Tag Archives: funny

SJW Lyrics – Oh Average Night (Formally Oh Holy Night)

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Oh average night, the stars are brightly shining!

And the night is just normal because it isn’t holy because we will no longer be subjected to the patriarchy’s puritanically rigid belief system that forces the ignorant into modifying their behavior in accordance with the whims of a fictional man in the sky who simply isn’t there.

Fall on your knees!

But only if you want to take a rest.

But if you don’t, that’s ok.

In fact, don’t because then you’ll get grass stains on your jeans!

A night that is not divine!

No, it’s just another night as usual except is it just me or is this night hotter than usual? Damn it, when will you all learn that global warming is real, people?!

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SJW Christmas Carols – Away in a Manger

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Away in a manger, no crib for a bed (because capitalism is the worst because the wealthiest 1 percent use the unwitting 99 percent as their pawns and socialism will totally work if we just give it one more try)…

The little Lord Jesus, laid down his, her, or possible xer’s head.  Whatever.  It’s way too early to box this child into a gender and Jesus will let us know what he, she, or xe is in time.

The stars in the sky, look down where he, she, or xe or any combination thereof because gender is fluid, lay.

The little Lord Jesus asleep on the hay, again, because when are we going to wake up and realize that capitalism is barbaric and only when government seizes control of all business interests will all children of indeterminate gender be allowed to sleep in the proper cribs they deserve.

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Great Musings of the Twenty-First Century – #376 – 400

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#376 – Existing isn’t the same as living.

#378 – Grapes are small pieces of fruit.

#379 – Physically, we aren’t able to see what is behind us.  Mentally, we are always looking at the past that’s unchangeable.

#380 – Birds of a feather flock together but kittens of a whisker don’t do much of anything interesting whatsoever.  Sorry I mentioned it.

#381 – Every lacrosse team has at least one Chad.

#382 – I don’t know who I am anymore.  I’m not sure I ever knew in the first place.

#383 – Stars are nature’s glitter.

#384 – One day I would like to learn judo.

#385 – I’d like to make a banjo with nothing but a cigar box, a broom handle, fifteen rubber bands and the assistance of a professional banjo maker.

#386 – I once was lost but now am found. I was in the last place I thought to look for myself.

#387 – Ducks love bread.

#388 – How fast is a light second?

#389 – The other day I was in the dairy aisle of my local grocery store. I picked up a product labeled, “I Can’t Believe It’s Not Butter.” I set the container down and moved on.  Sorry, but if the manufacturer is unable to believe that the contents do not consist of butter then I don’t know why I’m supposed to.

#390 – I’m going to think of something ridiculously clever and insert it here later.

#391 – Broadband does not include broads and if it did, those broads would not join a band. Discuss.

#392 – Are mole people friendly?  I’m talking about people with moles on their faces, not the people who live underground.  We all know the latter are dicks.

#393 – I love my microwave.  Frankly, whenever I think about how I own a device that can harness the power of the atom just to cook my frozen pizza, I get a little hard.

#394 – If Frankenstein has sex with a lady werewolf, would their baby be a Frankenwolf or a Wolfenstein?  If it’s the last one, would they have to pay royalties to the people who made that video game?

#395 – I bought a dry erase board in the hopes that I would think of something clever to write on it.  My first note on it? “Remember to return dry erase board.”

#396 – Right now, at this very moment, two horny penguins in Antarctica are getting their fuck on.

#397 – Why are people always offering poisoned people antidotes? People, it’s not that hard. Just don’t drink dotes in the first place.

#398 – Whatever happened to Mario Van Peebles?

#399 – Is it a violation to use sidewalk chalk on driveways?

#400 – I’d eat cake at every meal if I could.

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To Kill A Mockingbird – 2018 Reboot

EDITORIAL NOTE: I’ll just leave this here, for no particular reason.

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And so, gentlemanly country lawyer Atticus Finch did call his client, Tom Robinson, into his law office.  Tom Robinson, a black man, had been falsely accused of rape and since it was the Jim Crow south, no lawyer other than Atticus was willing to help the poor man.

“I swear I didn’t rape that woman, Atticus,” Tom said. “I swear, I didn’t.  Do you think you’ll be able to save me at trial?”

“Well,” Atticus said as he sipped a mint julep. “I’m just a simple country lawyer who likes to sit on his rocking chair and enjoy a nice cool breeze on a summer’s evening, but I say, I do declare that whether we should save you is not the proper consideration but rather, the appropriate issue is should we save you?”

“Should we save me?” Tom asked.  “But sir, I have been falsely accused!”

“Sir!”  Atticus said.  “Lower your voice!  I shall not have such triggering hate speech in my office.”

“What?” Tom asked.

“You see, Tom,” Atticus said.  “It doesn’t matter if you were falsely accused or not because all accusers have the right to be instantly and automatically believed.  Why, if you don’t believe an accusation without further question or inquiry, then you are not just insulting the individual accuser in this case but anyone and everyone who has ever dared to stand up and accuse someone of anything.

