Tag Archives: funny

How A Post About Witches Increased Traffic to This Fine Blog

Nuclear missiles can be launched with less effort than it took me to add this picture to this post. I am really not a fan of WordPress’ new blogging functions. I was only starting to get the hang of the last version after 7 years.

A few years ago, I was younger (spoiler alert, a few years ago we were all younger by a few years) and I had more energy to write creatively on this fine blog. Among my contributions were a series of the top ten reasons why your boyfriend or girlfriend was…a vampire…a doomsday prepper…a ninja…an assassin…a wannabe rapper…and so on.

Now I’m a few years older and I have less energy. Also, quite frankly, I have less time on earth now and my mind no longer placates itself into thinking that I’m gonna turn it all around by becoming a famous write. I’m stuck in the bed I made for myself and let that be a lesson to you, 3.5 readers. Once you make your bed, you got to lie in it…forever and ever and ever and ever and ever. Ergo, I am now a grumpy old bastard with less time and/or interest in bringing myself to think of creative things to write on this fine blog.

But a few years ago I wrote a post about the Top Ten Warning Signs Your Girlfriend Might Be a Witch. Over the years, I saw interest in this post grow, including search terms like, “Is my girlfriend a witch?” (Son, I hate to break it to you, but if you have to google it, you already know the answer.)

I am curious if such googlers are worried their girlfriends are witches of the occult variety (i.e. some dude who saw a female silhouette strafing across the night sky atop a broomstick and he couldn’t help but notice that while this was happening his girlfriend and broomstick were nowhere to be found) or of the regular variety (i.e. she never lets him watch the game or chill with his homeboys and if he burps sideways she writes eighty-seven posts about it.)

Anyway, there is usually an uptick of interest in this post around Halloween. Hard to say, but 30 visitors a day to this exceptional blog is average. Around Halloween this year I received close to 200 visitors thanks in large part to this post. To the close to 200 dudes trying to find out if their girlfriends are witches, I think you ought to stop wondering and just go out and find yourselves girlfriends who you are SURE are not witches…unless you are ugly and/or poor and/or unsuccessful in which case you should probably stick with these witches because on a statistical level, no one else wants you so you need to put up with your girlfriend’s cauldron full of eye of newt and/or charging designer furry boots on your credit card without your permission, whichever witch case she may be.

Or don’t. Because hey, it’s better to be single than to be with a witch. Then again, I hear green women are freaky so maybe she’s worth it. You know what? Don’t come to me for advice about women, be they witches or non-witches. If I knew anything about women, I wouldn’t be writing on a blog that is read by only 3.5 readers.

Anyway, I hope this increase in visitors continues. Though Halloween is behind us, the daily visitors seem consistent at around 70, so there are still a lot of dudes who want to know if they are dating witches.

To those dudes I say:

  1. Probably.
  2. But are you a prize yourself?
  3. Maybe you should just go with it. Not all witches are bad.
  4. I’m sorry she turned you into a toad.

Do you want to know if your girlfriend is a witch? Read the epic post here.

https://bookshelfbattle.com/2016/04/02/top-ten-warning-signs-your-girlfriend-might-be-a-witch/

FYI: I would have embedded the above post into the words “Read the epic post here” but WordPress changes its blogging functions around more than Lady Gaga changes her outfits and I don’t have the strength to figure out how to embed links into words at the moment.

DOUBLE FYI: I just googled “Top Ten Warning Signs Your Girlfriend Might Be a Witch” and I’m proud to say that this post was ranked not only at the top of the page, but a similar post from The Washington Post came in second. A few years ago, that would have really stroked my ego, but today as I mentioned I am quite old and lethargic so I’m not that impressed…although I would note that when it comes to the topic of determining whether one’s girlfriend is a witch, this blog beats the paper that took down Nixon even while it has all the resources that Jeff Bezos can bring to bear, including the whopping 17.8 cents that Jeff has added to his fortune thanks to my self-published books.

TRIPLE FYI: Lesbians, I didn’t forget you. You may also be dating witches. You might also want to check out this post or you might want to ignore it because again, I’m not the one that straight dudes should be going to advice for about women so I doubt my advice will help you out either.

