Tag Archives: complaints

Jun 14 2016
7 Comments
Things That Really Frost My Ass

Things That Really Frost My Ass – People Who Ask, “What Do You Mean?” In Response to Clearly Worded Statements

By: Uncle Hardass, Grumpy Old Man Correspondent

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BQB’s Epically Grumpy Uncle Hardassimo “Hardass” J. Scrambler

Hello Degenerate 3.5 Readers.

Still working on your precious writing careers I see.

Hey I just thought of an idea for a novel.

Its about a bunch of Internet bloggers who sit around and try to become writers all day.  Then one of them gets a job at the salt mines. The end.

That’s right. Pure fiction all the way.

Anyway, allow me to bend your ear about the dumbest question in the entire language.

It’s not so much as a question as a response. People use it all the time and if you use it on me it will really frost my ass.

So, suppose I’m digging around in the fridge in search of a nice gallon of moo juice to poor on my doctor approved raisin bran.

I can’t find any so I say:

“We’re out of milk.”

Do you know what my wife, BQB’s Aunt Gertie, would always say in response?

“What do you mean we’re out of milk?”

Hello. Did I not just speak in clear, concise English? Were my words garbled?

Did a damn wizard cast a spell on me when I wasn’t looking and force me to speak in Mandarin?

Look, I’m not exactly a distinguished Professor of English at Oxford University, but I’m pretty sure that the sentence, “We are out of milk” is universally understood to mean any of the following:

  • There is no milk.
  • Our supply of milk is non-existent.
  • The container of milk has no milk inside of it.
  • We are no longer proud owners of milk.
  • Grab a cow and squeeze one of its titties into this damn milk jug so I don’t have to eat my raisin bran dry for crying out loud.

Oh God. People use that response all the time. It’s just nonsensical throat clearing is what it is.

People’s brains don’t work so they need something to say to stall while the hamster in their heads start running around on the gears.

Happens to me all the time.  And Gertie is not the only culprit either.

Perhaps you people have even experienced this phenomenon in your stupid miserable lives.

Let me walk you through the appropriate responses to give in a few scenarios.

WIFE: The sink is broken.

HUSBAND: What do you mean, “the sink is broken?”

Ahh, now some of you dopes are thinking that the husband here is just asking for clarity. He wants to know the exact nature of the problem. Is the sink clogged? Is the water too hot? What?

Well, perhaps that is understandable, but consider this. The appropriate response would be:

HUSBAND: Please clarify the exact nature of the sink’s broken state.

But, since the husband asked, “What do you mean, ‘the sink is broken?’ then in my book, the wife is perfectly within her rights to respond:

WIFE: I mean there’s no f%&king water coming out of it, you asshole! What the f%&k do you think it means?

Perfectly reasonable response. Uncle Hardass, making marriages stronger since I began my column right here on the Bookshelf Battle Blog.

Let’s be honest. My columns are the best thing this dumb blog has going for it.

Moving on, what about this exchange between you and your boss?

BOSS: Did you finish going over the Drexler report yet?

YOU: No, sorry. I didn’t have time.

BOSS: What do you mean, you “didn’t have time?”

Again, the boss should have responded:

BOSS: Please list the other activities you engaged in that kept you from completing your review of the aforementioned file.

But he didn’t say that. He used that loathsome “What do you mean” response.

Ergo, you, as an employee are within you rights to respond as inappropriately as possible.

I suggest going out of your way to be a sarcastic jackass.

YOU: Hmm. I wonder what I meant when I said, “I didn’t have time.” I suppose that most people with a high school education understand the concept that there is a finite amount of time in a work day and if I noted that I did not have the time, that must mean that I was unable to find the time necessary to review the file.

I suppose there could be some alternative meaning in an alternate dimension in which English words are understood differently. Perhaps in another world “I didn’t have time” is understood to mean, “I rode a unicycle to Ted Danson’s house and then Ted and I went to the beach and drove around jet skis all day until we found and befriended a group of friendly dolphins. Now Ted and I and the dolphins solve crimes and fight evil together.”

Sir, I apologize if you are from an alternate dimension where “I did not have time” means something else, but here on Earth, it means, “I did not have time.”

Oh crap on a cracker. I was just handed a note and now I have to state that it is inadvisable to speak to your boss or your spouse or anyone really in any of the above mentioned ways and the Bookshelf Battle Blog can’t be held responsible if you do so.

Fine. You people do whatever you want.

Just remember when I tell you to get a job, and you respond, “What do you mean, ‘get a job’? I mean, “GET A JOB!!!”

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Apr 20 2016
4 Comments
Things That Really Frost My Ass

Things That Really Frost My Ass – Excessive Door Holders and Confusing Boob Photos

By: Uncle Hardass, Official Bookshelf Battle Blog Grumpy Old Man Correspondent

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Uncle Hardass, Complainer at Large

Hello degenerate 3.5 readers.