“But Mr. Finch,” Tom said.  “I’m not trying to tarnish the reputation of anyone who has ever made an accusation.  I realize that for the world to keep turning that people need to be able to stand up and say when something bad happened.  I’m just saying that in this case, when my accuser makes a false accusation, I need you to present my case and prove the truth.  I didn’t do it, sir.  I’m innocent and that fact must be presented to the jury.”

Atticus brushed a piece of lint off his clean, white suit.  “Sir, I say, I do declare I’m sorry but I just can’t go on with this hateful discussion.  All accusers are to be believed, sir and frankly, whether or not you are guilty or innocent is immaterial.  If you do not skip this trial and skip straight to hanging yourself then your accuser’s feelings, as well as the feelings as anyone who has ever made an accusation against anyone since the beginning of all time will be hurt and we can’t have that, so please, go hang yourself now.”

Tom stood up.  “Sir, if I may be so bold, if you’re not going to defend me against an accusation then why are you here?”

“Why, I do declare I’m just here to sip mint juleps and look good in this white suit,” Atticus said.  “Good day, sir.  Please go see the proprietor of our local mercantile and acquire a length of rope.  I’ll see to it that your estate will handle the bill just as soon as you hang yourself promptly.”

Tom shook Atticus’ hand.  “Very well, sir.  You make a fine point.  I don’t want accusers to feel bad and even if the accusation against me is false, my life must be over now because if it isn’t then people with true accusations will feel bad and true accusers just won’t be intelligent enough to be able to figure out that in this particular case, the accusation was false.  I will go hang myself posthaste.”

“Glad to hear it,” Atticus said.  “Enjoy your hanging, Tom.”

Tom left the room.  Atticus’ young daughter, Scout, had been playing with a doll in a corner of the room the entire time.

“Daddy?” Scout said.

“Yes, dear?” Atticus replied.

“The world sure has gotten fucked up, ain’t it, Daddy?” Scout asked.

“It sure has, Scout,” Atticus said.  “It sure has.”

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Toilet Shocker – First Chapter Draft Test

Just giving it a trial run.  Let me know what you think in the comments, 3.5.

