Tag Archives: humor

Toilet Gator – Chapter 56


President Vincenzo “Vinny” Stugotz sat in front of a mirror of his presidential dressing room while a team of servants ran around, prepping him for his day. Two servants lowered a one-foot tall, jet black pompadour on the President’s bald cranium and stapled it to his scalp.

“Ouch,” the President said as the staples entered his skin. “So painful and yet, so swanky.”

The President ran a comb through his luxurious faux hair while two more servants brought over an array of spray cans. “Shall we go with Tropical Surprise or Mediterranean Madness today, sir?”

“Hmm,” President Stugotz said. “You know, I’m feeling a little extra pale today. Let’s go with the Maui Madness.”

“Maui Madness it is, sir,” a servant said. The President popped two plastic eye guards over his eyeballs while the servants shook up their spray cans. Soon, the Commander-in-Chief was being doused in the face with a hefty application of spray on tanning solution.

“Ahh,” the President said as he admired his look in the mirror. “So brown I wouldn’t even let myself in the country!”

There was a knock on the door. “Sir, are you decent?”

“OMG,” President Stugotz said. “Who would dare disturb me at this ungodly hour?”

“It’s eleven a.m. sir,” came the voice from the other side of the door.

“That early?” President Stugotz said. “The sacrifices I make for my country. Come in, Bob.”

Bob Breckenridge, the President’s buzz cut sporting Chief-of-Staff, stepped in only to find a butt naked POTUS.

“Sir,” Breckenridge said. “Seal Team Ten is waiting outside and oh…oh my…”

“Don’t act like you’ve never seen an executive branch before, Bob,” the President said as he turned to his servants. “Black suit number ninety-seven. Elongated red power tie number fifty-two. Make it snappy.”

The servants whirled around the President, dressing him up nice and stylish. Once he was fully clothed, he looked at his dutiful subordinate.

“Bob,” the President said. “I’ve been glued to Network News One. Literally glued. I can’t take my eyes off of it. I’ve been Lifeboxing all of their coverage.”

“I once again must ask that you run all of your Lifebox comments by the cabinet, sir,” Breckenridge said. “‘The Hotass Blonde Chicks need to have twenty percent bigger titties’ is not presidential at all.”

“I thought I was being restrained,” President Stugotz said. “Really, ninety-percent would be better. I mean, those reporter ladies have some incredibly big titties already, but if you ask me, only ridiculously, absurdly, cartoonishly large breasts will do.”

“Right,” Breckenridge said. “Anyway, sir. Are you ready for your top secret mission?”

“Of course,” the President said. “Let’s move.”

President Stugotz and Breckenridge exited the bedroom and proceeded to walk down a long hallway, surrounded by the members of Seal Team Ten. Each member was clad in black body armor and helmets that covered their faces. They carried automatic weapons. They spoke through microphones in their helmets.

“The Eagle is on the move,” one member said. “Repeat, the Eagle is on the move.”

“Copy,” another member said. “Exterminate all threats with extreme prejudice.”

“Bob,” President Stugotz said. “I want to be straight with you. This mission is not for the feint of heart and frankly, some of us might not be coming back so if you want to run away like a little school girl in pigtails, now is the time.”

“No way, sir,” Breckenridge said. “I signed up to stand by your side as you lead America into a new age of glory and nothing will scare me away.”

“That’s a tremendous response, Bob,” the President said. “Really, classy. Big time classiness.”

The contingent stopped at an elevator. Breckenridge typed in a long numeric code and pressed his thumb onto an identification plate. The elevator doors opened and the contingent entered.

“Has the site been thoroughly swept?” President Stugotz asked.

“Indeed, sir,” one of the seal team members said. “The K9 unit just made a pass through and reported no hits.”

“Excellent,” President Stugotz said. “That’s amazing. Really fabulous. You’re all aces in my book. Aces.”

The elevator began to descend deep underneath the White House. The floors ticked off on the readout. “Sublevel 1, Sublevel 2, Sublevel 3…”

“Mr. President,” Breckenridge said. “I must admit, the polls on your response to the Toilet Killer situation are not good.”

“No, they aren’t, Bob,” the President said. “That’s why you need to get the FBI Director on the phone and get that lady agent pulled off the case.”

“Is it really proper to interfere with an investigation, sir?” Breckenridge asked.

“Is it really proper to keep allowing honest, hard-working Americans to be murdered while they’re shitting, Bob?” the President asked. “Good God, man. Use your head. Every shitter that’s murdered is a potential voter and one less person who will show up to vote for me in 2020. Batzengant and Wannadingle are busting a nut every time the Toilet Killer strikes because they know people will never vote for a President who allowed a Toilet Killer to kill indiscriminately and with reckless abandon on his watch. Like those asshats could do any better, they couldn’t get a bill through the Senate with a bucket a grease and an offer for a free hooker for everyone on Capitol Hill.”

