Tag Archives: things that really frost my ass

REBLOG: A Very Hardass Thanksgiving

cropped-cropped-shutterstock_267074402.jpg

Thanksgiving?  Try Complaints-giving with my grumpy Uncle Hardass:

https://bookshelfbattle.com/2015/11/21/things-that-really-frost-my-ass-thanksgiving-edition/

Tagged , ,

Things That Really Frost My Ass – Uncle Hardass’ Random Complaints

The Complainer in Chief…

cropped-shutterstock_159396938 copy

#21 – Owning a Pickup Truck

I love pickup trucks.  A pickup truck is by far the best vehicle ever invented.  It gets you where you need to go, there’s plenty of space in the back to carry your stuff and its got four wheel drive to get you through the snow.

All that being said, while I love pickup trucks, I hate owning one.  I used to own one and I never will again.  Owning a pickup truck is the closest a human being will ever get to being a real live superhero.

Imagine how Superman must feel when he tries to chill out in his Fortress of Solitude.  He tries to watch a movie on that ice screen his dead father is always nagging him on, maybe eating a taco and drinking a beer, but he can’t relax because the voices of ten thousand people in need of help are passing into his ears.  “Oh, save me, Superman!  Save me!  I’m an idiot who got my dumbass stuck out on a ledge and now you have to drop everything you are doing this instant to come rescue me!”

Similarly, if you buy a pickup truck, you will be surprised how many so-called friends and long lost family members you suddenly have.  Your phone will be ringing off the hook day and night.  “Oh, this is your cousin Matilda.  I’m moving to a new apartment.  Will you help me move all your shit with your pickup truck?”

And really, if you’re a responsible citizen, what can you do?  Say no?  You can’t say no.  You’re “Truck Owner Man,” the world’s greatest superhero, able to cart people’s shit all over creation with your power of having the foresight to purchase a vehicle with ample cargo space.

Do you think there aren’t times when Superman doesn’t shake his head and say, “Screw that moron on the ledge.  It’s super beer and taco time!”  Of course he does.  But he always does the right thing in the end.

I’m not as nice as Superman.  I used to chew people like Cousin Matilda out for not buying a truck.  “If you can afford to drive a second hand Prius then you can afford to drive a used pickup truck, so go get one and stop mooching off of mine,” I’d say.  Then I’d give up my lovely evening of watching Matlock and haul ass over to help the old broad because what am I supposed to do?  It’s not like I can sit at home watching TV and enjoy myself while Cousin Matilda is wheeling a ten foot boudoir stuffed full of her unmentionables across town on a dolly all by herself.  Superman couldn’t enjoy his super beer and super taco while that dumbass was trapped on the ledge either.  It’s not easy having super powers.

Luckily, I don’t own a pickup truck anymore.  I couldn’t handle the pressure of all the useless imbeciles who refused to buy their own pickup trucks.  I feel like Superman must have felt that time he temporarily gave up his powers.  I’m sure he would have preferred a life where he could have flown to work and opened up beer cans with his laser vision and checked out women naked with his X-ray vision, but he had to give that all up just to take a break from all the dummies who needed him.  I can relate, as I loved having a nice, spacious pickup trunk to haul all my garbage to the dump and pick up my multiple cases of  weapons grade strength hemorrhoid cream, but I had to give up that power just to save myself from truckless fools.

I hate people.  I love trucks.

#22 – Nesting Dolls

Nesting dolls are the dumbest thing ever invented by the Russians, second only to communism.  “Oh look!  It’s a doll inside a doll and that doll has a doll inside of it and then that doll has a doll inside of it…”

Seriously.  If that amuses you, then you have my pity.  That’s an amazing accomplishment because I have very little pity to give.

#23 – That Nimrod Who Blares on His Horn at the Exact Second the Light Turns Green

Oh, pardon me, Your Majesty!  I had no idea that you were the Queen of England and the entire second it took for my brain to register, “Oh, hey!  The light is green!” was a rude and unforgivable inconvenience to your ability to run England.

That is, I assume you are royalty and you have somewhere very important to get to and that the impending task waiting for you at your destination is so crucial that you were literally unable to wait an entire second.

What?  You aren’t royalty and you have nowhere to go because you’re a jobless jackass?  I thought so.  Do me a favor and shove that horn up your ass and then honk it about ten or twenty thousand times so you know how the rest of us feel, OK pal?  Then get a job.  No one likes a loser.

#24 – Diet Anything

Diet soda.  Low fat cookies.  Sugar free ice cream.  Look fatties, if you want to not be fat, then just eat less of whatever you are eating because all of that fake sugar and aspartame is pickling your brain and turning you into a mindless zombie.  You know what your good old Uncle Hardass does when he wants a Diet Coke?  He just drinks half a coke.  Pour the other out, let a thirsty bumblebee lick it off the grass or something.  Common sense is all it is, people.

#25 – College

College, schmollege.  You know what college is?  A four year party, peppered with occasional instances of learning that you take out an enormous loan for, a loan which is then paid off for the rest of your life?

Want the college experience?  You can get it all in one night.  Go to a titty bar, get drunk, talk to a bunch of dumb millennials and say thinks like “woke” and then read a summary of Plato online.  There you go, schmuck, I just saved you over a hundred grand easy.  You’re welcome.

#26 – People Who Wear Camouflage

If you’re wearing camouflage because you’re in the Army, then thank you for your service, soldier.  My only complaint is that there isn’t enough blood of America’s many, many enemies spilled all over your uniform.  I never washed my uniform.  I just let the blood of a thousand Nazis soak into it in order to scare away the other Nazis.  I kept it on after I got home because it worked just as well to scare off solicitors, bill collectors, and that neighbor who was a lowlife sponge, always asking to borrow a cup of sugar because he couldn’t be bothered to haul his ass to the store.

If you’re wearing camouflage because you think it looks cool, then take off that uniform like material because you haven’t earned the right to wear it.  Plus, how is camp going to make you bend in when you are walking through a big city?  If you want to blend into a city, just soak your dirtiest, most raggedy looking clothes in a bucket of cat urine for three days, then put them on and take a nap on a park bench while clutching a wine bottle in a brown paper bag.

Also, what’s up with the pink camo?  Ladies, until they invent a pink forest, we can still see you.

#27 – Paying for Extra Cheese on My Pizza

This is America, damn it.  A pizza comes with cheese, lots of cheese, and frankly, as much cheese as I damn well please.  The price should be the same no matter how much cheese I want and I reserve the right to demand piles upon piles of cheese be placed upon my pizza if I so choose.  Charging me for extra cheese is like charging me for extra air.  I shouldn’t be punished just because I love cheese.  My toilet is getting enough punishment already.

