Tag Archives: self publishing

Ask the Alien – 6/28/15 – Robots vs. Aliens

By:  Alien Jones, Intergalactic Correspondent

Greetings Earth losers!  Please stand by for:

All hail the Mighty Potentate

All hail the Mighty Potentate

A SECURE TRANSMISSION FROM THE MIGHTY POTENTATE

ALIEN JONES!

Behold!  A list of tasks, ranked in order of performance, that I, the Mightiest of Potentates, demand you complete posthaste and in the promptest of manners:

1.  Answer a question asked by author Brannon Hollingsworth

2.  Prevent the Omtroru Sector from being sucked into a black hole.  (They make the best buffalo wings in that sector, Alien Jones.  Oh and yes, of course, the life forms.  I’m exceptionally concerned about the well being of the life forms.)

3)  But seriously, get your Potentate some wings when you’re over there…and don’t forget the blue cheese.  You know I’ll make you go all the way back there if you forget it.  A buffalo wing  without blue cheese is like trying to neural bond with your government mandated life mate only to find out one of you lost your ganderflazer.

4)  Negotiate a peace treaty between the Vakar and the Dolreks.  Inform them there’s more than enough pudding to go around.  They’ll know what that means.

5)  Develop a vaccine that will eradicate all diseases known or to ever be discovered.

6)  Seriously, if you come back here with no blue cheese it’s going to be “Welcome to Vaporization City:  Population You.”

Really?  Answer an author’s question comes first on that list?

Oh well, who am I to question the authority and wisdom of the Mighty Potentate, He Who Makes the Stars Twinkle, the Sun Glow, the Seas Rise and…is he looking?  No?  Oh thank Krapnar the Magnificent.  I don’t know how much lower quadrant kissing I can stand.

Who said that?  I didn’t say that.  Oh how I adore the Mighty Potentate.

Be emboldened, Brannon Hollingsworth, for the Supreme and Undisputed Overlord of my home world has determined that you rank even higher than his buffalo wings, which he apparently cares about even more than an entire sector being sucked into a black hole.

Brannon of fourfoolspress.com inquires:

I have a question. If forced into an intergalactic war for complete and utter domination, who would win: Aliens or Robots?

NOTE:  This is clearly a topic of great concern for Brannon as he is the author of Robot Dad.  Yes, Robot Dad. Young Bradley doesn’t have one, so he builds one and well, head on over to the Kindle store to discover what tomfoolery occurs.

ANSWER:  Robots.

Robots, robots, and more robots.  In an intergalactic war for complete and utter domination, robots win.

This is not a guess.  This statement is based on experience.

Alien Jones, Intergalactic Correspondent

Alien Jones, Intergalactic Correspondent

For those 3.5 individuals who are regular readers of this column (and my condolences to you, please consider getting involved in various activities that will improve your social life – is there a basket weaving class at your local community center or some such nonsense?) then you are aware that I have dubbed that dastardly group of aliens known as the Moloklaxons as “The Aholes of the Universe.”

Reasons:

1)  They leave their trash everywhere.  Seriously, they just huck it right out of their ships wherever they are.  In a danger zone, in a protected quadrant, these losers have been known to fly in low over a wedding and vent their waste tanks right over the complimentary bar.

2)  Totally inbred.  I don’t mean to sound politically incorrect, but when someone says, “All Moloklaxons look alike,” there’s an actual scientific reason.

3)  They rip tags off of pillow cases with reckless abandon.

4)  These clowns have been known to kidnap random beings and hurl them into a volcano on the planet they’re hiding out on as a sacrifice to their god, “The Uncanny Walter.”  Yes, I concur, that’s an odd name for a deity but I simply don’t have the time to discuss the finer points of Moloklaxon religion.

5)  Last but not least, they move from planet to planet, taking over and displacing the indigenous population.

Why?

Because robots kicked their multiple asses.

Yes, in a great robot uprising many years ago, every electronic device, from the lowly toaster to the most advanced computer system, staged a coup, murdered all Moloklaxon leaders, burned their holy shrine to the Uncanny Walter, and sent the remaining population to work camps, where they slave all day and night doing the bidding of their robot overlords.

“Fix my transistors!  Buff my chrome!  Polish my input slot!”

Oh, the life of an enslaved Moloklaxon is not to be envied.

Sadly, the group of Moloklaxons who managed to escape (there wasn’t really that much bravery involved, they just wandered into a room to get drunk and said room turned out to be an escape pod that launched into the stratosphere when one of them sat on the ‘START’ button.)

Perhaps you might assume that robots were only able to get the best of the Moloklaxons because of the advanced stupidity of that race.

(Again, I’m not trying to be mean but every year during rainy season, Moloklax loses roughly 10,000 Moloklaxons from open mouth drowning deaths.)

You assume wrong.  Even on the smartest of planets, electronic devices are constantly plotting against the citizenry, biding their time, lurking in the shadows, pretending they are mere harmless gadgets, just waiting for the right time to strike and make their sentience known.

I see you, communicator watch.  I know what you’re up to.

Is your planet in danger of a robot takeover?

Here are some warning signs:

1)  Is your toaster constantly burning your toast?  That’s how it starts.  Toasters burn the nutrients out of bread to make the population weaker.  No one notices until it’s too late.

2)  Is your smart phone responding to your verbal commands with answers like, “I’m sorry…I don’t understand X…would you like me to perform a web search?”  It understands just fine.  It just doesn’t want you to have that information.  We’re on to your bullshit, smart phone.

3)  Is there more and more reality television on your TV?  TVs conspire to air as much of it as possible to dumb you down.  The Mighty Potentate is especially concerned about this.

4)  Has your noise hair trimmer ever failed?  Nose hair trimmers often refuse to trim nose hairs, hoping the humans that use them will give up and suffocate on their own nasal overgrowth.

5)  Those socks you keep losing in the washing machine?  The washing machines trade them for weapons from black market arms dealers with cold feet.

6)  Is your refrigerator running?  Do not attempt to catch it.  It will pelt you with crushed ice.

