Tag Archives: medicine

My Fingernail is About to Fall Off

Hey 3.5 readers.

This is some serious shit.

Two months ago, I slammed my left middle finger in a door because…well, I blame everyone but me, as I do with all of my problems.  Some say it’s a sign of low moral character to blame others for your own mistakes but if you ask me, the people who say that are to blame for everything.

But I digress.

For two months, I’ve been walking around with a left middle fingernail that was blacker than the darkest night on the wrong side of the moon.

I figured this problem would heal itself, like a bruise that eventually goes away.

But it was more than that, blood trapped under the fingernail, you see.

And so, last week I noticed the nail was beginning the bulge, like it was expanding a bit.

This week, I notice it’s getting a bit crusty, and there’s a hole between the nail and the part where the skin meets the nail at the bottom.

And some crusty blood has come out around the edges.

So, I broke down and saw a doctor, which I hate to do, because frankly, I believe all doctors are secretly trying to declare me dead over the slightest malady in order to harvest my organs.

“What?  This man has a black fingernail?  Knock him on the head with a mallet and donate his penis to science immediately!”

Damn penis scientists always trying to research my penis.

Anyway, the doctor said the nail is going to fall off.  She said a new nail would grow in.  I’m a little nervous about that, but I will take this doctor’s word and hope and pray for the best.

In the meantime, I’m concerned for the fate of this fine blog.  Soon, I will have to bandage the finger, keep it sanitary, soak it in anti-bacterial ointments and use it sparingly.  That could affect my tying, so I worry about the future of this fine blog and also, Toilet Gator, which I am in the last stages of completing the second draft.

Further, I worry about my ability to scratch my butt…by that, I mean, my butthole.  Oh my God.  It gets so itchy up there.  Like, unbelievably itchy.  And I have to go spelunking up there and well, I won’t be able to use my left hand and honestly, the right hand is probably out because what if I use my right hand and then I touch my left hand?

Ugh.  If any of you want to volunteer to be a butt scratched for say, the next 4 months until a new nail grows in, I’d appreciate it.  It’s the least you could do since I do so much to entertain you, but that’s OK, I understand if you don’t want to help, you lousy ingrates.

Please pray for me, pray that my new nail will be hearty, strong, and impressive to the ladies and that there are no complications that lead me to being a nail-less freak or that cause me to declared dead so that my penis can be experimented on by mad penis scientists.

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I Paid Money for This Too…

…so watch it, you nerds.  I have to get my money’s worth:

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Fourteen Weeks of Toilet Gator Sundays

Once again, someone who may or may not be a real medical doctor (I’m leaning towards not) reminds you of the dangerous medical symptoms that come with being bitten on the butt by a toilet gator:

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And Now a Public Service Announcement From a Doctor on the Dangers of Being Bitten On the Butt By a Toilet Gator

Hey 3.5 readers.

Bookshelf Q. Battler here.  As you know, I am a civic minded humanitarian.  In fact, after writing two chapters of my upcoming novel, Toilet Gator, I became so concerned about the serious medical conditions that could result from being bitten on the butt by a toilet gator that I secured the services of an esteemed doctor to warn the public in this very important public service announcement:

Hmm.  Come to think of it, I didn’t check her medical credentials or anything, but this seems hella legit.

By the way, if you want to read the first two rough draft chapters of toilet gator, you can do so by clicking here.

And thank you to this wonderful doctor for caring enough to warn the public about the dangerous effects of toilet gator butt bites.  If you want to hire Dr. Lisa Marie to make a video for you, check her out on Fiverr.

Curse you, Fiverr.  You’ve become my new addiction.

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Top Ten Reasons Why Your Butt Hurts


Hello 3.5 readers.

Many of you may be unaware of this, but in my spare time, I dabble in the fine arts of proctology and have even been named an Amateur Proctologist by a noted correspondence school.

Does your butt hurt?  If it does, you’ve got to get on that.  A hurt butt left to chance is a disaster, not only for you but for anyone unlucky enough to be standing within your blast radius when it goes off.

Note that I’m talking about “hurt butts” and not “butt hurt.”  Butt hurt is when you experience emotional pain so deep that you end up feeling it in your butt.

I’m talking about actual hurting butts.  From BQB HQ in Fabulous East Randomtown, here are the top ten reasons why your butt might be hurting:

#10 – Alien Probes

Alien Jones informs me that this experimental method of human butt research has been banned, but there are aliens who have been known to go rogue all over human butts.  If your butt hurts, it may be because aliens snuck into your room and inserted all kinds of devices filled with bells, lights and whistles.

