Did you know that December 23rd is the date that George Constanza and his family celebrated “Festivus” on Seinfeld?
Ever since that episode, I’ve always considered Dec. 23rd to be Festivus. So perform the feats of strength then gather ’round the aluminum pole for the annual airing of the grievances.
What grievances do you have, 3.5 readers?
Happy Thanksgiving, 3.5 readers.
Here are some things that I, the great Bookshelf Q. Battler, am thankful for:
LAST, BUT NOT LEAST:
Enjoy your day and stuff your pie holes, 3.5 readers. Feel free to tell me what you are thankful for in the comments.
By: Uncle Hardass, Grumpy Old Man Correspondent
Hardassimo J. Scrambler
Hello Degenerate 3.5 Readers,
I see none of you have taken my advice to give up on all this writing horse shit and get a job at the salt mines yet.
Salt Mines Inc. is waiting there, ready to pay you good money for every chunk of salt you pull out of the ground but are you clowns interested?
NOOOOOOOO!!!!
“Look at me! I’m a blogger! I’m super smart and special and the whole entire world needs to know!”
Baaah! Who needs ya’?
Wait, wait. Come back. Don’t leave yet. I have to bitch about Thanksgiving first and then you can go.
This is a holiday about “giving thanks” but if you people have been paying any attention (and why would you because this blog sucks with the gale force wind of a thousand Dysons) then you know I don’t give any thanks whatsoever for anything. EVER!
So instead, I’m going to rename this holiday, “Complaintsgiving.” Here are my complaints about this bogus excuse for a holiday which, lets face it, was invented by no good lazy as hell hippies just to get out of a day of work.
In fact, it has been the hippies’ goal for as long as I can remember to declare every single day on the calendar to be a holiday so that no one has to work anymore.
That’s fine. I know that’s the way this socialist nation is headed.
One day I’ll be the last asshole doing any work at all and the government will just tax me at a rate of 10 bazillion percent. I’ll take on the entire country’s debt myself so the rest of you losers can have a jolly good old time on my back. It’s ok. By no means feel bad about yourselves. I’m just an old man committing micro aggressions against your safe space.
But I digress. My complaints:
“Oh! Hello! I’m an idiot and I think it might be a good idea to shove a shit ton of bread crumbs up a dead game bird’s ass, cook the whole shebang, then dig it all out and serve dead bird ass bacteria covered bread crumbs to my guests!”
WHAT FOOTBALL FANS SAY ON THANKSGIVING: Go! Go! Go! Yes! Touchdown!
WHAT THEY REALLY MEAN: I wanted so badly to play for the NFL when I was 17 but no college would draft me because I ran around like I had a sack of doody in my pants so now the only joy I get out of life is pretending like my cheering for the group of mercenaries hired to play on my geographic location’s behalf is actually accomplishing something.
Finally, I’d like to end this column by sharing the one thing I can’t stand above all else when it comes to Thanksgiving:
Uncle Hardass is BQB’s Late Uncle. Although he passed on many years ago due to a pastrami induced heart explosion, he still haunts BQB HQ in ghost form, informing our noble blog host about everything he does wrong in excruciating detail.
By: Bonnie Lass, Special Guest Pirate
Ahoy me buckos!
Talk Like a Pirate Day isn’t just a National Holiday. It’s an INTERNATIONAL holiday.
Aye, from the streets of London, to the colonies in the Americas and ARRR all the way to the Isle of Tortuga, ye need to be talkin’ like a pirate on this fine day matey, arr.
Here be a collection of the Talk Like a Pirate Tutorials brought to ye by Capt. Deathbeard’s crew:
Talk Like a Pirate at the Office
Talk Like a Pirate at a Restaurant
Talk Like a Pirate While Babysitting
Talk Like a Pirate While Driving
Face it. At Christmas time, you beat yourself up pretty bad, didn’t you? “I told myself I was going to fix X problem last year and another year has gone by!”
Yes. Yes, it certainly has. They always do. Those years go by quick.
And so, with renewed vim and great vigor, we march gallantly into the New Year.
