Tag Archives: Comedy

Is Comedy Dying? – Part 2

Hey 3.5 readers.

BQB here.  Is comedy dying?  Maybe not, but I fear it might be on life support.

Let’s keep pondering the question, shall we?

In my last post on this topic, I mentioned “Airplane” as an example of a hilarious movie that wouldn’t get past the PC police today.

Here’s an example of a funny scene from that film:

So, in the 1970s (this film was made in 1980 when the 1970s were still fresh), there was a “jive” culture.  Hip, happening black dudes would dress up in fancy, stylish outfits, hang out at discos and talk in a cool style.

In this scene, Barbara Billingsley, the actress who played literally the first TV sitcom mother ever, June Cleaver on “Leave it to Beaver” overhears one of the jive dudes talking to the stewardess.  The stewardess can’t understand all of the hip lingo.

Babs, for some unexplained reason, does.  She starts speaking this super cool jive talk.  The jive dudes talk back and pretty soon they and the old gal are having a jive argument.

Why is this funny?  First, it pokes fun at that jive culture, but only tangentially.  If anything, it satirizes white people and old white women in particular.  This old white woman, essentially America’s first sitcom Mom, goes out of her element and speaks in this hip language typically reserved for the cool, happening black club scene.

The joke is basically an old white lady could never be that cool but here she is, being cool, out jiving the jive talkers.  Laughs often come when we are shown the absurd, the unlikely, the thing we’ve never seen before.

It’s a funny scene.  Would it fly today?  No.  Why?  Some Hollywood suit would see two black guys, assume they are being made fun of, assume that people are too stupid to get the joke as anything other than ridicule of black people (and sadly, many people are that stupid) and cut the joke.

Let me ask you this.  When you see these dudes talking jive, is your reaction to dislike them?  To think that something is wrong with them?  No.  Me, personally?  I kind of envy them.  They look like they led interesting lives, hanging out in busy city nightclubs, absorbing the music, the culture, learning a hip way to talk.

I regret that I’m more like the stewardess, too lame to understand what they are saying because I’ve never lived it up like they did.  Or worse, I’m like Babs, so old and uncool that people would laugh if I ever showed a hip bone in my body because it would be so surprising to people.

But there’s just no nuance anymore. No attempt to understand intent.  It’s just, “Oh no.  A black person is involved in this joke.  We must cut it.  If literally one person can infer that black people are being made fun of, it’s one too many.”

I dunno.  Am I right?  Am I wrong?  Hit me up on the flip side, 3.5 bloods.

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Daily Discussion with BQB – Is Comedy Dying?

I caught a bit of “Airplane” (1980) this morning.  Such a funny movie.  Humor for the sake of humor.  Non-stop silly gags.  Things that obviously wouldn’t happen in real life but are there to make you laugh. That’s the whole.

Also, a lot of politically incorrect stuff..

I worry about the fate of comedy.  I feel like everywhere I go, people aren’t laughing anymore.  They are afraid of offending someone and yet there’s the rub.  Every person, every group, every occupation, every individual, every type – there’s humor to be mined out of everyone and everything.

True comedy lovers may get mad when a comedian makes a joke that makes fun of who they are – their particular group, type, etc.  But true comedy lovers will also let that go in order to laugh at the other jokes, jokes that don’t hit as close to home because they make fun of other individuals, groups they aren’t a part of.

America is the melting pot.  We are all simmering in the same stew.  Can we find some humor while we’re in there?  I think it all comes down to motive.  Is your joke meant to make people laugh and have a good time, or is it meant to belittle and make people unhappy?

I see it in what passes for comedy movies these day.  Safe, moderately silly premises that don’t probe, don’t challenge, don’t do anything.

What say you, 3.5 readers?

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Toilet Gator is the Best Novel Ever

I just breezed through reading the full first draft and I’d forgotten a lot of what I wrote.  Yeah, this book is funny as all get out.  I should win like a thousand awards for this thing.  Surely, if there is a “Best Book Ever Written About Toilet Gators” then that award should be mine.

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The History of Farts – Prehistoric Cave Farts

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While scientists and theologians may differ on how the world was formed, there can be no doubt that the world is here.  I mean, seriously, if the world isn’t here, then where are you reading this book?  In the vast reaches of space?  Apologies if you are an astronaut reading this but I doubt that you are.  A highly intelligent space traveler would never be hoodwinked into plunking down good money on a book about farts, believe me.

But I digress.  The world is here and people have been dwelling upon the planet for a long time.  Will we ever know what it is like to be a caveman?  Sure.  Just walk into any frat house at a major university.  I kid, I kid.  Not really.

No.  We can’t know exactly what it was like to be a caveman, but thanks to a highly scientific project at the Advanced Science Institute of Science University, we have developed a better understanding of what prehistoric cavemen thought about farts.

