Tag Archives: funny

Toilet Gator – Chapter 55

presentation01
The Mayor stormed through the police station, flanked by Sheriff Hammond on his left and a sleazy looking lawyer in an off the rack suit on his right.

“Walker, you horse’s ass!” the Mayor shouted. “Where’s my boy?”

Cole stepped out of the break room with Rusty in tow. “There a problem?”

The Mayor looked at his associates and laughed. “’Is there a problem?’ Son, is the pop of Catholic? Does a frog bump his ass on the ground every time he hops? You better believe there’s a big problem.”

“Tsk, tsk, tsk,” Sheriff Hammond said. “I always knew the situation between you and the Mayor was tense, Cole, but I never dreamed you’d be so unprofessional as to use your office to harass the son of a dedicated public servant.”

Cole sipped his coffee. “I didn’t harass the son of a just public servant,” the chief said as he pointed at the Mayor. “Just the son of that useless old drunk pile of shit over there.”

The Mayor was outraged. He turned to his lawer. “Sic em!”

The Mayor’s lawyer was a tall man with a bad rug on his head. He handed the Chief a piece of paper. “Chief Walker, I’m Max Weintraub of the Law Firm of Weintraub, Weintraub, Weintraub and LeFoy and this is a court order demanding the release of Buford Dufresne at once. You have no reason to detain this man.”

“Never was detaining him,” Cole said. “He was always free to go.”

“Oh, no,” Weintraub said. “Don’t think for one second you’re going to be able to fool me with that nonsense.”

“Say,” Rusty said. “Aren’t you that fella on TV with that commercial where you tell people you can get them big bags of cash?”

“No,” Weintraub said. “You’re thinking of my brother, Weintraub.”

“That’s not you?” Rusty asked.

“No,” Weintraub said. “I’m a different Weintraub.”

Sharon, Gordon and Buford emerged from Cole’s office. Buford ran like a little boy to his father.

“Daddy!” Buford shouted.

“Son!” the Mayor replied.

Father and son shared an embrace before the Mayor returned to his old tricks.

“What’s wrong with you people?” the Mayor asked Sharon. “Don’t the Feds got nothing better to do than harass pillars of the community like my boy here?”

“Mr. Mayor,” Sharon said. “We believe Buford is holding out on information that could help us find whoever killed your…I’m sorry, was Roxy your ex-wife?”

“No,” the Mayor said. “She was just a stripper at Big Ray-Ray’s House of Fancy Fun Bags back in 1989 when I strolled in, wearing a spiffy suit with big fake shoulder pads. Some random hair band music was playing and Roxy, why, she gave me the best time of my life for the low, low price of five dollars.”

“Five dollars?” Sharon asked.

“It was the eighties, darlin,’” the Mayor said. “You cold buy a damn house for five dollars. Anyway, we had our fun and nine months later, well…”

The Mayor reached up and put his hands over Buford’s ears. “We never had the heart to tell Buford he was an accident baby.”

“My Momma and Daddy were in love!” Buford shouted as the Mayor removed his hands from the boy’s ears.

“Well,” Sharon said. “Regardless of the relationship, don’t you want to see whoever killed your son’s mother brought to justice?”

“Indeed I do,” the Mayor said. “That’s why I’m gonna offer a big time cash reward for information leading to the Toilet Killer’s capture.”

“I was thinking more along the lines of you maybe talking to your son and getting him to tell us what he knows,” Sharon said.

“Are you kidding me?” the Mayor said. “Lady, the boy doesn’t know shit! Look at him. He’s like a giant fuckin’ man baby. He’s one step away from me having to change his diapers for him. I know what this is all really about.”

“And what is this about?” Sharon asked.

“You,” the Mayor said before he pointed to Cole, “And him used to be hitched until you left him on account of his diminutive penis.”

“I should get my own lawyer and sue you for slander,” Cole said.

“The truth is always a defense to slander, Chief,” Weintraub said. “You sue my client for his statement about your penis and I’ll be left with no choice but to file a demand that you produce your penis in court for a full inspection as to its size and length.”

Cole stepped up to the lawyer and looked him right in the eye. “That’s a challenge I’ll accept any day of the week and twice on Sunday, pal.”

The Mayor threw up his hands. “Look,” he said to his lawyer. “All I know is this police chief has always been after me, threatening me with scurrilous charges because I have been a vocal advocate of transferring Sitwell’s law enforcement needs to the capable hands of Sheriff Hammond here, and now he’s in cahoots with the gal he used to give his microscopic pecker to, trying to frame my boy to get back at me.”

“That’s absurd,” Sharon said.

“It is,” Cole said. “And if you’d just stop drinking and driving, I’d stop pulling you over, Beau.”

“That’s an outrage, sir,” Weintraub said. “One more crack like that and I’ll have a judge put a gag order on you.”

“Good,” Cole said. “Maybe I’ll hire one of the other Weintraubs to defend me.”

“They’re all busy,” Weintraub said as he handed the Chief a business card. “LeFoy’s free though and his rates are very reasonable.”

Cole slapped the business card out of the lawyer’s hand, then looked at the Mayor. “Take your spawn and get outta here!”

Sharon snapped at Cole. “That’s not your call to make.”

“Oh,” Cole said. “Sorry. You want to keep him?”

Sharon shook her head as she looked at the Mayor. “No. Take your spawn and get out of here.”

“You haven’t heard the last of this!” the Mayor shouted. “Sitwell PD is done! All of this, gone! Enjoy the unemployment line, Cole!”

Cole sipped his coffee and watched as the trio leave.

“Might as well cut that little turd loose too,” Cole said as he pointed at Paul, who was still sitting by a random desk. “I don’t think he knows anything.”

“Fine,” Sharon said. “But Cole, does the Mayor really have that kind of juice, enough to…get rid of you?”

“You don’t know the half of it,” Cole said. “Sitwell’s changed a lot since you left. All power in these parts runs through, up, and out of that asshole’s asshole.”

Tagged , , , ,

Daily Discussion with BQB – God, Is It Really Necessary for Old People to Get Physically Old?

