Tag Archives: humor

GET MY FREE BOOK!

Hey 3.5 readers.

I have a new FREE short on Amazon. Totally FREE. Did I mention it is FREE? Now and for the next few days you can get a FREE copy.

Harry Blanding is a crazy old conspiracy theorist…or is he?

Every day he arrives at a subway stop in New York City, ringing a bell as he shouts out wacky claims, each one sillier than the next. Pudding cup labels that contain subliminal messages. A nuclear warhead stockpile inside Teddy Roosevelt’s head on Mt. Rushmore. Bigfoot is a hitman in the employ of Russian spies.

Absurd, right? When cell phone videos of Harry’s antics go viral, most assume the old man is a performance artist with a twisted sense of humor.

One particular agency that may or may not exist isn’t laughing.

GET YOUR FREE COPY TODAY!

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Coronavirus Blues

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:::Harmonica Riff:::

Ba bum ba bum!

Ba bum ba bum!

Oh lord, I got the corona!

Oh lord, I got the coronavirus blues!

Yes, lord I got the corona!

I got the coronavirus blues!

Baby, haven’t you heard the news?

I got the coronavirus blues!

Woke up this mornin.’

Had to take a poo.

Nothin’ to wipe my butt with.

Oh what’s a man supposed to do?

I say I got the coronavirus!

I got the coronavirus blues!

Baby, fetch me my walking shoes!

I gotta get outta here!  Before I catch that corona too!

Ba bum ba bum.

Ba bum ba bum.

Everything’s closed down.

All my friends are out of jobs.

I got a big frown,

And I’m livin’ like a slob!

I say I got the corona

I got the coronavirus blues!

Baby, I think I just heard my cue!

It’s time to talk about the coronavirus blues!

Ba bum ba bum.

Ba bum ba bum.

Never used hand sanitizer before.

Now one bottle will never do.

I just sold my left kidney.

For some Purell and a couple of clorox wipes too!

Oh, I say I got the corona!

Yes, I got the coronavirus blues!

Baby, don’t you know that you’re my muse?

Sing with me about the coronavirus blues.

Ba bum ba bum.

Ba bum ba bum.

Well this looks like the end.

The apocalypse has finally come.

The economy will never mend.

And I still can’t wipe my bum.

Oh, listen up y’all, cuz I got the corona!

I say I got the coronavirus blues!

Time to gulp down some delicious booze.

Cuz I’m so low with the coronavirus blues.

Uh huh.  Yeah.  Coronavirus blues right here, baby.

Someone fetch the neighbor’s cat.

That’s right. I gotta wipe my tucas something fierce.

 

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Movie Review – Stuber (2019)

Laughs.  Action.  Driver ratings in peril.

BQB here with a review of Stuber.

At the outset, this is a fun action comedy.  It’s not something I’d want to watch over and over again, but it was worth the rental fee.

Kumail Nanjiani plays Stu, a down and out sporting goods store clerk who makes money on the side driving for Uber, thus earning him the undesired nickname, Stuber.

He pines for friend Becca (Betty Gilpin, and who doesn’t?) but despite his best efforts, including forking over his savings so she can start a spin class business, he’s permanently in the friend zone.

His life of boredom is interrupted for a night of action, adventure and sheer, out and out terror when Vic Manning (Dave Bautista), a bad ass cop on the hunt for his partner’s killer, who rather conveniently just had eye surgery and can’t drive (or in reality, do anything but you have to suspend disbelief) hires him to drive and forces him into service as his unwilling partner for the evening.

They become the ultimate odd couple, Vic helping Stu to man up, Stu helping Vic to tap into his softer side.  Will Stu be able to save the day, get the girl, and maintain the highly coveted 5 star rating that all Uber drivers desire?

Bonus points for adding Mira Sorvino to the cast.

STATUS: Shelf-worthy.

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Daily Discussion with BQB – Should Deodorant Come in Boysenberry Scents?

I’m tired of that chemical perfume smell.  I want to smell like lavender, vanilla, oranges, citrus, and creme de menthe.

Do you also want to smell like this?  If so, please invent such wonderful smells and put them into aerosol form.

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Disco Werewolf Begins

I’ve been in a funk all year, 3.5 readers.  I’m hoping for a day when I can really sit and concentrate, put in all my hours on crafting books.

