We meet again and I see you’re all still working on those writing careers.
In fact my incompetent nephew Bookshelf Q. Battler just informed me that November is “National Novel Writing Month” or “NaNoWriMo.”
You know what I call it? “LosersFindAnotherWayToNotWorkMo.”
Get a job, 3.5 readers. You people are an embarrassment to all 7 of your parents.
Moving on, the big presidential election is Tuesday, November 8.
You all laughed at me when I announced my bid earlier this year.
But now after you got to know the two frontrunners, suddenly old Uncle Hardass doesn’t seem like such a bad option, does he?
Sure, I’m old and I’ve never worked anywhere but the Salt Mines (which you should apply to) but I’ve never grabbed anyone by the pussy, that’s for damn sure.
Not only is that rude but it is also highly unsanitary. I’ll have you know my ex-wife, BQB’s Aunt Gertie, tried to get me touch her there all throughout our many years of marital bliss and my response was always, “No dice! Do you have any idea how many germs are on that thing?!”
Also, I’ve never had an e-mail scandal because I don’t e-mail, or use phones. Whenever I want someone to know something, I just should at them very loudly and wherever they are in the world, they hear it. I call it Uncle Hardass mail.
I don’t write crazy tweets because I think anyone who uses social media is an asshole, and that goes double for my lazy nephew, who you should not follow on Twitter – @bookshelfbattle
Seriously. Don’t follow him. You’ll just encourage him to keep this useless blog going and then he’ll never get a job at the salt mines.
Where was I? Oh right. Comparing myself to the candidates. Also, I don’t engage in pay for play or take big donations in exchange for favors.
That’s not because I don’t want the money but because I don’t do shit for anyone.
That’s right. Whatever you want done, you should do it yourself. Sure, I could do all your shit for you but then what would you learn? What would you get for it?
When I was a kid if I wanted a road I had to build a road.
If I wanted to go to school I had to build the school then teach myself.
If someone needed to be arrested I just arrested them.
If another country declared war, I had to fight the war single handed. I personally fought and won 29 wars all by myself and I’m damn proud of it.
So no, I’m not going to take your money to do a political favor for you. You keep your money and you get off your lazy ass and do whatever it is that needs doing.
Oh. BQB’s meddling attorney just handed me an envelope. “This blog is in no way encouraging people to undertake any kinds of official actions that they do not have the authority to do.”
For crying out loud. Ban all the lawyers! That’ll be the first thing I’ll do when I’m elected and then after that I’ll take a nap for a year.
In summation, here are more reasons why you should vote for me, Uncle Hardass, this Tuesday, November 8.
I’m younger than both candidates. You wouldn’t think so but both are very, very, very old.
I’m going to be championing a new jobs initiative entitled, “Jobs! You Should Get One, You Lazy Son of a Bitch.” No need to create any new laws or organizations or programs to get people jobs. I am just going to go on TV once a week and nag all of you unemployed people about how awful you are for not having jobs and then surely all those people will do anything to get a job rather than be around to listen to me on TV, because my speech will be on every channel.
I will forego all wars and challenge opposing world leaders to an arm wrestling match instead. Before you scoff, just keep in mind it gets kind of lonely for an old man, so I’ve been known to keep myself busy by shaking hands with the old bishop, often for hours at a time because honestly, at this point its just like pulling taffy. Like it sort of wants to do something but not really.
Thank you, degenerate lazy 3.5 readers.
In conclusion of my summation, your writing ambitions are a waste of time and utterly pointless and also do something useful for a change and vote for me, Uncle Hardass.
Statesman. Barfly. Deliverer of Sandwiches to the Stars. Leo McKoy Needs Your Vote.
Bookshelf Q. Battler.
He thinks he’s a real great hero, what because he saved East Randomtown from a zombie apocalypse.
And sure, he has a WordPress blog with 3.5 readers.
Leo McKoy could pull rank and mention how he once delivered a sandwich to James Van Der Beek, the actor who played Dawson on Dawson’s Creek.
But Leo would rather talk about the issues.
FREE POTATO AND FIXINGS BAR
Leo McKoy has been saying it for years. “What? This town doesn’t have a free potato bar? When did I fall asleep and get transported to Communist Russia?”
That’s right. Because the Communist Russians do not have free potato bars because they hate freedom and also potatoes.
