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May 05 2017
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top ten lists

Top Ten Warning Signs Your Girlfriend Might Be an Axe Murderer

axe-1500771_1280

Ahh, the axe.  That most important wood chopping tool.  Good for cutting trees down to size.

Oh those pesky trees.  They think they’re so smart.

Alas, every tool with a good use can be misused.  People use forks to eat spaghetti…but they also use them to eat tuna noodle casserole.  Bleh.

People use their remote controls to tune in to Game of Thrones...but in the earlier part of this decade, they also used them to tune in to Whitney.  Double bleh.

The axe!  Yes, when it comes to providing us with wood, it’s second only to Blake Lively in the buff.  Punny!

But axes can also be abused.  Why, for all we know, your girlfriend might be using to chop up people into itsy, bitsy, teeny, tiny pieces right now!

(NOTE:  My lawyer advises me that statically speaking, it’s highly unlikely that she is.  However, if you think she is, you shouldn’t confront her directly but rather, should take your concerns to the police.)

Yikes.  Gotta cover your butt in this ridiculously litigious society.

Anyway, from BQB HQ in Fabulous East Randomtown, here are the Top Ten Warning Signs Your Girlfriend Might Be an Axe Murderer:

#10 – She Owns an Axe

That’s pretty suspicious.  Unless she lives in Canada, where the trees grow tall and thick and people have to chop down twenty trees every day just to get to work, there’s really no reason for her to own one.

Is she a wood chopping enthusiast?  Does she make a lot of fires in the fireplace?  No?  Hmm…not entirely conclusive but still, very curious.

#9 – You Wake Up Every Night to the Sound of Blood Curdling Screams Coming From Your Basement

Sure, those could be the last desperate cries for help from your axe murdering girlfriend’s many, many victims.  However, it’s probably just her crying about what a terrible boyfriend you are.  I mean, I don’t want to tell tales out of school, but I’ve heard that you really suck at boyfriendery.  You should work on that.

#8 – There’s Blood on the Axe

Depends.  Do you live on a farm?  Maybe she just lopped off a chicken’s head so she can make you a delicious dinner.  Oh, stop being so dramatic!  Where do you think chicken nuggets come from?  Do you think that Ronald McDonald magically pops those things into a cardboard box with some tasty dipping sauces with his magic clown wand?

No.  We’re talking mass chicken murder here.  Ronald McDonald and Colonel Sanders are like the Hitler and Stalin of chicken-dom.

But I can’t complain.  They make tasty bird meat.  Actually, KFC does.  McDonalds, I’ll just eat those nuggets because they’re there and then I’ll wonder why I hate my body so much to do such a terrible thing to it.

At any rate, I wouldn’t just automatically assume that the blood on the axe is a human or has some kind of sinister origin.  When you assume, you make an ass out of you and me, but mostly you, because I’m not the one dating an axe murderer, chief.

Moving on…

#7 – Screams, “I’m Going to Kill You!” On a Regular Basis 

Maybe she means that she’s literally going to kill you with an axe but then again, what woman has never screamed this sentence at her man before?  Let she who has not threatened murder of her significant other in jest cast the first stone.

#6 – She Named the Axe

Did she give the axe a name?  Mr. Choppy, perhaps?  Hmm…a sentimental attachment to a possible murder weapon.  Suspicious…though inconclusive.  Maybe she’s just weird.

#5 – Takes Selfies with the Axe

This could be a problem though axe or not, if she makes that stupid duck bill smoochie face in said selfies, I’d dump her anyway just on principle.

#4 – Sleeps with the Axe

Maybe she does this because she’s planning on axing you while you sleep.  I recommend the following line of questioning:

YOU:  Honey, you wouldn’t happen to be planning on chopping me to pieces in a gruesome manner with that axe, would you?

GIRLFRIEND:  No, silly!  Tee hee!

Although, do keep in mind, people who are able to chop up other people with axes are usually not above lying.

Tread lightly, as maybe there is a legitimate reason why she sleeps with an axe.  Maybe when she was young, an axe murderer tried to axe her and now she sleeps with an axe in case she has to spring to her feet in the middle of the night and take on an axe murderer in a furious round of axe on axe combat.  Bet you never thought of that, did you, you paranoid, insensitive prick?

Still…either way, might be best for you to sleep somewhere else.  One wrong move in a bed with an axe in it and you could end up singing soprano.  Mi mi mi mi mi!!!

#3 – She Has Told You That She is An Axe Murderer

Hmm, a rare axe murderer who has decided to be honest with you and invite you into her world of axe murdery.  Or, maybe she told you in a moment of weakness and later she will realize that she must axe you in order to cover her axe tracks.

Ultimately, every person has their moral failings and it will be up to you to decide whether or not you can handle all of the horrendous moral implications of dating an axe murderer.

I mean, think about all of the ethical dilemmas you will face.  Should you turn her in?  If you don’t, you’re as guilty as she is because you could have stopped her victims from being axed by calling the cops yet you did nothing.  Could you really be with someone so evil?  How could you ever sleep knowing she might axe you?

On the flip side…does she have big boobs?

No!  No!  Stop it!  You CANNOT stay with a lady axe murderer for any reason and not even if she has gigantic sweater cannons.

But seriously, motor boat those puppies on the way out the door, then go tell the cops.

#2 – There’s a Head in the Freezer

What kind of bullshit is this?  Why would you stay with a woman that would put an axe chopped human head in a perfectly good freezer, right on top of all your frozen deep dish pizzas and Lean Cuisines?

You should leave her for getting blood all over your popsicles…oh and also, because she chopped off a dude’s head and stuck in the freezer.  That goes without saying.

#1 – She’s Standing Over You Right Now…As You Are Reading this Fine Blog!

Argh!  OMG!

Whatever you do, DO NOT PANIC.  Stay right there.  Be cool.  Don’t make any sudden moves.

Just listen carefully and I’ll tell you what you need to do.  Very slowly, very carefully….reach for your computer…and then click on my website a hundred times because I could really use more hits on this excellent blog.  My genius is going unrecognized, here.

Oh, and then run or something.  I don’t know.  What do I look like?  An anti-axe murderer combat expert?

DISCLAIMER:  Sure, this post was meant as a joke but axe murderer is no laughing matter, people.  According to the Fake Institute for Bogus Statistics, 11,000 people are gruesomely axe murdered every three seconds.

Don’t go around being some wacko vigilante, accusing your girlfriend of being an axe murderer.  But, if you think your girlfriend might be an axe murderer, then contact the nearest anti-axe murderer law enforcement agency.  Ask them to send their best axe murderer catchers right away.

 

 

 

 

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May 04 2017
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Toilet Gator

Toilet Gator is So Much Fun

Hey 3.5 readers.

BQB here.

