Tag Archives: elderly

Elderly Hipsters

It’s a disturbing trend, 3.5 readers. A disturbing trend indeed.

This weekend I saw three elderly hipsters.

Two were a couple.  She had this wacky poofy hair style even though half her hair was gone.

He had a leather jacket and a trilby. I mean, WTF?  If you’re old then you can wear a fedora because you can be all like, “I was wearing this since it was in style.”

But a trilby?  Yeesh. Old ass hipster.

Then I saw an old woman wearing “Juicy Couture” pants. Ugh. I mean yeah it’s juicy I suppose but at that age that’s not the kind of juice I want in my glass.

It’s starting. The aging of people who grew up with hipsterism.  They will retain their hipster ways forever.

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Things That Really Frost My Ass – Uncle Hardass’ Random Drive By Complaints

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Uncle Hardass is on a roll and can’t be stopped.  Here are his latest complaints:

#6 – Cell Phones

When I was young, people called you for three reasons: a) to tell you someone had died, b) to tell you they were about to die or c) to tell you that you had a disease that was going to cause you to die.  Even then, the deaths needed to be imminent, within a day at least, or else the caller was considered extremely rude.

Now everyone has a phone and they get calls all the time.  Most of these calls are total BS.  “Oh yakitty yak yak I want to yak to my friend all day long.”  Bah, friends.  Who needs ’em?  Not this guy.

Even worse, bosses have no problem calling their employees at midnight to give them a list of demands.  Hell, I just got a call from my boss to remind me to dig extra salt out of the salt mines tomorrow.  You know who will never call you on your cell phone?  Your boss….because you don’t have one.  Get a job, you disgusting hippie.

#7 – The Amish 

Let me be clear:  I’m not complaining about the Amish themselves.  They have a fine organization.  I applaud them and frankly, I don’t think people appreciate their work ethic.  I myself get up before dawn everyday and churn butter, milk cows, build furniture and raise at least ten barns, all by myself and all before breakfast.  My only complaint is that they won’t allow me to join them because they say I swear too much.  Bunch of  bullshit if you ask me.

I’d like to start my own Amish spinoff community except instead of stopping progress in the 1800s, I’d stop it right around 1950.  Ahh, the good old days when men where men and could come home from a long day at the salt mines, pop open a beer, and watch TV while the little woman cooks dinner.  Nowadays if you ask a woman to make you a sandwich it’s considered a hate crime and they try to lock you up like you’re Hannibal Lecter.

Who wants in on my 1950s community?  Ladies, I know you’re all in, right?

#8 – Gyms

Gyms are completely unnatural.  A long time ago, before cars and other modern conveniences, people just did a lot of shit.  They built their own houses, grew their own crops, raised, strangled, and butchered their own chickens.  If you needed to go anywhere, you had to walk up hill both ways.  In short, you had to do a lot of shit.  Even shitting was hard work.  If you were a rich socialite, you had to walk to your fancy outhouse.  If you were one of the common folk, you had to walk into the middle of the forest, wrestle a grizzly bear with your bare hands, then shit, then bury your shit so the smell would not attract more bears.  Bears like the smell of shit.  Don’t ask me why.  Who do I look like, Jungle Jack Hanna or some shit?

Anyway, doing shit wore the shit out of people.  Doing shit burned calories.  Doing shit was good exercise.  People didn’t even call it exercise.  They just called it “doing shit.”  Nobody even thought about doing shit.  They just did the shit.

People don’t do shit anymore, so now they head to these gyms, pay a big fee to be there, then run around on treadmills like a bunch of stupid hamsters on wheels in their cages.  If only they knew they could just do more shit, then they’d be able to burn more calories for free, just by doing the shit that needs to be done, because no one else wants to do that shit.

#9 – Exotic Pets

Dog or cat.  Cat or dog.  These are the only two forms of acceptable house pets.  You can’t pet a fish or a snake, and if you have a gerbil or a ferret, you might as well just turn your humble abode into a rodent flophouse.  Also, to put a bird capable of flight in a cage is a sin that makes Baby Jesus cry, you bunch of heathens.  Stop bringing home weird pets.  It does not make you interesting.  It just makes you weird.