If Leo McKoy is elected, he will personally provide over a free potato bar in the town square every Monday or, if Monday is a holiday, then he will hold the potato bar on Tuesday because you shouldn’t expect him to give up his Monday holiday, you ingrates.
Bacon bits. Sour cream. Butter. Chives. Chili. Refried beans. Tabasco sauce. Ketchup. Mustard. Ninety-five different kinds of ice cream. Thousand island dressing. Ranch dressing. Honey mustard.
If you can put it on a potato, then your free town potato bar will have it.
East Randomtownians will never have to put shoes on their hands and gloves on their feet and walk around on their hands as if their hands were feet on Leo McKoy’s watch.
Leo McKoy was the only candidate to pledge that our dear townsfolk will never be subjugated to a law that requires them to wear shoes on their hands and use their hands as their feet and their feet as their hands.
That would be a ridiculous law and Leo McKoy does not care that such a method of walking is required by the town’s bylaws. McKoy will not rest until that bylaw is repealed and East Randomtownians are walking on their feet like honest, God fearing folk.
CATS WILL NOT BE ALLOWED TO READ YOUR MINDS
That’s right. If you believe your cat is trying to read your mind, report said feline to Mayor McKoy and your cat will spend the rest of his or her nine lives in cat prison.
Also, Mayor McKoy will expend most of the town’s treasury on the construction of a cat prison.
WE WILL CREATE AN ALL MILF POLICE FORCE
East Randomtown’s police force will be staffed by a bevy of forty year old babes who have given birth yet still managed to keep their shit hella tight and defy gravity.
If you are going to do some shit that’s going to get you arrested, you’ll feel a lot better if you’re hauled in by a MILF.
NO ONE WILL BE ALLOWED TO QUESTION IF MAYOR MCKOY IS A ROBOT
Bookshelf Q. Battler lied when he said he saw McKoy get eaten by zombies. McKoy is not a robot and he is so certain the townsfolk trust him that he will make it illegal to have politicians checked for metal balls.
MONEY WILL NOT BE WASTED ON RIDICULOUS THINGS
A McKoy administration will tighten the town’s belt by doing the following:
The East Randomtown Library will be shuttered and bulldozed. No one has stepped foot in it since it was discovered that books steal your souls.
All subjects at East Randomtown High School will be cancelled and replaced with one catch all class entitled, “Keeping it Real.” Taught by Mayor McKoy himself, students will learn that math is bullshit, science is a load of crap and no one needs to know what how to read the Englishes good as long as they know how to keep it real.
The town dump will be closed. Residents will be encouraged to sweep trash under their beds. You can always get more trash under your bed so stop complaining.
Roads will not be repaved. Everyone is too fat and will be required to walk everywhere. Seriously, people. Look at yourselves. Even Mayor McKoy wouldn’t make a pass at you, that’s how fat you all are.
A STATUTE OF JAMES AND LEO
That’s right. A solid gold statute will be built to memorialize the glorious time when Leo McKoy delivered a sandwich to James Van Der Beek.
BAN THE BOOKSHELF BATTLE BLOG
You know with all the zombie attacks, and the yeti always going on a tear, and the space aliens always parking their ships on our front lawns and probing people in unflattering places, life sure isn’t easy in East Randomtown.
But has anyone noticed that life got worse around the same time Bookshelf Q. Battler started his stupid blog?
BQB’s blog is a magnet that pulls every last supernatural asshole in the universe to our humble town.
Thus, when Leo McKoy is elected, he will shut down BQB’s entire operation. All the weirdo monsters that keep descending on our town will get lost and BQB’s 3.5 readers will never be entertained again.
CONCLUSION
A lot of people talk about delivering a sandwich to a 1990s teen heart throb but Leo McKoy was the only man with the guts to actually do it.
Did you do it? No? Then shut your suck hole and be a man and vote for Leo McKoy, because he’ll stop BQB and his dumb blog from destroying our lousy ass town.
PAID FOR BY THE COMMITTEE TO CONVINCE YOU THAT BOOKSHELF Q. BATTLER IS A STUPID DOUCHEFACE WHOSE BLOG SHOULD BE SHUT DOWN SO VOTE FOR LEO MCKOY OR EVERYTHING BAD THAT HAPPENS IN THIS TOWN IS YOUR FAULT BECAUSE HE TRIED TO WARN YOU
Slather on some extra lipstick and hike up your pants, 3.5 readers.