I’m having a good time writing Toilet Gator.  For a couple reasons:

  1.  It’s basically me telling stupid jokes – jokes set around the structure of an investigation into a series of toilet murders.  Toilet Gator murders, that is.
  2. All rational thought and logic goes out the window.  No need to think, “Is someone able to do that?”  No.  It’s a zany comedy.  Sure, a toilet gator can get up through a toilet.  No need to worry about how that would be impossible.  Sure, news broadcasters can say “titties” on air a bunch of times.  No rules, for humor rules the day, and if it is funny, then it goes in.

In conclusion, check out this commercial I made through Fiverr for this illustrious project.  Be sure to watch till the end.

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May 03 2017
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Tomfoolery

The Art of the Rick Roll

Hey 3.5 readers.

BQB here.

rick-astley-president-he-will-never-vgive-you-up-make-2576456

I do love a good Rick Roll…but what is it about this thirty some odd year old song that has the Internet going ga ga today?  Why is it considered clever to trick someone into clicking on this video?

Is it Rick’s good looks?  No.  The man’s clearly a flat-top sporting ginger.

Is it his funky dance moves?  No.  He clearly just holds his hands out, makes a couple of fists, then sways from side to side.

Is it his sense of style?  No.  The man is clearly wearing some kind of 1980s trench coat, like he’s some kind of flasher….except not, because he has clothes on underneath.

It’s none of these things.  Yet, Rick is so damn desirable to the ladies for one reason:  his song is all about pure love.

Rick isn’t one of those rappers, promising a quote unquote “bitch” money, diamonds, wealth, jewelry, power and so on in exchange for her phat ass.  No sir.  Rick may not be much to look at, but he boils love down to its core essentials, rattling off a list to a blonde woman in the video of the basics that he, and frankly any good man, would give to a woman:

I’m never gonna give you up,

Never gonna let you down,

Never gonna run around, and desert you.

Never gonna make you cry.

Never gonna say goodbye.

Never gonna tell a lie and hurt you.

Look people, we’ve established Rick is not much to look at.  He can’t dance.  His fashion stinks.  To quote Bobby Ferrin, “He aint got no cash, aint got no style…”

But what he lacks in superficial qualities, he makes up with in heart.  He’s got a big one and he wants this lady to know it.  Rich, handsome, studly men who can dance and don’t have red hair can get all the women they want and sadly, more often than not, they can trick a woman into being used and then tossed aside like yesterday’s stale doughnut.

Not Rick, ladies.  He doesn’t have much going for him and like most of us average to below average looking dudes, the best we can do is promise you the basics of love.  We’re not going to leave you.  We’re not going to lie to you.  We aren’t going to hurt you.

Superficial men may be able to promise you material possessions, but the Rick Astleys of the world know their woman wooing abilities are limited and thus, they embrace all of the aspects of what true love is supposed to be all about, namely – honesty and commitment.

No ladies, if you pick a Rick Astley, he’s probably not going to turn all your friends’ heads and make them jealous of you when you walk into the room together.  He’s not going to buy you a bunch of expensive crap.  He’s most likely going to wear that dumb trench coat to every affair.  He’ll always have red hair.  He’ll always dance like a department store mannequin that just came to life and is trying to figure out how his new body works for the first time.

But – he will be there when you need him, ladies.  Is he cheating on you when he’s not with you?  No, for if you recall, he pledged that he would never run around.  Will he leave you?  No.  He promised he would not desert you.  Is he telling the truth?  Yes.  He made it crystal clear that he will never tell a lie.

Fidelity.  Honesty.  Commitment.  These are the cornerstones of any good relationship and Rick Astley is offering them up on a silver platter.

Rick’s promises are so pure that his career was basically one song and done.  I have no idea if he put out any other songs.  If he did, I can’t name one.  Can you?  If he did, he didn’t have to.  He said all he needed to say about love then rode off into the sunset like a ginger cowboy.

Perhaps that is why it is so fun to do a Rick Roll.  Typically, the joke is to fool narcissistic folks into clicking onto something that they are led to believe will bring them wealth, power, or something else that doesn’t matter much in the grand scheme of things, only to be reminded of what really matters by the Rickster.

As for all of you single ladies out there trying to figure out what you want in a man, let me make it simple for you:  Choose a Rick Astley, ladies.  Choose a Rick Astley.

FYI: I can’t take credit for that meme.  It was floating around in the last election and frankly, maybe we should have elected Rick Astley president.

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May 03 2017
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Toilet Gator

Toilet Gator – Chapter 32

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Once Moses was walking upright again, he soothed his pain with another beer while he watched the Network News One Coverage of the Countess Cucamonga murder.

“Round the clock with this shit,” Moses said. “On every damn channel too. I once saw a machine gun nest take out twenty of my brothers in a matter of seconds. No fancy pants hot blonde chick lady reporter with big fake titties ever uttered so much as a peep about that but some famous girl with a fat ass kicks the bucket and boo hoo, here comes the waterworks, America.”

“Yup,” Cole said.

“I didn’t think you’d even be in today what with that college kid that got killed on the shitter,” Moses said.

Cole didn’t feel like explaining why he wasn’t working on the case. Instead, he kept quiet and loaded a new bullet into his Angry Barracuda. Meanwhile, Network News One began replaying Sharon’s press conference from earlier in the morning.

“Whoa nelly,” Moses said as he stared at the screen. “Is that?”

“Yup,” Cole said.

“So she’s there?” Moses asked.

“Yup,” Cole said.

“And you’re here?” Moses asked.

“Yup,” Cole said.

“Lord Almighty, Cole,” Moses said. “You’re a stronger man than I am. I’d eat a bullet from that big ass heater if one of my ex-wives ever became my boss.”

“Tell me about it,” Cole said.

“You and her…”

“What?” Cole asked.

“You talk?” Moses asked. “Do a little fence mendin?’ Maybe a little bridge buildin’?”

“What the hell does everyone want to ask me about her?” Cole asked.

Moses sipped his beer. “Sorry, Mr. Sensitive Sally. I wasn’t tryin’ to pry.”

“She left,” Cole said. “Nothing I can do or say will change that. She’ll be here awhile for her job, then she’ll be gone. No used talking about things that can’t be fixed.”

Moses pointed at Cole. “Damn right. You ever say one thing that lets a woman think she’s still got her hooks in you and she’ll abuse that power. Guaranteed.”

Cole ignored Moses. Something came on the TV screen that was way more interesting. Natalie Brock, or, a “Hot Ass Blonde Chick with Big Titties” as her viewers had come to know her, was standing inside the Sitwell Mall next to Mayor Dufresne. They both stood in front of the Mayor’s red sports car.

“Kurt,” Natalie said. “I’m here at a run down, suburban mall in Sitwell, Florida, the town where the Toilet Killer’s third victim, Chad Becker, met with a gruesome end while he was emptying out his end. Here with me as Mayor Beaumont Dufresne, who informs me that he is very concerned about the course of the investigation.”