Holy-Bible-3D-2016060102

Hey God.  Godster.  Godamundo.  God-a-rama.  The Godmeister, makin’ copies.

Your devoted servant, BQB here.  I know you can hear me even if I don’t post my thoughts on a website that only has 3.5 readers.

Listen, I don’t mean to tell you how to do your business here.  You don’t come to my work and slap the pizza out of my mouth, so I don’t go to your crib and tell you how to supervise the angels and so forth.

But check it.  If you’ve got a suggestion box lying around, I’d like to pop one in there and you can take it or leave it.

You know old people get older, and older, and even older?

Right, and do you know how people start out in life looking like happy young people and by the end they all look like the Crypt Keeper?

Thought:  What if, and follow me on this one, what if:

A) everyone gets a standard 100 years.  No more worrying when you’re going to die, when it will happen, will it happen too early, will I leave my loved ones too soon?  No more young people getting into freak accidents that cut their lives short.  No more old people suffering through their last years in the hospital, having surgery after surgery with all sorts of machines hooked up to them.

100 years.  That’s it.  Everyone knows up front that 100 years after their birth date, whammo!  That’s all she wrote.

Also:

B)  What if, and again, hear me out, no one had to get physically old?  Again, no diseases or health problems or gray hair or baldness or people ending up with hair growing out of their ears and hobbling around with hunchbacks while leaning on their canes?

How about everyone stops aging at, say, 25 and then we all keep looking like when did when were 25 until we’re 100 and then bam, we just drop.

And as a reminder, when we drop, that’s it, we drop.  No agony.  No pain.  No extended hospital stays.  Everyone just throws a big ass party on their last day and when their last second is up, they just switch off like a powered down robot someone just flipped the button to off on.

I know, human suffering makes us all the more stronger for whatever you have planned for us in the afterlife but if you think about it, you’ve already given us this great world and this great gift of life and the idea, the very idea that one day we’ll have to give this all up…doesn’t that hurt enough?

Is it really necessary for us to all end up looking like Abe Vigoda?  Is it all really necessary for us to get cancer, or heart complications, or syphilis or the clap or have our heads knocked in by one of your less virtuous creations who is convinced he needs our money more than we do?

Just let us stay young for 100 years…then switch us off.  No muss.  No fuss.

Like I said, God, just a thought.  It’s in the suggestion box.  You like it?  You run with it.  Don’t like it.  It’s your call, boss.  It’s your call.

Keep being you, G-Man.  Keep being you.

Sincerely,

BQB, Your Ever So Pious Servant, Educating the 3.5 Heathens who Frequent this Fine Blog Sicne 2014.

 

 

 

 

Tagged , , , , , , , ,

Toilet Gator – Chapter 42

presentation01
FBI computer scientist Jeff Harvey labored over a computer screen at the Sitwell Police Department. While Sharon and Gordon watched his every move, the pencil neck geek played with a neon orange toy. He grabbed it by the center, gave it a spin, and then allowed the unsharpened blades to twirl around and around in a circular motion.

“What the hell is that thing?” Gordon asked.

“It’s my Stress Spin-a-ma-jig,” Jeff answered. “It calms me down in stressful situations.”

“What’s so stressful about this?” Sharon asked.

“I dunno,” Jeff said as he punched a few keys on the keyboard. “Maybe because I’m tracking the only viable clue in an internationally publicized, high profile serial murder case and the two investigating agents have nothing better to do than jerk off behind me as they watch my every move?”

“No one’s jerking off,” Sharon said.

“Figure of speech,” Jeff said as a worldwide map appeared on the screen.

Cole, Rusty, and Maude entered the station.

“It’s about time!” Sharon snapped at Cole.

“Yeah,” Cole said. “Listen, Sharon, I thought I was doing the right thing by getting out of the office, given our…”

Sharon threw up her hand in a “stop” motion. “Say no more. I understand.”

“But I thought about it,” Cole said. “And I really do want to help.”

“I’m glad you’re on board,” Sharon said.

“Also,” Rusty said. “We have doubts as to your ability to solve this case because of your vagina.”

“Shut up Rusty,” Cole said.

Sharon sighed. “Same old Rusty. Hasn’t changed in ten years.”

“Tell me about it,” Cole said.

Jeff stopped his spinning toy. “We’ve got a hit!”

“Where is he?” Sharon asked.

Jeff tapped his finger right into the heartland of America. “Wisconsin.”
“Why would he be in Wisconsin after everything that happened down here?” Sharon asked.

“Beats me,” Gordon said. “But we’d better get the Milwaukee field office on the line.”

“And now he’s in San Francisco,” Jeff said.

“What?” Sharon said.

“Shanghai,” Jeff said. “Mumbai. Amsterdam. Australia. Whoa, now he’s in Monte Carlo! I hear it’s lovely there this time of year.”

While Maude returned to her desk to sort through paperwork, the agents and cops watched Jeff’s computer screen as a little red dot traveled all over the world.

“How is this possible?” Sharon asked.

“Whoever this guy is, he’s good,” Jeff said. “Like, next level good. He’s masked his phone signal, making it appear as though it’s pinging off towers all over the world.”

“Who has the knowhow to do such a thing?” Sharon asked.

“Either an MIT scientist,” Jeff said as he twirled his Spin-a-ma-jig. “Or a random computer nerd with plenty of time on his hands.”

“Well shit,” Cole said. “He must be from out of town because I can’t think of a single person in Sitwell with a brain like that.”

Tagged , , , , , , , ,

Thirteen Weeks of Toilet Gator Sundays

Happy Mother’s Day, 3.5 readers.

Just think.  By this time next year, you’ll be able to thank your mother for squirting you out of her nether regions by buying her her very own copy of “Toilet Gator.”

That’s all your mother ever wanted all along.  Just the other day I heard her say, “My ulterior motive in turning my vagina into the Holland Tunnel was to raise a kid who would buy me my very own copy of a book about an alligator that eats people while they are sitting on the toilet.”