BQB here with a review of Miranda Sings’ TV debut with Haters Back Off, streamable now on Netflix.
As a pop culture nerd, I’ve been aware of Miranda Sings’ YouTube channel for awhile. I can’t quite put my finger on when I first learned of her. Rather, it seems like the sun or water, she’s just always been there.
The character is so larger than life that you might be surprised there’s a real person under those pants.
Colleen Ballinger (honestly, I never knew the name of the person behind Miranda until she got her own Netflix show) has explained the genesis of her alter ego and I’ll try to do it justice (with some of my own assumptions that may or may not be accurate.)
Years ago, Colleen was an aspiring singer and as such, she was surrounded by all kinds of egotistical “look at me girls” who performed song covers in their bed rooms in front of video cameras, posted the videos on YouTube and then immediately thought doing so would launch a music career.
The odds of getting discovered like that aren’t great, so rather join them, she invented Miranda and made fun of them.
It was 2008, the early days of YouTube and Colleen aka Miranda became a comic genius. She not only lampooned the egotistical “I want to be a success overnight by posting dumb videos” phenomenon that so many millennials have become swept up in, but she also got the chance to make fun of a variety of music stars in the process.
Great plan if you ask me, because if you head on over to YouTube and do a search for your favorite modern pop hit, chances are, if you scroll down far enough, you’ll see Miranda with her poorly applied lipstick and Steve Urkel-esque pants singing a cover of the song terribly yet congratulating herself on a job well done in her nasal voice anyway.
To Colleen’s credit, she’s embraced Miranda to the hilt low these many years. She’s gone on tour and appeared on TV shows as Miranda and only as Miranda i.e. similar to the way Sascha Baron Cohen would go on a TV show as Borat and everyone would treat him as Borat.
Like Lady Gaga, Colleen has kept her poker face. Go to Miranda Sings’ Twitter and you’ll find a bevy of misspelled yet egotistical tweets as Miranda compliments herself on her latest activities whilst being clueless as to her skills, talent, or rather, lack thereof.
And Miranda has even developed all sorts of catch phrases. With “Haters Back Off” she has essentially immunized herself from YouTube criticism. YouTube commenters are notorious for savagely ripping into YouTubers, often being a little too harsh on people who are just trying to show the world their interest in song, dance, entertainment or what have you.
But since Miranda is already parodying the “Oh my God someone wrote a bad comment about me on the Internet and it has ruined my life” lifestyle, it is hard to bring her down with a negative comment. (Well, its hard to bring Colleen down. Miranda, for humorous purposes as we see in the first episode of her show, gets emotionally ruined by the slightest online criticism.)
Her other catchphrase is, “No porn.” Miranda fancies herself classy. If you dress in a skimpy outfit, she’ll likely accuse you of “doing porn.”
Social Media has truly exploded over the last decade and not always for the better. This election, with friends and neighbors squabbling over their preferred candidate, is proof of that.
But the best thing about social media is it has allowed people with talent to shine and be discovered in a way that is usually reserved for people with connections, contacts, agents, and/or just a tremendous amount of luck.
Therefore, I tip my hat to this YouTuber as she took an idea, produced it out of her bedroom, nurtured, grew it, kept it going and eight years later, has her own TV show.
Now with many pop culture sensations, a TV show or movie based on said sensation usually ends up being crap. Hollywood suits get together, attempt to ride a popular name for as long as they can, but then don’t give a lot of thought to the plot.
That’s not the case here.
In this show, we see Miranda’s life, and not just the parts from YouTube.
A homeschooled nerd devoid of style, manners, common sense, and/or talent yet overflowing with (you might say undeserved) self-confidence, the show begins with Miranda recording a poorly performed song and loading it to YouTube.
Miranda’s Uncle Jim is an assistant fish store manager and is as clueless and egotistical as Miranda is, convinced that he’s going to manage his niece’s entertainment career all the way to the top.
FYI Jim is played by Steve Little who you might remember as Kenny Powers’ clueless weirdo friend from HBO’s Eastbound and Down. Steve did such a good job with that role he is apparently going to be playing clueless weirdos forever now.
Eh, there are worse jobs, right?
Angela Kinsey (Angela the accountant from The Office who was always judging Pam when she wasn’t busy being Dwight’s creepy love interest) plays Miranda’s mother Bethany.
Bethany is convinced she has undiagnosed fibromyalgia (but more likely has hypochondria) and has a dress and a casual wrist brace, neither of which are necessary.