Dr. Hugo von Science, a longtime contributor to the Bookshelf Battle Blog, discovered a perfectly preserved caveman brain in a block of ice.  After determining this brain to be, “really freaking old, like thousands upon thousands of years old,” the good doctor developed a device that allowed the user to learn everything the owner of this brain thought about farts.

Behold, the thoughts in their original caveman gibberish, translated into English:

CAVEMAN THOUGHT                                                    TRANSLATION

Ooga booga.                                                                    He who smelt it, dealt it.

Ugga bugga.                                                                    He who denied it, supplied it.

Wooga wagga.                                                         He who heard it first, purveyed the juicy turd    burst.

Grakka flarga.                                                        He who sayed it, sprayed it.

Ribble robble.                                                        He who detected it, ejected it.

Skoogol kruz.                                                         He who announced it, pounced it.

Yes.  As you can see, dear reader, the “smeller vs. denier game” or the delicate dance in which the first person to detect the presence of a fart engages in a war of words with the first person to deny being the source of the fart, has existed virtually since the dawn of time.

So the next time you feel bad for being caught in brown handed in the midst of an olfactory offense, just remember, your prehistoric ancestors, while they weren’t busy bashing each other with clubs and hunting mastodons, were accusing each other of stinking up the cave.

Puts things in perspective, doesn’t it?

 

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Toilet Gator – Epilogue

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Flanked by the secret service, President Stugotz entered a top secret government lab. There, he found Professor Lambert standing over a table covered with Skippy’s tail and a bunch of disgusting alligator chunks.

“Well,” President Stugotz said. “Can we rebuild him? Do we have the tech…”

Professor Lambert raised his pointer finger and pressed it over the President’s lips. “Shh! Don’t finish that sentence. It’s most likely a copyright violation. Or maybe it isn’t. I don’t know. All I know is that no one has ever pissed off Lee Majors and lived to tell the tale.”

“Blech,” President Stugotz said. “Don’t put your dirty finger on my pristine lips. I don’t know where that finger has been.”

The Professor sniffed his finger and shook his head. “Come to think of it, neither do I.”

“So what’s the good word, Professor?” the President asked.

“Mr. President,” Professor Lambert said. “I was honored when you asked me to participate in this project. Really, I was, but now that I have had the time to learn the end result you’re hoping to achieve here, I have to say, this initiative goes against everything I’ve spent my entire life fighting against.”

“I’ll add three more zeros to your check,” President Stugotz.

“And my morals just went out the window,” Professor Lambert said.

The professor lit up a doobie and puffed on it.

“Should you be smoking around the samples?” President Stugotz said.

“The samples?” Professor Lambert asked. “Oh, you mean all these gator chunks? No, yuck. We can throw them away. They’re useless.”

“What the hell, man?” President Stugotz asked. “I thought you were just going to sew all these gator chunks back together and make me a great big beautiful Frankengator, you know, a monster of my very own that will obey all my commands and pop out of the toilets of my enemies to devour them hole.”

“With the CIA’s help, I found something much better, Mr. President,” Professor Lambert said.

The professor punched a combination into the door of a refrigerated vault, then pulled out a small vile filled with a frozen liquid.

“Is that what I think it is?” President Stugotz asked.

“Indeed it is, Mr. President,” Professor Lambert answered.
The two men laughed in a profoundly evil manner. “Muah ha…muah ha…muah ha ha!”

When they were done laughing, the President turned to the Professor. “I’m starving. The First Lady has me on a new diet. Nothing but kale cauliflower. I’ve never been more regular. Believe me, there’s no one as regular as I am now. But screw it, I’m hungry, want to get something to eat?”

“On the way here, wherever ‘here’ is, I saw a fried chicken stand next to a titty bar out of a tiny slit in the bag the CIA put on my head,” Professor Lambert said.

“Professor,” the President replied. “You had me at chicken and titties.”

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Toilet Gator – Chapter 114

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Over a hundred shirtless men had crammed themselves into a dimly lit basement. They swilled beer and cursed without a care as they held up stacks of dollar bills.

“Give me fifty on Bruno!” one man shouted.

“I’ll take a grand on Stanley!” another man cried.

Rusty, himself shirtless and sweaty, strolled through the ring, collecting bets. “Have I got all the action? Yeah? Then gentlemen, to your positions!”

Two absurdly obese and ridiculously hairy men entered the ring. They leered at one another and growled.

“In this corner,” Rusty said. “Weighing in at four hundred and twenty eight pounds, Bruno the Bear!”

The crowd cheered.

“And in this corner, weighing so much that he broke the damn scale, Stanley the Stallion!”

The crowd cheered again.

Rusty stood between the two men. “Alright. You know the rules. You know what I expect them to be followed. Now get out there and give it your all, gents!”

The redheaded man exited the ring and joined a shirtless Moses and a shirtless Felix at the judge’s table.

“This was an inspired idea, Moses,” Rusty said.

“Yeah,” Moses said. “But Felix did all the legwork and you did all the promotion.”

