Tag Archives: BQB and the Meaning of Life

May 18 2015
3 Comments
BQB and the Meaning of Life

BQB and the Meaning of Life – Part 4 – God’s Waiting Room

PREVIOUSLY ON BOOKSHELF Q. BATTLER AND THE MEANING OF LIFE…

PART ONE – “Oh my God! I ate a toaster pastry full of concentrated lightning then died on the toilet trying to get rid of it!”

PART TWO – “Where am I? Why am in a 1930’s bar?”

“Wow, look at all these famous dead celebrities – Albert Einstein, Cleopatra, Liberace and so on…”

PART THREE – “Wow. Bill Shakespeare is explaining everything about this place to me…but wait, so I’m not in Heaven or Hell?

AND NOW BOOKSHELF Q. BATTLER AND THE MEANING OF LIFE CONTINUES…

Bill plucked the olive out of his martini and ate it. I waited patiently for him to give me the 411 on the situation I was in.

“You, my good man, are in God’s waiting room,” Bill said.

In my mind, I thanked the waitress. The booze insulated me from this shocking news.

“You have yet to discover the meaning of life, Mr. Bookshelf,” Bill said. “And until you do so, Heaven is off limits to you.”

Welcome to God's Waiting Room, where drinking to excess is not only welcome but encouraged...

Welcome to God’s Waiting Room, where drinking to excess is not only welcome but encouraged…

“Wait a minute,” I said. “Abe Lincoln. Albert Einstein. Lucille Ball. Roosevelt, Cleopatra. You’ve got some pretty top notch folks walking around this gin joint. You’re telling me none of them have discovered the meaning of life? That all of these influential icons are just lollygagging around here because they’ve never answered mankind’s most elusive question?”

“No,” Bill said. “You see, the last thing God needs is for people to die and then return to the physical realm where they will undoubtedly run their big mouths about the existence of an afterlife.”

“Why would that be a problem?” I asked.

“Man’s greatest fear is that nothing happens after death,” Bill said. “That upon death, that’s all there is and nothing more. Fear of the lack of an existence after the physical life is what often produces a fire under the posteriors of the masses to get them moving…to take advantage of all that the physical realm has to offer.”

“So you’re saying that God wants people to be afraid…”

“That life is a tale told by an idiot,” Bill said with a dramatic flourish. “Full of sound and fury, signifying nothing.”

“That makes sense,”  I said.  “I suppose if everyone were to learn that the afterlife exists, they’d all just sit around drinking booze and eating chili cheese nachos waiting to croak.”

I slurped from my alcohol hat straw and ate a handful of chips.  The irony was not lost on me.

Bill sipped his martini.

“Thus, when people die and arrive in Heaven, they are pleasantly surprised to find their lives have not ended but in fact, are just beginning,” Bill said.

“Heavy stuff,” I said. “Still doesn’t explain why all these brilliant historical types are in a room for people who don’t know the meaning of life.”

“When you return to life,” Bill said. “And tell everyone that you died, then woke up in a 1930’s speak easy where you were served free drinks and snacks by the most beloved female celebrity of your generation who died too soon, hobnobbed with the likes of Einstein, Lincoln, and Roosevelt and engaged in a deep, meaningful conversation about the meaning of life with William Shakespeare…”

“Everyone will just think I’m a nutcase and the secret answer to the question of whether or not there is an afterlife will remain hidden from the living,” I said.

“Precisely,”  Shakespeare said.

“All these historical figures just spend their afterlives hanging out in this bar to make people who have yet to find the meaning of life look crazy?”  I asked.

“There’s a rotation,”  Shakespeare said.  “We all take turns to help the Man Upstairs out. Had you died yesterday, you’d of seen Nixon, Elvis, the Big Bopper, and Gahndi.”

“Aw man,”  I said.  “I love Elvis!”

“I’m the only one who never gets a break,”  the waitress said, handing me a Cuban cigar.

“Thanks,”  I said. “But I don’t smoke.”

“Good thing,” the waitress said, taking the stogie back.  “These things will kill ya’ sweetie.”

“What about you, Bill?”

“Me?”  Bill asked.  “I am indeed the Bard, the one and only William Shakespeare.  But every person who ends up in the seat you are sitting in is greeted by a different person.  I have been selected to be your spiritual guide, based on your interest in a career as a writer.”

“Wow,”  I said.  That was all I could come up with.

Will Shakespeare share any more nuggets of wisdom? Find out next time on Bookshelf Q. Battler and the Meaning of Life!

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

Beer photo courtesy of a shutterstock.com license.

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May 17 2015
4 Comments
BQB and the Meaning of Life

BQB and the Meaning of Life – Part 3 – A Place Between Heaven and Hell

PREVIOUSLY ON BOOKSHELF Q. BATTLER AND THE MEANING OF LIFE…

PART ONE – “Oh no!  I ate a pop tart full of concentrated lightning then died whilst on the commode!”

PART TWO – “What?  Why am I in a 1930’s speakeasy?”

“Say!  Who’s this gal who keeps plying me with booze?”

“And who the heck is this bald bearded guy in the cod piece that won’t shut up?”

AND NOW BOOKSHELF Q. BATTLER AND THE MEANING OF LIFE CONTINUES…

Shakespeare digs Skyfall.

Shakespeare digs Skyfall.

“William Shakespeare, at your service,” the man said as he outstretched his hand toward me. I just stared at it.

“Mr. Bookshelf, ’tis an old custom for two parties who have just met to grasp one another’s hands and shake them up and down in a vigorous manner for the purpose of demonstrating that neither party is holding a weapon that could be used to disfigure or maim the other party, thus establishing a sense of trust.”

“Oh right!” I said as I shook his hand. “It’s honor to meet you, Mr. Shakespeare!”

“Please. Just call me Bill.”

“OK Bill,” I said. “Wait. How do you know my name?”

“I read your tenth grade term paper about me for Mrs. Houlihan’s English 101 Class.”

“Seriously?” I asked.

“Don’t be flattered,” Bill said. “One of the many magical powers you receive in the afterlife is the ability to instantly know what anyone anywhere in the world is saying about you at any time. For the average person, it is manageable. Maybe your Cousin Irene or Uncle Bob occasionally say something nice about you…or something bad about you as the case may be.”

I sucked on my beer helmet straw, riveted to every word my new acquaintance was saying.

“For a deceased celebrity, the skill is extremely irritating,” Bill said. “And for yours truly, the most celebrated author of the English language, it is downright insufferable. Every time a pimply faced teenager writes down, ‘Umm…I mean, like, Shakespeare was OK I guess…’ the sentiment is instantly zapped into my brain.”

Bill grabbed the sides of his head and massaged his temples.

“Blast! There’s another one!”