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I Speak for the Pangolin

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I Speak for the Pangolin

By: Bookshelf Q. Battler

(Based on The Lorax)

My name is BQB and I speak for the pangolin.

It’s like an anteater, complete with battle armor for skin.

And people, I have to say, it’s really quite suspicious,

That anyone would ever find a pangolin to be delicious.

Yes!  My name is BQB and I speak for the pangolin.

It’s like an armadillo, but with a slimy little chin.

My friends, I tell you, it really is a sin,

When you’re cooking a pot of soup, to throw a pangolin in!

Pangolins are not delicious.  They do not taste good.

All a pangolin ever wanted to do was frolic in the wood.

If you eat a pangolin, you will get the entire world sick.

So please don’t eat a pangolin, or else you’ll be a dick.

Every pangolin has a purpose, and every pangolin has its time.

So eating a pangolin sandwich really should be a crime.

Pangolins don’t taste good in broth and they don’t taste good on toast.

Eating a poor, defenseless pangolin is something about which one should never boast.

So don’t lick pangolin ice cream and don’t spread pangolin jelly.

For the last place a pangolin wants to be is inside a human’s belly.

Yes!  My name is BQB and I speak for all the pangolins of the world.

Please heed my warning, and let my message be unfurled.

Pangolins have no place in your stomach, but you can keep them in your heart.

From a distance, of course, for you and a pangolin should always be apart.

Sure, pangolins are adorable, but remember, they aren’t good for licking.

So keep your tongue in your mouth, or it’s the world’s ass you’ll be kicking.

Keep the pangolin off your pizza and take the pangolin out of your oven.

Pangolins aren’t a treat, ya know, so don’t feed one to your cousin.

Don’t grind a pangolin in your blender and don’t bake a pangolin up in a souffle.

If you do, you’ll send the entire planet on a bender and there will surely be hell to pay.

For pangolins are unclean and are scary little disease carriers.

If God wanted you to eat a pangolin, he wouldn’t have covered their bods with spiny little barriers.

In closing, let me say, that I am BQB and I speak for the pangolin.

If the pangolin could speak, then I would go out tango-in.

If the pangolin could speak, they’d say, “Please, do not eat me!”

But until the pangolin can speak, you’ll have to take it from BQB.

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Swaddled Pug

For no reason other than maybe some of my 3.5 readers could be cheered up by the sight of a wrapped up pug:

pug-801826_1280

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Daily Discussion with BQB – Should Deodorant Come in Boysenberry Scents?

I’m tired of that chemical perfume smell.  I want to smell like lavender, vanilla, oranges, citrus, and creme de menthe.

Do you also want to smell like this?  If so, please invent such wonderful smells and put them into aerosol form.

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Disco Werewolf – Chapter 6

DISCO_WEREWOLF_1

“Disco Werewolf is a flash in the pan,” Boogiedown Barry said while sipping his fifth drink of the evening.  “All these young up and comers to the disco scene.  They’re all razzle and no dazzle, all trash and no sash, you know what I mean?  They’re all about the kooky get ups first and the actual art of dancing comes in at a distant second, if that.  You getting all this down?”

“Dancing…comes…in…second,” Claudette mumbled to herself as she jotted her interviewee’s words down in her notebook.  “I got it, but you have to admit, Disco Werewolf can dance.”

Barry looked out at the dancefloor, where the furry funkmaster was matching the beat, note for note, with his big fuzzy feet.  All kinds of sexy ladies pushed each other out of the way for a chance to shake their booties in the wolfman of the hour’s general vicinity.

“Bah,” Barry said.  “I admit nothing.”

“Do you know who he is?”  Claudette asked.

Barry raised an eyebrow.  “Do I know who he is?”

“Yes,” Claudette said.

“Sure, I do,” Barry said.

Claudette looked at Barry with anticipation, pen at the ready.

“He’s the rat bastard who’s ruining my life,” Barry said.  “Look at him.  Hogging up the floor while the rest of us can’t get a foot in edgewise.”

