  Mom took a swing at Rosie with the baton.  Instinctively, but rather uselessly, my partner sliced and diced the air in front of her.

“Bah!” Rosie said as she hacked away, aimlessly.  “Get back, bitch!”

More nunchuk swings.  I dodged them, then came charging at Dad with a bicycle kick that connected one-foot blow after the next with the killer’s face, knocking him out cold.

“This is some seriously messed up, racist as hell, cultural appropriation bullshit,” Rosie said.  “There’s an Asian in the room and yet the only one who knows karate is the white guy.”

“It’s kung-fu,” I said as I deflected Mom’s baton thrusts with my forearms.  “And honestly, I feel like it would be more racist if the only person in the room to know martial arts was the Asian.”

Rosie picked up a beer bottle.  “You’ve got me there.”

“I mean,” I said.  “It’s not like you all train to fight in the ways of the ancient ones, do you?”

“No,” Rosie said as she smashed the bottle over Mom’s head, sending her to the floor, unconscious.  “Sometimes less involved methods are more effective.”

“You’re dead!”

The barkeep had ten Molotovs burning and ready to throw.  “You hear me?  You’re both dead!”

He hurled one.  He smashed a few feet in front of us, exploding and consuming its blast radius.  He threw another.  It landed far from us, exploding.

“Shit,” I said.  “This guy could throw for the Cubs.”

Rosie looked at me.  “Let’s bounce.”

I nodded.  We ran for the door.  As we did, I reached out and caught one of the hurled Molotovs.  I aimed it at the bar, where the rest of the deadly concoctions stood.  I threw it, then ran with Rosie out the door into the parking lot.

We dashed behind a parked car just in time to miss the fire and debris that shot out of the front of the building, tearing the once delightful family restaurant apart.

Rosie caught her breath.  “How did make those clowns?”

“Easy,” I said.  “No bartender making minimum wage plus tips cares enough to keep his bar that clean.  No mother who dresses like she’s that rich would be feeding her own baby.  She’d have a nanny to do that shit and dear old Dad?  Who the hell has cracked open a newspaper made out of actual newsprint since 2008?  Bunch of lousy amateurs.”

“But the baby!”  Rosie said.  “You shot a baby on a hunch!”

“It wasn’t a hunch,” I said.

“Then how did you know?”

At that exact moment, a tiny sphere the size of baseball dropped out of the sky, landing at our feet.  It was the baby’s head.  I picked it up and shook it in Rosie’s face.  The eyes popped out on springs.

“Ma…ma,” the baby said in a robot voice that was slowly breaking down.  “Ma…ma…no…ma…ma…why…did you…program me to feel pain?”

The baby’s head shook rapidly.  I threw it over my shoulder, avoiding the explosion.

“Elementary, my dear Rosie,” I said.  “No couple that attractive would have a baby that ugly.”

My partner and I rested our heads against the car.

“Smasher?”

“Yeah?”

“What if the baby had been adopted?”

I shrugged my shoulders.  “Sometimes a straw cop’s just gotta go with his gut.”

Woo, woo, woo!  Sirens and flashing lights.  Three cruisers and a SWAT van pulled up.  A tactical team poured out the back.  Uniformed cops jumped out of their cars.  All pointed guns at us.  Rosie and I put our hands up.

Seconds later, an unmarked black sedan pulled up.  Out of it stepped none other than one Lt. Jeffries.

“Smasher,” the lieutenant said.  “I should have known.”

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Take BQB’s Writing Challenge!

Hey 3.5 readers.

Your old pal, BQB, here.

In case you didn’t hear, my book, “Bookshelf Q. Battler’s Big Book of Badass Writing Prompts” is free this week.  Totally free.  That means you can go on over to Amazon right now and download it for free, no strings attached, the worst that happens is you end up with a book on your kindle that you won’t read, though if you don’t read it, you’d be missing out because the critics in my head are saying it’s the best book since the New Testament.

Please Lord, don’t strike me down.  I know you have a sense of humor.  Look at my life, after all.

This book features many of my most humorous writing ideas.  Why, with this book, you’ll be able to write about:

  • A reality TV star who punches sharks in the face!
  • A fart that defies the boundaries of time, space and science!
  • A pumpernickel that scares a couple on a date out of their minds!
  • Ninja bunnies!
  • Zombie bed and breakfast owners!
  • An outer space world where no one has a butt!
  • And so much more!