“I’m told that Agent Walker is highly respected in law enforcement circles,” Breckenridge said.

The elevator continued to drop. “Sublevel 45, sub level 46, sub level 47…”

“Yeah,” President Stugotz said. “But you heard that hayseed Mayor on TV. Agent Walker has a vagina and frankly, that’s an excellent point.”

“That she has a vagina, sir?” Breckenridge asked.

“Exactly,” President Stugotz said. “I mean, it’s not her fault that she has one, sure, but I concur with the Mayor of Sitwell on this one. Only a big, beautiful man with a giant penis will be able to solve this most confounding case and we need to get it solved quick so I can get back to the very important business of Making America Fabulous again. I promised my voters a fabulous America and by God, they will get a fabulous America.”

“Well,” Breckenridge said. “I’ve been going through the FBI files and it just so happens that Agent Walker’s partner, Agent Bishop, has an extraordinary large penis, so big, in fact, that the FBI’s head physician classified it as a ‘medical oddity.’”

“I don’t even want to know why you’re looking up FBI agent penis sizes, Bob,” President Stugotz said.

“I like to be thorough, sir,” Breckenridge said.

The elevator stopped at sub-level 101. The contingent exited and began walking through a long, dark hallway. They came to the first door and a robotic voice came through a loudspeaker.

“Retina identification, please.”

President Stugotz shoved his eyeball up to a scanner. The door opened. The contingent walked down yet another long hallway.

“Whatever,” President Stugotz said. “Take Agent Walker off. Put Agent Bishop in charge.”

“Will do, sir,” Breckenridge said.

“Americans cannot be afraid to shit anymore,” the President said. “No one’s going to be scared to take a shit on my watch.”

The contingent stopped at another door. “Breath identification, please.”

President Stugotz breathed on a scanner. The door opened and the contingent headed down yet another hallway.

“Are we ready for this shit, Bob?” President Stugotz asked.

“All safety precautions have been taken, sir,” Breckenridge said. “The Air Force has scrambled its best fighter jet pilots to keep watch overhead, while our best tank battalion has arrived on the White House front lawn.”

“Fantastic,” President Stugotz said.

The contingent reached a final door. “Voice identification, please.”

“President Vinny Stugotz, here,” the President said.

The door opened as the robotic voice replied, “President Stugotz voice identification scan complete. All hail President Stugotz.”

The contingent entered a top secret, underground bathroom with black walls, floors, and a sleek, stylish toilet in the center of the room. Five secret service agents wearing dark sunglasses stood around the toilet, with their arms folded behind their backs.

“Sir,” one of the agents said. “Ready for waste elimination when you are, sir.”

President Stugotz turned the members of Seal Team Ten. “Are we a go?”

“Waiting on your go code, sir,” one of the members said.

President Stugotz held up his wrist and played with the buttons on his watch. “Synchronize your watches on my mark…mark!”

All seals and secret service agents adjusted their watches accordingly.

“Go code alpha bravo charlie one one zero one one niner five,” President Stugotz said.

“Go code is a solid copy,” one of the seals said. “Confirmation code beta beta hawkeye delta one seven four. Proceed when ready.”

President Stugotz dropped his pants and sat on the toilet.
One seal held up a sniper rifle. “Sniper unit standing by.”

A second seal held up a jagged tactical knife. “Hand to hand combat unit, standing by.”

A third seal held up a can of air freshener and sprayed a cherry vanilla scent into the room. “Air freshener unit standing by.”

The agents and seals formed a circler around the toilet and turned their backs to give the President some privacy.

“Maybe I should just step outside,” Breckenridge said.

The President strained his bowels. “Ergh…ugh…no. Don’t be silly. This is going to be a working shit, Bob. I’ve got more orders for you.”

“Very good, sir,” Breckenridge replied.

“Aargh,” the President said as his face turned red. “Damn it, this is going to be awhile. I know I should have listened to the First Lady about those damn bran muffins.”

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Toilet Gator – Network News One Transcript #5


Network News One Transcript #5

KURT MANLEY: Witnesses on the scene said the manatees ate every last one of the environmentalist protesters, causing the workers on the oil rig to laugh and laugh and laugh some more. Talk about cruel irony.

(Kurt looks at a different camera.)

KURT MANLEY: Good morning, USA. If you’re just joining us, I’m Kurt Manley, America’s Favorite News Anchor. You’re watching Network News One, the only channel with the hottest blonde chick reporters with the biggest titties. Oh yeah, and occasionally we report the news and shit.