“We’re a good team, aren’t we?” Rusty asked.

“You better believe it,” Moses said.

Rusty picked up a microphone and stood up. “Gentelemen, are you ready?”

The crowd of surly, booze addled men shouted, “Yeah!”

“I can’t hear you!” Rusty said.

The crowd shouted even louder. “YEAH!”

Rusty turned towards the competitors in the ring. “Begin!”

Bruno and Stanley paced furiously around the ring, locking eyes, each man waiting for the other to make a move until finally, they smashed their big bellies together, wrapped one another in a passionate embrace and fell to the floor and a calm, soothing snuggle.

The crowed cheered.

“What’s the first rule of Male on Male Hug Club!”

“Sir!” the crowd shouted. “The first rule of Male on Male Hug Club is ‘Do Not Talk About Male on Male Hug Club!”

“Exactamundo,” Rusty said. “And what’s the second rule of Male on Male Hug Club?”

“Sir!” the crowd shouted. “The second rule of Male on Male Hug Club is ‘Do Not Talk About Male on Male Hug Club!”

A random man stood up and shouted a question. “Hey! Are those dudes gonna fuck or what?”

Rusty looked around the room. “What? Who said that?”

Unable to find the questioner, Rusty shouted, “What’s the third rule of Male on Male Hug Club?”

“Just because men like to hug each other doesn’t mean they’re automatically gay!”

“And the fourth rule?” Rusty asked.

“No butt stuff!”

“Damn straight!” Rusty said.

Rusty returned to the judge’s table.

“You were tough but fair,” Moses said.

“Yeah, well,” Rusty said as he picked up a beer and chugged it. “You gotta have boundaries. Just saying.”

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Toilet Gator – Chapter 113

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Cole and Sharon stood in a terminal at the Miami International Airport, patiently waiting for the number of a very special flight to be called. Cole held a homemade, folded up cardboard sign in his hands.

“You ready for this?” Sharon asked as she patted Cole’s arm.

Cole nodded and took a deep breath. “Ready as I’ll ever be.”

“Attention,” came the monotone voice of a female announcer. “Flight 982, inbound from Nairobi, now arriving.”

“Here we go,” Cole said as he unfurled his sign and held it out in front of him. It read, “Mutumbo.”

Moments passed. Passengers headed down a long escalator.

“Do you see him?” Sharon asked.

“Nope,” Cole said.

The couple looked and looked until finally their concentration was broken when a little boy standing at the top of the escalator shouted, “Mr. Cole sir!”

The boy pushed his way down the escalator, past all sorts of weary travelers, until he was on the ground. From there he ran at warp speed towards Cole, practically knocking him over as he grabbed him in a big hug.

“Mutumbo!” Cole shouted.

“Oh, Mr. Cole sir!” Mutumbo cried. “I was the happiest boy in my village when I heard the good news that you and your wife had adopted me!”

Cole tussled Mutumbo’s hair. “I’m just happy, you’re happy, kid.”

“I am so very happy, Mr. Cole sir,” Mutumbo said.

An older, white haired woman made her way down the escalator and huffed and puffed as she handed Cole a clipboard with a form on it. “Mr. Walker?”

“Yes,” Cole said.

“Valerie Bond of the International Adoption Agency. My goodness, little Mutumbo sure is happy to see you.”

“Thank you for bringing him to me,” Cole said.

“That’s what I do,” Valerie said as she handed Cole a pen. “Your signature, please.”
Cole signed on the dotted line and handed the clipboard back to Valerie.

“I must say, Mr. Walker, I have never seen an adoption application processed so quickly before,” Valerie said. “And I have been in this business for thirty years. You must have a friend in a very high place.”

“You could say that,” Cole said.

“Well,” Valerie said as she shook Mutumbo’s hand. “My work here is done. Goodbye Mutumbo. Be good for your new family.”

“Yes, I will be very good for Mr. Cole, sir,” Mutumbo said. “And thank you, Mrs. Valerie, ma’am, for rescuing me from that third world hellhole, a place where I have known nothing but death, destruction, torture and torment since the day I was born and bringing me here to America, where soon, God willing, I will become a typical American child, telling my parents that they have ruined my life for buying me the wrong toy.”

Valerie smiled and walked away. Mutumbo turned his attention to Sharon. “Holy smokes, Mr. Cole, sir, I assumed you were quite a ladies’ man but I had no idea that your new wife was so attractive!”

“Um,” Cole said. “Yeah. Hey buddy, listen…”

Mutumbo grabbed Sharon’s hand and shook it up and down. “Hello Ma’am, I am so very pleased that you married Mr. Cole sir. I have no doubt that your warm smile and statuesque features have helped him cope with the loss of that vile she-devil, Miss Sharon, may shot rot in hell for a thousand years for the foul heartbreak she caused to such a noble and loving man like Mr. Cole sir.”