The aspiring journalist frowned upon realizing that Barry didn’t know the secret to the question she was trying so desperately to answer.

Barry sipped, then belched, then sipped again.  “What did you say your name again was, little filly?”

“Claudette.”

“Claudette Who?” Barry asked as he ogled the gyrating rump stuffed inside a short orange skirt just a few feet away.

“Jenkins.”

Barry immediately snapped to attention, no longer interested in the aforementioned heiney.  He looked the kid over.  “Jenkins, huh?”

“Yes.”

“Who are you with?” Barry asked.

“Freelance is what I should say to be honest,” Claudette replied.  “With any luck, for the New York Courant.”

“Huh.  You look a might underripe to be a reporter if you ask me.  Then again, no one asks old Boogiedown Barry anything anymore.  Oh, they used to.  How they used to hang on my every word until that fat pile of…hey, don’t write this part.  This part is off the record.”

“You hate Disco Werewolf,” Claudette said.  “I got it.”

“I do,” Barry said as he watched the monster get freaky.  “Then again, I’m starting to think I shouldn’t.  I mean, does the lion hate the lamb?  Does the hound hate the fox?  Does the  axe murderer in all those cheesy, bargain basement slasher flicks hate the horny teenagers he’s always chasing around?  You see where I’m going with this?”

“Not at all,” Claudette replied.

“I know I’m good,” Barry said.  “I know he stinks.  I don’t have to prove nothing to nobody, you hear?”

“I hear,” Claudette said.

Barry swished the booze around in his mouth like it was mouthwash, then swallowed.  “Now that, you can print.”

Thump.  Thump.  Thump.  A pair of heavy feet cut through the crowd, trudging their way to the bar.  Soon enough, Barry and Claudette found themselves in the company of a big ass werewolf, as well as his hangers on.

“You’re the best, DW!”  one man shouted.  “You’re far out!”

“Groovy, baby!” came another male voice.  “Positively groovy!”

“Disco Werewolf, are you seeing anyone?” asked a female voice.

Barry was standing right beside Disco Werewolf now, but refused to acknowledge him.  Disco Werewolf looked at the fella who used to be the club’s number one dancer and growled.  “Grrr.”

              “Huh?” Barry asked as he chewed on a toothpick and looked around the bar, anywhere but in the werewolf’s direction.  “Somebody say something?  I don’t know, because I don’t talk to nobodies.”

Disco Werewolf let the rude comment slide off and raised a finger.  Ferdinand the bartender practically tripped over himself as he rushed over with an aluminum shaker in hand.

“I got your usual right here, DW, baby,” Ferdinand said as he opened the shaker and poured the contents into a glass.  He popped a toothpick into an olive, inserted it into the drink and handed it over.

The werewolf sipped.

“How is it, sir?” Ferdinand asked.  “Not too dry, I hope?  You know what, Disco Werewolf, you just say the word and I’ll throw it out and make you another.”

Disco Werewolf guzzled the concoction down in a single gulp.  Ferdinand waited in suspense for the verdict.  The monster kicked his head back and howled in delight.  “Ahhhh-wooo!”

Ferdinand smiled while the Looky Lous cheered.  “Don’t you worry, Mr. Werewolf.  I’ll keep those coming all night long.  Free of charge.  Totally gratis, on the house.  Mr. Sugarshine told me straight up, his mouth to my ears, that I shouldn’t even dream of taking your money.”

Disco Werewolf nodded and patted the barkeep on the shoulder.

“Oh wowie, zowie!” Ferdinand said.  “I’ll never wash this shoulder ever again!”

“Like you’ve ever taken a bath in your entire life, spazoid,” Barry said.

“Pipe down, has been!” Ferdinand replied.  “And you’d better make good on your tab, Barry!  It’s already $108.57 and counting!  Mr. Sugarshine can’t be expected to subsidize deadbeat rummies forever!”

“Bah,” Barry said.  “Mr. Sugarshine can subsidize both cheeks of my ass.”

Disco Werewolf was about to walk away when he felt a tug on his paw.  He looked down to see Claudette.  He locked eyes with her and for a brief moment, looked as though he were in a daze.