“Sorry,” I said. “Geez, I always thought it would be cool to be a celebrity. That’s why I’ve always wanted to be a writer. I never knew you were all so tortured.”

“You don’t know the half of it, honey,” the waitress said as she handed another martini to Bill. “F. Scott Fitzgerald and Truman Capote are always in here debating about which of one of them had it worse.  Writers are lousy with ennui.”

“Tell me about it,” I replied.

The waitress checked the levels on my beer helmet, poured some more into each container, then walked away.

As soon as I was sure the waitress was out of earshot, I turned to Bill.

“Is that…”

“Who, her?” Bill asked.

“Yes,” I said. “Who is she? I’ve seen her all over TV but I can’t think of her name.”

“She’s an amalgamation,” Bill responded.

“A what?”

The Waitress - aka

The Waitress – aka “The Most Beloved Female Celebrity of Your Generation Who Died Too Soon.”  Who does she look like to you?

“A hallucination. A magical, metaphysical trick,” Bill explained. “To every individual in this establishment, our waitress looks like the most beloved deceased female celebrity of the aforementioned individual’s generation. There have been so many female entertainers loved by many who departed the physical realm much too soon.”

“Wow,” I said.

“To Mr. Einstein, she looks like the late actress Marilyn Monroe,” Bill said. “To me, she appears in the grim visage of Sir Lionel Scarsbrook of Glastonbury-upon-Stratshire.”

“Sir Lionel who?” I asked.

“Women were not allowed upon the stage in my day, Mr. Bookshelf,” Bill said. “Acting – very physically demanding work, you know. All the running around, shouting, crying, laughing, sword play and so on. Women were not believed to have the constitutions necessary for the theater so men donned dresses, wigs, and make-up in order to play the female parts.”

“That’s stupid,” I said.

“Call it stupid if you like, good sir, but even in full beard Sir Lionel could act circles around Katherine Heigl.”

“Agreed,” I said. “But whoever she is, why is she here?”

“People tend to be very uncomfortable when they first arrive in this place,” Bill said. “Seeing a beloved female celebrity from their generation who died too soon tends to have a calming effect on newcomers. People are so happy to see her up and walking around again they don’t worry about anything else.”

“I do miss her,” I said.

“Everyone from your generation does,” Bill replied.

We sat on the couch in silence for awhile, sipping our respective drinks.

Finally, I had to ask.

“Bill, what is this place?”

“I thought you’d never ask,” Bill said.

Out of nowhere, the waitress who bore a striking resemblance to a beloved female celebrity from my generation who passed away too soon, popped up behind me with a pair of vodka bottles, one in each hand.

There was no doubt that I was in some kind of supernatural place, since I was consuming enough booze to drop a thoroughbred race horse and yet I was still moving and grooving.

The waitress removed the beer containers from my helmet, replaced them with the vodka bottles, and inserted the straws.

“I heard you ask him what this place is, honey,” the waitress said. “You’ll need these.”

Like a flash, she was gone again.

“I don’t know your religion so I don’t wish to offend you, Mr. Bookshelf,” Bill said. “And we haven’t much time. To educate you as to the nature of this place requires me to discuss with you a spiritual question that has vexed the people of Earth since time immemorial.”

“Why don’t they just abolish the designated hitter rule?” I asked.

“What is the meaning of life?” Bill said, ignoring my snark. “Whether you refer to him as God, Allah, Buddha, or Lord Gleepglorp from Planet Fuzzlewak or whatever the damned Scientologists call him, there is indeed a being who runs the show. The totality of existence rests within the palm of his hand.”

I slurped away on the vodka.

“Life is a test,” Bill said. “A trial designed to test the mettle of souls.”

Bill looked at me. He must have noticed the dumbfounded expression on my face. It was dumber than usual.

“I am a legendary wordsmith and yet I struggle to find the right words to explain this to you,” Bill said.

I looked at Bill and the words rolled right off my tongue.

“All the world’s a stage and the people merely players?”

I raised my right eyebrow in a comically quizzical manner, totally proud of myself for thinking of that.

“Precisely,” Bill said. “Call this deity by any name you wish, but all he has ever asked is that people live life on Earth to the best of their abilities. Get up everyday, try your best, avoid committing evil acts upon your fellow man and in the end, he finds a place for you in Heaven.”

“Where everything is free?” I asked.

“Where everything is free,” Bill replied.

“And I get to chat with my favorite writer of all time while the most beloved female celebrity of my generation who died too soon fetches me drinks?” I asked.

“Snacks too,” the waitress said as she plopped a family-sized bag of chili cheese nacho chips on my lap.

“Do you want a tip or something?” I asked the waitress. “I’m told money has no meaning here but is there something I can do to thank you? Your service has been excellent and I feel bad for not pointing it out.”

The waitress’ eyes teared up. She leaned in and pecked a tiny kiss on my cheek.

“Oh my,” she said. “All this time I’ve spent here and no one has ever inquired about thanking me before.”

“Seriously?” I asked.

“Seriously,” she replied.

“So is there anything I can do?” I asked.

“No thank you,” the waitress said. “Your general display of exuberance over my prompt serving abilities is all the thanks I need.”

As she walked away, Bill shot me a “told you so” expression.

“No one’s ever offered to tip her before?” I asked. “The bar to get into Heaven is set pretty low, huh?”

“And thus, good sir,” Bill said. “It is my sad and unfortunate duty to inform you that you are not in Heaven.”

I was shocked. My mind raced. Where was I? Was I in Hell?

“I knew it,” I said. “I’m in Hell. For Christ Sake’s, I forget to hit the ‘like’ button on Cousin Phil’s vacation photos and they send me to the nether regions of human existence for all eternity!”

“Relax,” Bill said. “It’s not as bad as all that either.”

Whew. What a relief. I cracked open the bag of nachos and munched away. I offered some to Bill.

“No thank you,” Bill said. “They give me gas most foul.”

Where is Bookshelf Q. Battler?  Find out in the next installment of Bookshelf Q. Battler and the Meaning of Life!

Copyright (C) Bookshelf Q. Battler 2015.  All Rights Reserved.

Waitress photo courtesy of a shutterstock.com license.

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May 16 2015
7 Comments
BQB and the Meaning of Life

BQB and The Meaning of Life – Part 2 – Twenty-Three Skadoo

PREVIOUSLY ON BOOKSHELF Q. BATTLER AND THE MEANING OF LIFE…

PART 1 – “Oh no! I ate a toaster pastry full of concentrated lightning and died on the toilet! Ouch!”

“Say, what’s that light over there?”

AND NOW BOOKSHELF Q. BATTLER AND THE MEANING OF LIFE CONTINUES…

The light at the end of the tunnel grew brighter with every step I took towards it. Suddenly, the light took over, and all the darkness surrounding me faded away. I found myself in a sterile white hallway, staring at a door. I tried the knob. It wouldn’t budge.