#28 – Poop Yogurt

I don’t get that commercial where they try to sell yogurt that makes women poop.  I mean, God bless you, constipated ladies.  I hope that you all poop soon, but it’s not like constipation is a male or female thing.  Sometimes I get backed up like the expressway on rush hour for five or six days and I think, “Hey maybe I’ll get some of that yogurt that makes you drop a deuce” but then I get afraid to buy it for fear that the cashier will accuse me of fraud for trying to buy pooping yogurt for constipated ladies while I have a penis.

#29 – Toilet Paper

Look people, Europeans are wrong on 99.99% of things.  You’ve got the Brits and their teeth that look like all they do is walk into doors all day.  You’ve got the French and their women who never share their pits and end up looking like they just put Bigfoot in a headlock.  Don’t even get me started on the Belgians.  They make one good waffle and they think that means they can just coast forever.

But, when someone’s right, I’m not afraid to say it, and the Europeans are right about bidets.  Just stick your fanny over a water jet, take a nice, cool water blast up your tucas and wowie, zowie, no more stink in your backdoor.

Why are we wasting money and trees on toilet paper when we can just use water, nature’s toilet paper?  Hell, with a good bidet, you’ll never be smelly and you’ll never be thirsty.  Wash your butt and take a drink.  I assume that’s OK but then again, I’m no scientist.

#30 – Nuts in Baked Goods

Ever have someone knock on your door and say, “Hello friend, I just baked you a nice batch of chocolate chip cookies!”  So then your mouth starts to water and you can’t wait to dig in to all that gooey chocolate and boom, there they are…nuts.  Bleh.

Don’t get me wrong.  I love nuts.  The more big nuts in my mouth, the better.  Shut up.  I know how that sounds but I don’t care.  I love nuts.  I just don’t like them in my cookies, or brownies, or bread, or any kind of bakery.  Put your nuts in my mouth, but not in my buns, thank you very much.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Tagged ,

Things That Really Frost My Ass – The Beach, Defective Pistachios, Itches In Bad Places

By: Uncle Hardass, Official Bookshelf Battle Blog Grumpy Old Man Correspondent

shutterstock_152151569

Hello degenerate 3.5 readers.

Still working on your writing careers I see?  Good for you.  You know, I just wrote a poem.  Let me know what you think:

Roses are red.

Violets are blue.

Get your ass a job at the salt mines.

Yes, I’m talking to you.

Ah, but we all know you won’t.  That’s ok.  Just keep being a major disappointment to your parents.  I don’t have time to complain about your lack of a work ethic anyway, because I have the following complaints instead:

#1 – The Beach 

Do you know some slack jawed buffoon who, every summer, walks around like a schmuck saying, “I love the beach!”  Well, do the world a favor and slap that idiot about eighty or ninety times in the face with a wet noodle, will ya?

Holy crap sandwich, how I hate the beach.  It’s hot.  It smells.  It’s filled with assholes who are just sitting around like a bunch of fat, bloated iguanas, splayed out under the hot sun burning themselves to a crisp because they think getting tan will somehow make them look better.  I’m sorry, but tanning doesn’t remove ugly.  If you were ugly before, you’ll be ugly after.

Here’s an important quote to remember:

“Well, I thought you were ugly before but now I really want to have sex with you now that you sat out on the beach and got burnt to a crisp all day like a stupid dumbass.”

– Literally No One Ever

And who wants to swim in the open ocean anyway?  Really.  Who wants to put their bare feet down in sand they can’t see.  Sand filled with God only knows what.  Used hypodermic needles.  Pinchy crabs.  Snappy lobsters.  Sea lice.  Sea cucumbers.  Sea horses.  Whale shit.  Narwhal boogers.  Seal urine.  Chopped up pieces of mobsters who turned stool pigeon.  The ocean is one giant, disgusting shit stew and you don’t want to be one of those morons who jumps into it, trust me.

Nothing good ever happened at the beach and nothing ever will.

#2 – Having An Itchy Butt Hole

You ever get a real deep itch, about twenty thousand leagues below the surface of your butt crack?  Damn, those itches get in there deep.  And let’s face it.  There’s no way to get rid of it other than to take out your pointer finger and point it straight up the deepest, darkest part of your nether regions.

The thing I want to know is why is it not socially acceptable to do this in public?  I mean, seriously people, it’s 2017 for crying out loud.  Itches are a normal bodily function and a man ought to be able to scratch himself wherever, and whenever, the mood to scratch strikes.

By the way, I’m no sexist.  Women ought to be allowed to scratch their lady business whenever and wherever they want too.  That’s right.  Your old Uncle Hardass is a virtual Gloria Steinem.

#3 – Defective Pistachios

Kids, I love a good bag of pistachios.  They’re the best food because you work up a sweat eating them, what with having to break them open and throw away the shells and all.  But I hate it when I get a shell that won’t open.  Sometimes the shell completely covers the pistachio and there’s no way to open it.  Or, sometimes there’s like a little tiny opening but I can’t get in there.  (Ahem.  That’s what she said.  I hear you kids like that joke, so there you go.)

I always collect all of the defective pistachios, put them in a plastic cup, then take them back to the store and demand a refund equal to the amount of pistachios I was not able to eat.  I mean, I’m not a greedy son of a bitch.  I don’t want the full cost of the bag.  I did eat most of them, after all.  I just don’t think I should be charged for defective nuts.  This isn’t Communist Russia, after all.  If people have to keep paying for unbreakable nuts then it’s like we lost the war.

#4 – That I Still Have to Buy Batteries and Keep Them Around

I’m old as shit and even I think this is ridiculous.  Why can’t everything, from my TV remote control to that automatic dildo my ex-wife Gertie left behind that I swear I do not use whatsoever, just be plugged into the wall and charged?

Maybe it’s because…

#5 – Charging Cables Are Either Lost or They End Up Tied Up Together Like Spaghetti.

I swear, these technology companies make a mint off the fact that I’m a doddering old bastard who can’t keep track of his charging cords, so I have to constantly buy new ones.  Plus, if I throw them in a drawer in an effort to keep them safe, they end up looking as if a bunch of gnomes snuck into the drawer and tied them all together.  “WTF?” as the whippersnappers say.

CONCLUSION

Those are the five complaints on my mind lately, 3.5 dummies.  If you have anything that frosts your ass, leave it in the comments, or better yet, get a job and stop sponging off the system, you lousy layabouts.