Still working on your writing careers, I see.

Hey I have a joke for you. What’s the difference between a writer and a homeless bum?

Homeless bums write their sob stories exclusively on cardboard.

Bah ha ha! I slay me. But seriously, all of you should abandon your hopes and dreams and get jobs immediately. The salt mines are hiring.

It’s been awhile since I’ve gone a complaint spree, so here are two of my latest grievances about the rat trap of a world we live in:

Excessive Door Holders

Have you ever been twenty feet or more away from a door only to have some jackass who reached the door ahead of you stand there and hold it open for you forever, even when you are far away from the door?

Holy shit. Look, I get that social etiquette requires you to hold a door open for a person who is immediately behind you, BUT IT DOES NOT REQUIRE YOU TO HOLD THE DOOR OPEN FOR ANY PERSON ON THE SAME PLANE OF EXISTENCE!

People, putting your hand on a door handle does not require you to stay there and hold that damn door open for anyone and everyone who may want to use that door until the end of time.

Are you unsure as to whether or not a person approaching the door you are currently opening is too far away for you to hold said door open?

Here’s a helpful rule of thumb. Count off three Mississippi’s.  If I’m not there by number three, then start hauling ass, junior. I can open doors by myself just fine and I’m not about to start rushing just because you’ve decided to stand there like a moron and hold a door open for me when the space between us could double as a regulation NFL football field.

Here’s a helpful guide I have created to help you dingbats figure out when and when not to hold the door for someone:

Where the Person is and If You Should Hold the Door Open for Them

3-5 feet behind you.  (Yes)

Some hot babe you want an excuse to meet. (Yes, however far away she may be, though you’ll disappoint her immensely because you are a writer and therefore have nothing to offer her. Get a job at the salt mines and she’ll be all over you.)

Still walking in from the parking lot. (No.)

In France right now but this person may want to enter the building later this year. (No.)

On Mars but this person would like to enter the building at some point this decade. (No.)

In an alternate universe but this person would like to enter the building before time collapses on itself and the universe as we know it ceases to be. (No.)

There you have it. Learn when and when not to hold a door, ya pukes, because I hurry up for no one. If I’m nowhere near the door and you stop to hold it for me like a jackass, it is my God given right as a American to not only refuse to walk faster, but to walk even slower and make you wait for whatever appointment you are going to.

(And let’s be honest. It isn’t a job interview, is it?)

Confusing Boob Photos

Kim Kardashian and her friend Emily Rata…Ratana…Ratajawowwah…

BQB EDITORIAL NOTE: It’s Emily Ratajkowski, Uncle Hardass.

Get a job.  Anyway, a couple weeks ago, Kim Kardashian and Emily Ratawhoever posted this photo of their blacked out bosoms with their middle fingers in the air and I for one have been more confused than a three legged greyhound at a racetrack ever since:

Really, what is my response to this photo supposed to be?  Look dames, I know you’re all for women’s rights and all that hullabaloo, but it’s times like these that leave men befuddled.

Here are some possible male responses to this photo, followed by female answers:

MALE RESPONSE #1 – “Holy moly look at those sweater cannons!”

FEMALE RESPONSE #1 – “How dare you objectify women like that, you pig.”

Baffled yet? It gets worse:

MALE RESPONSE #2 – “You’re right. How dare Kim and Emily Ratasomething expose their bosoms to the world! How tasteless!”

FEMALE RESPONSE #2 – “Expletive deleted you! These women are just expressing themselves. How dare you tell them that a display of their beautiful femininity is wrong?”

Is your head ready to explode yet? Wait for it…

MALE RESPONSE #3 – “Umm…you’re right? I like their boobs?”

FEMALE RESPONSE #3 – “Pig!”

Don’t try to make sense of it, men.  Just bow down to your female masters. The skirts have won and the sooner you admit it, the better.

All I know is back in my day, if a broad wanted to show you her chest rockets, you took the time to oggle them like a gentleman then thank her for her trouble.

What kind of a world do we live in now when women feel like they must now preemptively insult via middle finger people who don’t like their boob displays?

“Yup. Here are our boobs and if you don’t like it, here’s the bird.”

I swear. Sometime when I wasn’t looking the Commies won and turned this country topsy turvy.

Anyway, those are my latest complaints, 3.5 readers. If there’s something that really frosts your ass, feel free to complain about it in the comments.

Or better yet, get a job.

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Feb 14 2016
7 Comments
Things That Really Frost My Ass

Things That Really Frost My Ass – Valentine’s Day Edition

By: Uncle Hardass, Grumpy Old Man Correspondent 

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Renowned Romance Expert Hardassimo J. Scrambler, BQB’s Grumpy Uncle

Hello degenerate 3.5 readers.  Still wasting your time trying to become writers I see. Despite your old Uncle Hardass’ repeated efforts to put you on the straight and narrow path, you’re all still convinced that you’re going to be the next Hugh Howey.