I knocked on the door. A slit in the middle opened and a pair of angry eyes stared out at me.

“What’s the password, see?” the man behind the door asked.

“Umm…password?” I answered.

“Bah!” the man said. “I suppose they’ll just let just any old mook in here, see?”

I was transported to a 1930's speakeasy. The joint was lousy with flappers, see?

I was transported to a 1930’s speakeasy. The joint was lousy with flappers, see?

The bolt snapped and the door opened. The man who had let me in was nowhere to be found. I stepped through the threshold and was instantly transported to an old-timey 1930’s speakeasy.

I was no longer in my pajamas. I was wearing a black zoot suit with wide white pinstripes, a spiffy fedora, and a pair of shoes so shiny I could see my reflection in them.

I took a look around. On stage, there was a big band playing The Charleston. On a couch to my right, a group of flappers (you know, those women in the fringe skirts and head bands with the one feather in front) were lounging about, calling each other “Dah-ling” and smoking through foot long cigarette filters.

It was odd. The whole scene felt like it was straight out of a 1930’s gangster flick. Yet, the inhabitants of the joint were all famous historical figures from every century imaginable.

At the bar, Albert Einstein, Cleopatra, Abraham Lincoln, and Jim Morrison were pounding shots like nobody’s business. They were in some kind of rousing competition to see who could drink the most without getting sick.

Einstein was drinking them all under the table.

“E=MC YOU ARE ALL SQUARES!” Einstein yelled just before tipping another brew down his throat.

“Four score and seven years ago, this forefather was ready to puke,” was Honest Abe’s reply. He pulled off his infamous stove pipe hat and used it as a barf receptacle. Jim and Cleopatra passed out. Albert just kept on drinking.  That scientist sure could hold his liquor.

Utterly confused, I took a seat on a couch in the back corner of the room and sat down in the hopes that eventually it would all make sense.

Twenty minutes later, it still did not.

“Need a drink, doll face?”

I looked up. The waitress was one of the most beautiful women I had ever seen. I couldn’t remember her name, but I was certain I’d seen her somewhere before.

“No thank you,” I replied.

“Let me rephrase,” the waitress said. “You NEED a drink, sweetie. Newbies always freak out if they’re not sloshed.”

She took a shot glass of whiskey off her tray and set it on the table before me.

“Anything else just ask.”

And then she was gone.

Ed Sullivan took to the main stage and introduced Liberace, who was clad in his finest white fur coat.  He waved to the crowd then proceeded to tickle the ivories of a majestic white piano.

Three songs in, a balding British gentleman with a Van Dyke beard and a cod piece walked up to the couch and parked himself in a seat right next to mine.

Assuming I was trapped forever in the 1930’s, I did my best to blend in.

“Say, whaddya think yer tryin’ to pull, see?” I asked. “This spot is reserved for my keister, see? Twenty-three skadoo somewhere else because I’m the cat’s pajamas in these here parts, see?”

What can I say? I felt threatened and said the first words that entered my mind.

The gentleman downed the last sip left in his martini glass.

“Forsooth! Gather and be merry, kind sir!” the man said. “To offer a proclivity of disrespect? ’Twas not my intention. Fi! For a jest in the name of foolery is a source of amusement but a jest at the expense of the dignity of my fellow man is an utterance that deigns to make fools of us all!”

My jaw dropped.

“Yeah,” I said. “Just mind your P’s and Q’s buster or I’ll have to jitterbug the foxtrot all over your face, see?”

The man set his glass on the table.

“Good and noble sir,” the man said. “Doubtless am I that spirits of the alcoholic variety doth embolden thine own spirit to an uproarious crescendo but I pray thee- do not turn a potential friend to a foe. For the world is filled with little more than men in search of friends who do nothing to find them but everything within their power to find enemies in every corner.”

“Why the expletive deleted are you talking like that?” I asked.

“Me?” the British man said. “Good sir, you are the one saying ‘twenty-three skadoo’ and ‘see!’”

“I thought that’s what I’m supposed to do!” I said. “It looks like Al Capone’s gin joint in here!”

The waitress returned. Under normal conditions, her bright eyes, long hair, and perfect smile would have been welcome. However, my heart was already racing from the strange circumstances I found myself in, and her gorgeous appearance only exacerbated my malady.

“Another martini Bill?” the waitress asked.

“Bill,” I thought. “Who do I know who is British, speaks fancy, wears a codpiece, and is named ‘Bill?’ Hmmmm.”

“Please,” Bill replied. “Shaken…not stirred.”

“That joke never gets old, Bill,” the waitress said as she rolled her eyes.

“Skyfall!” Bill said. “Have you seen it yet, dear?”

“Not yet,” the waitress said. “Been too busy keeping the newbies soused to the gills.”

“Oh you must!” Bill said. “It is a delightful romp!”

The waitress smiled at Bill and placed another shot in front of me.

I wasn’t fighting it anymore. The waitress was right. Booze was the only thing keeping me from going completely bonkers from the stress of not knowing what was going on.

I drank the shot immediately. Bourbon this time. She was changing it up.

“Good sir,” Bill said to me. “Hast thou gazed thine eyes upon Skyfall?”

“Yeah, like three years ago,” I said.

“Ah yes, well we do get new releases a bit late here,” Bill said. “I have nary an idea how they do it but the fellows in charge of Hollywood manage to bleed every last six-pence from these moving pictures before they are finally released here for us to watch for free.”

“You get free movies here?” I asked.

“Free everything here,” Bill answered. “The waitress hasn’t charged you for a drink yet, has she?”

“She has not,” I said. “Should I tip her?”

“Why bother?” Bill said. “Everything here is free so a tip would be meaningless. Besides, there is no currency here so what would you tip her with?”

“Applause?” I asked.

“I suppose,” Bill said. “Or a general display of exuberance over her prompt serving abilities would do just the same.”

Bill's drink of choice.

Bill’s drink of choice.

The waitress returned and handed Bill a fresh martini. She took the empty shot glass from me, removed the fedora from my head, and replaced it with a yellow construction worker hard hat. Attached to either side of the hat were two forty ounce plastic containers, each filled to the top with beer. Each had a straw that dangled down until they merged into one straw. She placed that into my mouth.

“Listen sweetheart,” the waitress said. “I’m not trying to turn you into an alcoholic here. I’m just saying I see about a hundred of you guys a week..and..well..just trust me.”

“I trust you,” I said as I sipped from the straw.

Across the room, a fight broke out. The three of us watched as a team of bouncers moved in to control the situation.

“Lucille Ball just punched out Teddy Roosevelt over a fixed card game and I still feel like I’m the most ridiculous thing in this room,” I said.

“Indeed, good sir,” Bill replied. “But fear not, for we have all walked in your shoes before.”