 

Tagged , , , , ,

Things That Really Frost My Ass – People Who Ask, “What Do You Mean?” In Response to Clearly Worded Statements

By: Uncle Hardass, Grumpy Old Man Correspondent

cropped-shutterstock_159396938 copy.jpg

BQB’s Epically Grumpy Uncle Hardassimo “Hardass” J. Scrambler

Hello Degenerate 3.5 Readers.

Still working on your precious writing careers I see.

Hey I just thought of an idea for a novel.

Its about a bunch of Internet bloggers who sit around and try to become writers all day.  Then one of them gets a job at the salt mines. The end.

That’s right. Pure fiction all the way.

Anyway, allow me to bend your ear about the dumbest question in the entire language.

It’s not so much as a question as a response. People use it all the time and if you use it on me it will really frost my ass.

So, suppose I’m digging around in the fridge in search of a nice gallon of moo juice to poor on my doctor approved raisin bran.

I can’t find any so I say:

“We’re out of milk.”

Do you know what my wife, BQB’s Aunt Gertie, would always say in response?

“What do you mean we’re out of milk?”

Hello. Did I not just speak in clear, concise English? Were my words garbled?

Did a damn wizard cast a spell on me when I wasn’t looking and force me to speak in Mandarin?

Look, I’m not exactly a distinguished Professor of English at Oxford University, but I’m pretty sure that the sentence, “We are out of milk” is universally understood to mean any of the following:

  • There is no milk.
  • Our supply of milk is non-existent.
  • The container of milk has no milk inside of it.
  • We are no longer proud owners of milk.
  • Grab a cow and squeeze one of its titties into this damn milk jug so I don’t have to eat my raisin bran dry for crying out loud.

Oh God. People use that response all the time. It’s just nonsensical throat clearing is what it is.

People’s brains don’t work so they need something to say to stall while the hamster in their heads start running around on the gears.

Happens to me all the time.  And Gertie is not the only culprit either.

Perhaps you people have even experienced this phenomenon in your stupid miserable lives.

Let me walk you through the appropriate responses to give in a few scenarios.

WIFE: The sink is broken.

HUSBAND: What do you mean, “the sink is broken?”

Ahh, now some of you dopes are thinking that the husband here is just asking for clarity. He wants to know the exact nature of the problem. Is the sink clogged? Is the water too hot? What?

Well, perhaps that is understandable, but consider this. The appropriate response would be:

HUSBAND: Please clarify the exact nature of the sink’s broken state.

But, since the husband asked, “What do you mean, ‘the sink is broken?’ then in my book, the wife is perfectly within her rights to respond:

WIFE: I mean there’s no f%&king water coming out of it, you asshole! What the f%&k do you think it means?

Perfectly reasonable response. Uncle Hardass, making marriages stronger since I began my column right here on the Bookshelf Battle Blog.

Let’s be honest. My columns are the best thing this dumb blog has going for it.

Moving on, what about this exchange between you and your boss?

BOSS: Did you finish going over the Drexler report yet?

YOU: No, sorry. I didn’t have time.

BOSS: What do you mean, you “didn’t have time?”

Again, the boss should have responded:

BOSS: Please list the other activities you engaged in that kept you from completing your review of the aforementioned file.

But he didn’t say that. He used that loathsome “What do you mean” response.

Ergo, you, as an employee are within you rights to respond as inappropriately as possible.

I suggest going out of your way to be a sarcastic jackass.

YOU: Hmm. I wonder what I meant when I said, “I didn’t have time.” I suppose that most people with a high school education understand the concept that there is a finite amount of time in a work day and if I noted that I did not have the time, that must mean that I was unable to find the time necessary to review the file.

I suppose there could be some alternative meaning in an alternate dimension in which English words are understood differently. Perhaps in another world “I didn’t have time” is understood to mean, “I rode a unicycle to Ted Danson’s house and then Ted and I went to the beach and drove around jet skis all day until we found and befriended a group of friendly dolphins. Now Ted and I and the dolphins solve crimes and fight evil together.”

Sir, I apologize if you are from an alternate dimension where “I did not have time” means something else, but here on Earth, it means, “I did not have time.”

Oh crap on a cracker. I was just handed a note and now I have to state that it is inadvisable to speak to your boss or your spouse or anyone really in any of the above mentioned ways and the Bookshelf Battle Blog can’t be held responsible if you do so.

Fine. You people do whatever you want.

Just remember when I tell you to get a job, and you respond, “What do you mean, ‘get a job’? I mean, “GET A JOB!!!”

Tagged , , , , , , ,

Things That Really Frost My Ass – Excessive Door Holders and Confusing Boob Photos

By: Uncle Hardass, Official Bookshelf Battle Blog Grumpy Old Man Correspondent

shutterstock_152151569

Uncle Hardass, Complainer at Large

Hello degenerate 3.5 readers.

Still working on your writing careers, I see.

Hey I have a joke for you. What’s the difference between a writer and a homeless bum?

Homeless bums write their sob stories exclusively on cardboard.

Bah ha ha! I slay me. But seriously, all of you should abandon your hopes and dreams and get jobs immediately. The salt mines are hiring.

It’s been awhile since I’ve gone a complaint spree, so here are two of my latest grievances about the rat trap of a world we live in:

Excessive Door Holders

Have you ever been twenty feet or more away from a door only to have some jackass who reached the door ahead of you stand there and hold it open for you forever, even when you are far away from the door?

Holy shit. Look, I get that social etiquette requires you to hold a door open for a person who is immediately behind you, BUT IT DOES NOT REQUIRE YOU TO HOLD THE DOOR OPEN FOR ANY PERSON ON THE SAME PLANE OF EXISTENCE!

People, putting your hand on a door handle does not require you to stay there and hold that damn door open for anyone and everyone who may want to use that door until the end of time.

Are you unsure as to whether or not a person approaching the door you are currently opening is too far away for you to hold said door open?

Here’s a helpful rule of thumb. Count off three Mississippi’s.  If I’m not there by number three, then start hauling ass, junior. I can open doors by myself just fine and I’m not about to start rushing just because you’ve decided to stand there like a moron and hold a door open for me when the space between us could double as a regulation NFL football field.

Here’s a helpful guide I have created to help you dingbats figure out when and when not to hold the door for someone:

Where the Person is and If You Should Hold the Door Open for Them

3-5 feet behind you.  (Yes)

Some hot babe you want an excuse to meet. (Yes, however far away she may be, though you’ll disappoint her immensely because you are a writer and therefore have nothing to offer her. Get a job at the salt mines and she’ll be all over you.)

Still walking in from the parking lot. (No.)

In France right now but this person may want to enter the building later this year. (No.)

On Mars but this person would like to enter the building at some point this decade. (No.)