In the meantime, I need stories that have that special ability to flow out of my brain, through my fingers and onto the keyboard.

I’ve been starting new books and getting stuck all year until recently, for some reason, the next story that has apparently chosen to use me as its vessel appears to be:

DISCO_WEREWOLF_1

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Stop Sucking with Vinny Baggadouchio – Can a Non-Sucker Date a Sucker and Not Suck?

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World Renowned Motivational Speaker/Anti-Suck Expert Vinny Baggadouchio

I’m Vinny Baggadouchio and if the world is a suck pony, then I’m riding it to the nearest non-suck stable.

Perhaps you’ve read one of my many fine self-help books, guaranteed to help you defeat your suckitude:

This Suck Ends Now!

Suck It, Suckers!

The Non-Suck Mindset

#StopSucking

Suck Your Last Suck

The Last Sucki

Suck Street Blues

You Don’t Suck as Much as You Think

Hate the Suck.  Love the Sucker.

I’ve helped kings and queens, paupers and poets alike, drop their sucky habits and now I’m here on BQB’s blog to teach you 3.5 suckers how to mend your sucky ways.

Here’s the latest missive from a reader in need of my anti-suck advice:

Dear Vinny B.,

Thanks to all your books, I stopped sucking.  Believe.  I used to suck real bad.  I used to sleep all day, party all night, freebase cookie dough, and get in fights with department store Santas for being too fat.  After I woke up in Vegas having given my life savings to a hirsute prostitute named Edwina, I decided, no more.  I read all your books, completed your program and now I am a bona fide non-sucker.  I have the certificate from Vinny B’s Online College of Anti-Suck Studies to prove it.

It’s been years since I’ve sucked now.  My life doesn’t suck at all.  I’m rich.  Handsome.  Good looking.  In great shape.  The world is my oyster.

Unfortunately, I fell in love with a woman who sucks.  Like, really bad.  She seemed great at first, but after the initial honeymoon phase wore off, I got to know the real her, warts and all, and boy does she suck.

The sucky highlights:

  1.  Farts regularly.  Keeps a notebook where she ranks her farts on a 1-10 system based on length, depth and bass.
  2. Wears only sweaters featuring bedazzled kitty kats.
  3. Kicks homeless puppies for fun and sport.
  4. Projectile vomits on me three times a day.
  5. Writes Firefly fan fiction.
  6. Has attempted to sell me into the underground world of international sex slavery no less than 17 times.  You’d think after the first time I woke up in the all male harem of a wealthy Arab prince, I would have learned better, but fool me once, fool me a bunch more times.
  7. Eats all my cookies.  I was saving those.

My family says as a non-sucker, I can do so much better, but I love this sucky woman so much.  Can a sucker and a non-sucker ever find true love together?

Sincerely,

Confused in Chicago

Boy, Confused.  Your dilemma sure does suck.

But you know, it’s not uncommon amongst former suckers turned reformed non-suckers.

There’s two answers to your question.  Yes and no.  I know, that answer sucks, but let me explain.

On the one hand:

You used to suck.  Then you did the hard work to not suck.  You walked the long non-suck path.  You climbed the tall non-suck tower.  You sailed through the ocean of suck to the land of non-suck on the other side.

You don’t suck anymore.  And that’s the best.  Non-suckers who earn their non-suck have the sweetest non-suck because they appreciate it more, having conquered the non-suck journey.

After all that work, you deserve someone who does not suck.  And statistics show that the couple who doesn’t suck together, will stay together.

You don’t suck and you need a non-sucker to reinforce your non-sucky habits.

Non-sucker couples spend their days exercising.  Going to yoga classes.  Drinking tasty, nutritious fruit juices.  Shopping for window treatments and entertaining the elderly with their own ukulele covers of popular songs.

Meanwhile, sucky couples sell their butts for cocaine, watch reality television all day, kick the elderly and steal their social security checks and overall, they smell very bad.

Is it possible for a sucker to love a non-sucker?  Sure.  You know why you do?  Empathy.  You used to suck.  You will always remember how it felt to suck.  Ergo, you feel bad for the suckers of the world.

However, no one ever said that not sucking is easy.  Therefore, you have to abandon the sucky before they suck you down into their world of suck and turn you back into the sucker you worked so hard to stop being.