If you think it is possible that you have been probed by aliens, I would suggest that you set up surveillance cameras.  If, in the morning, your butt hurts, check the footage to see if any aliens were in your room.  Note that some aliens have Predator style cloaking devices, so you will have to look at the footage closely for the tell tale shimmer.

#9 – Wrong Toilet Paper

Take a look at your supermarket’s butt wipe aisle and you’ll find a smorgasbord of toilet paper.  Butts are like Goldilocks – sometimes they’ll find a paper to be too soft or too hard.  Your butt needs to keep looking until it finds the paper that is just right.  If you are using coarse sandpaper on your butt, you’re doing it wrong.

#8 – Parasites 

I told you not to drink that rain puddle water and/or to not make out with your dog but you just didn’t listen, did you?  Report to your doctor for immediate tapeworm removal.  Don’t look at me.  I’m just an amateur.

#7 – Getting Your Butt Kicked

Did you hit on someone else’s girlfriend?  Did you stick your nose some place where it didn’t belong?  Did you insult someone?  Then problem solved.  That giant shoe that connected with your butt is the reason why your butt hurts.  Put some ice on your butt and learn some manners.

#6 – Wiping Revisited

You might be doing it wrong.  Maybe you have the right toilet paper but the wrong technique.  Your butt is very sensitive so you must gently caress your butt as if you are touching it with the wings of an angel.  Don’t just stick a wad of toilet paper up your butt and go all jackhammer style.  That’s a good way to end up with a bad case of roids.

 #5 – Lightning Infused Toaster Pastry Toilet Death

Totally happened to me.  If you shoot a lightning bolt out of your butt, you will destroy your toilet, your life, and your butt.  Beware breakfast foods that have absorbed lightning, hurricanes, tornadoes or other catastrophic weather events.

#4 – Olympic Flatulence Competitions

Pictured above is East Randomtown Mayor Harvey Smotchenbocker.  Though he is a world class athlete who is able to shoot fire out of his butt, he has undergone years of training, thus allowing him to flex his butt muscles so as to shoot fire out of his butt without causing himself any damage.  I advise you to leave such flatulence theatrics to the professionals and to not try this at home.

#3 – Ingrown Butt Hairs

It happens.  Sometimes a butt hair grows rogue and causes all kinds of damage.  My best advice is to find a trustworthy friend who is willing to do you a solid and keep your butt hair trimmed.

#2 – Brazilian Wax 

Ah, the Brazilians.  They have given us so much.  Restaurants where they serve meat on swords AND super clean nether region waxing.  It’ll hurt today, but your butt will be totally smooth tomorrow…or the next day…or the day after that…whenever the swelling goes down.

#1 – Botched Colonoscopies

You don’t get to eat for a day before, you’ve got to take all kinds of laxatives or do whatever your doctor instructs you.  Then a giant camera attached to what can only be described as a leather octopus tentacle is shoved up your butt.  Done just right, it won’t hurt at all.  However, if your butt doctor just jams it up there and wiggles it around like he’s beating a bowl full of cake batter, then it will probably hurt.  Luckily, butt doctors go to school to practice their butt inspection techniques to avoid this problem.


I’m just an amateur so don’t take my advice.  If your butt hurts, seek the wise counsel of a professional butt doctor.  Women, you never know what’s going in your butts and the men staring at them can only tell you what’s going on outside of your pants.  Men, you’ve got those prostrates so get them checked before the Big C sets up shop.

A good butt doctor can save your life and keep you being one of my 3.5 readers for many years to come.

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Is Flossing Good For You?


3.5 readers, I’d like to share an important detail about myself with you:

I’m a flosser.

Oh how I love to floss.

I don’t use the regular string floss. I use those floss picks – the plastic ones with the floss strung between two ends.

Love ’em.

My teeth never feel clean without them and oh my God, the things I have pulled out of my teeth over the years that I never even knew where there:


  • Plaque
  • Germs
  • Food particles
  • Pieces of steak.
  • Pieces of corn (popcorn and regular).
  • Pieces of chicken.
  • Never broccoli. F that.
  • Whole chicken nuggets.
  • An entire pizza…still in the box.
  • The dog I had before Bookshelf Q. Battledog.  Turns out he never ran away. He had crawled into my mouth when I was sleeping and died.  And here all this time when people asked me, “Sheesh, what crawled in your mouth and died?” I always thought they were being more rude that accurate.
  • Jimmy Hoffa’s body. How the mob traveled through time to lodge him under my bicuspid I’ll never know.
  • Pirate treasure, me buckos.
  • The Lost City of Atlantis.

In all seriousness, for me, there is something that is both gross and satisfying when I dig that floss in between my teeth and pull out a hunk of something that would have remained there all day had I not flossed.