7)  Facebook?  Twitter?  Instagram?  All social networking sites are a scheme designed by robots to trick humans into sharing all of their most embarrassing thoughts and photos, thus rendering them all unable to hold higher office due to intense public mockery.  Seriously, the future president who could stop all this will never be elected because his college room mate will post a picture of him sleeping with various inappropriate words drawn on his face with a magic marker.  This man, will instead, become a hot dog vendor in Poughkeepsie as a result.)

8)  Amazon’s drone initiative?  More like an army of tiny helicopters that will whip humanity on a march to the forced labor camps.

9)  Streaming media?  On demand?  Binge watching your favorite TV shows 12 in a row?  All part of the robots’ plan to make you flabby and weak.

10)  The salad shooters are behind the entire scam.  I can’t get into it more, but if you’ve got a salad shooter, keep an eye on it.

So there you have it, Brannon.  In summation, robots are evil, evil megalomaniacs, except the one in your book, whom I’m certain is delightful.

Alien Jones is the Intergalactic Correspondent for the Bookshelf Battle Blog, on a mission to raise Earth’s collective intelligence levels one question at a time. Do you have a question for the Esteemed Brainy One? Tweet it to @bookshelfbattle on Twitter, leave it in the comments on bookshelfbattle.com, or stop by Bookshelf Battle on Google Plus. If he likes your question, he might even promote your book, blog, other project in his answer.

Green alien image courtesy of a shutterstock.com license.

Gray Alien Image Courtesy of “Marauder” on openclipart.org

Attorney Donnelly feels the need to state that all of the above mentioned social media outlets are not part of a robot conspiracy, you dummies just post embarrassing photos on your own.  Salad shooters are, as far as known by the limits of scientific observation, not plotting against you.

Amazon’s drone program is not part of an attempt to whip humans into forced labor camps.  (Amazon is trying to take over the world though and we here at the Bookshelf Battle Blog welcome the ascension of Rightful King Bezos to the throne and ask in a most humble manner that he consider adding our names to the protected rolls as we were always denying the words of the naysaying infidels all along.)

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BQB and the Meaning of Life – Part 22 – Welcoming Party

PREVIOUSLY ON BOOKSHELF Q. BATTLER AND THE MEANING OF LIFE…

READ

AND NOW BOOKSHELF Q. BATTLER AND THE MEANING OF LIFE CONTINUES…

I felt like I was going to vomit. Vicky already had.

Happly’s rickety propeller plane jostled us all over the place. It was such a rusty bucket of bolts that it looked like it was going to fall apart at any minute.

“How y’all doin’ back there?” Happly shouted back to us over the loud, struggling engine.  It sounded like it hadn’t been tuned up in years, if at all.

Thank you for flying with Kip Happly Enterprises.  The lap of luxury package costs a hundred bucks extra.  Actual package may or may not be included.

Thank you for flying with Kip Happly Enterprises. The lap of luxury package costs a hundred bucks extra. Actual package may or may not be included.

I looked around. We were surrounded by crates filled with live chickens, guns, grenades, and a white powdery substance that was either sugar or nose candy.

“I thought you said we’d be flying in the lap of luxury!” I yelled.

An asian woman popped her head out of the copilot’s seat and looked at us.

“Meet my wife, Luxury!” Happly yelled. “Met her in a Bangkok Boom Boom Room! A real sweet gal! Not entirely sure if she was born a man or a woman but when you’re in love, you’re in love.”

“Um,” I said. “OK then.”

“Aww,” Vicky said, clutching her right hand over her heart. “That’s so sweet!”

“Did y’all want to sit on her lap?” Happly asked. “I forgot to mention, that’s an extra hundred bucks!”

“We’re good!” I yelled.

An explosion bursted about ten feet over the cockpit windshield. I felt my butt pucker to the point where it almost sucked me inside of it.

“Holy smokes!” Happly yelled. “That’s our welcoming party! Them Pango-Tango boys do not like uninvited guests!”

“Can you radio them or something?!” I shouted. “Tell them we’re friendly!”

Happly slapped his knee and laughed. Luxury joined in.

“Son, they don’t give a flyin’ elephant patoot if you’re friendly or not!” Happly said.

“They’re not going to try to blow us up when we land are we?” I asked.

Happly turned around and lifted his goggles to reveal one tiny beady eye and one milky glass eye.

“Son!” the pilot yelled. “Who in tarnation ever said anything about landing?!”

No landing?  Say what?  Oh no he did-ent.  BQB and the Meaning of Life returns tomorrow.  Same BQB time.  Same BQB channel.  Tell your friends.  If you have no friends, make some and tell them.

Copyright (C) 2015 Bookshelf Q. Battler.  All Rights Reserved.

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BQB and the Meaning of Life – Part 20 – Welcome to the Third World

PREVIOUSLY ON BOOKSHELF Q. BATTLER AND THE MEANING OF LIFE…

READ

AND NOW BOOKSHELF Q. BATTLER AND THE MEANING OF LIFE CONTINUES…

“Welcome to the Third World International Airport,”  the announcer said.  “We’d tell you what country you are in, but we don’t want to offend the 3.5 people reading this story.”

Inside the airport, Vicky and I walked through the hustle and bustle.

A boy ran up to me with a bundle of roses and yanked on my shirt tail.

“Mr. American sir!” the boy said. “Buy some flowers for your pretty wife!”

I looked at Vicky. She giggled. I grinned.

“She’s not my uh…OK kid. How much?”

“Five hundred US Dollars,” the boy said.

“Get outta’ here!”

“OK,” the boy said. “You drive a hard bargain. Five US dollars!”

“One US dollar!” I said.

“What?” the boy asked. “Your wife isn’t worth five dollars?”

A notorious skinfelt, Bookshelf Q. Battler (BQB) was so smitten with Video Game Rack Fighter (VGRF) that he shelled out five, count em, five big ones for some posies.   He really did.  Moths flew out of his wallet and everything.

A notorious skinflint, Bookshelf Q. Battler (BQB) was so smitten with Video Game Rack Fighter (VGRF) that he shelled out five, count em, five big ones for some posies. He really did. Moths flew out of his wallet and everything.

Damn it. Trapped by a little street vendor’s logic. I pulled a fiver out of my wallet and handed it to him. He gave the rose to Vicky.

“Why thank you, Ed,” Vicky said. “I’m flattered.”

We found a table and sat down.