“Disco Werewolf?” Claudette said as she held up her notepad and pen.  “Claudette Jenkins, hopefully for the New York Courant.  Do you have a minute?”

They say that canines can’t smile because they have no lips, but on some level, the club’s resident dance hound looked happy.  He patted the girl on the head, tussling her hair.  Then, he took the pad and pen, scribbled something down, and handed it all back to Claudette before returning to the action.

Ferdinand leaned over the bar.  “Hokie smokies!   What’d he write?”

Claudette looked at the pad, then showed it to Ferdinand:

To Claudette:

              Stay in school.

              XOXO

              Disco Werewolf

              “Wow,” Ferdinand said.  “If I were you, I’d have that framed.”

Barry felt the need to interrupt.  “Pbbht!  If I were you, I’d have my head examined.”

“Stick a sock in it, lush!” Ferdinand said.  “No one asked you!”

“Bah, your mother wears combat boots,” Barry replied.

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Disco Werewolf Begins

I’ve been in a funk all year, 3.5 readers.  I’m hoping for a day when I can really sit and concentrate, put in all my hours on crafting books.

In the meantime, I need stories that have that special ability to flow out of my brain, through my fingers and onto the keyboard.

I’ve been starting new books and getting stuck all year until recently, for some reason, the next story that has apparently chosen to use me as its vessel appears to be:

DISCO_WEREWOLF_1

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A Goodbye Letter to My 3.5 Readers

Dear 3.5 Readers,

I have decided this is all bullcrap and therefore I will quit my efforts at bloggery.

All those years ago when I started this fine blog, I did so because I thought I was a good writer.  However, as it turns out, I was just expending existential gas and now I’m empty.

I have decided to watch the City Girls/Cardi B Twerk video for the rest of my life on a continuous loop.  Yes, the one where they fill the yacht with twerking butts.

To fund this lifestyle, I have sold this blog to a South Korean media conglomerate.  Does that mean this blog will change?  Yes.  A lot?  Yes.

How will it be different?  Well, before I used to opine quite a bit.  But now, this blog will mostly be advertisements for squid candy.  Mmm delicious squid candy.

Also, people in funny costumes dancing like Psy.  While they sell squid candy.

By the way, when they bought this blog, they paid me in squid candy.  Also, they bought all of you, paying me 3.5 boxes of squid candy per reader.

Enjoy the blog, 3.5.  I’m off now to watch that twerk video for the rest of my life.

For more information on the impending South Korean takeover of this fine blog, click here.

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Son of Toilet Gator – Chapter 6

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“What’s wrong?!”

“Fa…fa…fa…fish!”

Smegma shrugged his shoulders.  “Happens to the best of us.  Just wash it off in the sink and I’m sure it will be…”

The bathroom door opened.  The buxom blonde came rushing out and hid behind the studly spy. Smegma poked his head into the bathroom to find a three-foot long swordfish.  It was flopping about the cramped room, smashing into this and that.  On the whole, it appeared relatively harmless, save its long, razor sharp nose.

Smegma gasped.  “Toilet swordfish!  This must be the work of…”

Clap. Clap.  Clap.

Slowly, the agent turned and watched as a man exited the cockpit.  He wore khaki pants, a black polo shirt and had a long, bushy black beard.  He carried a large, black duffel bag. He slapped his hands together as he approached.

“Congratulations, Mr. Smegma.  You’re not as dimwitted as I thought.”

“Meanwhile, you’re dumber than ever if you thought you’d be able to take me out with a fish nose up the ass, Hakeem.”

Bonanza raised her hand.  Smegma acknowledge her.  “Yes?”

“I’m sorry,” Bonanza said.  “It’s just so typical of males to assume that every woman in the room already knows what he knows.  Would you explain?”

Smegma sighed.  “If I do, will you accuse me of mansplaining?”

Bonanza looked up.  She took a few seconds to think.  “Not this time.”

The agent nodded.  “This is the international terrorist Hakeem Abdul Qassab, a top lieutenant in the Fatwah Brigade.  If their leader, Sheikh Omar al-Mutairi decides you’ve offended his disgusting, perverted version of the Islamic faith, he’ll send one of his errand boys to end your life.”

