When Jon Snow bangs his Auntie, he gets…
Meanwhile at BQB HQ…(don’t even think about it, Aunt Gertie.)
When Jon Snow bangs his Auntie, he gets…
Meanwhile at BQB HQ…(don’t even think about it, Aunt Gertie.)
3.5 readers, I am so excited to tell you that I have begun the long, hard slog toward finishing a second draft of my beloved novel, “Toilet Gator,” which really and truly is the best novel ever written about toilets, gators, or toilet gators.
My goodness, 3.5 readers. Isn’t that a wonderful cover? Anyway, this is the first time I have begun a second novel draft. It seems like it will be a long, arduous process. The novel is approximately 140,000 words and so far I have rewritten 7,000 of them. It is nice to be able to start solving problems I saw as I wrote the first draft but felt it would just slow me down to fix them, so now the time to fix them has come.
I hope when this book comes out, you will all support it and tell your friends, because if Toilet Gator is a success, then I can really bank some cash on the sequel, Son of Toilet Gator:
You don’t even want to see what the cover of Book 3 will look like.
3.5 readers, I’ll be honest. I’m no spring chicken and the older I get, the more I just want to stop and smell the daisies, then lie down in the dirt and wawit for the moss to grow over me.
So, if this blog makes you happy, and you think that being able to read wonderful books like Toilet Gator and Son of Toilet Gator would bring joy to your life, then please, do what you can to support my little enterprise here.
Read this fine blog. Tell your friends. Help get me some traffic. If I can make money off this, then I can put more time into entertaining you, my beloved 3.5 readers, who I would never want to see be eaten by a toilet gator.
Do watch out for toilet gators, 3.5 readers. They’re everywhere and in greater numbers than you’d think. Frankly, I have taken my life into my hands by publishing their secret, so much so that I get scared every time I sit on the throne to poop now, and not just because I’m a burrito fan.
Stay tuned, 3.5 readers.
Dear 3.5 Readers,
I quit. It’s been a real blast, but I’m at the point where I’m so old it wouldn’t matter if I sell enough copies of Toilet Gator (the best book ever written about toilets or gators) to buy a Malibu Beach House and fill it full of hot chicks with loose morals.
I mean, had it happened ten years ago, I could have fooled myself into thinking the hot chicks wanted me for my manliness and charm. Now that my balls are all wrinkly and my face looks like I stepped on a rake 5,000 times, what would it matter? I would be fully aware that the women aren’t hanging out with me for me but for all of my Toilet Gator money.
So, I enjoyed writing this blog but I have decided to turn it over to my arch nemesis, the International War Criminal/Incredibly Boring Fuzzy Snow Monster, The Yeti. He will post boring posts until the end of time. Expect many photos of his toe nail clippings.
I had a good run. No, my last post can’t include a lie. It was a terrible run. Literally every bad thing that could have possibly happened did and now I am going to ask Alien Jones to put me in one of his spare space ships and auto pilot me into the sun…that way, a little piece of me will always shine down on you 3.5 readers.
Well…maybe I won’t go that far. I changed my mind. I will move to Tibet and become a monk. Are monks allowed to eat pizza? I hope so. I’ll find out.
Thank you 3.5 readers. You are the Yeti’s 3.5 readers now. Enjoy.
I just breezed through reading the full first draft and I’d forgotten a lot of what I wrote. Yeah, this book is funny as all get out. I should win like a thousand awards for this thing. Surely, if there is a “Best Book Ever Written About Toilet Gators” then that award should be mine.
While scientists and theologians may differ on how the world was formed, there can be no doubt that the world is here. I mean, seriously, if the world isn’t here, then where are you reading this book? In the vast reaches of space? Apologies if you are an astronaut reading this but I doubt that you are. A highly intelligent space traveler would never be hoodwinked into plunking down good money on a book about farts, believe me.
But I digress. The world is here and people have been dwelling upon the planet for a long time. Will we ever know what it is like to be a caveman? Sure. Just walk into any frat house at a major university. I kid, I kid. Not really.
No. We can’t know exactly what it was like to be a caveman, but thanks to a highly scientific project at the Advanced Science Institute of Science University, we have developed a better understanding of what prehistoric cavemen thought about farts.