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Chapter 1

February 27, 2019 – Moonbeam Coffee, Store #11,041 – Portland, Oregon
Heather Laramie’s wokeness wasn’t a hobby – it was a passion. Her frame was thin, the result of many a hunger strike in the name of whatever the latest social cause was trending on Lifebox. She owned multiple Che Guevara shirts, allowing her to wear the image of the Communist revolutionary daily. In her defense, her grasp on history was tenuous and she was unaware of Guevara’s bloodthirsty actions. She just viewed him as a man who wanted people to get free stuff, an economic system that in Heather’s eyes, was totally doable, seeing as how her parents gave her free stuff all the time, so surely the government had a money tree lurking about somewhere that could be shook until the leaves fell off into perpetuity.
Yes, Heather talked the talk. She regaled anyone who would listen of her love of Senator Murray Leibowitz, the upstart, self-proclaimed “Democratic Socialist” who gave former Homeland Security Secretary Emily Wannadingle a run for her money during the 2016 Democratic primaries.
More importantly to her, she walked the walk. She drove a Yarikazi Elf, which was literally the smallest car on the market, virtually one step above being a glorified golf cart. Sure, it was cramped, she was never able to invite a friend to come along for a ride, and motorists regularly slammed into it because they typically failed to see it and assumed the parking space it was in was available, but it got great gas mileage and was good for the environment, assuming that energy coming out of a wall socket was somehow produced in a cleaner manner than gas harvested from the bowels of the earth but…hey, you know what? That’s not the point. The point is, the car made her happy.
And many things made Heather happy. There was the “Resist” tattoo she got permanently etched on her right forearm the day Vinny Stugotz was sworn in as the forty-fifth president of the United States. There was her pink pussy hat, which she, in addition to Che’s grim visage, also wore daily. She even decorated it with a pin that read, “Keep your laws off my vagina.” Heather was, in fact, such a proponent of anti-vaginal legislation that she regularly posted on her blog about her support for a controversial law that would allow women to have an abortion up until the 24th trimester, known throughout the media as the “Whack ‘Em with a Baseball Bat Until Their Sixth Birthday Bill.” Murray Leibowitz was the bill’s chief sponsor, and once Emily Wannadingle’s people determined through a series of polls that the bill was popular, she vocalized her support for it to.
Yes, Heather was proud of her lifestyle and yearned for the day when the revolution would come, bathing the streets red with the blood of capitalist pigs, seizing any and all businesses and putting them under government control, and putting all labor at the new Communist government’s disposal. Like many young comrades, Heather always pictured herself as some kind of commissar, someone who would be paid handsomely to vocally support Communism and punish those who criticized it. Most millennial pinkos typically fantasized about becoming high-ranking officials in the apparatchik. None ever envisioned themselves as ditch digging peasants who would work for 12 hours a day, then spend the other 12 hours waiting in line for government issued toilet paper and moldy blocks of cheese.
Also, somehow in this fantasy vision of utopia, Schmuck Phones, Lifebox, superhero movies, boy wizard books, video games and continued access to Mom and Dad’s backyard pool and tricked out basement still existed, though no one ever offered an explanation as to how, in a world where a workforce would be whipped into submission and aspirations of wealth would be quashed under an iron boot, all these luxuries would continue to exist.
Back to the main point. Heather was woke – exceedingly, ridiculously, absurdly woke, and out of all her expressions of wokeness, there were none that the pink haired, bespectacled college student majoring in 17th century lesbian folklore was more proud of than her position as a barista at Moonbeam Coffee.
Yes, Moonbeam Coffee, the wokest provider of caffeine fixes on the planet! Come for the triple half caf, skinny foam, mocha whipped honeysuckle cold brew with trace hints of ginger and turmeric. Leave when you ask for a large coffee with sugar and cream and the staff looks at you funny. Come for the recycled cups featuring tips on how to save the environment like “Compost daily” and “Get rid of your lamps and sit in the dark.” Come for the giftshop, where you can buy a bumper sticker that reads, “Live Locally, Frolic Globally” or “My Other Car Doesn’t Exist Because I Don’t Hate Mother Nature So Much that I’d Own Two.”
Heather had loved her job for three years, ever since her un-woke, patriarchal father insisted that if she was going to waste his money on lesbian folklore classes, that she’d better at least get a job to pay for her personal expenses. At first, she despised the cis-male scum who raised her, decrying his name for failing to see the abundant job opportunities that were available to students of lesbian folklore that hailed from the 1600s, but she soon came to enjoy making octuple caf, tall foam marzipan swirls with rosemary shots. She loved it so much that she was sure she’d just keep working there after college, opting to forego the abundant job opportunities in her field of study, of which she remained unwaveringly sure that they did, in fact, exist.
Alas, on the day in question, Heather began to have grave concerns as to whether or not her job would remain enjoyable in the future. A line of smelly, unkempt, unhygienic homeless people of all ages, races, sexes and creeds waiting to use the one toilet in the store’s small bathroom extended out of the store and down the block. This had been happening daily for months, ever since a vagrant had sued Moonbeam Coffee and won three million dollars after being refused to use the bathroom at a San Francisco store. The court ruled that the company’s policy against allowing bathroom access to paying customers only was discriminatory against the poor, and Moonbeam Coffee could no longer make arbitrary rules that unfairly affected the economically challenged.
For Heather, the result was that she hadn’t been allowed to serve a brew since the Fall of 2018. She was now on bathroom clean-up detail, standing outside the perpetually stinky restroom with a plunger and a mop at the ready. As she looked up at a television monitor that was playing her favorite news channel, Heather began to question everything she had ever believed.