So, stop disappointing your mother and be sure to make a note to buy “Toilet Gator” next year.  It will make up for the many, many ways in which you disappointed your mother, the list of which is long and voluminous.

presentation01

 

Tagged , , , , , , , , , ,

Toilet Gator – Chapter 42

presentation01

Rusty perused the letter. “Little Mutumbo remembered your birthday.”

“Isn’t that nice?” Maude asked.

“Yup,” Cole said. “That kid’s thousands of miles away yet he’s like the family I never had.”

Rusty and Maude frowned in unison.

“What are we?” Rusty asked.

“Chopped liver?” Maude added.

“Fine,” Cole said. “He’s like the son I never had.”

Rusty reached across the table, seized one of Cole’s tater tots and popped it into his mouth. “Damn. Steve’s on his A-game tonight.”

“You knew Ruby Sue up and left this place to go see the world?” Cole asked.

“Sure did,” Rusty said.

“Everyone knew that,” Maude said.

“Not everyone,” Cole said. “I didn’t know.”

“Well,” Rusty said.

Maude reached over the table and patted Cole’s hand. “Sometimes you get stuck inside your head and don’t pay attention to the world, hon. It’s ok.”

Mindy stopped by the table. “New guests! What will y’all have?”

“It’s been a rough day,” Rusty said. “I deserve the full course barbecue chicken, ribs, pulled pork platter. All the sides.”

“All the sides?” Mindy asked.

“All of the sides,” Rusty said.

“And for you, ma’am?” Mindy asked.

“Oh,” Maude said. “I deserve the works too but I know I’ll be up all night on the toilet and rumor has it that can be hazardous for your health these days so I’ll just go with a nice bowl of the house soup.”
“Coming right up,” Mindy said as she walked away.

“Hazardous to your health?” Cole asked.

“Yes,” Maude said. “Kiddo, do you know that while you were out having yourself a good old time today, the world basically erupted into a fireball of shit?”

“Might have heard something about it on the television,” Cole said.

“You don’t know the half of it,” Maude said. “Everyone and their Uncle is afraid to shit and they’re all calling the police station to ask when it will be safe to shit again…as if anyone actually knows.”

Cole stuffed a fork full of barbecue into his gob, chewed, and swallowed. “Why would anyone be afraid to take a shit?”

“Because there’s a psycho killing people who shit,” Maude said.

“So now everyone thinks they’re going to buy the farm on the bowl,” Rusty said. “I was at the college all day and at least three hundred kids asked me if it’s safe to shit. Honestly, I dodged the question because I didn’t think it was right to tell them it’s safe.”

“All these millennial kids were worried about finding a safe space free of opposing ideas,” Maude said. “Who knew they’d need to find a place where it’s safe to shit?”

“People are idiots,” Cole said. “I doubt the killer is after people just because they shit. He’d have to kill everyone in the world then. There must be some link between the victims.”

“Maybe,” Rusty said. “But you got to admit it, there’s no clear pattern. Most serial killers off people with a similar look or have something in common, some kind of trigger that reminds them of a person they disliked intensely.”

“Maybe the killer was once done wrong by someone who shits,” Maude said.

“Yeah,” Cole said. “But again, that’d be everyone. Everyone shits.”

“But again, other than the fact that they all were shitting the time of their untimely demises, there was nothing else that tied the three victims together,” Rusty said. “A pop star with a famous butt. An old, retired teacher. A dummy that was on his tenth year in pursuit of a two year degree. These people have nothing in common…except that they all shit.”

Cole took a sip of soda. “And everybody shits.”

“Everybody indeed shits,” Rusty said.

Cole was quiet for a moment while he dug into his food. “So Sharon has cracked the case yet?”

Rusty smiled. “I knew you wouldn’t be able to last five minutes without asking about your Smoochy Poo.”

“Shut up,” Cole said.

“Mmm mmm,” Rusty said. “Kissy kissy, you still love her.”

Maude could tell this was not going to end well. “Enough, Rusty.”

“Cole and Sharon sitting in a tree…”

Bam! Cole’s fist pounded the table. “Shut up!”

“Whoa,” Rusty said as he held his hands out. “OK. Chill.”

“Stop picking the scab, Danny Bonaduce,” Maude said.

“Whatever,” Rusty said. “I meant no disrespect.”

Cole glared at Rusty.

“OK,” Rusty said. “I meant a slight, teeny, tiny amount of disrespect. But look, Cole, I gotta say it. This is the case of a lifetime, one that could give you and I a ticket to the big time and you are letting your personal shit with your ex-wife get in the way of pursuing your own glory.”

Ever so calmly, Cole put down his fork. He folded his hands, took a deep breathe and faced Rusty.

“Oh Lord,” Maude said.

“Go on,” Cole said.

“What?” Rusty asked.

“Explain to me, a mere peon, how you, an obviously very wise man, came to conclude that I am allowing, quote ‘my personal shit with my ex-wife get in the way of pursuing my own glory.’”

Rusty smirked. “Honestly, Cole I didn’t get this far in my mind. I thought you’d of thrown some kind of blunt object at me by now.”

Cole’s eyes traveled into the direction of his hands, reminding Rusty they were still folded. “Nope. No harm will come to you, Carrot Top.”

“OK,” Rusty said. “Look. We’ve been working hard all our lives, right?”

“True,” Cole said.

“And we don’t get as much appreciation as we deserve, do we?” Rusty asked.

“Not at all,” Cole replied.

“So,” Rusty said. “Sooner or later, this case is going to bust wide open. The man who killed all three people, including one celebrity, in one night within a two hour span, all while they were on the toilet, will be caught. Whoever does the catching is gonna be golden. That person is gonna be a guest on talk shows. They’re gonna have book deals, movie deals. The money and fame and accolades are going to pour in.”

“And you think that should be us?” Cole asked.

“Well,” Rusty said. “Better us than the woman that left you at the worst possible time of your life, don’t you think?”

Cole raised an eyebrow. “Maybe.”

“People will tell tales of our bravery long after we’re gone, Cole,” Rusty said. “Come on, man. You’re forty today. I’m gonna be forty this Fall. How many more years of excitement do we have left?”