Cole leaned down and whispered something into Mutumbo’s ear. Mutumbo looked up at Sharon, then grabbed her in a great big hug. “Oh, Miss Sharon, ma’am! A thousand pardons! I had no idea that you came to your senses and came crawling back on all fours like a common, flea bitten dog to the best man in the entire world, that being Mr. Cole sir!”

Sharon hugged Mutumbo back. “I mean, I wouldn’t say I crawled, but ok, it’s nice to meet you little guy.”

Mutumbo grabbed Cole’s hand in his right hand and Sharon’s hand in his left hand. Together, the brand new family walked through the airport.

“Welcome to America, Mutumbo,” Cole said. “What do you want to do first?”

“Oh, the possibilities are endless, Mr. Cole, sir!”

“Hey um,” Cole said as he looked at Sharon and saw a little twinkle in his love’s eye. “We’re going to need you to knock off the ‘Mr. Cole sir’ and “Mrs. Sharon Ma’am’ stuff and just call us Mommy and Daddy, ok?”

“Yes,” Mutumbo said. “You’ve got it, Mr. Daddy Sir and Mrs. Mommy Ma’am!”
Sharon laughed.

“We’ll work on it,” Cole said.

“Come on, Mutumbo,” Sharon said. “The world’s your oyster now. Where to?”

“Well,” Mutumbo said. “If possible, I would like to get one of the delicious American ice cream sundaes I have heard so much about.”

“Oh yeah?” Cole asked.

“Yes,” Mutumbo said. “A missionary came to my village once and when he was shot in the back of the head and drawn and quartered, he dropped a magazine and in that magazine, there was a photograph of the most scrumptious looking ice cream sundae I have ever seen. It had whipped cream, nuts, a cherry, a banana, marshmallows, chocolate sauce, peanut butter fudge, rainbow sprinkles, and seven different flavors of ice cream, including rocky road, double chocolate, mint chocolate chip…”

“Whoa, whoa,” Cole said. “Slow down there, buckaroo. You’re liable to get a tummy ache if a sundae like that is your first decent meal here in the states.”

“Oh Mr. Daddy sir,” Mutumbo said. “If it makes me shit for a week, then so be it.”

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Toilet Gator – Chapter 112

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Cole, Sharon, Rusty, Moses, Felix and Professor Lambert, dressed in their best finery, milled about in a waiting room just outside the Oval Office. The doors opened and Buck Breckenridge poked his head out.

“I’m sorry,” Breckenridge said. “The President is on a very important call.”

President Stugotz’s voice traveled out of the office and into the waiting room. “Look, just because I’m the leader of the free world doesn’t mean I shouldn’t have my own private account on bigtimeknockers.com…yeah…uh huh…security risk? So make it secure, nerd. God Almighty, this shouldn’t be that hard…yeah well just shut up and make it happen. POTUS needs his big time knockers or else he’ll get very cranky and when I’m cranky I start posting on Lifebox and then my super hot wife and my super hot daughter chew my ear off and then after that it’s all I can do to keep my finger off the nuke button, OK?”

“Excuse me,” Breckenridge said as he shut the door.

Sharon chuckled. “Big time knockers?”

Moses spit into the palm of his hand and slicked down a cowlick on the top of his head. He then straightened his tie. “Woman, you laugh but that man in there is a true patriot and a saint and if he looking at big time knockers helps him get the job done then by God, he should have big time knockers.”

Cole sighed. “Ugh I just want to get this over with and get back to the hotel.”

“Why?” Sharon asked. “Hun, you’re a hero.”

Cole puffed out his chest. “I am, aren’t I?”

“Oh well,” Professor Lambert said as he pulled out a joint and a cigarette lighter. “Smoke ‘em if you got ‘em.”

“What are you doing?” Sharon snapped. “Put that away!”

“Dude,” Rusty said. “How did you get that through security?”

“My butt, a string, and a whole lot of patience,” the Professor said.

“If you can’t take a break from pot for an hour to meet the President of the United States then you’ve got a problem,” Sharon said.

The Professor sparked up and puffed away. “No one’s arguing with you, sister.”

The doors opened all the way this time. Buck made a weird expression as he sniffed the air. “What’s that smell?”

The Professor quickly dabbed the joint out against the leg of the priceless antique chair he was sitting in, then stashed the evidence in his pocket. “Smell? What smell?”

“It smells like Bill Clinton’s second term out here,” Buck said. “Strange. Oh well, follow me. The President will see you now.”

As the Chief of Staff led the gang into the Oval Office, they marveled at the sights, taking in the breathtaking architecture and artwork, including a giant portrait of former President Teddy Roosevelt. President Stugotz was sitting behind the historic resolute desk, engaged in yet another tense negotiation session over the phone.

