Tag Archives: angry

May 10 2017
4 Comments
Point/Counterpoint

Counterpoint – I Do Not Have Time to Clean Up After Trash Eating Rodents

By:  Bookshelf Q. Battler, Blogger-in-Chief, Bookshelf Battle Blog

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I am a busy man.

I work all day at Beige Corp.

At night, I take care of my magic bookshelf, feed the Yeti, tend to the needs of all the inhabitants of BQB HQ, work on saving the world from the Mighty Potentate through my writing and then if I’m lucky, I might get five minutes to say hello to my main squeeze, Video Game Rack Fighter, before I go to sleep and get up just to do it all over again.

Thus, it is very upsetting when the smelly raccoon and his smelly raccoon friends knock over my trash cans and leave a huge mess by the side of my curb.

In theory, is it so bad if they want to gobble up what I throw away?

No.

In reality, is that all they do?

No.

These little turd burglars spend all night making loud noises as they knock my cans over and root around inside them.  Then, when I wake up, I find that they’ve left trash strewn all over the place.

Banana peels.  Frozen pizza boxes.  Used bathroom related products that have been in my butt, Video Game Rack Fighter’s butt, the Yeti’s butt, or the butt of one of my many esteemed blog columnists.

You know what the worst part is?  That trash won’t be on the ground for less than five minutes before some grumpy old bastard from the neighborhood walks by and shakes his fist at me and shouts, “Clean up your place!  You’re bringing down my property values!”

Sure.  Like I planned for this to happen.  I’m sorry.  I don’t have the time to sit out in the middle of the night with a broom and a dust pan at the ready just so I can follow dirty little bandit mask wearing furballs around as they destroy my trash cans.

Smelly raccoons are evil and they should be thrown in jail.  There, I said it.  Better yet, transport them all to the dump and let them at it.  Maybe they can eat all the crap that won’t biodegrade.  Maybe those little shits are the key to stopping global warming.  Just feed them all the shit that can’t be recycled.

Whatever you do, just get them away from my trash cans.

 

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Sep 26 2015
2 Comments
Things That Really Frost My Ass

Things That Really Frost My Ass – People Who Don’t Know How To Order at McDonald’s

By:  Uncle Hardass, Grumpy Old Man Correspondent

Uncle Hardass

Uncle Hardass, bringing a whopping 20.5 readers to the Bookshelf Battle Blog

Hello again you 3.5 unwashed hippy weasels.

Mother of God, my last column went viral.  Of course, in the parlance of Bookshelf Q. Battler, my good for nothing nephew, “going viral” means a post gets 20.5 readers.  It doesn’t take much for that dufus to pop a champagne cork.

Don’t you people have jobs?  This is what you do with your lives?  Read articles on a blog published by a jackass?  Yeesh.  No wonder the Japanese are beating us.  Japanese kids wake up every morning at four a.m. and complete seventy-eight complex math problems before breakfast.  How much long division have you done today?

You want complaints?  Good, ‘cuz I got ’em.

Do you know what really puts the butter on my yams?  When I walk into a McDonalds, ready for my Big Mac, and there’s some ignorant brain donor standing there, pouring over the menu like its the goddamn Zapruder film, trying to figure out what the hell he wants.

NEWSFLASH DINGUS!  THEY’VE HAD THE SAME BULLSHIT ON THE MENU SINCE NINETEEN HUNDRED AND F%$KING FIFTY FIVE!

Hamburgers, chicken nuggets, and French fries, jerkface!  That’s all they’ve got!  THAT’S ALL THEY’VE GOT!

No, if you stare at that menu a little longer they’re not going to come up with a McFilet Mignon.

They aren’t going to whip up a pot of McSpaghetti for you and you want a bet?  Here’s a bet for you.  If you ever walk into a McDonald’s and walk out with a McBaked Alaska, I will personally chop off my own butt and mail it to Barbados.

THAT, 3.5 readers, is how absolutely, positively, one-hundred percent sure I am that McDonald’s is not going to ever, EVER deviate from the hamburger, chicken nugget, French fry trifecta that has been making them billions and clogging bazillions more arteries since the middle half of the last century.

They even put it on the sign.  Right under the golden arches!  “OVER A HUNDRED BILLION SERVED.”  I think they stopped counting at a hundred billion.  Over a hundred billion people have walked into McDonalds, ordered a hamburger, and walked out, but there will still always be a dirty mouth breather ahead of me who has no clue what he wants.