(A graphic pops up to Kurt’s right. It depicts a toilet with a big giant X stamped on it.)

KURT MANLEY: And now for our top story. “America’s Shitting Nightmare.” The toilet killer has struck again, this time taking the life of Adelaide Hotchkiss, an elderly stripper better known to the patrons of the Sitwell, Florida erotic entertainment nightclub Big Ray-Ray’s House of Fancy Funbags by her stage name, “Roxy.”

(An obese man with a long beard, sunglasses, and a stained shirt appears on screen, speaking into a microphone.)

BIG RAY-RAY: Aw, hell yeah it’s sadder than a monkey fucking a football in this joint ever since we learned about Old Roxy. She wasn’t my prettiest stripper, or even my best one but dammit, that gal has never missed a day of work since 1987. From the Reagan Era all through the 1990s and 2000s, if there’s been one constant around here, it’s been Roxy’s big, gelatin filled ass working its way all over the sweatpants clad crotches of all of my discerning gentlemen customers. That’s why, in Roxy’s honor, all lap dances will be fifty percent off for the rest of the day and I’m gonna knock a dollar off the cost of the all you can eat hot wing bar. It’s the least I can do.

(KURT MANLEY, back in studio)

KURT MANLEY: Four grizzly murders in two days. All of the victims evacuating their bowels on the toilet when they met their doom. This has caused widespread panic in Florida, where residents have become so scared of sitting on the crapper that they’ve been coming up with new methods of eliminating their bodily waste. Here’s a Hot Ass Blonde Chick with Big Titties with more on this story.

(NATALIE BROCK appears on camera, standing in front of the Sitwell Police Station. She is wearing her blonde wig and her bra is stuffed with ripe melons.)

NATALIE BROCK: That’s right, Kurt. The latest development in the Toilet Killer’s non-stop murder spree is that Floridians are scared too shit! I conducted a series of man on the street interviews to find out why people are so terrified of the toilet. Check out these results.

(NATALIE’S man on the street interviews begin. First, an average looking guy in a polo T-shirt.)

RANDOM MAN: I have had to go for nearly thirty-five hours now, but I’ve been holding it.


RANDOM MAN: I do not want to end up like Countess Cucamonga or any of those other people. If I don’t shit then the Toilet Killer can’t get me.

NATALIE BROCK: Thirty-five hours. That’s some amazing sphincter control right there.

RANDOM MAN: Yes, I’m very proud of myself.

NATALIE BROCK: Still, that’s a long time. Aren’t you worried that you’ll eventually lose control and…

RANDOM MAN: No, ma’am. I’m in peak physical condition. I can hold it for as long as I need to and….ERGH…

(The man’s face turns red. NATALIE waves the air away from her nose.)

RANDOM MAN: Nevermind.

NATALIE BROCK VOICEOVER: Yes, while some citizens have tried holding it, others have turned to less traditional methods of shit disposal.

(NATALIE confronts a man wearing a T-shirt from his favorite rock band. He’s standing next to a pile of cardboard boxes and holding one of them up in the air.)

BOX SALESMAN: Get your shit boxes! Get your shit boxes! Fifty bucks for a shit box!

(An old man performs an impromptu “I need to shit dance” as he walks up to the salesman and forks over some cash).

OLD MAN: Give me one of those!

BOX SALESMAN: Pleasure doing business with you, sir.

NATALIE BROCK: Sir, are you profiteering off of a tragedy?

BOX SALESMAN: Are you kidding me? I’m performing a service here, lady. People need to shit. Toilets aren’t safe. A cardboard box is the next thing.

NATALIE BROCK: But fifty dollars for a cardboard box is outrageous.

BOX SALESMAN: I went to a lot of trouble to get these boxes. I had to run around town swiping them from liquor stores and grocery stores all day. Look, people need to shit and I’m giving them a safe alternative.

NATALIE’S VOICEOVER: While concerned citizens are turning to non-traditional shit holding containers, some are just going au natural.

(A young couple walk through a park, holding hands. They cop a squat next to a tree, drop their pants, and let it rip. Black bars appear over their private areas.)

NATALIE’S VOICEOVER: Some are even predicting the end of days.

(A homeless man wearing a trash bag as a shirt walks up and down a street, ringing a bell. Over his trash bag shirt, he wears a sandwich board sign that reads, ‘Repent All Ye Shitters!’”

HOMELESS MAN: The end of the world draws nigh! Shit and be damned!

NATALIE BROCK: Sir, do you really think the Toilet Killer is worth all this fuss?

HOMELESS MAN: Yes! The Toilet Killer is one of the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse! First, it’s the Toilet Killer, killing you while you shit! Next it will come the Urinal Killer, who will chop off your dick with a butcher knife while you take you a piss!