#10 – People Who Put Food Boxes/Containers Back in the Cupboard or Fridge When They Are Empty

These people need to go straight to hell and be poked by a pitchfork wielding, pointy eared demon for all eternity.  There’s nothing worse than waking up in the morning, opening up the kitchen cupboard and assuming that I’m in for a big treat in the form of a heaping bowl of Raisin Bran only to find that some waste of space has already eaten it all.  Even worse, this disgrace to humanity has left the empty box there for me to throw away, instead of just throwing it away on his or her own.  Maybe I would have picked up some more Raisin Bran at the old person cereal store had I known that the box was empty bu t I assumed it was full because I am a good natured, trusting person and I did not realize that I was living with a monstrous abomination who would eat all the Raisin Bran, then leave the empty box in the cupboard.

Did you know Hitler used to do that shit?  Goebbels would regular go to the cupboard in Hitler’s bunker in the hopes of pouring himself a nice big bowl of Nazi Flakes, only to discover that Hitler had put a box of empty Nazi Flakes back on the shelf.  If you put empty boxes back on the shelf, you are literally worse than Hitler.

 

 

 

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Things That Really Frost My Ass – The Beach, Defective Pistachios, Itches In Bad Places

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

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Hello degenerate 3.5 readers.

Still working on your writing careers I see?  Good for you.  You know, I just wrote a poem.  Let me know what you think:

Roses are red.

Violets are blue.

Get your ass a job at the salt mines.

Yes, I’m talking to you.

Ah, but we all know you won’t.  That’s ok.  Just keep being a major disappointment to your parents.  I don’t have time to complain about your lack of a work ethic anyway, because I have the following complaints instead:

#1 – The Beach 

Do you know some slack jawed buffoon who, every summer, walks around like a schmuck saying, “I love the beach!”  Well, do the world a favor and slap that idiot about eighty or ninety times in the face with a wet noodle, will ya?

Holy crap sandwich, how I hate the beach.  It’s hot.  It smells.  It’s filled with assholes who are just sitting around like a bunch of fat, bloated iguanas, splayed out under the hot sun burning themselves to a crisp because they think getting tan will somehow make them look better.  I’m sorry, but tanning doesn’t remove ugly.  If you were ugly before, you’ll be ugly after.

Here’s an important quote to remember:

“Well, I thought you were ugly before but now I really want to have sex with you now that you sat out on the beach and got burnt to a crisp all day like a stupid dumbass.”

– Literally No One Ever

And who wants to swim in the open ocean anyway?  Really.  Who wants to put their bare feet down in sand they can’t see.  Sand filled with God only knows what.  Used hypodermic needles.  Pinchy crabs.  Snappy lobsters.  Sea lice.  Sea cucumbers.  Sea horses.  Whale shit.  Narwhal boogers.  Seal urine.  Chopped up pieces of mobsters who turned stool pigeon.  The ocean is one giant, disgusting shit stew and you don’t want to be one of those morons who jumps into it, trust me.

Nothing good ever happened at the beach and nothing ever will.

#2 – Having An Itchy Butt Hole

You ever get a real deep itch, about twenty thousand leagues below the surface of your butt crack?  Damn, those itches get in there deep.  And let’s face it.  There’s no way to get rid of it other than to take out your pointer finger and point it straight up the deepest, darkest part of your nether regions.

The thing I want to know is why is it not socially acceptable to do this in public?  I mean, seriously people, it’s 2017 for crying out loud.  Itches are a normal bodily function and a man ought to be able to scratch himself wherever, and whenever, the mood to scratch strikes.

By the way, I’m no sexist.  Women ought to be allowed to scratch their lady business whenever and wherever they want too.  That’s right.  Your old Uncle Hardass is a virtual Gloria Steinem.

#3 – Defective Pistachios

Kids, I love a good bag of pistachios.  They’re the best food because you work up a sweat eating them, what with having to break them open and throw away the shells and all.  But I hate it when I get a shell that won’t open.  Sometimes the shell completely covers the pistachio and there’s no way to open it.  Or, sometimes there’s like a little tiny opening but I can’t get in there.  (Ahem.  That’s what she said.  I hear you kids like that joke, so there you go.)

