Tag Archives: fart jokes

BREAKING NEWS: Harvey Smotchenbocker Wins the Gold


It’s a happy day here in East Randomtown, 3.5 readers.

East Randomtown resident Harvey Smotchenbocker has won the gold in the Olympic 10K Flatulence competition.

For those not familiar with the sport of 10K flatulence, that means that Harvey and the other contestants competed in a race in which they had to propel themselves for 10,000 meters through nothing but their flatulence.

Harvey was the first to cross the finish line, making his hometown and country proud.


I’ll tell you, this is truly a public relations coup for East Randomtown.

Up until now East Randomtown’s most famous citizens were:

  • Me (BQB) for my blog that attracts the attention of 3.5 readers.
  • Leo McKoy, who claims to have delivered a sandwich to Dawson’s Creek star James Van Der Beek
  • The late Doug Hauser, who once appeared as an extra for thirty seconds in a 1980s cop drama.  Alas, he was eaten by zombies last year during the East Randomtown zombie apocalypse.

God bless you, Harvey, you’ve done us proud.



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Update on Harvey Smotchenbocker, East Randomtown’s Olympian


Hey 3.5.

Bookshelf Q. Battler, Mayor of East Randomtown here.

Just an update on East Randomtonian Harvey Smotchenbocker, who is participating in the 10K Flatulence Competition at the Olympic Games in Rio.

Flatulence is one of the lesser known games but every gold medal counts.

Harvey has checked in. He is reporting that he is getting in some last minute training for his big day later this week.  Filling up on all sorts of gaseous foods.  I have nothing but faith in him.

Stay tuned for more updates.

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Pop Culture Mysteries: Case File #005 – Smeller vs. Denier (Part 11)


Part 1


“Two heinous misdeeds have occurred this evening,”  I said.  “The theft of my poker moolah and an expulsion so ghastly that it not only drove my wife mad…”

“Grandpappy Guilliaum, is that you?”  Muffy asked.  “Come back to me, Grandpappy!”

“…but it also rocked the stability of the Allied powers.”

“He who expounded it, pounded it,”  Rupert said.

“He who deceived it, retrieved it,” Charbonneau replied.shutterstock_71510056

“SILENCE!”  I shouted.

The room grew quiet.

“Two offenses,” I said, “And not one of you will come forward to claim either or both of them.”

“Are they even connected?”  Fremont asked.

“An astute question, Professor,”  I said.  “If either action was not a reaction to the opposing action then that is quite a coincidence and my detective’s intuition always mandates that I must never assume a coincidence has occurred until two events are proven to be unconnected to one another.”

“I am surrounded by idiotas,”  Signora Bellavenuti said.

“Motivation,”  I said.  “Though a circumstantial lens through which to view a case, motivation, more often than not, provides the first glimpse of the true culprit.  Though a person had a reason to do something does not mean he or she did it, determining who had the most reason to do it is a necessary exercise in any investigation.”

“Then exercise away,”  the Count said.

“I will,”  I replied.  “And Count Rickard, I will start with you and the Countess.”

The Countess’ monocle popped off yet again.

“How dare you?!”

“Hatcher,”  the Count said.  “Why would one of us ruin our own dinner party?”

I thought about it.

“You wouldn’t,”  I said.  “You are a couple of leisure and you enjoy consorting with the various celebrities and beautiful people who make their way to Monaco in the summer.  Pardon the pun, but one whiff of what happened here this evening will lead to your social calendar being very empty.  Neither of you would have done this.”

The Count was furious.

“Then stop wasting time and tell us who did it!”

I spun around and pointed at the would be big game hunter.


Collective gasp.


“Yes you!”  I said.

I walked over to the corpulent self-proclaimed Safari master and got right in his face.

“Stereotypically speaking, you’re the prime candidate to pin the evil excretion on!”

The Lord’s eyes shifted back and forth.  He looked exceptionally nervous.

“I am?”