In an alternate universe but this person would like to enter the building before time collapses on itself and the universe as we know it ceases to be. (No.)

There you have it. Learn when and when not to hold a door, ya pukes, because I hurry up for no one. If I’m nowhere near the door and you stop to hold it for me like a jackass, it is my God given right as a American to not only refuse to walk faster, but to walk even slower and make you wait for whatever appointment you are going to.

(And let’s be honest. It isn’t a job interview, is it?)

Confusing Boob Photos

Kim Kardashian and her friend Emily Rata…Ratana…Ratajawowwah…

BQB EDITORIAL NOTE: It’s Emily Ratajkowski, Uncle Hardass.

Get a job.  Anyway, a couple weeks ago, Kim Kardashian and Emily Ratawhoever posted this photo of their blacked out bosoms with their middle fingers in the air and I for one have been more confused than a three legged greyhound at a racetrack ever since:

Really, what is my response to this photo supposed to be?  Look dames, I know you’re all for women’s rights and all that hullabaloo, but it’s times like these that leave men befuddled.

Here are some possible male responses to this photo, followed by female answers:

MALE RESPONSE #1 – “Holy moly look at those sweater cannons!”

FEMALE RESPONSE #1 – “How dare you objectify women like that, you pig.”

Baffled yet? It gets worse:

MALE RESPONSE #2 – “You’re right. How dare Kim and Emily Ratasomething expose their bosoms to the world! How tasteless!”

FEMALE RESPONSE #2 – “Expletive deleted you! These women are just expressing themselves. How dare you tell them that a display of their beautiful femininity is wrong?”

Is your head ready to explode yet? Wait for it…

MALE RESPONSE #3 – “Umm…you’re right? I like their boobs?”

FEMALE RESPONSE #3 – “Pig!”

Don’t try to make sense of it, men.  Just bow down to your female masters. The skirts have won and the sooner you admit it, the better.

All I know is back in my day, if a broad wanted to show you her chest rockets, you took the time to oggle them like a gentleman then thank her for her trouble.

What kind of a world do we live in now when women feel like they must now preemptively insult via middle finger people who don’t like their boob displays?

“Yup. Here are our boobs and if you don’t like it, here’s the bird.”

I swear. Sometime when I wasn’t looking the Commies won and turned this country topsy turvy.

Anyway, those are my latest complaints, 3.5 readers. If there’s something that really frosts your ass, feel free to complain about it in the comments.

Or better yet, get a job.

Tagged , , , , ,

Things That Really Frost My Ass – Christmas Edition

shutterstock_152049665

Happy Holidays from Uncle Hardass

Ho Ho Ho Ya’ Lousy Degenerate 3.5 Readers.

Uncle Hardass here to put some much needed coal in your mental stockings.

Now, I know what you hippies are thinking. “Oh, Uncle Hardass! You’re not going to take a dump on the joyous holiday season are you?”

Yes!  Yes I am!

Where do I start?  I’m not sure what spoils my eggnog more. Maybe it’s…

  • …the fact that Christmas gets celebrated earlier every year. Everyone takes off their damn Halloween monster masks and puts on a Santa hat. The last three months of the year are Hooray for Death in October, Hooray for Stuffing our Fat Pie Holes in November, and Hooray for Running Up Our Credit Card Bills on Shit We Don’t Need December. Before you know it, people are going to start celebrating the next year’s Christmas on Dec. 26.
  • …that I have to say nonsense like “Happy Appointed Nondenominational Religiously Neutral and Atheism Inclusive Festivity Day” just to avoid offending an unwashed hippy who should toughen up and get a job at the Salt Mines.
  • …people who post pictures of their Elf on the Shelf drinking a beer, puking in the toilet, smoking a cigarette next to a Barbie, or some other obnoxious pose. We get it. You’re very lonely and the likes you get on social media are your only means of contact with the outside world. Go on. Put the little guy in a pink Barbie car and have a police officer action figure pull it over, you scamp you.
  • …that I can’t get candy canes all year round. I love candy that tastes good and makes my breath smell like an elf fart. I should be able to buy candy canes in August. Oh wait, I can because CHRISTMAS STARTS EARLIER AND EARLIER EVERY FREAKIN’ YEAR!
  • …that people expect me to wrap presents. Why do you want me to wrap your damn present? Fancy paper does not bring any additional enjoyment to whatever useless piece of garbage I got you. If anything, it prevents you from getting to the useless piece of crap earlier. There is a delay in your ability to enjoy the crap equivalent ot the time it takes to unwrap the crap. The environmental hippies might be onto something here. One day when the Earth is doomed, the aliens who move in next will say, “It was because the humans had an entire season when they bought useless crap for each other AND chopped down entire forests just to cover the useless crap with paper that delayed their access to said crap.”
  • …people who a) wear ugly sweaters b) put their hideous pets in ugly sweaters and c) color coordinate their outfits with their pets. One day your home will be foreclosed on and you will wish you had all the money you wasted on outfits your dog did not want to wear.
  • …mistletoe. If you wanna kiss, then just pucker up. I’m a man, damn it and I don’t need a sprig of a plant that’s otherwise unseen the rest of year just to play tonsil hockey with some random bimbo at a party.  Sorry Gertie, but I’m dead now and I did say “Till death do us part.”
  • …Santa tracker apps. Inevitably, some jackass at the party will whip out his Santa Tracker and gush like an idiot, “Whoa boy, Santa’s flying over X third world country!” No, no he’s not. Santa’s sleigh doesn’t have an anti surface to air flare system and that fat bastard doesn’t want to get shot down when he’s mistaken for a military combatant.
  • …that people leave cookies for Santa and carrots for the reindeer but they never leave anything at all for the elves, the only people in the entire organization that actually break a sweat slaving away in Santa’s toy factory. Just like everywhere else in the world, the working man goes unappreciated while dirty hippies enjoy the fruits of our labor.
  • …that people still insist on looking at Ebenezer Scrooge as the bad guy. Look clowns. Just because you start a business does not mean you are required to buy fat ass geese for all of your employees and fix all of their kids’ problems. They should consider themselves lucky you gave them a job and those three hippy ghosts should go occupy Wall Street or something. Shit, I’m a damn ghost myself and I have half a mind to visit Scrooge and tell him to keep up with his oppression of the downtrodden Victorian London era masses.  It’s good for them. Oppression builds character, I always say.

Maybe one of the aforementioned grievances frosts my ass. Maybe they all do. But 3.5 readers, do you REALLY WANT TO KNOW WHAT FROSTS MY ASS?