I always collect all of the defective pistachios, put them in a plastic cup, then take them back to the store and demand a refund equal to the amount of pistachios I was not able to eat.  I mean, I’m not a greedy son of a bitch.  I don’t want the full cost of the bag.  I did eat most of them, after all.  I just don’t think I should be charged for defective nuts.  This isn’t Communist Russia, after all.  If people have to keep paying for unbreakable nuts then it’s like we lost the war.

#4 – That I Still Have to Buy Batteries and Keep Them Around

I’m old as shit and even I think this is ridiculous.  Why can’t everything, from my TV remote control to that automatic dildo my ex-wife Gertie left behind that I swear I do not use whatsoever, just be plugged into the wall and charged?

Maybe it’s because…

#5 – Charging Cables Are Either Lost or They End Up Tied Up Together Like Spaghetti.

I swear, these technology companies make a mint off the fact that I’m a doddering old bastard who can’t keep track of his charging cords, so I have to constantly buy new ones.  Plus, if I throw them in a drawer in an effort to keep them safe, they end up looking as if a bunch of gnomes snuck into the drawer and tied them all together.  “WTF?” as the whippersnappers say.

CONCLUSION

Those are the five complaints on my mind lately, 3.5 dummies.  If you have anything that frosts your ass, leave it in the comments, or better yet, get a job and stop sponging off the system, you lousy layabouts.

 

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Toilet Gator – Chapter 2

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Geriatric Oaks Retirement Home

Boca Raton, Florida

9:00 P.M.

Nurse Sheila was a living saint. For the past twenty years, she’d diligently kept watch over her elderly charges, many of which were dazed, confused, and filled to the brim with anger over the fact that their lives had become a sad, ironic joke.

“What is this?” Mr. Bromstein asked as pulled out the elastic waistband of his boxer shorts and stared downward. “This is supposed to be my schmekel but it looks like a day old slice of pastrami.”

“Have you been putting your cream on?” Nurse Sheila asked.

‘Oy,” Mr. Bromstein answered as he turned to his roommate, Raul. Raul feasted on jello as he watched an old Western film.

“Do you hear what she asks me?” Mr. Bromstein asked Raul. “‘Have I put the cream on?’ she says. Of course I put the cream on. The doctor tells me I have a diseased schmekel and that I need to put some cream on it so I put some cream on it. Why would I not put the cream on it if I’m told that my schmekel requires the assistance of a medical cream?”

“I’m just trying to help, Murray,” Nurse Sheila said. “I’ll ask the doctor to stop by.”

“Yes,” Mr. Bromstein said as he took a seat next to Raul. “See that you do, please. The last thing I need is for my schmekel to turn gangrenous so some quack can waltz in here and tell me that he has to chop it off with a rusty butcher knife and turn me into a lady.”

“Let me know if it gets any worse,” Nurse Sheila said.

“Oy gevalt,” Mr. Bromstein said as he stared at the screen. “Worse? ‘Worse’ she says. How can my life get any worse? I was a good boy. I was nice to my mama and my papa. I grew into a good man. I worked hard. I met a nice girl. Got married. Raised three wonderful children and provided for them but do any of them visit me? No. Always busy, busy busy. Bah, what a letdown for my life to be ending with me having to beg for help with my rotten schmekel.”

Raul lifted up his Army veteran ball cap, scratched his bald head, then covered his dome. He coughed to clear his throat, then offered, “Life’s a joke and death’s the punchline, man.”

Mr. Bromstein shook his head, then turned to Nurse Sheila. “Will you get a load of this putz? Three years I live with this one and not a peep and now that I’m baking up a fungus in my pants he’s got something to say.”

Raul spooned some jello into his mouth, gulped it and then continued on without taking his gaze away from the cowboys on TV. “You’re born. You struggle. You do your best. Whether you’re a king or a pauper, it all ends the same with, with an old, broken down body with a broken dick or a broken ass or a broken something or other keeping from doing the shit that you want to do. Sooner or later, we all just end up waiting to die.”

“Aw, who asked you?” Mr. Bromstein said as he looked at the TV. “And what’s with this goy? Seventeen fellows I’ve seen him shoot now with the same gun and I haven’t seen him reload his gun once. What hack writing. I have a good mind to write a strongly worded letter to the studio.”