Is it possible for a sucker and a non sucker to sustain a long lasting love?  Sure.  Practical?  No.  When you want to run a marathon, she’ll want to set ants on fire with a magnifying glass.  When you want to write a sonnet, she will want to knock over a liqour store.  When you want to paint a painting, she’ll want to burp stirring renditions of show tunes.

If it works, you’d have to be the rare couple who compartamentilizes their relationship.  When she wants to suck, she’ll have to go somewhere and suck on her own.  When you want to not-suck, you’ll have to not suck on your own.  Can she come and sit back and cheer you on while you don’t suck?  Maybe.  But it would take the rare sucker who wouldn’t be jealous of your non-sucky ways.

I don’t think it’s possible and my advice would be to tell this sucker to go on her own non-suck journey.  Maybe buy her all of my anti-suck books, available wherever books that don’t suck are sold.  You never know.  Losing you might be the catalyst she needs to walk over the coals of suck fire to reach the promised land of non-suck.

Whatever you do, don’t let her drag you back to the world of suck.  Suck is something you only escape once and the more you get pulled back into it, the less likely it becomes to escape it again.

Thanks for the letter, Confused.  Until next time, this is Vinny B saying good luck, and don’t suck.

 

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A Goodbye Letter to My 3.5 Readers

Dear 3.5 Readers,

I have decided this is all bullcrap and therefore I will quit my efforts at bloggery.

All those years ago when I started this fine blog, I did so because I thought I was a good writer.  However, as it turns out, I was just expending existential gas and now I’m empty.

I have decided to watch the City Girls/Cardi B Twerk video for the rest of my life on a continuous loop.  Yes, the one where they fill the yacht with twerking butts.

To fund this lifestyle, I have sold this blog to a South Korean media conglomerate.  Does that mean this blog will change?  Yes.  A lot?  Yes.

How will it be different?  Well, before I used to opine quite a bit.  But now, this blog will mostly be advertisements for squid candy.  Mmm delicious squid candy.

Also, people in funny costumes dancing like Psy.  While they sell squid candy.

By the way, when they bought this blog, they paid me in squid candy.  Also, they bought all of you, paying me 3.5 boxes of squid candy per reader.

Enjoy the blog, 3.5.  I’m off now to watch that twerk video for the rest of my life.

For more information on the impending South Korean takeover of this fine blog, click here.

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Son of Toilet Gator – Chapter 6

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“What’s wrong?!”

“Fa…fa…fa…fish!”

Smegma shrugged his shoulders.  “Happens to the best of us.  Just wash it off in the sink and I’m sure it will be…”

The bathroom door opened.  The buxom blonde came rushing out and hid behind the studly spy. Smegma poked his head into the bathroom to find a three-foot long swordfish.  It was flopping about the cramped room, smashing into this and that.  On the whole, it appeared relatively harmless, save its long, razor sharp nose.

Smegma gasped.  “Toilet swordfish!  This must be the work of…”

Clap. Clap.  Clap.

Slowly, the agent turned and watched as a man exited the cockpit.  He wore khaki pants, a black polo shirt and had a long, bushy black beard.  He carried a large, black duffel bag. He slapped his hands together as he approached.

“Congratulations, Mr. Smegma.  You’re not as dimwitted as I thought.”

“Meanwhile, you’re dumber than ever if you thought you’d be able to take me out with a fish nose up the ass, Hakeem.”

Bonanza raised her hand.  Smegma acknowledge her.  “Yes?”

“I’m sorry,” Bonanza said.  “It’s just so typical of males to assume that every woman in the room already knows what he knows.  Would you explain?”

Smegma sighed.  “If I do, will you accuse me of mansplaining?”

Bonanza looked up.  She took a few seconds to think.  “Not this time.”

The agent nodded.  “This is the international terrorist Hakeem Abdul Qassab, a top lieutenant in the Fatwah Brigade.  If their leader, Sheikh Omar al-Mutairi decides you’ve offended his disgusting, perverted version of the Islamic faith, he’ll send one of his errand boys to end your life.”

Smegma looked at the fish, still flopping around in the bathroom.  “A pity for the Sheikh that good help is hard to find.”

Qassab smiled.  “I admit that out of all the toilet animals Dr. Malfeasor offered, the toilet swordfish is truly the lamest.  However, you get what you pay for.  Perhaps if your country, the Great Satan that is the United States, would stop looting and raping our lands for five minutes, the Sheikh would be able to afford something truly badass, like a toilet stingray or a…”

“Enough small talk,” Smegma said.  “The pilot?”