So, tell you what, 3.5 readers.  Get this book for free, browse through it, pick a scenario and write a blog post based on one of the prompts.  Tweet a link to me @bookshelfbattle and if I like it, I’ll share it with the 7 eyes of my 3.5 readers.  What a marketing breakthrough for you, to have a blog post you wrote shared with the likes of my 3.5 readers.

So, don’t delay, get my book of writing prompts today!

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Movie Review – Black Panther (2018)

Mother of God, 3.5 readers.  Look what some rapscallion posted on Twitter:

Shameless plug: if you follow @bookshelfbattle you can read snarky commentary like that all the time.

And now, on to Wakanda!

Short version – Malcolm X and Martin Luther King (or at least their dueling philosophies on black empowerment) were put into superhero form and left to duke it out.

Longer version – Wakanda has long existed as a hidden utopia of technological greatness, all made possible to large reserves of vibranium, the magic, do-everything metal that makes Captain America’s shield so awesome.

At the core of Wakandan politics is a central question – should Wakanda remain hidden from the world, hoarding its technological secrets to ensure the country’s continued survival, or should it reach out and arm oppressed people of African descent all over the world?

T’Challa (Chadwick Boseman), newly crowned king, takes the former position.  Killmonger (Michael B. Jordan) a Wakandan-American with a desire to challenge T’Challa’s claim on the throne, takes the latter.  The stakes are high as whoever holds the throne is able to claim the power of being “the black panther” i.e. the superhero with amazing abilities that can be wielded for good or evil, depending on who is wielding them.

No superhero is complete without his entourage or “Scooby Gang” as Buffy used to call them.  T’Challa’s feisty younger sister Shuri serves as her brother’s James Bond-style “Q” or master of technology, coming up with all sorts of fun and interesting gadgets for the king to use in his war against evil.

Danai Gurira (“Walking Dead” fans know here as the samurai sword wielding Michonne) gets her long overdue big screen debut as T’Challa’s general, Okoye while Lupita Nyong-o is the big cat’s love interest.  Angela Basset rounds out the royal family as T’Challa’s mother.

Meanwhile, Andy Serkis, long relegated to behind the scenes work where his movements are recorded to create CGI characters like “Lord of the Rings'” Gollum hams it up big time as Killmonger’s partner-in-crime/internationally evil weapons dealer Ulysses Klaue.  I got the impression that Andy was waiting a long time to become a real life character and thus enjoyed every minute of it.

Martin Freeman connects the film to the ongoing Avengers plot line as Agent Ross.  Ross is loyal to America while T’Challa’s allegiance is to Wakanda, so somehow they have to set aside their differences to engage in some buddy cop shenanigans.

You know 3.5 readers, one thing I always notice about a super hyped movie is that it is always a let down if the movie doesn’t live up to it.  This film does.  I noticed a lot of African Americans at the theater wearing traditional garb so I imagine there’s a lot of pride in seeing the first black Marvel superhero on screen.

I mean, there was Falcon (Anthony Mackie) but he’s really Captain America’s sidekick and hasn’t been given his own movie yet.  And there’s Blade (Wesley Snipes) who had a whole trilogy but he’s not an Avenger and his powers are more occult/vampire related whereas the Avengers’ powers usually have less scary origins.

However you slice it, Black Panther is the first blockbuster super hero and he’s raking it in at the box office.  Further, as the Marvel cinematic universe enters its tenth year, the cat is breathing new life into the franchise.  While the older characters we’ve grown used to are a lot of fun, we’ve gotten used to their story lines and new additions like this one will keep interest going into the future.

Special effects wise, there’s a lot of cool stuff going on.  Typically, I don’t like it when movies put a certain brand of car into the film as an advertisement, but there’s a pretty cool chase scene in which a Lexus is driven in an unusual way.  I’ll let you watch it rather than spoil it.

STATUS:  Shelf-worthy.

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I’m Available for Interviews

Hey 3.5 readers.

If you have a blog and would like to interview me, BQB, for it, because apparently only 3.5 people only read your blog too or else why would you waste your time on me, I’d be happy to, seeing as how my book is free all this week.

Leave a note in the comments or send me a Tweet or DM on Twitter – @bookshelfbattle

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Daily Discussion with BQB – New Twitter and It Still Doesn’t Have an Edit Function

Hey 3.5 readers.

BQB here.

If you’re on the Tweet-a-mo-bob, (follow me @bookshelfbattle) you might have noticed that they changed things around a lot.

Yet, they still didn’t bring one desperately needed feature – the ability to edit a Tweet.