Dr. Hugo von Science, a longtime contributor to the Bookshelf Battle Blog, discovered a perfectly preserved caveman brain in a block of ice. After determining this brain to be, “really freaking old, like thousands upon thousands of years old,” the good doctor developed a device that allowed the user to learn everything the owner of this brain thought about farts.
Behold, the thoughts in their original caveman gibberish, translated into English:
CAVEMAN THOUGHT TRANSLATION
Ooga booga. He who smelt it, dealt it.
Ugga bugga. He who denied it, supplied it.
Wooga wagga. He who heard it first, purveyed the juicy turd burst.
Grakka flarga. He who sayed it, sprayed it.
Ribble robble. He who detected it, ejected it.
Skoogol kruz. He who announced it, pounced it.
Yes. As you can see, dear reader, the “smeller vs. denier game” or the delicate dance in which the first person to detect the presence of a fart engages in a war of words with the first person to deny being the source of the fart, has existed virtually since the dawn of time.
So the next time you feel bad for being caught in brown handed in the midst of an olfactory offense, just remember, your prehistoric ancestors, while they weren’t busy bashing each other with clubs and hunting mastodons, were accusing each other of stinking up the cave.
Puts things in perspective, doesn’t it?
Of course, the most scientific minded of us reject the idea that God created the earth and all the farts upon it, arguing instead that the massive sphere we call home was created through natural forces.
Specifically, Dr. Hugo von Science, an esteemed Professor of Science at the Institute for Advanced Science Studies at Science University, spoke of the creation of the world and all the farts upon it in his seminal work, “The Big Fart Theory:”
There was a time when the space our planet now occupies was nothing but a dark void. However, out of that void came large quantities of space gas. These gases, which smelled terrible and thus had many of the same qualities as a fart, collided with one another over and over again until they created one giant super fart. The super fart swirled and gurgled in an area we might refer to as the “metaphysical stomach of space.” Finally, the super fart exploded with such a fierce velocity that it created a magnificent vortex, sucking in all space rocks within a radius of a hundred thousand light years. These rocks collided against each other, slamming each other again and again until finally, the earth was formed, ironically, as the poop that came after the super fart dissipated. We have been living and farting on the super fart’s poop ever since.
Fascinating. But how did the individual farts come to be? For that question, we turn to Charles Darwin’s fart evolution theory, which he discussed in his book, “The Origin of Farts.”
In my studies of the farting habits of the turtles of the Galapagos Islands, I have taken note of the following observations:
Some turtles make weak farts, barely heard or smelled. Thus, they are fine company to be around but in the long run, the female turtle prefers a male turtle who can let out a robust fart, as loud, smelly farts are considered a sign of virility. If the male turtle’s butt is working, then so to must his turtle junk be fully operational is the thought that I can only assume runs through the turtle’s mind. And that thought must be a reality as I have seen first hand many, many hours of hardcore, down and dirty, rough and ready, bareback, no holds barred turtle sex between a female turtle and a male producer of obnoxiously loud and disgustingly smelly turtle farts.
Accordingly, if there is one universal truth it must be this: via the process of natural selection, those members of any particular species who make weak farts will die out before they have the opportunity to copulate, their genetic material eventually removed from the population, whereas those with strong farts will attract a mate, fornicate wildly, and produce offspring capable of producing even strong farts. When it comes to farts, it is all about the survival of the fittest fart.
Some very bold claims by Darwin. Now, when you think about it, you may begin to wonder whether or not the concepts of creationism and evolution are reconcilable. Here, we must remember the words of noted philosopher John Paul Fartre (not to be confused with noted philosopher John Paul Sartre:
Whenever I sit on the toilet and fart, I am reminded that I am seated not only upon a porcelain throne, but upon a large, circular sphere that hangs dangling in a vast sea of darkness, lit by a fiery orb that just happened to put there in just the right proximity to allow me to be warmed and to have light as I fart.
Yet, I am also reminded of some of my weaker ancestors, namely the prehistoric cave farters who tried to fart but could not and thus died of spontaneous combustion when their farts consumed their bodies from the inside out. The stronger farters got together and breeded and centuries later, here I am, blasting out the remnants of my chili cheese fries without a care in the world.