“Excitement?” Cole asked.

“Oh boy,” Maude said. “Here it comes.”

Rusty winced. “Brace for the speech.”

“Let me tell you a little bit about excitement,” Cole said.

Rusty and Maude had heard this speech many times before. Rusty began it for Cole. “People always think it’s fine and dandy to be the hero…”

Cole was too busy being self-righteous to notice he was being mocked. “People always think it’s fine and dandy to be the hero but you know what being a hero gets you?”

“Nothing and nowhere fast,” Rusty said.

Cole pounded the table. “Nothing and nowhere fast! Like a moron, like an idiot, like a complete, stupid jackass, I ran into the house thinking I was going to be hailed as some kind of special, wonderful hero, the big man who saved the little girl from the evil killer dog but where’d it leave me?”

“No leg,” Rusty said.

“No wife,” Maude added.

“Without a leg,” Cole said. “And without a wife. For the past decade, I’ve been limping around like a lame gimp that should be put out to pasture and shot and my own wife was so disgusted by the idea of being with a one-legged man that she skipped town the second she found out about what happened to me. Sure, I got to be the big hero but all I got out of it was a ruined life.”

“Oh Cole,” Maude said.

“Buddy,” Rusty said. “You think your life is ruined?”

“Damn right it is,” Cole said. “Chief Haskell told me not to go in. He didn’t go in and he’s happily retired.”

“He’s not that happy,” Rusty said. “Lost a bunch of money on Borders stock. Poor old bastard had to take a part-time job as a Price Town greeter. Hell, it’s been so long I can’t remember who gave him that bad stock tip but whoever it was, that guy was a real horse’s ass.”

“Whatever,” Cole said. “He’s fine. And he’s got both legs. And you. You and your friggin’ Jessica Chastain hair. You’ve got both legs. You’re out with a different girl every night.”

“And none of them have dicks,” Rusty said. “Contrary to popular opinion.”

“The point is that you and the Chief played it smart and your lives are fine now,” Cole said. “Me? I had to go and be the big hero and where’d it get me? A fucking fake leg I have to take off when I go to sleep every night. That’s why I keep my head down. I lay low. I don’t rock the boat. I don’t cause any trouble. I don’t have much left, but I don’t intend to lose it on any more hero bullshit. Being the hero is not all that it’s cracked up to me, believe me.”

“Cole,” Rusty said. “You really believe that?”

Mindy interrupted with a bowl of soup for Maude and a big ass plate for Rusty. “Can I get you anything else?”

“No,” Rusty said. “We’re fine.”

“Let me know if you need anything,” Rusty said.

Cole resumed the conversation. “Yeah, I really do believe that. My life ended when I was thirty and I’ve felt like a zombie ever since, just going through the motions and for what? To save some little kid who, let’s face, probably grew up to become a degenerate scumbag like his old man.”

Rusty gasped. “Cole Walker! You take that back right now.”

“I won’t,” Cole said. “You know how the world works just as well as I do. If you’re born into shit, the world will never allow you to become anything other than shit no matter how hard you try. I’m sure that little girl tried her best but she probably became a drug fiend like Wade.”

Rusty pointed at Mindy, who was standing across the room, taking an order from another table. “Maude’s right, Cole. You really don’t pay attention to anything that’s going on around you, do you?”

“What?” Cole asked.

“Do you have any idea who that is?” Rusty asked.

“Who?” Cole asked.

“That waitress,” Rusty said.

“I dunno,” Cole said. “Mindy. Ruby Sue’s niece. What about her?”

Rusty looked around, then leaned over the table and whispered. “She’s Molly Randolph.”

Cole contorted his face in every different direction it could possibly go in. “What?”

“It’s true,” Rusty said.

“Bullshit,” Cole said.

“No word of a lie,” Rusty said.

“She said her name is Mindy,” Cole said.

“Pretty close to Molly, isn’t it?” Rusty asked. “She changed her name so her old man wouldn’t find her. She got herself out of that life, got some help from her Aunt Ruby Sue.”

“No,” Cole said. “No. I shot the shit with Ruby Sue for years and never once did she ever mention any of this to me.”

“Well, what do you expect?” Rusty asked. “The woman was probably embarrassed that her no good brother-in-law turned a pit bull lose that went and bit your damn leg off.”

Cole looked like he’d just been run over by a freight train. Beads of sweat formed on his brow. He watched Mindy as she brought a tray of drinks to another table. “So you’re telling me that’s…

“The little girl you saved,” Rusty said. “All grown up and pretty as a picture.”

Cole breathed deeply.

“Still think you wasted your life by being the hero?” Rusty asked.

Cole winced. “I dunno.”

“You don’t know,” Rusty said. “Well, Mr. Doubting Thomas, let me tell you this now. She’s just waiting tables here for the summer to save up some money because she’s going to Harvard this fall.”

“Harvard?” Cole asked.
“Pre-med,” Rusty said. “The girl has her heart set on becoming a big time doctor. She’s going to volunteer to work for Doctors without Borders and everything. Hell, some day she might give a shot to little Mutumbo.”

A tear trickled out of Cole’s eye. “Little Mutumbo?”

“Yeah,” Rusty said. “She’s going to save Little Mutumbo’s life and not just that, I bet throughout her career, she will save the lives of thousands of Little Mutumbos and you know what?”

“What?” Cole asked.

“Every Little Mutumbo that girl right there saves will be because of you,” Rusty said. “It’s all about the Butterfly Effect, man.”

“The Butterfly Effect?” Cole asked.

“Hell yes,” Rusty said. “A butterfly beats his wings. His wings hit the water, causing a reverberation that causes a fish to shit on a frog and the frog jumps out of the water and then the frog jumps on some little kid’s head and that kid gets so pissed off at the frog that he stops playing outside and goes to the library and reads a book and becomes a genius and the next thing you know that kid grows up and becomes the best President of the United States ever, the one that heals the nation and the planet and saves the world and gets everyone to hold hands and sway back and forth while they sing kum-bai-fucking-yah! That makes sense, doesn’t it Maude?”