Smegma looked at the fish, still flopping around in the bathroom.  “A pity for the Sheikh that good help is hard to find.”

Qassab smiled.  “I admit that out of all the toilet animals Dr. Malfeasor offered, the toilet swordfish is truly the lamest.  However, you get what you pay for.  Perhaps if your country, the Great Satan that is the United States, would stop looting and raping our lands for five minutes, the Sheikh would be able to afford something truly badass, like a toilet stingray or a…”

“Enough small talk,” Smegma said.  “The pilot?”

The terrorist set his bag down on a seat.  “I forced him engage the autopilot just before I sent him to hell.  Care to join him?”

“That’s a date I’ve been postponing for quite some time now.”

Qassab unzipped the duffel bag.  “Oh, Mr. Smegma.  I think you’ll be making that appointment this time.”

“Then I’ll be sure to say hello to your brothers,” Smegma said.  “How many did I send there again?”

The terrorist waved his finger in Smegma’s direction.  “They are not in hell!  They are basking in the glory of heaven where 72 virgins will wait on them hand and foot and take care of their every need and desire for all eternity.”

Smegma scoffed at that notion.  “Meh.”

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“No,” Qassab said.  “What?”

“I don’t want to rain on your parade.”

“Please,” Qassab said.  “Rain away.  I’m nothing if I can’t accept a little constructive criticism.”

“Well,” Smegma said.  “It’s just that, they’re virgins for a reason you know.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean,” Smegma said.  “If you’ve got fully grown, adult female women who died and ended up in heaven and they never once touched a penis, then they’re pretty lame.”

Bonanza inserted herself into the conversation.  “Unless they chose to abstain from penis out of their own free will as strong, independent women.”

Qassab pointed at Bonanza, but directed his eyes to Smegma.  “Will you shut that bitch up and tell her that men are talking?”

Smegma smirked.  “You forget in the West, women have rights.”

The terrorist laughed.  “Ha!  The great, world renowned ladies’ man, Dirk Smegma, standing up for a woman.  Now I’ve seen everything.  You have become, how you say, beta cuck bitch boy, yes?”

“Something like that,” Smegma replied.

Qassab and Smegma locked eyes.  The terrorist unzipped his bag and pulled out a sedated swordfish.  It was devoid of any movement, perfectly still.  He held it by the tail and pointed the sharp end at Smegma. “En garde!”

The spy kept his cool as he stared down the end of that incredibly pointy fish schnoz.  On pure instinct, he reached into the bathroom and punched the floppy fish in the face, knocking it out cold.  He then grabbed its tail and pointed the fish toward the terrorist.  “Touche!”

Clang, clang, clang!  Like a scene straight out of The Three Musketeers, Smegma and Qassab exchanged a dazzling array of thrusts and parries, each more powerful than the last.  As they each struggled to be the last man standing, Attorney Bonanza couldn’t help but offer some commentary.  “I can’t watch this.  There’s way too much toxic masculinity here.”

Qassab struck at Smegma and missed, giving the agent the wiggle room he needed to kick the terrorist in the stomach, causing him to stumble backward.

“Oh, what a senseless display of violence!” Bonanza cried.  “What could possibly be the root of all this?”

Qassab charged at Smegma, hoping to stick the spy in the gut with his swordfish.  As he did so, he shouted, “Allahu Akbar!”

The grim spectacle made the luscious babe feel feint.  She raised the back of her hand, held it against it forehead and looked upward towards the heavens, or at least, the ceiling of the plane’s interior.  “Why is this happening?”

Smegma dodged the attack and locked his swordfish with Qassab’s.  Clang, clang, clang!  The battle was epic and there was no end in sight, for each man was, strangely enough, quite skilled in the art of swordfishplay.

“I will kill you in the name of the prophet, Smegma!”  Qassab cried.

Clang, clang, clang!

“What on earth could be causing this sad display?” Bonanza asked herself.

Clang, clang, clang!

“Today is the day you die!” Qassab shouted.  “For I, the great Hakeem Abdul Qassab, will destroy you in the name of Islam!”