Make no mistake about it. We are here because some mystical, mysterious higher power deemed it so. You may call this power God if you wish, but there can be no doubt that this power wants us to be here and he wants us to fart.
But take note of the fact that power gave us minds with the ability comprehend science. And our farts have certainly gotten smellier and louder over the progression of time. Some have even projected that if our farts continue along this natural progression, man may eventually produce what scientists have dubbed, “the uber fart” or the fart so toxic that it will consume the entire planet and waste it away into a worn out husk, a shell of its former self.
Frightening to be certain and yet we must remember this has happened before. The dinosaurs, those mighty thunder lizards who occupied our orb long before we did, farted themselves into extinction and thus there can be no doubt we will do the same.
In short, it is possible to believe in fart creation and fart evolution at the same time. God created farts and farts got more powerful over time. Perhaps God has even given us a gift that he did not give to the dinosaurs, namely, a scientific mind capable of studying farts, the ability to figure out how to make farts less potent in order to stave off our inevitable destruction at the hands of the uber fart.
Powerful stuff. Even more powerful farts. John Paul Fartre’s warning could not be clearer. Science and religion do not have to be diametrically opposed forces but rather, can compliment one another. Scientists and theologians must walk hand and hand if they are ever to come together and prevent the uber fart from rearing its ugly, smelly head and destroying us all as it did with the dinosaurs so many years ago.
If you are an adherent to science, hug a religious person. Religious people, hug a scientist. Let us all get along in the spirit of stopping the uber fart in its tracks once and for all.
Flanked by the secret service, President Stugotz entered a top secret government lab. There, he found Professor Lambert standing over a table covered with Skippy’s tail and a bunch of disgusting alligator chunks.
“Well,” President Stugotz said. “Can we rebuild him? Do we have the tech…”
Professor Lambert raised his pointer finger and pressed it over the President’s lips. “Shh! Don’t finish that sentence. It’s most likely a copyright violation. Or maybe it isn’t. I don’t know. All I know is that no one has ever pissed off Lee Majors and lived to tell the tale.”
“Blech,” President Stugotz said. “Don’t put your dirty finger on my pristine lips. I don’t know where that finger has been.”
The Professor sniffed his finger and shook his head. “Come to think of it, neither do I.”
“So what’s the good word, Professor?” the President asked.
“Mr. President,” Professor Lambert said. “I was honored when you asked me to participate in this project. Really, I was, but now that I have had the time to learn the end result you’re hoping to achieve here, I have to say, this initiative goes against everything I’ve spent my entire life fighting against.”
“I’ll add three more zeros to your check,” President Stugotz.
“And my morals just went out the window,” Professor Lambert said.
The professor lit up a doobie and puffed on it.
“Should you be smoking around the samples?” President Stugotz said.
“The samples?” Professor Lambert asked. “Oh, you mean all these gator chunks? No, yuck. We can throw them away. They’re useless.”
“What the hell, man?” President Stugotz asked. “I thought you were just going to sew all these gator chunks back together and make me a great big beautiful Frankengator, you know, a monster of my very own that will obey all my commands and pop out of the toilets of my enemies to devour them hole.”
“With the CIA’s help, I found something much better, Mr. President,” Professor Lambert said.
The professor punched a combination into the door of a refrigerated vault, then pulled out a small vile filled with a frozen liquid.
“Is that what I think it is?” President Stugotz asked.
“Indeed it is, Mr. President,” Professor Lambert answered.
The two men laughed in a profoundly evil manner. “Muah ha…muah ha…muah ha ha!”
When they were done laughing, the President turned to the Professor. “I’m starving. The First Lady has me on a new diet. Nothing but kale cauliflower. I’ve never been more regular. Believe me, there’s no one as regular as I am now. But screw it, I’m hungry, want to get something to eat?”
“On the way here, wherever ‘here’ is, I saw a fried chicken stand next to a titty bar out of a tiny slit in the bag the CIA put on my head,” Professor Lambert said.
“Professor,” the President replied. “You had me at chicken and titties.”
Over a hundred shirtless men had crammed themselves into a dimly lit basement. They swilled beer and cursed without a care as they held up stacks of dollar bills.
“Give me fifty on Bruno!” one man shouted.
“I’ll take a grand on Stanley!” another man cried.