NATALIE BROCK: That’s a rather grim prognostication.

HOMELESS MAN: Indeed! Next comes the Bidet Killer. He’ll shoot you in the ass while you’re just trying to clean your rear-end and finally, the Bath Tub killer will destroy all who try to tidy up. I haven’t taken a bath since the first George Bush was president and everyone laughed at me but who’s laughing now, huh? Who’s laughing now?! Muah ha ha!

NATALIE BROCK’S VOICEOVER: A handful of residents continue to brave the porcelain throne, but not without taking extreme cautionary measures.

(NATALIE is lead to the bathroom of Freedom Firepower by MOSES. There, she finds Felix on the can holding a twelve-gauge shotgun. His privates are covered by a black bar.)

MOSES: Ma’am, this here is America, land of the free and home of the brave. In 1776, George Washington swam across the Atlantic, cock punched King George and said, “Listen you limey fuck stick, America is ours now, so cut all the bullshit if you don’t want another cockpunch.” George Washington then swam back to America where he then proceeded to round house kick every last red coat in the face until they all begged for mercy.

NATALIE BROCK: I’m not sure you have the best grasp on history, sir.

MOSES: And you sound like a raging liberal cook burger who wants to perform cunnilingus on Hillary Clinton, ma’am.

NATALIE BROCK: Let’s move on.

MOSES: Yes. Anyway, all I’m saying is this is America. King George couldn’t keep it and we’ve defended it from all sorts of enemies over the years, ranging from the Nazis to the damn terrorists and now we’ve got a Toilet Killer out there, running amuck. People, you can’t stop shitting on your toilets because if you stop shitting on toilets then the Toilet Killer wins.

NATALIE BROCK: But what about people who are afraid of becoming the Toilet Killer’s next victim?

MOSES: Simple, ma’am. Come on down to Freedom Firepower and for the low, low price of a thousand dollars, you can take a shit in my customer bathroom, which I have turned into the most secure shit parlor in the land.

NATALIE BROCK: What security measures have you taken?

MOSES: Well, as you can see, my hetero life partner Felix is packing a twelve-gauge. That’s fully loaded and can blow a hole the size of a trash can lid through an assailant at ten paces. We’ll give you one of those to hold onto while you’re taking a dump because when it comes to safety, the first line of defense comes from the shitter him or herself. Yes, I said “herself” because we’re not going to discriminate against you if you’re a woman. The lady folk need protection while they shit too.

NATALIE BROCK: Any other precautions?


(MOSES points out five different cameras lining the walls, all pointed at the toilet)

MOSES: Five, count ‘em five HD security cameras will capture all the action, so if the Toilet Killer dares show his ugly face in here, we will get a positive ID on the perpetrator.

NATALIE BROCK: Will that footage be erased after your customers use the bathroom?

MOSES: I can’t comment on that but it will not be uploaded on a website called “HD Bathroom Footage” where subscriptions will be sold for $29.99 a month, that I can assure you.

NATALIE BROCK: Anything else?

(MOSES holds up a high-powered assault rifle)

MOSES: Yes, I of course, will be standing watch over you while you move your bowels and any and all intruders who dare to enter into my line of sight will be cut down posthaste. No one is going to kill any shitters on my watch.

NATALIE BROCK: Is that all?

(MOSES flips a switch. A grid of red lasers fills the bathroom.)

MOSES: These lasers are connected to C4 rigged explosive devices that I have packed into the walls, so whatever you do, don’t make any sudden moves.

NATALIE BROCK: But won’t that also kill the person on the toilet?

MOSES: It’s called “mutually assured self destruction,” ma’am. Simply put, if the Toilet Killer tries to kill one of my shitting customers, he will have to kill himself in the process. I’m willing to be good money that the Toilet Killer is such a coward that he would never dare put himself in danger and therefore all my customers will be safe while they shit.

NATALIE: Mutually assured self-destruction, you say?

MOSES: Yes. It’s the same reason why America and Russia have all those nukes. Every country needs to stock up on nukes to keep all the other countries with nukes from nuking them. If everyone has a nuke, then everyone will be afraid to drop a nuke. The more nukes in the world, the safer the world is. That’s just science.

NATALIE: Well, I suppose you can’t argue with science.

NATALIE VOICEOVER: I caught up with Mayor Dufresne to obtain his views on the matter.

(Mayor Dufresne appears in his car lot, holding up a bag of adult diapers next to a porta-potty.)

THE MAYOR: Howdy, y’all! This Toilet Killer really is an insufferable Son of a Bitch, ain’t he? Well, I’ll tell you what, Mayor Beaumont Dufresne isn’t about to allow his constituency to suffer. No siree, Bob! Y’all mosey on over to Mayor Beaumont Dufresne’s Slightly Used Car Emporium and for a hundred dollars, you can take a shit in one of the many ports-potties I have had trucked onto my lot. The Toilet Killer hasn’t struck a porta-potty yet, so I have no doubt y’all will be safe in one of my outhouses.