Lydia Estevez von Straffsbourg-Kightlinger-Tiparoo, the most popular reporter on the Woke News Network, had been recently named the host of The Lesbian Slam Poet News Hour, the only show in which militant feminists updated the public on the latest stories in rhyme.
On screen, Lydia wore her usual outfit, a black beret and matching turtleneck sweater, a look completed with a pair of thick glasses. She was surrounded by a diverse array of poets. In the background, one poet pounded a pair of bongos.
“Moonbeam Coffee,” Lydia said. “It’s been eight months since this vile, capitalist, profit motivated criminal organization perpetrated by the one percent dared to commit the unspeakable, unforgivable hate crime of telling a man that he could not use the bathroom unless he bought a locally sourced, farm to table, gluten free scone, half the proceeds of which would have gone to creating communes for transgender watercolor artists in impoverished nations. What do we think about this, ladies?”
Vocal pundit Maura Heffernan-Augustus-Peabody-Benjamin brushed a piece of lint off of her “Fuck Stugotz” t-shirt and looked directly at the camera. “I don’t care how long it’s been, Lydia. I admit that this is a tricky situation, given the fact that I do support locally sourced, farm to table, gluten free scones and the building of communes for transgendered watercolor artists in impoverished nations, but…”
Maura was interrupted by Jessica Melman-Walters-Duffy-Boombalay-Bensonhurst, a contributor with a shaved bald head and a t-shirt that depicted President Stugotz swinging from the end of a noose. “Can I just say that President Stugotz is not doing enough to help start communes for transgender watercolor artists in third world nations? This is the defining issue of our time and that pig, that pretender, that usurper of Emily Wannadingle’s birthright couldn’t be bothered to do a thing about this.”
“I agree,” Maura said. “And I can’t wait to hear the slam poem you wrote about that, sister, but first, I would like to read my poem about Moonbeam Coffee’s despicable reign of tyranny.”
“Go on, sister,” Lydia said. “Hit us with your truth.”
Maura sipped some water. She cleared her throat, then stood up and read from a piece of paper. “Beans of hate! Beans of hate! What is the fate of those who would stand by and sell the beans of hate? Unwoke baristas, chasing the mighty buck, but about those less fortunate, they could hardly give a…”
At that precise moment, poor Heather suffered a mental break. Her eyes welled with tears, and not just the ones that were inspired by the stench emanating from the bathroom. Heather had lived and breathed the teachings of the Woke News Network for as long as she could remember. She had long adored The Lesbian Slam Poet News Hour and had bought all of the books written by its contributors, from Free Stuff Works to Down with Penile Rule. She was even a fierce supporter of homeless rights, having spent many a weekend protesting against income inequality.
The door to the bathroom swung open, causing the air to become borderline unbreathable. Out from the squalid conditions emerged a hobo known around the community as “Dumpster Dave,” for his penchant for sleeping in large trash receptacles. He’d come close to being crushed in the trash compactors of three separate trucks, but he was still ticking. His tattered clothing reeked of bourbon and feces and as he looked at Heather, he wiped the snots that had formed in his mustache onto his coat sleeve.
“Damnation!” Dave said. “You got your work cut out for you today, Heather!”
Heather sighed. “Did you at least put your needle in the sharp container this time, Dave?”
Dave appeared aghast. “Un-woke bitch! Ain’t you been watchin’ the television-o-mo-bobber? I gots a to shit where I pleases and it’s a hate crime to ask me that!”
In her heart, Heather knew what she was about to say violated ever belief she’d ever held dear. Alas, her brain and heart had been in a running battle ever since Moonbeam Coffee had been forced to let any and all comers to use the bathroom, no questions asked, no purchase required. “So, you’re telling me I should have to risk contracting a deadly, incurable disease because you’re too lazy to put your needle in a safe container that my company provided to you for free!”
The hobo got flustered. “Buh..fah…gah…hate criminal! Damnation, you one of them Stugotz voters, ain’t you? Where’s your MAFFA hat, bitch?”
“Oh come on,” Heather said. “Like I would be caught dead in a ‘Make America Funky Fresh Again,’ hat.”
“Where’s your manager?” Dave asked. “I want to speak to your manager.”
Heather sighed. At the counter, Heather’s manager, Janice Schaeffer, was busily preparing a septuple caf frappucino with extra goat leche and a sprig of oak root. Heather’s stomach turned at the idea that she was about to disappoint her boss. Although Janice was twenty years old, Heather felt a special kinship to her employer. Between the faded hammer and sickle tattoo on the upper half of her left bosom and the green hair, Heather had a hunch that she was going to be a lot like Janice when she reached middle age.
The boss noticed the commotion and came over. “What seems to be the problem here?”
As the fracas ensued, a skinny woman with a protruding baby bump entered the bathroom and closed the door.
“This no-good, dirty rotten, conservative bitch just implied that I should exercise personality responsibility for myself!” Dave shouted.
Janice gasped. “Heather! How could you?”
A low moan emanated from inside the bathroom.
“All I did was suggest that if Dave is going to use our bathroom to shoot heroin…”
“I gots to shoot heroin, bitch!” Dave said. “It’s not my fault that I got an addiction due to the fact that I ain’t been able to find a job in seventeen years.”
Heather cocked her head to the side. “You haven’t found one single job in seventeen years?”
Dave threw his hands in the hair. “Bitch! I been holdin’ out for a CEO position!”
Janice shuddered. “I…I can’t even right now. First, Dave, I know the unjust capitalist system has been cruel to you, but you can’t just call women the b word…”
“Thank you,” Heather said.
The boss finished her thought. “…unless she’s using unjustifiable hate speech and then it’s ok.”
Dave stuck his tongue out at Heather. “How do ya like me now, bitch?!”
Heather’s lower lip quivered. “But…buh buh…but…Janice!”