As it stands right now, if you write a tweet with a mistake in it, your only option is to delete it and rewrite the whole thing.  You really should be able to just hit an edit button, change the erroneous word, and then save it.

It’s been eleven years, Twitter.  Make this happen.

What other changes would you like to see happen on Twitter?

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Thank You Anita Lovett and Associates

Hey 3.5 readers.

BQB here again.

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The year was 2015.  My arch-nemesis, the International War Criminal/Incredibly Boring Snow Monster known as “The Yeti” scaled the walls of BQB HQ, infiltrated my security systems and took me hostage, vowing to only release me if I obtained a higher number of Twitter followers.

I don’t remember why the Yeti wanted me to get more Twitter followers.  He’s a yeti.  His brain is 95% hair.  Stop trying to make sense out of anything a yeti does.

At any rate, I put out a call for help, asking people to follow me @bookshelfbattle in order to release me from the Yeti’s vile clutches.

The only person to respond?  Anita Lovett of Anita Lovett and Associates.

That’s right.  The rest of you did literally nothing, nothing at all, and were completely content to allow your favorite blog host to remain a yeti captive until the end of time.

Anita, on the other hand, showed the requisite amount of concern that any human should show upon learning that another human has become a yeti captive and she tweeted a call for her followers to follow me.

Meanwhile, the rest of you watched TV and ate cheese doodles and did literally nothing while an incredibly boring snow monster just moved into BQB HQ and made himself at home.  Do you guys realize that furry SOB hasn’t even left yet?  That beast has been bogarting my Funions and my TV remote since the Obama administration.

Sadly, you will all bear this shame forever whereas I have asked Alien Jones to put Anita Lovett and Associates on the protected rolls so that they may be spared during the Mighty Potentate’s Earth invasion, which totally shouldn’t happen as I will no doubt put out many novels that will appease the Potent One but just in case, you never know.

Anyway, when I needed an editor for Bookshelf Q. Battler’s Big Book of Writing Prompts (available for free on Amazon through Monday, June 12) I instantly remembered how Anita came to my defense against the Yeti whereas the rest of you 3.5 readers failed me so, so miserably.  Seriously.  There are no words to describe how disappointed I am in all of you to this very day.

But I digress.  I don’t want to get into specifics, but I found Anita’s prices to be reasonable and in my opinion, she put more work in than the compensation she asked for.

Now, caveat, I obviously don’t speak for Anita so I can’t say she’ll do the same for you.  I mean, maybe she just did it for me because I’m so darn likable and charming and while I’m sure you all think you’re all likable and charming, it’s a lot to ask anyone to live up to the great example that I put out to the world on a daily basis.  I really am a bastion of humility.

Anita and Associates edited my book, went over it, making sure all the various grammatical rules were followed and so forth.  She made a number of suggestions about how to improve the content (i.e. the prompts themselves).  She even formatted it into a file so that all I had to do at the end of the process was load it up on Amazon.  That part I especially appreciated it as I am clueless when it comes to taking a written work and getting it ready for e-publishing.

Most importantly, she answered all my questions and I would add, she set deadlines and stuck to them.  If she said something would be done by X date, sure enough, I’d look in my inbox and find it was done by X date.

Will Anita go out of her way to help you like she did for me?  I mean, obviously I can’t guarantee that because I’m awesome and people like me and they like me so much that they tend to do backflips just to make me happy because, again, I’m so likable.

All I can say is that perhaps you should get in on the ground floor, drop her a line and see what she can do for you and your book before she becomes big and famous, forgets the little people, is able to charge zillions of dollars per hour and can’t return your phone calls because she’s too busy hob nobbing with James Patterson and Steven King and so forth.

Oh, and tell her to work on my stuff before your stuff.  I mean, I don’t want to brag, but I think Toilet Gator is really going to take the literary world by storm and I’m going to need her full and undivided attention on it.  I fully intend to hire Anita and her Associates to break out some flowcharts and protractors and engage in some serious mathematical equations just to see if my claims about the ability of a toilet gator to travel to various toilets within a given time frame are accurate.

You scoff but I’m already in talks with Matthew McConaughey and Dame Judi Dench to play the lead roles in the movie version…at least those people I met at the truck stop diner told me they were Matt and Judy.

(Note that’s just a joke and I’m sure she won’t put my stuff before your stuff but rather treats all her clients equally, even though my upcoming book, Toilet Gator, really is the best book ever written in the entire history of writing.)