“I notice you keep switching back and forth between fancy old English talk and a plain modern style,” I said.

“Which do you prefer?” the man asked.

“The plain style is easier to understand,” I said.

“Then I will do my best to speak plainly,” Bill said. “Although know that what you call plain I call lazy.”

“I did like the old English style though,” I said. “It almost made you sound like…”

My jaw dropped. Again.

“Like who?” the man asked.

“Like the greatest writer of the English language,” I said.

I sipped from my beer hat vigorously.

“Oh my God!” I said. “Are you…”

Who the heck is this guy? Find out next time on Bookshelf Q. Battler and the Meaning of Life!

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

Flapper and martini photos via a shutterstock.com license 

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May 15 2015
8 Comments
BQB and the Meaning of Life

Bookshelf Q. Battler and The Meaning of Life – Part 1 – A Toaster Pastry Too Far

My name is Bookshelf Q. Battler.

Bookshelf Q. Battler - World Renowned Poindexter, Reviewer of Books, Movies and Culture Happenings, Champion Yeti Fighter, Blogger-in-Chief of the Bookshelf Battle Blog

Bookshelf Q. Battler – World Renowned Poindexter, Reviewer of Books, Movies and Culture Happenings, Champion Yeti Fighter, Blogger-in-Chief of the Bookshelf Battle Blog

That’s not the name I was given. It is the name I have chosen, for it describes who I am and what I do.

I am the world’s foremost authority on bookshelf combat. I’ll give you a minute to let it sink in that such an activity even exists.

For as long as I am able to remember, going back all the way to the days when I was just a little Bookshelf Q. Battler in a pair of super hero jammies, I have been the owner of a mystical, magical bookshelf. It is a shelf that contains awesome power – power I have yet to fully comprehend.

Whenever I put a book on my bookshelf, the characters in the book gain the ability to step off of the pages of their tale and onto the surface of my shelf. These beings appear as miniature forms of themselves.  After all, a bookshelf can’t support the weight of a fully grown person. That’s just science.

You can’t argue with science.

One might get the impression that such a shelf is a wonderful gift, providing me with endless hours of entertainment and the chance to get to know beloved characters from classic and modern works of literature.

One would be wrong.

The space on my bookshelf is limited and these tiny characters know it. For years, they have been locked in a bitter, never-ending struggle against one another to claim and hold territory on my shelf.

Needless to say, the battles on my bookshelf have not been pretty. I hate to admit it, but the characters who call my bookshelf home do not exactly follow the rules of the Geneva Convention.

My home is constantly filled with the sounds of beloved book protagonists turned warlords, terrorists, and dictators. Tiny bazookas, mini-cannons, diminutive machine guns – if it fires little projectiles, these minuscule beings will use it against the books of their rivals. They know I only have so much space, and they’ll stop at nothing to keep the book they call home from being culled off the shelf and tossed into my trash can.

I try to tell them that will never happen.  I’m an easy going critic and rarely give books a bad grade.  I understand that most authors bleed their soul out onto the pages of their works and for that reason I hate to be judgmental.

These tiny characters refuse to listen.  They will never adopt the age old adage of “sharing is caring.”

I suppose I should be flattered that all of these characters are seeking my approval. However, my position as caretaker of the bookshelf can, at times, be a tiresome burden.

You see, when it comes to my bookshelf, I am the UN. The book characters fight and fight, but when they cross the line, I have to get involved and reign their shenanigans in.

I command a contingent of green Army men who hail from my books about World War II. In exchange for listening to them tell me how they’re all going to “marry Peggy Sue” as soon as they get state side, they take up residence in the middle of the shelf, acting in their role as peacekeepers in a demilitarized zone.

The green army men on a peacekeeping mission.

The green Army men on a peacekeeping mission.

When this happens, the characters relent, retreat, the Army men are dispersed, and then the characters start fighting again. It is a vicious cycle, to say the least.

Sometimes I send in humanitarian aid – little care packages to help the book characters who have been cut off from food supplies. Unfortunately, a tiny Machiavelli just steps out of my copy of The Prince, steals all the packages, then turns around and sells them to the other characters at extortionist, highway robbery prices.

God I hate Machiavelli.  He’s so himself-ian.

I love all of the characters on my bookshelf equally. I wish they could love each other as much as I love them. I yearn for the day when they might learn to live side by side in perfect harmony. Until then, all I can do is keep them from murdering each other.

Tessa Fireswarm, heroine of the YA hit book series

Tessa Fireswarm, heroine of the YA hit book series “Arrowblast.” Catch her this summer in Arrowblast 5 – Cashgrabber Supreme.

One morning, I woke up to the sound of high impact explosions.  I knew it had to be the handiwork of Tessa Fireswarm, or at least the tiny version of the young adult fiction heroine who calls my shelf home.

If you haven’t read Tessa’s series, Arrowblast, you totally should.  It’s a harrowing tale of a corrupt dystopian future, in which a vicious totalitarian government led by the cruel Overlord Kwazlo is somehow easily overthrown by a band of plucky teenagers with literally no prior military training or battlefield experience.

I jumped out of bed and ran into my office, where I found a tiny Tessa launching explosive arrows at my collection of Tales of the Lost French Children.

You’ve never heard of Tales of the Lost French Children?  Oh those books are classics.  They’ve entertained countless generations of youngsters for many a moon.

Surely you remember being a young lad or lass reading a copy of

Surely you remember being a young lad or lass reading a copy of “Tales of the Lost French Children” in your local lending library.

I don’t want to spoil the plot, but essentially what happens is the Croissantiers, a group of wayward French youngsters, discover a hatch hidden underneath the laundry hamper kept in the bathroom of their modest Parisian home.  They crawl through it to find a magical land of mystical make believe in which a saintly aardvark and a butt ugly crone fight for control.

Oddly, the kids decide to stay but before you judge them, remember they were from 1940’s France so their choices were live under the control of a crone or under Hitler’s Nazi rule. Arguably, the crone was a step up.

Wow, that was a longwinded explanation.

Anyway, Tessa’s act of aggression was in direct violation of the Fireswarm/Croissantier Accord of 2014, a treaty I skillfully brokered between the hero of Arrowblast and the children who are always getting into hot water in their magic land.

Up until Tessa whipped out her bow and arrow, the agreement had held strong for a year.

“The Aardvark, the Crone and the Hamper Hatch is the only book in that series worth reading!” Tiny Tessa yelled up at me. “Clear the rest of those trash books off the shelf or I’ll do it for you, Bookshelf Q. Battler!”

“It’s a box set,” I replied. “You’d miss Arrowblast 2: Big Box Office Returns if I threw it away, just like the Croissantier kids would miss Journey of the Tedious Plotline.”

I knew that Tedious Plotline stunk worse than a pile of moldy rotten cheddar, but all of these book characters had become like my children. As their adopted father, I was constantly lecturing them on the need to love one another, faults and all.