“I want a large cheese pizza with extra cheese, OK?” the President said. “And when I say, ‘I want extra cheese,’ I mean, I want a whole hell of a lot of cheese. Don’t skimp out on me, OK? I’m serious. Don’t be like one of those pizza chefs who hears ‘extra cheese’ and then just puts a tiny dab of cheese on my pie, OK? In fact, I’ll tell you what, when you think you have put enough cheese on this pizza to comply with my request of extra cheese, go all out and shake some more cheese on it anyway, just to be safe. Believe me, nobody explains how to make an extra cheese pizzas better than me, OK? I am the best at ordering pizzas. Goodbye.”

“Mr. President,” Breckenridge said. “The heroes who defeated the toilet gator are here.”

“Fantastic!” President Stugotz said as he stood up and walked over to greet his guests. “Let me get a good look at them.”

The gang formed a line for the President to review. As he walked down the line, he gave each hero a handshake and a kind word.

“Officer Yates,” President Stugotz said.

“It’s actually Chief Yates now, sir,” Rusty replied.

“No one gives a shit son, and believe me, I know what people give a shit about, OK?” the President said.

“Yes sir,” Rusty said.

President Stugotz slapped Rusty on the back. “Job well done. You’re the coolest redhead I have ever met, and I’m including those Irish supermodel twins I plowed while I was on my honeymoon with the second Mrs. Stugotz.”

“That means a lot sir,” Rusty said.

“I know it does,” the President said as he moved on. “And you must be the guy with the Apache attack helicopter.”

Moses and Felix snapped to attention and saluted the President.

“Yes sir,” Moses said. “Sergeant Moses T. Malone, United States Marine Corps, retired and this is my hetero life mate Felix Howard. If I may be so bold, we love you sir. We both voted for you in 2016 and we can’t wait to do it again in 2020. Wild dogs won’t be able to keep us away.”

“Moses,” President Stugotz said. “I know smart people when I see them and believe me, I’m the smartest person I know. If you two voted for me then that makes you a couple of real smart cookies.”

“Thank you sir,” Moses said. “Sir, I don’t mean to bother you, but is there any way you might pull some strings so I can, you know, keep my Apache attack helicopter and also, if possible, not go to jail for all the laws I broke while I was flying it around?”

President Stugotz stroked his chin. “Hmm. Well, all the crooked lawyers in my employ tell me that you literally broke thousands upon thousands of laws by flying that thing around but…you know what? I don’t think you should go to jail for that. No one should ever have to go to jail for daring to fight a toilet gator. This is America. We don’t run from toilet gators here.”

“I couldn’t agree more, sir,” Moses said.

“You know what?” President Stugotz. “You’re off the hook. I’ll take care of it.”

“Oh, thank you sir,” Moses said. “But uh…do I get to keep it?”

“You want to keep an Apache attack helicopter?” President Stugotz asked.

“If possible, sir,” Moses replied. “It would mean a lot to me.”

“A piece of military hardware like that in the hands of a civilian?” the President asked. “I don’t know.”

“I promise I’ll never take it out again, unless of course there’s another violent animal attack,” Moses said. “Had the toilet gator not reared it’s ugly head, that fabulous helicopter would still be in my hangar, getting a fresh coat of wax applied to it every Sunday by yours truly.”

“Give me one good reason why I should let you keep it,” President Stugotz said.

Moses shrugged his shoulders. “Second amendment?”

President Stugotz looked up at the ceiling and pondered the proposition for a bit. He then turned his attention back to Moses. “Sold!”

Moses and Felix exchanged high fives as President Stugotz moved on to Sharon.

“Mrs. Walker,” President Stugotz said. “I was so glad to hear that you and your husband patched things up. I mean, it’s one thing to want to live a wild, carefree life and another to be impractical and well, you being forty and all…”

“I also love him,” Sharon said.

“Whatever you need to tell yourself, dear,” President Stugotz said. “Listen, I watched you on TV, tearing ass down the highway in that Diablo and I was impressed. In fact, I was so impressed, that I turned to the First Lady and said, ‘You know what we need, sweetheart? We need more vaginized Americans doing things that people with vaginas don’t normally do, like becoming doctors and lawyers and politicians and astronauts and police officers and toilet gator killers.”

“Thank you sir,” Sharon said. “That’s touching, in an odd way.”

“You’re an inspiration to ever little girl who ever dared to look out her bedroom window and up to the stars and proudly declare, ‘One day I will help end the life of a desperate, psychotic animal.’”

“That’s probably enough now, sir,” Sharon said as she pulled her hand out of the President’s grasp.

President Stugotz faced Cole. The two men stared at each other for a moment, then the Commander-in-Chief gave the renowned gator hunter a warm embrace.

“Cole Walker,” the President said as he stepped back. “A star is born.”

“Thank you, Mr. President,” Cole said.

“You know I was the first person to post on Lifebox that you would defeat the toilet gator,” President Stugotz said. “I was the only one who believed in you. I believed in you so much that I pushed aside a meeting with a bunch of wishy washy do-gooders who want to pass some cockamamie legislation about giving kidneys to junkies with AIDS or some such nonsense.”