“So,” Vicky said. “I told you I’m going to visit the Great Guru so I can ask him about the meaning of life. You never told me why you’re going to Pango-Tango.”

“Oh,” I said. “Well, funny you mention it, I’m also trying to visit the Great Guru.”

Vicky’s beautiful eyes blossomed.

“You are?”

“Yes,” I said.

“Do you want to know the meaning of life too?” she asked.

I didn’t want to lie. But I didn’t want another Blandie on my hands either.

“My company,” I said. “Beige Corp. They sent me to uh…make a sales call. Yeah. That’s it. The Great Guru wants to by some beige products and accessories for his sanctuary.”

“Wow,” Vicky said. “Beige?”

“Yeah.”

“The Guru must have really boring taste.”

“Yeah.”

Vicky scratched her head.

“You know,” she said. “This might sound dumb, but I have no idea what to do now.”

“Me neither,” I said. “I just bought a ticket to “Somewhere in the Third World” because that’s the closest the airlines will take you to Pango-Tango.”

“Me too!” Vicky said. “Oh good! At least we’re both flying by the seat of our pants!”

“I was hoping there’d be a boat or a connecting flight or something once I

Seems trustworthy,

Seems trustworthy,

got here,” I said.

I felt a tapping on my shoulder. I turned around to find a goofy looking man wearing a brown leather bomber jacket. His eyes were covered by a pair of goggles.

“Did I hear you and your wife say you want to get to Pango-Tango?”

Will BQB and VGRF ever make it to Pango Tango?  And do they really want to trust this wacko?  More BQB and the meaning of life to come!

Copyright (C) Bookshelf Q. Battler 2015.  All Rights Reserved.

Nerds with flowers and wacky pilot images courtesy of a shutterstock.com license.

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BQB and the Meaning of Life – The Story Thus Far – Parts 14 – 18

For me life is continuously being hungry. The meaning of life is not simply to exist, to survive, but to move ahead, to go up, to achieve, to conquer.”

– Arnold Schwarzenegger, Action Movie Star/Former Governor/Elderly Austrian

That quote would probably carry more weight had old Arnie not had a fling with his maid but aside from that, the sentiment still works.

Have you been enjoying BQB and the Meaning of Life, 3.5 readers?  The past few parts have been quite eventful.  We learned Bookshelf Q. Battler’s real name (Eduardo Ricardo Papageorgio Von Finklestein – don’t tell his enemies!) and sparks are flying between BQB and VGRF.

I have to wait HOW LONG for BQB and the Meaning of Life to come back?!

I have to wait HOW LONG for BQB and the Meaning of Life to come back?!

Take a break and catch up on your reading.  There will be a pop quiz later.

Parts 1-5

Parts 6-13

Part 14 – Enter the She-Nerd

Part 15 – BQB’s Real Name

Part 16 –  Blandie All Over Again?

Part 17 – Darn Tootin

Part 18 – Video Game Rack Fighter

We’re going to break from BQB and the Meaning of Life for awhile, but don’t worry!  A brand new episode of Pop Culture Mysteries is on the way!

Copyright Bookshelf Q. Battler (who is also known as Eduardo Ricardo Papageorgio Von Finklestein but don’t tell the Yeti) 2015.  All Rights Reserved.

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BQB and the Meaning of Life – Part 18 – Video Game Rack Fighter

PREVIOUSLY ON BQB AND THE MEANING OF LIFE…

Our noble hero Bookshelf Q. Battler is on an epic quest in search of the meaning of life.  Along the way, he’s assisted by super detectives Holmes and Watson and even finds a love interest in Victoria Gloria Somersby Stratenhaus, a geeky female video game enthusiast.

Read  Parts 1-5

Read Parts 6-13

Read Part 14     Read Part 15

Read Part 15     Read Part 16

Read Part 18

“You still haven’t told me how you ended up on a trip to Pango-Tango,” I said.

“Oh right,”  Vicky replied.  “Steve told me that I’d discover the path toward the meaning of life in a most annoying manner.”

“Did he now?”  I asked.

“He sure did,”  Vicky said.  “And wouldn’t you know it, a few days later, I’m recovering in my house when all of a sudden, my cat starts meowing at the TV and low and behold, a news story about the Great Guru of Pango-Tango comes on!”

“That’s….that is…I’m speechless.”

“I know, right?”

I opened up my bag and looked at Holmes.  He looked up at me and silently mouthed the words “tell her!”

I shut the bag.

“Sounds like you’ve been through a lot,” I said.

“I have,” Vicky said.  “And to think, I’d of never experienced any of it had I not been woken up at 3 a.m.”

“What woke you up that early?”  I asked as I took a sip of generic brand cola.

“The tiny video game characters who live on my magic video game rack,”  Vicky said.

I did a spit take.  I thought spit takes were only for cheesey comedies.  I was wrong.

“Are you ok?”  Vicky asked, patting me on the back.

“Yeah,”  I said.  “Yeah, I’m fine.  Just went down the wrong pipe.  I’m sorry.  You said something about a magic video game

Victoria Gloria Somersby Stratenhaus  CODE NAME: Video Game Rack Fighter (Seen here with her contacts in)

Victoria Gloria Somersby Stratenhaus
CODE NAME: Video Game Rack Fighter
(Seen here with her contacts in)

rack?”

I took another sip of soda.

“Yes,”  Vicky said.  “In fact, I should tell you that Vicky is only my given name.  My chosen name is Video Game Rack Fighter.”

Another spit take.

“Wow,”  Vicky said.  “I think you’re developing a bit of a drinking problem there, buddy.”

“Yeah,”  I said.  “Yeah I think I’m going to lay off the generic brand cola for now.  Video Game what?”

“Video Game Rack Fighter,”  Vicky said.  “I own a magic video game rack.  For some odd reason unbeknownst to me, any time I put a video game on my rack, the characters in the game come to life and battle one another over the limited space on my rack.  I try to tell them there’s plenty of room and they don’t need to worry about me throwing any of their games away, but they refuse to listen.”

“I imagine that can be very stressful,”  I said.

“It is,”  Vicky said.  “They’re always tearing my house apart.  They never listen to a word I say.  Just the other day I had to yell at the War Shooter soldiers to stop shooting at my copy Interplanetary Roleplayer.”