And you know what?  Maybe you all ought to shut yourselves up in a big grain silo for a decade or two just to get some inspiration for your next writing project.  God knows the world would be a better place without all you damn hippies in it.

The salt mines are still hiring, by the way.  GET A JOB!

Anyway, it’s Valentine’s Day.  The day of love.  Amor, mon cheri.  I know this comes as no surprise, but back in my day, I was quite the ladies’ man.

Why, when Gertie and I started going steady, I used to whisper sweet nothings in her ear like “Where’s my damn sandwich?” and “My dirty pants aren’t going to launder themselves.”

And Gertie was no slouch either.  Why, I remember one day we were taking a romantic walk through the drug store to pick up my hemorrhoid medication, the kind I like in the tube with the applicator tip, and she said to me, “Well, what the shit, I guess if I could do any better than you, Hardassimo, I’d of done it by now.”

Now that’s love.

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Gertrude “Aunt Gertie” Scrambler – Last seen working her way through every roadie employed by a Grateful Dead tribute band.

Nothing spells love like settling, 3.5 hippy readers.  And for those of you at home stuffing your free Dairy Queen blizzards in your suckholes and reading a blog that only attracts an audience of 3.5 readers, let me ask you this:

Have you considered settling?

Listen, I get it.  You have dreams.  You’re probably young and you’ve been led to believe crazy ideas like “I’m special” and “I deserve good things to happen to me” and “I believe in myself so all my dreams will come true.”

Look, that may all be well and good but lets face it.  Ladies, your Prince Charming is not riding up on his noble steed any time soon and men, a bus load of bikini models is not going to ever hire you to be their towel boy either.

If you’re alone this Valentine’s Day and you’re reading this pathetic excuse for a blog, then there’s a statistically high probability that you are what my nephew Bookshelf Q. Battler might call a C.H.U.D. and he doesn’t mean that in a disrespectful tone.  He’d be the first to tell you that he is one.

Hell, I tell BQB that he looks like a  “Cannibalistic Humanoid Underground Dweller” all the time and he never thanks me for it.  Don’t blame him for his rudeness.  He’s a blood relative on Gertie’s side of the family, so he never had the chance to inherit his Uncle Hardass’ good manners, looks, hard worth ethic, or his general ability to display kindness and sensitivity.

Look, if you millennials have come to me for advice about your love lives, you’ve come to the wrong place.  Way back when I was a youngster if a man liked a woman he’d ask her out on a date to the malt shoppe and if he had a good job and wasn’t a damn communist, her father would push her out the door like any God fearing American would have done at the time.

Ahh, but you new age young people have it all ass backwards now.  Ask a girl out on a date today and you’ll get accused of intruding on her “safe space” with a “micro aggression.”

Ladies, I’m not saying you have it any better now either.  Women used to be able to bat their eyelashes at a man they liked and that was it.  Now if you do that the guy’s liable to reach into his man purse and offer you a dab of his manscara.

That wasn’t a gay joke.  That was a straight men have become just as bad as women are at primping themselves all the time joke.  My nephew BQB has informed me that one errant gay joke is enough to leave you labeled as being worse than Charles Manson these days and I for one have always been an advocate for the gays.  As long as they work hard, pay their taxes and mow their damn lawns then I could care less what they do behind closed doors. More cooter for me, I say.

But I digress.  Let me return to the topic of settling.

If you’re reading this blog and you are alone on Valentine’s Day….SETTLE!

YOU!  Yes you.  The gal reading this dumb blog while you’re petting a calico cat with one hand and scooping  Ben and Jerry’s into your face hole with the other.

Why aren’t you settling?

You think I’m being mean here but I’m not.  Most of the time I am but not this time.  What was going through your mind when you rejected that geek that you met at your friend’s party last week?  You know.  That loser with the dopey glasses who couldn’t stop talking about the “Settlers of Catan Strategy Club” he’s in.

He called you and left a message.  Why haven’t you called that asshole back yet?

Oh I know.  “Some day things are going to turn around.  I’m going to blossom into a beautiful butterfly and Brad Pitt is going to knock down my door.”

Yeah.  Well.  Look.  One day he might.  One day my dumbass nephew might get a real job too.  Until God starts passing out miracles, call that dufus up and go on a date with him, will you?  What have you got to lose?

Holy shit.  He’s a C.H.U.D.  You’re a C.H.U.D.  Why are you damn C.H.U.D.s at home alone, stroking your ugly pets alone, watching TV alone, when you could be snuggled up nice and tight together as a hideous C.H.U.D. couple, getting a start on your bright C.H.U.D. future together and working on making some C.H.U.D. babies to scare the shit out of the nurses in the maternity ward?

I’ll tell you why.  To quote Marcellus Wallace in that Pulp Fiction movie that my stupid nephew used to watch on a continuous loop when he was growing up, “That’s pride talking.”