HERE IT IS:

Congratulations. You’re a parent. As if the world didn’t have enough to worry about, now the world has one more mutant spawn to suck up its precious resources.

You work all year. Well, some of you do. Most of you are just writers who scribble a bunch of nonsense then act like your memorialized thoughts and opinions matter to this godforsaken world, but I digress.

You worked and you saved your money. You went out and bought your little whipper snapper the latest toys, gadgets, and gizmos. You enjoyed doing it. You paid attention to what your kid wants and you went around to ten different stores to track down whatever piece of crap he wanted. With tender loving care, you wrapped all the toys up and placed them under the tree.

In short, you put a lot of work into making your kid happy.

So can someone please tell me why, WHY is it that I will be able to walk into any house in America and listen to the adults, who have gathered to watch the kids open their presents, say shit such as:

  • “Oh wow. It must be nice to have X piece of crap. I was NEVER lucky enough to have a nice piece of crap like that when I was YOUR age.”
  • “Oh, aren’t you spoiled? Look at all these presents.  Do you really need all this crap?”
  • “You got Y piece of crap too?  Sheesh, you got X piece of crap AND Y piece of crap. Do you know that when I was a kid my parents only got my brothers and sisters and I ONE piece of crap and we had to share that piece of crap and we considered ourselves lucky to have it?!”
  • “Look at that!  That is one top of the line piece of crap!  They hadn’t even invented crap like that when I was a kid. Oh I bet you don’t even appreciate all this crap ya’ little twerp.”

Look, 3.5 readers, and keep in mind this is coming from a guy named Uncle Hardass, so you know what you’re doing is f%&ked up.

Stop it with the passive-aggressive comments on Christmas morning about how your kids don’t deserve all the crap you got them. Even if you think you’re just talking to the other adults, they can hear you.

Honestly. You loved your kids enough to spend your time and money on getting this crap, you gave it to them so there’s a part of you that WANTS them to have it but then all you do is shit on them for having it.

You’re taking all your work and flushing it down the drain. If it really pisses you off that your kids have nicer shit than you did as a kid, then there’s a simple solution. Don’t get them the shit. Sorry kid, I didn’t get shit as a kid, so you shouldn’t get shit as a kid.

Sure, they’ll whine about it now but as adults, they’ll probably be more mentally secure people then the kids who grew up thinking, “Gee, I wonder if I deserve all this crap?”

Either that, or just be happy that you, despite the odds, obtained a level of success great enough that you can afford to buy shit for your kids that your parents weren’t able to buy for you. Call up your parents and laugh at them. Send them pictures of all the shit you bought for your kids and rub it in that you’re a better provider than they were.

Hell, if you even like the shit that much and are jealous of your kids for having it, then just go ahead and play with all those toys and shit while they aren’t looking.

Better yet, play with the toys with them. It might actually make you AND them happy.

What? You didn’t think your old Uncle H was capable of providing such heartwarming advice?

Just goes to show what you don’t know could fill an empty Salt Mine shaft, 3.5 readers.

So Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year and listen, make a resolution to stop reading my dumbass nephew’s blog in 2016, will you?

Every time one of you losers gives him a hit he thinks he’s going to make it big and his ego just doesn’t need that kind of unmerited support.

Peace on Earth and goodwill to men, losers.

Tagged , , , , , , ,

Things That Really Frost My Ass – Thanksgiving Edition

By:  Uncle Hardass, Grumpy Old Man Correspondent

shutterstock_159396938

Hardassimo J. Scrambler

Hello Degenerate 3.5 Readers,

I see none of you have taken my advice to give up on all this writing horse shit and get a job at the salt mines yet.

Salt Mines Inc. is waiting there, ready to pay you good money for every chunk of salt you pull out of the ground but are you clowns interested?

NOOOOOOOO!!!!

“Look at me!  I’m a blogger!  I’m super smart and special and the whole entire world needs to know!”

Baaah!  Who needs ya’?

Wait, wait.  Come back.  Don’t leave yet.  I have to bitch about Thanksgiving first and then you can go.

This is a holiday about “giving thanks” but if you people have been paying any attention (and why would you because this blog sucks with the gale force wind of a thousand Dysons) then you know I don’t give any thanks whatsoever for anything.  EVER!

So instead, I’m going to rename this holiday, “Complaintsgiving.”  Here are my complaints about this bogus excuse for a holiday which, lets face it, was invented by no good lazy as hell hippies just to get out of a day of work.

In fact, it has been the hippies’ goal for as long as I can remember to declare every single day on the calendar to be a holiday so that no one has to work anymore.

That’s fine.  I know that’s the way this socialist nation is headed.

One day I’ll be the last asshole doing any work at all and the government will just tax me at a rate of 10 bazillion percent.  I’ll take on the entire country’s debt myself so the rest of you losers can have a jolly good old time on my back.  It’s ok.  By no means feel bad about yourselves.  I’m just an old man committing micro aggressions against your safe space.

But I digress.  My complaints:

  • Pumpkins – This is the dumbest vegetable I’ve ever seen in all of my days.  They make everything taste like ear wax.  Pumpkins are universally unseen the entire year BECAUSE they taste like ear wax but for some ungodly reason every fall every dumbass lines up around the corner for pumpkin spice lattes and pumpkin pie.  I hate pumpkin pie.  You might as well empty your dirty ear holes straight onto a pie crust and serve it up.
  • Cranberries – Similar to pumpkins, unless you’re an unwashed broad with a urinary tract infection, nobody gives a shit about these berries all year long except for Thanksgiving.  Then suddenly everyone’s a friggin’ cranberry lover.  Love it all year long or not at all I always say.
  • Biscuit Cans – Whatever the science is behind how they make biscuit dough pop out of cans with the force of an oncoming train, the government should take it and use it against the Al Qaedas.
  • Parades – Who in the hell is the butt faced rube that decided Thanksgiving is the day of all days to throw a damn parade?  A bunch of jerks walking around in arctic temperatures carrying balloons of cartoon characters used by the media to manipulate children into becoming hippies.  The only thing a Thanksgiving Day parade does is block traffic, thus making it harder for responsible Americans to get to their jobs at the salt mines.
  • Stuffing – Allow me to share with you the exact quote that led to the invention of stuffing:

“Oh!  Hello!  I’m an idiot and I think it might be a good idea to shove a shit ton of bread crumbs up a dead game bird’s ass, cook the whole shebang, then dig it all out and serve dead bird ass bacteria covered bread crumbs to my guests!”

  • Football – What an idiotic idea to have football games on Thanksgiving.  All it leads to is a bunch of drunk morons gathering around the TV to live out their fantasies vicariously through people who are better athletes than they ever were!