NATALIE BROCK: Mayor, that’s nice, but what about…

THE MAYOR: The shitter on the go? No problem. I have bought up every last adult diaper in Grover County, so come on down and I will outfit you with some man-sized disposable underpants for the low price of seventy-five dollars a pair.

NATALIE BROCK: Actually, I wanted to get your thoughts on the investigation.

THE MAYOR: Oh, it’s a shambles, my dear. An absolute shambles. Four people have been killed on the John in less than two days, two of those people right here in Sitwell and do you know what that incompetent boob Chief Walker did?


THE MAYOR: He went in hauled in my boy Buford for questioning. The boy’s simple and slower than a pile of molasses running down hill in January and anyone could take one look at him and realize the kid can barely zip up his own fly let alone plot and carry out a series of toilet murders with cunning precision. Yet, that idiot Walker wasted the taxpayers’ time and money harassing my boy when he could have been out there looking for the real killer.

NATALIE BROCK: So I take it you think the investigation is not going well?

THE MAYOR: Not at all. That’s why this morning I called upon the town counsel and drew up the papers necessary to have all of Sitwell’s police functions transferred over into the very competent hands of Sheriff Hammond.

(The Mayor knocks on a porta-potty door)

THE MAYOR: Sheriff, can you come out and have a word with the press?

SHERIFF HAMMOND: Ungh…one second.

(The Sheriff steps out of the porta-potty and buckles up his belt.)

SHERIFF HAMMOND: Yes, good people of Sitwell, have no fear, for Chief Walker’s reign of terror as the town’s worst ever officer of the law is over. I’m proud to announce that all Sitwell police officers will from here on become Grover County Sheriff’s Deputies.

NATALIE BROCK: Will there be any cutbacks?

(The SHERIFF pulls out a piece of paper and puts on a pair of reading glasses.)

SHERIFF HAMMOND: Yes, ma’am. I hold in my hand here a list of the Sitwell Police Department officers who did not make the final cut. Ahem. ‘Chief Cole Walker.’ That is all.

(THE MAYOR and THE SHERIFF laugh in a maniacal manor.)

NATALIE BROCK: Mr. Mayor, will removing Chief Walker from office really have any impact on this investigation? After all, Sharon Walker is the FBI agent in charge.

THE MAYOR: Yes, and it’s a crying shame she is, because frankly darling, and I don’t mean any offense, but I really don’t think that anyone with a vagina is up to the challenge of bringing in the Toilet Killer. What we need is a man with a big ole’ swingin’ dick to catch this vile fiend. That’s why I am, as of now, calling on President Stugotz to intervene and take Agent Walker off of this investigation. Anyone who married a man with a penis as small as the one that ex-Chief Walker is packing has exercised poor judgment, in my humble opinion, and can no longer be trusted with such a sensitive investigation. People’s lives are at stake.

NATALIE BROCK: That’s a very serious claim.

THE MAYOR: These are very serious times, my dear. Very serious times indeed.

(NATALIE reappears live in front of the Sitwell Police Station.)

NATALIE BROCK: Kurt, ex-Chief Walker refused to return any of my calls for comment, but it seems as though things are heating up behind the scenes, with the investigators themselves coming under heavy fire.

KURT MANLEY: An interesting development indeed, Hot Ass Blonde Chick with Big Titties. By the way, I’m told by our top notch team of attorneys here at Network News One that we are able to reveal a very big secret to our audience, is that correct?

NATALIE BROCK: Yes, Kurt. During the Toilet Killer’s rampage, someone, and I’m fairly certain it was the Toilet Killer himself, texted my cell phone, providing me with updates on his gruesome crimes. Upstanding citizen that I am, I reported this matter to Agent Walker and having been holding back on this information out of fear that publicly divulging it could jeopardize the investigation. However, Agent Walker has confirmed to me as of this morning that the results of her inquiry into the text messages came up inconclusive, and the Toilet Killer is no closer to being captured.

KURT MANLEY: Hot Ass Blonde Chick with Big Titties, I am stunned that Agent Walker is fumbling this case big time. I mean, you gave Agent Walker your phone with text messages on it from the killer. What more evidence could she possibly need?

NATALIE BROCK: We can only assume those messages were from the killer, Kurt.

KURT MANLEY: Don’t interrupt a man while he’s speaking, Hot Ass Blonde Chick with Big Titties.

NATALIE BROCK: I’m sorry, Kurt.