Rusty, himself shirtless and sweaty, strolled through the ring, collecting bets. “Have I got all the action? Yeah? Then gentlemen, to your positions!”
Two absurdly obese and ridiculously hairy men entered the ring. They leered at one another and growled.
“In this corner,” Rusty said. “Weighing in at four hundred and twenty eight pounds, Bruno the Bear!”
The crowd cheered.
“And in this corner, weighing so much that he broke the damn scale, Stanley the Stallion!”
The crowd cheered again.
Rusty stood between the two men. “Alright. You know the rules. You know what I expect them to be followed. Now get out there and give it your all, gents!”
The redheaded man exited the ring and joined a shirtless Moses and a shirtless Felix at the judge’s table.
“This was an inspired idea, Moses,” Rusty said.
“Yeah,” Moses said. “But Felix did all the legwork and you did all the promotion.”
“We’re a good team, aren’t we?” Rusty asked.
“You better believe it,” Moses said.
Rusty picked up a microphone and stood up. “Gentelemen, are you ready?”
The crowd of surly, booze addled men shouted, “Yeah!”
“I can’t hear you!” Rusty said.
The crowd shouted even louder. “YEAH!”
Rusty turned towards the competitors in the ring. “Begin!”
Bruno and Stanley paced furiously around the ring, locking eyes, each man waiting for the other to make a move until finally, they smashed their big bellies together, wrapped one another in a passionate embrace and fell to the floor and a calm, soothing snuggle.
The crowed cheered.
“What’s the first rule of Male on Male Hug Club!”
“Sir!” the crowd shouted. “The first rule of Male on Male Hug Club is ‘Do Not Talk About Male on Male Hug Club!”
“Exactamundo,” Rusty said. “And what’s the second rule of Male on Male Hug Club?”
“Sir!” the crowd shouted. “The second rule of Male on Male Hug Club is ‘Do Not Talk About Male on Male Hug Club!”
A random man stood up and shouted a question. “Hey! Are those dudes gonna fuck or what?”
Rusty looked around the room. “What? Who said that?”
Unable to find the questioner, Rusty shouted, “What’s the third rule of Male on Male Hug Club?”
“Just because men like to hug each other doesn’t mean they’re automatically gay!”
“And the fourth rule?” Rusty asked.
“No butt stuff!”
“Damn straight!” Rusty said.
Rusty returned to the judge’s table.
“You were tough but fair,” Moses said.
“Yeah, well,” Rusty said as he picked up a beer and chugged it. “You gotta have boundaries. Just saying.”
Cole and Sharon stood in a terminal at the Miami International Airport, patiently waiting for the number of a very special flight to be called. Cole held a homemade, folded up cardboard sign in his hands.
“You ready for this?” Sharon asked as she patted Cole’s arm.
Cole nodded and took a deep breath. “Ready as I’ll ever be.”
“Attention,” came the monotone voice of a female announcer. “Flight 982, inbound from Nairobi, now arriving.”
“Here we go,” Cole said as he unfurled his sign and held it out in front of him. It read, “Mutumbo.”
Moments passed. Passengers headed down a long escalator.
“Do you see him?” Sharon asked.
“Nope,” Cole said.
The couple looked and looked until finally their concentration was broken when a little boy standing at the top of the escalator shouted, “Mr. Cole sir!”
The boy pushed his way down the escalator, past all sorts of weary travelers, until he was on the ground. From there he ran at warp speed towards Cole, practically knocking him over as he grabbed him in a big hug.
“Mutumbo!” Cole shouted.
“Oh, Mr. Cole sir!” Mutumbo cried. “I was the happiest boy in my village when I heard the good news that you and your wife had adopted me!”
Cole tussled Mutumbo’s hair. “I’m just happy, you’re happy, kid.”
“I am so very happy, Mr. Cole sir,” Mutumbo said.
An older, white haired woman made her way down the escalator and huffed and puffed as she handed Cole a clipboard with a form on it. “Mr. Walker?”
“Yes,” Cole said.
“Valerie Bond of the International Adoption Agency. My goodness, little Mutumbo sure is happy to see you.”
“Thank you for bringing him to me,” Cole said.
“That’s what I do,” Valerie said as she handed Cole a pen. “Your signature, please.”