Don’t forget to follow her on Twitter – @anitalovett

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Daily Discussion with BQB – Is Avocado Toast Keeping Millenials from Becoming Homeowners?

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Hey 3.5 readers.

Your old pal BQB here.

Australian millionaire Tim Gurner, himself a millennial, has been quoted in the media (this Time Magazine article, for example) as, and I’m paraphrasing here, that millennials aren’t becoming homeowners to the extend that previous generations did because they essentially spend their money on crap.  They go out to eat too much, they take too many expensive vacations to Europe, they buy too many lattes and too many pieces of avocado toast.

Personally, I’m aghast that I’m behind the times because I never knew that avocado toast was even a thing.

Regardless, those wacky millennials took to the Twittosphere (where, shameless plug, you can follow me @bookshelfbattle) to mock Gurner, cracking jokes along the lines of who knew that all their problems could be solved by cutting back on avocado toast.

Typical snarky millenials.  Argh, I just want to channel Uncle Hardass and shake my fist at them in an impotent manner while shouting, “Get off my lawn, hippies!”

Or, hipsters, as is the modern parlance.

I do understand the point millennials are making.  The economy took a big hit in 2008 but honestly, it’s been pretty stagnant since 2000.

Meanwhile, a college education has never been more expensive, yet a college degree has never been less relevant as more and more people have degrees and yet they are pitting themselves against each other for fewer and fewer jobs.

So yeah.  Add to that mix the fact that property values are high and yup…you can’t really blame people who are pissed that they’re living in Mom and Dad’s house well into adulthood for being told all their problems result from that piece of avocado toast…or a latte…or insert your favorite comforting thing you buy that you know you spend too much money on here.

On the other hand, I’m going to side with Gurner.  Life sucks.  You’ve got to make choices.  Save your money.  I’ve always advocated for saving money on this fine blog.  I know it’s hard.  I know times are tough.  I know there will be times like it seems impossible but if you can even save just one dollar out of every paycheck, it’ll grow in time.

OK, you probably have to save more than one dollar.  Save a lot of dollars when you can and save just one when you can’t.

Ultimately, if you’re taking multiple vacations to Europe and throwing your money away on useless gadgets and stuff, then you’re choosing a certain lifestyle.  You have decided to live in the now, the present, to enjoy today.

You have decided to live while the living is good and see the world and do and see and experience awesome things when you are young.

You’re also selling your future old self out because your old self may not have a house to live in when you’re older but you know, your old self will also have nice memories of a fun youth so…it’s up to you.

I can’t really knock anyone for picking that lifestyle.  I’ve had old relatives who worked their entire lives and never went anywhere or did anything and never treated themselves to something extravagant.  They planned to do it in retirement then croaked before retirement came.

So there’s definitely an argument for living in the now and spending it all in the now.

But there’s also an argument for saving that moolah so you can own your own piece of land, a piece of property where you can hang your hat and not get nagged by Mom and Dad about what you’re doing well into adulthood.  And honestly, that’s good for the soul too.

I do agree that in many ways, our political and economic leaders have screwed the big time pooch for awhile now.  The “pay big money for college and college will get you a job that pays big money to you” pyramid scheme is bust.  Less jobs.  Less opportunity.  Less money.  People are less happy.

So it’s up to you what to do with your pennies.  Spend them now and enjoy it now.  Save them now and that will lead to something good later.

What say you, 3.5 readers?

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Not All of My Posts Can Be Winners

I know, 3.5 readers.  You’ve grown used to finding gold on this amazing blog every day.

But I’m not a machine, you know.  Not all of my posts can be winners.

All I can think of to say today is to follow me on twitter – @bookshelfbattle

That’s it.  That’s all.  Go have a snow cone and do something productive.

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The Walking Dead Season 7 Finale

Are you Geekensteins watching it?  Tweet along with me – @bookshelfbattle

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The Walking Dead Recap – Season 7, Episode 15

Hey 3.5 readers.

BQB with a Walking Dead recap, so if you haven’t seen it…SPOILER ALERT!

So, I inadvertently broke the Internet with this tweet:

70 retweets and 266 likes as of this writing.  Holy crap, that’s a record for me.  (Still counting too as of last refresh).

That was in response to the trap Sasha laid out for Eugene, by the way.

By the way, does anyone else think that it was a dick move for Rick to hijack all those nice Oceanside ladies?

Was it a dick move for that girl to punch her granny in the face?

Anyway, if you want more gems like this one in your Twitter feed, be sure to follow me @bookshelfbattle

 

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