The Mayor grinned like a hyena as he spoke into the microphone. “Yes indeed, Hot Ass Blonde Chick with Big Titties. Why, I’m here on the set of my latest commercial, one in which I’m about to notify the good people of Sitwell that if they stop on by Mayor Beaumont Dufresne’s Slightly Used Car Emporium, conveniently located off of Exit 33 off of Route 199, they can enter a drawing for a chance to win this fantastic Yarakazi Diablo, the finest product to ever come out of Japan outside the spicy tuna roll.”

“Yes,” Natalie said. “But Mayor, if we could turn our attention to the recent spate of murders…”

The Mayor phoned in his sad face. “Oh yes, Ma’am. Terrible business, that. If there’s one thing that my administration has stood for, it’s the God given right to take a shit without being murdered. I mean, what kind of animal murders someone on the toilet? Lord knows I don’t sanction murder in any way, shape or form but if you gotta kill someone, at least take a minute to allow the victim to wipe and pull up his drawers before you do the dirty deed. That’s just basic kindness.”

“Mayor,” Natalie said. “Do you think the people of Sitwell should be concerned?”

“Is that some kind of trick question, girly?” the Mayor asked. “Of course they should be concerned. I mean, Holy Burnt Cheese Biscuits, a Goddamn maniac is running around hacking people into pieces while they’re shitting. However, my wonderful, God fearing constituents should rest assured knowing that Mayor Dufresne is working hard on their behalf, doing everything he can and working his fingers to the bone, making sure that Sitwell gets back on track to being a place where it is safe to take a shit again.”

“Do you think the investigation is going well?” Natalie asked.

“Oh Missy,” the Mayor said. “I’m not sure that’s a question in my wheelhouse. As Mayor, all I can do is make sure the various law enforcement officers involved are getting what they need to see that this madman is brought to justice.”

“So you have the utmost confidence in Agent Sharon Walker?” Natalie asked.
“Miss Walker was one of my constituents here in town quite a spell ago,” the Mayor said. “But to be honest, I don’t know her that well, darlin.’ I suppose she’ll do just fine.”

“What about Police Chief Cole Walker?” Natalie asked.

Back at the gun range, Cole watched the Mayor grin like the proverbial cat that had just caught the canary. “My dear, I thought you’d never ask.”

“Do you think Chief Walker is up for the challenge?” Natalie asked.

“Dear,” the Mayor said. “How many folks you reckon are watching this program?”

“Millions,” Natalie said. “All over the world.”

“That’s what I figured.” The Mayor looked directly into the camera. “I hate to say this, I truly do because you know, I’m nothing if not a good Christian and my Momma always told me that if I can’t say something nice about someone then I shouldn’t say anything at all. However, with the public safety at stake, I’m gonna have to disappoint my Momma. Cole Walker is by far one of the dumbest, most ignorant, most incompetent police officers I have ever laid eyes upon.”

“Really?” Natalie asked.

“Indeed,” the Mayor said. “In fact, I recently began looking into the possibility of allowing the Grover County Sheriff’s Office to absorb all of Sitwell Police Department’s law enforcement functions, simply to rid the town of Chief Walker’s bumbling idiocy once and for all.”

“Interesting,” Natalie said. “What do you think about the fact that Agent Walker is Chief Walker’s ex-wife? Will their relationship have any bearing on the outcome of the case?”

“Well, I don’t suppose it’s any good for a couple of exes to work together in any capacity,” the Mayor said. “Again, as you know, I’m a Christian so I hate to speak ill of others, but I can’t imagine Chief Walker feels very good about himself at the moment while his fancy Federal agent ex-wife has clipped off his balls and shoved him in a mason jar and is now turning Cole into her personal step and fetch bitch.”

Without thinking about it, Cole aimed his Angry Barracuda at Moses’ flat screen.

“Mr. Mayor,” Natalie said. “Why did Agent and Chief Walker break up? I’ve asked around town and have yet to get a straight answer out of anyone.”

“And I’m afraid you won’t get one out of me either, Hot Ass Blonde Chick with Big Titties,” the Mayor said. “For as you know…”

“You’re a good Christian,” Natalie said.

“Indeed,” the Mayor said. “But between you, me, and your millions of worldwide viewers, I am almost certain the Walkers went their separate ways due to the size, or lack thereof, of Cole’s penis.”

“Pardon?” Natalie asked.

“Police Chief Walker has a minuscule, micro-donger, young lady,” the Mayor said. “I can only imagine the gut wrenching sadness when Miss Walker saw that scrawny little thimble on her wedding night. Probably looked like a sad half-stack of pennies between two of them tiny little meatballs, you know, the one you get at that Scandinavian furniture store?”

“And you have confirmation of this?” Natalie asked.

“I’m not about to give away my sources,” the Mayor said.

“But who told you this?” Natalie asked.

“People,” the Mayor said.

“People?” Natalie asked.

“What, am I on trial here, Hot Ass Blonde Chick with Big Titties?” the Mayor asked. “Yes, people! I can’t remember their names right now but many, many people have told me, Mayor Beaumont Dufresne of Mayor Beaumont Dufresne’s Slightly Used Car Emporium, that Police Chief Cole Walker has such a tiny pecker that it caused his wife to run as far and as fast as her feet would carry, most likely right into the arms of a man with a great, big…”

BOOM! Cole fired the hand cannon, putting a bullet right through the televised Mayor’s head. This caused Moses’ flat screen to explode into hundreds of tiny little pieces, all of which rained down over the interior of the gun range building.

“Holy shit!” Moses said.

“Sorry,” Cole said. “It’s just…you have no idea how badly I’ve wanted to shoot that asshole.”

“Understood,” Moses said.

“Send me a bill for a new TV,” Cole said.

Cole and Moses stepped forward to inspect a giant hole in the wall where the TV had once been mounted.

“Bill me for that too,” Cole said.

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Apr 30 2017
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Toilet Gator

Toilet Gator – Chapter 29

presentation01
Irving St. John’s penthouse apartment in downtown Miami was ultra swanky. Fine art, fine architecture, fine everything. Even the buxom babes he was cavorting with were fine, although at this particular moment, he wasn’t able to tell, for he was engaged in his favorite past time.

“Jerth schtik ert ifn,” Irving mumbled through the leather gimp mask that covered his face. He was lying face down in bed, with his naked butt sticking straight up in the air.

“Are you sure about this?” asked Heather, a high priced escort, as she stared at a twelve inch dildo that was riddled with bumps. Heather had the looks of a storybook princess, combined with the slutty demeanor of a late night cable TV show character.

Irving unzipped the mouth hole of his mask. “Just stick it in already, baby!”