Cole signed on the dotted line and handed the clipboard back to Valerie.
“I must say, Mr. Walker, I have never seen an adoption application processed so quickly before,” Valerie said. “And I have been in this business for thirty years. You must have a friend in a very high place.”
“You could say that,” Cole said.
“Well,” Valerie said as she shook Mutumbo’s hand. “My work here is done. Goodbye Mutumbo. Be good for your new family.”
“Yes, I will be very good for Mr. Cole, sir,” Mutumbo said. “And thank you, Mrs. Valerie, ma’am, for rescuing me from that third world hellhole, a place where I have known nothing but death, destruction, torture and torment since the day I was born and bringing me here to America, where soon, God willing, I will become a typical American child, telling my parents that they have ruined my life for buying me the wrong toy.”
Valerie smiled and walked away. Mutumbo turned his attention to Sharon. “Holy smokes, Mr. Cole, sir, I assumed you were quite a ladies’ man but I had no idea that your new wife was so attractive!”
“Um,” Cole said. “Yeah. Hey buddy, listen…”
Mutumbo grabbed Sharon’s hand and shook it up and down. “Hello Ma’am, I am so very pleased that you married Mr. Cole sir. I have no doubt that your warm smile and statuesque features have helped him cope with the loss of that vile she-devil, Miss Sharon, may shot rot in hell for a thousand years for the foul heartbreak she caused to such a noble and loving man like Mr. Cole sir.”
Cole leaned down and whispered something into Mutumbo’s ear. Mutumbo looked up at Sharon, then grabbed her in a great big hug. “Oh, Miss Sharon, ma’am! A thousand pardons! I had no idea that you came to your senses and came crawling back on all fours like a common, flea bitten dog to the best man in the entire world, that being Mr. Cole sir!”
Sharon hugged Mutumbo back. “I mean, I wouldn’t say I crawled, but ok, it’s nice to meet you little guy.”
Mutumbo grabbed Cole’s hand in his right hand and Sharon’s hand in his left hand. Together, the brand new family walked through the airport.
“Welcome to America, Mutumbo,” Cole said. “What do you want to do first?”
“Oh, the possibilities are endless, Mr. Cole, sir!”
“Hey um,” Cole said as he looked at Sharon and saw a little twinkle in his love’s eye. “We’re going to need you to knock off the ‘Mr. Cole sir’ and “Mrs. Sharon Ma’am’ stuff and just call us Mommy and Daddy, ok?”
“Yes,” Mutumbo said. “You’ve got it, Mr. Daddy Sir and Mrs. Mommy Ma’am!”
“We’ll work on it,” Cole said.
“Come on, Mutumbo,” Sharon said. “The world’s your oyster now. Where to?”
“Well,” Mutumbo said. “If possible, I would like to get one of the delicious American ice cream sundaes I have heard so much about.”
“Oh yeah?” Cole asked.
“Yes,” Mutumbo said. “A missionary came to my village once and when he was shot in the back of the head and drawn and quartered, he dropped a magazine and in that magazine, there was a photograph of the most scrumptious looking ice cream sundae I have ever seen. It had whipped cream, nuts, a cherry, a banana, marshmallows, chocolate sauce, peanut butter fudge, rainbow sprinkles, and seven different flavors of ice cream, including rocky road, double chocolate, mint chocolate chip…”
“Whoa, whoa,” Cole said. “Slow down there, buckaroo. You’re liable to get a tummy ache if a sundae like that is your first decent meal here in the states.”
“Oh Mr. Daddy sir,” Mutumbo said. “If it makes me shit for a week, then so be it.”
Cole, Sharon, Rusty, Moses, Felix and Professor Lambert, dressed in their best finery, milled about in a waiting room just outside the Oval Office. The doors opened and Buck Breckenridge poked his head out.
“I’m sorry,” Breckenridge said. “The President is on a very important call.”
President Stugotz’s voice traveled out of the office and into the waiting room. “Look, just because I’m the leader of the free world doesn’t mean I shouldn’t have my own private account on bigtimeknockers.com…yeah…uh huh…security risk? So make it secure, nerd. God Almighty, this shouldn’t be that hard…yeah well just shut up and make it happen. POTUS needs his big time knockers or else he’ll get very cranky and when I’m cranky I start posting on Lifebox and then my super hot wife and my super hot daughter chew my ear off and then after that it’s all I can do to keep my finger off the nuke button, OK?”