Yes.  You’ve convinced yourself that Brad Pitt is just around the corner.  Keep yourself single so you’ll be ready when Brad wakes up one day in his damn mansion, turns to his wife, Angelina Jolie and cries, “Holy shit, Angelina!  I’m sorry but I just realized I’m attracted to she-C.H.U.D.s with a penchant for overweight felines and novelty Vermont based ice cream products!”

Is there anything wrong with you for wanting better?  No.  That’s just human nature.  Shit, the day you stop wanting more is the day they outfit you for a pine box.

Keep wanting better but Jesus, take what you can get in the mean time.  If the bazillion to one shot that Brad leaves Angelina for you ever works out in your favor, then you can let the C.H.U.D. boyfriend you settled for go.  Maybe see if Brad can toss him a few bucks so he can get some plastic surgery to look less hideous so he can find a babe to replace you.

Holy Shit, I’ve dated myself, haven’t I?  None of you dummies know who Brad and Angelina are do you?  Who are the C.H.U.D. millennial girls hoping knocks on their door?  Justin Beiber?  Shit.  I have no idea.

Men, take a knee because your dumb asses aren’t getting off the hook easy either.  All you male C.H.U.D.s at home playing video games in your mother’s basement instead of asking that girl who works at the Arby’s that you visit three times a day to toss big beef and cheddars down your gullet.  Why don’t you ask her out?  What?  Because she has crooked teeth and a hair lip?

Shit.  I’m sure she’s still a nice gal.  Take her out to a few movies then once you get her in the sack you can plant some subliminal messages around the house.  Put a free coupon for lip waxing in the magazine she’s reading.  Tell her you have no idea how it got there.  Put an orthodontia documentary on the TV and blast it on high while she’s sleeping.  Maybe it’ll sink in.

Or just say screw it and learn to love her for her Yeti lip and snaggle teeth because let’s face it, you’re fatter than most planets and you could sell the rights to your face to Halloween mask companies.  Stop holding out for Blake Lively.  Blake Lively would not touch your diseased micro phallus if it was the only option to keep an alien race from exploding a thermonuclear bomb inside the Earth’s core.

Yeah.  Shit.  When I put it like that you want to call that Arby’s cashier up now, don’t you?

And just as the dopey gal with the cat can drop her C.H.U.D. boyfriend if Brad shows up, you too can show the Arby’s girl the door if Blake Lively falls out of love with her handsome movie star husband Ryan Reynolds and decides she’s been missing out when it comes to the micro genitalia of men that play video games in their mothers’ basements all day.

Yes, I know you young folk have been raised with perpetual pats on your back for doing nothing and participation ribbons for just showing up and you were taught to expect that every one of your wildest dreams will come true, so you may hate my guts for dousing you with this cold water but I’m really doing you a favor here.

I worry about you C.H.U.D.s.  I really, really do.  I’m not just saying that either.  Right now there’s a lonely she-C.H.U.D. and a lonely he-C.H.U.D. reading this and those C.H.U.D.s could be out having a swell time together on Valentine’s Day instead of wasting their time alone, apart, with nothing better to do than read my incompetent nephew’s bullshit blog.

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You ugly people should be together, having a good time, talking, laughing, getting to know each other and should the mood strike, exploring each others’ hideous, disgusting bodies, the types of bodies that Brad and Blake wouldn’t touch with rubber gloves covered in disinfectant.

Look, I wanted Rita Hayworth but I settled for Gertie.  And Gertie wanted Frank Sinatra but she got stuck with me.  We each wanted better but we weren’t dummies.  Like a lousy strip mall insurance lawyer, or a new house on a rickety foundation, we settled and you should too.

But Uncle Hardass, why are you telling me to settle for someone who treats me like shit and is mean to me and steals all my money and hits me and so on?

Jesus.  You 3.5 readers have reading comprehension problems.  I didn’t say settle for someone who’s a total asshole or doesn’t treat you with the dignity you deserve and shit, you don’t even have to settle for someone you don’t like or aren’t interested in.  If, for whatever reason, they just aren’t greasing your spark plugs, you don’t have to seem them again.  Don’t settle for someone if you don’t foresee any possible way of being in love with them.

All I’m saying is, at the risk of sounding hokey,  we’re all God’s children, made as he made us, aren’t we?

Ladies, go on a date with that geek.  Fellas, go on a date with that she-nerd.  Worst that happens is you don’t have a good time, it doesn’t feel right, and you don’t go out again.  Best that happens is you gave it a shot and you end up having a great time with someone you’d like to get to know better and you aren’t waiting around for something to happen.  Something is actually happening instead.

All I’m saying is you might be missing out on the love of your life for some dumb superficial reason, you dumbass.