WHAT FOOTBALL FANS SAY ON THANKSGIVING:  Go!  Go!  Go!  Yes!  Touchdown!

WHAT THEY REALLY MEAN:  I wanted so badly to play for the NFL when I was 17 but no college would draft me because I ran around like I had a sack of doody in my pants so now the only joy I get out of life is pretending like my cheering for the group of mercenaries hired to play on my geographic location’s behalf is actually accomplishing something.

  • The Pilgrim Story – Yeah yeah.  A million years ago, the British settlers couldn’t figure out how to farm and shit so the natives helped ’em and they broke bread together.  Beautiful story.  Lovely.  Oh and then ALL THE NATIVE AMERICANS WERE KILLED AND POISONED AND BLOWN UP AND SHIT AND ONLY A FEW OF THEM ARE LEFT NOW AND THEIR SOLE MEANS OF SUPPORT COMES FROM CASINOS THAT LURE YOUR AUNT GERTIE INTO DROPPING HER ENTIRE SOCIAL SECURITY CHECK ON PENNY SLOTS EVERY MONTH!!!
  • Overeating – You feel like this holiday gives you an excuse to eat like a pig.  Fair enough.  What’s your excuse for the other 364 days, tubby?  Yeah.  I know.  I could stand to lose a few too.  Well, I never said I’m not a hypocrite, did I?
  • Turkey Pardons – Every year the President of the United States pardons a turkey, declaring that it will go uneaten and be sent to a turkey preserve.  The press eats it up like its so adorable.  What they don’t tell you is that these turkeys are tax dodging, drug dealing, gun running, murderous lowlife criminal turkeys who have just gotten away with all their crimes thanks to an unjust pardon.
  • Gravy – Thanks, but if I wanted a sticky liquid on my meal I’d just sneeze on it.
  • Passing the Dishes – Pick a direction and stick with it.  Pass left.  Pass right.  Doesn’t matter.  And keep up with the pass flow.  There’s always one pathetic excuse for a human being who a) is passing the dishes the wrong way so that the other side of the table doesn’t get anything or b) is taking so long that the dishes start to pile up in front of him like a 20 car pile up on the Interstate.
  • Your Kids’ Artwork – Look, just because you traced your hand and glued some googly eyes on it doesn’t mean you’re the next Picasso.  Get an application for the Salt Mines, kid.  Can you dig up salt?  Can you collect money for digging up salt?  Congratulations.  You got the job.  Get to work.  Stop drawing shit.
  • Black Friday –Why is it that despite being a geriatric, I’m the only one who understands you can get on a computer, go online and have all the useless shit that you’re wasting your money on sent directly to your door?  Why are you wastes of space giving up your part of your holiday to wait in line with a bunch of bozos just to fight over a discount gizmo just so you can wave it around in the air and act like you just bagged a trophy?  Why don’t you just stay home, jam another heaping helping of earwax pie into your dumb face hole and give those people who work at the stores a day off?  You ever hear about this “work” thing?  You should try it sometime ya’ lousy bums!

Finally, I’d like to end this column by sharing the one thing I can’t stand above all else when it comes to Thanksgiving:

  • Dealing With Judgmental Elderly Relatives – I can’t stand ’em, can you?  Always blah blah blah-ing about how good shit was a hundred years ago and criticizing everything you do, calling you lazy and stupid and if you ever stand up for yourself you get accused of being mean to an old person.  So you just have to suck it up and bite your tongue but you feel a little piece of you dying inside every time they say something nasty to you and you realize its pointless to do anything but nod politely.  Ugh.  I hate them.  They complain so much that I can barely get any of my complaints in edgewise and what…what are you looking at?  GET A JOB, HIPPY!

Uncle Hardass is BQB’s Late Uncle.  Although he passed on many years ago due to a pastrami induced heart explosion, he still haunts BQB HQ in ghost form, informing our noble blog host about everything he does wrong in excruciating detail.

Tagged , , , , , , , , , , ,

BQB’s Zombie Apocalypse Survivor’s Journal – Day 23

We were all exceptionally bored.

Uncle Hardass

Uncle Hardass

A long day rolled into evening, nothing but a drip from the nearby showers to entertain us.

OK, there was also a plethora of streaming media content from Alien Jones’ perpetually charged space phone, but while the rest of the gang watched a movie, I wasn’t into it.

I felt an overwhelming urge to be alone and walked off into the shower room.  Once I was by myself, the tears flowed freely and I openly cried.

From behind me, I heard the voice of a grumbly old man.

“Waaahhh…waaah waaah!”

I turned around.

“Uncle Hardass?”

For those above and beyond this site’s average 3.5 reader count, I was raised by my Aunt Gertie and her husband, my Uncle Hardassimo “Hardass” J. Scrambler.

Before he died of a massive heart attack, Uncle Hardass’ favorite past times included:

  • Complaining about hippies, commies, and others he deemed no goodniks who didn’t work hard enough.
  • Slaving away at the salt mines.  Literally, he worked at Salt Mines, Inc. and his job was to dig hunks of salt out of the ground everyday.
  • Reminding me how much he did and how little I did in comparison.  I tried not to take it too personally, because he’d of reminded everyone else in the world too had they been willing to listen.

Despite watching his casket get lowered into the ground, I’m still haunted by his ghost to this very day.

That’s not a metaphor.  He actually just shows up at BQB Headquarters unannounced to bitch about whatever I’m doing, inform me that I’m doing it wrong, and to demand an answer as to when I’m going to abandon writing and take a job at the salt mines.

Writing, of course, to Uncle Hardass, is a pursuit beneath “real men” and is something that only hippies and commies do.

Ironically, despite his protestations against writing, Uncle Hardass, from time to time, manages to log on to my blog uninvited to offer his, Things That Really Frost My Ass column. It’s not really a column so much as it is a laundry list of things that are pissing him off at a given point in time.

“Yeah it’s me,”  Uncle Hardass said.  “Holy shit, look at you, ya’ blubbering crybaby! This really is the girls’ locker room, isn’t it?”

“Whatever,”  I said.  “Hit me while I’m down.  That’s what you do.”

“I’m not hitting you, Nancy.  What gives with the waterworks?”

“You want to know why I’m crying?”  I asked.  “Because you were right.”

“I always am,”  Uncle Hardass said.  “About what this time?”

“Writing.”

“Bahh!  Writing!”

Uncle Hardass raised his voice a few octaves, pretending to be all girly and mocked me.  “Oooo la dee da!  Look at me!  I’m a writer!  The world needs my thoughts and opinions!”

Then he reverted to his old, miserable self.