She nurtures Miranda to a fault and encourages Miranda’s unlikely music career and caters to her every egotistical whim (Miranda bosses her mother around similar to how Zach Galifinakis bosses his mother around in The Hangover.)
Rounding out the family is Emily (Francesca Reale) who is Miranda’s sister and the only normal, level-headed member of the family.
As I saw Emily reading a book entitled, Living with Crazy, I caught the point of the show.
Yes, a bunch of people got together and figured out a way to make a buck off the Miranda Sings character, but this show is much more than that.
This show puts “the other half” on full display, in all their glory.
So many shows are filled with beautiful people with beautiful people problems. “Oh no, which of my many suitors will I pick? Everyone loves me, whatever will I do?”
Or worse, there are so many sitcoms with perfect parents and perfect children.
In the real world, real families have real problems. Sometimes families aren’t even traditional, as in the case of a hypochondriac mother and a creepy uncle raising an egotistical daughter who is convinced she should be a superstar and another daughter who just yearns to live a normal life.
There’s something for everyone to relate to in this show. Maybe YOU are the one in your family with a crazy problem. Or maybe you are like Emily and you just want to be normal but you’re forced to deal with your family’s craziness.
And ultimately, the show is a lampooning of the quest for Internet fame.
Yes, people, you do live in an age where it is possible to bypass agents, auditions, and entertainment industry decision makers and gain notoriety on your own.
BUT – just because the technology is there doesn’t automatically mean you have the talent to make it happen.
Because you can do it doesn’t necessarily mean you should do it…and you just might make an ass out of yourself along the way.
Ahh, but here’s the rub. “Get some confidence” is the advice we’re always told when we pursue our dreams.
What happens if your confidence outweighs your talent?
Such is Miranda’s dilemma.
I hand it to Colleen/Miranda. Had she opted to be just another girl singing covers in her bedroom and posting the videos to YouTube, the odds are she wouldn’t have gone anywhere, but by creating a character to poke fun at these girls, she created an empire with little more than a pair of hitched up Urkel pants, some caked on lipstick, and a nasal nerd voice.
I hope this TV success doesn’t mean that Miranda is going to leave us anytime soon.
However, after seeing Colleen as herself on Jimmy Fallon, I can tell that it won’t be long before Hollywood starts knocking on her door with parts that are reserved for starlets and not nerds.
She deserves it but as her star rises, I just hope she doesn’t throw those hiked up pants away. She needs to keep them in the back of her closet to remember that so many of her fans are, in fact, more like Miranda than they are like a Hollywood star.
I’m in awe of people who got in on the ground floor of the social media craze.
My initial reaction then was, “Eh, this is interesting but why the shit do I want to be on a website where everyone talks about what they had for lunch and posts a photo of their lunch?”
But Colleen found her niche, made a bold decision to be funny and not take herself seriously by inventing a hilarious character and eight years later, people are taking her seriously now.
Don’t you hate it when you think you’re going to get a big ass candy bar but instead you get a teeny tiny candy bar instead?
“Oh it’s fun sized! This pathetic little candy bar is so much fun!”
Bleh, let me tell you, that is some Don Draper Madison Avenue Mad Men Peggy Olsen bullshit right there. “Fun Size” was invented so that candy companies could sell shit tons of candy during the Halloween season and while I haven’t done the math in my vampiric brain, I’m willing to bet that when you buy one of those bags of fun sized candy bars, they’re selling you less chocolate for more money.
Bleh! I’m so angry I’m bleh-ing all over the place. I’m too lazy to do the math. One of you nerds, go analyze the square footage of the average amount of chocolate in a bag of fun sized candy bars, compare it to an equal amount of regular, non-fun sized candy bar chocolate, then do a price comparison, carry the four, add the denominator, multiply times PI and then tell me if I’m full of vampire shit or if I’m onto something, bleh.
“Oh look at me, I have a regular big sized candy bar and it is so boring I wish I had a tiny candy bar then it would be fun.”
You know what’s worse? One of those assholes who can actually just eat one piece of fun sized candy. Because you know the rest of us whales are inhaling so many pieces of the fun sized candy that we’re probably eating the equivalent of a dozen regular, boring size candy bars.
And that’s how they get you! Because when the candy is small, then you shovel it in your stupid cake hole and then you eat all the candy even though you never would have eaten a dozen regular boring size candy bars in one sitting because if you did then you know you’d have a problem.