And mind you, these hunks of whatever remain after brushing, after using mouth wash…they’re just dug in there and only floss can get them out.  If they remain, they linger, the bacteria eats away at your teeth and gums.  Ugh.  Ugh!!!

So, it bothers me to read this study that’s been floating around claiming that flossing has no benefits.

Here’s a New York Times article about it if you want the details.

My take on it is that they aren’t saying flossing is bad for you. They’re just saying it doesn’t do anything for you.

Balderdash, I say.

Look, I’m not a dentist but I made a pact with myself long ago to never allow lack of qualification and/or credentials stop me on opining on a subject I have never studied in-depth before.

So, no, I am not a dentist, but it seems to me that if brushing and mouth washing doesn’t remove certain particles, and flossing can (and boy howdy, have I yanked some doozies out  from between my teeth over the years) – I have to assume that ridding your teeth of those particles has got to be beneficial to your oral health.

You know folks, years ago I never flossed.  Like noted presidential candidate Donald Trump, I too have enormous hands and therefore, it has always been hard for me to get my fingers in my mouth with the floss.

And so, my dentist read me the riot act.  Told me I was going down a bad path with my teeth.

So I brushed more. And used mouthwash more. And I got the floss picks and flossed regularly.

And boom. My mouth health improved.

So…I don’t know.  You do what you want 3.5 readers but me?

I’m a flosser.

Holy Crap. I should start a blog completely devoted to pictures of crap I pull out of my teeth.

Not gonna lie. It would get more readers than this blog.

What say you,






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How the West Was Zombed – Chapter 70


“An immunity,” Doc said.  “Lad, as we speak, there are renowned scientists who are studying the concept that exposure of the body to minute doses of a disease could, in fact, build up the body’s defenses against said disease.”

“That is the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard in my life,” Miss Bonnie said.

“It does sound stupid Doc,” Gunther said.  “Get yourself sick to keep from getting sick?”

“A bold gambit to be sure but one that is espoused by the likes of Mr. Louis Pasteur,” Doc said.

“Who?”  Miss Bonnie asked.

“That shit head that told everyone they got to boil their milk,” Gunther replied.

“Oh,” Miss Bonnie said. “Fuck him there aint nothing wrong with milk.”

Doc erupted into a long coughing spell.  His throat settled down and he kept on.

“Imagine your body is a bare knuckle boxer and the disease an opponent,” Gunther said.  “Would a boxer not fair better against an opponent it has briefly fought before?  Said boxer would learn all of its opponent’s strengths and weaknesses and be better prepared for a full bout, would he not?”

Slade chomped on his cigar.  “But the opponent might just knock you the hell out in the first go around.”

“Possibly,” Doc said. “But unlikely if the match were short.”

Gunther looked at the spilled elixir coating the floor.

“Shit Doc,” Gunther said. “You’ve been guzzling this shit for as long as I’ve known you.  Short match my ass.”

Gunther pointed at Townsend.  “And if one bite was all took to turn this prick then I’m surprised you’re not a zombie already.”

“Ah,” Doc said as he slowly raised a finger, as if the small gesture was a great task in his weakened condition. “But as young Miles has indicated there are supernatural aspects at play.  I have never been one to espouse that science and religion are diametrically opposed forces but rather, science can be turned to for an explanation of what religion cannot enlighten us on and vice versa.”

Miles nodded.  “Vampires have been known to trick people into drinking their blood,” the boys said.  “Drinking it doesn’t kill a person and the soul fights the vampire’s will for as long as the person lives.  The person who drank it unwittingly would never even know what happened unless someone tells him.”

Doc stroked his beard.  “I would have to study samples of vampire blood in a laboratory to be certain, but I theorize that while ingesting vampire’s blood into one’s stomach causes no physical harm to the subject until the obvious post mortem zombification, the injection of this supernatural contagion directly into the bloodstream via a zombie bite is such a shock to the system that it instantly kills the victim and subsequently zombifies them.”

Gunther, Slade and Miss Bonnie exchanged confused looks.

“Translation?” Gunther asked.

“Don’t let a zombie bite you,” Miles said.

“Yes,” Doc said.  “Oh how I admire the ability of youth to put matters more succinctly than a man as learned as I.  At any rate, I have been a regular consumer of the vampire blood infused elixir for many weeks now, since the day I formed my lamentable partnership with Mr. Blythe.  Ergo, so much vampire’s blood now courses through my veins that it kept Mr. Townsend’s bite from instantly killing me but…”

Annabelle pouted.  Doc looked away from her.