“Film’s sixty years old,” Raul said.

“You’re kidding,” Mr. Bromstein said. “It feels like it was just yesterday I saw this picture with my papa. Five pence would get you three shows and all the popcorn you could stick in your pockets. Oh it was so much better then than it is now what with these films about ignoramuses flying around in tights and capes. Don’t get me started.”

“OK gentlemen,” Nurse Sheila said as she stepped out into the hallway. “If you need anything, let me know.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Mr. Bromstein said. “Unless you can whip me up a new schmekel you’re useless to me but thank you anyway, dear.”

Nurse Sheila entered the next room to find Mr. Petersen curled up on his bed in the fetal position with a tinfoil hat perched atop his head.

“Them aliens say I was the one what killed JFK but I was nowhere near the grassy knoll at the time, no sir,” Mr. Petersen said.

“Mr. Petersen,” Nurse Sheila said. “How are you this evening?”

Mr. Petersen wrapped his arms around himself and rocked back and forth in bed. “J. Edgar Hoover. J. Edgar Hoover put fluoride in the water to keep us all under control so the mole people could build a colony right under our nose.”

“That good, huh?” Nurse Sheila asked.

“When I look in my brain’s retrograde celery basket I can see all the ebbs and flows of the grand conspiracy behind the free masons and their never-ending plot to wrap the world in polyester and sell us all down the river to the intergalactic robot consortium,” Mr. Petersen said.

“I think we’re going to talk to the resident psychiatrist to see about upping your dosage,” Nurse Sheila said.

The nurse looked to the right to find an empty bed. “Mr. Petersen. Where’s Mr. Hogan?”

“Hogan,” Mr. Petersen said. “That man’s not Hogan. He’s a spy working deep cover on a joint operation conducted by the CIA and MI6 to find out what I know about the lizard people.”
Nurse Sheila opened the bathroom door and took a peak. It was empty.

“How long has he been gone?” Nurse Sheila asked.

Mr. Petersen glared at the nurse. “How long are the federales going to insist that the moon landing was fake when we all know that it was just a dog and pony show designed to appease their corporate overlords into so that we’d all be too stupid and ignorant to realize that powerful hallucinatory drugs are added to the world’s supply of pancake batter on a monthly basis?”

Nurse Sheila sighed. “Try to get some sleep.”

The nurse picked up speed as she hurried down the hall. “Has anyone seen Mr. Hogan?” she called out. There was no answer.

A strapping young orderly came down the hall.

“Ted,” Nurse Sheila said. “Mr. Hogan’s not in his room.”

“Shit,” Ted replied. “He was ten minutes ago. I’ll do a sweep.”

“Do that,” Nurse Sheila said. “In the meantime, I have a hunch.”

A candy striper walked down the hall, pushing a cart filled with covered dishes.

“Tara,” Nurse Sheila said. “Have you seen Mr. Hogan around?”

“No,” Tara said. “Uh oh. Do you think he and…”

“Absolutely,” Nurse Sheila said.

Tara shuddered. “Ugh. To think about those two going at it. Oh my God. I need to pour bleach directly into my brain.”

“Sadly, you’ll eventually get used to it, kid,” Nurse Sheila said.

The nurse hurried down the hallway until she reached room 798. She banged on the door. No answer. She banged louder. She turned the knob. The door was locked.

“Mrs. Nelson,” Nurse Sheila said. “Open the door, please.”

“Screw off, copper!” came the voice of a sweet, little old lady. “You’ve got nothing on me.”

Nurse Sheila closed her eyes, took a deep breathe, then collected herself. “Ted! Hey, Ted!”

Upon hearing his name, Ted hurried to the nurse’s position.

“Can you get this door open?” Nurse Sheila asked.

“I think I’ve got it,” Ted said as he fumbled through a large key ring.

Nurse Sheila felt water sopping its way into her comfortable shoes. She looked down to find water seeping out from under the door.

“What in the world?” Nurse Sheila asked.

“Got it,” Ted said as he settled on a key and inserted it into the lock. He turned it, heard the click, then opened the door.

Inside the room, wrinkly old Dolores Nelson stood in her petticoat, ranting and raving. “You pigs can’t just barge in here without a warrant! I know my rights!”