“Easy for you to say when you’re not living on a cramped bookshelf,” Tessa replied as she fired off another exploding arrow at my copy of Tedious Plotline.

“You are in direct violation of the treaty, Tessa!” I said.

“They started it!” Tessa whined.

She pointed to my copy of Return of the Crone, over which had been placed a sheet of typing paper, likely swiped off my desk by the mischievous Crossantier children in the middle of the night. On it were the words, “TESSA STINKS!  OVERLORD KWAZLO 4-EVA!”

I crumpled up the note and threw it away.

“I’ll talk to them later,” I said. “But for now, it’s bed time. Back in your book, Tessa!”

“Awww!” Tessa stomped her foot. “You always side with the Crossantiers!”

“Right now, young lady!”

“Fine. Hmmmph!”

And with that, Tessa opened up my copy of Arrowblast 6: The Final Blastening, walked into one of the pages, and disappeared.

Kids. These characters had traveled to breathtaking lands that exist only in our imaginations, fought vicious creatures, and saved the day more times than I could ever count. But once they were on my bookshelf, they resorted to acting like a bunch of cranky toddlers.

I couldn’t sleep. And I knew that Tessa’ explosions must have jostled Ralph Waldo Emerson, who was sleeping somewhere in my copy of his book of essays about the need for man to get back to nature.  I knew if I didn’t leave soon, Ralph would wake up and give me a long lecture about the need to move outdoors.  I was too tired to argue about how I’ll never live anywhere I can’t plug in my numerous electronic devices.

I was hungry. I walked downstairs and headed for the kitchen. I popped a frosted cherry toaster pastry into the toaster. Don’t judge me. Those things are delicious and with all of their preservatives, they will be here until the next ice age. When the apocalypse comes, I’ll be the one laughing, and you will all be my slaves, doing my bidding for the low wage of one toaster pastry per week.

No. I haven’t thought about this to great extent at all.

I plugged in the toaster. With the help of an enormous wall outlet adapter, I also plugged in the following devices:

  • Tablet charger (to allow me to stream TV shows while eating my toaster pastry)
  • Cell phone charger (in case I needed to call someone to tell them about my toaster pastry)
  • Nose hair trimmer (I like to look good at all times because you never know when you might bump into an elegant lady)
  • My belt sander (my belt had been looking a little rough around the edges)
  • My electronic toothbrush (cherry toaster pastry residue is not a substance you want to leave on your teeth for too long. Just ask my cousin, Gummy McGee)
  • My automatic bass finder (because it’s all about the bass, bout the bass, no sturgeon)
  • My e-reader (I like to read indie authors’ books while I eat pop tarts)
  • My super e-reader (I like to watch tv and read books on the same device)
  • My television (on which I only display a video of a pile of wood on fire. I find it relaxing.)
  • And at least 10 other appliances I’m too lazy too mention.

“When in doubt, add another plug.”
– Bookshelf Q. Battler

In addition to being an expert on bookshelf military maneuvers, I am also a distinguished scientist. I hold a Prestigious Degree in Science from the Advanced Science Institute of Science University. It was presented to me by my mentor, Dr. Hugo Von Science.

Dr. Hugo Von Science A

Dr. Hugo Von Science
Advanced Science Institute of Science University Faculty Photo

I am very proud of my Prestigious Degree in Science.  (If you wanted to get fancy, you could refer to me as BQB, P.D.S.)

Sometimes I wear my degree on a chain around my neck when I go out clubbing. Women come up to me and are all like, “Wow! Is that a Prestigious Degree in Science??!!” And I’m all like, “What? This old thing?”

Anyway. Since I am a scientist, I am fully qualified to explain to you what happened next. In hindsight, I should have seen it coming and saved myself. Alas, hindsight is 20/20 and I was too focused on the warm cherry goodness percolating inside my toaster to pay attention to the storm that was brewing outside.

High in the skies above the Bookshelf Battle Compound, the sprawling fortress I call home, the clouds belched out buckets of rain. Claps of thunder shook the surface of the earth and lightning streaks brightened up the normally pitch black sky.

I ignored it all. I wanted that toaster pastry. And at the exact moment when said tasty treat popped out of the toaster, a bolt of lightning, attracted by all of the energy surging through my overburdened adapter, launched itself into the wall of my headquarters, through my adapter, and into my toaster. With nowhere left to turn, the lightning jumped out of the toaster and into my late night snack.

Before my very eyes, my toaster pastry grew to a tremendous size – six feet tall and three feet wide.

Most men would tremble in terror at the sight of a colossal toaster treat. Me?  I laugh in the face of supernatural baked goods.

I ate the whole thing…and it was delicious.

An hour later, I was binge watching one of my favorite shows.  I felt intense pain in my bowels, a pain no human being had ever felt before.

And then it dawned on me:

I had eaten concentrated lightning.

The bolt in my belly scrambled to and fro in my gut, tearing my insides apart as it desperately searched for an escape route.

And we all know the path of said escape route.

I ran to the bathroom, dropped my trousers, sat on the throne and….

KABOOM!

Darkness. I was surrounded by nothing but darkness. I walked around for what seemed like forever until I finally discovered a light.

It was the light at the end of the tunnel that we’ve all heard so much about. It was finally my turn to see it.

I did what anyone would do. I walked toward it.

What happens when Bookshelf Q. Battler reaches the light at the end of the tunnel? Find out in the next episode of “Bookshelf Q. Battler and the Meaning of Life!”

Copyright (C) Bookshelf Q. Battler 2015.  All Rights Reserved.

Bow and arrow woman, French kid, adapter and mad scientist images courtesy of a shutterstock.com license.

Bookshelf Q. Battler’s Attorney, a lovely woman you’ll meet in June, advises “Any resemblance to other literary works/characters is purely coincidental and/or for parody purposes only.”

Hooray for lawyers!

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May 14 2015
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BQB and the Meaning of Life

Bookshelf Q. Battler and the Meaning of Life – An Introduction

FROM THE DESK OF BOOKSHELF Q. BATTLER

World Renowned Poindexter, Reviewer of Books, Movies and Cultural Happenings, Champion Yeti Fighter, Blogger-In-Chief of the Bookshelf Battle Blog

It’s finally here!

BQB and the Meaning of Life starts tomorrow!

BQB and the Meaning of Life starts tomorrow!

Tomorrow, my serial story, Bookshelf Q. Battler and the Meaning of Life begins.  I hope you’ll join me every day for a new bite sized hunk of prose designed to fit easily into your busy schedules.

(People who aren’t busy?  Feel free to read it twice!)

What is the meaning of life?

Read the story and find out.  In this post, I’d rather answer:

Why did I write this story?