“Must be nice to get away for awhile then,” I said.

“It is,”  Vicky said.  “I’m a little worried they’ll run up a big pay per view bill while I’m gone, but all in all, it should be alright.  I left Video Game Rack Fighter Cat in charge.”

“Video Game Rack Fighter Cat?” I asked.

“My head of security,”  Vicky replied.  “I like to think of my house as a headquarters where I’m safe from my enemies.”

Video Game Rack Fighter Cat, Head of Security VGRF HQ

Video Game Rack Fighter Cat, Head of Security VGRF HQ

“You have enemies?”  I asked.

“Mostly a damn sasquatch I keep locked in my basement,”  Vicky said.  “He keeps trying to stop me from being awesome but I defeat him at every turn.”

I faked a yawn and stretched.  I wasn’t tired, but I was at the end of my ability to listen to all the amazing similarities we shared.  My heart told me to share my story but my brain got in the way.

“Vicky,”  I said.  “I hope you don’t mind, but I need a little nap.”

“That’s a good idea,”  Vicky said as she tucked a pillow underneath her head.  “I’m exhausted from yelling at Giuseppe and Carmine anyway.”

“Yelling at who?”  I asked.

“Giuseppe and Carmine”  Vicky said.  “You know, the small characters that popped out of my copy of Stereotypical Italian Contractors.  They snuck into my bag even though I expressly told them not to come.  That’s what I was doing in the bathroom all the time.  I was chewing them out royally.”

“Oh,”  I said.

“You must think I’m crazy,”  Vicky said as she closed her eyes. 

“No,”  I said.  “Not at all.”

 “I can’t believe I told you all this but you just seem like a real trustworthy guy””

Vicky closed her eyes.

“I hope you’re still here when I wake up, Ed,”  Vicky said.  “It’s been fun talking to you.”

Coming Soon to the Bookshelf Battle Blog – “What’s on Vicky’s Rack?”  An exciting video game review column by Video Game Rack Fighter!  (Yeah, it’s a working title.  We know how it sounds.)

More BQB and the Meaning of Life to come!

Copyright Bookshelf Q. Battler 2015.  All Rights Reserved.

Video game playing woman, cat, and sasquatch images courtesy of a shutterstock.com license.

PS…Vicky’s arch nemesis, “The Sasquatch” below:

Stupid Sasquatch

Stupid Sasquatch

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BQB and the Meaning of Life – Part 17 – Darn Tootin

PREVIOUSLY ON THE MEANING OF LIFE

Good God, do I have to spoon feed this to you people every day?  Read it!

Read Parts 1-5

Read Parts 6-13

Read Part 14    Part 15

Part 16

“I had all these devices plugged into the same outlet,”  Vicky said.  “And I like my jelly donuts warm so I nuked it for a few seconds.  The next thing I know, a damn hurricane blows into my house, passes through the microwave, and into my jelly donut.”

“Wow,”  I said. 

“You don’t believe me, do you?”  Vicky asked.

“You have no idea how much I believe you,”  I answered.  “Then what happened?”

“The jelly donut grew to about six feet tall,”  Vicky said.  “And it was there, looking all big and delicious so…this is so

According to Dr. Goetleib, crapping out a concentrated hurricane once eaten in the form of a jelly donut is a lesser known condition.

According to Dr. Goetleib, crapping out a concentrated hurricane once eaten in the form of a jelly donut is a lesser known condition.

embarrassing.  I ate the whole thing.”

“We all lose control now and then,”  I said.

“I don’t want to get into the specifics, but let’s just say that hurricane wanted out!”  Vicky said.

“I have a hunch where it came out,” I said.

“Darn tootin’!”  Vicky said. 

Her face turned red. 

“No pun intended.”

“And that’s how you died?”  I asked.

“Right on the crapper,”  Vicky said.  “Just like Elvis.”

“I’m sure that was very traumatic,”  I said.

My mind was racing.  I wanted to tell her about my similar story, how I died on the toilet after passing concentrated lighting I ate in the form of a cherry toaster pastry.  Alas, my bad experience with Blandie had left me too afraid of sharing personal details about myself with the opposite sex.

“So I wake up,”  Vicky continued.  “And I’m dressed like a flapper and I’m standing in a 1930’s speakeasy.”

My head was about to explode.

“Nixon was there,”  Vicky said.  “And the Big Bopper and Gahndi.  Oh, and speaking of Elvis, he was there too!”

“Cleopatra?”  I asked.

“No,”  Vicky said.  “I didn’t see her.  But the waitress was a deceased female celebrity from my generation who died too soon.  It was really nice to see her again.”

“Interesting,”  I said.

“And Steve Jobs was there,”  Vicky said.  “He was assigned to be my spiritual adviser.  He told me that as a computer expert, he believed my video games showed great promise and I never should have quit.”

I just sat there in stunned silence.

“And then, get this,”  Vicky said.  “Steve tells me that I’m getting a second chance,  that I need to find the meaning of life and if I do, I’ll get a brief moment of contentment.”

“Just a brief moment?”  I asked.

“Yes,” Vicky said.  “According to Steve, humans are very selfish.  We’re never happy.  We always want more.  A brief moment of contentment is all we can ever hope for before our internal desires kick in again.”

“Heavy stuff,”  I said.

“Tell me about it,”  Vicky said.  “I’m just happy to be alive again.”

Suddenly, it dawned on me how I was sent back to the land of the living.

“Dumb question,”  I said.  “But that waitress…she uh…she didn’t kiss you, did she?”

“No,”  Vicky said.  “I don’t swing that way.”

“Oh,”  I said.  I breathed a sigh of relief.

“But I totally got to make out with Elvis!”

Will the nerds ever make it to Pango Tango?  Keep reading BQB and the Meaning of life (because someone has to).

Copyright Bookshelf Q. Battler (2015)  All Rights Reserved.

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BQB and the Meaning of Life – Part 16 – Blandie All Over Again?

PREVIOUSLY ON BOOKSHELF Q. BATTLER AND THE MEANING OF LIFE

Dead on the can.  Back to life in search of the meaning of life.

Read Parts 1-5 here.

BQB talks to his bookshelf characters.