“No lube?” Heather asked.

“No!” Irving said. “I’ve done this hundreds of times. It’s not a problem…just….YOWZA! That’s the ticket…”

Heather had complied with Irving’s request without warning. Also without warning, several members of a SWAT team, the same one that had apprehended Freddie Milton, broke down Irving’s door and surrounded the agent with guns drawn.

“Irving St. John?” the SWAT team captain asked.

“Who’s asking?” Irving asked with his head buried in a pillow.

“Police,” the captain said. “Put on some pants and take that thing out. You’re going for a ride.”

“What’s this about?” Irving asked.

“Shut up and zip up your mask, freak,” the captain said.

“Umm,” Heather said. “I haven’t been paid yet.”

“Sucks for you, ma’am,” the captain said. “Always get cash up front.”

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Apr 30 2017
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Toilet Gator

Toilet Gator – Chapter 28

presentation01
Professor Elliot rapped his knuckles on Chad Becker’s dorm room.

A few moments passed. A young man’s voice answered. “Who is it?”

Professor Elliot was surprised that anyone had answered. He’d planned to pick the lock and was just making sure no one was in the room first. “Chad?”

“Chad’s not here, man.”

Whoever was talking on the other side of the door, the professor doubted it was a person who was old enough to get the inadvertent Cheech and Chong reference. Even so, the educator persisted.

“I know that,” Professor Lambert said.

“Chad’s dead, man,” the voice said.

“I’m aware,” Professor Lambert said.

“Then why are you wasting my time asking questions you already know the answers to?” the voice asked.

Professor Lambert grew increasingly frustrated. “I’m not…you just…startled me is all. I didn’t think anyone would be in Chad’s room.”

“Because Chad’s dead man,” the voice said.

“Yes,” the professor said. “We’ve established that.”

“Well,” the voice said. “Why’d you come looking for Chad if you knew he was dead?”

“I didn’t come looking for Chad,” the professor said. “I came for…look…are you taking over Chad’s um…business affairs?”

“Maybe,” the voice said. “Who’s asking?”

Professor Lambert looked around to see if anyone was watching him. Seeing no one, he carried on. “Who’s asking me?”

“No man,” the voice said. “I’m asking you who you are.”

“I know,” Professor Lambert. “And I am, in turn, asking who you are.”

“I’m not telling, man,” the voice said. “You sound like a narc.”

“I’m not a narc,” Professor Lambert said.

“You sound old, man,” the voice said. “So old you must have sold out to the man a long time ago.”

“I did,” Professor Lambert said. “Sooner or later we all do but that’s neither here nor there. Do you have the stuff?”

“What stuff?” the voice asked.

“Don’t play dumb with me!” the professor said. “Open this door. I want to see your stuff!”

“Sir,” the voice said. “I don’t swing that way…”

The professor gave up on the conversation. He put his hand on the knob, planning on turning it in vain but to his surprise, the knob turned and the door opened. The professor found himself staring face to face with Paul, the frat’s Beermeister.

“Paul Keneally!” the professor said as he shut the door behind him. “I should have known it was you.”

Paul panicked and began to sweat profusely. “Professor Lambert! What a pleasant surprise.”

“Knock it off,” Professor Lambert said. “Where’s the stash?”

“Stash?” Paul asked.

“I’m not here to bust you, son,” Professor Lambert said. “I just need some Supersonic Chronic?”

“Supersonic Chronic?” Paul asked. “What’s that? I only put wholesome, organic foods in my body.”

“Don’t bullshit me, boy,” the professor said. “I know you’re holding.”

“Holding?” Paul asked. “What is this, ‘holding’ you speak of? I’m just a simple country boy from Kansas, sir.”

“Look kid,” the professor said. “If the school was trying to do you in, do you really think they’d send me?”

Paul looked the professor over, taking in the frazzled side and back head hair, the stained lab coat, the wrinkly shirt that looked like it hadn’t been changed in days. “I guess not.”

The Beermeister opened up Chad’s closet to reveal a virtual black market marijuana dispensary. Hundreds of perfectly organized glass jars, each filled with a different strain of green herb, all labeled meticulously. “Cincinnati Brain Fart.” “Dragon Bite.” “Mental Disarray.” “Kookaburra Candy.” “Mellow Madness.” “The Kushtastic Voyage.”

“I think he’s all out of Supersonic Chronic,” Paul said.

“Aw, Hell’s Bells!” the professor lamented. “Fine. Just hit me up with a half pound of Minnesota Mud Bud.”

Paul grabbed the jar and began dumping its contents into a plastic baggy. He then handed the illicit substance to the professor. “Three hundred.”

“Dollars?” the professor asked.

“No,” Paul replied. “Back rubs. Of course, dollars.”

“That’s highway robbery,” the professor said. “Look Paul, Chad and I used to have a sort of…arrangement.”

“I do not want to hear about whatever creepy sex stuff you and Chad were into,” Paul said.

“Sex stuff?” Professor Lambert said. “No. I would flunk Chad out of my class again and again and in exchange, he’d sell me top notch ganja at a discount price.”

“Yeah, well,” Paul said. “Chad’s not here, anymore, man. And as his best friend, I have inherited his supply.”

“Two hundred,” the professor said. “And I’ll flunk you too if you want.”

“I don’t want,” Paul said. “And why the hell would anyone want to flunk?”

“Oh, you know Chad,” the professor said. “He just wanted his happy go lucky college days to never end. The only problem is you have to be a complete and total dumb ass drooling mongoloid to flunk out of a two-year community college, so he’d give me cheap weed, I’d fail him on his exams and bada bing, bada boom, his parents would pay for another semester.”

“That’s messed up,” Paul said.

“And now that deal can be yours,” Professor Lambert said.

“No thanks,” Paul said. “It’s been my lifelong dream to graduate from a two-year community college within two years. I’m the pride and joy of my family for even trying to achieve such a miraculous feat. I’m not going to throw it all away with six months to go.”

The Professor pulled out his wallet and counted out some bills into Paul’s waiting hand. “Fine! One hundred…two hundred…three hundred. I hope you choke on it, you lousy grifter.”

Paul handed over the baggy full of bud. “Pleasure doing business with you, Professor. I never knew you were a pot head.”

“Oh, son,” Professor Lambert said. “If you’d risen so high only to fall as low as I have, you’d need a little recreational therapy to get you through the day. Trust me.”
The professor tucked the baggy into the inner pocket of his lab coat. “So how the hell did Paul die on the toilet anyway?”

“I dunno,” Paul said.

“He strain too hard and blow himself up?” the professor asked.

“Maybe,” Paul said. “All I know is I was waiting outside when I heard these loud animal sounds…”

“Animal sounds, you say?”