Bonanza collapsed in a seat.  “Oh, we may never know.”

The lady’s persistent questioning distracted Qassab.  He looked towards the woman.  “Filthy whore! Get the shit out of your ears! I’m telling you directly and very succinctly that I am about to murderer this son of a motherless cow in the name of Allah and Islam!”

“The motivation of this attack will forever be a mystery!” Bonanza shouted back.

Smegma took advantage of the confusion by punching Qassab in the face.  “Don’t call her a whore!  That’s slut shaming!”

At that moment, Smegma made a critical error by looking at Bonanza in the hopes of acquiring her approval.  She nodded.  “Thank you.  It is.  However, Agent Smegma, the optics of your current predicament are quite abysmal.”

Bam!  Smegma’s face contorted as it accepted a shoe attached to a foot that was delivered by a roundhouse kick.  Clang, clang, clang!  Terrorist and spy traded swordfish blows again.

“The optics?!”  Smegma asked.

Bonanza stood up in front of her seat.  “Yes!  The sight of you, a white, Anglo-Saxon male of European descent, a cultural Christian attacking a person of color…”

Qassab got the upper hand on his opponent by cornering Smegma against a wall.  The terrorist gripped his hand around the spy’s face.  Smegma’s eyes focused on the sharp swordfish nose that Qassab was bringing closer and closer.  Despite it all, Smegma managed to defend himself from Attorney Bonanza’s protestations.  “He started it!”

Smegma kneed Qassab in the groin, sending the terrorist to the floor in a spent heap.

“Did he?” Bonanza asked.  “Or did America start it when…”

The agent lifted his leg and brought his foot down on Qassab’s chest.  “Look, I’m not a racist.”

“Anyone who starts a sentence with, ‘I’m not a racist’ is most assuredly about to say something racist,” Bonanza said.

Qassab had been weakened by the attack on his testicles, but he managed to back Bonanza up.  “She’s got you there.”

“All I’m trying to say is that Islam has a problem.”

In unison, Qassab and Bonanza let out the same reply.  “Oh my God!”

“The nerve!” Bonanza added.

Qassab spit up a bit of blood.  “I know, right?”

“Agent Smegma,” Bonanza said.  “Are you oblivious to the fact that acts of terrorism are often committed against people of color by white Christians who believe their violence is justified by their religion?”

Smegma sighed.  “I’m not saying there aren’t bad apples in every bunch.”

“Oh,” Bonanza said.  “Here we go.”

Qassab coughed and winced from the pain he was in.  “Spare us your platitudes, klansman!”

Smegma pointed downward at Qassab.  “I’m just saying the number of apples in HIS bunch is higher than average.”

Bonanza and Qassab gave the same reply.  “Oh my God!”

“I can’t believe you schtupped this guy,” Qassab said.

“You heard that?” Bonanza asked.

“I’m sorry,” Qassab answered.  “There’s an intercom in the cockpit that lets you hear everything going on back here.  I wasn’t trying to pry, I just shot the pilot in the head before I asked him how to turn it off.  My bad.”

Bonanza shot Smegma a cold stare.  “You really think this way, don’t you?”

“Dar….”  Smegma stopped himself from using the word “darling,” but felt the title of attorney was too formal for the situation.  “Cooter, please understand, the world isn’t black and white.”

“Oh,” Bonanza said.  “Now you’re just going to casually throw around words like ‘black’ and ‘white’ without considering the underlying racial implications?”

“They’re just words!” Smegma shouted.

“Ugh!” Bonanza said.  “Now it all makes sense.”

“What does?” Smegma asked.

“I’m starting to figure out why I’ll feel like you retroactively raped me in 2060,” Bonanza said.

Qassab choked and gasped.  “What’s wrong with rape?  A little rape never hurt anyone.”

Bonanza ignored that statement as she looked to Smegma.  “You disgust me.  You’re so blinded by your white privilege that you can’t see what a monster you’ve become.”