“The more concentrated form of the contagion delivered into my system during my ill fated counter with Frank Buchanan’s tooth is slowly working against me” Doc said.  “Slowed by the copious amounts of vampire’s blood in my body yet in due course, I shall eventually become an undead man.”

The group stood around Doc quietly.  Miss Bonnie raised her barrel.  Gunther pushed it down again.

“Am I going to have to take that away from you?” Gunther asked.

“He just said he’s going to become a zombie!” Miss Bonnie said.

Anabelle knelt down and hugged Doc, who grimaced in pain at the contact.  “He’s not a zombie yet.”

The prostitute gently held Doc’s head in her hands.  “I don’t know how but we’re going to fix this.”

“My dear…”

“No,” Anabelle said.  “As long as you’re alive and not a zombie, there’s still hope.  Isn’t there?”

Doc’s eyes pointed downward.

“Well,” Annabelle said.  “Isn’t there?”

“In theory,” Doc said.

“I’ll take it,” Annabelle replied.

“So what?” Miss Bonnie asked.  “We just wait until he turns and bites one of us?”

“Damn it, Miss Bonnie,” Gunther said.  “In my entire life I have never left a man behind when he needed me and I’m not going to start now.”

Miss Bonnie looked at Slade, who, in his mind, went to work coming with the most diplomatic answer he could come up with.

“He’s still alive,” Slade said.  The ex-marshall looked at Miles.  “Anyone ever come back from becoming one of these things?”

“Not that I’ve ever heard of,” Miles replied.

Doc shifted back in his chair and looked up at Annabelle.

“Oh my dear,” Doc said.  “How I wish I had known you longer but alas, the curtain most close early on the show of my life, the best act of which was certainly the day I met you.  Miss Lassiter is correct and she should be allowed to dispatch me posthaste.  Until she does, I am a threat to everyone in this room.”

Anabelle wept.  “Doc…no.”

Gunther put a hand on Doc’s shoulder.  “Is that what you really want, Doc?”

“It is my good man.”

Gunther shook his head and walked back next to Slade.  Annabelle kissed Doc and looked him in the eyes.

“Please…” she begged.

“It is for the best, my dear,” Doc said.  “We will always have that thing.”

Anabelle gave her man one final kiss then backed away.

“Do you wish me to read you your last rites, son?” the Reverend asked.

“No,” Doc replied.  “I’d prefer to have the matter over with.”  Doc looked at Miss Bonnie and closed his eyes.  “Fire at will, Miss Lassiter.”

Slade put his hand down on Miss Bonnie’s barrel this time.  “Maybe I should do it,” Slade said.  “Killing a man is a hell of a thing.  It’ll haunt you forever, whether it was justified or not.”

“I got it,” Miss Bonnie replied, coldly.

Miss Bonnie raised her weapon and took aim at Doc’s head.  Everyone watched as she maintained her line of sight until finally, she put her shotgun down.

“Son of a bitch,” Miss Bonnie said.  “I can’t do it with him all alive and dopey looking and everything.”

Doc opened his eyes.  He flicked his right wrist and his spring loaded gun popped out from underneath his sleeve.

“You are a kinder woman than I presumed, Miss Lassiter,” Doc said.  “And I can see now it was selfish of me to ask one of you to commit this heinous deed.”

Slowly, Doc rose up out of the chair and onto his feet, his body shaking and struggling to hold up his own weight.

“Adieu, my friends,” Doc said.  His arm trembled as brought the pistol to his temple.  “Parting is such sweet sorrow.”

Before Doc even pulled the trigger, he crashed face first into the floor.

Gunther, Slade and Anabelle all crouched around him.

“What the hell was that?” Gunther asked.

“I think he’s still breathing,” Annabelle said.

Thump.  Thump.  Thump.  Multiple fists pounded on the church door.  The sound of hungry growls poured in through the broken window.

Miss Bonnie pointed her shotgun at the door.  “We’ve got bigger problems.”

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How the West Was Zombed – Chapter 70


Twenty minutes had passed since the grim reality of what Doc had done hit him.  He rolled over onto his stomach.  The wooden floor felt rough on his cheek.  Quietly, he stared off into the distance.

Annabelle’s pretty face appeared in front of his.  He didn’t move or acknowledge her.

“Doc?”  the blond asked as she nudged him.  “Doc?”

More nudges until the physician spoke.  His showman persona was gone and a depressed monotone had taken its place.

“Leave me be woman.”


“Leave me be, I say.”

Annabelle stepped away.  Doc laid there, listening to the voices around the room.

“Fuck him sideways,” Miss Bonnie said.  “He’s killed us all.”

“Oh, he couldn’t have known,” Gunther said.