“Baloney.  Give me the salt mines any day.  Write a thousand words and you’ve got nothing but a bunch of shit on paper.  Yank a hunk of salt out of the ground and Salt Mines, Inc. will give you just compensation for it.  That’s the problem with your generation.  Everybody wants something for nothing.  Everybody thinks they’re so damn special.”

I laughed.

“Ohhhh, don’t worry about that, old man,”  I said.  “You worked on me long enough to convince me that I’m not special.  Every day I wake up and the first thing I think about is how exactly un-special I am.”

Uncle Hardass snapped his fingers and a table appeared in the middle of the showers.  There was a basket with cold cuts and bread in it.  He took a seat and proceeded to make himself a sandwich.

I took the other chair.

“Well,”  Uncle Hardass said as he spritzed a slice of bread with some mustard.  “It worked, didn’t it?”

It worked?”  I asked.  “That I’m acutely aware of how little I matter to the world?  Yes.  Yes it worked.”

“Do you have a job?”  Uncle Hardass asked.

“Yeah,”  I replied.  “At Beige Corp.  It’s boring as hell and pays shit.”

“But does it pay the bills?”  Uncle Hardass asked.

“Yes,”  I admitted.

“You’ve got a girlfriend?”  the old man inquired.

“Yes.”

“You don’t take her for granted do you?”

“No.”

Uncle Hardass cut his sandwich in half.

“Why?”

“Because she’s smart and pretty and could have anyone and if I don’t make her happy she’ll leave me because I’m not…”

Uncle Hardass perked up and pointed a knowing finger at me.

“Say it.”

“…special.”

“You’re welcome,”  Uncle Hardass said as he bit into his dinner.

“Oh whatever,”  I said.  “You’re really going to eat that?”

“I’m dead,”  Uncle Hardass said.  “It doesn’t matter anymore.”

He took another bite, then picked up a napkin and dabbed some mustard off his chin.

“Son, when you were growing up, every adult in your life had a job.  Your teachers were supposed to make you feel special because the idea that you could do anything made you study more.  Your aunt made you feel special because it made her feel special to see you smile but me?  I had the hardest job of all.  Life will take its size twelve boot and wedge it straight up your ass if you’re not careful and it was my job to dissuade you of all this ‘I’m special’ bullshit so that you were prepared for all the crap the world throws your way.  In spite of a world designed to tear the little guy apart, you’re still here..  You’re alive.  You have a roof over your head and people that give a shit about you and none of that came from writing so you’re welcome, Lord Fauntleroy.  My work here is done.”

“I’m never going to write again,”  I said.

“Glad to hear it,”  Uncle Hardass said.  “Writing is for weirdoes, primadonnas, and women.  But uh, just out of curiosity, why?”

“Writing got me into this mess,”  I said.  “A corrupt general conspired with the corrupt mayor of this settlement to frame me because he didn’t like something that was written on my blog.  Now my friends will pay because I had a big enough ego to think people would want to read my dumb blog in the first place.”

Uncle Hardass picked up the other half of his sandwich.

“You know, son, writing is a girlish hobby to be sure but, if it makes you happy and it’s legal then it’s your God given right as a citizen of the United States of America, the greatest f%^king country on the face of the Earth to do it if you want to.”

“You hate writing,”  I said.  “You don’t hate writing.  Make up your mind.”

“Oh it’s made up,”  Uncle Hardass said.  “Writing is stupid and unmanly.  But all I ever wanted for you was to be able to survive on your own, pay your own way through life and find a woman that can look at you for five seconds with puking and now that you’ve got all that, I could give three shits what you do in your spare time.  Personally, a real man would get a second job but if you want to mince around and tap out words like you’re the next Oscar Wilde have at it.”

“You’re the most complicated man I’ve ever met,”  I said.

“Not really,”  Uncle Hardass said as he made himself another sandwich.  “I like money.  I like to work hard for it.  I like being independent and that only comes from working hard for money.  Also, I like that now that I’m dead I can eat as much as I want and not get fat.  You want one?”

“Nah, I’m good,”  I said.

“Seems like the only thing a real man in your situation could do now is spring his friends out of this hooscow and get them out of harm’s way,”  Uncle Hardass said.

“Why?”  I asked.  “Apparently if you die you just get to visit your relatives and bitch at them.”

Uncle Hardass smiled.

“Am I really a ghost, BQB?”  Uncle Hardass asked.  “Or subconsciously, has your mind focused the practical, pragmatic tough-guy side of yourself into an apparition that looks like the only adult you knew when you were growing up that warned you that the real world doesn’t hand out participation ribbons?”

I sat and thought about that.

Uncle Hardass smacked the table and laughed.

“BAHH HA HA!  I’m just screwing with you!  Of course I’m a damn ghost, you jackass!”

The old man handed me the basket, snapped his fingers and made the table and chairs disappear.

“My boy, the thing to remember is this.  Whether it’s writing some kind of fruity novel or saving your pals from an unjust fate, the only way to get something done is to realize that you’re not special enough for the universe to take an interest and make things happen for you.  YOU have to make them happen for yourself.”

“Thanks,”  I said.

“But seriously, stop crying.  You look like a homosexual.”

I snickered and wiped a tear off my face.

“You’re not allowed to say stuff like that anymore.”

“Aww who gives a shit?  I’m dead.”

Poof.  He was gone.

I carried the basket into the locker room and set it down.  It was a welcome sight for everyone as our captors hadn’t thought/cared to leave us any food.

“Where’d this come from?”  VGRF asked.

“Uncle Hardass.”

As the Bookshelf Battle Blog’s Second-in-Command, VGRF was familiar with my ghost uncle.

“Sweet!  Pimento loaf from the great beyond!”

“Guys, I have to cut movie night short,”  I said as I grabbed the space phone.  “I gotta bust us out of here but first?  I need to call a zombie author.”

Tagged , , , , , , , ,

Things That Really Frost My Ass – People Who Don’t Know How To Order at McDonald’s

By:  Uncle Hardass, Grumpy Old Man Correspondent

Uncle Hardass

Uncle Hardass, bringing a whopping 20.5 readers to the Bookshelf Battle Blog

Hello again you 3.5 unwashed hippy weasels.

Mother of God, my last column went viral.  Of course, in the parlance of Bookshelf Q. Battler, my good for nothing nephew, “going viral” means a post gets 20.5 readers.  It doesn’t take much for that dufus to pop a champagne cork.

Don’t you people have jobs?  This is what you do with your lives?  Read articles on a blog published by a jackass?  Yeesh.  No wonder the Japanese are beating us.  Japanese kids wake up every morning at four a.m. and complete seventy-eight complex math problems before breakfast.  How much long division have you done today?