“Yeah,” Paul said. “Like a big roar. And then I walked into the bathroom and a bunch of girls Paul was hitting on were pinned under a section of the stall wall. The bathroom was flooded, the toilet was broken, and Paul, or what was left of him, was all over the walls.”

“Did you help the girls?” the professor asked.

“Shit no,” Paul said. “I got the hell out of there. You think I’m going to stand around waiting to get killed too?”

The professor shook his head. “Well, I’ve never been one to judge others.”

“Weirdest part was the bite marks,” Paul said.

“Bite marks?” the professor asked.

“All over the door,” Paul said. “The news says some crazy guy is running around murdering people on the toilet but…I don’t now any man with teeth that big.”

The professor’s face turned milk white. “Did you tell the cops about this?”

“Hell no,” Paul said. “I never say shit to cops unless I have to.”

The professor stood in the middle of the dorm room, lost in thought.

“Something wrong?” Paul asked.

The professor patted the young man on the shoulder, then exited the room. “No. Thanks for the stuff.”

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Apr 30 2017
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Toilet Gator

Toilet Gator – Chapter 27

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Big Ray’s House of Fancy Fun Bags was by far the best strip club in all of Sitwell. The joint didn’t earn this credential because it had the most beautiful dancers, or even the most classy adult entertainers. No, it was basically because it was the only nudey bar in town. Thus, Big Ray wasn’t very particular about who he hired. Toothless, overweight, stretch marks, C-section scars, old – it didn’t matter. If you were a woman and were willing to show what God gave you in exchange for sweaty singles pried out of the hands of desperate lechers, Big Ray was happy to hire you.

Even though it was noon on a weekday, there were plenty of perverts lined up by the main stage to check out the next act.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” came the voice of the club’s resident tune spinner, DJ Home Slice. “She’s hot. She’s on fire. No, literally, she’s been reporting a burning sensation when she pees. She’s fifty-five years young and still shaking her money maker. Give it up for Roxy!”

Stank Daddy’s hit rap song blew up the house speakers as Roxy took to the main stage. She was old, much too old for stripping, but she showed up to work on time and Big Ray didn’t have the heart to tell her to take a hike. She trotted down the runway with a cigarette dangling out of her mouth, a palette of clownish makeup slathered on her wrinkly face, and a nicotine patch stuck to her arm.

“Stank Daddy in the house, gonna smack a bitch…”

Roxy grabbed the aluminum pole in the center stage and twirled around and around. She then attempted to climb it, only to huff and puff and fall on her ass. She immediately jumped right up.

“And she’s ok!” the DJ announced. The assorted perverts clapped and tossed dollar bills onto the stage.

One of the perverts looked way too familiar. “Momma!”

Embarrassed, Roxy folded her flabby arms over her giant saggy knockers and leaned in to talk to her son. “Buford! How many times have I got to tell you to never bother Momma while she’s at work!”

“Daddy kicked me out of the house, Momma!” Buford said.

“He did?” Roxy asked. “Why’d he go and do a thing like that for?”

“He said I play too many video games,” Buford said. “Said I gotta grow up and be a man and start making some money.”

Roxy frowned. “Oh son.”

A random pervert was none too pleased at the display. “Hey! I threw a dollar on stage and I expect to see some geriatric titties!”
Roxy let the pervert have it. “Pipe down, ya’ puke! Can’t you see I’m trying to do some parenting here?!”

The stripper ran her hand through her son’s hair. “Baby, maybe you’re Daddy’s just doing what’s best for you.”

Buford started to cry. “Oh sure. Take his side.”

“I’m not taking his side,” Roxy said. “Lord knows your Daddy can be as stubborn as a mule and dumber than a pig but he knows how to make money and, well…”

“Well, what?” Buford asked.

“Look at yourself, son,” Roxy said. “You’re twenty- eight. You got no skills. You got no girl. You’d never be able to support yourself if something happened to your Daddy.”

Buford sniffed. “Momma, I don’t need a lecture. I need a place to stay.”

Roxy appeared startled. “You want to stay with me?”

Buford shook his head up and down. “Uh huh.”

“Oh baby…”

The random pervert squawked again. “Hey, Toots! Either shake that dumper or get off the stage!”

Roxy turned and faced the pervert. “Shut your suck-hole or get ready for a high heel shoe up your ass, pecker head!”

The pervert walked away from the stage in a huff. Roxy returned her attention to the young man. “Honey, we gotta wrap this up. Your costin’ Momma money.”

“I know, Momma,” Buford said. “Please, just let me stay with you.”

“Oh sweetheart,” Roxy said. “I want to and it’s gonna break my heart to say no…”

“Then don’t say no,” Buford said.

“But I gotta say no,” Roxy said.

“Why?” Buford whined.

“Because your Daddy is right about this,” the old stripper said. “You’ll never become a man if you don’t learn how to take care of yourself.”

“But I was meant for something bigger!” Buford said.

Roxy sighed. “Buford Dufresne, you were not.”

“What?” Buford asked.

“Oh I know, it’s a shock, baby,” Roxy said. “Every little boy and girl grows up, thinking they’re special, thinking they’re gonna be all rich and famous when they grow up. You think your Momma thought she’d be dancin’ on stage for a bunch of Looky Lou’s when she was just a little girl?”

“No,” Buford said.

“Well, you’re wrong,” Roxy said. “Because that was my dream when I was young and I achieved it. But not everyone is as lucky as I am, Buford. You need to take all your dreams about becoming famous and stuff them down deep inside your soul and never speak about them again. You need to get out there and work a regular job and be a regular person just like every body else.”

“I can’t believe this,” Buford said.

“There comes a time when every young person lets go of their dreams and settles for less,” Roxy said. “You held onto yours a lot longer than most, and you were able to because your Daddy coddled you but it’s time, Buford. You got to learn how to fend for yourself.”

“But Momma!” Buford said.

“No,” Roxy said. “Besides, you know Momma does extracurricular work at home, entertaining interesting gentlemen and such.”

“I know,” Buford said.

“You get on, now,” Roxy said. “Scoot. And don’t come back until you can fend for yourself, you hear?”

Buford looked sullen, defeated. “I hear.”

“You’ll thank Momma and Daddy for this one day,” Roxy said.

Buford stormed away from the stage. “No I won’t.”

The Stank Daddy beats continued.

“Smack a bitch with a tire iron, smack a bitch with a wrench, smack a bitch with a club until her ass starts speakin’ French…”

“OK, you degenerates,” Roxy said as she twirled around the pole. “Time for Old Roxy to put on a show for you and…ergh!”

The old stripper grabbed her back. She seethed with pain. She looked at the DJ and ran her finger across her throat, in a gesture he took to mean that he needed to cut the music.

“Fuck me,” Roxy said as she stumbled off the stage all hunched over. “Take five, everyone. Old Roxy needs to take her Glucosamine Chondroitin pill.”