The terrorist set his bag down on a seat.  “I forced him engage the autopilot just before I sent him to hell.  Care to join him?”

“That’s a date I’ve been postponing for quite some time now.”

Qassab unzipped the duffel bag.  “Oh, Mr. Smegma.  I think you’ll be making that appointment this time.”

“Then I’ll be sure to say hello to your brothers,” Smegma said.  “How many did I send there again?”

The terrorist waved his finger in Smegma’s direction.  “They are not in hell!  They are basking in the glory of heaven where 72 virgins will wait on them hand and foot and take care of their every need and desire for all eternity.”

Smegma scoffed at that notion.  “Meh.”

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“No,” Qassab said.  “What?”

“I don’t want to rain on your parade.”

“Please,” Qassab said.  “Rain away.  I’m nothing if I can’t accept a little constructive criticism.”

“Well,” Smegma said.  “It’s just that, they’re virgins for a reason you know.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean,” Smegma said.  “If you’ve got fully grown, adult female women who died and ended up in heaven and they never once touched a penis, then they’re pretty lame.”

Bonanza inserted herself into the conversation.  “Unless they chose to abstain from penis out of their own free will as strong, independent women.”

Qassab pointed at Bonanza, but directed his eyes to Smegma.  “Will you shut that bitch up and tell her that men are talking?”

Smegma smirked.  “You forget in the West, women have rights.”

The terrorist laughed.  “Ha!  The great, world renowned ladies’ man, Dirk Smegma, standing up for a woman.  Now I’ve seen everything.  You have become, how you say, beta cuck bitch boy, yes?”

“Something like that,” Smegma replied.

Qassab and Smegma locked eyes.  The terrorist unzipped his bag and pulled out a sedated swordfish.  It was devoid of any movement, perfectly still.  He held it by the tail and pointed the sharp end at Smegma. “En garde!”

The spy kept his cool as he stared down the end of that incredibly pointy fish schnoz.  On pure instinct, he reached into the bathroom and punched the floppy fish in the face, knocking it out cold.  He then grabbed its tail and pointed the fish toward the terrorist.  “Touche!”

Clang, clang, clang!  Like a scene straight out of The Three Musketeers, Smegma and Qassab exchanged a dazzling array of thrusts and parries, each more powerful than the last.  As they each struggled to be the last man standing, Attorney Bonanza couldn’t help but offer some commentary.  “I can’t watch this.  There’s way too much toxic masculinity here.”

Qassab struck at Smegma and missed, giving the agent the wiggle room he needed to kick the terrorist in the stomach, causing him to stumble backward.

“Oh, what a senseless display of violence!” Bonanza cried.  “What could possibly be the root of all this?”

Qassab charged at Smegma, hoping to stick the spy in the gut with his swordfish.  As he did so, he shouted, “Allahu Akbar!”

The grim spectacle made the luscious babe feel feint.  She raised the back of her hand, held it against it forehead and looked upward towards the heavens, or at least, the ceiling of the plane’s interior.  “Why is this happening?”

Smegma dodged the attack and locked his swordfish with Qassab’s.  Clang, clang, clang!  The battle was epic and there was no end in sight, for each man was, strangely enough, quite skilled in the art of swordfishplay.

“I will kill you in the name of the prophet, Smegma!”  Qassab cried.

Clang, clang, clang!

“What on earth could be causing this sad display?” Bonanza asked herself.

Clang, clang, clang!

“Today is the day you die!” Qassab shouted.  “For I, the great Hakeem Abdul Qassab, will destroy you in the name of Islam!”

Bonanza collapsed in a seat.  “Oh, we may never know.”

The lady’s persistent questioning distracted Qassab.  He looked towards the woman.  “Filthy whore! Get the shit out of your ears! I’m telling you directly and very succinctly that I am about to murderer this son of a motherless cow in the name of Allah and Islam!”

“The motivation of this attack will forever be a mystery!” Bonanza shouted back.

Smegma took advantage of the confusion by punching Qassab in the face.  “Don’t call her a whore!  That’s slut shaming!”

At that moment, Smegma made a critical error by looking at Bonanza in the hopes of acquiring her approval.  She nodded.  “Thank you.  It is.  However, Agent Smegma, the optics of your current predicament are quite abysmal.”