“I appreciate your confidence in me, sir,” Cole said.

“Remember that, Bob?” President Stugotz asked.

“Yes sir,” Breckenridge replied.

“I was all like, ‘All you do-gooders figured out how to get kidneys for junkie AIDS patients on your own, I have got to write at least ninety-seven posts about how Cole Walker will most definitely beat the toilet gator because that man is a winner and believe me, I know a winner when I see one.’”

“Thank you,” Cole said.

“I should know,” President Stugotz said. “I’m the biggest winner the world has ever seen, but you wouldn’t know it because I’m so ridiculously humble. I go out of my way to avoid bragging about myself. Truly, I do. Being a braggart is very unbecoming. Believe me.”

“I’m just honored to be here, sir,” Cole said.

“Cole,” the President said as he shook the gator hunter’s hand. “For offing that filthy, rotten, dirty, disgusting, degenerate toilet gator, this country will be forever in your debt. If there’s anything I can do for you, just ask?”

As the President began to walk away, Cole stepped up. “Anything?”

The President turned around. “Anything except, you know, gay stuff. I mean, I don’t judge and I suppose if you want a dude to do stuff to your butt, I could make some calls and make it happen, but be advised that ‘anything’ did not include me doing anything to your butt, capiche?”

“I capiche sir,” Cole said. “And no, I don’t want any butt stuff but there is one thing you could help my wife and I with…”

“Name it,” President Stugotz said.

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Eighteen Weeks of Toilet Gator Sundays

Has another blogger ever showed this much devotion to a toilet gator?  I don’t think so.

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If People Kept it Real at Job Interviews

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It’s so sad that people feel they have to bite their tongue throughout life’s most tense situations.  We ask questions of each other, searching for the truth, but we hold back when it comes to our questions and our answers, fearful that saying the wrong thing might just blow whatever opportunity lies before us.

I don’t know about you, but wouldn’t it be great if people just spoke freely?

Take the average job interview, for instance.  The potential employer wants to know whether or not a candidate will be a good employee, but doesn’t want to run afoul of the myriad of laws regarding the questions that employers are and are not allowed to ask.

In contrast, the prospects wants the job and wants to make a good impression, so much so that the BS flows freely, while the real reasons why this person would be a great employee are left on the cutting room floor.

Wouldn’t it be great if everyone just kept it real?

 

QUESTION #1

EMPLOYER:  OK, listen up, fuck stick.  I was like you once, a young, dumb, bright eyed bushy tailed kid full of piss and vinegar, love and life and then you know what I happened?  I blinked and twenty years passed and now my parents are dead and all my aunts and uncles are dead and my childhood cat is dead and literally everyone I cared about is dead.  I didn’t spend much time with them though because I pulled long nights at this place and even though I have carried this sinking ship full of assholes on my back for years, they only finally got around to promoting me to this position of authority.  So I’m pissed off and ready to heap abuse on a young kid that reminds me of my former self.  It’ll make me feel better to treat a young person badly, the way I treated.  I’m going to literally blame every mistake I make on you, I’m going to scream obscenities at you all day long and I’m going to make you feel an inch small at all times.  At no time will you ever feel like you possess a modicum of job security and I reckon within three months it will take every last ounce of strength you have just to pull yourself out of bed and come here every morning.  Can you handle that or are you going to be one of those pansies that quits after the first day and then have your Mommy call and leave a voicemail message for me, saying you were dropped on your head repeatedly as a child and I should take you back and give you another chance?

EMPLOYEE ANSWER:  Yes sir.  Yes indeed.  You see, I’m down to my last twenty dollars and I estimate that by the end of the month I’ll be giving hand jobs to homeless people on the subway just to make a little walking around money.  I wish I could tell you that I took my time at college seriously and had the requisite foresight to realize that the past four years should have been spent obtaining impressively high grades, internship and volunteer experiences, undergoing intense training and obtaining valuable credentials but in reality, I spent the past four years chasing hot chicks who wanted nothing to do with me and drinking beer.  Copious amounts of beer.

But I assumed, “Hey, I have a college degree so that guarantees me a good job.”  Three years ago I would not have touched the shit job you are offering with a ten foot pole, but now that I have suffered the indignity of living with my parents for the past three years, having them micromanage every last detail of my life well into my adult life, there’s literally nothing that I would not do in order to obtain this job so that I can pay the bare minimum necessary to keep the student loan people from sending goons to break my legs.  Also, it would be great to get my career started and obtain one smidgen of quasi-respectability on my resume.  Bonus?  I can actually tell Uncle Fred and Aunt Edna that I’m working at Thanksgiving.  They graduated 500 years ago, when you couldn’t walk down the street without tripping over a job, so they don’t understand why it isn’t easy for me to get a job.  I feel like telling those miserable old bastards to watch the news and learn how the world has gone to hell in a hand basket and we’re lucky that jobs even exist and we all aren’t just running around in leather outfits and driving junker cars through the desert like “Mad Max Beyond Thunderdome” but they’re old and they don’t hear well.