Maude blew on her spoon. “This soup is way too hot.”

“OK Maude checked out,” Rusty said. “What about you, Cole. You get it?”

“I saved Molly,” Cole said. “Molly will save a bunch of Little Mutumbos. Many of those Little Mutumbos will go on to save the world so…”

“It’s literally like you have already save the world thousands of times over and over again,” Rusty said.

Cole leapt to his feet and smiled. “Hot damn!”

Rusty jumped up. The two buddies embraced in a bear hug.

“So can we will you stop all of this mopey shit and go take your balls back from the hypothetical mason jar and become a couple of big time heroes?” Rusty asked.

“You better believe it!” Cole shouted as he let go of Rusty. “I’ll be in the car.”

“Oh,” Rusty said. “I hadn’t finished eating yet but ok…maybe I can get this to go.”

Cole walked over to Mindy. Without warning, he wrapped the young woman up in his arms and picked her up off the ground.

“Whoa!” Mindy said. “What was that for?”

“For you,” Cole said. “Just for being you.”

Cole opened his wallet and counted out a series of twenty dollar bills. “Twenty, forty, sixty, eighty…one hundred.”

He tucked them into Mindy’s hand. “I’m sorry. That’s all I’ve got right now.”

“What’s this for?” Mindy asked.

Tears poured down over Cole’s face as he proudly declared. “For Little Mutumbo. For all the Little Mutumbos of the world.”

Cole walked out of the diner. Rusty motioned for Mindy to come over. “Hey, can I get a box for all this?”

“Sure,” Mindy said. “Least I can do since your friend’s such a generous tipper.”

“Oh,” Maude said. “He was just so happy to hear you’re going to school this fall.”

“Wow,” Mindy said. “Word sure gets around this little town fast, though I didn’t think SCC was that big of a deal.”

“SCC?” Maude asked.

“Sitwell Community College,” Mindy said. “I was thinking about majoring in Gender Studies. I hear that’s a very versatile major that can open doors to me in a variety of high paid fields. I’ll go get your box.”

Mindy walked into the kitchen. Maude fired off an icy stare at Rusty. “SCC?”

“OK,” Rusty said. “That girl may or may not be Molly Randolph.”

“I’m going to guess she’s not,” Maude said. “And the real Molly Randolph?”

Rusty hesitated, fearful of Maude’s reaction. “She may or may not be a meth addict stripper at Big Ray’s House of Fancy Funbags.”

The redhead winced in preparation of a jarring whack upside the head, which the old lady indeed delivered. “Pig!”

“What?” Rusty said.

“How do you know this?” Maude said.

“I may or may not have been getting lap dances from her for the past three months,” Rusty said.
Maude whacked Rusty upside the head again.

“What?” Rusty asked. “It gets lonely in the champagne room! People talk!”

Maude glared at Rusty in a disapproving manner.

“What?” Rusty asked yet again. “She’s eighteen! It’s totally legit!”

“You make me sick,” Maude said. “You lied to your best friend.”

“I helped my best friend,” Rusty said.

“With a lie,” Maude said.

“With a helpful lie,” Rusty said. “And it wasn’t a total lie. The Butterfly Effect chain reaction that Cole started when he sacrificed his leg ten years ago has given me many hours of pleasure today because seriously, Chastity is the only bit of talent that Big Ray’s got in that joint.”

“Chastity?” Maude asked.

“Molly’s stripper name,” Rusty proudly declared. “She told me her real name because she likes me. Strippers don’t do that for just anyone you know.”

Maude shook her head and stood up. “I have to go ask Mindy to give Cole’s hundred back.”

Rusty looked aghast. “That ship has sailed, Maude.”

“But…”

Rusty put his hands on Maude’s shoulders. “Look at me, Maude. Once you start tugging on the thread of a lie, you’re going to eventually unravel the whole thing. Unless you want Cole to return to being a sorry sad sack, you’re going to have to choke this one down and realize that hundo belongs to the Sitwell Community College Gender Studies Department now.”

“But it’s a useless major,” Maude said as she picked up her oxygen tank. “Do you hear me? A useless major!”

“Maude,” Rusty said. “You’re being ridiculous. I’m sure there are many fine professions that a gender studies degree would be applicable to.”

“She’ll be lucky to shake her tits next to Chastity!” Maude said.

“That’s a risk I’m willing to take,” Rusty said.

Maude stormed off.

“Where are you going?” Rusty asked.
“Somewhere where I don’t have to look at your stupid dayglo red head,” Maude said as she slammed the restaurant’s front door behind her.

Rusty sat down and waited patiently until Mindy returned.

“Your box,” Mindy said as she handed Rusty a styrofoam container.

“Why thank you,” Rusty said as he looked up at Mindy longingly. “I do so like it whenever a woman brings me a nice…box.”

Mindy stepped back. “Ew.”

“What?” Rusty asked.

Mindy walked away. “Not happening, Conan O’Brien.”

Tagged , , , ,

The Real McCoy – Do What You Were Meant to Do…NOW!

By:  Leo McCoy, The Man Who Once Delivered a Sandwich to James Van Der Beek

shutterstock_287108624

Hello 3.5 readers.

Leo “The Real” McCoy here, back once more to bring this pitiful blog some much needed pizzazz, ambience, and an overall joie de vivre.  That’s some classy French talk I heard some fancy lady say once.  Impressed?  Yeah, I thought so.

Look at you people, going to your jobs, saving your pennies, day dreaming about your goals and aspirations.  You know what I call you people?  Slackers!  Utter failures!  Losers!

Sorry, but someone had to say it and we all know Bookshelf Q. Battler wasn’t going to.  “Oh I’m BQB and I love my 3.5 readers!”  Bleh.  Gag me with a slightly moist argyle sock worn a regular basis by an eighty-nine year old man.

You know I think you’re all chumps?  Because you should have accomplished your life’s work by now.  Stop working towards something and just do that something already.  The earlier the better.

Seriously.  Who knows for sure how much time we have?  You’ve got to treat every day like it’s your last and that means you have to achieve what you have been dreaming of TODAY. Not tomorrow.  Not next week.  Not next year.  TODAY!