“Excuse me,” Breckenridge said as he shut the door.
Sharon chuckled. “Big time knockers?”
Moses spit into the palm of his hand and slicked down a cowlick on the top of his head. He then straightened his tie. “Woman, you laugh but that man in there is a true patriot and a saint and if he looking at big time knockers helps him get the job done then by God, he should have big time knockers.”
Cole sighed. “Ugh I just want to get this over with and get back to the hotel.”
“Why?” Sharon asked. “Hun, you’re a hero.”
Cole puffed out his chest. “I am, aren’t I?”
“Oh well,” Professor Lambert said as he pulled out a joint and a cigarette lighter. “Smoke ‘em if you got ‘em.”
“What are you doing?” Sharon snapped. “Put that away!”
“Dude,” Rusty said. “How did you get that through security?”
“My butt, a string, and a whole lot of patience,” the Professor said.
“If you can’t take a break from pot for an hour to meet the President of the United States then you’ve got a problem,” Sharon said.
The Professor sparked up and puffed away. “No one’s arguing with you, sister.”
The doors opened all the way this time. Buck made a weird expression as he sniffed the air. “What’s that smell?”
The Professor quickly dabbed the joint out against the leg of the priceless antique chair he was sitting in, then stashed the evidence in his pocket. “Smell? What smell?”
“It smells like Bill Clinton’s second term out here,” Buck said. “Strange. Oh well, follow me. The President will see you now.”
As the Chief of Staff led the gang into the Oval Office, they marveled at the sights, taking in the breathtaking architecture and artwork, including a giant portrait of former President Teddy Roosevelt. President Stugotz was sitting behind the historic resolute desk, engaged in yet another tense negotiation session over the phone.
“I want a large cheese pizza with extra cheese, OK?” the President said. “And when I say, ‘I want extra cheese,’ I mean, I want a whole hell of a lot of cheese. Don’t skimp out on me, OK? I’m serious. Don’t be like one of those pizza chefs who hears ‘extra cheese’ and then just puts a tiny dab of cheese on my pie, OK? In fact, I’ll tell you what, when you think you have put enough cheese on this pizza to comply with my request of extra cheese, go all out and shake some more cheese on it anyway, just to be safe. Believe me, nobody explains how to make an extra cheese pizzas better than me, OK? I am the best at ordering pizzas. Goodbye.”
“Mr. President,” Breckenridge said. “The heroes who defeated the toilet gator are here.”
“Fantastic!” President Stugotz said as he stood up and walked over to greet his guests. “Let me get a good look at them.”
The gang formed a line for the President to review. As he walked down the line, he gave each hero a handshake and a kind word.
“Officer Yates,” President Stugotz said.
“It’s actually Chief Yates now, sir,” Rusty replied.
“No one gives a shit son, and believe me, I know what people give a shit about, OK?” the President said.
“Yes sir,” Rusty said.
President Stugotz slapped Rusty on the back. “Job well done. You’re the coolest redhead I have ever met, and I’m including those Irish supermodel twins I plowed while I was on my honeymoon with the second Mrs. Stugotz.”
“That means a lot sir,” Rusty said.
“I know it does,” the President said as he moved on. “And you must be the guy with the Apache attack helicopter.”
Moses and Felix snapped to attention and saluted the President.
“Yes sir,” Moses said. “Sergeant Moses T. Malone, United States Marine Corps, retired and this is my hetero life mate Felix Howard. If I may be so bold, we love you sir. We both voted for you in 2016 and we can’t wait to do it again in 2020. Wild dogs won’t be able to keep us away.”
“Moses,” President Stugotz said. “I know smart people when I see them and believe me, I’m the smartest person I know. If you two voted for me then that makes you a couple of real smart cookies.”
“Thank you sir,” Moses said. “Sir, I don’t mean to bother you, but is there any way you might pull some strings so I can, you know, keep my Apache attack helicopter and also, if possible, not go to jail for all the laws I broke while I was flying it around?”