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Apr 26 2017
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Toilet Gator

Toilet Gator – Network News One Transcript #4

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KURT MANLEY: …witnesses on the scene said that the Secretary of State will be fine and all he needed was a fresh pair of pants and a spatula. In other news, an incredibly depressed man in Wichita, Kansas snapped today. The man, one Joe Allen Babcock, age fifty-nine, lost control, grabbed his gun, and then publicly stated, “Hey, just because I’m fucking nuts and ready to end it all doesn’t mean that all the other people around me have to die as well. Nope, there’s no need for me to take anyone with me while I blow my brains out. No need whatsoever.” Not only did Mr. Babcock not shoot anyone before he shot himself, he even walked outside and shot himself over the fresh, green grass to save a clean up crew the trouble of having to wipe his brains off the walls. A representative of the Wichita police department stated this was by far the most considerate suicide they had ever seen.

(Kurt shuffles some papers and changes camera angles)

KURT MANLEY: In world news, a ceasefire agreement was reached last night in the civil war that has been raging its way through No-One-Can-Pronounce-This-Shitty-Country’s-Name-istan.” UN Secretary General Boodie Boodie A’Mumugavi reports that it was a full five minutes before the “DoWhatWeSayorTakeaMacheteUpYourTaint-tarians” and the “ObeyUsOrGetanRPGUpTheButt-ians stopped trying to stab and explode each others’ taints and butts. Mr. A’Mumugavi believes next time these warring factions may very well go ten minutes before resorting to violence. Sounds like progress to this newshound.

(Kurt changes camera angles again)

KURT MANLEY: Good morning, USA. If you’re just tuning in, I’m America’s favorite news anchor, Kurt Manley and you’re watching Network News One. Yes, that’s Network News One, where he have the hottest blonde chicks with the biggest titties and oh yeah, we occasionally report the news and shit.

You’re no doubt standing by for more news of the unbelievably tragic death of Countess Cucamonga. She was widely recognized as the world’s most beloved pop diva, largely for her catchy tunes about her ginormous bum. Goodness gracious, even this desk jockey wasn’t immune to the Countess’ charms. I know I spent many a lonely night sitting behind this very desk during a commercial break, listening to the Countess sing about her delectable backdoor while flogging my…

(Kurt coughs into his hand and straightens his tie)

KURT MANLEY: And my producer has reminded me that I’ve meandered off the teleprompter. Time to veer this story back on track. Natalie Brock, who I’m pleased to report has been named NN1’s newest Hot Ass Blonde Chick with Big Titties is covering this story like stink on a monkey. She’s ready to feed us some more information like the hungry little savages that we are. Hot Ass Blonde Chick with Big Titties, are you there?

(The screen switches to Natalie Brock who is standing in front of the sorority house. Her fake wig is still blonde and her bra is once again stuffed with ripe melons.)

NATALIE BROCK: I’m here Kurt. A shocking new development in what the media has now dubbed, “The Great Potty Caper.” A third victim, twenty-eight year old perpetual college student and energy beer drink enthusiast Chad Becker, has died in circumstances similar to those of the other two victims. Like Countess Cucamonga in Miami and Hugh Hogan in Boca Raton, authorities found Mr. Becker’s remains splattered all over the walls of a restroom in this sorority house. The toilet was smashed, a water pipe broken. Four students were knocked unconscious when the wall of the stall Mr. Becker was sitting in landed on them.

KURT MANLEY: That’s incredible, Natalie. While I have no law enforcement experience of any kind and only have a tentative grasp on the facts of this case, based solely on your reporting, I think it is safe for me to conclude that this has got to be the work of a psychotic serial killer, an unstable madman who could lash out at any one of our viewers at any moment and therefore they should all keep their eyes glued on Network News One around the clock for further details on when they can breathe easy again. Have the authorities confirmed this?

NATALIE BROCK: Not as of yet, Kurt. At this time, Sitwell Police Chief Cole Walker has refused to respond to press inquiries, while FBI Agent Sharon Walker, the lead investigator on this case, has stated she will not engage in speculation until the facts are known.

KURT MANLEY: Well she doesn’t sound like fun at all. I believe we have a clip of Agent Walker’s press conference from earlier this morning. Maybe if my producer will pull his thumb out of his ass for five minutes he could roll it for us….Dan? Hey, Dan? Yeah, roll the clip. Holy shit Dan. Maybe spend less time worrying about what I’m doing and focus on doing your job.

(A clip of a press conference rolls. FBI Agent Karen Walker takes questions from the press).

AGENT SHARON WALKER: At this time, I can confirm that the remains of Sally Ann Dubawitz, age twenty-eight, better known by her stage name, “Countess Cucamonga,” the remains of retired history teacher Hugh Hogan, age eighty two, and the remains of Sitwell Community College student Chad Becker, age twenty-eight, were all found in similarly disturbing circumstances.

RANDOM REPORTER #1 – Agent Walker, can you elaborate on those circumstances?

AGENT WALKER: I’m not at liberty to discuss such details during an ongoing investigation.

RANDOM REPORTER #2 – But when you speak of similar circumstances, surely the only conclusion the public can draw is that a serial killer is on the loose?

AGENT WALKER: I don’t think it would be productive for me to entertain conspiracy theories. Believe me, when we have solid facts that can be shared, we will share them.

NATALIE BROCK: Hello, Agent Walker. I’m a Hot Ass Blonde Chick with Big Titties, reporting for Network News One.

AGENT WALKER: Hello, Hot Ass Blonde Chick with Big Titties.

NATALIE BROCK: Should the public panic over the very disturbing possibility that a serial killer is at large and ready to kill anyone and everyone?
AGENT WALKER: Absolutely not. I encourage everyone to go about their daily lives and rest assured that this case is being investigated with the utmost professionalism.

NATALIE BROCK: So the public is not in danger?

AGENT WALKER: I have no reason to believe that the public is in danger.

NATALIE BROCK: Do you have any information to indicate that the public is not, not in danger?

AGENT WALKER: I’m not sure I care for this line of questioning.

NATALIE BROCK: Are you any relation to Chief Cole Walker?

(Agent Walker pulls the microphone attached to her shirt collar off and throws it down on the podium).

AGENT WALKER: This press conference is over!

(Cut to Kurt Manley, back in the studio).

KURT MANLEY: Mee-ow! That Agent Walker seems like one feisty little kitten.

NATALIE BROCK: Indeed, Kurt.

KURT MANLEY: Were you able to figure out if she’s related to the police chief?

NATALIE BROCK: Yes, Kurt. A number of gossipy townsfolk with too much time on their hands indicated to this Hot Ass Blonde Chick with Big Titties that Sharon and Cole Walker were once married, but they divorced ten years ago. No one was able to give me a clear reason why, but theories ranged from an allegation that Agent Walker is, quote, “a big time clam diving lesbo,” to claims that Chief Walker cared more about alcohol than his marriage.