KURT MANLEY: As you should be. I’m just pointing out that Agent Walker seems to be screwing up this case big time and a monkey wearing a Sherlock Holmes hat would probably be better suited to lead the investigation at this point. Maybe the Mayor is right. Maybe it’s time for someone without a vagina to take a look into this matter.

NATALIE BROCK: I’ll be staying on this case as it develops, Kurt.

KURT MANLEY: Thank you, Hot Ass Blonde Chick with Big Titties. Sticking with this story, while the toilet killer’s rampage has, so far, been concentrated in Florida, people across the country and around the world have voiced their own concerns about shitting.

(Footage is shown of people throwing toilets into the streets and smashing them with hammers and baseball bats.)

KURT MANLEY: Riots have broken out in every major city, with people smashing their toilets to smithereens, too afraid to even keep them in their homes anymore. Meanwhile, our intrepid team of Hot Ass Blonde Chick Reporters with Big Titties have informed this anchor that reports of shitting related fears have been coming in from every continent. Even scientists in Antartica are concerned…

(Footage shows of a scientist in a fluffy down parka with the hood pulled over his head squatting over a hole in the ice while a gaggle of penguins watch.)

KURT MANLEY: The Pope even commented on the situation during a recent mass at the Vatican…

(Footage of the Pope addressing a mass.)

THE POPE: Il poopi di poopi poopi si como ti poopi poopi il shitti shitti….

VOICE OVER TRANSLATOR: As Jesus once said, ‘Let he who is not afraid to take a shit cast the first shit.’ Blessed are the meek shitters, for they shall inherit the earth.

KURT MANLEY: And Sir Alistair Smythe, Official Spokesman for the Queen of England, had this to say.

(Footage of a rather dapper looking British gentleman in front of a podium.)

SIR ALISTAIR SMYTHE: Ladies and Gentlemen, the Queen very much appreciates your inquiries into her water closet related safety but I assure you, this is a non-issue. The Queen is not afraid to shit for the simple fact that Her Majesty has never once taken a shit in her entire life. Everyone knows that members of the royalty do not shit. Rather, their waste spontaneously combusts while a feint scent of cinnamon emanates from their bodily cavity.

(SIR SMYTHE looks around to see if the coast is clear.)

SIR ALISTAIR SMYTHE: But if you can keep it on the down low, then I might be inclined to inform you that Her Majesty will be taking her shits in the corner and blaming it on her adorable Corgis for the foreseeable future.

(Kurt, back in studio)

KURT MANLEY: Back at home, the presidential election is years away, yet President Stugotz’ top 2020 challengers are already turning the Toilet Killer’s wide swath of destruction into a campaign issue. Live via satellite feed, we have Senator Jason Batzengant, who intends to challenge President Stugotz in the next Republican presidential primary, and Senator Elsie Wannadingle, the Democratic frontrunner. Senators, welcome.


SENATOR WANNADINGLE: Good to be here, Kurt.

KURT MANLEY: Senator Batzengant, let’s start with you. President Stugotz’s national approval ratings are stagnant, yet among Republican voters, they’re higher than ever. What makes you think you’d be able to knock Stugotz off the throne?

SENATOR BATZENGANT: I’ve got two words for you, Kurt. “Toilet Killer Insanity.”

KURT MANLEY: That’s three words, Senator.

SENATOR BATZENGANT: Don’t try to trip me up with your fancy liberal book learning, Kurt. This Toilet Killer situation is a mess and President Stugotz has done nothing about it. President Stugotz promised to be a law and order president, one who would bring criminals to justice and yet he’s done nothing but play one round of golf after another while Florida residents are being murdered simply for exercising their constitutional right to shit.

KURT MANLEY: I’m not sure there is a constitutional right to shit, Senator.

SENATOR BATZENGANT: It’s in the back, somewhere. Listen, we need a president who isn’t going to be a little pussy boy, coddling criminals while God-fearing, taxpaying Americans are cowering in their bathrooms, scared to death of their own toilets and too afraid to shit. That’s why, when I’m president, I’m going to lock up anyone who has even looked at a toilet cross-eyed. That’s right, I am going to flood our prison industrial complex with people who fit a very distinct potential Toilet Killer profile and only then will it be safe to shit again.

KURT MANLEY: Senator Wannadingle, your thoughts?

SENATOR WANNADINGLE: Kurt, that blowhard conservative jackass has it all wrong.

SENATOR BATZENGANT: Don’t call me a blowhard conservative, you commie pinko rug chomper.

KURT MANLEY: Let’s retract the claws, kittens. 2020 is still a long way away.

SENATOR WANNADINGLE: All I was trying to say before I was so rudely interrupted by that jack booted fascist is that it is not very woke to assume this Toilet Killer is a bad person.