Take a guess from one of the three items on the menu, jackass!  You’ve got a 33.33 % chance of getting it right!

Does McDonalds even put a burgers served count on their sign anymore?  I don’t even know what they put under the arches now.  I don’t pay attention because I don’t have to because when I go there I’m hungry and I KNOW EXACTLY WHAT I WANT!

So listen, Johnny Assclown, if you are able to walk into a McDonald’s and not immediately know whether you want A) a hamburger, B) a box of chicken nuggets or C) an order of French fries then please step aside and take all the time you need to mull over this question of the ages so hard working people can put their order in and get back to their job at the salt mines.

Sorry 3.5 readers.  I just get emotional about this subject.  While I’m ranting, here are some other issues that really scrape my barnacles:

  • People who say “it is what it is” as if they’re the greatest philosopher to walk the Earth since Jean Paul Sartre.  You know what your face is?  Your butt.  Your face is what your butt is because they’re one and the same and they both look exactly identical.
  • Selfie sticks.  I cannot believe that there are so many people taking photographs of their stupid degenerate faces that a device was invented to allow them to take self portraits on their own.  Listen dorkus malorkus, I hate to break it to you, but if you don’t have one friend willing to take your picture, thus leaving you reaching for a stick to do the job, then no one is going to look at a photo of your big head anyway.
  • Does anyone know why school grades go, “A, B, C, D…F?”  Excuse me, but what the “F” happened to E?  Why do I, a grumpy old man, have to be the one to tell a bunch of educators that the alphabet goes, “A, B, C, D, E ?”  Someone, somewhere in the educational system made the conscious decision to skip “E” and go straight to “F” and if you ask me, it’s probably so they could secretly tell dumb kids to go “F” themselves, which in theory, might be a good character building exercise, but in reality, it’s completely unnecessary since life is going to be telling those kids all the time once they’re out in the world.  They don’t need to get it from their teachers too.
  • When I’m stuck in line behind that waste of space who insists on asking the teenage kid making minimum wage 9,788 questions about something she’s buying.  And it’s never something important either.  This lady (sorry, but it’s always an old lady) is buying a damn bag of Chex Mix and yet with all the questions she’s asking, you’d think she was investing in her own nuclear reactor.  “Is this spicy?  How much sodium per bag?  What’s the ratio of pretzels to rye chips?”  Holy Shit, lady, it’s a bag of Chex Mix!  Buy it or don’t but the world will not end either way!
  • Ear buds.  I hate these things.  I miss ear phones.  When did society get together and decide music must be pumped directly into your ear canal?  Like that’s good for you.  But they’re not that bad when you get used to them.  What really puts the slack in my sack is when I put a pair of ear buds in my pocket, take a walk, and some how while they were in my pocket, they managed to get tied up in an intricate series of knots that you require an advanced degree in mechanical engineering to get the whole kit and kaboodle straightened out again.  It’s like a damn gremlin crawled into my pocket and twisted these things together.  Gremlins are such assholes.
  • People who stop and hold the door for me when I’m a mile a way.  Look weirdo, it’s great you’re trying to be polite and all, but unless I’m right behind you, there’s no need to hold the door open so don’t expect me to run like I’m training for a marathon just because no one sent you the memo declaring that chivalry is dead.

That’s all I’ve got for today, 3.5 nitwits.  Knock off the blogging nonsense and get a job today.  The salt mines are always hiring.

Is there something that puts the cream in your cheese?  Share your complaints in the comments.  Or don’t.  What do I care?

Whatever you do, please stop encouraging my nephew.  Writing is for losers, smarmy intellectuals, and other assorted schmucks.

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Sep 12 2015
7 Comments
Things That Really Frost My Ass

Things That Really Frost My Ass – People In My Way at the Store

Hello 3.5 Readers.

“Things That Really Frost My Ass” with Uncle Hardass

Uncle Hardass here, reporting from the afterlife.

It’s been awhile since I’ve written on my good for nothing nephew’s blog.  I don’t want to encourage him with this writing horse shit.

You’re a writer, BQB?  Woopitty doo.  You can string together words and sentences.  GUESS WHAT?  You’re not special!  Get a job!!!  The salt mines are always hiring!

Anyway, where was I?  You know what really frosts my ass?

