Tag Archives: adventure

Helen of Troy: History’s Hottest Chick – Chapter the First


There has never been, nor will there ever be, a woman as beautiful as Helen.

I’m totally serious, you guys. One look at that foxy mama and it was all Boner City: Population You.

I’m talking an enchanting face that you could stare at for hours, eyes you could get lost in, long luxurious blonde hair you’d kill just to touch its sublime softness and those tittays? Don’t even get me started about the tittays. There were like two giant, perky chest rockets standing at attention.

No joke, I’m Homer, the Greatest Poet in all of Ancient Greece and it was all that even a scholar such as I could do to keep myself from dreaming about motor boating those puppies.

“Vrrooom vrrroooom ung nung nung nung nah!”

But I digress. Given Helen’s epic splooge inducing hotness, it was no surprise that those crusty old fucks Theseus and Peirithous, the kings of Athens and Larissa, respectively, kidnapped our beloved Helen and took her back to a dank, dark undisclosed lair.

“Come, Peirithous!” Theseus did say as he dropped his robe to the floor to reveal his oily hide. “Let us put our super wrinkly, disgustingly gray pubic hair infested nut sacks on full display!”

“Yes,” Peirithous did reply. “For we are very, very old and I do not know about you, my good friend Theseus, but I would surely enjoy having my way with the most beautiful woman in the world before I drop dead from a heart attack or ass cancer or some other bullshit disease that we are susceptible to for as you are no doubt aware, we are both ridiculously old!”

And so, Helen did cringe and cry and bemoan her fate as two lecherous, old, decrepit and dilapidated perverts closed in upon her. As they did so, both men held out their hands, opening and shutting them in the internationally understood “I want to honk some hooters” sign that men of poor moral character are known to engage in when approaching a woman with a copious bosom.

“Oh cruel fate!” Helen shouted. “Surely I am not doomed to be accosted by two crusty old fucks with super wrinkly balls, am I?”

At that precise moment, the business end of a sharp sword tore its way through Theseus’s belly, spritzing the lair with a thick douse of crimson red blood. A second blade made short work of Peirithous’s gut in similar fashion.

Both of the crusty old fucks fell to the floor, gyrating and convulsing. It was a horrific yet hilarious sight. If only video technology had been invented at the time. That shit would have gone viral on GreekTube.

The swords belonged to two young warriors, fair haired lads with chiseled jaws and rippling physiques.

“Brothers!” Helen said with glee as she hugged her rescuers.

“What treachery is this?” cried the crusty old fuck Theseus as his blood drained out into the dirt.

“Egads!” hollered the crusty old fuck Peirithous, “’Tis the Dioscuri! Castor and Pollux making with a cock block most foul!”

“Yes!” Theseus said. “Hast thou not heard of the ancient law known as, ‘bros before hoes?’”

“We have,” Castor said.

“But it pales in comparison to the law of ‘sisters before misters,’” Pollux added.

“Ha, ha!” Helen said. “Enjoy your most deserved deaths, crusty old fucks!”

“Uncool, Helen,” Castor said.

“Indeed,” Pollux said. “They’re already dying and…they’re dead. Yes. Its official. The crusty old fucks are dead.”

“And not a moment too soon,” Helen said. “Couldn’t you boys have saved me sooner? I was unacceptably close to having to touch their wrinkly balls.”

“We do have lives, Helen,” Castor said.

“Right,” Pollux said. “We do our best.”

“I know you do,” Helen said as she pecked each brother on the cheek. “Now come! We must return to father immediately! He shall be very worried I’m sure of it.”

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Pop Culture Mysteries – Case File #005 – Smeller vs. Denier – (Part 6)


“There I was, naked as the day I was born, strung up by my toes, flapping in the breeze over a pot of boiling
water.  The local primitives were restless, dancing about in a circle and preparing to boil me alive for their supper!”

Lord Alistair Blackburn was a corpulent fellow.  A charter member of Her Majesty’s Society of Royal Adventurers, he wore a khaki colored shirt and shorts and a pit helmet to top it all off.  He was a bit of a bombastic blowhard, offering up tall tales and exaggerated yarns to anyone who would listen.

I hate it when people do that.

Muffy and I smiled politely.

“How’d you escape, Al?”  I asked.

“Luckily I’d studied that particular tribe’s dialect and told them I taste terrible.  They set me free but I had to walk for an entire day in my all together until I found an outpost.”