“You are,”  I said.  “Pardon my impropriety, but these are desperate times, so I must point out that you are the fattest person in the room, and thus if we are to remain true to our default mindset, then you are the one to blame, for one of the oldest stereotypes in the book is that the obese have no ability to control their bowels!”

“Yes!”  Signora Bellavenuti shouted.  “It was the fat man!  Take him away!”

“I didn’t do it I swear!”

“Didn’t you?”  I asked as I studied the man’s eyes.  “You consume more food than the average man…”

“I do not!”  Lord Blackburn interrupted.  “It’s glandular!”

“That’s what they all say!”  I screamed in the Lord’s fast as I grabbed him by the shoulders and continued my interrogation.  “You eat more food than the average man and therefore, you have a greater propensity to produce an emission!”

“LIES!”  Lord Blackburn cried.  “ALL LIES!”

“Hatcher,”  Yakubovich said.  “Of course the overweight Westerner did it.  All you capitalist pigs do all day long is stuff your faces and pass gas with nary a thought of the rest of the world.”

“Did you do it?”  I asked.




Lord Blackburn broke out into tears and made an impassioned plea.

“All my life, I have struggled with my weight.  And all my life, whenever the source of an odor is in question, the finger is immediately pointed at me.  I bathe early and often, multiple times a day just to avoid suspicion for I know the world is full of cruel, callous people and false accusations of odor production will always be my lot in life.”

My heart sunk.  Sometimes being a jerk is part of a private dick’s job.  It’s necessary, but it’s also the one aspect I despise the most.

“I assure you sir, it was not me.  I can control myself just as well as any man.  I was once chased by rabid cougar and not once did I expectorate through my sphincter.”

“Hmm,”  I said.

I patted the big galoot on the shoulder.

“I believe him.”

I was derided throughout the room.  “Oh come on!”  and “He did it!” and so forth.

“No,”  I said.  “People, please.  The only thing that separates us from the animals that Lord Blackburn claims to murder so often is the ability to make deductions based on reasoning and not preconceived notions about a man just because he’s part of a certain group or class.”

“Your heart is bleeding, comrade,”  Yakubovich said.

“Yes,” I said.

I crossed over to the other side of the table.

Now it was my turn.

“Stand up!”  I ordered Yakubovich.

“You’re insane!”

“Please do as his says, Mr. Yakubovich,”  the Count said.  “We must get to the bottom of this.”

Yakubovich rose up.

“And it was out of your bottom from which this entire evening came, isn’t it Yaku-bopper?”

“Watch your tongue before I cut it out.”

“Earlier, you came to me and asked me to stand up,”  I said.  “I expected that you were going to throttle me but instead you gave me a hug.  It was most out of character for a man suspected of being one of the  world’s most notorious black market arms dealers!”

“I am legitimate businessman!”  Yakubovich said.  “And I wished to apologize for being a poor sport but now I wish I hadn’t it.”

“Or perhaps you never did?”  I asked.  “Perhaps when you hugged me and squeezed me with the muscles you formed while toiling your youth away in a Siberian gulag…”

I reached into the man’s jacket pockets.

“…you were merely distracting me just long enough to stick a hand inside my coat and swipe the check for the winnings you were not man enough to admit that you lost fair and square!”

I turned his pockets out.


They were empty.

“Oh,”  I said.

“What a moron,”  Yakubovich said.  “Hatcher, you are making a spectacle of yourself.  Your check probably fell out somewhere around the house.  You should retrace your steps for it.”

“Should I?”  I asked.  “Or should I…check your pants pockets?!”

I turned those inside out too.  Nothing.

“Damn it!”

“Fine!”  Yakubovich said as he angrily unfastened his belt.  “You want to inspect everything?  Here we go!”

The Russian dropped his drawers to reveal a pair of red polka dot boxers.  He ripped off his coat and shirt for good measure, but left his undershirt on.

He stood there in his skivvies staring at me.

“Are you happy now?!”

“Good news, Sergei,”  I said.  “You’re in the clear!”