From an early age, I wanted to be a writer.  Perhaps you’ve read my first novel, “Attack of the Killer Mutant Fish,” a valiant attempt for a ten year old.

Then I grew up, entered into the real world and decided a career as a writer was an unlikely outcome.  I wouldn’t consider “lottery winner” as a viable career option so why would I put untold amounts of time, money and effort into preparing a manuscript just so it could be filed in the traditional publishing world’s proverbial slush pile?

Let me put it this way.  If you want the “break into traditional publishing” experience, just pay a transient hobo fifty bucks to give you a kick in the nether regions.  You’ll spend less time, effort and money for a similar result.

DISCLAIMER:  The Bookshelf Battle Blog does not recommend you pay a transient hobo to kick you in the nether regions.

I settled into a humdrum lifestyle and though I’m blessed in many ways, I often wonder “what if?”

What if I had kept up with my dream of becoming a writer?  Would I have made it?  Would I have become a household name with my books on everyone’s shelves?

Flashforward to last year.  In March of 2014 I, Bookshelf Q. Battler was drowning my sorrows at Taco Bell (Mmmm…burritos) when it dawned on me:

Stop wishing you’d been a writer. You aren’t old. You aren’t dead. The technology exists. If you want to be a writer, then be a writer.

And with that, I became a writer again.

Now I just need some readers.

Perhaps you’ve heard I have 3.5 of them.  That’s a good start, but I’d like to make it 3.5 million.

Either way Aunt Gertie will be one of them.

I’ve always looked at platform building as a slow war of attrition, a numbers game that crawls at a turtle’s pace.

A couple of blog followers today.  A handful of twitter followers tomorrow.  A few drops in the bucket everyday will eventually lead to a nice full pail.

This summer, I’m going to attempt to fill a lake.

For the past few months, I’ve been working on two projects:

1)  Bookshelf Q. Battler and the Meaning of Life – it will begin tomorrow.

2)  Project X – Still not ready to give you the title, but rest assured of its awesomeness.

These serials will alternate.  It will be BQB for awhile, then Project X, then they will continue on a rotation all summer.

My goal is to leave you wanting more.

For a nerd with a busy lifestyle, it is hard to find time to cram this work in.  Much of it is done late at night, often leaving me exhausted and wondering if it’s worth it.

It’s my dream.  Of course it’s worth it.

Welcome to the Summer of Bookshelf, where I’ll hone my craft, entertain and inspire you, and ask that you give me your honest feedback about how I can improve.

Goals for the future?  This summer will lead to an expanded audience, I finish up a Fall/Winter’s worth of posts thus completing the “One Post a Day for a Year Challenge” and a fire in my belly gets stoked to the point where I’ll make an honest effort to enter the ebook market in 2016.

I’ve always been a results oriented kind of guy.  The more I see coming in, the more effort I’ll put out.

But why a story about a nerd with a magic bookshelf?

Because I am a nerd with a magic bookshelf.

Last year, it was hard coming up with a theme for a book blog.  There are so many of them.  I wanted to be unique.

It came to mind that maybe I’d be the nerd who’d pose his books next to his toy collection:

Master Chief - standing guard over Redshirts

Master Chief – standing guard over Redshirts

And from the outset, the theme was that “the books themselves” were fighting one another for limited shelf space:

Ye, addeth to the Great Scrolls of the Bookshelf Battle, that on March 12, 2014, the Bookshelf Battle did begin.

Since the invention of the printing press, books have been battling for spots on shelves all over the globe. With limited shelf space, available competition can be fierce. Recently, I remodeled my office and added a brand new bookcase. Now I must fill it with brand new books. Join me as I review the latest bestsellers of the day, with the occasional classic thrown in.

Which books will be deemed worthy of being on my shelf? Tune in every week to find out.

– First post on the Bookshelf Battle Blog in 2014

But as the one post a day challenge took over this year, the idea of anthropomorphic books fighting in a reckless manor seemed silly, whereas the concept that small characters could exit the books and go to war against each other over limited shelf space seemed much more reasonable.

Hey, it seems more reasonable to me, anyway.

Meanwhile, I went from being a random blogger to becoming Bookshelf Q. Battler, Owner of the Magic Bookshelf, Caretaker of a Bunch of Tiny and Unruly Book Characters, Proprietor of a Blog with 3.5 Readers, Lord of Bookshelf Battle Headquarters, Master of Bookshelf Q. Battle Dog, Sworn Enemy of The Yeti, and Colleague of Alien Jones.

In other words, the excitement in my life has grown exponentially over the past year, all thanks to this blog.

So to finally answer the question of “Why did I write this story?”

Over the past year, we’ve seen this blog morph from one geek’s hobby to a character based online world.

Did you ever watch Pee-Wee’s Playhouse as a kid?  You know, before Paul Reubens’ total disgrace?

(I mean, holy crap, I know that computers weren’t all that big back then but didn’t the guy own a VCR?)

Do you remember how Pee-Wee would waltz into his playhouse and talk to his viewers with the help of various characters?

That’s kind of how I see the Bookshelf Battle Blog – one nerdy character (i.e. Bookshelf Q. Battler) surrounded by other nerdy characters (Alien Jones and The Yeti), with the following exceptions:

1) This blog’s geared toward adult nerds who love books, TV, movies and popular culture.

2)  Oddly enough, it also has a second audience in the tweed wearing literary chin stroker community as I do often discuss the classics.

3)  It’s a bit more high-brow than Pee Wee, though I guess that’s not saying much.

4)  There’s none of…well, you know what Pee Wee did.  (Hey, why’s everyone leaving?  Weirdos).

This story will pull the blog together, entertain the 3.5 readers who’ve been following along so far, and eventually serve as an explanation to those who will wonder what this blog is all about tomorrow.

Tomorrow – that legendary day when I will have a whopping 11.7 readers.

As always, thanks for stopping by.

Good times are ahead.  Comment on the stories.  Tell me what you liked.  Tell me what you didn’t.  Ask questions.  Provide criticism.  I have a thick skin.  I live with a Yeti that hates me.

Come back tomorrow and join in the fun!

Sincerely,

Bookshelf Q. Battler

Copyright (c) Bookshelf Q. Battler 2015.  All Rights Reserved.

Nerd on top of the world image courtesy of a shutterstock.com license.

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May 13 2015
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BQB and the Meaning of Life

BREAKING NEWS: BOOKSHELF Q. BATTLER WILL KICK THE BUCKET!

EAST RANDOM TOWN, USA – Bookshelf Q. Battler’s 3.5 readers were aghast to learn that Bookshelf Q. Battler will croak louder than a frog with a bull horn in the very first part of Bookshelf Q. Battler and the Meaning of Life (Due out this Friday, May 15)

This reporter wanted to know what BQB’s known associates had to say:

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ALIEN JONES (Intergalactic Correspondent, All Knowing Alien) – Dude!  SPOILER ALERT!  You’ve just ruined it for the 3.5 readers!