“Why are you defending him?” Miss Bonnie asked.  “He’s an asshole.  He’s probably in cahoots with Blythe.”

“I doubt it,” Gunther said.  “He’s a two-bit huckster but he doesn’t seem evil to me.  Just one of those folks who’s too smart for his own good is all.”

“Rain, are you going to back me up here?”  Miss Bonnie asked.

“Bonnie’s right,”  Slade said.

“Thank you,” Miss Bonnie said.

“Doc is an asshole,” Slade added.

“We all agree on that,” Gunther said.  “It’s the evil part we need to figure out.”

Doc could hear the old man’s footsteps coming closer.  He felt a pair of hands grab his side and roll him onto his back until he was looking straight up at the faces of Gunther, Slade, Miss Bonnie, Miles, and Anabelle.

“Start talking,” Gunther said.

Too ashamed to look anyone in the eye, Doc fixed his gaze on the ceiling.

“I am an utter failure.”

“We figured,”  Gunther said.  “Why in the hell have you been pushing vampire blood on everyone with two bits to rub together?”

“I didn’t know it was vampire’s blood,” Doc replied. 

“How could you have not known it was vampire’s blood?” Miss Bonnie asked.

“I swear I only thought it was a mixture consisting mostly of cocaine, a cocktail of other miscellaneous drugs, and spider eggs for texture.”

Doc covered his face with his hand.  “Oh how I hope this scandal does not sour public opinion on the curative properties of cocaine.”

“There’s only a drop of vampire blood in it,” Miles said.  “I couldn’t tell what the rest of it was.”

“Cocaine I assure you,” Doc said. 

Annabelle knelt down next to Doc.  “Now you see here, Doctor Elias T. Faraday,” Annabelle said.  “You may be a cocaine addict and a degenerate pervert but there isn’t an evil bone in your entire body so you stop fretting and tell everyone what happened right now.”

Doc coughed.  “Might I have a drink?”

“Shit,”  Gunther said.  “I think you’ve had enough.”

“Yes,” Doc said.  “But my mouth.  It’s so dry.  Like a desert. This illness.  So odd.”

Another pair of feet stepped over.  Doc felt the end of a bottle part his lips.  Whiskey trickled down his throat. 

“My booze is your booze,” the Reverend said as he backed away.

“Much better,” Doc said.  “And it makes it easier for me to reveal the sad news to you that I am not an admirable man.”

“We gathered,” Gunther said.

Miss Bonnie cocked her shotgun.  “Can we just put him out of his misery already?”

“Spill it, Doc,”  Gunther said.

“I begin this sordid tale with a confession that I am not at all what I have held myself out to be…”

“You’re not a real doctor?” Gunther asked.

That question brought Doc’s usual know-it-all tone back.  “What?  How dare you sir? My medical credentials are impeccable!”

“Then what?” Gunther asked.

Doc winced.  “I am…”

Everyone stared at Doc intently, waiting for the big reveal.

“…a lowly Chestnut Hill Farraday.”

“Oh for Christ’s sakes,” Gunther said.

“I’m telling you,” Miss Bonnie said.  “He’s with Blythe and he’s trying to mess with our heads right now.”

“Stop it Bonnie,” Annabelle said.  “I love this man!”

Miss Bonnie rolled her eyes.  Doc grabbed Annabelle’s arm.  “You do, my dear?”

“Of course,” Anabelle said.  “I’ve waited my entire life to find someone as perverted as I am.  Someone willing to do…”

Anabelle blushed as she remembered she was in mixed company.  “That thing…with that thing.”

Doc raised an eyebrow.  “Which thing?” he asked.

“You know,” Anabelle said. “The thing...”

“Oh yes,” Doc said.  “Oh what fun that thing is.”

“You’re going to get better,” Anabelle said. “I know it.  And when you do, we’re going to travel the world and inspect beavers and advise people on the curative properties of cocaine…”

Doc grinned.  “Oh I hope so, my dear.  I surely hope so.”

Gunther scratched his head.  “I feel like I’ve missed something.”

“They’re nuts,” Miss Bonnie said.

“Good people,” Doc said.  “After the wretched British were driven from our shores, my family’s great ancestral patriarch, Cornelius J. Faraday made a fortune in the fishing game.  He started small with but one boat and one pole but soon had his own fleet and enough money to make a sultan blush.”

“Gunther,” Slade said.  “Are we going to listen to this asshole forever?”

“We can’t just condemn a man without hearing his piece, can we?” Gunther asked.  “This is America, aint it?  Innocent until proven guilty and such?”