KURT MANLEY: But he’s killing people while they’re shitting on the toilet.

SENATOR WANNADINGLE: Is he? Or is he expressing his rage at a system that puts the one percent of millionaires and billionaires above the impoverished classes. Maybe this Toilet Killer, maybe he’s a man, maybe he’s a woman, maybe he or she is a bisexual genderqueer other-kin with ambidextrous bilateral gender fluid anti-normative tendencies…we don’t know. What we can only assume though is this human being has most likely had a difficult life and after many years of being put upon by an unjust system, this person is finally lashing out so really, when you really think about it, we all had a role in creating this system so in essence, we are all the Toilet Killer.

(KURT MANLEY stares blankly into the camera.)

KURT MANLEY: Holy shit. Are you two really considered the best and brightest of your respective political parties?



(Kurt sighs and looks at a different camera.)

KURT MANLEY: Well, there you have it, folks. A Toilet Killer is on the loose and the country’s leaders have officially flushed their brains down the toilet. Don’t touch that dial and stay off the toilet as we’ll be bringing you the latest updates on America’s Shitting Nightmare. Coming up in the next hour, is there a cookie that can make you go blind? We’ll tell you which cookies to remove from your cookie jar after sports and weather but first, these commercial messages.

ANNOUNCER: Network News One. The Hottest Blonde Chick Reporters. The biggest titties. Oh yeah, and occasionally we report the news and shit.

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Toilet Gator – Chapter 55

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“That’s not you?” Rusty asked.

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

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

“Daddy!” Buford shouted.

“Son!” the Mayor replied.

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

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

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

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

“Five dollars?” Sharon asked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“And what is this about?” Sharon asked.

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

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

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

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

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

“That’s absurd,” Sharon said.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Cole sipped his coffee and watched as the trio leave.

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

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

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

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Toilet Gator – Chapter 51


Cole stood outside Sharon and Gordon’s hotel room at the Trembley Suites and put his hear up against the door. For a few minutes, he heard nothing until finally…


“Shit,” Cole mumbled.


Cole backed away from the door. The sounds from inside the room intensified. “UGGGHHH!”

“Should’ve known it,” Cole said. “Like a couple of wild baboons.”

Cole walked down an aisle, feeling sorry for himself until much to his surprise, Sharon rounded a corner carrying a bottle of wine in an ice bucket. Her hair was wet and Cole stared as beads of water trickled down her neck into her bosom. It had been a long time since Cole had seen his lady love wearing nothing but a bathrobe and slippers.

“Cole?” Sharon asked.

“Yeah,” Cole said. “Hi.”

“Something wrong?” Cole said.

“There’s been another murder,” Cole said.

Sharon’s eyes widened. “Holy shit! The Toilet Killer struck again?”

“Yeah,” Cole said as he pointed at the room. “Hey, if you’re out here then what was…”

Sharon ignored the question and hustled towards her room. “Come on.”

“Can’t I just tell you out here?” Cole asked.

“Don’t be silly,” Sharon said. “Gordon will want to know too.”

Sharon popped a key card into the handle reader and the door unlocked. Cole followed Sharon into the room, nervous as to what he might find.

Sure enough, Cole quickly discovered he had good reason to be fearful. There on the ground was the most muscular, ripped, cut man but he had ever seen, pumping up and down.


“Gordo!” Sharon said. “Stop doing pushups. Cole has news.”

Gordon sprang to his feet, He grabbed a towel from the bathroom and patted himself down, wiping off his sweaty body. The giant looked at Cole. “Go on.”

It wasn’t that Cole wanted to stare at the massive python dangling between Gordon’s legs, but he couldn’t help it. A) it was like staring at a freak traffic accident and B) Cole became instantly riddled with sadness that it was much, much, much bigger than his or any other average human male’s.

“Could you?” Cole asked.

“What?” Gordon asked as he wiped the sweat from his big bald head. The other one. The one he thought with.

Cole pointed a finger downward.

“Oh,” Gordon said as he wrapped the towel around his waist. “What, you never saw one before?”

Cole cleared his throat. “I try not to make a habit of it.”

“Cole,” Sharon said. “What’s going on?”

Cole tried to blurt out some words but he was taken aback by Gordon’s amazing physique. The man was sporting perfect six-pack abs and a firm set of pecs.

“Jesus,” Cole said.

“Cole?” Sharon asked. “What happened?”

Cole snapped out of it. “Oh…right. Another murder. Roxy. An old stripper. Her real name’s Adelaide Hotchkiss.”

“A stripper?” Sharon asked.

“A stripper,” Gordon said. “An old teacher, a college student, a superstar. There’s no rhyme or reason to this killer’s pattern.”