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Pop Culture Mysteries: Smeller vs. Denier – Part 10


Part 1


I positioned my body in front of the door, preventing Yakubovich’s and Bellavenuti’s attempts at a swift exit.  My intervention gave the Countess enough time to produce a key from her pocket and lock the door.

Tempers were flaring.  I knew I had to restore order lest the group turn shutterstock_187399232into an angry mob and maul the Countess for the key.

“Remain calm and return to your seats,”  I said as a I raised my hands.  “As the only detective here, it is my duty to preserve the crime scene until this matter is resolved.”

“A crime?”  Yakubovich asked.  “You’re being ridiculous, aren’t you?  Surely, someone in this room has committed a breach of social etiquette but I highly doubt it would constitute a jailable offense.”

“I’m not talking about the antagonizing aroma,”  I said.  “I’m referring to the underlying offense that the stench was intended to quench, or cover up, as it were.”

The countess held a vial of smelling salts underneath Professor Fremont’s nose.  He began to stir.

Meanwhile, across the table, Muffy was in her chair, curled up in the fetal position, babbling on and on about her grandpappy Guillaume.

Lord Blackburn, who’d spaced out for a bit, managed to regain control of his senses.

“That was the most vile smell to have ever transgressed the depths of my nasal passages,” the Lord said.  “And in that assessment, I include the time I slit open the belly of a bull elephant and hid inside its guts for three days whilst trying to evade a predatory pride of lions who were hot on my trail.”

“Wow,”  I said.  “Three whole days?  No, no matter.  People, I had a check from the Hotel Rondileau in my jacket pocket for the sum of twenty-five grand and now it is nowhere to be found.”

Professor Fremont, now awake, sipped a glass of water.

“Are you sure you looked everywhere for it?”  the uptight intellectual asked.

“Of course.”

“Because it’s always in the last place you look, which seems like an ironic statement because of course, if you find it, then obviously that would be, by default, the last place you look.  Why would you continue the search for a found item?  But you know, Descartes once said…”


Looking back on it now, Bellavenuti’s “ughs” were the highlight of the evening.  She always went out of her way to make it known whenever someone was displeasing her.

“Signor Hatcher,”  the fashion designer said.  “You embarrass yourself with this petty accusation.  Look around you.  You are surrounded by people of high class and stature.  No one would lower themselves to abscond with your winnings.”

“Wouldn’t they?”  I asked.  “My dear, Signora Bellavenuti, one would ALSO presume that a gas attack so obscene in its approach and violent in its execution could NEVER occur in a room occupied by such a resplendent cadre of characters and yet here we are, are we not?”

For once in the evening, the good Signora was speechless.

“He’s got you there,” Fremont said.

“Oh, stifle yourself you pathetic creature.  You have been leering at me with that evil eye of yours all evening!”

“I was kicked in the face by a goat on my uncle’s farm when I was five years old,”  the scholar said.  “I can’t help it!”

The Count was back in his chair, watching helplessly as the duo of diplomats continued to eviscerate one another.

“We shall burn London to the ground!”  Charbonneau declared.

“We’ll knock over the Eiffel Tower and pick our teeth with it we will!”  Rupert replied.

“Hatcher,”  the Count said as he rested his head in his hands.  “Perhaps there are more pressing matters to attend to than your precious payday?  Such as, the preservation of peace, perhaps?!”

“You know you did it!”  Charbonneau said.

“Oh yeah?”  Rupert said.

The Brit stood up, leaned over the table, and prominently announced, “WELL, HE WHO SMELT IT, DEALT IT!”

A hushed panic embraced the group.  Gasps.  Whispers.  We were all descending into madness.

Charbonneau got on his feet.  He scratched his head, causing that dead animal he was trying to pass off as a wig to flop about, until finally he arrived at the perfect comeback.

“Sir.  I shall have you know that, HE WHO DENIED IT, SUPPLIED IT!”