Eh, but what do I know?  The more I watch the news, the more it seems like everyone’s an asshole these days so maybe all you single people are better off alone.  The world’s falling apart, so no need to procreate just to hand a shitty world to a new generation of losers who will cock it all up even worse than it is now, if that’s even possible.

Happy Valentine’s Day, lonely 3.5 readers.  Buck up, keep a stiff upper lip, and better luck next year.

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Dec 24 2015
8 Comments
Things That Really Frost My Ass

Things That Really Frost My Ass – Christmas Edition

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Happy Holidays from Uncle Hardass

Ho Ho Ho Ya’ Lousy Degenerate 3.5 Readers.

Uncle Hardass here to put some much needed coal in your mental stockings.

Now, I know what you hippies are thinking. “Oh, Uncle Hardass! You’re not going to take a dump on the joyous holiday season are you?”

Yes!  Yes I am!

Where do I start?  I’m not sure what spoils my eggnog more. Maybe it’s…

  • …the fact that Christmas gets celebrated earlier every year. Everyone takes off their damn Halloween monster masks and puts on a Santa hat. The last three months of the year are Hooray for Death in October, Hooray for Stuffing our Fat Pie Holes in November, and Hooray for Running Up Our Credit Card Bills on Shit We Don’t Need December. Before you know it, people are going to start celebrating the next year’s Christmas on Dec. 26.
  • …that I have to say nonsense like “Happy Appointed Nondenominational Religiously Neutral and Atheism Inclusive Festivity Day” just to avoid offending an unwashed hippy who should toughen up and get a job at the Salt Mines.
  • …people who post pictures of their Elf on the Shelf drinking a beer, puking in the toilet, smoking a cigarette next to a Barbie, or some other obnoxious pose. We get it. You’re very lonely and the likes you get on social media are your only means of contact with the outside world. Go on. Put the little guy in a pink Barbie car and have a police officer action figure pull it over, you scamp you.
  • …that I can’t get candy canes all year round. I love candy that tastes good and makes my breath smell like an elf fart. I should be able to buy candy canes in August. Oh wait, I can because CHRISTMAS STARTS EARLIER AND EARLIER EVERY FREAKIN’ YEAR!
  • …that people expect me to wrap presents. Why do you want me to wrap your damn present? Fancy paper does not bring any additional enjoyment to whatever useless piece of garbage I got you. If anything, it prevents you from getting to the useless piece of crap earlier. There is a delay in your ability to enjoy the crap equivalent ot the time it takes to unwrap the crap. The environmental hippies might be onto something here. One day when the Earth is doomed, the aliens who move in next will say, “It was because the humans had an entire season when they bought useless crap for each other AND chopped down entire forests just to cover the useless crap with paper that delayed their access to said crap.”
  • …people who a) wear ugly sweaters b) put their hideous pets in ugly sweaters and c) color coordinate their outfits with their pets. One day your home will be foreclosed on and you will wish you had all the money you wasted on outfits your dog did not want to wear.
  • …mistletoe. If you wanna kiss, then just pucker up. I’m a man, damn it and I don’t need a sprig of a plant that’s otherwise unseen the rest of year just to play tonsil hockey with some random bimbo at a party.  Sorry Gertie, but I’m dead now and I did say “Till death do us part.”
  • …Santa tracker apps. Inevitably, some jackass at the party will whip out his Santa Tracker and gush like an idiot, “Whoa boy, Santa’s flying over X third world country!” No, no he’s not. Santa’s sleigh doesn’t have an anti surface to air flare system and that fat bastard doesn’t want to get shot down when he’s mistaken for a military combatant.
  • …that people leave cookies for Santa and carrots for the reindeer but they never leave anything at all for the elves, the only people in the entire organization that actually break a sweat slaving away in Santa’s toy factory. Just like everywhere else in the world, the working man goes unappreciated while dirty hippies enjoy the fruits of our labor.
  • …that people still insist on looking at Ebenezer Scrooge as the bad guy. Look clowns. Just because you start a business does not mean you are required to buy fat ass geese for all of your employees and fix all of their kids’ problems. They should consider themselves lucky you gave them a job and those three hippy ghosts should go occupy Wall Street or something. Shit, I’m a damn ghost myself and I have half a mind to visit Scrooge and tell him to keep up with his oppression of the downtrodden Victorian London era masses.  It’s good for them. Oppression builds character, I always say.

Maybe one of the aforementioned grievances frosts my ass. Maybe they all do. But 3.5 readers, do you REALLY WANT TO KNOW WHAT FROSTS MY ASS?

HERE IT IS:

Congratulations. You’re a parent. As if the world didn’t have enough to worry about, now the world has one more mutant spawn to suck up its precious resources.

You work all year. Well, some of you do. Most of you are just writers who scribble a bunch of nonsense then act like your memorialized thoughts and opinions matter to this godforsaken world, but I digress.