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DR. HUGO VON SCIENCE (Prestigious Professor of Science at the Advanced Science Institute of Science University; Columnist, Inventor of the Incredible Exploding Chinchilla and Teflon Pants) – This makes no sense!  So what happens?  BQB just drops dead und pushes up zie daisies for zie rest of zie story?

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THE YETI – International War Criminal, Furry Monster, Bookshelf Q. Battler’s Arch Nemesis) – ROAR!  I hope so.  A whole story about that loser pushing up daisies sounds good to me.  He always cheats when we square off in roundhouse kick competitions!

shutterstock_267074402Hardassimo (“Uncle Hardass”) J. Scrambler (The Ghost of BQB’s Deceased Uncle, Husband of Aunt Gertie, Ex-Employee of…THE SALT MINES!) – Good!  Serves that poor excuse of a nephew of mine right!  He’d still be cooking with gas if he’d gotten a job at the SALT MINES like I told him to.

But did he listen?

“NOOOOO!”

  “I want to be a writer,” he says.

“I want to inspire the world through the written word,” he says.

Bah!  Oh well.  At least he can join me wherever the hell I am and I can lecture him for all eternity about what a colossal disappointment he is.  If he’s smart, he’ll get a job at THE AFTERLIFE SALT MINES!

REPORTER:  We asked BQB what he thought about this development.

BQB:  Are you serious?

REPORTER:  You drop deader than disco.

BQB:  Well that’s a helluva way to start a story.  What’s left?  Thirty chapters of the Yeti tap dancing on my decomposing remains?

REPORTER: I’m sworn to secrecy.

BQB:  Did you ever find out if my love interest will be played by Katee Sackhoff?

REPORTER: It’s not Katee Sackhoff!

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May 11 2015
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BQB and the Meaning of Life

BREAKING NEWS: Bookshelf Q. Battler’s Love Interest

EAST RANDOM TOWN, USA – The blogosphere is atwitter by reports that Bookshelf Q. Battler, World Renowned Poindexter, Reviewer of Books, Movies, and Cultural Happenings, Champion Yeti Fighter, and Blogger-in-Chief of the Bookshelf Battle Blog will find romance in the upcoming serial, “Bookshelf Q. Battler and the Meaning of Life.”

BQB’s 3.5 readers, especially his Aunt Gertie, want to know who the lucky (or unlucky) lady is!

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ALIEN JONES:  My intelligence indicates that BQB has been trying to build a woman in a lab for years.  Perhaps he’s finally figured it out.  Then again, I’d already know if he has, since I know everything.

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DR. HUGO VON SCIENCE:  Silly alien, BQB has known how to build women in a lab for years!  “How to Build a Woman in a Lab 101” is a required course at the Advanced Science Institue of Science University, of which BQB is a prestigious alum.  Nein, if it were that simple to find love, BQB would have built a woman for himself years ago.

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THE YETI:  ROAR!  Whoever she is, I feel sorry for her.  BQB is a loser!

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UNCLE HARDASS (GHOST OF):  I agree with that furry whatever-it-is.  My good for nothing nephew will never be able to support a woman until he gets a job at the SALT MINES!

REPORTER: With a news story this big, we went straight to the horse’s mouth and asked Bookshelf Q. Battler himself.

BOOKSHELF Q. BATTLER:  Well, I’m still hoping it’s going to be Katee Sackhoff.

REPORTER:  Really?

BQB:  I realize she’s a famous actress and stuff and I only run a low budget book blog, but I’m fairly confident she’ll make an appearance when she realizes that this blog will give her exposure to 3.5 readers, one of which is my Aunt.

REPORTER:  If she passes?

BQB:  Ultimate Fighter/Actress Gina Carano.  I’ve always wanted a woman who can defeat my enemies.

REPORTER:  We’ve read an advance copy of your story.  It’s not Gina Carano.

BQB:  Damn it!  Black Widow?

REPORTER:  You mean Scarlett Johannson?

BQB:  No!  I mean the actual Black Widow!  I need a woman who can defeat my enemies!

REPORTER:  What enemies?  The Yeti is the only one we know of.

BQB:  And he must be defeated!

REPORTER:  You heard it here, folks.  This summer, Bookshelf Q. Battler finds love when he least expects it.

(It’s not Katee Sackhoff or Gina Carano or Black Widow.)

BQB:  But it’s totally a Katee Sackhoff robot!

REPORTER:  It’s not a Katee Sackhoff-bot.

BQB:  You just like raining on my parade, don’t you?

Alien, mad scientist, old man and yeti images courtesy of a shutterstock.com license)

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May 09 2015
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BQB and the Meaning of Life

PREVIEW TRAILER – Bookshelf Q. Battler and the Meaning of Life

Infamous Uber Nerd Bookshelf Q. Battler takes on the world - coming May 15 to a blog near you.

Infamous Uber Nerd Bookshelf Q. Battler takes on the world – coming May 15 to a blog near you.

ANNOUNCER:  Meet Bookshelf Q.Battler.  Geek?  Dweeb?  Nerd? These words don’t do him justice.

BQB:  Where did I leave my limited edition Capt. Jean Luc-Picard tea cozy?

ANNOUNCER:  And this summer?  HE’S GOING TO DIE!

BQB:  Damn it!  I haven’t even Netflixed Daredevil yet!

ANNOUNCER:  But he’ll come back to life as a man on a mission to answer life’s most illusive question.

BQB:  Why did the series finale of Dexter suck with the gale force winds of a thousand Hoovermatics?

ANNOUNCER:  Who’s the announcer here?

BQB:  Sorry.

ANNOUNCER:  You should be.  “WHAT IS THE MEANING OF LIFE?”

BQB:  Damned if I know.

ANNOUNCER:  Bookshelf Q. Battler, aka BQB, you know him as the author of a blog with 3.5 readers…

BQB:  One of them’s my aunt!

AUNT GERTIE:  Oh BQB I loved your post about the pancakes you had for breakfast this morning, bubalah.

ANNOUNCER:  He’s also the owner of a magic bookshelf.  Put a book on it and tiny versions of the book’s characters will pop out and fight over limited shelf space.

BQB:  Guys, just once I’d like to get through one day without my headquarters being set on fire by tiny literary protagonists.

ANNOUNCER: But he’ll leave it all behind to travel to a war torn nation in search of answers.

BQB:  I mean, Dexter just drives his boat up to a hospital and then walks out with his sister and NO ONE SAYS A WORD TO HIM?  WTF?!!

ANNOUNCER:  He might even find a love interest on the way…

BQB:  Is it Katee Sackhoff?

ANNOUNCER:  But will our nerdy hero be able to open up his heart?