And thus, the verbal joust began.  The scene became like a tennis match. One diplomat would levy an accusation, the other would knock a denial straight over the net.

“He who detected it, projected it!” Rupert proudly declared.

“He who refuted it, tooted it!” was the French ambassador’s entreaty.

Back and forth.  Back and forth.

“He who sayed it, sprayed it!”

“He who refused it, abused it!”

“He who bemoaned it, foamed it!”

“He who withdrew it, pooed it!”

“He who squealed it, congealed it!”

“He who said “no,” made it go!”

“He who announced it, pounced it!”

“He who doubted it, touted it!”

“He who flaunted it, taunted it!”

Two men.  Both masters at diplomacy, skilled in the art of debate.  They continued to attack and deflect for an hour.

They grew sweaty and weak.  They removed their jackets, loosened their ties and each man’s voice grew hoarse with exhaustion.

“Sir Rupert,” Charbonneau said.  “I have made accurate points.  You have returned with commendable counter-propositions, but even you surely must agree that….”

We waited for it.  It was on the tip of Charbonneau’s tongue.  He tapped a finger to his chin as he selected his words carefully.”

“…he who shunned it, BUMMED IT!”

“No!”  Rupert said, slapping his knee.  “That is off-rhyme, Ambassador!  ‘Shunned’ and ‘bummed’ are close together in sound, but close is not the name of the game here.  Relent sir, for you have been matched!”

“Preposterous!”  Charbonneau said.

That rug was barely hanging onto the Frenchman’s head now and he didn’t even notice.

“At no time was that made a rule of this contest.”

“It is an unwritten rule,”  Sir Rupert said.  “Concede your loss!”


“Gentlemen,”  I said.  “This is getting us nowhere.”

Copyright (c) Bookshelf Q. Battler 2015.

All Rights Reserved.

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Pop Culture Mysteries – Smeller vs. Denier (Part 9)


Part 1


“Hold me, Jacob!  I’m scared!”

“Don’t worry, baby,”  I said as Muffy threw herself at me.  “I’ve got you.”

“Oh the humanity!”  cried Lord Blackburn.

Our hosts, the Count and Countess, were utterly confused, trading glances across the table at one another, trying to figure out how their fancy party devolved into a down and out stink fest.

Charbonneau stood up and pointed an accusatory finger at Sir Rupert.shutterstock_179164640

“You!!!  HOW DARE YOU, SIR?!”

Rupert was on his feet now.

“How dare I what?”

“You know what you did!”  Charbonneau said.  “I came to you, in the name of peace, and delivered a fine proposal that would benefit our nations and you dared to reply with such an insulting smell!”

Rupert choked.

“Oh God!  I can taste it in my mouth!”

The Brit fell backward into his chair, guzzled his wine, then gargled with it.

“It burns!”

“Serves you right!  I shall report your chicanery to my government at once, sir!”

Muffy buried her face in my chest, trying in vain to escape the odiferous air.

Lord Blackburn weezed and gasped for breathe.

Across the table, some of the guests began standing up.

“Patrice, you silly git,”  Rupert said.  “You really think I’d break wind as a means of turning down a diplomatic proposal?”

“Indeed I do,”  Charbonneau replied.  “The UK has thumbed its nose at my people for the last time!  This means war!”

“War?  Oh Patrice, the gas is attacking your brain now.

I was stroking Muffy’s hair and whispering some reassuring, “there theres” into her ear when I realized the Count was suddenly whispering into mine.

“Is Mrs. Hatcher all right?”

“She’s a tad upset,”  I said.  “The smell reminds her of youth on the bayou, especially the swamp where a ferocious alligator devoured her beloved grandpappy right before her eyes.”

Muffy burst into tears.

“Oh, grand papa!  How I miss you so!”

“I’m so terribly sorry,”  the Count said.  “But Hatcher, you must do something!”

“I cannot take this any longer!”  said Yakubovich.  “I’m leaving!”

The Countess made an attempt at calming everyone down.