So on top of all that, you have to haul your fat chocolate stuffed ass back to the store and buy even more fun size candy because you don’t want to be that one assface in the neighborhood that everyone hates because you don’t have any candy to pass out on Halloween, bleh!
Bleh, just thinking about all this has me feeling defeated. I am a vampire and I have been defeated by candy, bleh.
Put a vampire in front of a mirror and he/she will not appear in said mirror.
Ergo, if you go look at your mirror and you do not see a vampire then look out! That means there’s a damn vampire behind you!
Or is there?
Yes, you laugh but now you’ll always wonder if you’re not seeing someone in the mirror because there is no one there or because there’s a vampire behind you.
Muah ha ha! Muah ha ha! MUAH HA HA! I’ve ruined your mind!
Wait. What? You’d still be able to turn around in order to see if a vampire is in the room with you?
There was that first year where I didn’t post that much because I was still learning what all the damn buttons do.
Not gonna lie. I’m still learning. It doesn’t help that WordPress changes shit around everyday. Hell, sometimes I’ll step away from the computer to drop a deuce and come back and shit has been changed.
No two visits are ever the same.
Then there was that second year where I concentrated on the blog, tossing up tons of material, doing my one post a day for a year challenge.
And finally, year three is the year where I finally finished the first rough draft of a novel. Now I just have the long journey to getting it published and out there.
Let’s take a moment to talk about you, my 3.5 readers.
Oh how I adore you, 3.5 readers. I really do.
Many authors have humongous egos where they desire millions of readers.
Meanwhile, I have decided that I will always keep blogging as long as at least 3.5 people keep showing up to look at this drivel.
1.5 readers? I give up. 2.5? No thanks. 3.5? OK. Cool. I’ll keep posting.
But can we talk about how you, my 3.5 readers, can help me, BQB?
You guys are cool. You’re great. But what I need you do to is to become MORE than 3.5 readers.
You need to multiply, 3.5 readers. You really do.
Have you tried to multiply yourselves yet, 3.5 readers?
Here are some ways that you can be more than 3.5 readers:
Tell your friends about my fine blog.
No friends? Make one, then tell your new friend about my fabulous blog.
What do you mean, you don’t have any friends?
OK so go make a friend then.
Yes, I know that’s easier said than done, but look at your life, you need a friend.
I don’t know to make a new friend. How does anyone make one? You attend some type of social gathering, strike up a conversation with a person in attendance, develop a rapport, and then perhaps after six months of friendship you slide it in to your new friend that he/she should check out my blog.
No, I didn’t say to give your friend the boot after. Sheesh, I’m not heartless. I’m not telling you to engage in an elaborate scheme to make a friend, get them to look at my blog, then kick them to the curb after. You can keep being friends with your new friend if you want.
Bring my blog up in casual conversations. Example:
RANDOM PERSON: You know I’m really concerned about global warming, genocide, war, and the extinction of the East Pango Tangonian Tree Bird.
YOU: Cool. You know what I do when I’m worried? I read the Bookshelf Battle Blog.
Hire a sky writer to inform the masses about my fine blog.
Conduct massive amounts of research into discovering the cure to an exotic disease. When the press interviews about your amazing discovery, devote the entire interview to talking about my blog.
If you have a blog, tell your 3.5 readers about my blog. Then, my 3.5 readers and your 3.5 readers can mingle.
Become an astronaut. Once in outer space, deploy a sign directing Earthlings to read my blog. Note the sign must be large enough to be read from outer space. Block out the sun if necessary.
Use Jurassic Park technology to bring a dinosaur back to life. Ride through the streets on said dinosaur whilst telling all the Looky Lous about my splendid blog.
OK. So out of those, I suppose the most reasonable requests are to ask you to follow me on Twitter on Facebook.
So go do that. And then, if you can find the time, the dinosaur thing.
The Happy Little International Children Experience began as a slow, leisurely boat ride through a long, dark tunnel adorned with bright, twinkling, multi-colored lights. The boats weren’t so much floating as they were being pulled via an elaborate underwater conveyor system, but the effect was just the same.
Abby sat and sipped on her convenience store soda, her mind conjuring up images from her youth, a happier time when her parents and her brother rode the ride with her, but not because they particularly enjoyed it.