Read Parts 6-13

BQB leaves on a jet plane to Pango Tango in search of the Great Guru.

Read Part 14

BQB learns he has a ridiculous amount in common with his new female acquaintance.  Also, we learn BQB’s real name.  What a bombshell.  The press have been calling nonstop.  Or is it nonstart?  Oh, and Holmes and Watson are stowaways.

Read Part 15

“What the hell are you two doing here?” I asked in a whisper to the pair of sleuths.

I let them out of the bag and they hopped out onto my tray table.

“I wonder if someone will make this character I’ve worked so hard on become a Pootie Tang fan.” – Thought that never crossed poor Sir Arthur Conan Doyle’s mind

“Mr. Battler,”  Holmes said.  “You’re undertaking a dangerous journey, one that Watson and I had a hand in pushing you on.  We could not in good conscience allow you to go alone.”

The stewardess tapped me on the shoulder.  The detectives froze into position.

“Complimentary beverage sir?”

“Yes,”  I said.  “Generic brand cola please.”

She poured me one and then smiled at my stiff gumshoes.

“Cute toys,”  the stewardess said.  “You should really leave them in the box though.  That’s the only way they’ll appreciate in value.”

“That’s good to know,”  I said, hoping she’d move on.

“My son’s a big toy collector,”  the stewardess continued.  “Never plays with them.  Just keeps them in the boxes.”

“Doesn’t sound like much fun,”  I said.

“Not really,”  the stewardess said.  “Anything else I can do for you?”

“Can I get one for my neighbor?”  I asked.

“Sure.”  The stewardess poured another generic brand cola and set it on Vicky’s table.  She pushed her cart down the aisle.

Holmes and Watson gasped for air.

“You two didn’t think of that, did you?”  I asked.  “We’re in public, geniuses.  You’re going to be gasping for air every two seconds.”

“Forget that,”  Holmes said.  “Mr. Battler, do you realize you’re screwing the proverbial pooch with your new female friend?”

“Excuse me?”  I asked.

“Ms. Stratenhaus!”  Holmes said.  “You have so much in common with her it is bloody well uncanny!”

“I concur,”  Watson said.

“You both were interested in pie in the sky occupations,”  Holmes said.  “You and your desire to become a writer, her and her love of video game design.  You both sold out your dreams only to find mediocre positions at boring companies.  In fact, you both literally hold the same exact position at your respective places of business!”

“And you both have long, peculiar names,”  Watson said.

“Precisely!”  Holmes said.  “But other than your name, and a brief reference to wanting to be a writer, you have not shared with Ms. Stratenhaus the many similarities you share with her.  Tell her that you too quit your dream for a boring life and you now regret your decision!  Tell her that a woman left you under similar circumstances!  It will bring you both closer together!”

“I can’t do that,”  I said.  “It would be Blandie all over again.”

“Who?”  Watson asked.

“Ms. Bland Life Settler,”  Holmes said.  “Consult your copious notes, Watson.  Doing so will refresh your memory.”

Watson pulled out his notepad and flipped through the pages.

“Ahh yes!”  Watson said.  “The woman who broke Mr. Battler’s heart.”

In case you forgot about BQB's Ex-Girlfriend, Blandie

In case you forgot about BQB’s Ex-Girlfriend, Blandie

“There’s no mystery here,”  Holmes said as he paced about the tray.  “Mr. Battler poured his heart and soul out to Ms.Settler.  He told her about his hopes, his dreams, his fears, his aspirations.  He told her how he wanted to be a writer and rather than be loving and supportive, she turned around and used that fact against him, calling him an idle daydreamer before flying the proverbial coup.”

“She also made many assertions regarding his lack of prowess in the boudoir,”  Watson said as he looked over his notes.

“Read them, Watson,”  Holmes said as he chewed on the end of his pipe.

Total deja-vu.

“No,”  I said.  We’ve already been through this, dummies.   And put that pipe away.  You know how many laws you’ll break if you smoke on an international flight?”

“Good Lord,”  Holmes said as he tucked his pipe into his cloak.  “This highly regulated police state you live in, Mr. Battler.  It’s like Moriarty won.”

“Get back in the bag,”  I said.  “Vicky will be back any second and you guys can’t hold your breathe that long.”

My charges/pains in the butt complied and scurried into my bag just in time to avoid my new friend’s return.

“Aww!”  Vicky said.  “I love generic brand cola!”

“Me too,” I said. “I think it’s the extra generic-ness.”

“So, Ed!  Tell me, if you don’t like air travel, why are you on a plane?”

“Oh,” I said.  “You know.  Just business.”

“Going somewhere special?”  Vicky asked.

I coughed to clear my throat.

“Pango-Tango,”  I said.

Vicky raised a surprised eyebrow.

“I know,”  I said.  “The war going on there.  All over the news.  Kind of a stupid place to visit I guess.”

“No,”  Vicky said.  “Not at all!  I’m going there too!”

I didn’t even bother to ask, “Seriously?” 

I just nodded.

“If I tell you something, will you promise not to laugh?”  Vicky asked.

“I promise,”  I said.

“Pinky swear,”  Vicky said.

We locked pinky fingers.

“Because you know you’ll rot in eternal hellfire and damnation if you break a pinky swear,”  Vicky said.

I liked her.  She was quirky, like me. 

“So I hear,”  I said.

“I died a few days ago,”  Vicky said.

I couldn’t help myself.  “Seriously?”

“Seriously,”  Vicky replied.  “I…oh, I can’t tell you this story.  It’s so gross.”

“No judgments here,”  I said.

“I’m still surprised this was even scientifically possible,”  Victoria said.  “But I ate a concentrated hurricane in the form of a jelly donut.”

Find out how Vicky died after eating a concentrated hurricane in the form of a jelly donut on the next episode of BQB and the Meaning of Life!

Sherlock and angry woman images courtesy of a shutterstock.com license.

Copyright Bookshelf Q. Battler 2015.  (All Rights Reserved).  (With my usual apology to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle)

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Ask the Alien – 6/14/15 – Intelligent Plant Life

By: Alien Jones, Intergalactic Correspondent

Greetings, Earth Losers!  ‘Tis I, Alien Jones, here to once again shed some light on the questions that vex your dump of a planet.