“We all attended the sensitivity training, Heather,” Janice said. “Remember when the stockholders were livid when every Moonbeam Coffee store in the nation shut down for three weeks so employees could be flogged while being taught how to become sufficiently woke. You’re displaying a very insufficient level of wokeness right now.”
Bloodcurdling screams poured out of the bathroom. “Gah..ahhh…oh God….ohh….argh….ARGH!”
The baristas ignored it. They had grown accustomed to such noises.
“Janice,” Heather said. “You know I think the world of you. You taught me everything I know and even invited me to my first protest but I’ll have you know that I’m very woke. I’m so woke I write anti-Stugotz screed on my Lifebox daily. I’m so woke I donated to Murray Leibowitz. I’m so woke I own one and only one cloth tampon that I wash in the sink daily. I am woke.”
“You’re not acting like it,” Janice said. “Apologize to this man.”
“Yeah,” the toothless loser said. “Apologize to me right now, bitch.”
Heather looked at Janice’s disapproving face, then at Dave’s grinning, scabby face. “I will not.”
All activities in the store ceased. The plucky young baristas, the hipsters on laptops writing their screenplays, even the homeless folk in line waiting to use the crapper, all grew silent as they took in the spectacle.
Soon, the silence was cut by the screams of the woman inside the bathroom. “Ugh…get out of me you little fucker! Goddamn you, Johnny! Why did I let you do this to me?! Goddamn you to hell!”
Heather pointed at the long line of poor folk. “Janice, this is ridiculous.”
“I beg your pardon?” Janice asked.
Heather gulped and mustered up her inner strength. “Only paying customers should be allowed to use a business’ bathroom. There, I said it, and I’m glad I said.”
Everyone gasped. “Take that back!” Janice said.
Heather raised her voice. “I won’t! Look, it’s simple. Businesses need to make money in order to provide goods and services and whenever an employee is taken away from providing those goods and services, that translates into the company making less money, which means there’s less money for employees to get raises, and less tax dollars going into the system to promote much needed social welfare programs!”
The woman in the bathroom cried out in pain. “Barrrrrgh! I want this to be over so bad!”
Janice pointed to a glass box attached to the wall. It contained a medieval cat-o-nine-tails behind a glass plate. Underneath it was a brass plaque with the words, “Break in Case of Insufficient Wokeness” printed on it.
“Don’t make me break that glass, Heather,” Janice said.
“Janice,” Heather said. “I love you, but listen to reason. Things were so much better when only paying customers were allowed to use the bathroom. People who actually like our store and want to see it succeed because they enjoy our products would treat the bathroom with special care, being sure to not make too much of a mess because they knew if they did so regularly, they’d be too embarrassed to come to their favorite hangout anymore. And if they did make a mess, then at least they contributed to the store’s bottom line, so that the company could afford to hire a designated janitor and baristas like me wouldn’t have to be taken off the counter, away from all the delicious designer coffees and forced to clean up shit and piss and hypodermic needles and…”
The door to the bathroom swung open. The young woman, looking like a pale zombie, walked out. Her body was drenched in blood and she carried a baby wrapped in toilet baby. The infant cried loudly.
“Excuse me,” the woman said as she pushed her way past the baristas. “I have to go find a dumpster.”
“Don’t you put dare put that thing in my house,” Dave said.
“Hey,” Heather said as the woman walked away. “You know, there’s a police station that’s just down the street. There’s a law that you can drop off a baby, no questions asked.”
“Get your laws off my body,” the woman said as she pushed the front door of the store open, leaving a bloody palm print on the glass.
Janice pointed at Heather’s “Keep Your Laws Off My Vagina” pin. “You don’t deserve to wear that. What happened to your support of the ‘Whack ‘Em in the Head Until Their Sixth Birthday’ law?”
“I’ve been rethinking that,” Heather said.
Janice gasped. “I think you need to leave, Heather.”
Heather ignored her boss. She stepped onto an empty, chair, then stepped onto a table, breaking up a hipster writing session. “I’ve been rethinking a lot of things lately.”
“Whatever you’re thinking, young lady, your thoughts aren’t welcome here,” Janice said.
“I used to love this job,” Heather said. “Back when it was fun. Back when I could make coffee and talk about all the free stuff that people should be given for free but now…now I realize, nothing good in life is free.”
A dirt bearded, man-bun sporting drifter wearing a sleeveless shirt to show off his prolific arm tattoos entered the bathroom. “Holy shit!” he cried. “It looks like somebody had a baby in here! Oh well, fuck it, beats shitting at the shelter.”
Heather became lost in her tirade. “When I started working here, it was a happier time, a simpler time, an easier time, a better time. I could make coffee all day and sell it at an absurdly marked up price but posers didn’t care as long as they could post selfies of themselves holding a trendy cup. I was able to watch WNN on the monitor for free and at most, on any given day, I rarely had to spend more than five minutes cleaning the bathroom and I just want to return to that simpler time…”
“Hey,” came the voice of the drifter from inside the bathroom. “Someone should really scrub all the blood off the walls. It’s unsanitary.”
Heather continued. “…now all I want to do is return to that better time, that wonderful time, that…”
Janice punched the glass and, without a care for the blood dripping from her knuckles, seized the cat-o-nine-tails. “Don’t you say it.”
“…a funkier time…a fresher time…”
Janice’s nostrils flared. “If you say it, you’re….”
Heather ripped off her pink pussy hat and tossed it to the ground. She pulled off her Che Guevara shirt to reveal a star-spangled, red-white-and blue Vinny Stugotz campaign shirt, emblazoned with the forty-fifth president’s catchphrase, “Make America Funky Fresh Again!”
“MAFFA!” Heather shouted at the top of her lungs. “MAFFA, motherfuckers! MAFFA forever!”
All the hipsters, baristas, and homeless folk averted their eyes, as if Heather’s new shirt contained the retina burning light rumored to pour out of the ark of the covenant itself.