Hell, no one but Abby ever has or ever likely will enjoy the Happy Little International Children Experience. It has been routinely voted most annoying ride for thirty straight years by the readers of Theme Park Enthusiast Digest.
But Abby’s mother, father and brother rode it because they knew she loved it and it was that love that she was missing so much as she looked around the illuminated tunnel.
An old woman in a gray sweater sat to Abby’s left, clutching a set of rosary beads in her hand. Abby hadn’t noticed it before but as she looked back, the whole boat she was in was filled with kids ranging between ten and sixteen years old. The unkempt urchins wore tattered clothes and chatted amongst themselves.
“Ma’am,” Abby said.
“Yes, dear?” the old woman replied in an Irish brogue.
“I’m sorry to bother you,” Abby said. “But are you a nun?”
“That I am, child,” the old woman said. “Sister Eugenia of the Order of Our Lady of the Immaculate Cast Iron Undergarments.”
Abby appeared in doubt. “Seriously?”
“Oh,” Sister Eugenia said with a chuckle. “Its been years since they’ve made us wear anything like that.”
Abby pointed her thumb toward the back of the boat. “Are they all with you?”
“Yes,” Sister Eugenia said. “For the past decade I’ve been assigned to the order’s home for wayward orphans right here in Florida.”
Abby watched the kids. “You mean none of these kids have parents?”
“Sadly no,” Sister Eugenia said. “All of their parents have died under the most horrific circumstances, lost to the drink or the drugs, car accidents, heroin overdoses, so many folks out there just love to chase that dragon, don’t you know?”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” Abby said.
“And then there are the mothers who sell their bodies on the street corner only catch an exotic venereal disease or to end up sliced and diced by depraved maniacs,” Sister Eugenia said. “Or the fathers who join street gangs and end up riddled with so many bullet holes that they end up looking like Swiss cheese.”
“I see,” Abby said.
“Don’t even get me started on the parents who sniff magic markers,” Sister Eugenia said.
“I won’t,” Abby said.
“So many lovely children end up orphaned because their parents were uncontrollable magic marker fume addicts, completely incapable of stopping themselves from shoving magic markers up their nostrils in order to sniff the devil’s aroma.”
“That’s terrible,” Abby said.
“Then I suppose once in awhile there’s a father with a strange sexual addiction…”
“I get the picture,” Abby said.
“They can’t get their rocks off unless they’re being strangled,” Sister Eugenia said. “Or if they’re wearing a leather gimp mask. Or if they’re having dangerously bizarre foreign objects shoved up their rectums and its all fun and games until somehow it all goes tragically wrong and…”
“Sister,” Abby said. “I get it. These kids have been through bad times.”
“They surely have, dear,” Sister Eugenia said.
“They seem well-behaved,” Abby said.
“Oh that’s just because this is our yearly excursion outside the orphanage’s walls and I’ve warned them that if I hear a peep out of any of them we’ll all go straight home,” Sister Eugenia said. “Harsh, I know, but you must never show weakness around children, dear.”
“I’m starting to realize that,” Abby said. “I have two of my own.”
“Where are they?” Sister Eugenia asked.
“Doing their own thing,” Abby said. “They want nothing to do with me these days.”
“Ahh,” Sister Eugenia said. “Don’t feel bad. It happens to every parent sooner or later.”
“All they do is complain, complain, complain,” Abby said. “It’s always, ‘me, me, me’ with those two.”
“Well, what do you expect, dear?” Sister Eugenia asked. “Weren’t you like that when you were their age?”
Abby sighed. “I suppose.”
“Every child deserves a parent’s unconditional love,” the sister said. “Once they’re old enough to realize that the world doesn’t revolve around them they’ll return it to you in spades, don’t you worry.”
“I’d just settle for being appreciated,” Abby said.
“Wouldn’t we all, dear?” Sister Eugenia asked. “Wouldn’t we all?”
Sister Eugenia balled up her fist and expelled a burp into it.
“Pardon me, dear.”
“It happens,” Abby said.
“The order was kind enough to give me a budget large enough to take the children to lunch at the wombat food court and I’m afraid Funky Cola does not sit well with me at all.”
The Chief was shaped like a walrus, with the mustache to boot. He turned down the volume on his daytime television, then swiveled around in his chair in order to give Doug a vigorous dressing down.
“You’ve been a real thorn in my side ever since you joined the force, Crocker.”