Bam!  Smegma’s face contorted as it accepted a shoe attached to a foot that was delivered by a roundhouse kick.  Clang, clang, clang!  Terrorist and spy traded swordfish blows again.

“The optics?!”  Smegma asked.

Bonanza stood up in front of her seat.  “Yes!  The sight of you, a white, Anglo-Saxon male of European descent, a cultural Christian attacking a person of color…”

Qassab got the upper hand on his opponent by cornering Smegma against a wall.  The terrorist gripped his hand around the spy’s face.  Smegma’s eyes focused on the sharp swordfish nose that Qassab was bringing closer and closer.  Despite it all, Smegma managed to defend himself from Attorney Bonanza’s protestations.  “He started it!”

Smegma kneed Qassab in the groin, sending the terrorist to the floor in a spent heap.

“Did he?” Bonanza asked.  “Or did America start it when…”

The agent lifted his leg and brought his foot down on Qassab’s chest.  “Look, I’m not a racist.”

“Anyone who starts a sentence with, ‘I’m not a racist’ is most assuredly about to say something racist,” Bonanza said.

Qassab had been weakened by the attack on his testicles, but he managed to back Bonanza up.  “She’s got you there.”

“All I’m trying to say is that Islam has a problem.”

In unison, Qassab and Bonanza let out the same reply.  “Oh my God!”

“The nerve!” Bonanza added.

Qassab spit up a bit of blood.  “I know, right?”

“Agent Smegma,” Bonanza said.  “Are you oblivious to the fact that acts of terrorism are often committed against people of color by white Christians who believe their violence is justified by their religion?”

Smegma sighed.  “I’m not saying there aren’t bad apples in every bunch.”

“Oh,” Bonanza said.  “Here we go.”

Qassab coughed and winced from the pain he was in.  “Spare us your platitudes, klansman!”

Smegma pointed downward at Qassab.  “I’m just saying the number of apples in HIS bunch is higher than average.”

Bonanza and Qassab gave the same reply.  “Oh my God!”

“I can’t believe you schtupped this guy,” Qassab said.

“You heard that?” Bonanza asked.

“I’m sorry,” Qassab answered.  “There’s an intercom in the cockpit that lets you hear everything going on back here.  I wasn’t trying to pry, I just shot the pilot in the head before I asked him how to turn it off.  My bad.”

Bonanza shot Smegma a cold stare.  “You really think this way, don’t you?”

“Dar….”  Smegma stopped himself from using the word “darling,” but felt the title of attorney was too formal for the situation.  “Cooter, please understand, the world isn’t black and white.”

“Oh,” Bonanza said.  “Now you’re just going to casually throw around words like ‘black’ and ‘white’ without considering the underlying racial implications?”

“They’re just words!” Smegma shouted.

“Ugh!” Bonanza said.  “Now it all makes sense.”

“What does?” Smegma asked.

“I’m starting to figure out why I’ll feel like you retroactively raped me in 2060,” Bonanza said.

Qassab choked and gasped.  “What’s wrong with rape?  A little rape never hurt anyone.”

Bonanza ignored that statement as she looked to Smegma.  “You disgust me.  You’re so blinded by your white privilege that you can’t see what a monster you’ve become.”

“I’m not saying that EVERY Muslim is a bad person,” Smegma said.  “In fact, there are, last time I checked, 1.8 billion followers of the Islamic faith in the world, so if they wanted to, they could conquer the globe and impose their will on us all easily.  The fact that they don’t tells us that the majority of devotees to the Islamic faith are fine, upstanding people who are just looking to live lives of peace and prosperity and have no desire to harm anyone.”

Qassab spit on the floor.  “Pbbht!  Wretched dogs!  They have no right to call themselves true Muslims if they do not adhere to the Fatwah Brigade’s version of Islam, for it is the one and only true version!  Oh, I would burn all 1.8 billion of them alive if I could!”

“See?” Smegma said.  “It’s worth mentioning that peaceful Muslims are victimized the most by radical Islamists.”

“I’ve never liked the term ‘radical Islamist,’” Qassab said.  “It sounds like I should be skateboarding down a half-pipe or something.”

“And you don’t think there are violent Christians out there?” Bonanza asked.