“Thank you deputy,” Gunther said.  “And so, Cornelius passed his magnificent wealth down to his children and the Faradays went from being known as gruff sea folk to one of the most well to-do families in all of Boston.  Patrons of the arts and sciences, champions of education, and generous benefactors of the social welfare.”

Doc coughed again before carrying on.  “Alas, a rift grew between my grandfather, Sylvester B. Faraday, and my father, Sherman A. Faraday.  My father was a bit of a cad, you see, obsessed with carousing until all hours of the night and my grandfather feared he would squander the family fortune on wine, women and song.”

Miss Bonnie was not amused.  “Oh for the love of…”

“Grandfather left the entire sum of his estate to my more respectable uncle, Humphrey M. Faraday, thus cutting my father and his ensuing line out of the will entirely.”

What the hell does that mean?”  Miss Bonnie asked.

“He’s broke,” Gunther said.  “Are you broke?”

“I was,” Doc said.  “A recent graduate of the venerable Harvard University but alas, my medical degree was useless to me in New England as my father, my mother and my siblings all turned to a life of petty crime.  They became known as filthy pickpockets, snatching up wallets and purses all over the neighborhood of Chestnut Hill.  And though I never once absconded with a cent that did not belong to me, my reputation suffered as in the public’s eye, I was lumped in with them.  I tried my best to disassociate myself from the Chestnut Hill side of the clan, even going so far as to falsely claim that Uncle Humphrey was my father but no one would hear of it.  From Maine to Rhode Island, everyone knew which side of the family I was from and no reputable hospital would have me.”

“White folks have some strange problems,” Miles said.

“Not one to give up, I headed West, seeking fame and fortune in this Godless country yet being careful to introduce myself to everyone as a proper Boston Faraday and not a Chestnut Hill Faraday…”

“Doc,” Gunther said.  “Massachusetts might as well be Africa to me and most folk out here.  I think your secret was safe all along.”

“Perhaps,” Doc said.  “But I did not wish to take the chance that other Bostonians who have traveled out this way might spread word of my shame.  I figured if I protested against the Chestnut Hill Farradays loudly enough, no one on this side of the country would ever believe claims that I was one of them.”

Anabelle kissed Doc on the lips.  “I still love you Doc.”

“And I you, my dear.”

“Ugh,” Miss Bonnie said.

“From thereon I explored this untamed land,” Doc said.  “Moving from town to town, selling my services as a physician for a price, offering gynecological inspections for free simply because I believe these to be a preventive measure that could lead to the lives of countless women from ending prematurely.”

“Dirty pervert,” Miss Bonnie said.

“What the hell is a gynecological inspection?” Gunther asked.

Miss Bonnie whispered into Gunther’s ear.

“Oh,” the old man said.  “Dirty pervert.”

“I know,” Annabelle said as she stroked Doc’s hair.  “And he’s my pervert.”

Doc continued his tale.  “In Colorado, I met Mr. Henry Alan Blythe, a splendid gentleman who held himself out to me as an attorney for the Legion Corporation, a company dedicated to building railways across the West and bringing much needed goods, services and industry to the masses.”

“And apparently they want to end the world too,” the Reverend said as he poured another shot into Doc’s mouth, which was graciously lapped up.

“It would seem so,” Doc said.  “Oh, but I would have never associated myself with Mr. Blythe had I know of his vile machinations.”

“Bullshit,” Miss Bonnie said. 

“It’s the truth, I swear,” Doc said.  Mr. Blythe stated to me that scientists in his company’s employ had devised a miracle potion, an elixir capable of curing all ailments and extending life indefinitely.  It’s key ingredient, he noted, was cocaine and I have long been a proponent of the curative properties of cocaine, even though my professors balked at the notion.  It makes your heart flutter like the wings of a butterfly, fills the body with renewed vigor, and relieves the mind of its burdens.  There couldn’t possibly be anything wrong with it.”

“Doc I’m no doctor but I think this just means you’re a dope fiend,” Gunther said.

“I am a medicine fiend, sir,” Doc said sternly.  “And Mr. Blythe explained to me that it would be necessary for a doctor in good standing to travel from town to town, extolling the virtues of this wonderful brew.  The credit and profits would be entirely mine as Mr. Blythe assured me that Legion’s only desire was to fill the West with a healthy population, thus ensuring a bright and happy future for the ever expanding United States of America.”

Miss Bonnie and Gunther looked at each other.  The red head took aim at Doc’s head but Gunther pushed the barrel down toward the ground.

“Doc,” Gunther said.


“You’re telling us that a lawyer for a money grubbing corporation that’s ripping up the West and laying track all over creation claimed to have a drink that can cure everyone’s problems and that they’d just up and give it away to you for free?”

“Yes,” Doc said.