Doug, who was seated on the opposite side of his boss’s desk, flipped up his clip-on shades. “You call this ‘the force?’”
“The Wombat World Security Team is the finest organization of officers in the entire amusement park industry,” the Chief said. “We make those suck bags keeping an eye on Kippy’s Kangatropolis look like a bunch of pukes and I will not have you sullying our good name.”
“I don’t have to listen to this,” Doug said.
Wam! The Chief banged his fist down on his desk, causing bundles of papers and empty coffee cups to scatter everywhere. “Goddamn it, Crocker! You’re a loose cannon!”
Doug stood up and leaned over the desk. “What would you know about it?! I’m out there every day, day in, day out, putting my ass on the line while you’re in here, polishing your brass and waxing your chair with your ass, pretending like all the busy work you do means something just to justify your miserable bureaucratic existence!”
The Chief leaned over and glared angrily at his subordinate. The two men leered and snarled at one another. There was less than an inch between their faces.
“Your one and only job here is to observe and report, shit for brains!” the Chief shouted. “You think you got a real big swinging dick whenever you do all this cowboy shit Crocker but I swear to God one of these days you’re going to get someone killed and then its going to be all our asses on the line!”
“Aww,” Doug said as he flipped his clip-on shades down. “If you can’t stand the heat then get out of the kitchen baby because this chef is cooking with gas.”
The Chief opened up a heavy, paper stuffed folder with Doug’s name printed on the side. “Hassling old ladies…hassling children…hassling park guests of every kind…”
“Rule breakers, Chief,” Doug said. “The whole lot of ‘em. Get your head out of your ass and get my back, man. Don’t you realize we’re the last line of defense between order and chaos in this park?”
“Did you stop a little girl this morning?” the Chief asked.
“Her pie hole was filled with a giant wad of Bubblelicious,” Doug said. “She sticks it on one of the antique Willy Wombat statues or leaves it on somebody’s seat and bam, pow! The whole park gets flushed down the shitter.”
“Her mother ripped my head off over that,” the Chief said as he flipped through the pages in the folder. “You have truly been a giant, festering, puss filled boil on my ass for as long as I’ve known you, Crocker, but I’ve finally got you know. You’ve finally written a check so large that your ass can’t cash it.”
“Bullshit!” Doug said. “I’m a duly designated officer of cartoon based theme park law!”
The Chief foamed at the mouth. “Did you get a gift shop trashed?”
Doug looked away from his boss. “I don’t know anything about it.”
The Chief pounded his fist down on his desk, then pointed at Doug. “Damn it! Don’t you lie to me! I am the Almighty God of Hellfire and I can rain down more furious vengeance upon you than you could possibly imagine! Did you get a gift shop trashed?”
Doug shook his head. “Step off my jock, Jack. Its longer than you can handle and you’re going to trip over if if you aren’t careful.”
The Chief’s nostril’s flared. “Did you get a gift shop trashed?”
Doug folded his arms. “You won’t get nothing out of me.”
The Chief inhaled a deep breath, exhaled, then roared, “Did you get a gift shop trashed?”
Doug caved. “You’re goddamn right I got a gift shop trashed!”
“I knew it,” the Chief said. “Thousands of dollars worth of damage. Hundreds of toys missing. Countless employees traumatized. ”
“You have the audacity to charge me with keeping this park safe and then question the way I do it?” Doug said. “Oh look at you, you hypocritical son of a bitch. You sit in here all high and mighty in your fancy office with your female talk shows and your exotic coffees and you like to think you’re better than I am, but deep down we both know that you want a man like me out there in the shit, you need a man like me out there in the shit, this park could not operate for a single second without me out there in the shit.”
“You’re on thin ice, Crocker,” the Chief said. “And you’re talking like a man wearing a pair of razor sharp ice skates. You know its wrong to get company property destroyed, just admit it.”
“I admit nothing,” Doug said. “ Jessica Flynn was stuffed into a Willy Wombat costume without a single second of training and thrown to those tiny wolves. She was one more kick from a toddler’s shoe away from being done. Over. Finished. Kaput. She’d of been a goner if I hadn’t done something but instead of thanking me and putting a nice letter in my file you want to mount my ass on your wall just to make your corporate overlords happy.”
“I’ve had enough of that insubordinate lip, Crocker,” the Chief said as he held out his hand. “Turn over your whistle.”
Doug’s face turned white. “What?”