By Christmas 2015, I vow I will, in no particular order: lose weight, exercise more, take better care of myself, write my novel, become nicer to my fellow man, find my special someone, save more money, tell that jerk that’s been bothering me where to stick his/her insults, run a marathon, dress better, eat better, learn how to speak Italian, donate my time to a soup kitchen, sponsor one of those African kids they keep showing in commercials, take dancing lessons, visit another country, pick up the phone and call X relative, friend, neighbor, long lost podiatrist that I haven’t spoken to in ages and am now just afraid to because it will seem weird since so much time has gone by. I will bake a cake, go ice fishing, kayak down the river rabbits, fight a grizzly bear single handed and skin him alive using nothing but my wits, pelting him into submission with sticks and berries. I will go skydiving. I will go snorkeling. I will go parasailing. I will learn how to play the guitar, piano, ukulele, and the French horn. I will take yoga classes and start saying things like “Namaste.” I will one-up Ebenezer Scrooge and find one starving orphan child per day, and give said child enough money to buy a goose – living or dead, it doesn’t matter what kind of goose the child gets to me, the point is, the child will be able to eat the goose, or keep it as a pet to distract himself from his hunger, whichever he so may choose to do. I will develop mental telepathy and change the channel on my television with just a flick of the wrist, no remote control required. I’ll develop ESP and convince others to watch ESPN.
And while we’re on the subject of television, here are some bad habits I vow to rid my life of once in for all. I will turn my television off and never turn it on again until New Year’s 2016. I will not watch Mad Men, Justified, Walking Dead, Reruns of Breaking Bad, Homeland, Fargo, Game of Thrones, True Detective, nor will I watch the new crap they churn out, get me addicted to, then cancel. I will smash my Xbox with a hammer and vow to not play a video game ever this entire year. My body will be a temple and I will be its master. I will embrace a healthy diet. I will not eat one item of junk food and will never visit a fast food restaurant in the entire year of 2015. I will drink nothing but rarified mineral water from the artesian wells of Iceland, collected and bottled by actual, legitimate Icelanders and not just wannabes who move to Iceland for the swanky nightlife scene and then just try to blend in. I will eat nothing but hummus, lettuce, carrots, and if I’m feeling crazy, I’ll allow a full blown watercress sandwich with extra cress. I will not utter one swear word this entire year. Anyone who offends me will not be offered a return insult but rather, a caring and concerned ear to listen to all their problems, no matter how bullshit they may be.
Why am I doing all of this? Because it is the New Year! I was depressed at my various Christmas social gatherings, lamenting how I vowed to do all of these things by the end of last year, and yet there I was, at Christmas 2014, still watching Mad Men and the Walking Dead, swearing at everyone, playing video games, not walking any marathons whatsoever, a Big Mac in one hand and a bottle of Norwegian Ice Water in the other. I hadn’t bought a single orphan a livestock bird that they could either eat or keep as a pet. I hadn’t touched a single vat of hummus the entire year. Italian people were coming up to me at the Christmas party left and right and I was completely clueless as to what in the hell they were saying. My long lost podiatrist was still left with the feeling that I didn’t give a shit about him. I had yet to learn Mental Telepathy, my guitar, ukulele, and French horn were collecting dust in a corner, and that African kid was still unsponsored, despite all the coffee I drank like a selfish imbecile, any one of those cups of coffees could have been used to purchase vital medicines and care packages for said starving child. And you want to know the real coup de grace? That guy who’s a real jerk that I never told off? He and the grizzly bear were openly mocking me the entire Christmas party.
But there will be no more of that crap this year! For I, the Bookshelf Battler, a book scholar, renowned all over the world and some parts of Mars, depending on their satellite receptions, truly understand the power of a New Year! New Year’s Day is a momentous time, a time when the disappointments of the previous year are still fresh, and yet there is still hope for the new year, the hope that I can look at the calendar, and there will be 365 fresh days that I can start putting to good use, with the hope that by the 2015 Christmas party my colon will be a hummus lined picture of good health, that entire flocks of geese will be donated to orphans, and maybe even to African kids if they’ll accept them and allow me to keep my coffee money, that I will wow everyone at the next Christmas party by playing the ukulele while making all the Christmas ornaments dance with my mental telepathy skills. I will not attend the Christmas party alone, but rather, with the supermodel I will convince to go with me using my newfound powers of ESP. When people at the 2015 Christmas party ask me, “Can you believe what Don Draper did?” I will say, “Hey, no spoilers pal!” If I can’t find the bathroom, I’ll go up to the closest Italian person and ask, “D’ove il bagno?” What? Did I just run, “Where is the bathroom through Google Translate?” No, you dirty son of a…no, wait, hey, come here, what’s the matter? Tell me all your problems. I’m sure they are all legitimate and not made up at all.