QUESTION #2 

EMPLOYEE QUESTION:  Yeah, that’s all well and good, but honestly, I don’t like your face. You’re an ugly person and I feel like if I have to walk past you on my way to my desk everyday, it’s going to make me sad.  Would you be willing to wear a paper bag over your head with a  cartoon smiley face drawn on it just so I don’t have to feel like I’m a bad person for hating your guts because God gave you that face?

EMPLOYEE ANSWER:  I certainly would sir.  You know why?  Because late at night, when I’m not able to sleep, and FYI, it’s been six months since I’ve slept because I literally worry about my future all night, I see this image of me as a dead old man in a pine box.  No one is at my funeral because I never built up the kind of life necessary for people to care about me.  Even worse, my obituary is just one line.  “He graduated from college and then did Jack Shit for sixty years after that because no one would hire him.”

QUESTION 3

EMPLOYER QUESTION:  I don’t know.  A lot of people come in here, telling me that they’ll work hard but then they don’t and it pisses me off, so much so that sometimes I sit in my office, close the door, and weep uncontrollably at my inability to travel back in time and give my young self advice based on everything I know now that I did not know back then.

After I dry my tears, I’ll probably roll up my sleeves and do all the work I told you to do because I’ll be so exhausted by your incompetence that I’ll just say, “Screw it!  I’ll do it myself!” while you sit on your computer and masterbate over your Facebook friends’ lunch photos.

EMPLOYEE ANSWER:  Not gonna lie.  For the first month, I’m going to show up on time.  My hair will be neatly combed, I’ll be clean-shaven, and I will wear a suit and tie.  I will perform extra tasks without asking.  I will assess all of your needs ahead of time and have what you need ready before you even think about asking for it.

Then about a month it, I’ll forget all about those three years where I sat on my parents’ couch playing video games and crying into my chocolate milk because I’ll think of myself as having made it, so you’ll begin to see a gradual decline in my work and appearance.

I’ll start my not shaving.  Then I’ll lose the tie.  Then the suit.  Three months into this you’ll be lucky if I show up wearing pants.

Four months into this I’ll be late for the first time.  When you don’t notice because you’re in a meeting, I’ll do it again and again.  It’ll be one minute late, then five minutes, then a half-hour, then an hour.  Before you know it, I’ll be waking up at four p.m., writing down a couple of ideas about work on a piece of scrap paper, then going back to sleep only to try to convince you later that I was more effective because I worked from home.

QUESTION 4 

EMPLOYER QUESTION:  That bothers me because by then, I will hate your guts and literally day dream about slamming your head up against a wall repeatedly for all the turmoil you’ll be putting through, but then I’ll remember that if I fire you, I’ll just have to put in a ton of extra work to train your replacement.  Plus, since your generation is a bunch of asshats, that new person might be as worse or, God forbid, he might be even worse than you.  The thought that the next person might be worse than you will keep me from firing you long after it’s clear to everyone who actually does their job around here that you deserve to be fired.

EMPLOYEE ANSWER:  And I’ll be honest and say that yes, I will milk every bit of that and even though you’ve been here for twenty years and I just started, I would say around six months in I’ll gain an inflated sense of self esteem and convince myself that I should own this place, that it would fall apart without me and you should all kiss my ass if I even pop my head in for twenty minutes.

But right now?  I’m desperate.  I’m so desperate.  I’m twenty-five years old.  I don’t want to ask my parents for spending money anymore.  I don’t want my mother reminding me to wear a jacket when it’s cold.  I don’t need my father bitching at me for bankrupting him on the electric bill every time I don’t turn out a light at the exact second I no longer require the light anymore.

Right now, I would do anything.  There’s nothing you could ask me that I wouldn’t do.  You could ask me to suck your dick and I would do that for you, no questions asked.  I’d tell no one.  All you would need to do is stand up, unzip, pull out the old frank and beans and I would go to town on it.  I’d give lots of eye contact.  I would not forget the balls.  I might even give a little tickle around back…and then we’d never speak of it again.  It would be like it never happened.

That is how badly I want this job.  That is how deeply scared I am that in this economy, where all our business and political leaders have failed us miserably for years, that I will never become a productive person, that I will never accomplish anything to be proud about, that I will never be able to move out, or have a wife and kids of my own.  I’m so scared of never amounting to anything that you may feel free to use my face for your personal amusement.

QUESTION #5 

EMPLOYER QUESTION:  See, you say that, but you have this fancy college degree.  It means shit right now because you have zero experience but once I give you a little bit of experience and prove to other employers that you’re in it to win it, you might leave me high and dry.  You see, there was a time when employers actually cared about employees.  Employers gave their employees training.  No one felt any jealousy and people went out of their way to help each other.