Once you achieve what you’re after, you’ll be living on easy street.  Doesn’t matter how poor you are, how downtrodden you are, how crappy your life becomes.  You can hold your head up high and be happy because you did what you needed to do.  You achieved your life’s purpose and so you can now coast for the rest of your life.

But I get it.  Not everyone can be as lucky as me, Leo “The Real McCoy.  Not everyone gets the opportunity, at age 19, to deliver a reuben sandwich, a bag of barbecue chips and a bottle of Dr. Pepper to their idol, one Mr. James Van Der Beek, star of the late 1990s WB hit sensation, Dawson’s Creek.

The Beek on the Creek.  Wow.  I remember that day like it was yesterday.  “Sir, here’s your order and might I say that when I look at you, it’s like I’m staring at the visage of a Greek god who was cast out of Mount Olympus and forced to mingle with us mere mortals for a time.”

His reply?  “Thank you.  Keep the change and go away please.”

Yes.  Go away, I did.  And at that young age, my life was complete.  I didn’t need to go to college, or become a doctor or a lawyer or get married or have kids or get a real job or quote unquote, “do something meaningful and productive with my life.”

Why?  Because before I reached age 20, I did what God intended me to do.  God put me on this planet to make sure that James Van Der Beek would not go hungry or thirsty on one day in particular so he could concentrate on entertaining the viewers of the Creek.

Twenty years later, I’m proud to say I did what you wanted me to do God.  I did all that you intended for me to do.  I’m so proud of myself for doing it.  In fact God, I’d love it if you could let me stay alive and well on this planet for at least another sixty some odd years or so, just so I can inspire others to reach their full potential and do what you put them here to do by regaling them with my inspiration tale of how I delivered James Van Der Beek his lunch.

What’s your sandwich, 3.5 readers?  Who is your James Van Der Beek?  What are you supposed to do?  Figure out why God put you here.  Determine what God was thinking when he put you here.  When he put me here, he said, “I need Leo ‘The Real’ McCoy to exist so that one day James Van Der Beek will not be hungry or parched.”  That’s what God say when he made me.

What did God say when he made you?  You don’t want to disappoint God, 3.5 readers.  When you get to the pearly gates and God asks, “Hey, did you do that thing you were supposed to do?”  You don’t want to throw God all kinds of lame excuses.  You don’t want to be all like, “No, sorry God, I was too busy playing Madden football on my X-Station or whatever it’s called.”

“Sorry God.  I didn’t reach my full potential because I was too busy feeding my cat, brushing my hair, eating tacos, braiding my toe hair, washing my testicles with a scrub brush, sleeping in late because my alarm broke and oh yeah I just didn’t give a shit because I was filled with massive amounts of ennui despite the wonderful, miraculous gift of life you gave me so uh, yeah I’ll just be in the corner now and you’ll have to make another person to do the shit that I was supposed to do.  Thanks.”

That was my impression of you.  That’s what you’ll sound like if you don’t get up off your butt and do what you’re supposed to do.

Think I’m worried about meeting God?  No.  When I meet him I can say, “No sweet, G-man.  Remember way back in 1998 when James Van Der Beek was hungry and thirsty?  I had it covered so uh, let me into heaven, man.  I want to check the scene, maybe tip back a few cold ones with Abraham Lincoln and snort some lines off of Marilyn Monroe’s knockers.”

Well.  Maybe I won’t mention that last part.  I mean, it’s Heaven so technically you ought to get to do what you want but, I’m pretty sure Heaven Marilyn is clean and sober now.

In conclusion, stop wasting time!  Go do what you were meant to do right now…like, RIGHT FREAKING NOW!

You’ll be so glad once you get it done because as soon as you do whatever it is, then you can just totally flog the monkey and watch cartoons and drink brewskis and eat nacho cheese chips for like the next 50-60 years.  Totally sweet.

Good luck doing what you are supposed to do, 3.5 readers and oh, if you see BQB, give him a kick in the old stink berries for me, Leo “The Real” McCoy.

You’re welcome for this amazing advice that you clearly do not deserve.

Tagged , , , ,

In Case You Missed It – A Movie Trailer Guy Talks About BQB

Hey 3.5 readers.

A little bummed that my podcast never got off the ground, but I can only do so much I suppose.  Maybe one day, when I’ve got the time…and develop some speaking talent.

In the meantime, this Movie Trailer Guy talking about my awesomeness is the funniest thing ever.  You gotta listen to it.

(FYI I think there’s an actually guy called “The Movie Trailer Guy.”  This isn’t the official Movie Trailer Guy but it is a dude from Fiverr who is very talented and can do a movie trailer guy voice.)

 

Tagged , , , , , , , ,

Point/Counterpoint – BQB vs. A Smelly Raccoon – Should Smelly Raccoons Be Allowed to Knock Over BQB’s Trash Cans?

Hey 3.5 readers.

BQB here.

A new feature on this awesome blog.  Point/Counterpoint.  Various esteemed pundits will take each other one regarding the important issues of the day.

First up, I, Bookshelf Q. Battler, debate a smelly raccoon on whether or not he should be allowed to knock over my trash cans and feed on the disgusting insides.

Care to weigh in?  Let me know who you think won the debate in the comments.

raccoon-2183755__480

POINT – The Smelly Raccoon – BQB’s Trash is Delicious

COUNTERPOINT – BQB – I Do Not Have Time to Clean Up After Trash Rodents

Tagged , , , , , , , ,

Counterpoint – I Do Not Have Time to Clean Up After Trash Eating Rodents

By:  Bookshelf Q. Battler, Blogger-in-Chief, Bookshelf Battle Blog

shutterstock_236377597

I am a busy man.

I work all day at Beige Corp.

At night, I take care of my magic bookshelf, feed the Yeti, tend to the needs of all the inhabitants of BQB HQ, work on saving the world from the Mighty Potentate through my writing and then if I’m lucky, I might get five minutes to say hello to my main squeeze, Video Game Rack Fighter, before I go to sleep and get up just to do it all over again.