“I never said there weren’t,” Smegma said.  “And I never said that Christians who perpetrate violence should get a free pass for their evil deeds.  You’re confusing things quite needlessly.”

“Am I?” Bonanza asked.  “So, if a Muslim commits an act of terror, he’s a terrorist, but if a white Christian male commits an act of terror, he’s crazy, right?”

“Sometimes, yes,” Smegma said.  “Other times, no.  It’s all very muddled up, but I’ll concede that sometimes there are people of the Islamic faith who will suffer from mental illness and commit an act of violence as a result of that illness and that shouldn’t be counted against the Islamic faith as a whole just as the acts of violence perpetrated by mentally ill white Christians shouldn’t be held against all white Christians.”

“Oh,” Bonanza said.  “But acts of terror committed by sane Muslims should be held against all Muslims, but acts of terror committed by sane white Christians shouldn’t be held against all white Christians?”

Qassab laughed.  “She’s got you there, white devil.”

“I think anyone who commits an act of terror should be held responsible for that act of terror,” Smegma said.  “And broader arguments that it is the fault of everyone who shares the terrorists race or religion are ridiculous.”

“Finally,” Qassab said.

“Now we’re getting somewhere,” Bonanza added.

Smegma cleared his throat.  “I just think…

“Oh boy,” Qassab said.

“And now you’re going to ruin it,” Bonanza added.

“…that statistically speaking, members of the Islamic faith, as a whole, could do a little more to purge the bad actors out of their communities, ostracize and cast out those who are preaching hate and twisting their faith for their own evil ends.”

All the color drained from Bonanza’s face.  “I think I’m going to be sick.”

Qassab guffawed from his spot under the agent’s foot.  “Smegma, you oblivious douche!  Do you really think that some old Muslim granny sitting in her rocking chair is going to be able to nag me out of existence?  Me, who runs around blowing up buses and trains and chops the heads off infidels and…”

Smegma threw up his hands.  “This is going nowhere.”

“Tell me about it,” Bonanza replied.

“Can I try to make on last point?” Smegma asked.

“If you must,” Bonanza said.

“This ought to be good,” Qassab said.

“When it comes right down to it, there’s more to all of us that unites us than there is that divides us.  Surely, all the people of the world can set aside their cultural, racial and religious biases and accept a universal standard of right and wrong, and good people from all races, colors and creeds should stand together, united against bad people of all races, colors, and creeds.  Evil isn’t a particular race, or religion, or color.  Evil is just evil, and wherever you are, whoever you are, it has an uncanny ability to weave its way into the hearts of men and women alike.  This isn’t a racial war or a religious war.  Right will always be right and wrong will always be wrong, race, sex, or religion be damned.”

Bonanza and Qassab were silent for a time.

“Fucking pussy!” Qassab said.

“White nationalist!” Bonanza added.

Smegma gave up on the argument.  He gripped his swordfish with both hands and raised it high in the air, ready to bring the sharp end down on his opponent’s head.  “Enough talk!  This ends now!”

Wham!  Qassab’s boot connected with Smegma’s groin.  The agent dropped his fish and fell to the floor, doubled over in pain.

“Mommy!” Smegma cried.

The terrorist jumped up to his feet and dusted himself off.  He looked to the blonde.  “Thank you, spoiled rotten, mouthy American bitch!  Your insolent failure to defer to your man bought me the time I needed to rest and gather my strength so that I could smash Smegma’s gonads!”

“Ergh,” Smegma said as he writhed around on the floor.  “Hoisted on…my own…petard!”

“Thank you, foolish woman,” Qassab said.  “And as you meet your imminent death, know that one day, when the Fatwah Brigade rules over all it surveys, big mouthed broads such as yourself will be put in their place.  You will scrub the floors, wash the dishes, do the laundry, clean the house, make the meals, give men all the sex they require, perform all requested maneuvers in the bedroom, and when you are not in use, you will be chained to a radiator or failing that, the largest immobile object available. Failure to comply with a man’s orders will result in your death, followed by immediate replacement with a younger, more obedient wife-slave.”

“Ugh,” Smegma said as he grabbed his balls.  “You know, Hakeem, when you lay it all out like that, it doesn’t sound like such a bad deal.”

Qassab laughed.  “I know, right?”

“I mean, it’d be a terrible deal for the women,” Smegma said.  “Positively dreadful.  For me, it would be great though.”