I felt sorry for every animal who had to witness that.  Blackburn was definitely not skipping any meals.  In fact, if his story was true, then those bushmen must have had some extra strength rope.

The great game hunter was just one of the people who’d received an invitation to the Count’s dinner party that evening.

Count and Countess Rickard were famous all over Monaco for their dinner parties.  They collected people like a hobbyist might gather up rare coins.  They loved entertaining and they threw a top notch soiree.

We were all gathered in the Rickards’ sitting room, an expanse that was greater than the average person’s home.  It was fancy cigars, premium brandy, and good conversation until dinner was ready.

“Now then,”  Blackburn continued.  “Halfway through this most treacherous trek, I had the misfortune of coming face to face with a pack of unruly hyenas…”

Change that to mediocre conversation.  The Muffster and I were bored out of our gourds.  I tuned out Lord Blackburn and perked my ears toward the conversation happening on the couch opposite the one I was sitting on.

Signora Bellavenuti was whirling her brandy sifter and doing her best to ignore the ramblings of noted philosophy professor Arthur Fremont.  A fellow American, Fremont was a twitchy little fella with a mop of curly hair and a lazy eye.

“A true nihilist would argue that life has no meaning but if a lack of meaning brings meaning to a nihilist’s existence, then can there really ever be a true nihilist?”

The Signora was not as good as Muffy and I were at nodding politely in the face of less than stellar chitter chatter.

“Ugh, darling, please,”  Signora Bellavenuti said as she flapped her fingers up and down toward her palm, waving goodbye, “I have spoken to burros with more interesting things to say.  Shoo!  Shoo!  Away with you!”

Crestfallen, Fremont marched off to the back corner, where he nursed his drink.  Yakubovich was already there, still licking his wounds from the drubbing I’d given him earlier at the poker table.  The Count decided it would be sporting to invite the loser to break bread and it wasn’t mi casa so who was I to argue?

“The first seven hyenas I was able to take out with a stick I’d managed to chew to a point with my teeth, but the eighth I had to strangle with my bare hands.  And do you know it continued to laugh until its very last breath?”

The Lord’s chubby face grew grim.

“The image of my hands wrapped around that beast’s throat as it giggled like a school girl haunts my nightmares to this very day.”

“Whoa,”  I said.  “What a predicament.”

“Indeed.  Now, let me tell you about the rhino I stabbed in the face in Botswana.  It was charging at me, you see, and…”

Lord Blackburn’s rant was being drawn out by a conversation happening to my left.  Two men sat in oversized comfy chairs, wrapped up in a heated debate.

One of them was Sir Rupert Roundtree.  I considered him a friend.  The first time I met him was in North Africa during World War Two.  He was a tank commander then and saved me from a band of angry, sword swinging locals.  The second time was in Hong Kong not long after the war.  By that time, he’d been appointed as Chief of Police in the then British controlled city state, and he and his men stopped a band of thugs who wanted to slice and dice me.

Since then, Rupert had worked his way up in the world.  He’d gotten himself elected to parliament and was currently serving as the British Secretary of State.

As you can imagine, I had a lot of respect for him.  Roundtree was physically fit, an athletic type.  He had a thick handlebar mustache that took up half his face and long sideburns.

Charbonneau had a poor excuse for a toupee.  It looked like a damn chinchilla taking a nap on his head.  The coloring was off.  The hair on his sides was silver but the toupee a deep black.  You’d think someone at the rug factory could have peppered it up a little.

The man chewing Roundtree’s ear off was Patrice Charbonneau, the French Ambassador to England.

“Patrice, old boy,”  Roundtree said.  “Must we dampen the evening with talk of politics?”

“Yes monsieur.  French merchants simply cannot operate with the outrageous tariffs imposed on goods exported to your country.  Something must be done.  There is no precedent for the current rates and if you consult the treaty that was signed in 1949, you’ll see clearly that…”

Roundtree spaced out of the lecture he was getting and looked around the room only to do a double take when he spied my kisser.

“Pardon me, Patrice, I have to go see a ghost from my past.”

“But the hardliners are calling for action and I cannot hold them back any longer!”

“Yes,”  Rupert said as he stood up and patted Charbonneau on the back.  “Let’s put a pin in this conversation for later, shall we?  I swear I’ll return and listen to all your problems posthaste.”