President Stugotz stroked his chin. “Hmm. Well, all the crooked lawyers in my employ tell me that you literally broke thousands upon thousands of laws by flying that thing around but…you know what? I don’t think you should go to jail for that. No one should ever have to go to jail for daring to fight a toilet gator. This is America. We don’t run from toilet gators here.”
“I couldn’t agree more, sir,” Moses said.
“You know what?” President Stugotz. “You’re off the hook. I’ll take care of it.”
“Oh, thank you sir,” Moses said. “But uh…do I get to keep it?”
“You want to keep an Apache attack helicopter?” President Stugotz asked.
“If possible, sir,” Moses replied. “It would mean a lot to me.”
“A piece of military hardware like that in the hands of a civilian?” the President asked. “I don’t know.”
“I promise I’ll never take it out again, unless of course there’s another violent animal attack,” Moses said. “Had the toilet gator not reared it’s ugly head, that fabulous helicopter would still be in my hangar, getting a fresh coat of wax applied to it every Sunday by yours truly.”
“Give me one good reason why I should let you keep it,” President Stugotz said.
Moses shrugged his shoulders. “Second amendment?”
President Stugotz looked up at the ceiling and pondered the proposition for a bit. He then turned his attention back to Moses. “Sold!”
Moses and Felix exchanged high fives as President Stugotz moved on to Sharon.
“Mrs. Walker,” President Stugotz said. “I was so glad to hear that you and your husband patched things up. I mean, it’s one thing to want to live a wild, carefree life and another to be impractical and well, you being forty and all…”
“I also love him,” Sharon said.
“Whatever you need to tell yourself, dear,” President Stugotz said. “Listen, I watched you on TV, tearing ass down the highway in that Diablo and I was impressed. In fact, I was so impressed, that I turned to the First Lady and said, ‘You know what we need, sweetheart? We need more vaginized Americans doing things that people with vaginas don’t normally do, like becoming doctors and lawyers and politicians and astronauts and police officers and toilet gator killers.”
“Thank you sir,” Sharon said. “That’s touching, in an odd way.”
“You’re an inspiration to ever little girl who ever dared to look out her bedroom window and up to the stars and proudly declare, ‘One day I will help end the life of a desperate, psychotic animal.’”
“That’s probably enough now, sir,” Sharon said as she pulled her hand out of the President’s grasp.
President Stugotz faced Cole. The two men stared at each other for a moment, then the Commander-in-Chief gave the renowned gator hunter a warm embrace.
“Cole Walker,” the President said as he stepped back. “A star is born.”
“Thank you, Mr. President,” Cole said.
“You know I was the first person to post on Lifebox that you would defeat the toilet gator,” President Stugotz said. “I was the only one who believed in you. I believed in you so much that I pushed aside a meeting with a bunch of wishy washy do-gooders who want to pass some cockamamie legislation about giving kidneys to junkies with AIDS or some such nonsense.”
“I appreciate your confidence in me, sir,” Cole said.
“Remember that, Bob?” President Stugotz asked.
“Yes sir,” Breckenridge replied.
“I was all like, ‘All you do-gooders figured out how to get kidneys for junkie AIDS patients on your own, I have got to write at least ninety-seven posts about how Cole Walker will most definitely beat the toilet gator because that man is a winner and believe me, I know a winner when I see one.’”
“Thank you,” Cole said.
“I should know,” President Stugotz said. “I’m the biggest winner the world has ever seen, but you wouldn’t know it because I’m so ridiculously humble. I go out of my way to avoid bragging about myself. Truly, I do. Being a braggart is very unbecoming. Believe me.”
“I’m just honored to be here, sir,” Cole said.
“Cole,” the President said as he shook the gator hunter’s hand. “For offing that filthy, rotten, dirty, disgusting, degenerate toilet gator, this country will be forever in your debt. If there’s anything I can do for you, just ask?”
As the President began to walk away, Cole stepped up. “Anything?”
The President turned around. “Anything except, you know, gay stuff. I mean, I don’t judge and I suppose if you want a dude to do stuff to your butt, I could make some calls and make it happen, but be advised that ‘anything’ did not include me doing anything to your butt, capiche?”
“I capiche sir,” Cole said. “And no, I don’t want any butt stuff but there is one thing you could help my wife and I with…”
“Name it,” President Stugotz said.