“You’re suspended,” the Chief said. “Two weeks without pay.”
“Aw come on,” Doug said.
“You want to try for three?”
Doug took the whistle that was hanging around his neck off and slapped it down in the Chief’s hand.
“And your badge,” the Chief said.
A tear trickled out of Doug’s eye as he looked down at the shiny silver wombat shaped badge pinned to his chest. “Come on, Chief.”
“You’re a disgrace to this poorly paid private security organization,” the Chief said. “I won’t have you wearing our revered symbol a on your worthless chest a second longer.”
The Chief reached over the desk and ripped the badge right off of Doug’s shirt, leaving a hole in the fabric behind.
Doug’s face shriveled up. It was as if a piece of his soul was ripped away with that wombat shaped badge.
“Go straight to your car,” the Chief said. “Go home and think long and hard about what you have done.”
“Chief,” Doug said. “My partner’s out there.”
“He’s not your partner,” the Chief said.
“Earl is the best and also only officer I’ve ever worked with that didn’t request a transfer to get away from me,” Doug said. “And he’s not answering his radio.”
“I’m sure he’s fine, Crocker,” the Chief said. “Besides, its not your problem anymore. Get the hell outta here or I’ll call the actual cops and have them throw you out.”
Doug got up and walked away while muttering, “We’ll see about that.”
We here at the Bookshelf Battle Blog celebrate winners.
Winners = yay.
Losers = boo.
And no, you’re not a loser if you’re reading this blog…you’ve already lost.
You have to have more stuff to lose to be a loser. If you’ve lost it all then you’re a lost person.
So without further ado 3.5 lost readers, join me in sacrificing your non-existent dignity as we explore the Top Ten Warning Signs You Might Be a Loser:
#10 – You come up with excuses to lose and or not win. “Waaah my parents were mean to me…Waah my childhood was terrible…Waah all the kids at school picked on me…Waah I lost all my limbs in a tragic jet ski accident.”
Just stop. Yes others have had fewer hurdles to jump over and clearer paths to victory. But comparing yourself to them or wishing them ill will and sulking over your misery will get you nowhere.
So hike up your pants, screw your courage to the sticking post and be a winner.
#9 – You still buy DVDs from that bargain bin at the store. Stop! Cease investing in a dead technology immediately! Little kids in third world countries are being whipped into re-packaging 1990s Rom Coms just to make them look more interesting for people like you.
#8 – You explain all your jokes. If you have to explain it then it isn’t funny.
Also, don’t apologize for not being funny. I’ve never ever apologized yet for this pitiful blog and I never will.
#7 – Sweat pants are the gateway drug to loserdom. The more comfortable you are the less likely you’ll want to leave your house in order to go out into the world and win.
Thus, wear two sizes too small leather pants at all times.
#6 – Will you please stop spending all your money on useless crap?
Seriously, whenever some dumbass complains to me that they don’t have enough money it’s all I can do to not point out the solid gold spinning rims they attached to their Honda Civic or their wardrobe full of elaborate cos play costumes or their action figure collection which I now realize I’m guilty of.
Winners save. Bank the scrilla today to be a balla tomorrow.
#5 – Don’t ask someone who has dumped you already to take you back.
Look even if your face looks like a butt and you have no style, no money, no job, no friends, no social graces and you spend all your time writing Firefly fan fiction you still need to convince yourself that your ex was too much of a loser to recognize a winner in order to maintain a winning personality.
#4 – You’re too quick to admit you are wrong just to make someone you’re talking to happy.
Stick to your guns at least once a day on a ridiculous subject.
Swear on a stack of bibles that the sky is taupe.
Inform everyone that Sammy Davis Jr once served as Pope and you will not hear arguments to the contrary.
Shout that hamsters control the banking industry.
If people get worn out telling you that you’re wrong then congratulations on the win!
#3 – You’re the guy or gal no one wants to talk to.
Anyone talk to you lately?
Uh oh.
#2 – You save torn Christmas wrapping paper to re-use next year.
Sigh. You have lost and you make Baby Jesus cry.
#1 – You write blogs only read by 3.5 people…but not this blog.
This blog is a winner and it isn’t fault that there aren’t enough winners in the world to recognize it.
The Chief was shaped like a walrus, with the mustache to boot. He turned down the volume on his daytime television, then swiveled around in his chair in order to give Doug a vigorous dressing down.
Bookshelf Battle 