“Yeah, well,” Qassab said.  “Only a dumbass fails to do what is best for him.”

“Makes me…”  Smegma coughed.  “Makes me think I’ve been fighting for the wrong team all along.”

“You have,” Qassab said.  “Stories of how you use and loose women are abundant all over the globe, Mr. Smegma.  You could have joined us and been rewarded with a wife-slave that you could have literally used as a foot stool, but alas, you bought into all that American red, white and blue propaganda.”

“Tell me about it,” Smegma said.

“Pity,” Qassab said.

“I know,” Smegma said.  “Here I am, busting my ass, trying to protect Western women from the likes of you, and here one is, taking your side.”

Bonanza stomped her foot.  “I’m not taking his side.  I just don’t think everyone who looks like him should be blamed for what he does.”

“We always agreed on that point, Cooter,” Smegma said.  “We just had different ways of saying it.”

Qassab checked his watch.  “Well, Mr. Smegma and Miss Bonanza, I’d love to stay and continue this round robin circle jerk of political punditry, but I must bid you adieu, for I neglected to mention that five minutes ago, I began the timer for a bomb I left in the cockpit and that was, oh, roughly four minutes and thirty seconds ago.”

The terrorist located his duffel bag, reached inside, and pulled out a packed parachute.  He strapped it to his back, then made his way to the exit door.  He turned the latch and the door swung open, causing massive amounts of air to come rushing inside.

“Did I forget to mention I bogarted the one and only parachute?”  Qassab asked.  “Whoops!  My bad!  Goodbye!”

And with that, Qassab tumbled backward out of the plane.  Smegma raised his hand.  The blonde ran over, grabbed it, and helped the wounded man up.

“Truce?” Bonanza asked.

“Truce,” Smegma answered as he ran to the cockpit.  There, he saw the slumped over body of the pilot, a bullet wound in his forehead.  In the empty co-pilot’s seat, there was a pile of dynamite with an attached digital clock.  It was counting down.  “00:30…00:29…00…28…”

“Can we throw it out?” Bonanza asked.

Smegma noticed that the bomb was firmly strapped to the seat.  “No.”

The agent grabbed the attorney’s hand and ran towards the open door, fighting against the rushing wind.

“What are you doing?!” Bonanza cried.

“I’m sorry but you’ll have to trust me!” Smegma said.  “There’s no time to mansplain!”

When they reached the door, Smegma gathered Bonanza in a warm, passionate embrace.

“Do I have your consent?”  Smegma asked.

“Of course,” the lady replied.

“Now and forever?”

“Now? Yes.  Forever?  I don’t know.  I’ll let you and the rest of the world know on Lifebox later.”

“Good enough.”  Smegma kissed Bonanza, then pushed her out of the plane.  He grabbed one of the prostrate swordfish from the floor, then immediately followed the lady out the door.

“Arrrgghhhh!” the blonde shouted as she and Smegma tumbled toward the earth without parachutes.  “I didn’t consent to this!”

 

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Great Musings of the Twenty-First Century – #376 – 400

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#376 – Existing isn’t the same as living.

#378 – Grapes are small pieces of fruit.

#379 – Physically, we aren’t able to see what is behind us.  Mentally, we are always looking at the past that’s unchangeable.

#380 – Birds of a feather flock together but kittens of a whisker don’t do much of anything interesting whatsoever.  Sorry I mentioned it.

#381 – Every lacrosse team has at least one Chad.

#382 – I don’t know who I am anymore.  I’m not sure I ever knew in the first place.

#383 – Stars are nature’s glitter.

#384 – One day I would like to learn judo.

#385 – I’d like to make a banjo with nothing but a cigar box, a broom handle, fifteen rubber bands and the assistance of a professional banjo maker.

#386 – I once was lost but now am found. I was in the last place I thought to look for myself.

#387 – Ducks love bread.

#388 – How fast is a light second?

#389 – The other day I was in the dairy aisle of my local grocery store. I picked up a product labeled, “I Can’t Believe It’s Not Butter.” I set the container down and moved on.  Sorry, but if the manufacturer is unable to believe that the contents do not consist of butter then I don’t know why I’m supposed to.

#390 – I’m going to think of something ridiculously clever and insert it here later.

#391 – Broadband does not include broads and if it did, those broads would not join a band. Discuss.