That time is long gone.  Now, honestly, after the years of pain and bullshit this company put me through just to obtain one lousy promotion, I would literally feel like biting down on the business end of .45 Magnum and pulling the trigger if I were to ever learn that after I gave you a leg up with some useful on the job experience, you were able to, say, parlay that into a job that pays better than mine by the end of this year.

If that were to happen, I realize the only healthy thing to do would be to wish you well and not be resentful of the fact that life went your way while it bent me over and had its way with me, but them’s the breaks, kid.

Sure, if I weren’t keeping it real, I’d probably say something like, “You’re so overqualified with this degree from an outstanding institution of higher learning that I wonder if you would feel unstimulated and unchallenged in this working environment but really, you should read that is, “I will literally hurl myself off a cliff if you ever do better than me in less time than it took me to get where I am today.”

EMPLOYEE ANSWER:  I understand that if I weren’t keeping it real, I’d tell you how wonderful I think your company is, how I’d be a great match for it, how this job is everything I ever dreamed of but I’m desperate, so remember that offer to suck your dick?  Still on the table.  Hell, I’m so tired of picking spare change out of my parents’ couch cushions because I’m too proud to ask my father for allowance at this point in my life, that I will throw in some butt stuff with that offer.  You want butt stuff?  You’ll get butt stuff.

Do keep in mind though that everyone has been telling me how great I am my entire life. My room at home is filled with dull, dusty trophies that my school gave me for meaningless victories like “Always colored within the lines” or “Always remembered to close his mouth in class so flies wouldn’t buzz into it.”

So, while you are correct, I will show you no loyalty whatsoever and will blow this pop stand the instant a better offer comes along, for the foreseeable future, I’m so tired of seeing my parents choke back their tears and hold in their disappointment every someone asks them over the phone how I’m doing and they lie and say, “Oh, he’s just fine” when I’m clearly not fine that you can get mouth and butt stuff from me.  It’s all on the table.

QUESTION #6

EMPLOYER QUESTION:  But come on.  A degree in philosophy?  Are you kidding me?

EMPLOYEE ANSWER:  Nope.  No joke.  Four years ago I was so literally fucking stupid enough to think it was possible for me to become such a great philosopher, that I would take everything I would learn and use it write a book that would become so popular that its great insight into the human psyche would cause world peace to break out that I signed up to take over a hundred grand in debt even though everyone, literally everyone, my mother, my father, my aunt, uncle and cat all told me I should major in something more practical.

Now, after being denied gainful employment for the passed three years despite having gone on over one hundred job interviews, I realize how hard the world is and it is all I can do but curl up in my bed in the fetal position and wait to die.  I used to think I could change the world.  Now I would dance a jig if you were to give me this demeaning job where I take your abuse and fetch coffee for you all day and act as a cover for you so you can tell your boss it was my incompetence that kept you from getting your work done on time and not, because, you know, you spend your afternoons snorting coke in the bathroom of a golf course on company time.

Did I mention that my cousin who spent his high school years huffing paint can fumes and following his favorite rock band around the country became a plumber and now he’s married, has three kids, a house that you could fit three of my parents’ houses in and he’s taking his whole family to Hawaii this year?

QUESTION #7 

EMPLOYER QUESTION:  I see.  Do you have any questions for me?

EMPLOYEE ANSWER:  Right.  I’ve heard this part of the interview is important.  I really don’t think you’re going to hire me so I’d like to get home and cry into a cheesecake as soon as possible but what the hell, I’ll give it a try.  Is your break room OSHA compliant?

QUESTION #8 

Hell if I know.  This whole place could fall down on the heads of all my employees for all I care and all I would do is step over their lifeless corpses on my way to outsource their jobs to a call center in India.  By the way, do you know their are kids your age in India who would walk barefoot over a mile of hot coals just to sit on your parents’ couch for an hour?

Hey listen, I’m going to shake your hand now and tell you it was great to talk to you and thank you for coming in, but the second you walk out the door, I’m going to curse our nation’s education system for producing young people who seem like they get dumber and dumber every day.

Also, I’m going to tell you that you’ll hear back from me in 3-5 business days but if you call for a follow-up, no one here will remember who you are, myself included.  If you get a pre-printed form letter informing you that we appreciate your interest, you were such a great candidate but we had so many great candidates that the decision was difficult (don’t believe that by the way, you were so awful that if a monkey walks into this room after you leave and offers to work for bananas, I’ll hire him) and we wish you well in all your future endeavors, consider yourself lucky.

EMPLOYEE ANSWER:  Thanks!  I’m going to go home, eat an entire pie, and then humiliate myself by asking my mother to stroke my hair and sing me a lullaby in the hopes that will give me the sleep that has evaded my so long now, because I know my life will be spent on go nowhere interviews like this for the foreseeable future.  Oh and even though you saw the smallest amount in me necessary for you to even waste your time meeting me, that won’t cheer me up at all.  I will still tell everyone that you were a dick and this is all your fault and not my fault for majoring in philosophy.

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