“Everyone, please, I’m sure…”

She made the mistake of sniffing the air in too deeply and her face turned white.

“Oh dear…”

The monocle she’d been wearing popped right off and landed in her full tea cup.

“I’m sure…oh, my Heavens…I’m sure if we wait a bit longer the fumes will dissipate…”

“If we wait any longer we’ll all surely die!”  Signora Bellavenuti responded.

Meanwhile, diplomatic efforts were crumbling.

“I demand you apologize immediately and accept my proposal.”

“Patrice, you drama queen,”  Rupert said as he poured himself another.  “You can stick your proposal up your ass.  For all I know, you’re the culprit and this is a pathetic effort on your part to bully me into a one sided solution.”

“One sided?  My plan was very reasonable!”

“You absurd wanker,”  Rupert said.

He really was more level headed off the sauce.

“Do you realize that the United Kingdom is recovering from a war fought on a massive scale?  That for quite some time, our nation stood ALONE against the atrocities of the Third Reich?  And after all the help we provided your countrymen you’d balk at a few measly extra sense on your blasted croissant shipments?”

“WAR!”  Charbonneau said.  “France will demand satisfaction for this and I guarantee our navy will land on your shores by Saturday!”

“And I guarantee they’ll toss their hands up and surrender by Sunday!”

“Hatcher,”  the Count said.  “You must fix this.”

“What do you want me to do?”

“You’re a detective.  Detect…

“What?”  I asked.

“Who did it,”  the Count replied.

“Oh come on,”  I said.  “I don’t think it’s even possible to narrow down who…”

Rupert’s face was as red as bowl full of cherries.

“If you want a war, Frenchy, you’ve got it!”

Yakubovich and Bellavenuti were still bickering with the Countess, demanding passage out of the room.

Professor Fremont had passed out, his head smushed into a half-eaten souffle.

Lord Blackburn sat motionless, his eyes wide open.  He was trapped in a catatonic state.

“Oh mon cheri,”  Muffy said.  “I feel so lightheaded.”

“Come on, baby,”  I said.  “Let’s get you some fresh air.”

I stood up and offered Muffy my hand.

“Hatcher,” the Count said.  “Please.  Europe has been embroiled with war for the first half of this century.  I cannot allow the history books to say that the seeds of a third global conflict were sewn in MY dining room.”

“Tough luck, Fabes,”  I said.  “I don’t think there’s anything that I…”

I patted my inner jacket pocket to make sure the check was still there.

“…that I…”

It was gone.  Twenty-five grand.  Missing.

I checked my pants pockets.  Pulled them both inside out.

I looked around on the table.  On the floor.  Nowhere.

“Enough of your insolence, woman!”  Yakubovich shouted.  “Get out of the way at once!”

“WAIT!”  I shouted.

All eyes looked at me.


I’d been so forceful and commanding that everyone was now hanging what I had to say next.

“Ladies and gentlemen, a terrible crime has occurred.”

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Pop Culture Mysteries – Smeller vs. Denier – (Part 8)


Part 1


I was stuffed.  Mouthwatering filet mignon.  Lobster.  Shrimp.  Caviar.  And the chocolate soufflé?  In the name of John Wayne’s horse, you’ve never live until you’ve scarfed down an actual French soufflé whipped up by real life French people.

The Count’s servants cleared the dishes and the attendees made small talk.

Hatcher's smelliest case yet.

We were all gathered around a long, rectangular table.  The Countess sat at the end closest to the door while her hubby sat on the far side near the wall.

If you can imagine that you were the Count, then from where you were sitting, you’d of been able to see me sitting next to your wife, then my wife, the Muffster, to my right, Lord Blackburn next to her, and after him, Sir Rupert, who was really working overtime on that alibi.

“Fill me up, my good man!”

Reynaldo, the Count’s sommelier, poured the revered public servant another one.  I lost count of how many he had.  Poor Rupert.  It couldn’t have been easy for a gent who barely touched the stuff to get that smackered.  He no doubt felt it in the morning.  Another reason why I owed him.