#392 – Are mole people friendly?  I’m talking about people with moles on their faces, not the people who live underground.  We all know the latter are dicks.

#393 – I love my microwave.  Frankly, whenever I think about how I own a device that can harness the power of the atom just to cook my frozen pizza, I get a little hard.

#394 – If Frankenstein has sex with a lady werewolf, would their baby be a Frankenwolf or a Wolfenstein?  If it’s the last one, would they have to pay royalties to the people who made that video game?

#395 – I bought a dry erase board in the hopes that I would think of something clever to write on it.  My first note on it? “Remember to return dry erase board.”

#396 – Right now, at this very moment, two horny penguins in Antarctica are getting their fuck on.

#397 – Why are people always offering poisoned people antidotes? People, it’s not that hard. Just don’t drink dotes in the first place.

#398 – Whatever happened to Mario Van Peebles?

#399 – Is it a violation to use sidewalk chalk on driveways?

#400 – I’d eat cake at every meal if I could.

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To Kill A Mockingbird – 2018 Reboot

EDITORIAL NOTE: I’ll just leave this here, for no particular reason.

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And so, gentlemanly country lawyer Atticus Finch did call his client, Tom Robinson, into his law office.  Tom Robinson, a black man, had been falsely accused of rape and since it was the Jim Crow south, no lawyer other than Atticus was willing to help the poor man.

“I swear I didn’t rape that woman, Atticus,” Tom said. “I swear, I didn’t.  Do you think you’ll be able to save me at trial?”

“Well,” Atticus said as he sipped a mint julep. “I’m just a simple country lawyer who likes to sit on his rocking chair and enjoy a nice cool breeze on a summer’s evening, but I say, I do declare that whether we should save you is not the proper consideration but rather, the appropriate issue is should we save you?”

“Should we save me?” Tom asked.  “But sir, I have been falsely accused!”

“Sir!”  Atticus said.  “Lower your voice!  I shall not have such triggering hate speech in my office.”

“What?” Tom asked.

“You see, Tom,” Atticus said.  “It doesn’t matter if you were falsely accused or not because all accusers have the right to be instantly and automatically believed.  Why, if you don’t believe an accusation without further question or inquiry, then you are not just insulting the individual accuser in this case but anyone and everyone who has ever dared to stand up and accuse someone of anything.

“But Mr. Finch,” Tom said.  “I’m not trying to tarnish the reputation of anyone who has ever made an accusation.  I realize that for the world to keep turning that people need to be able to stand up and say when something bad happened.  I’m just saying that in this case, when my accuser makes a false accusation, I need you to present my case and prove the truth.  I didn’t do it, sir.  I’m innocent and that fact must be presented to the jury.”

Atticus brushed a piece of lint off his clean, white suit.  “Sir, I say, I do declare I’m sorry but I just can’t go on with this hateful discussion.  All accusers are to be believed, sir and frankly, whether or not you are guilty or innocent is immaterial.  If you do not skip this trial and skip straight to hanging yourself then your accuser’s feelings, as well as the feelings as anyone who has ever made an accusation against anyone since the beginning of all time will be hurt and we can’t have that, so please, go hang yourself now.”

Tom stood up.  “Sir, if I may be so bold, if you’re not going to defend me against an accusation then why are you here?”

“Why, I do declare I’m just here to sip mint juleps and look good in this white suit,” Atticus said.  “Good day, sir.  Please go see the proprietor of our local mercantile and acquire a length of rope.  I’ll see to it that your estate will handle the bill just as soon as you hang yourself promptly.”

Tom shook Atticus’ hand.  “Very well, sir.  You make a fine point.  I don’t want accusers to feel bad and even if the accusation against me is false, my life must be over now because if it isn’t then people with true accusations will feel bad and true accusers just won’t be intelligent enough to be able to figure out that in this particular case, the accusation was false.  I will go hang myself posthaste.”

“Glad to hear it,” Atticus said.  “Enjoy your hanging, Tom.”

Tom left the room.  Atticus’ young daughter, Scout, had been playing with a doll in a corner of the room the entire time.

“Daddy?” Scout said.

“Yes, dear?” Atticus replied.

“The world sure has gotten fucked up, ain’t it, Daddy?” Scout asked.

“It sure has, Scout,” Atticus said.  “It sure has.”

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