Thus, it is very upsetting when the smelly raccoon and his smelly raccoon friends knock over my trash cans and leave a huge mess by the side of my curb.

In theory, is it so bad if they want to gobble up what I throw away?

No.

In reality, is that all they do?

No.

These little turd burglars spend all night making loud noises as they knock my cans over and root around inside them.  Then, when I wake up, I find that they’ve left trash strewn all over the place.

Banana peels.  Frozen pizza boxes.  Used bathroom related products that have been in my butt, Video Game Rack Fighter’s butt, the Yeti’s butt, or the butt of one of my many esteemed blog columnists.

You know what the worst part is?  That trash won’t be on the ground for less than five minutes before some grumpy old bastard from the neighborhood walks by and shakes his fist at me and shouts, “Clean up your place!  You’re bringing down my property values!”

Sure.  Like I planned for this to happen.  I’m sorry.  I don’t have the time to sit out in the middle of the night with a broom and a dust pan at the ready just so I can follow dirty little bandit mask wearing furballs around as they destroy my trash cans.

Smelly raccoons are evil and they should be thrown in jail.  There, I said it.  Better yet, transport them all to the dump and let them at it.  Maybe they can eat all the crap that won’t biodegrade.  Maybe those little shits are the key to stopping global warming.  Just feed them all the shit that can’t be recycled.

Whatever you do, just get them away from my trash cans.

 

Tagged , , , ,

Toilet Gator – Chapter 40

presentation01

Ten years later, Cole had gotten all the drinking out of his system, but he was pretty sure he’d never stop hunting. Every year, he got two weeks’ worth of vacation time, and every year, he spent it on a trip to shoot something nasty…usually in the face.

He’d replaced his booze addiction with one for baby back ribs. Though he did he best to not over indulge, he figured the return of his ex-wife allowed for him to have one plate. Maybe a side of grits. And some collard greens. And a loaded baked potato with extra sour cream. Hell, that woman done him wrong. Throw in some buffalo mac n’cheese and extra crispy tater tots.

As Cole sat in his favorite booth at Ruby Sue’s BBQ, he sorted through his mail. Bill. Bill. Bill. Junk mail. A brochure for a travel company that sold big game hunting trips to Africa. Cole was certain he’d never allow booze to touch his lips again, but he was never going to stop hunting. He had two weeks of vacation time coming to him every year and every year, he would invariably find himself traveling to some exotic location with his Angry Barracuda just to think of Old Mongo’s face as he shot some unsuspecting beast. He realized those beasts had not done anything wrong to him but somehow, it made him feel like he was re-taking control of his life.

He found another envelope. This one was from the Global Kids’ Initiative. Cole had long subdued his sadness over the fact that he had yet to become a father by sponsoring a small African child. Every month, Cole mailed his check for thirty-one dollars on time. It was the only bill he looked forward to paying.

Cole opened up the envelope. First, there was a letter from Global Kids’ Initiative:

Dear Donor,

Thank you for sponsoring an African child through the Global Kids’ Initiative. We appreciate your donations, but did you know there’s no limit on the number of children you can sponsor? Why, for a dollar a day, roughly the same cost as a soda pop, you can sponsor another child through our fine organization.

An eighteen year old waitress stopped by Cole’s table. Her hair was long and black, draped over her shoulders. She wore a standard pink uniform. The moniker on her name tag read, “Mindy.”

“Your diet cola, sir,” Mindy said.

“Thanks,” Cole replied. He allowed the glass of fizzy goodness to sit on the table and bubble for awhile as he read on:

Seriously? You’re going to sit there and toss a bubbly, aspartame laced glass of cold death down your throat while you could be sending your soda money to us, so that we can help another impoverished African child? Have you seen the kids in our commercials? Have you seen how they’ve got distended bellies full of tapeworms and flies buzzing around their heads and vultures swooping overhead just waiting for them to drop so they can pick what little meat they have left on their bones? But oh, sure, sure, just go ahead and drink that soda. We hope you choke on it, you unmitigated pile of iguana shit.
“Wow,” Cole muttered to himself. “They’re getting a little rough with the fundraising pitch lately.”

Cole set the charity letter aside and discovered a form that he could fill out in order to sponsor a second African child. He looked to his soda, then to the form, then to the soda, then to the form.

“Screw it,” Cole said as he took a sip of soda. “I’ve lost too much in this life to miss out on caffeine too. You’ll have to wait until the good people of Sitwell find it in their miserable hearts to give me a raise, Second African Child.”

“Talking to yourself?”

Cole looked up to see Minde holding a plate of Ruby Sue’s best vittles. She plopped it down on the table.

“Yeah,” Cole said. He looked over his plate. So much deliciousness. Cole wasn’t one to overindulge on food on a regular basis, but when he did, he did it right.

“Where’s Ruby Sue?” Cole asked as he looked around. “Been coming around here nearly twenty years and tonight’s the first night I’ve never seen here.”

“Retired,” Mindy said.

“Get out,” Cole said.

Mindy smiled. “I will get right back in there.”

“Don’t tell me they’re closing the place,” Cole said.

“No,” Mindy said.

“Thank God,” Cole said. “If I have to start going to one of those chain restaurants with all the bullshit all over the walls, I’ll just lay down in the middle of the road and wait for a bus to run me over.”

The waitress grinned. Cole knew he was way too old for her, but he enjoyed making a female smile. It’d been a long time since he had done so.

“I’m going to have to tell Cousin Steve how happy he’s made you,” Mindy said.

“Cousin Steve?” Cole asked. The name seemed familiar. He knew deep down somewhere, he knew of a Steve.

“Howdy Chief.” Cole looked up to find himself staring at the establishment’s cook, a bearded man in a hairnet, wearing a pair of glasses and a stained apron.

“I’ll be damned,” Cole said. “You’re Ruby Sue’s little boy.”

“All grown up,” Steve said.

“And running the place?” Cole asked. “Hell, I remember you jumping all over this joint when you were knee high to a dragonfly.”

“Time flies,” Steve said.

“That it does,” Cole said. “That it does. Where’s Ruby Sue off to?”