You worked and you saved your money. You went out and bought your little whipper snapper the latest toys, gadgets, and gizmos. You enjoyed doing it. You paid attention to what your kid wants and you went around to ten different stores to track down whatever piece of crap he wanted. With tender loving care, you wrapped all the toys up and placed them under the tree.

In short, you put a lot of work into making your kid happy.

So can someone please tell me why, WHY is it that I will be able to walk into any house in America and listen to the adults, who have gathered to watch the kids open their presents, say shit such as:

  • “Oh wow. It must be nice to have X piece of crap. I was NEVER lucky enough to have a nice piece of crap like that when I was YOUR age.”
  • “Oh, aren’t you spoiled? Look at all these presents.  Do you really need all this crap?”
  • “You got Y piece of crap too?  Sheesh, you got X piece of crap AND Y piece of crap. Do you know that when I was a kid my parents only got my brothers and sisters and I ONE piece of crap and we had to share that piece of crap and we considered ourselves lucky to have it?!”
  • “Look at that!  That is one top of the line piece of crap!  They hadn’t even invented crap like that when I was a kid. Oh I bet you don’t even appreciate all this crap ya’ little twerp.”

Look, 3.5 readers, and keep in mind this is coming from a guy named Uncle Hardass, so you know what you’re doing is f%&ked up.

Stop it with the passive-aggressive comments on Christmas morning about how your kids don’t deserve all the crap you got them. Even if you think you’re just talking to the other adults, they can hear you.

Honestly. You loved your kids enough to spend your time and money on getting this crap, you gave it to them so there’s a part of you that WANTS them to have it but then all you do is shit on them for having it.

You’re taking all your work and flushing it down the drain. If it really pisses you off that your kids have nicer shit than you did as a kid, then there’s a simple solution. Don’t get them the shit. Sorry kid, I didn’t get shit as a kid, so you shouldn’t get shit as a kid.

Sure, they’ll whine about it now but as adults, they’ll probably be more mentally secure people then the kids who grew up thinking, “Gee, I wonder if I deserve all this crap?”

Either that, or just be happy that you, despite the odds, obtained a level of success great enough that you can afford to buy shit for your kids that your parents weren’t able to buy for you. Call up your parents and laugh at them. Send them pictures of all the shit you bought for your kids and rub it in that you’re a better provider than they were.

Hell, if you even like the shit that much and are jealous of your kids for having it, then just go ahead and play with all those toys and shit while they aren’t looking.

Better yet, play with the toys with them. It might actually make you AND them happy.

What? You didn’t think your old Uncle H was capable of providing such heartwarming advice?

Just goes to show what you don’t know could fill an empty Salt Mine shaft, 3.5 readers.

So Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year and listen, make a resolution to stop reading my dumbass nephew’s blog in 2016, will you?

Every time one of you losers gives him a hit he thinks he’s going to make it big and his ego just doesn’t need that kind of unmerited support.

Peace on Earth and goodwill to men, losers.

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Dec 06 2015
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Character Profiles

Character Profile – Uncle Hardass

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REAL NAME:  Hardassimo J. Scrambler

NICKNAME: Uncle Hardass

BIOGRAPHY:  Hard work.  It’s the mantra that Uncle Hardass lived his life by, and a virtue he pushed on his nephew/adopted son Bookshelf Q. Battler.

Ahh, even today one of BQB’s fondest/worst memories is when Uncle Hardass came home from work one evening to find a young BQB eating junk food and hanging out with a bunch of his friends.

Uncle Hardass shouted, “BQB, what the hell are you doing?  Lollygagging around when decent folk are slaving away in the salt mines. Get a job ya’ bum!”

His wife, Aunt Gertie quickly replied, “Oh leave him alone, Hardassimo!   You’re ruining his third birthday party!”

“That’s no excuse” was Uncle Hardass’ answer and it certainly wasn’t one for him when he was a boy.  There is literally not a single time period of his life when he wasn’t working.  Consider:

  • X-rays showed that he spent his time in his mother’s womb untwisting his umbilical cord
  • He went to work immediately upon birth, organizing medical equipment for the doctor who delivered him.
  • Turned himself into a baby scrub brush by wrapping himself in rags and rolled around his parents’ kitchen floor to keep it clean.
  • Accepted employment at Salt Mines Inc. as soon as he was able to crawl (child labor laws were lax back then) and remained employed there until he died from a pastrami induced heart attack five seconds before his retirement party began.  This led to the completion of his one and only desire – to live a life in which there was never a second when he wasn’t being productive.

Yes, Uncle Hardass was busy one and he was sure to let others know it. On his way to work, he’d drive past East Randomtown Park and shout profanity at lousy hippies who were having picnics when they should be working.  It was his favorite pastime.

He never slept, opting instead to take a second job as an overnight newspaper deliveryman.  Many East Randomtown residents recall being woken up in the middle of the night by a fist pounding on their doors, followed by the voice of a gruff old man shouting, “Get up off your ass and read your damn paper, ya’ lousy hippie!”