The MP strolled over to me and I stood up to greet him.

Lord Blackburn didn’t even notice.

“That beast came close to goring me but I managed to dodge its thrust at the last minute and smash it right between the eyes with my machete.”

“Lord Blackburn!”  Rupert said.  “Might I steal Hatcher away from you for a moment?”

Copyright (c) 2015 Bookshelf Q. Battler 2015

All Rights Reserved.

Image courtesy of a shutterstock.com license.

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BQB and the Meaning of Life – The Story Thus Far – Parts 5-13

“Plato says that the unexamined life is not worth living. But what if the examined life turns out to be a clunker as well?”

― Kurt Vonnegut, Wampeters, Foma and Granfalloons

Wowie zowie 3.5 readers!

Bookshelf Q. Battler sure is finally going to leave the Bookshelf Battle Compound!  What a historic occasion.

“I have to wait over a week for the next part of Bookshelf Q. Battler and the Meaning of Life?!”

And yep…we’re going to make you wait a week or so before you read it.

That’s because here at the Bookshelf Battle Blog, Official Internet Stomping Grounds of Our Hero, the Illustrious Bookshelf Q. Battler, we know you’ll want to take a moment to catch up and read the story thus far:

PARTS 1-5 – Our hero dies after eating a lightning infused pop tart, is told by Shakespeare to seek the meaning of life, and is revived.

Read parts 6-13 below (in which our hero recovers from his butt injury, Holmes and Watson offer their assistance, and as it turns out, the meaning of life allegedly rests in the brain of the Great Guru, who lives on the top of a mountain on a war torn island)

PART 6 – The Return of Bookshelf Q. Battler

PART 7 – The Butt Pillow

PART 8 – Troublesome Characters

PART 9 – The Game is Afoot!

PART 10 – Sell-Out

PART 11 – A Most Annoying Manner

PART 12 – War in Pango Tango

PART 13 – Young Duffer

Fear not, 3.5 readers!  You’ll be thoroughly entertained with a brand new story series that Bookshelf Q. Battler himself will introduce tomorrow!

 Surprised woman at her computer photo courtesy of a shutterstock.com license.

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BQB and The Meaning of Life – Part 6 – The Return of Bookshelf Q. Battler


Our hero, Bookshelf Q. Battler, host of a mediocre book blog with a modest sum of 3.5 readers, died on the toilet after eating a toaster pastry infused with a lightning bolt.  He woke up  in God’s Waiting Room, where William Shakespeare, his spirit guide, advised him that he must return to the land of the living and seek out the meaning of life.  Doing so will provide him with a brief, fleeting moment of contentment, which doesn’t sound like a lot, but it’s the best the never satisfied, endlessly consuming mankind can ever hope for.  The waitress sends BQB back to Earth with a kiss…

Read Parts 1-5 here.


Kiss.  Nothing.  Kiss.  Darkness.  My head felt light.  I felt like I was floating.  Another kiss.

Beep.  Beep.  Beep.  Kiss.


Gertrude “Aunt Gertie” Scrambler – 1 of BQB’s 3.5 readers and literally the only one who would have been disappointed had he not returned to life.  (Not pictured – beehive, muumuu and glasses.)

Slowly, the darkness gave way to the light.  I woke up in a hospital room, attached to various beeping machines.  A great big pair of nasty, gross, chapped old lady lips were coming straight at me.


“Aunt Gertie?”  I asked.

Aunt Gertie stood over my bed, wearing her big black horn rimmed glasses and a flower print muumuu dress. Her gray hair was wrapped up in a beehive.  She was from the old country, a place where they believed it was acceptable to kiss relatives on the lips.  Dirty third world communists.

“I wasn’t sure if anyone would miss me,”  I said.

“Are you kidding?”  Aunt Gertie asked.  “When you didn’t post this morning, your 2.5 regular readers and I were very concerned!  I went straight to your place and found you passed out cold on the John!”

“Wow,”  I said.

“And between you and me,”  Aunt Gertie said.  “I’d keep an eye on Bookshelf Q.  Battle Dog.  You couldn’t have been out for more than a few hours and he was already nibbling on your carcass.”

“I forgot to feed him,”  I said.  “Yet I made myself a toaster pastry.  Now I feel selfish.”

A man in a lab coat with a stethoscope hanging around his neck entered the room.