“I never wanted this!” Heather shouted. “You all made me this way! This is been brewing in my gut for months and finally, I have to let it out! If you want stuff, you should buy it! If you can’t afford to buy it, you should get a job! If you can’t find a job, you should seek the skills needed for one! If your physically or mentally impaired, then you should seek out government services instead of just lying around on the street all day but at any rate, if you want a better life, then that better life comes from you, not from the government.”

Janice broke out into tears. “I’m going to need to rent all the therapy puppies to get over this. How could you, Heather?! How could you?!”
Heather looked at her mentor and felt internal anguish. She hopped off the table and attempted to hug the older woman, only to be pushed away. “Get away from me, monster! You support that criminal! That animal! That beast who wants to lock all minorities in concentration camps!”
The young lady sighed. “Janice, he’s been president for two years and he hasn’t locked up any minorities in concentration camps.”
The boss wiped a tear from her cheek. “He will. They’re coming. Any day now. Camps for gay people. Camps for women. Camps for brown people. The blog-o-sphere told me so.”
The drifter inside the bathroom broke the tension. “You’d you people would stock up on more toilet paper. Is free toilet paper too much to ask?”
Heather walked over to the counter, grabbed the remote control, then returned to Janice. She put her arm around her boss, then pointed the remote at the TV.
“No,” Janice said. “Please don’t.”
“They’re not that bad,” Heather said. “You’ll see.”
Heather turned off WNN and turned on Network News One, the only network dedicated to bring the latest in conservative news and also, titties. Big titties attached to jaw droppingly beautiful female reporters. At the moment, those lovely ladies were taking a powder so that conservative blowhard Jim Clayton, a white-haired old fogie with a buzz cut, could bark at the camera.
“Welcome back to Jim Clayton’s America. Today on the show, are feminazi activists trying to chop the pee-pees off your three-year-old sons and turn them into little girls? The answer is a most resounding yes, but first, taxes. Fuck taxes. Fuck ‘em right in the butt. I hate taxes and I don’t care who knows it. If you want my money, eat a dick. Come at me and take my money out of my cold, dead hand if you want it so bad but until then, get a job. What the fake news media won’t tell you is that thanks to the booming Stugotz economy, companies are flush with cash and they’re churning out jobs out the wazoo, so get a job hippies and stop trying to raise taxes so you can give all my hard-earned money to shiftless flat-backers, no good, degenerate lay-abouts, and dirty rotten deadbeats.”
Heather took a deep breath and closed her eyes. “Preach, my brother, preach!”
All hope fell out of Janice’s eyes. “You’re fired, Heather.”
“I know,” Heather said with a smile. “And that’s ok. I’ll find another job because I’m switching my major to venture capitalism.”
“Please go away,” Janice said.
“And I’m going to get married,” Heather said. “To a man.”
“Stop,” Janice said.
“I don’t know what he’ll be,” Heather said. “Maybe a police officer or a fracking rig operator…”
“No more,” Janice said. “Please, no more.”
“We’ll have three children,” Heather said. “And I’ll take a few years off of work to raise them because seeing their adorable little faces will be the greatest pleasure of my life.”
Janice pointed at the door. “Get out! Your words cut through the depths of my soul like a flaming hot knife through butter!”
“I’ll take care of myself,” Heather said. “And I’ll urge my friends and family to take personal responsibility. And if I ever do fall on hard times, the support system I’ve created by starting a family will be there for me, so I won’t have to depend on the incompetent, bureaucratic machinations of big government…”
The baristas stared at the TV. Jim Clayton was working himself into a foamy lather.

“Look, I’m not saying that women’s reproductive rights should be regulated by the government, I’m just saying that their vaginas should be packed full of cement, only to be chipped away when they enter the bonds of holy matrimony. That’s right. We’re going to build walls inside women’s vaginas and we’re going to make them pay for it.”
Janice dabbed her moist eyes with a handkerchief. “That’s disgusting.”
“Actually,” Heather said. “It makes sense when you think about…”
A scream came out of the bathroom. It was louder than usual.
“What the?! Argh! What’s…what’s happening to me?!”
Janice knocked on the door. “Hello! Sir, assuming that’s your preferred pronoun, and forgive me if it isn’t, are you OK in there?”
“GAHHHHHHHHHHH!!!”
“Damn it,” Heather said. “Another crackhead overdosing because the liberal-political-media industrial complex convinced this guy that he should live on the dole, avoiding any and all personal responsibility, never finding any direction that would make him a better person and…”
The drifter’s cries grew deafening. “SOMEBODY HELP ME! HELP ME, PLEASE….ARRGGHHH!”
“You’ve been helped enough, sir,” Heather said. “Lazy sponges like you are the reason why Stugotz won!”
Janice grabbed the knob. “I think he actually needs help.”
“Oh,” Heather said. “Right.”
The boss opened the door. She and Heather looked inside to find that the drifter had been burnt to a crisp. His body had the texture of a charred, blackened marshmallow, gooey yet crusty. His mouth was agape, his teeth the only part left that hadn’t been fried.
Heather’s immediate response? “Why the hell is there a black guy in here?”
All the screenwriting hipsters snapped their heads toward Heather in disgust. “No, wait,” Heather said. “That came around wrong. I love black people. All my best friends are black. I marched for black rights all the time. I’m just saying, this guy was white but now he was somehow turned black and…”
“Stop digging the hole, fascist,” Janice said as she surveyed the room. The walls were already covered with the blood and feces of over a hundred non-paying bathroom users, but the smoking husk of a man was a sight that no barista had ever seen before.
“Clean this up, Heather,” Janice said.
“Uh…hello?” Heather asked. “You just fired me.”
“Oh, right,” Janice said. “Damn it.”