BQB recalls an Uncle that was very hard on him.  Uncle Hardass despises writers, openly mocking them with, “Oooo la dee da!  I’m a writer!  I have opinions! My voice must be heard!  Bah, get a job at the salt mines ya’ lazy bastard!”

And while BQB ignored the advice about writing, he took the part about hard work and applies it to his craft.

Thus, our nerdy blog host will always have a love/hate relationship with his Uncle.  Hardass often mocked BQB’s aspirations, but at the same time, was the only adult in his life who let him know that he wasn’t “a special snowflake” and would have to work hard to succeed.

BQB was saddened when Hardass died but saw a ray of sunshine in that he wouldn’t have to listen to his uncle criticize his every move anymore.

That ray lasted for five minutes, quickly disappearing when BQB came home from Hardass’ funeral only to find a ghostly apparition in his uncle’s form, shouting, “JESUS CHRIST, SHUT THAT F%$KING DOOR! WHAT ARE YOU TRYING TO DO?  HEAT THE WHOLE NEIGHBORHOOD ON MY DIME?  GET A JOB YOU LOUSY HIPPY!”

It should be noted that BQB does have a day job but that never mattered to Uncle Hardass.  Whether you’re the President of the United States or a bus station janitor, if you don’t work at the salt mines, he’ll tell you to get a job.  You’re just not working hard enough, and certainly not as hard as he ever did.

Alas, BQB will never know a life without a grumpy old man criticizing him.  But luckily, Uncle Hardass has slowed down and embraced retirement in death, now spending most of his time watching TV and writing his column, “Things That Really Frost My Ass,” a litany of complaints about whatever is drawing his ire at any given moment.

Yes, if complaining ever becomes an Olympic sport, Uncle Hardass will win a gold medal.

Do you have something fun to complain about?  Share it with Uncle Hardass and maybe he’ll share it in his next column.

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Nov 21 2015
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Uncle Hardass

Things That Really Frost My Ass – Thanksgiving Edition

By:  Uncle Hardass, Grumpy Old Man Correspondent

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Hardassimo J. Scrambler

Hello Degenerate 3.5 Readers,

I see none of you have taken my advice to give up on all this writing horse shit and get a job at the salt mines yet.

Salt Mines Inc. is waiting there, ready to pay you good money for every chunk of salt you pull out of the ground but are you clowns interested?

NOOOOOOOO!!!!

“Look at me!  I’m a blogger!  I’m super smart and special and the whole entire world needs to know!”

Baaah!  Who needs ya’?

Wait, wait.  Come back.  Don’t leave yet.  I have to bitch about Thanksgiving first and then you can go.

This is a holiday about “giving thanks” but if you people have been paying any attention (and why would you because this blog sucks with the gale force wind of a thousand Dysons) then you know I don’t give any thanks whatsoever for anything.  EVER!

So instead, I’m going to rename this holiday, “Complaintsgiving.”  Here are my complaints about this bogus excuse for a holiday which, lets face it, was invented by no good lazy as hell hippies just to get out of a day of work.

In fact, it has been the hippies’ goal for as long as I can remember to declare every single day on the calendar to be a holiday so that no one has to work anymore.

That’s fine.  I know that’s the way this socialist nation is headed.

One day I’ll be the last asshole doing any work at all and the government will just tax me at a rate of 10 bazillion percent.  I’ll take on the entire country’s debt myself so the rest of you losers can have a jolly good old time on my back.  It’s ok.  By no means feel bad about yourselves.  I’m just an old man committing micro aggressions against your safe space.

But I digress.  My complaints:

  • Pumpkins – This is the dumbest vegetable I’ve ever seen in all of my days.  They make everything taste like ear wax.  Pumpkins are universally unseen the entire year BECAUSE they taste like ear wax but for some ungodly reason every fall every dumbass lines up around the corner for pumpkin spice lattes and pumpkin pie.  I hate pumpkin pie.  You might as well empty your dirty ear holes straight onto a pie crust and serve it up.
  • Cranberries – Similar to pumpkins, unless you’re an unwashed broad with a urinary tract infection, nobody gives a shit about these berries all year long except for Thanksgiving.  Then suddenly everyone’s a friggin’ cranberry lover.  Love it all year long or not at all I always say.
  • Biscuit Cans – Whatever the science is behind how they make biscuit dough pop out of cans with the force of an oncoming train, the government should take it and use it against the Al Qaedas.
  • Parades – Who in the hell is the butt faced rube that decided Thanksgiving is the day of all days to throw a damn parade?  A bunch of jerks walking around in arctic temperatures carrying balloons of cartoon characters used by the media to manipulate children into becoming hippies.  The only thing a Thanksgiving Day parade does is block traffic, thus making it harder for responsible Americans to get to their jobs at the salt mines.
  • Stuffing – Allow me to share with you the exact quote that led to the invention of stuffing:

“Oh!  Hello!  I’m an idiot and I think it might be a good idea to shove a shit ton of bread crumbs up a dead game bird’s ass, cook the whole shebang, then dig it all out and serve dead bird ass bacteria covered bread crumbs to my guests!”