Can you conceive of how loaded a man must be to have an employee who just takes care of the wine he keeps in his damn summer home?

I bet the Count couldn’t have even counted it all.

Muffy rested her head on my shoulder.  She unfastened a button in the middle of my shirt, reached up and rubbed my chest through my undershirt.

“Let’s tour the countryside tomorrow, mon cheri.  France is so beautiful.”

I’d heard it was too.  The last time I visited this part of the world, I was too busy getting shot at by Hitler’s stooges to notice the ambience.

Alas, I had to disappoint her.

“Baby,”  I said.  “Something’s come up at work.  I’m so sorry, but we have to fly back home tomorrow.”

Muffy’s eyes.  Whoa.  If she could have burned a hole through me with them, she would have.

“Jacob, no!  We are celebrating our love!”

“Duty calls, cupcake.  Sorry, but that’s life when you’re the wife of a private dick.”

Muffy frowned and returned her head to my shoulder again.

“I trust it’s something very important?”

“You know it, baby.”

I miss the 1950’s.  You could just tell your wife what was what and she’d just be ok with it.

But then again, Mrs. Hatcher Number Two did eventually pump six shots worth of hot lead into me, so I could be mistaken about that.

“This is the best meal I’ve ever had, Count Rickard,”  Lord Blackburn said to our host.  “Even better than the time I decapitated a wild boar with a pen knife and roasted its flesh on a spit.”

“I’m glad it was to your satisfaction,”  the Count replied.

I’d never seen a man with more breadth and baring than Rupert, and that’s why it was a sight to behold when he lost control.

“Tell us another one about some defenseless damn animal you claim you slaughtered but you know you didn’t you pompous ponce!”

“Sir Rupert!”  Lord Blackburn shouted.  “Why, I never!”

“You never, what?  Exercised a minute in your life?  I believe you, fatty.”

RR would go on to win a nobel peace prize, so you can forgive him.

“Perhaps you’ve had enough?”  Count Rickard asked as he reached for Rupert’s glass.

With swift reflexes, Rupert grabbed Fabes’ hand before it got anywhere near his hooch.

“I’ll tell you when I’ve had enough!”

Across the table, Signora Bellavenuti gabbed it up with the Countess.

“Ugh, I simply abhor boring people, darling.  Have you heard that little man who keeps going on and on about Sartre this and Nietzche that?  Patooie!”

“I’m right here!”  Professor Fremont protested.

He really was.  Right next to her.

“Yes, I know you are darling but please, it’s not polite to listen to other people’s conversations.”

Next to Fremont was Yakubovich.  The rotten bastard sipped on a martini.

“Another display of Western excess,”  the Russki said.  “You all eat like pigs while the masses starve.”

“You didn’t seem to mind the way you gobbled it up, Yaku-bobber.  One would think a good Commie would have only had one bite then distributed the rest of it throughout Siberia.”

To my surprise, Yakubovich stood up, walked around the table, and stopped at my chair.

“Stand up.”

“Oh Yaku-booby, sit down.  Don’t ruin the Count’s fine shindig.”

“I said, ‘stand up.'”

I did as he asked and expecting a bout of fisticuffs, I was taken aback when the old commie grabbed me up in a big bear hug instead.

“Is this some kind of Stalinist trick?”  I asked.

“No,” Yakubovich said as he let me go.  “No comrade, is my apology.  I have been rude to you all evening.  You won.  I lost.  I have been a poor sport.”

“Admitting you’re wrong is the first step on the road to recovery, Yakky.  Now just get Kruschev to admit the same.”

To my surprise, Yakubovich laughed and returned to his seat.

“Run a bath as soon as we get back to the room, baby,”  I whispered to Muffy as I sat back down.  “I need to wash off the pinko.”

Between Yakubovich and the Count was Ambassador Charbonneau, his mind still on the English-French trade dispute from before.”