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Daily Discussion with BQB – Don’t Worry, Be Happy?

Hey 3.5 readers.

Do you think singer Bobby McFerrin was right when he advised the world, “Don’t worry, be happy?”

Sometimes I wonder if it is more appropriate to worry and also be unhappy.

Honestly, if you ain’t got no cash and ain’t got no style, ain’t got no girl to make you smile, then what the hell do you have to be happy about?

Discuss.

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Daily Discussion with BQB – Hamster Marriage

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3.5 readers, a very important discussion today.

Should hamsters be allowed to marry?

Specifically…should hamsters have the right…

  • to marry other hamsters?
  • to marry people?
  • to marry cats?
  • to marry dogs?
  • to marry frogs?
  • to marry gophers?
  • to marry chimpanzees?
  • to marry platypi?
  • to have straight hamster marriage?
  • to have gay hamster marriage?
  • for three hamsters to get married?

This is truly the great question of our age.  And I don’t ask it lightly.  Frankly, I dont know where all the hamsters in the pet store are coming from, but I can only assume that all those hamsters are the result of some very hardcore hamster fucking and I am tired of these hamsters living in sin, having all kinds of freaky hamster sex without exchanging vows and making it all official in the eyes of God.

Further, and please, stop being a bigot, folks, OK?  It’s 2018, so I really think that if we are going to let straight hamsters get married then we should let gay hamsters get married to.  It’s time, folks.  OK?  It’s time.

If hamsters want to marry outside of their species, I’m fine with it.  If a hamster wants to marry a duck or a mongoose or something, that’s fine.  Who am I to tell a hamster that he or she can’t love a penguin?

And I’m not going to tell a hamster that he or she can’t love an inanimate object either, so if a hamster wants to marry a deck of playing cards or a bag of chips or a tasteful rendering of Wayne Newton, bare chested and riding a unicorn into outer space, who am I to say no?

Now, you might wonder, how could a hamster fuck an elephant or a goat or a donkey or a bucket of extra crispy fried chicken or a roll of wet paper towels.  While I applaud your inquisitive mind, I remind you that this is none of your business.  You don’t need to know.  Hamsters aren’t taking notes about your sexual habits so you don’t need to take notes about theirs, OK?  Sheesh. 2018 people.

Anyway, please let me know your thoughts on the important issue of hamster sex and/or more importantly, hamster marriage and whether or not you support hamster matrimony.

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Great Musings of the Twenty-First Century – #251-275

And now, Bookshelf Q. Battler, one of the greatest minds of the Twenty-First Century (but hey, the century is still young) will share his great musings…

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#251 – Sundays are for sleeping in.

#252 – He who stands out in the rain without an umbrella is likely to end up all wet.

#253 – Col. Mustard is guilty of all “Clue” related crimes.

#254 – I’ve never seen a geyser.

#255 – All the hot older female celebrities I used to jerk off to in the 1990s have AARP cards now.  Eat a dick, time.

#256 – “Rutabaga” is fun to say.

#257 – Chivalry may not be dead, but it’s on life support.

#258 – It’s been awhile since I’ve taken part in tomfoolery.

#259 – Sigh.  Whenever I fly, I’m inevitably stuck between a fat man and a crying baby.  Just once, I’d like to be stuck between a fat baby and a crying man.

#260 – I wonder if Zeus is still around.  Wait, what’s that thundering sound?

#261 – I put my pants on the same way as anybody else:  two legs at a time after I jump off a trampoline and land a perfect dismount into them.

#262 – There goes the neighborhood.

#263 – End the drug war today and let big box stores sell crack already.

#264 – Thanksgiving must be an interesting time at the Fett household.

#265 – Show me a man who writes “Firefly” fan fiction and I’ll show you a man who can make a vagina drier than the Mojave.

#266 – I wonder what my old baseball cards are worth today.

#267 – I’ve never made love in an elevator.

#268 – Most foods are improved with a little sprinkle of parmesan cheese.

#269 – No one wears spurs anymore.