Yes, at that Christmas party at the end of this year, I will wow the attendees with pictures of my skydiving, paralleling, snorkeling trip – where I did all three at the same time by jumping out of a plane, falling to just above the Earth, where I then lassoed a boat, allowed it to pull me for a while, then cut anchor, and swam three miles with the fish off the coast of Capastrano.
AND AS GOD AS MY WITNESS, I WILL DO IT ALL IN MY NEW BEAR SKIN COAT.
Yes, I know this will all happen, because 2014 is not only gone, but it was a tremendous disappointment. I will not make the same mistakes. I will not fall back into the same bad habits. This will be the year that I spend each and every day doing the right thing and making the exactly correct decisions because gosh darn it, I now have FINALLY learned the lesson that the next year will be over in the blink of an eye, so I’d best make the most of it, so that I am not depressed at the 2015 Christmas party.
What? It’s Jan. 2 already? Fuck it. Somebody get me a Big Mac. Well played, Bear. Well played.
Scrooge’s discussion with two charitable collectors:
“At this festive season of the year, Mr. Scrooge,” said the gentleman, taking up a pen, “it is more than usually desirable that we should make some slight provision for the Poor and Destitute, who suffer greatly at the present time. Many thousands are in want of common necessaries; hundreds of thousands are in want of common comforts, sir.”
“Are there no prisons?” asked Scrooge.
“Plenty of prisons,” said the gentleman, laying down the pen again.
“And the Union workhouses?” demanded Scrooge. “Are they still in operation?”
“They are. Still,” returned the gentleman, “I wish I could say they were not.”
“The Treadmill and the Poor Law are in full vigour, then?” said Scrooge.
“Both very busy, sir.”
“Oh! I was afraid, from what you said at first, that something had occurred to stop them in their useful course,” said Scrooge. “I’m very glad to hear it.”
“Under the impression that they scarcely furnish Christian cheer of mind or body to the multitude,” returned the gentleman, “a few of us are endeavouring to raise a fund to buy the Poor some meat and drink and means of warmth. We choose this time, because it is a time, of all others, when Want is keenly felt, and Abundance rejoices. What shall I put you down for?”
“Nothing!” Scrooge replied.
“You wish to be anonymous?”
“I wish to be left alone,” said Scrooge. “Since you ask me what I wish, gentlemen, that is my answer. I don’t make merry myself at Christmas and I can’t afford to make idle people merry. I help to support the establishments I have mentioned — they cost enough; and those who are badly off must go there.”
“Many can’t go there; and many would rather die.”
“If they would rather die,” said Scrooge, “they had better do it, and decrease the surplus population. Besides — excuse me — I don’t know that.”
“But you might know it,” observed the gentleman.
“It’s not my business,” Scrooge returned. “It’s enough for a man to understand his own business, and not to interfere with other people’s. Mine occupies me constantly. Good afternoon, gentlemen!”
Right above, in that last part, Scrooge basically says that his life keeps him so busy that he can’t be bothered to worry about other people. What do you think? Do people get so busy and preoccupied with their own lives that they can’t spare a moment to help others? Or, is this an excuse? Do people just not want to be bothered to part with their time and/or money to help the less fortunate?
Hello Noble Readers,
As the end of the year draws nigh and old man winter spews forth his icy breath, its time to think of all the special people around us – like the 305 followers of my blog, or the 1,810 followers of my twitter handle, @bookshelfbattle (which honestly, if you haven’t followed yet, what’s stopping you?)
To thank you all, I got you all a gift – iPads. Yes, I purchased over 2,115 iPads to give to my blog and twitter followers, my way of saying thank you for being with me at the beginning, putting up with my eccentricities, and keeping the faith that one day, I might actually review a book.
Unfortunately, the iPad truck was hijacked by the Yakuza. Also, that was a joke. I never bought you any iPads. Also, the thing about the Yakuza was a joke. Yakuza are known to read book blogs often so I don’t want to offend them.
I did get you something even better than an iPad. “Blackberry Playbook?” What? Who said that? Jesus, why don’t you just ask me to get you an etch-a-sketch or a stone tablet and a hammer and chisel? No, what I got you is even better.
I got you all the following free recitation of ‘Twas the Night Before Christmas. Originally published in 1823 by Clement Clarke Moore, his copyright status has dashed away, dashed away all.
Fun Fact – this poem was originally published with the title – A Visit from Saint Nicholas, but eventually came to be known as ‘Twas the Night Before Christmas because that’s the first line of the poem and people are stupid.
Yes, I see a hand. Do you have a question?