KURT MANLEY: Wowie zowie. Christmas has come early for Little Kurty because this is the story that keeps on giving. America, if you’re just joining us, Countess Cucamonga is dead. A retired school teacher is dead and a community college student is dead. Normally, we wouldn’t give a day old rat’s ass about those lost two were it not for the fact that they died in circumstances similar to that of the Countess. They were all found with their guts smeared all over the walls of bathrooms like some kind of grotesque Jackson Pollack painting. Their toilets were smashed to bits. The water pipes leading to the toilets were broken. Yes, you heard it here, folks. Three toilets have been broken and authorities have nothing to go on.

NATALIE BROCK: That’s very clever, Kurt.

KURT MANLEY: Thank you, Hot Ass Blonde Chick with Big Titties. Now America, even though the lead investigator of this case, a highly trained federal agent, has told the public there is no need to panic, I am going to go ahead and say that you’d have to be a complete and total moron if you didn’t go ahead and panic. I mean, even though we haven’t officially confirmed it yet, two of the investigators involved in this case got divorced because one of them is a deep sea muff diver and the other is a gin soaked rummy. As America’s favorite newsman, I feel confident throwing out those wild accusations, even without one shred of credible evidence in hand to back them up. Panic, people. Panic loud. Panic early. Panic often and be sure to hunker down in front of a television tuned to Network News One. Once your station is tuned to our top notch network, go ahead and break your controller in half so you won’t miss a single bit of information. After all, this is a matter of life and death, people. A serial killer is on the loose, possibly hiding in your bathroom at this very moment as we speak, and you won’t have any idea if you’re safe or not until we tell you, right here on NN1. Thank you, Hot Ass Blonde with Big Titties.

NATALIE BROCK: You’re welcome, Kurt.

KURT MANLEY: We’ll be sticking with the Great Potty Caper as it develops. Stay tuned for the upcoming commercial break and oh, do be sure to buy our advertisers’ wonderful products. Their support keeps us on the air and well, as you might have gathered, without their support, we won’t be able to stay on the air and if we can’t stay on the air then we can’t tell you when you don’t have to worry about a psychopath murdering you while you’re on the toilet. Coming up after the commercial break, we’ll share an adorable viral video of a squirrel making out with a tarantula. Also, have you read the latest study that cookies can give you face cancer? We’ll tell you which brand of cookies that is in the next hour, after sports and weather. But first, these messages…

NN1 ANNOUNCER: Network News One! The Hottest Blonde Chicks! The Biggest Titties! And oh yeah, occasionally we report the news and shit.

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Apr 24 2017
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Tomfoolery

Not All of My Posts Can Be Winners

I know, 3.5 readers.  You’ve grown used to finding gold on this amazing blog every day.

But I’m not a machine, you know.  Not all of my posts can be winners.

All I can think of to say today is to follow me on twitter – @bookshelfbattle

That’s it.  That’s all.  Go have a snow cone and do something productive.

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Apr 23 2017
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Toilet Gator

Toilet Gator – Chapter 21

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Although Buford Dufresne was in his late twenties, his hair was still stuck in the early 1990s. No one had informed him that the mullet had gone out of style long ago and no one was about to do so no. When it came to his hair, it was all business in the front and a party in the back.

Even so, he managed to squeeze into the least stained white shirt, pants, and tie combo available and roll into the dealership, where he would hide in his office all day, ignoring any and all customers while he played video games.

And boy, did he have an impressive rig. Two massive monitors attached to a Nantuzasaki Game Tower, complete with a top of the line graphics card, dual core memory, solid state drive, and enough RAM to choke a horse. All of this processing power allowed him to run over pixelized prostitutes with the greatest of ease as he played the most violent video game ever, Car Thief Mayhem.

Knock knock. The Mayor’s fist pounded on the door. “Son?”

Buford sipped from a straw stuck inside a gallon sized cup of convenience store diet cola. He threw a few potato chips into his pie hole for good measure, then returned his eyes to the screen. He clicked a few buttons, causing his character to get out of a stolen car, bonk the prostitute over the head with a lead pipe, then steal all of her hard earned trick money.

The Mayor knocked again. “Buford? You in there?”

The young man clicked more buttons. His character got back into his stolen car, ran over a few pedestrians, and then ended up in a high speed chase with the police.

“Buford!” the Mayor shouted. “You playin’ with yourself in there!”

Buford sighed. “No, Daddy!”

“Then open up the goddamn door, son! I need to talk to you!”

“I’m busy, Daddy,” Buford said. “Come back later.”

Buford clicked a few more buttons. His character drove his car off a cliff and crashed into a helicopter. It was a horrific, fiery explosion that won Buford 10,000 points. The young man celebrated by opening up his soda cup, dumping in the contents of an energy drink can, then closing up cup’s lid and sipping away.

“Buford Bartholomew Dufresne!” the Mayor shouted. “You will open the door for your Daddy this very instant! Don’t you think for one second you’re too big for me to take you over my knee!”

Buford sighed. He felt defeated. He knew his old man had the energy to knock on his door all day. He realized the sooner he got the lecture that was coming his way, the better. He paused his game, got up, and opened the door.
“Buford,” the Mayor said as he stepped into his son’s office. “I got to talk to you. I heard you…”

The Mayor pinched his nose. “Jumpin’ Jesus H. Christ on a pogo stick! This room stinks! The last time I smelled a stench this bad I was digging a latrine in De Nang.”

The old man looked to the corner, where Buford’s trash can was overflowing with used fast food containers, some of them weeks old.

“Who are you, Little Lord Fauntleroy?” the Mayor asked. “You too good to empty your own damn trash can?”

Buford sat back down and unappeased his game. “Sorry, Daddy. I just been busy.”

“Busy killin’ your brain cells on them shoot ‘em up video games!” Buford said. “I never should have bought you that stupid thing. When the hell are you gonna get up off your fat ass and get out on the floor and make a sale?”

A little bit of drool pour out of the right side of Buford’s mouth as his eyes remained fixated on the screen. “I’m working up to it, Daddy.”

The Mayor took off his cowboy hat and dabbed at the top of his bald head with a handkerchief, removing the excess sweat. “You’re working up to it? Shee-it. And I suppose the Lord Almighty is workin’ up to the rapture. That’ll come first before you start earnin’ your keep around here.”

“Come on, Daddy,” Buford said.

“Don’t you come on Daddy, me, you little sack of shit,” the Mayor said. “Look at me, son. I’m Sitwell’s pride and joy. I got a business that employs over a hundred people. I’m a beloved mayor who makes important decisions every day. And what the hell are you doing with the one and only life that God will ever give you? Running over computerized prostitutes instead of doing something, anything, literally anything at all to better yourself.”