“I’m not saying that EVERY Muslim is a bad person,” Smegma said.  “In fact, there are, last time I checked, 1.8 billion followers of the Islamic faith in the world, so if they wanted to, they could conquer the globe and impose their will on us all easily.  The fact that they don’t tells us that the majority of devotees to the Islamic faith are fine, upstanding people who are just looking to live lives of peace and prosperity and have no desire to harm anyone.”

Qassab spit on the floor.  “Pbbht!  Wretched dogs!  They have no right to call themselves true Muslims if they do not adhere to the Fatwah Brigade’s version of Islam, for it is the one and only true version!  Oh, I would burn all 1.8 billion of them alive if I could!”

“See?” Smegma said.  “It’s worth mentioning that peaceful Muslims are victimized the most by radical Islamists.”

“I’ve never liked the term ‘radical Islamist,’” Qassab said.  “It sounds like I should be skateboarding down a half-pipe or something.”

“And you don’t think there are violent Christians out there?” Bonanza asked.

“I never said there weren’t,” Smegma said.  “And I never said that Christians who perpetrate violence should get a free pass for their evil deeds.  You’re confusing things quite needlessly.”

“Am I?” Bonanza asked.  “So, if a Muslim commits an act of terror, he’s a terrorist, but if a white Christian male commits an act of terror, he’s crazy, right?”

“Sometimes, yes,” Smegma said.  “Other times, no.  It’s all very muddled up, but I’ll concede that sometimes there are people of the Islamic faith who will suffer from mental illness and commit an act of violence as a result of that illness and that shouldn’t be counted against the Islamic faith as a whole just as the acts of violence perpetrated by mentally ill white Christians shouldn’t be held against all white Christians.”

“Oh,” Bonanza said.  “But acts of terror committed by sane Muslims should be held against all Muslims, but acts of terror committed by sane white Christians shouldn’t be held against all white Christians?”

Qassab laughed.  “She’s got you there, white devil.”

“I think anyone who commits an act of terror should be held responsible for that act of terror,” Smegma said.  “And broader arguments that it is the fault of everyone who shares the terrorists race or religion are ridiculous.”

“Finally,” Qassab said.

“Now we’re getting somewhere,” Bonanza added.

Smegma cleared his throat.  “I just think…

“Oh boy,” Qassab said.

“And now you’re going to ruin it,” Bonanza added.

“…that statistically speaking, members of the Islamic faith, as a whole, could do a little more to purge the bad actors out of their communities, ostracize and cast out those who are preaching hate and twisting their faith for their own evil ends.”

All the color drained from Bonanza’s face.  “I think I’m going to be sick.”

Qassab guffawed from his spot under the agent’s foot.  “Smegma, you oblivious douche!  Do you really think that some old Muslim granny sitting in her rocking chair is going to be able to nag me out of existence?  Me, who runs around blowing up buses and trains and chops the heads off infidels and…”

Smegma threw up his hands.  “This is going nowhere.”

“Tell me about it,” Bonanza replied.

“Can I try to make on last point?” Smegma asked.

“If you must,” Bonanza said.

“This ought to be good,” Qassab said.

“When it comes right down to it, there’s more to all of us that unites us than there is that divides us.  Surely, all the people of the world can set aside their cultural, racial and religious biases and accept a universal standard of right and wrong, and good people from all races, colors and creeds should stand together, united against bad people of all races, colors, and creeds.  Evil isn’t a particular race, or religion, or color.  Evil is just evil, and wherever you are, whoever you are, it has an uncanny ability to weave its way into the hearts of men and women alike.  This isn’t a racial war or a religious war.  Right will always be right and wrong will always be wrong, race, sex, or religion be damned.”

Bonanza and Qassab were silent for a time.

“Fucking pussy!” Qassab said.

“White nationalist!” Bonanza added.

Smegma gave up on the argument.  He gripped his swordfish with both hands and raised it high in the air, ready to bring the sharp end down on his opponent’s head.  “Enough talk!  This ends now!”

Wham!  Qassab’s boot connected with Smegma’s groin.  The agent dropped his fish and fell to the floor, doubled over in pain.

“Mommy!” Smegma cried.