“Do you always have to be so jaded, Bookshelf Battler?”
Yes. Yes I do.
Now sit back, relax, and enjoy as I share a Public Domain work and pretend like I actually did something. Full text below, interspersed with my world renowned literary analysis:
‘TWAS THE NIGHT BEFORE CHRISTMAS
BY: CLEMENT CLARKE MOORE
‘Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the house
Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse;
ANALYSIS: Aren’t you happy to live in a time where vermin aren’t considered lovable house guests?
The stockings were hung by the chimney with care,
In hopes that St. Nicholas soon would be there;
The children were nestled all snug in their beds;
While visions of sugar-plums danced in their heads;
ANALYSIS: Mmm. Yummy. Plums. A sugary fruit that gave you diarrhea was the most the youth of that time had to look forward to. No wonder the Nineteenth Century was consumed by so many wars.
And mamma in her ‘kerchief, and I in my cap,
Had just settled our brains for a long winter’s nap.
ANALYSIS: Fun Fact: People used to dress up for everything back then. Going to a moving picture show? Put on your best three piece suit. Off to bed? That’s no excuse for looking like a bum.
When out on the lawn there arose such a clatter,
I sprang from my bed to see what was the matter.
ANALYSIS: Cue scary music from those Jason movies – “Chee chee chee…hah hah hah”
Away to the window I flew like a flash,
Tore open the shutters and threw up the sash.
ANALYSIS: Shutters. People used to have like, these wooden doors on their windows, you know to keep out murderers, monsters, bill collectors, and various other forms of riff raff.
The moon on the breast of the new-fallen snow,
Gave a lustre of midday to objects below,
When what to my wondering eyes did appear,
But a miniature sleigh and eight tiny rein-deer
With a little old driver so lively and quick,
I knew in a moment he must be St. Nick.
ANALYSIS: I find it odd that this poem is considered one of the definitive accounts of what Santa Claus is like, since it describes him, his sleigh, and his reindeer as being small. Personally, I prefer my Santa to be fat as hell, his sleigh to be the size of a Cadillac Escalade, and his reindeer to be steroid loaded bucks, because frankly, they’d have to be to pull all that around the world in one night. I’m sorry, but the reindeer juice. Everyone knows it. Get your head out of the sand.
More rapid than eagles his coursers they came,
And he whistled, and shouted, and called them by name:
“Now, Dasher! now, Dancer! now Prancer and Vixen!
On, Comet! on, Cupid! on, Donner and Blitzen!
ANALYSIS: OK, sit back and think about the gravity of this for a minute. This author named the reindeer. When you’re with your kids and you’re all like, “Hey, let’s leave out a carrot for Dasher!” that reindeer got his name because of Clement Clarke Moore. And he actually put some thought into naming the reindeer. He didn’t just half-ass it and go, “On Eugene! On Fred! On…uhh…Marvin? Yeah, what the hell, Marvin the Reindeer, that sounds good.”
To the top of the porch! to the top of the wall!
Now dash away! dash away! dash away all!”
ANALYSIS: Keep in mind, this takes place in a time long before space travel, where families gathered round and said to each other, “You know, I bet some day man will crack the porch barrier. Imagine it, men soaring through the air, reaching the tops of walls…”
As leaves that before the wild hurricane fly,
When they meet with an obstacle, mount to the sky;
ANALYSIS: Well, shit. Now I have to start doing scientific experiments on leaves during hurricane season just to determine whether or not a beloved children’s poet is full of crap or not.
So up to the housetop the coursers they flew
With the sleigh full of toys, and St. Nicholas too –
And then, in a twinkling, I heard on the roof
The prancing and pawing of each little hoof.
ANALYSIS: Can you guys get the hell off my roof? Do you know how much a roofer would charge me to repair reindeer damaged shingles? And you know he’ll tell me he’s coming in a window between 9 and 6, then call me at 6:15 to tell me he’s sorry he can’t make it and can we try next week…
As I drew in my head, and was turning around,
Down the chimney St. Nicholas came with a bound.
ANALYSIS: And thus began the Christmas tradition of telling children that an obese man will commit a felony level breaking and entering into their homes.
He was dressed all in fur, from his head to his foot,
And his clothes were all tarnished with ashes and soot;
ANALYSIS: I mean, honestly, if you know the guy is coming to bring you presents, the least you can do is have a cockney chimney sweep run a brush through the thing. Common courtesy.
A bundle of toys he had flung on his back,
And he looked like a pedler just opening his pack.