“Sir Rupert,”  Charbonneau said.  ” I’ve devised a plan that will make everyone very content.”

“Balderdash!”  Rupert cried.  “I’m too cocked to pretend to give a moldy shit, Patrice!”

Reynaldo was on the opposite side now, filling Signora Bellavenuti’s glass.  He was a handsome lad and the Signora looked like she wanted to eat him.

“Such strong muscles, darling,”  the Italian dame said as she stroked the sommelier’s arm.  “You must model for me.”

Fifi, the Count’s maid, set a porcelain cup in front of me, poured some tea, and then proceeded to do the same for Muffy.

Charbonneau pressed on.

“It’s all very simple,”  the Frenchman said.  “You continue to levy tariffs as planned on French goods, thus keeping the tax happy members of the British parliament happy, but then you lobby the Prime Minister to order a reduction on port entry fees for all French vessels to make up the difference.  What do you say?”

Keep in mind, Sir Rupert, as the British Secretary of State, was his country’s Chief Ambassador and the face of the United Kingdom to the world.

“Do you know what I say to that, you lousy frog?!  I’ll tell you what I say to that…I…I…oh, what’s wrong with all of you?”

Every face on the other side of the table recoiled in horror.

“What is that?!”  Signora Bellavenutti cried.  “Fanculo!  What is that smell?!”

Fremont sniffed the air, then covered his nose with a handkerchief.

“I’ve heard of existentialist expressionism but this is ridiculous.”

Yakubovich’s eyes were watering.

“Western excess!”

“What?”  I asked.  “What’s going on?”

Then I heard it.  It wasn’t loud or even obnoxious.

It was the teeniest, tiniest squeak.

And then the smell followed.

“Jimmy Stewart’s stutter!  What the hell is that?”

Image courtesy of a shutterstock.com license

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

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Pop Culture Mysteries: Smeller vs. Denier (Part 2)


Part 1


“Good evening, Ms. Donnelly.”

“Ms. Tsang.”

“Can I offer you something?”

“Oh, no thank you.  My stomach is positively spinning after this evening.  Is Mr. Hatcher available?”

Hatcher's smelliest case yet.

Hatcher’s smelliest case yet.

My landlandy made a sweeping gesture toward me.

“Couldn’t get rid of him if I tried.  He’s all yours.”

I stood up and put my bowl down.  Sweet Merciful Heavens, Delilah was wearing the crap out of that dress.

All I could do was spit on my thumb and try desperately to rub the stain off my trench coat.

I wasn’t sure how long it’d been there.  I couldn’t remember eating anything that looked like it.

“Au chante, Ms. Donnelly,”  I said as I took my visitor’s hand and kissed it.  “Au chante.  What a vision.”

“You’re too kind, Mr. Hatcher.”

“Simply stunning,”  I said.  “A lesser man than I would lose control of himself and be all over you.”

“Please settle down,”  Delilah said as she scooched into the booth.  “I should hate to have to mace you.”

“I’m already blinded by your beauty.”

“Must I always fend off your advances every time I stop by?”

“No,”  I said.  “You can surrender to base desire anytime you like.”

The blonde passed me an envelope.  I’d become all too familiar with this ritual.

A visit from Delilah.  An envelope.  A Pop Culture Mystery begins.

It was all too neat and tidy, as if written for the reading pleasure of 3.5 readers.

“I take no credit for this mystery,”  Delilah said.  “Mr. Battler is putting his eccentricity on full display with this inquiry and I don’t care for the subject matter at all.”

I opened up the envelope and perused the contents.


Hatfields vs. The McCoys.  Sunni vs. Shia.  East Coast vs. West Coast Rappers.

From the dawn of time, various factions have deemed it necessary to go to war.

But never has there been a conflict that has stood the test of time as long as the feud between the Smellers vs. Deniers.

A group gathers.  They’re sociable.  Enjoying one another’s company.

Suddenly, a noxious odor permeates the nasal passages of everyone in the room.

And then it begins with an accusation.