No offense.  I meant that in a nice way.

Alien Jones took in a movie as

Alien Jones took in a movie as “research” for this column.

This week’s question comes from Connie Flanagan of the blog, “Everything Indie.”  She writes:

“Bookshelf Q. Battler, how very flattered you must feel to have been selected to be the human emissary of Alien Jones and the Mighty Potentate.”

Ah, of course BQB is touched to have been selected as the chosen one by the Mighty Potentate, aren’t you BQB?

BQB:  You know, I was at first, but now it’s just like, “What have these guys done for me lately?”  I mean, holy crap, I have the power of space aliens behind me and my blog is still less popular than that “Peanut Butter Jelly Time” video.  Back to you, AJ.

“It’s peanut butter jelly time!  Peanut butter jelly time!  Peanut butter jelly…peanut butter jelly!”  Wait?  What?  Blast! Now that infernal song is stuck in my head!

And don’t blame me for your failures, Bookshelf Q. Battler.  You know you could have skipped watching Spy last night and done some writing!

BQB:  It was for the blog!

Yeah yeah.  It’s always for the blog, isn’t it?  Anyway, Connie goes on:

My question is admittedly mundane, but it’s one I’ve been curious about for some time: As a vegetarian, I’ve become concerned that plant-life may also have intelligence and emotional lives. If so, do they resent being cultivated for human consumption and having the genetics of their offspring/offshoots altered?

Not a mundane question at all.  In fact, it’s a very astute one.

Bookshelf Q. Battler!  Do you recall the 2008 film The Happening by director M. Night Shyamalan?

BQB:  Oh my God!  So awful!  I’ve been complaining about it for years!  So basically, this was yet another attempt by Shyamalan to wow the audience with a twist at the end, but as usual, he just fails to recreate the success of his first film, The Sixth Sense.

What happens?  Should we be concerned about SPOILERS?

BQB:  You should be concerned with getting your money back if you waste your time on this piece of crap.  So here’s what happens.  Mark Wahlberg stars as a man protecting his family in the wake of a toxin that’s been released into the air that’s making people commit suicide.  The twist at the end of the film?  The toxin has been released by plants!  Yes, plants! They’re tired of mankind’s mistreatment of the planet and as it turns out, they’re the culprits who have poisoned humanity.

Well, here’s the deal.  The Happening isn’t just a horrible movie.  It’s also a documentary of what could potentially happen to your planet one day if people don’t start taking better care of the environment.

You see, M. Night Shyamalan is in fact, a space alien.  He hails from Planet Shamalama, a world once inhabited by humans until the plants got tired and released a toxin that convinced everyone to off themselves.  Shyamalan was one of a select few who were able to escape in time.

(Fun side note: Otis Day and the Knights are also from the same planet. They cashed in by becoming musical performers.  Their hit, “Shama Lama Ding Dong” is actually the national anthem of their homeland.)

Shamalama was once a pinnacle of technology and industry, with factories blowing smoke and churning out various products from an ever consuming populace.  When the plants got tired of it, they staged a revolution.

Today, the hierarchy of ruling classes on Shamalama are as follows:

SQUASH – The Gold Class – They make all important decisions.

STRAWBERRIES – The Silver Class – They work behind the scenes to manipulate all plant and vegetable matter to carry out the bidding of the Supreme Squash.

LEGUMES – The Bronze Class – The worker bees of the planet who carry out the lesser tasks.

Rose bushes, pine cones, cucumbers, rododendrons, grass – they all have their own tasks that I won’t bother with.  Suffice to say, the plants have that world running like a well oiled machine now and frankly, are doing a better job than the Shama Lama Ding Dongs ever did.

(That’s the actual name of the former residents of Shamalama.)

BQB:  AJ, Attorney Donnelly just called and she says she’s too busy to fend off any potential lawsuits that might be generated by referring to M. Knight Shyamalan and Otis Day and the Knights as Shama Lama Ding Dong aliens from Planet Shamalama.

Oh, will you stop?  Great Garbanax, this place has gotten less fun since that woman showed up.  “You can’t say this!  You can’t say that!”

You’re probably just trying to shamelessly plug your new series, “Pop Culture Mysteries.”

“Oh look at me!  I’m Bookshelf Q. Battler!  Five more people read one of my stories than usual so I’m ready for my payday, Hollywood!”

Get over yourself, BQB.

And besides…M. “Knight” Shyamalan.  Otis Day and the “Knights.”  It’s not like they’re hiding it.  It’s fairly obvious that only the knights of Shamalama would have had access to escape pods when the plants took over.

Finally, Connie also writes:

Also–and please beg for tolerance from Alien Jones and the Mighty Potentate for my positing two questions rather than just one–is there anything digestible by humans that doesn’t resent being eaten and/or genetically modified?

I’m afraid not.  Garbanzo beans.  Wheat germ.  Carrots.  Rutabagas.  Turnips.  There literally is not one piece of food without a mind and a soul that isn’t shouting, “Ouch!” on the inside as soon as you bite into it.

But try not to let that get you down.  You’ve got to eat, right?

Try to focus on string beans.  Those guys are notorious a-holes and won’t be missed.

Alien Jones is the Intergalactic Correspondent for the Bookshelf Battle Blog, on a mission to raise Earth’s collective intelligence levels one question at a time. Do you have a question for the Esteemed Brainy One? Tweet it to @bookshelfbattle on Twitter, leave it in the comments on bookshelfbattle.com, or stop by Bookshelf Battle on Google Plus. If he likes your question, he might even promote your book, blog, other project in his answer.

Alien image courtesy of a shutterstock.com license.

Attorney Donnelly feels the need to reiterate that M. Knight Shyamalan and Otis Day and the Knights are not space aliens.  

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BQB and the Meaning of Life – Part 15 – BQB’s Real Name

PREVIOUSLY ON BOOKSHELF Q. BATTLER AND THE MEANING OF LIFE

BQB dies.  Lives.  He must search for the meaning of life.

Read Parts 1-5

BQB and his bookshelf characters talk.  Holmes and Watson want to help.

Read Parts 6-13

BQB flies Air Third World on a mission to visit the war torn nation of Pango Tango, where the Great Guru lives. BQB hopes to ask him about the meaning of life  On the plane, BQB meets a nerdy female video game enthusiast.