“Where’s Mr. Hogan, Dolores?” Nurse Sheila asked.

“I’m not saying another word until I can speak with my lawyer,” Dolores replied.

“How many times do I have to tell you that this nursing home has a strict, zero tolerance policy on fraternizing between residents?” Nurse Sheila asked.

“Oh stick your policy where the sun doesn’t shine, honey,” Dolores said. “That man rocks my world and at my age, I don’t have much of a world left to rock.”

“He’s got a heart condition,” Nurse Sheila said. “He can’t handle excitement.”

“What excitement?” Dolores asked. “I’m the one that’s getting the excitement. Where else is a ninety year old cougar like me going to find a strapping young, seventy-five year old buck who’s a virtual Rembrandt when it comes to cunnilingus?”

“OK,” Nurse Sheila said. “I don’t need to hear the details. Where is he?”

“Oh, don’t be upset with him, sweetheart,” Dolores said. “I know he’s got a bum ticker but really, there’s nothing about this that’s going to put undue stress on him. It’s like asking him to chew on a pound of musty roast beef is all.”

Nurse Sheila looked at the water building up on the floor, then turned her attention to the bathroom. She knocked on the door.

“Mr. Hogan?” Nurse Sheila said. She knocked again. “Mr. Hogan. Come out right now. We need to talk.”

Nurse Sheila knocked again. “Are you decent? I’m going to send the orderly in if you don’t come out right now.”

“I think he’s indisposed, dearie,” Dolores said. “He had a bowl of chili at lunch and it’s been giving him gas all afternoon. He’s been in there a long time. For a moment there I heard such terrible noises coming from in there. I think he might have broken the toilet.”

“You think?” Nurse Sheila asked in a sarcastic tone. She looked at Ted. “Open it.”

Ted fumbled through his key ring once more. As he did, Nurse Sheila looked down to see that the water coming out from underneath the bathroom door was starting to turn red.

“Oh my God,” Nurse Sheila said. “Hurry up, Ted.”

Ted found the right key and used it to open the door. He and the nurse entered the bathroom to find blood and guts all over the walls, a giant hole in the floor, a busted pipe, and blood and guts all over the walls. The toilet was gone and only thousands of porcelain shards remained.

Nurse Sheila was dumbstruck. “What in the…”

Dolores slowly moseyed on over and looked inside the bathroom. “Huh. Well, maybe it was more exciting for him than I thought.”

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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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Character Profile – Aunt Gertie

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REAL NAME: Gertrude Scrambler

NICKNAME: Aunt Gertie

BIOGRAPHY:  As aunt/adoptive mother of Bookshelf Q. Battler, Gertie and her husband, Hardassimo, were polar opposites when it came to parenting.  Uncle Hardass was tough and strict, whereas Gertie encouraged BQB to pursue his dreams.  As far as she was concerned, there was nothing little BQB could not do, and she wasn’t just saying that.

After her husband’s untimely demise, Aunt Gertie quickly embraced a life where she had no one else to take care of.  Despite written demands in Uncle Hardass’ Last Will and Testament that the home he shared with Gertie be burned to the ground before being turned over to his lazy, good for nothing nephew, she gave it to her little bubalah anyway.

She then rented an apartment at Decrepit Oaks, but she’s barely ever there.  She mostly uses it as a place to keep her stuff while she’s out drinking, dancing, partying, getting baked off mad crazy blunts, riding motorcycles and having obscene flings backstage at rock and roll concerts.

In other words, she’s doing her best to cram in all of the stuff she wishes she’d done when she was young before the Grim Reaper comes her way.

She was once a dedicated reader of the Bookshelf Battle Blog, but now looks at it as mundane and pedestrian.  Everyone’s a critic.

Luckily, BQB was able to replace her with a podiatrist from Idaho who commented, and this is a direct quote, “I guess this is a good blog to read to pass the time while I’m taking a dump.”

Though he may have lost her as a reader, BQB never lost her as a supporter and confidant.  Once in awhile, she even comes to the rescue.

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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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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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BQB’s Zombie Apocalypse Survivor’s Journal – Day 23

We were all exceptionally bored.