BQB:  Oh my God, just tell me.  It’s Katee Sackhoff, isn’t it?

ANNOUNCER:  It’s not Katee Sackhoff.

BQB:  Damn it man, who wrote this drivel?!

ANNOUNCER:  You did.

BQB:  Rewrite!  “And…then…Katee Sackhoff was all over Bookshelf Q. Battler like stink on a monkey…”

ANNOUNCER:  Friday, May 15, the journey begins on the Bookshelf Battle Blog, located at bookshelfbattle.com  –  Follow updates on Twitter (@bookshelfbattle)

Read along as our noble book blogger goes on a worldwide journey of self introspection.  We’ll learn a lot about him…including his real name.

BQB:  Bookshelf Q. Sackhoff.

Copyright (C) Bookshelf Q. Battler 2015.  All Rights Reserved.

Worldly nerd image courtesy of a shutterstock.com license

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May 08 2015
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Summer of Bookshelf

Project X – A Sneak Peak

Coming to the Bookshelf Battle Blog June 1, a serial so cool that Bookshelf Q. Battler is holding back on the title for now…

Hatcher and Betsy

Hatcher and Betsy

Meet Jake Hatcher.  He’s a 1950’s era hardboiled private detective in the tradition of Sam Spade or Phillip Marlowe.  Film noir fans rejoice.

He isn’t just any old gumshoe.  With the help of his trusty service revolver Betsy, he dispatched numerous Nazis during World War II and was even involved in a mission so secret that it can’t be discussed just yet, even on a blog that only has 3.5 readers.

After the fall of the Third Reich, Hatcher became a bur in the britches of LA’s criminal underworld, feeding Betsy a steady diet of wiseguys to replace the agents of Der Fuhrer that she’d grown accustomed to.

The twist?  One night in 1955, Hatcher fell asleep in his office desk chair.  When he woke up, it was 2014.  For the past year, he’s been aimlessly wandering the streets of the City of Angels, desperately trying to figure out how he lost 59 years and if there’s a way to get back to his own time.

Mysterious Blonde Dame

Mysterious Blonde Dame

This summer, a mysterious blonde dame will walk into Hatcher’s life on the finest pair of getaway sticks this side of the Rio Grande.  This femme fatale claims she can help our hero figure out how he lost 59 years.  She even says she can help him return to his own era.

But he’s going to have to jump through a lot of hoops first.

Mysteries are afoot in modern times and Hatcher needs to dust off his sleuthing skills and get to work.

What kind of mysteries?  BQB will get back to you on that one.

Is this dame on the level or is Hatcher being played like a harpsichord?

Only time will tell…and the catch?

You’ll have to help him.

Yes, there will be some reader interactivity and of course, Bookshelf Q. Battler’s unique brand of humor will be present throughout.  Even so, this new feature will be an interesting diversion from BQB’s usual schtick.

For now, the owner of the magic bookshelf is keeping a lot under his hat.  He’s pretty proud of this one and hopes you will be too.

Your loyal blog host has been working his behind off for the past few months, getting “The Summer of Bookshelf” serial extravaganza together.

Bookshelf Q. Battler and the Meaning of Life begins on May 15.  The “Named to Be Announced Later” Project X starts June 1. Throughout the summer, these two serials will run up against one another.  You’ll have BQB and the Meaning of Life for a week or so, then Project X for a while, then they’ll switch back in forth that way until the end of the summer.

For your reading pleasure, these stories have been serialized into daily chunks, easily consumed without taking too much time from your busy schedules.

So take BQB’s hand 3.5 readers and get ready for what will prove to be an awesome summer to say the least.

Copyright Bookshelf Q. Battler 2015.  All Rights Reserved.

Detective and blonde woman photos courtesy of a shutterstock.com license.

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May 06 2015
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BQB and the Meaning of Life

The Last Will and Testament of BQB’s Uncle, the Late Hardass J. Scrambler

I, Hardassimo (Hardass for short) J. Scrambler, being of sound enough mind and old as shit body, do hereby state the following:

  • BQB's Late Uncle Hardass J. Scrambler

    BQB’s Late Uncle Hardass J. Scrambler

    That my nephew, Bookshelf Q. Battler, is a colossal disappointment.  Typing on a “blog” for 3.5 readers.  Doesn’t anybody work anymore?  All my life, I slaved away in the salt mines for ten cents a day and I was glad to have it.  You didn’t see me trying to be a writer.  You young people, I tell ya’.  “Ooo I wanna be a writer!  Ooo I wanna be a rock star!  Ooo I wanna be an astronaut!’  Shut up and get a job in the salt mines already, ya buncha no good unwashed hippy bums.  Is a job at the salt mines a fun time?  Hell no, but it pays the bills so stop acting like you’re all too good for it.

  • That as of the writing of this will, my Doctor informs me that my declining health is the direct result of eating five bacon sandwiches a day.  Bullshit, I say.  Everyone knows that bacon sandwiches are chock full of necessary vitamins and minerals.
  • That if I die, it will actually be the result of the intense disappointment I feel over my nephew Bookshelf Q’ Battler’s ridiculous insistence on “writing.”  Newsflash, turds.  Only like a handful of people every generation get to be famous writers.  The rest of you?  SALT MINES!
  • That after I croak, my wife Gertrude aka Aunt Gertie, who encourages my bumbling nephew in his stupidity by being one of his 3.5 readers, should burn our house down rather than give it to Bookshelf Q. Battler when she decides to head off for the old folks’ home.
  • In the event Gertie goes against my wishes and hands over our house to my idiot nephew, which he’ll probably run around pretending it’s a secret compound or something, I reserve the right to wander the halls and haunt the shit out of that place.
  • My nephew should never forget that he did not live up to my expectations and I blame Gertie.  She was always coddling the boy.  Why, I remember one day I came home from an 18-hour shift at the salt mines and found that little twerp having a party with a bunch of his stupid friends.  I said, “Hey, ya’ moron!  Why don’t you do something productive for once and get a job in the salt mines?”  And you know what Gertie said?  “Hardass, BQB’s only three years old.  Let him enjoy his little birthday party.”  And I said, “That’s no excuse!  I was working in the salt mines the day after I was born!”
  • Finally, in the event that my lousy excuse for a nephew decides to write a serialized story called “Bookshelf Q. Battler and the Meaning of Life” (due out May 15) nobody should read it.  You’re just encouraging his buffoonery.  You want to know the meaning of life?  You’re born.  You work at the salt mines.  You kick the bucket it.  That’s it.  That’s all you do.

Signed:  Uncle Hardassimo (Hardass) J. Scrambler

Don’t listen to Uncle Hardass.  He’s probably just cranky because he makes a cameo in BQB’s upcoming blog serial.  You should totally read it unless you’re too busy working at the salt mines.

Grumpy old man photo courtesy of a shutterstock.com license.

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