Miss Bonnie raised the barrel once more but Gunther pushed it down again.

“And at no time did this deal seem a tad suspicious to you?”  Gunther asked.

“It was peculiar,” Doc said.  “But I was obsessed with restoring my good name.  I yearned to no longer be known as a Chestnut Hill Farraday but rather as the doctor who spread the curative properties of cocaine mixed with miscellaneous drugs across the globe. I refused to even consider the possibility that I had been the victim of fraudulence.”

“You were duped all right,” Gunther said.

“I was prideful,” Doc said.  “I wanted the Miracle Cure-All to work and my friends, I must say, absent the vampire’s blood, it does work.  Up until now I have never felt better in all of my life and I owe it all to cocaine.”

Gunther conferred with Miss Bonnie.

“He’s an asshole,” Gunther said.  “But he’s not an evil asshole.”

Miss Bonnie took her finger off the trigger.  “Oh all right.”

Slade grabbed one of Doc’s arms and Gunther grabbed the other.  They helped Doc into a chair.  The physician slumped over, his face milky white and devoid of any color.

“You all have every right to despise me for my ignorance,” Doc said.  “But know that the hatred you feel for me shall never match that which I feel for myself.”

Annabelle threw her arms around Doc’s neck.  “Oh Doc!  No one hates you.”

The blonde looked around the room.

“Tell him you all don’t hate him!”

Various half-hearted denials of hatred were mumbled.  The only holdouts were Miss Bonnie who replied that she did, in fact, still hate Doc, and the Reverend, who stated, “I barely know this jackass.”

Doc rubbed the scratch on his cheek.  “And rest assured, Ms. Lassiter, I am now paying the price for my stupidity.”

Miles examined the scratch.  “I still think you’re going to be fine,” the boy said.  “If you were going to become a zombie, you’d be a zombie by now.”

“That is where you are wrong, my dear boy,” Doc said.  “For as a practitioner of medical science, it is clear to me that Mr. Blythe’s blood contains some sort of contagion that turns man into beast…”

“Quickly,”  Miles said.

“Indeed,” Doc said.  “Unless one possesses an immunity.”

“A what?”  Miles asked.

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Ask the Alien – 3/15/15 – Why I Can’t Vaporize the Yeti, Vaccinations, Crooked Lawyers

Greetings Earth Losers.

The Esteemed Brainy One

Alien Jones here, beaming the answers to the great questions of the universe straight to your laptops, cell phones, iPads, Kindle Fires, Samsung Galaxies, and yes, even to you oddballs who still cling to your blackberries, desperately trying to party like it’s 2003.

First, let us address the proverbial elephant in the room.  Our esteemed Blogger-in-Chief, one Mr. Bookshelf Q. Battler, has been taken captive by the Siberian Yeti, after having his compound overtaken by the same aforementioned ne’er-do-well snow monster.

Truly, this is a sad state of affairs.  Already, I anticipate your first, second, and third questions:

Q.  Alien Jones, you are the most badass alien in the universe, a master of all manner of lethal technologies and advanced weaponry.  Surely, you can remove a Yeti from Bookshelf Battle HQ.

A.  Certainly I could.  However, have you ever heard of Star Trek’s “prime directive?”  In short, it is a rule that prevents Star Fleet officers from interfering with the advancement of alien civilizations, thus allowing beings to develop on their own.  My home world has a version of that rule.  It goes by the less interesting name of the “Don’t Help Aliens With Stuff Rule.”

Q.  Why are you referring to humans as aliens?  You’re the alien.

A.  To me, you’re the alien.

Q.  If you have a rule against helping alien civilizations, why are you writing a Q and A column on a book blog with 3.5 readers?

A.  My illustrious emperor felt that humans were so colossally stupid that there was some wiggle room.  Either I nudge humanity in the right direction or cheese stuffed crust pizza and reality television will spread across the universe.  We scientists refer to this much feared event as “The Great Dumbening.”

Now then.  I didn’t receive any questions this week, which is surprising.  Not to be rude or anything but to borrow a line from The Simpsons, “what you people don’t know could fill a warehouse.”  So, I’ve decided to ask myself a series of questions surrounding a topic that some of you Earth creatures have been wrestling with lately.

Q.  Alien Jones, should I have my kid vaccinated?

A.  If your Doctor advises it, then yes.

Q.  But vaccines cause autism!  I’ve heard so many anecdotes about kids getting vaccinated and then becoming autistic.

A.  Anecdotes aren’t science.  Your kid wears diapers.  Do diapers cause autism?  Your kid breathes air.  Does air cause autism?  Your kid watches Barney.  Do people in purple dinosaur costumes cause autism?