The terrorist jumped up to his feet and dusted himself off.  He looked to the blonde.  “Thank you, spoiled rotten, mouthy American bitch!  Your insolent failure to defer to your man bought me the time I needed to rest and gather my strength so that I could smash Smegma’s gonads!”

“Ergh,” Smegma said as he writhed around on the floor.  “Hoisted on…my own…petard!”

“Thank you, foolish woman,” Qassab said.  “And as you meet your imminent death, know that one day, when the Fatwah Brigade rules over all it surveys, big mouthed broads such as yourself will be put in their place.  You will scrub the floors, wash the dishes, do the laundry, clean the house, make the meals, give men all the sex they require, perform all requested maneuvers in the bedroom, and when you are not in use, you will be chained to a radiator or failing that, the largest immobile object available. Failure to comply with a man’s orders will result in your death, followed by immediate replacement with a younger, more obedient wife-slave.”

“Ugh,” Smegma said as he grabbed his balls.  “You know, Hakeem, when you lay it all out like that, it doesn’t sound like such a bad deal.”

Qassab laughed.  “I know, right?”

“I mean, it’d be a terrible deal for the women,” Smegma said.  “Positively dreadful.  For me, it would be great though.”

“Yeah, well,” Qassab said.  “Only a dumbass fails to do what is best for him.”

“Makes me…”  Smegma coughed.  “Makes me think I’ve been fighting for the wrong team all along.”

“You have,” Qassab said.  “Stories of how you use and loose women are abundant all over the globe, Mr. Smegma.  You could have joined us and been rewarded with a wife-slave that you could have literally used as a foot stool, but alas, you bought into all that American red, white and blue propaganda.”

“Tell me about it,” Smegma said.

“Pity,” Qassab said.

“I know,” Smegma said.  “Here I am, busting my ass, trying to protect Western women from the likes of you, and here one is, taking your side.”

Bonanza stomped her foot.  “I’m not taking his side.  I just don’t think everyone who looks like him should be blamed for what he does.”

“We always agreed on that point, Cooter,” Smegma said.  “We just had different ways of saying it.”

Qassab checked his watch.  “Well, Mr. Smegma and Miss Bonanza, I’d love to stay and continue this round robin circle jerk of political punditry, but I must bid you adieu, for I neglected to mention that five minutes ago, I began the timer for a bomb I left in the cockpit and that was, oh, roughly four minutes and thirty seconds ago.”

The terrorist located his duffel bag, reached inside, and pulled out a packed parachute.  He strapped it to his back, then made his way to the exit door.  He turned the latch and the door swung open, causing massive amounts of air to come rushing inside.

“Did I forget to mention I bogarted the one and only parachute?”  Qassab asked.  “Whoops!  My bad!  Goodbye!”

And with that, Qassab tumbled backward out of the plane.  Smegma raised his hand.  The blonde ran over, grabbed it, and helped the wounded man up.

“Truce?” Bonanza asked.

“Truce,” Smegma answered as he ran to the cockpit.  There, he saw the slumped over body of the pilot, a bullet wound in his forehead.  In the empty co-pilot’s seat, there was a pile of dynamite with an attached digital clock.  It was counting down.  “00:30…00:29…00…28…”

“Can we throw it out?” Bonanza asked.

Smegma noticed that the bomb was firmly strapped to the seat.  “No.”

The agent grabbed the attorney’s hand and ran towards the open door, fighting against the rushing wind.

“What are you doing?!” Bonanza cried.

“I’m sorry but you’ll have to trust me!” Smegma said.  “There’s no time to mansplain!”

When they reached the door, Smegma gathered Bonanza in a warm, passionate embrace.

“Do I have your consent?”  Smegma asked.

“Of course,” the lady replied.

“Now and forever?”

“Now? Yes.  Forever?  I don’t know.  I’ll let you and the rest of the world know on Lifebox later.”

“Good enough.”  Smegma kissed Bonanza, then pushed her out of the plane.  He grabbed one of the prostrate swordfish from the floor, then immediately followed the lady out the door.

“Arrrgghhhh!” the blonde shouted as she and Smegma tumbled toward the earth without parachutes.  “I didn’t consent to this!”

 

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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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