Uncle Hardass

Uncle Hardass

A long day rolled into evening, nothing but a drip from the nearby showers to entertain us.

OK, there was also a plethora of streaming media content from Alien Jones’ perpetually charged space phone, but while the rest of the gang watched a movie, I wasn’t into it.

I felt an overwhelming urge to be alone and walked off into the shower room.  Once I was by myself, the tears flowed freely and I openly cried.

From behind me, I heard the voice of a grumbly old man.

“Waaahhh…waaah waaah!”

I turned around.

“Uncle Hardass?”

For those above and beyond this site’s average 3.5 reader count, I was raised by my Aunt Gertie and her husband, my Uncle Hardassimo “Hardass” J. Scrambler.

Before he died of a massive heart attack, Uncle Hardass’ favorite past times included:

  • Complaining about hippies, commies, and others he deemed no goodniks who didn’t work hard enough.
  • Slaving away at the salt mines.  Literally, he worked at Salt Mines, Inc. and his job was to dig hunks of salt out of the ground everyday.
  • Reminding me how much he did and how little I did in comparison.  I tried not to take it too personally, because he’d of reminded everyone else in the world too had they been willing to listen.

Despite watching his casket get lowered into the ground, I’m still haunted by his ghost to this very day.

That’s not a metaphor.  He actually just shows up at BQB Headquarters unannounced to bitch about whatever I’m doing, inform me that I’m doing it wrong, and to demand an answer as to when I’m going to abandon writing and take a job at the salt mines.

Writing, of course, to Uncle Hardass, is a pursuit beneath “real men” and is something that only hippies and commies do.

Ironically, despite his protestations against writing, Uncle Hardass, from time to time, manages to log on to my blog uninvited to offer his, Things That Really Frost My Ass column. It’s not really a column so much as it is a laundry list of things that are pissing him off at a given point in time.

“Yeah it’s me,”  Uncle Hardass said.  “Holy shit, look at you, ya’ blubbering crybaby! This really is the girls’ locker room, isn’t it?”

“Whatever,”  I said.  “Hit me while I’m down.  That’s what you do.”

“I’m not hitting you, Nancy.  What gives with the waterworks?”

“You want to know why I’m crying?”  I asked.  “Because you were right.”

“I always am,”  Uncle Hardass said.  “About what this time?”

“Writing.”

“Bahh!  Writing!”

Uncle Hardass raised his voice a few octaves, pretending to be all girly and mocked me.  “Oooo la dee da!  Look at me!  I’m a writer!  The world needs my thoughts and opinions!”

Then he reverted to his old, miserable self.

“Baloney.  Give me the salt mines any day.  Write a thousand words and you’ve got nothing but a bunch of shit on paper.  Yank a hunk of salt out of the ground and Salt Mines, Inc. will give you just compensation for it.  That’s the problem with your generation.  Everybody wants something for nothing.  Everybody thinks they’re so damn special.”

I laughed.

“Ohhhh, don’t worry about that, old man,”  I said.  “You worked on me long enough to convince me that I’m not special.  Every day I wake up and the first thing I think about is how exactly un-special I am.”

Uncle Hardass snapped his fingers and a table appeared in the middle of the showers.  There was a basket with cold cuts and bread in it.  He took a seat and proceeded to make himself a sandwich.

I took the other chair.

“Well,”  Uncle Hardass said as he spritzed a slice of bread with some mustard.  “It worked, didn’t it?”

It worked?”  I asked.  “That I’m acutely aware of how little I matter to the world?  Yes.  Yes it worked.”

“Do you have a job?”  Uncle Hardass asked.

“Yeah,”  I replied.  “At Beige Corp.  It’s boring as hell and pays shit.”

“But does it pay the bills?”  Uncle Hardass asked.

“Yes,”  I admitted.

“You’ve got a girlfriend?”  the old man inquired.

“Yes.”

“You don’t take her for granted do you?”

“No.”

Uncle Hardass cut his sandwich in half.

“Why?”

“Because she’s smart and pretty and could have anyone and if I don’t make her happy she’ll leave me because I’m not…”

Uncle Hardass perked up and pointed a knowing finger at me.

“Say it.”

“…special.”

“You’re welcome,”  Uncle Hardass said as he bit into his dinner.