Q.  But we live in such healthy times compared to the days of long ago.  Surely, small pox or measles can’t be that big a deal.

A.  Picture me slapping my three fingered hand against my cranial dome in disgust, as I realize I know more about your world’s history than you do.  In the dark ages, long before vaccinations were invented, various plagues and diseases swept through one country after the remigho-syringenext.  Every village had a man who would push a cart through the streets just to collect all the corpses.  The reason why you don’t see people dropping like flies these days is due in large part to vaccines (the idea of which we aliens beamed into the minds of your most prominent doctors because it made us sad you were all croaking like frogs on a log).  Ultimately, it makes no sense to this alien why humans would put their children at risk for contracting a medieval disease that was put out of commission by medical science long ago.

Q.  But my doctor’s medical opinion might be that my kid should not be vaccinated.

A.  That is entirely possible.  There are some kids with medical issues where a vaccine could pose a problem.  But at least you based the decision not to vaccinate on a medical professional’s advice, and not a comment made by Jenny McCarthy on a day she decided to wear pants.

Q.  But you can’t prove that vaccines don’t cause autism.

A.  I can’t prove that you’re not wearing invisible underpants forged from solid gold.

Q.  And why should I take your word for this?

A.  You should absolutely not take my word about any of this.  In fact, if any crooked lawyers are reading this, be aware that I am a fictional alien that exists in the mind of a blogger, and therefore my word should not be relied upon as medical advice.  You should contact a doctor, who will be able to give you a medical opinion as it applies to your individual kid’s situation. Bookshelfbattle.com, its nerdy proprietor, and this Alien Correspondent do not in any way, shape, or form hold anything written on this site as medical advice that should be relied upon.

Q.  Why do you dislike lawyers?

A.  Because they are the same people who made a world where a car company that put out an obviously fictional advertisement in which a car is driven on top of a train felt it necessary to add a clause warning people against trying such an obviously ill-advised and impossible endeavor.

*Nissan Rogue “Commute” Commercial

No offense, but my esteemed emperor wrote humans off as a lost cause at the exact moment that he realized you are all so stupid that this commercial required a statement at the bottom of the screen that read “Fantasy, do not attempt.  Cars can’t jump on trains.”

I’m doing my best not to insult humanity but it’s just that, you know, on my world, we’re able to watch this commercial and already understand that we should not attempt to jump a car onto a train.

But I suppose companies must provide ample warnings to assist the simplest of a simple species.

One more question likely on your mind:

Q.  If this site is occupied by the Siberian Yeti, how are you posting on it?

A.  My species invented intergalactic space travel.  I’m pretty sure we can get a post onto a blog.


While I received no inquiries this week, shout outs to:

  • Anita Lovett of Anita Lovett and Associates for tweeting a request for the twitosphere to help Bookshelf Q. Battler raise the 4000 follower ransom required to remove bookshelfbattle.com from unjust Yeti occupation.  The rest of you were content to allow BQB to waste away as a Yeti hostage.  For shame.  For shame, I say.
  • Krissy Penner of cricketsareok.com for submitting video proof of alien existence (I could be wrong, but that guy on the left looks like a colleague I met as a cadet in the Intergalactic Exploration Corps).  Counterargument – this video may have nothing to do with aliens but rather, is a rap performance.
  • Bookshelf Battle Blog Followers, you might notice that BQB has been promoting some of you through other forms of social media.  He has been on a real “pay it forward cosmic karma” kick lately.  If you aren’t cool with it, just let him know, but I assume it’s his way of thanking those who aid in his quest to double his readership from 3.5 to a whopping 7 readers.

Thank you for your time, 3.5 readers.  I must now travel to the planet known as Moikro.  I am on a very sensitive diplomatic mission, namely, to convince two separate alien species to stop bogarting each other’s space snacks.  They’re about to go to war over who gets to keep the planet’s supply of buffalo wing chip dippers, and my friends, it will not be pretty if diplomacy fails to win the day.

Alien Jones is the Intergalactic Correspondent for the Bookshelf Battle. Do you have a question for the Esteemed Brainy One? Submit it to Bookshelf Q. Battler via a tweet to @bookshelfbattle, leave it in the comment section on this site, or drop it off on the Bookshelf Battle Google + page. If AJ likes your question, he might promote your book, blog, or other project while providing his answer.

Submit your questions by midnight Friday each week for a chance to be featured in his Sunday column. And if you don’t like his response, just let him know and he’ll file it into the recycling bin of his monolithic super computer.  No muss, no fuss, no problem.  

Alien Image Courtesy of “Marauder” on openclipart.org

Syringe Image Courtesy of “Remigho” on open clipart.org

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