His eyes – how they twinkled! his dimples, how merry!
His cheeks were like roses, his nose like a cherry!
His droll little mouth was drawn up like a bow,
And the beard on his chin was as white as the snow;
The stump of a pipe he held tight in his teeth,
And the smoke, it encircled his head like a wreath;
ANALYSIS: Yes. Santa hit the pipe. Hard. Fairly certain it was just tobacco though. Crack would not be invented until the 1980’s by Sir Isaac Crackington.
FURTHER ANALYSIS: Look, kids! Cancerous carcinogens in a festive holiday shape!
He had a broad face and a little round belly
That shook when he laughed, like a bowl full of jelly.
He was chubby and plump, a right jolly old elf,
And I laughed when I saw him, in spite of myself;
ANALYSIS: Dude, seriously. The man is here to bring you shit. You don’t have to dump all over him. OK, yeah he’s fat. But you weren’t winning any beauty contests either, Beloved Christmas Poet Clement Clarke Moore.
A wink of his eyes and a twist of his head
Soon gave me to know I had nothing to dread;
ANALYSIS: If it’s one thing I always appreciate in a home invader, it is a sign that I have nothing to dread.
He spoke not a word, but went straight to his work,
And filled all the stockings; then turned with a jerk.
ANALYSIS: And thus began the timeless Christmas tradition of parents taking the money they’d worked all year long for, using it to purchase presents, then giving all the credit to a mythical fat man.
And laying his finger aside of his nose,
And giving a nod, up the chimney he rose;
ANALYSIS: To lay one’s finger on the side of one’s nose, an old gesture akin to a wink, or to indicate a secret jest to another individual, as in “Hey Buddy, I just invaded your home. You know it. I know it. Let’s not make a big deal of it.”
He sprang to his sleigh, to his team gave a whistle,
And away they all flew like the down of a thistle.
ANALYSIS: Fun Fact: The reindeer and a sleigh full of presents remain on the roof the entire time Santa is in your house. Is your roof structurally sound enough to carry such a hefty load for an extended time period? I know mine isn’t. I don’t know about you, but every Christmas Eve, I get a little nervous when I think about how the only thing standing between me and a contingent of 500 pound Nordic animals from falling through my roof and onto my friggin’ face while I’m sleeping is the craftsmanship of the incompetent, cost cutting, crack at the top of his pants general contractor who put in the lowest bid to construct my home.
But I heard him exclaim, ere he drove out of sight –
“Happy Christmas to all, and to all a good night!”
ANALYSIS: It’s Seasons Greetings, you politically incorrect hatemonger.
FINAL THOUGHTS: Fellow bloggers, I hope you enjoyed this equivalent of a blog based Christmas Special. I’ve busted on Mr. Moore quite a bit, but I give the man some credit. He originally wrote this as a heartwarming tale to tell his children, but it was later published and became the basis for much Christmas lore. I apologize to him that I am such a malcontent that I was not able to reproduce his poem as is, without offering my mean spirited comments.
In fact, his ghost just appeared in my office and we had the following exchange:
MOORE: You just made fun of my poem?
ME: Yes.
MOORE: Yeah, well, at least I’ve been published in a mass market, bitch! (Then he pretended to drop a microphone, turned his back on me, and walked away.)
I hope you’re enjoying this holiday season, followers! Let me know in the comment section if there are any other holiday classics you’d like me to analyze with my expert commentary!
Ho ho ho, Merry Christmas Bookshelf Battlers! ‘Tis the season to be ready! (You are not supposed to read the word “ready” as in “being prepared” but “reedy” as in, being a person who likes to read. Nevermind).
It has been tough keeping up the old Bookshelf Battle blog (follow along on twitter @bookshelfbattle ) lately. I’ve been writing up a storm on a book idea I have and unfortunately I have limited time, so the little time I do get I’d rather spending working on that than posting here, though I wish I could do both.
It’s been ages since I’ve done a book review. That’s sad, since that’s what this blog is all about. But one goal I have is to also promote the classics, especially those in the public domain that belong to the ages.
So without further ado, here is a link to Project Gutenberg’s version of A Christmas Carol by Charles Dickens – the story of hard working Ebenezer Scrooge, an evil one-percenter who made his gold shillings off the backs of the poor, and was happy to do so until three liberal bleeding heart ghosts guilted him into spreading his loot around.
OK, so maybe the story doesn’t work well with modern terminology, but enjoy anyway!
Bookshelf Battle 