“We’ve got two suspects at the station,” Cole said. “One’s some kid that was stuck in the trailer. You should have seen it the whole thing was knocked over but anyway…long story. He was babbling on and on about he he had also been on the scene of the Becker murder.”

“Holy shit,” Sharon said.

“Maybe some psycho that likes to stick around too long, admiring his handiwork,” Gordon said.

“Maybe,” Cole replied as he kept his eyes on Sharon, avoiding Gordon’s chiseled frame altogether. “But we also have Roxy’s son at the station. He showed up at his mother’s trailer, saying something about how he ‘tried to warn her.’”
“Warn her about what?” Sharon asked.

“He wouldn’t budge on that,” Cole said. “Thing is though, neither one of them knows they’re suspects yet. We’ve brought them both in on the idea that we’re just really concerned about their well-being but as soon as they wise up, the clock will start ticking on how long we’ll be able to hold them.”

“We’d better hustle,” Sharon said.

“Oh,” Cole said. “And about the victim’s son. He’s Buford Dufresne. The Mayor’s boy.”

“Damn it,” Sharon said. “Now that really complicates things.”

“You know it,” Cole said. “As soon as that horse’s ass catches wind we’ve got his boy…”

“He’ll waltz into the station with every crooked lawyer his used car money can buy,” Sharon said.

“Bingo,” Cole said.

Sharon set her bucket of ice and wine bottle down on a coffee table. “This will have to wait.”

She turned to Gordon. “Put on some pants, studmuffin. We’ve got worked to do.”

Sharon turned to Cole. “Thank you for coming all this way to tell us, Cole. You could have just called.”

“Yeah,” Cole said as he walked toward the door. “Well, you know me.”

“I do,” Sharon said.

Cole walked outside and headed for his cruiser. “Studmuffin? What the…”

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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





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Toilet Gator – Chapter 42

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

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

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

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

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

“No one’s jerking off,” Sharon said.

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

Cole, Rusty, and Maude entered the station.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Shut up Rusty,” Cole said.

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

“Tell me about it,” Cole said.

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

“Where is he?” Sharon asked.

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

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

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

“What?” Sharon said.

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

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

“How is this possible?” Sharon asked.

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

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

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

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

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Thirteen Weeks of Toilet Gator Sundays

Happy Mother’s Day, 3.5 readers.

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

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

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



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Toilet Gator – Chapter 42


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

“Isn’t that nice?” Maude asked.

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

Rusty and Maude frowned in unison.

“What are we?” Rusty asked.

“Chopped liver?” Maude added.

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

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

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

“Sure did,” Rusty said.

“Everyone knew that,” Maude said.

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

“Well,” Rusty said.

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

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

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

“All the sides?” Mindy asked.

“All of the sides,” Rusty said.

“And for you, ma’am?” Mindy asked.

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

“Hazardous to your health?” Cole asked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Everybody indeed shits,” Rusty said.

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

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

“Shut up,” Cole said.

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

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

“Cole and Sharon sitting in a tree…”

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

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

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

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

Cole glared at Rusty.

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

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

“Oh Lord,” Maude said.

“Go on,” Cole said.

“What?” Rusty asked.

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

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

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

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

“True,” Cole said.

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

“Not at all,” Cole replied.

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

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

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

Cole raised an eyebrow. “Maybe.”

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

“Excitement?” Cole asked.

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

Rusty winced. “Brace for the speech.”

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

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

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

“Nothing and nowhere fast,” Rusty said.

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

“No leg,” Rusty said.

“No wife,” Maude added.

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

“Oh Cole,” Maude said.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“No,” Rusty said. “We’re fine.”

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

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

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

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

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

“What?” Cole asked.

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

“Who?” Cole asked.

“That waitress,” Rusty said.

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

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

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

“It’s true,” Rusty said.

“Bullshit,” Cole said.

“No word of a lie,” Rusty said.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Cole breathed deeply.

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

Cole winced. “I dunno.”

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

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

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

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

“What?” Cole asked.

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

“The Butterfly Effect?” Cole asked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What’s this for?” Mindy asked.

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

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

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

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

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

“SCC?” Maude asked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What?” Rusty said.

“How do you know this?” Maude said.

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

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

Maude glared at Rusty in a disapproving manner.

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

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

“I helped my best friend,” Rusty said.

“With a lie,” Maude said.

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

“Chastity?” Maude asked.

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

Maude stormed off.

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

Rusty sat down and waited patiently until Mindy returned.

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

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

Mindy stepped back. “Ew.”

“What?” Rusty asked.

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

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

Hey 3.5 readers.

BQB here.

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

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

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


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

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

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

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


I am a busy man.

I work all day at Beige Corp.

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

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

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


In reality, is that all they do?


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

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

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

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

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

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


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