“Hawaii,” Steve said. “All this month. Caribbean cruise after that. She saved up a bunch so now she’s gonna travel the world. Left the place to me on three conditions.”

“Those are?” Cole asked.

“Gotta keep the same name,” Steve said.

“Yeah,” Cole said. “Ruby Sue’s Barbecue’ sounds better than ‘Steve’s Barbecue.’ No offense.”

“None taken,” Steve said. “I also gotta keep all the jobs in the family, like Cousin Mindy here, or my brother Darnell on the cash register.”

Cole looked over at the cash register. A snaggle-toothed doofus with a crooked nose waved at him.

“That’s Darnell?” Cole asked. “I thought he died when that mule kicked him.”

“Nah,” Steve said. “He just got his teeth, brain, and overall personality messed up. Boy was on his way to being a Rhodes Scholar when that happened too.”

“Such a shame,” Mindy added. “Aunt Ruby warned that boy not to tickle that mule so many times.”

“Third condition is that I got to cook as good as my Momma did,” Steve said.

“Huh,” Cole said. “Now that is a tall order because no one I ever met in my life ever cooked as good as your Momma. You think you’re up to the challenge?”

Steve looked at Cole’s plate. “Only one way to find out.”

“Right,” Cole set. He pulled a rib off the rack and bit into it. The meat was supple and tender, seasoned just right. “Mmm. Boy, I don’t think you got a thing to worry about.”

“Thanks Chief,” Steve said. “Better get back to work.”

“You let me know if you need anything,” Mindy added.

Steve and Mindy went back about their business. Cole enjoyed his meal while he read the latest letter from the African child he was sponsoring. He received a letter from the young lad every month, and he cherished all of them.

“Dear Mr. Cole Sir,

Things are doing very well in my village. The virus outbreak is subdued and the tarantula infestations are down to a minimum. Also, only twelve of the village girls were taken to be sold into the international sex slavery market, which, though terrible, is an improvement over the twenty or so a month that are usually taken. I’m not sure of the cause as to why less girls were kidnapped this month, but what is that American expression? ‘Do not look a gift salamander in the butt hole?’

Yes, very well, moving on then. How are you, Mr. Cole Sir? When last you wrote, you mentioned you were just beginning to get over the loss of your vile ex-wife, the evil Miss Sharon. I do not know this woman but every day I pray that her intestines will be shattered when she is run over by a herd of angry giraffes. You deserve better than this beastly woman sir, and if you keep the faith I am certain that

Speaking of giraffes, more scientists have been coming through this area in the hopes of making giraffes fornicate in order to save their dwindling species. I am sorry to say that I once accidentally walked in on two giraffes while they were doing the despicable deed and I fear I may never be right in the head ever again. At least the giraffes were enjoying themselves. Although, come to think of it, I can’t confirm whether or not they were as their incredibly long necks kept them from ever actually looking at one another.

Mr. Cole sir, I cannot thank you enough for your donation of one dollar a day. With your donations, the nice do-gooder white people who are trying so hard to make penance for the sins of their vile white devil ancestors, are providing me with food and medicine. Today, I got a shot for dysentery and I have been promised a shot for measles tomorrow. So many shots, so little time! Plus, I got to eat nibble one rationed portion of charity cheese. Have you ever eaten a piece of charity cheese, Mr. Cole sir? It was so delicious but my body was so unused to such rich food that I made doodies for days, and days, and days, and days. Months even. In fact, I am doodying right now. I believe that is what you Americans call, “multi-tasking.”

Cole looked up from the letter. He felt bad that he had so much food in front of him while the African child he was sponsoring had so little. However, he didn’t feel bad enough to not dip half a buttermilk biscuit into the barbecue sauce on his plate before shoving it directly into his pie hole.

The letter continued:

“Mr. Cole sir, please let me know if I am out of order in asking you this, and I will give myself a thousand lashes on my foreskin, just as the ruling military junta does every day for failing to show up to inspection on time. I do not mean to show up late, but as you know, I am very slow, as I am malnourished and filled with more diseases than Madonna’s adult diaper. Is that a funny joke, Mr. Cole sir? I do not get it but one of the white devil missionaries told me it was very funny. I hope you laugh for an extended period of time upon reading it, Mr. Cole sir.

If possible, and I know it would be difficult as you are a man who works very hard for your money, but would you consider sponsoring a second African child? I have many friends who are not lucky as me. They have never received any shots, or pieces of charity cheese, or anything. If possible, I would appreciate it and I will say more prayers for you than I do already. If not, I understand and I will continue to love you very much just the same. Also, the white devils told me to tell you that they did not tell me to write this, so they did not tell me to write this, Mr. Cole sir.

Also, I wish you a very happy birthday. I hope this letter arrives in time. Forty years. In my village, a man who has attained forty years of age is considered to be very old and wise, almost a confirmation that magic exists, and that it exists in the form of a man. Rarely do any of us live past forty, between the diseases, the sex slavery, and the non-stop wars. Do not even get me started on the hungry tiger attacks.

I must go now. The military junta has arrived and I must accept the very painful whipping that my testicles are about to receive. I shall get through it though, as your kindness and generosity reminds me there are many good people in the world.

With much love and admiration,

Mutumbo

“Oh hell,” Cole said as he uncrumpled the donation form and began filling it out. “You drive a hard bargain, Mutumbo, but you talked me into it.

“Happy Birthday!” shouted two familiar voices.

Cole looked up from the form to find that Rusty and Maude had made themselves at home in his booth.

“What the…how’d you two find me?”

“Please,” Maude said. “You just turned forty, the Mayor went on TV to insult your penis, and your that hose beast of an ex-wife of yours is sniffing around town. We know you too well to not have surmised that you’d be here, stuffing your face and putting yourself on the fast track to diabetes.”

Cole scooped up a heaping helping of collard greens and shoved it into his mouth. “Maybe if you two know me so well, you’d know I’d rather be alone.”

“What?” Rusty asked. “You want us to go back to the station and get bossed around by that skank all night instead? Not on your life.”

Tagged , ,