“Oh whatever,”  I said.  “You’re really going to eat that?”

“I’m dead,”  Uncle Hardass said.  “It doesn’t matter anymore.”

He took another bite, then picked up a napkin and dabbed some mustard off his chin.

“Son, when you were growing up, every adult in your life had a job.  Your teachers were supposed to make you feel special because the idea that you could do anything made you study more.  Your aunt made you feel special because it made her feel special to see you smile but me?  I had the hardest job of all.  Life will take its size twelve boot and wedge it straight up your ass if you’re not careful and it was my job to dissuade you of all this ‘I’m special’ bullshit so that you were prepared for all the crap the world throws your way.  In spite of a world designed to tear the little guy apart, you’re still here..  You’re alive.  You have a roof over your head and people that give a shit about you and none of that came from writing so you’re welcome, Lord Fauntleroy.  My work here is done.”

“I’m never going to write again,”  I said.

“Glad to hear it,”  Uncle Hardass said.  “Writing is for weirdoes, primadonnas, and women.  But uh, just out of curiosity, why?”

“Writing got me into this mess,”  I said.  “A corrupt general conspired with the corrupt mayor of this settlement to frame me because he didn’t like something that was written on my blog.  Now my friends will pay because I had a big enough ego to think people would want to read my dumb blog in the first place.”

Uncle Hardass picked up the other half of his sandwich.

“You know, son, writing is a girlish hobby to be sure but, if it makes you happy and it’s legal then it’s your God given right as a citizen of the United States of America, the greatest f%^king country on the face of the Earth to do it if you want to.”

“You hate writing,”  I said.  “You don’t hate writing.  Make up your mind.”

“Oh it’s made up,”  Uncle Hardass said.  “Writing is stupid and unmanly.  But all I ever wanted for you was to be able to survive on your own, pay your own way through life and find a woman that can look at you for five seconds with puking and now that you’ve got all that, I could give three shits what you do in your spare time.  Personally, a real man would get a second job but if you want to mince around and tap out words like you’re the next Oscar Wilde have at it.”

“You’re the most complicated man I’ve ever met,”  I said.

“Not really,”  Uncle Hardass said as he made himself another sandwich.  “I like money.  I like to work hard for it.  I like being independent and that only comes from working hard for money.  Also, I like that now that I’m dead I can eat as much as I want and not get fat.  You want one?”

“Nah, I’m good,”  I said.

“Seems like the only thing a real man in your situation could do now is spring his friends out of this hooscow and get them out of harm’s way,”  Uncle Hardass said.

“Why?”  I asked.  “Apparently if you die you just get to visit your relatives and bitch at them.”

Uncle Hardass smiled.

“Am I really a ghost, BQB?”  Uncle Hardass asked.  “Or subconsciously, has your mind focused the practical, pragmatic tough-guy side of yourself into an apparition that looks like the only adult you knew when you were growing up that warned you that the real world doesn’t hand out participation ribbons?”

I sat and thought about that.

Uncle Hardass smacked the table and laughed.

“BAHH HA HA!  I’m just screwing with you!  Of course I’m a damn ghost, you jackass!”

The old man handed me the basket, snapped his fingers and made the table and chairs disappear.

“My boy, the thing to remember is this.  Whether it’s writing some kind of fruity novel or saving your pals from an unjust fate, the only way to get something done is to realize that you’re not special enough for the universe to take an interest and make things happen for you.  YOU have to make them happen for yourself.”

“Thanks,”  I said.

“But seriously, stop crying.  You look like a homosexual.”

I snickered and wiped a tear off my face.

“You’re not allowed to say stuff like that anymore.”

“Aww who gives a shit?  I’m dead.”

Poof.  He was gone.

I carried the basket into the locker room and set it down.  It was a welcome sight for everyone as our captors hadn’t thought/cared to leave us any food.

“Where’d this come from?”  VGRF asked.

“Uncle Hardass.”

As the Bookshelf Battle Blog’s Second-in-Command, VGRF was familiar with my ghost uncle.

“Sweet!  Pimento loaf from the great beyond!”

“Guys, I have to cut movie night short,”  I said as I grabbed the space phone.  “I gotta bust us out of here but first?  I need to call a zombie author.”

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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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