“I know Bookshelf Q. Battler is kind of a loser, America, but my damn Hippocratic Oath required me to save him anyway.”
– Dr. Klaus Goetleib

“Bookshelf Q.  Battler!”  the man said, reaching over to shake my hand.  “Dr. Goetleib here.  I see you’ve come out of the coma! It was pretty touch and go there for awhile.  The other doctors and I had a pool as to whether or not you’d make it.  Looks like I’m out a hundred bucks.”

“My own doctor bet against me?”  I asked.

“What can you do?”  Dr. Goetleib said, shrugging his shoulders.  “That’s Obamacare for you.”

“I guess this is the first case of a man dying on the toilet while trying to evacuate a trapped bolt of concentrated lightning he ate in the form of a cherry toaster pastry,”  I said.

“Not at all,”  Dr. Goetleib replied.  “In fact, now that you’re awake, you’d better read this.”

The doctor handed me a pamphlet.  I opened it up and read it.


Chapter One – How to Resist Lightning Infused Treats

Chapter Two – How Sitting on the Bowl Causes a Ricochet, Sending the Bolt Straight Back Up You Know Where

Chapter Three – Why Next Time You Should Just Relieve Yourself in the Backyard

Chapter Four – Make Sure the Neighbors Aren’t Around First

“Happens more often than you’d think,”  Dr. Goetleib said.  “I wrote a whole thesis on it.”

“I still don’t feel so good,”  I said.

“Of course you don’t,”  Dr. Goetleib said.  “You just did an imitation of Zeus with the wrong body part, my friend.  You’ll need a few days to recover.”

The doctor pointed to a table next to my bed. Sitting on it was a large balloon in the shape of a donut.

“What is that?” I asked.

“That is your hemorrhoid relaxation device,” Dr. Goetleib said. “Or in laymen’s terms, ‘a butt pillow!’”

“What am I supposed to do with it?”

“You sit on it!” Dr. Goetleib said. “To relax your posterior from the burdensome pain it was caused when you literally crapped lightning!”

“I can’t believe this,” I said.

“Cheer up,” Dr. Goetleib said. “It could be worse. You could be that poor bastard they rolled in here last week. Guy hanged himself after he couldn’t take one more night alone writing Firefly fan fiction.”

“Oh my God,”  I said, leaning up in the hospital bed.  “Aunt Gertie!  My one post a day challenge!”

“Don’t worry,”  Aunt Gertie said.  “I posted on your blog for you.”

“About waffles?”  I asked.

“No,”  Gertie said.  “About the existential subtext behind predetermined contextual imagery in sixteenth century peasant poetry.”

“Seriously?”  I asked.

“No dearie,”  Gertie replied.  “I wrote that you like danishes.”

“Changing it up on the breakfast food posts,”  I said.  “I like it.”

“Mr.  Bookshelf,”  Dr.  Goetleib asked, “If you don’t mind me asking, what experiences, if any, did you incur while you were in the coma?”

“It was the weirdest thing, Doc,”  I said.  “I was in a 1930’s speakeasy.  I was dressed like an old timey gangster.  Abe Lincoln, Albert Einstein, Jim Morrison and Cleopatra were playing drinking games.  Teddy Roosevelt cheated at cards and Lucille Ball punched him in the face.  John Wayne bellied up to the bar at one point.  Liberace even played the piano! Then, William Shakespeare explained to me how I needed to find the meaning of life while a beloved female celebrity of my generation who died too soon brought me free drinks and snacks!”

“Wow,”  Dr. Goetleib said.

“Does that mean anything, doctor?”  Aunt Gertie asked.

“Yup,”  Dr. Goetleib said.  “Your nephew must have wacked his head pretty hard on the back of the toilet tank before he passed out.  Not to bore you with technical terms, but I think he might have gone nutsy cuckoo. We’ll do a psych eval, but he should get back to normal soon.  You can take him home this evening.  Call me if he’s still babbling about dead historical celebrities in a week.”

I leaned back in the hospital bed and shook my head.

“Well played, God,” I thought.  “Well played.”

What is in store for BQB when he returns to the Bookshelf Battle Compound?  Find out tomorrow on BQB and the Meaning of Life! 

Copyright (C) Bookshelf Q. Battler.  All Rights Reserved.  

Old lady and doctor photos courtesy of a shutterstock.com license.

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