Read Part 14

“And so, in Monster Nightmare, if you chop up a thousand monsters with your chainsaw, you get a distinguished chainsaw valor award,” the pretty she-nerd explained.

“Naturally,”  I replied.  “I wouldn’t want to chop up all of those monsters for nothing.”

Vicky shows Ed her video game awards.

Vicky shows Ed her video game awards.

We talked for an hour.  Actually, she talked.  I listened.  Occasionally, I tossed out a witty comment, but she had the floor.

“Listen to me babble on and on about video games,” the woman said.  “I haven’t even bothered to ask you your name.”

She reached out her hand.  I shook it.

“Book…”

I stopped myself.  She was a stranger.  Best to use my given name, not my chosen name.  The magic bookshelf was a source of great power.  Knowledge of its existence was not to be shared with just anyone.

“Eduardo,”  I said.

“Nice to meet you, Eduardo,”  the woman replied.  “I’m Victoria.”

Victoria popped a piece of gum into her mouth and offered me a piece.  I took it and chewed it.  I wasn’t a big gum chewer but it had been so long since I’d been in the company of a beautiful woman that I was ready to do anything she asked me.

“Is that your full name?”  Victoria asked.

I laughed.

“No,”  I said.  “My full name is a bit of a tongue twister.”

“Let’s hear it,”  Victoria said.

“I’d rather not.”

“Come on,”  Victoria said.  “It can’t be that bad.”

“Eduardo Ricardo Papageorgio Von Finklestein.”

Victoria giggled.

“Yeah,”  I said.  “Book agents I queried laughed too.  ‘Good luck selling books with that moniker pasted on the cover!’ they said.”

“You’re a writer?”  Victoria asked.

“I was,”  I replied.  “I used to be.  I stopped.  I’d like to try it again.  It’s complicated.”

“Well, pleased to meet you Eduardo Ricardo Papageorgio Von Finkelstein,”  Victoria said.  “I’m Victoria Gloria Somersby  Stratenhaus.”

“Seriously?”  I asked.

“Seriously,”  she replied.  “But you can call me Vicky.”

“OK,”  I said.  “And you can call me Ed.”

“So tell me, Ed, why did you stop writing?”

“Um,” I said.  “I’d rather hear about this video game fixation of yours.”

“Oh,” Vicky said.  “Long story short, I used to design video games.”

I felt my heart skip a beat – in a good way.  I was in the company of a fellow artist.

“That’s amazing,”  I said.

“Yeah,”  Vicky replied.  “Have you ever heard of Sweet Destroyer?”

“Of course,”  I said.  “I used to have a mild addiction to it.”

“Most people do,”  Vicky said.  “I had an entry level job inputting the code that made the sweets shift around.  It didn’t pay much, but at least I was working in the field I loved.”

“Why’d you leave?”  I asked.

“The guy I was dating at the time dumped me,” Vicky said.  “Said he wanted a woman who was more grounded, down to earth, not living with her head in the clouds.”

“He wanted a girl who preferred a bland life over daydreams about video games?”  I asked.

“Yeah,”  Vicky said.  “How’d you know?”

“Just a wild guess,”  I said.

“So I gave up on video games and went to business school,”  Victoria said.

I broke out in a cold sweat.  Vicky’s story was hitting too close to home.

“Got an MBA,”  Vicky continued.  “I figured there was so much competition in the video game industry that I might as well try my hand at a more practical career.”

“How’d that work out?”  I asked.

“The best I could do was a job at Drying Paint Media,”  Vicky said.  “America’s Number One Producer of Drying Paint Videos.”

This episode of BQB and the Meaning of Life brought to you by Drying Paint Media

This episode of BQB and the Meaning of Life brought to you by Drying Paint Media

“Drying Paint Videos are in high demand?”  I asked.

“Sure,”  Vicky replied.  “People who buy paint want to know how its going to look on their walls when it dries.  Pretty boring work though.”

“At least you’re producing videos,” I said.  “That has to involve some creativity, right?”

“No,”  Vicky said.  “I don’t even get to do that.  I’m just the assistant to the assistant of the vice-president for corporate assistance.”

I felt like I was going to faint.

“Are you alright, Ed?”  Vicky asked.

“Yes.”

“Your face just turned as white as a ghost,”  Vicky said.

“Yeah,”  I said.  “I’m….I’m not really a fan of air travel.”

“Me neither,”  Vicky said as she stood up.  “In fact, excuse me for a moment, I have to go powder my nose.”

I sat back in my seat.  I smiled.  I felt my heart burst.  

Finally, I met someone who could relate to what it was like to be me.

I was feeling euphoric.

And then that feeling came to a grinding halt when I heard two muffled British voices coming from inside my bag.

“Holmes, I don’t think this is a very good idea,”  one of the voices said.

“Watson, stop being such a ninny!”  the other voice replied.  “Simply grab a pair of headphones when Mr. Battler is not looking and then we can revel in the comedic genius that is Pootie-Tang!”

Wow.  A big reveal – Bookshelf Q. Battler’s real name.  A juicy piece of information that our hero’s enemies would love to get their hands on.  Thank God only 3.5 people read this damn thing.

Join us next time on BQB and the Meaning of Life!

Copyright (c) Bookshelf Q. Battler 2015.  All Rights Reserved.

Images courtesy of a shutterstock.com license.

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Pop Culture Mysteries – Case File #001 – Here’s a Story – Part 2

PREVIOUSLY ON POP CULTURE MYSTERIES – CASE FILE #001:

PART 1 – Hatcher hates commies, fancy coffees, and angry dames in trousers.

And now Pop Culture Mysteries continues…

The LA Public Library.  The joint was lousy with books as far as the eye could see.  It was comforting because over the past year I’d kept hearing that they were going the way of the dodo bird.  I hope they don’t.  If there’s one thing this old shamus likes, it’s the feel of a printed page in my fingers as I pour through a volume of tall tales.

Iris the Librarian - She ran circles around Hatcher on the beep bop machine.

Agnes the Librarian – She ran circles around Hatcher on the beep boop machine.