  • Football – What an idiotic idea to have football games on Thanksgiving.  All it leads to is a bunch of drunk morons gathering around the TV to live out their fantasies vicariously through people who are better athletes than they ever were!

WHAT FOOTBALL FANS SAY ON THANKSGIVING:  Go!  Go!  Go!  Yes!  Touchdown!

WHAT THEY REALLY MEAN:  I wanted so badly to play for the NFL when I was 17 but no college would draft me because I ran around like I had a sack of doody in my pants so now the only joy I get out of life is pretending like my cheering for the group of mercenaries hired to play on my geographic location’s behalf is actually accomplishing something.

  • The Pilgrim Story – Yeah yeah.  A million years ago, the British settlers couldn’t figure out how to farm and shit so the natives helped ’em and they broke bread together.  Beautiful story.  Lovely.  Oh and then ALL THE NATIVE AMERICANS WERE KILLED AND POISONED AND BLOWN UP AND SHIT AND ONLY A FEW OF THEM ARE LEFT NOW AND THEIR SOLE MEANS OF SUPPORT COMES FROM CASINOS THAT LURE YOUR AUNT GERTIE INTO DROPPING HER ENTIRE SOCIAL SECURITY CHECK ON PENNY SLOTS EVERY MONTH!!!
  • Overeating – You feel like this holiday gives you an excuse to eat like a pig.  Fair enough.  What’s your excuse for the other 364 days, tubby?  Yeah.  I know.  I could stand to lose a few too.  Well, I never said I’m not a hypocrite, did I?
  • Turkey Pardons – Every year the President of the United States pardons a turkey, declaring that it will go uneaten and be sent to a turkey preserve.  The press eats it up like its so adorable.  What they don’t tell you is that these turkeys are tax dodging, drug dealing, gun running, murderous lowlife criminal turkeys who have just gotten away with all their crimes thanks to an unjust pardon.
  • Gravy – Thanks, but if I wanted a sticky liquid on my meal I’d just sneeze on it.
  • Passing the Dishes – Pick a direction and stick with it.  Pass left.  Pass right.  Doesn’t matter.  And keep up with the pass flow.  There’s always one pathetic excuse for a human being who a) is passing the dishes the wrong way so that the other side of the table doesn’t get anything or b) is taking so long that the dishes start to pile up in front of him like a 20 car pile up on the Interstate.
  • Your Kids’ Artwork – Look, just because you traced your hand and glued some googly eyes on it doesn’t mean you’re the next Picasso.  Get an application for the Salt Mines, kid.  Can you dig up salt?  Can you collect money for digging up salt?  Congratulations.  You got the job.  Get to work.  Stop drawing shit.
  • Black Friday –Why is it that despite being a geriatric, I’m the only one who understands you can get on a computer, go online and have all the useless shit that you’re wasting your money on sent directly to your door?  Why are you wastes of space giving up your part of your holiday to wait in line with a bunch of bozos just to fight over a discount gizmo just so you can wave it around in the air and act like you just bagged a trophy?  Why don’t you just stay home, jam another heaping helping of earwax pie into your dumb face hole and give those people who work at the stores a day off?  You ever hear about this “work” thing?  You should try it sometime ya’ lousy bums!

Finally, I’d like to end this column by sharing the one thing I can’t stand above all else when it comes to Thanksgiving:

  • Dealing With Judgmental Elderly Relatives – I can’t stand ’em, can you?  Always blah blah blah-ing about how good shit was a hundred years ago and criticizing everything you do, calling you lazy and stupid and if you ever stand up for yourself you get accused of being mean to an old person.  So you just have to suck it up and bite your tongue but you feel a little piece of you dying inside every time they say something nasty to you and you realize its pointless to do anything but nod politely.  Ugh.  I hate them.  They complain so much that I can barely get any of my complaints in edgewise and what…what are you looking at?  GET A JOB, HIPPY!

Uncle Hardass is BQB’s Late Uncle.  Although he passed on many years ago due to a pastrami induced heart explosion, he still haunts BQB HQ in ghost form, informing our noble blog host about everything he does wrong in excruciating detail.

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Sep 26 2015
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Things That Really Frost My Ass

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

By:  Uncle Hardass, Grumpy Old Man Correspondent

Uncle Hardass

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

Hello again you 3.5 unwashed hippy weasels.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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Sep 12 2015
7 Comments
Things That Really Frost My Ass

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

Hello 3.5 Readers.

“Things That Really Frost My Ass” with Uncle Hardass

Uncle Hardass here, reporting from the afterlife.

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

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

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

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

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

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

It never happens when I need milk or bread.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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