Buford mashed the buttons on his controller. His character respawned in front of a hospital, then stole a truck and ran over a contingent of little old ladies, leaving behind a trail of blood and broken walkers in his wake.

“I blame myself,” the Mayor said.

“Aww, Daddy,” Buford said. “Don’t gimme that speech about how you blame yourself again.”

“I will give it to you, boy,” the mayor said. “Your old daddy wasn’t around enough when you were growin’ up. I was too busy wheelin’ and dealin,’ chasin’ that green that I never took the time to teach you how to be a man. Now you’re like a man-child, a little baby stuck in man’s body. You’re more confused than a horny alley cat trapped behind a spay and neuter clinic.”

Burford moved the sticks on his controller. His character performed a drive-by on a nun convention.

“I set your momma up right,” Buford said. “She never had to work a day in her life. I thought she’d be able to take care of ya, teach ya how to behave all proper like but I was foolin’ myself. Old Lurleene was just a simple minded stripper, dumber than a box of rocks and hooked on anything she could snort up her nose or shoot in her veins. Hell, given all that, I’m surprised you didn’t turn out worse.”

Buford took a sip of his soda. “It weren’t all that bad, Daddy.”

The Mayor put his cowboy hat back on. “Son, will you let me be there for you now?”

The young man paused the game and looked up at his father. “What’s that now, Daddy?”

“I know it’s awfully late,” the Mayor said. “I’m a tired old fart and you’re almost thirty. I doubt I got many good years left. Let me teach you how to be a man, how to take care of yourself. You got to learn, boy, because one day your old Daddy won’t be around to take care of you and then what are you gonna do?”

Buford sighed. “I just don’t think I’m cut out to sell cars, Daddy.”

The Mayor sneered at his son. “Look, I’ll tell you what. I’m a silent partner in a number of business I have invested in town. One of those businesses happens to be Big Ray’s House of Funbags, the classiest titty bar this side of Orlando. I’ll talk to Big Ray. He’ll give you a job as a manager. You can squire around the girls and polish their titties with titty wax before they get on stage. You’ll be on your own, independent, doing something with your life.”

Buford shoved some more chips into his mouth. “I don’t want to do that either, Daddy.”

“Are you serious?” The mayor asked.

“Sure am,” Buford replied.

“Son, that’s a primo offer,” the Mayor said. “Oh Lord, you’re not one of them gay fellas, are you?”

“No, Daddy,” Buford said.

“Because you know son, you can tell your Daddy if you’re gay,” the Mayor said. “I don’t approve of that, but all them Democrats tell me I’m legally obliged to still love you even if you’re gay so I reckon I still will.”

“I’m not gay, Daddy,” Buford said. “I just don’t want to work in no titty bar.”

The Mayor took a deep breath. “Then son, what is it, pray tell, that you want to do with your life?”

Buford pressed some more buttons on his controller. His character drove a big rig through a department store.

“This,” the young man said.

“This?” the Mayor said.

“Uh huh,” Buford replied.

“You want to play video games?” the Mayor said.

“Until the day I die,” Buford said.

“Son,” the Mayor said. “How do you expect you’ll earn a living playing video games?”

Buford shrugged his shoulders. “I dunno. I’ll get real good I guess. Maybe I’ll compete in some video game competitions and earn some big money.”

The Mayor repeated half of what his son just said, just to make sure he was hearing correctly. “Compete in a video game competition and earn big money? Oh Lord, how I have failed you.”

“Daddy, I’m comin’ up to a real hard part, here,” Buford said.

“I made life too easy for you,” the Mayor said. “You never had to struggle. Never had to fend for yourself. Never had to fight for scraps. I gave you everything you wanted in the hopes that one day you’d outshine me and now look at yourself.”

“Blah, blah, blah, Daddy,” Buford said. “You gonna stand there and yap all day?”

The Mayor lost it. He picked up one of the monitors and heaved it against the wall, smashing it into hundreds of pieces.

“Daddy!” Buford shouted. “What the hell are you doing?!”

“Get out!” the Mayor shouted. He grabbed the other monitor and hurled it against the wall. Then he picked up the game station, tossed it on the floor, and stomped on it with his cowboy boot.

Buford grabbed his soda, then ran out into the showroom. His father quickly followed.

“Get the hell off my lot, you no good lazy, loafing son of bitch!” the Mayor shouted.

All of the customers and salesmen turned around to watch the scene unfold.

“Daddy!” Buford shouted. “Why’d you go and break my video games for?”

“So you’ll grow up, you dumb shit!” the Mayor shouted. “No son of mine is going to waste his life the way do for you! Offices are for people who do work! You do one goddamn day of work in your life and you can have it back! Until then, get out and don’t you dare come back here until you do.”

Buford looked around, confused and embarrassed.

“OK I’m sorry Daddy,” Buford said. “Let’s just cool down and we’ll talk about this at home.”

“That’s MY home, boy!” the Mayor hollered. “Don’t you step one foot back there!”

“Daddy!” Buford shouted. “You’re kicking me outta the house?”

“You’re damn right I am,” the Mayor said. “You can either go live with your whore of a mother or you can be a man, earn a living, and find your own place, but I aint gonna coddle you into being a big giant man baby for one day longer, you hear me!”

Buford hanged his head down low and performed the long walk of shame towards the door. “Yes, Daddy.”

“I mean it, boy!” the Mayor said. “You won’t get one more paycheck from me. Not one more hand out, not one more dime until you learn how to become a man. I know there’s something wrong with you, boy. If you aint gay, then it’s something you aint telling me and if you don’t tell me then you’re going to have to sort it out on your own.”

Buford lost it. He threw his soda cup against the wall and it exploded, sending drops of diet cola all over the nearby customers. “I aint gay and there’s nothing wrong with me!”

“There damn sure is something wrong with you, boy!” the Mayor shouted. “You’re not right in the head and any two-bit, half-ass shrink could easily see that from a mile away! Fix yourself and do it pronto!”

Buford threw his father the middle finger. “Choke on a ten foot dick and die, Daddy!”

“Oh!” the Mayor said. “That’s real nice talk! I bet you learned that from your mother!”

“I’ll prove you wrong, Daddy!” Buford shouted. “I’ll be richer and famous-er than you ever were!”

“Good!” the Mayor said. “Then I won’t have to worry about your stupid ass, anymore!”

Buford gave his father two middle fingers. “Fuck you, Daddy!”

The Mayor returned both middle fingers. “Fuck you back, son!”

The young man exited the building and slammed the door behind him. The Mayor looked around at all of the astonished customers. He straightened his tie.

“Sorry about that folks,” the Mayor said. “Tell you what? Ten percent off any car built during the Clinton administration for all your trouble!”

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