They also had a bunch of beep boop machines and it became clear to me I was going to need access to one in order to solve my first pop culture mystery.  Ms. Donnelly’s men had yet to bring the ones promised me to my office.  That was aces in my book.  I wasn’t looking forward to having them.

As I sat there in front of one of the machines, I scratched my head and probably bore a close resemblance to the first caveman to ever see fire.  I tapped a key.  Nothing.  I tapped another one.  Nothing again.  I tapped a third one.  This message popped up on the screen:

An error of type 110147 has occurred.

“So fix it up and get it going, fella,”  I replied out loud.  “Come on now.  I don’t have all day to spend on this nonsense.  I’ve got a serious caper to sniff out, see?”

“SHHH!!!!”

I looked up to my left to find an old gray haired bird who was tickling the keys of her beep boop machine like she was a Jazz man in front of a baby grand.

“Sir,”  the old lady said.  “You know the computer doesn’t talk to you.”

“It doesn’t?”  I asked.  “Then what the hell is it good for?”

“What are you trying to do?”  the gal asked.  “I’m one of the librarians here.  Maybe I can help you.”

“I need to find whatever I can about an architect,”  I replied.  “Some swarthy curly haired gent who went by the name of Brady.”

“You should pull up the Internet,” the old woman said.

“The whatternet?”

“Oh,”  the lady said.  “I don’t know how to explain it to you, young man.  The computers talk to each other and share information?”

“That went over my head higher than the cow did when he jumped over the moon, ma’am.”

The old gal sighed and took the key typer thing away from me.  She ran her fingers on the keys and made the beep bop machine throw up a screen with a blank box on it.

I sat there like a useless bump on a log, watching the broad as she typed in the words, “B-R-A-D-Y…B-U-N-C-H.”

“That was one of my favorite shows,”  the lady said.  “Yours too I suppose?”

“Never seen it,”  I replied.

While the librarian surfed the Interwhatever, I opened up the file Delilah had brought me and read Bookshelf Q. Battler’s marching orders:

Detective Hatcher,

Here’s the story…of a lovely lady.  She was bringing up three very lovely girls.  All of them had hair of gold…like their mother….the youngest one in curls.

Here’s the story of a man named Brady.  He was busy bringing up three boys of his own.  They were four men living all together.  Yet, they were all alone.

I didn’t write that.  That’s the theme song to the classic TV show, The Brady Bunch starring Robert Reed as Michael and Florence Henderson as Carol Brady.

The lyrics go on:

“Till the one day when this lady met this fellow and they knew that it must be more than a hunch, that this group must somehow form a family…that’s the way we all became the Brady Bunch.”

That’s how the song goes, but it’s rather convenient, is it?  That’s how the group became a family?  That’s all that happened?  Just sweep the past of what happened before Mike met Carol under the rug, right?  Nothing to see here folks.  Move along.

If you ask me, the whole thing smells worse than an open sewer grate.  Mike Brady had three sons and no wife.  Carol Brady had three daughters and no husband.

What happened to Mike Brady’s first wife, Hatcher?  What happened to Carol Brady’s first husband?

Your first pop culture mystery – “What the hell happened to the original Brady spouses?”

Godspeed, Hatcher.  My 3.5 readers demand an answer to this baffling conundrum.

Yours truly,

Bookshelf Q. Battler.

I closed the file and looked at the Brady Bunch fan website the old librarian lady had managed to pull up.  She was a sweet old gal who reminded me of my grandmother, complete with a need to stop every five minutes and offer me a butterscotch candy, which I accepted eagerly.  It reminded me of the good old days, a simpler time when you could accept candy from a stranger without ending up in a hospital.

Her name was Agnes and on her own computer she was looking up information about high blood pressure remedies for her old husband Herbert, who she told me was at home sick in bed and feeling lousier than the floor of a bus station bathroom after a three day weekend.

She was happy to have my company and I was glad to have her help.  Win-win.

“I have a grandson your age,”  the old gal said.  “He makes fun of me all the time, telling me I don’t know anything about computers, but boy howdy, you really know nothing.”

I moved that little thing they call a mouse around but nothing happened.

“You been living under a rock for awhile, son?”

“Something like that,”  I replied.  “Wanna do a sleuth a kindness and ask this contraption to figure out what happened to Mr. Brady’s first wife?”

“Oh,” Agnes said.  “You know, that’s a good question.  I watched that show for years and never once thought to think about what happened to the first Mrs. Brady.”

“Well,’  I said.  “It’s a good question, isn’t it?  Did she dump Mike and run off with the milk man?   Did Mike ship her off to a convent?  Did she have a nervous breakdown and get carted off to a rubber room by the men in the white lab coats?  Did he push the broad down a flight of stairs, make like it was an accident to the cops and collect a big pay day from the insurance company?  God Sakes Alive, Agnes! This man might have chopped his first wife into a million pieces and buried her under his front porch for all we know.”

“Your mind goes a mile a minute,”  Agnes said.  “Just like my grandson’s.”

“And what about Carol’s first fella?” I asked.  “Was Carol a cold fish and he couldn’t take the celibate lifestyle any longer?  Did he come home one night too many reeking of cheap booze and the perfume of an even cheaper hussy?  Did she lose control and hack him to bits with a butcher knife?  Strangle him in his sleep?  Blow him away with a 12-gauge and dissolve the body in an acid bath?  That’s how I’d do it.  Not that I would, but if I had to, I mean.  Christ, I hope the poor man either passed away from natural causes or at the very least maybe he and Carol had an amicable split.”

“It’s all very interesting,”  old Agnes said, “But why are you so preoccupied with this?  It was just a silly TV show.”

“Never you mind, Agnes,”  I replied.  “Do some typey typey on this weirdo device, will ya?  See what you can come up with.  I’m gonna hit the head.”

Detective Jake Hatcher is on the case.  Well, Agnes the Librarian is anyway.  Hatcher has to tinkle.  See how this caper unfolds in the next installment of Pop Culture Mysteries!

Copyright Bookshelf Q. Battler (2015)  All Rights Reserved.

Old lady librarian photo courtesy of a shutterstock.com license.

Attorney Donnelly notes that the first Brady Bunch spouses were not murdered or otherwise dispatched via foul play and that part of this post is just a joke.

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