When you go to a store and you need to get one thing.  Just one little thing.  It’s all you need.  The trip should be quick and simple.

But when you get to the store there’s some goddamn jackass right in the way of the product you need.

And it’s never something that a lot of people need thus it makes sense that someone’s there.

It never happens when I need milk or bread.

But if I need my limited edition hemorrhoid cream with kung-fu grip applicator tip, sure enough there will be some old broad with her ass parked in front of the hemorrhoid cream with kung-fu grip applicator tip display, just whiling away the hours trying to figure out which brand of the stuff she should get.

I never know what to do in such a situation.  I know exactly what I want.  Do I say, “Excuse me” and barge past her and take it?  Do I be a gentleman and wait for her to make her selection?

Do I perform some hybrid move where I stand there but cough so as to remind her that other people are waiting and the world does not revolve around her, so she should either hurry up and make a choice or move her fat ass along?

It’s shit like this that makes it so I never want to leave my house.

That happened to me all the time when I was alive but I should also mention that it happens in the afterlife too.

The afterlife is just like being alive.  Seriously, no one is enlightened or more intelligent for having experienced life on Earth.  Everyone’s just as big a dumbass as they were when they were in the physical realm.

And here’s something else that really puts the cheese on my wiener.

I won’t bother a person when they’re in the store making a selection, even when the odds against a person needing the same obscure product that I require are unlikely and yet there the person’s stupid ass is, blocking my egress to my product of choice.

YET, God forbid I might ever need a minute to make up my mind about something because if I take more than two seconds, some numbnuts will be up my ass like a runaway colonoscope, acting like I’ve committed a treasonous crime for not getting out of the way.

Here’s a list of some of the other things that put a bur in my britches:

  • When I’m driving down the road and some dipshit bicyclist in tight shorts cuts across my car and assumes I understand what his moronic hand signals mean.  Here’s a hand signal for you, assface!
  • People who talk in the movie theater.  Specifically, dirtbags who ask “What have I seen that guy in?” as well as the shit heads who then proceed to rattle off said actor’s entire filmography.
  • People who post pictures of their kids on social media every five seconds.  People, your children are ugly mutants and the quicker you stop deluding them into thinking they’re special the better – not just for you and them but for the rest of society as well.
  • The knowledge that whenever I wash my car, a damn bird will inevitably dive-bomb a juicy white turd spray all over it 3.5 seconds later.  My pristine car is like ex-lax for winged creatures.
  • Idiotic parents who insist on giving their little girls names as if they were cowboys in a frigging Louis Lamour novel.  I’m sorry, but the only time your name should be “Dakota,” “McKenzie,” or “Hunter” is if you’re either driving a herd of cattle across the great plains or you’ve just been deputized and ordered to track down a dangerous stage coach robber.
  • When I call for customer service and I can’t speak to a person and I ask for help and the damn robots are so advanced that they try to help me.  It gets worse when I finally end up speaking to a real person only to discover the robot was an improvement.
  • That miserable degenerate who will honk at you if you take more than 2 seconds to move after a red light.  I’m not joking.  Green – HONK!  I’m sorry, your majesty.  I didn’t realize I was in the way of your coronation procession.
  • Whenever I get a roll of lifesavers and there’s only one red one and one orange one and then a million other differently colored ones that NOBODY WANTS.  I swear to Christ, if some rat bastard where to ever make a bag of hard candies called “Just Orange and Red Lifesavers,” not only would they make a goddamned fortune, but the entire world would be fat as hell because no one would be able to stop sucking on those delicious red and orange candies.  Shit.  Maybe that’s why they don’t do it.  You need a pineapple one to slow you down once in awhile so as to prevent an obesity epidemic.
  • When a woman has a dog and refers to herself as the dog’s “mommy” or worse, to her husband as the dog’s “daddy.”  Gertie did that shit to me all the time when I was alive and I’d tell her, “Listen, Gert.  Unless you can provide me with scientific evidence that that dog popped out of your cooter then stop calling yourself its mother.”

That about does it for this list of things that really bend me out of shape.  3.5 readers, if you can think of something that twists your knob, share it in the comments below.

And remember – stop encouraging BQB with this writing crap.  Dreams are for losers, unwashed hippies, and other assorted lowlives.

Real men get jobs at the salt mines and that’s all there is to it.

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