#270 – If asked by the local sheriff, I feel like it would be hard to turn down a request to join a posse.

#271 – I don’t need to be told how to get to Sesame Street.  I have a navigation app on my phone, thank you.

#272 – Skydiving will never be my bag.

#273 – I could go for a good episode of “NCIS” and a bowl full of cherries doused in a heaping helping of whipped cream right about now.

#274 – The first draft of the Declaration of Independence begins, “Yo, King, slurp on our big, fat, hairy colonial…”  Well, it stops there.  Assumably, Jefferson started over after that.

#275 – If “oranges” are orange, why aren’t grapes, “purples?”

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Great Musings of the Twenty-First Century- #225 – #250

And now, Bookshelf Q. Battler, one of the greatest minds of the Twenty-First Century (but hey, the century is still young) will share his great musings…

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#225 – Politeness should come back in style.

#226 – Kung-fu should be a mandatory high school class.

#227 – Is this all just an elaborate attempt to make fun of Larry King?

#228 – Once you have squeezed a pair of DD’s, it’s hard to go smaller.

#229 – Napkins are fancy paper towels.

#230 – I’m going to change for the better…tomorrow.

#231 – Pumpkins are delicious all year long, not just October.

#232 – I should be nicer and count my blessings.

#233 – I bet you $100 I can quit gambling anytime I want.

#235 – I like the smell of my own farts.  I would spend all day in my own personal fart cloud if I could.

#236 – Firecrackers are just explosive devices on a smaller scale.

#237 – Does God ever pray to himself?

#238 – Squash is the only vegetable with a name that tells you how to prepare it.

#239 – Despite what the song says, it is impossible to walk on sunshine.  Anyone who tries to walk on the sun would burn up.  No one could ever get close enough to even try.

#240 – The word “moist” turns vaginas dry.

#241 – Memories are like the mind’s reruns.

#242 – Never befriend a shark.

#243 – I wonder if anyone has ever glued their nads to their leg before.  In the entire history of glue, surely it has happened once.  Why the alleged nad gluer put glue on his nads is anyone’s guess.

#244 – I miss rotary phones.  Old fashioned?  Yes, but no one was ever butt dialed with a rotary phone.

#245 – I’ve never seen the inside of my own butt so I can’t confirm its existence.

#246 – Leprosy is not a good time.

#247 – Oh boy.  Another superhero movie.

#248 – Change the subject and change your mind.

#249 – Any reality TV show camera crew that follows me around all day would be very bored.

#250 – No one carries handkerchiefs anymore and they should.  It’s sad.  People of the past cared a lot more about booger control than people of today do.

 

 

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Great Musings of the Twenty-First Century – #201-225

And now, Bookshelf Q. Battler, one of the greatest minds of the Twenty-First Century (but hey, the century is still young) will share his great musings…

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#201 – I wrote a whole slate of musings to put into this post and then I clicked the screen off by accident and they are gone forever…or are they?  They probably are.  I don’t think they are coming back.

#202 – Carrier pigeon is an efficient way to send a letter.

#203 – Yogurt looks like semen but tastes better, I assume.  Please note that I said, “I assume.”

#204 – I could go for a nice bowl of soup.

#205 – An unrowed boat will never go ashore.

#206 – Fish are nice pets, but it’s not a good idea to pet them.

#207 – Cheese can be grilled but it doesn’t boil well.

#208 – If it were possible to run around the world fast enough, you might, for a split second, catch a glimpse of your own ass as it runs away, visible to you as you round the bend and finish your global circumnavigation.

#209 – Beers sure can get you drunk if you guzzle enough of them.

#210 – Whenever you see a labradoodle, assume it’s the product of Labrador retriever on poodle fucking.

#211 – Wombats are neither bats nor woms.  Discuss.

#212 – Weeds are the douchebags of the garden.

#213 – It saddens me that saying, “Hey baby, nice dumper!” has gone from being considered a pleasant compliment to a rude, inappropriate statement.  What has the world come to?

#214 – When you need to chew something, you can’t go wrong with gum.

#215 – Coins are outdated.

#216 – I’m thinking about becoming a Navy Seal.  I can slap my fins together, but catching an uncooked fish in my mouth will take some doing.  That’s the kind of seal the Navy is looking for, right?

#217 – Ties are weird.  Who decided a long piece of cloth hanging down from a man’s neck is necessary?

#218 – Heists would be fun if they weren’t illegal or dangerous.

#219 – Whenever I’m at the end of my rope, I find more slack.

#220 – Barbecue sauce is the best of all sauces.

#221 – It’s a shame that bears look so huggable, and yet hugging them is such a bad idea.  What a waste.

#222 – What is foo and why do the Foo Fighters fight it?

#223 – How old do cowboys have to get before they become cowmen?

#224 – Between bacon and sausage, bacon is the superior breakfast meat.

#225 – A straw is the best way to get liquid into your mouth without having to touch your lips to the container holding the liquid in question.

 

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