One person, assumably after having smelled the proverbial “it” lashes out.  Angry, confused, and yes, perhaps just a bit too judgmental, this individual points a finger at the one believed to be the source of the flatulence, demanding justice and satisfaction on behalf of all the offended olfactory glands in the room.

But what is the accuser’s true motivation?  Is the accuser actually offended OR could the accuser be trying to cover up the dirty deed, shifting blame away from himself and onto an unwitting patsy?

Naturally, the accused party goes on the defensive.  Perhaps the accused is innocent, the victim of an unruly lynch mob.  Or, perhaps the accused is indeed guilty, but yearns for forgiveness and wishes to avoid blame.

After all, haven’t the best of us lost control of our bowels at inopportune moments?  Let he who hath never experienced an unintended cheek squeak cast the first fecal stone.

The accused thrusts back with a most assured, “HE WHO SMELT IT, DELT IT!” thus turning the tables and shifting the accuser’s status from accuser to accused.

Now the newly accused, the former accuser, parries with a comeback of, “HE WHO DENIED IT, SUPPLIED IT!”

And around, around it goes.

Where does it stop?

I hope you will know.

The smeller?  The denier?  Who’s responsible?

Beware, Hatcher.  This case stinks.

“Really?”  I asked.

“Indeed,”  Delilah said.  “I have half a mind to tender my resignation.”

“I hope you don’t,”  I said.  “I doubt Battler’s next ambulance chaser would be as easy on the eyes.”

“Is that all you’re interested in?  A pretty face.”

“No,” I said.  “I seek a mythical, often spoken of but rarely observed woman.  One with looks AND brains.  That’s why you enchant me so, Ms. Donnelly.  You’re the unicorn I’ve been searching for.”

The lady lawyer stood up.

“I think you’ll find that I’m not very horny, Mr. Hatcher.”

Wow.  What scandalous double entendre.  Whenever I think Delilah’s a square, she never ceases to knock it out of the park.

“If you’ll excuse me, I must be off now,”  Delilah said.

I walked my guest to the door.

“You must have really put on the ritz tonight,” I said.

“Oh, this?”  Delilah said, noting her fabulous dress.  “Yes, the Bolshoi is in town.”

“I see.  And how is your gentleman caller?”

“As none of your business as ever.”

“Ouch,”  I said.  “Retract the claws. A man can make conversation, can’t he?”

“If that’s all he’s doing.”

I opened the front door.  A limo was waiting for her.

“Is he in there?”  I asked.  “Can I meet your fella?”

“I’m not sure that would be a wise idea.”

“I understand.”

“Finally,”  Delilah replied.

“He’s uglier than a donkey’s butt and you’re too embarrassed to introduce me.  Say no more.”

Delilah sighed.

“Oh Mr. Hatcher.  You’re simply incorrigible.”

The chauffeur walked around and opened the door.

“Say, Ms. Donnelly?”  I asked as my colleague took a seat in her fancy ride.


“Bolshoi,”  I said.  “That’s ballet, isn’t it?”

“The finest in the world.”

“Think you could score a private dick a couple of tickets?  I know someone who’d like to go.”

“But of course, Mr. Hatcher.  But of course.”

The chauffeur shut the door.  I went back inside and returned to my rice.

It was cold.

Smelt it.  Delt it.  Flatulential accusations.

I knew what Bookshelf Q. Battler was talking about all too well.

I’d once been trapped in a similar situation myself.

An impromptu toot.  A pointed finger.  Anger on both sides.

I doubt the world will ever understand how close it came to a third world war and how I prevented it from taking place.

Copyright (c) Bookshelf Q. Battler 2015.

Image courtesy of a shutterstock.com license

All Rights Reserved.

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And now…

Pop Culture Mysteries:  Case File #005 – Smeller vs. Denier.

Or – He Who Smelt It, Dealt It vs. He Who Denied It, Supplied It.

This case stinks

                         This case stinks.

Pulitzer Prize, here I come.

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