You want complaints?  Good, ‘cuz I got ’em.

Do you know what really puts the butter on my yams?  When I walk into a McDonalds, ready for my Big Mac, and there’s some ignorant brain donor standing there, pouring over the menu like its the goddamn Zapruder film, trying to figure out what the hell he wants.

NEWSFLASH DINGUS!  THEY’VE HAD THE SAME BULLSHIT ON THE MENU SINCE NINETEEN HUNDRED AND F%$KING FIFTY FIVE!

Hamburgers, chicken nuggets, and French fries, jerkface!  That’s all they’ve got!  THAT’S ALL THEY’VE GOT!

No, if you stare at that menu a little longer they’re not going to come up with a McFilet Mignon.

They aren’t going to whip up a pot of McSpaghetti for you and you want a bet?  Here’s a bet for you.  If you ever walk into a McDonald’s and walk out with a McBaked Alaska, I will personally chop off my own butt and mail it to Barbados.

THAT, 3.5 readers, is how absolutely, positively, one-hundred percent sure I am that McDonald’s is not going to ever, EVER deviate from the hamburger, chicken nugget, French fry trifecta that has been making them billions and clogging bazillions more arteries since the middle half of the last century.

They even put it on the sign.  Right under the golden arches!  “OVER A HUNDRED BILLION SERVED.”  I think they stopped counting at a hundred billion.  Over a hundred billion people have walked into McDonalds, ordered a hamburger, and walked out, but there will still always be a dirty mouth breather ahead of me who has no clue what he wants.

Take a guess from one of the three items on the menu, jackass!  You’ve got a 33.33 % chance of getting it right!

Does McDonalds even put a burgers served count on their sign anymore?  I don’t even know what they put under the arches now.  I don’t pay attention because I don’t have to because when I go there I’m hungry and I KNOW EXACTLY WHAT I WANT!

So listen, Johnny Assclown, if you are able to walk into a McDonald’s and not immediately know whether you want A) a hamburger, B) a box of chicken nuggets or C) an order of French fries then please step aside and take all the time you need to mull over this question of the ages so hard working people can put their order in and get back to their job at the salt mines.

Sorry 3.5 readers.  I just get emotional about this subject.  While I’m ranting, here are some other issues that really scrape my barnacles:

  • People who say “it is what it is” as if they’re the greatest philosopher to walk the Earth since Jean Paul Sartre.  You know what your face is?  Your butt.  Your face is what your butt is because they’re one and the same and they both look exactly identical.
  • Selfie sticks.  I cannot believe that there are so many people taking photographs of their stupid degenerate faces that a device was invented to allow them to take self portraits on their own.  Listen dorkus malorkus, I hate to break it to you, but if you don’t have one friend willing to take your picture, thus leaving you reaching for a stick to do the job, then no one is going to look at a photo of your big head anyway.
  • Does anyone know why school grades go, “A, B, C, D…F?”  Excuse me, but what the “F” happened to E?  Why do I, a grumpy old man, have to be the one to tell a bunch of educators that the alphabet goes, “A, B, C, D, E ?”  Someone, somewhere in the educational system made the conscious decision to skip “E” and go straight to “F” and if you ask me, it’s probably so they could secretly tell dumb kids to go “F” themselves, which in theory, might be a good character building exercise, but in reality, it’s completely unnecessary since life is going to be telling those kids all the time once they’re out in the world.  They don’t need to get it from their teachers too.
  • When I’m stuck in line behind that waste of space who insists on asking the teenage kid making minimum wage 9,788 questions about something she’s buying.  And it’s never something important either.  This lady (sorry, but it’s always an old lady) is buying a damn bag of Chex Mix and yet with all the questions she’s asking, you’d think she was investing in her own nuclear reactor.  “Is this spicy?  How much sodium per bag?  What’s the ratio of pretzels to rye chips?”  Holy Shit, lady, it’s a bag of Chex Mix!  Buy it or don’t but the world will not end either way!
  • Ear buds.  I hate these things.  I miss ear phones.  When did society get together and decide music must be pumped directly into your ear canal?  Like that’s good for you.  But they’re not that bad when you get used to them.  What really puts the slack in my sack is when I put a pair of ear buds in my pocket, take a walk, and some how while they were in my pocket, they managed to get tied up in an intricate series of knots that you require an advanced degree in mechanical engineering to get the whole kit and kaboodle straightened out again.  It’s like a damn gremlin crawled into my pocket and twisted these things together.  Gremlins are such assholes.
  • People who stop and hold the door for me when I’m a mile a way.  Look weirdo, it’s great you’re trying to be polite and all, but unless I’m right behind you, there’s no need to hold the door open so don’t expect me to run like I’m training for a marathon just because no one sent you the memo declaring that chivalry is dead.

That’s all I’ve got for today, 3.5 nitwits.  Knock off the blogging nonsense and get a job today.  The salt mines are always hiring.

Is there something that puts the cream in your cheese?  Share your complaints in the comments.  Or don’t.  What do I care?

Whatever you do, please stop encouraging my nephew.  Writing is for losers, smarmy intellectuals, and other assorted schmucks.

Tagged , , , , , , , , , , ,

Things That Really Frost My Ass – People In My Way at the Store

Hello 3.5 Readers.

“Things That Really Frost My Ass” with Uncle Hardass

Uncle Hardass here, reporting from the afterlife.

It’s been awhile since I’ve written on my good for nothing nephew’s blog.  I don’t want to encourage him with this writing horse shit.

You’re a writer, BQB?  Woopitty doo.  You can string together words and sentences.  GUESS WHAT?  You’re not special!  Get a job!!!  The salt mines are always hiring!

Anyway, where was I?  You know what really frosts my ass?

When you go to a store and you need to get one thing.  Just one little thing.  It’s all you need.  The trip should be quick and simple.

But when you get to the store there’s some goddamn jackass right in the way of the product you need.

And it’s never something that a lot of people need thus it makes sense that someone’s there.

It never happens when I need milk or bread.

But if I need my limited edition hemorrhoid cream with kung-fu grip applicator tip, sure enough there will be some old broad with her ass parked in front of the hemorrhoid cream with kung-fu grip applicator tip display, just whiling away the hours trying to figure out which brand of the stuff she should get.

I never know what to do in such a situation.  I know exactly what I want.  Do I say, “Excuse me” and barge past her and take it?  Do I be a gentleman and wait for her to make her selection?

Do I perform some hybrid move where I stand there but cough so as to remind her that other people are waiting and the world does not revolve around her, so she should either hurry up and make a choice or move her fat ass along?

It’s shit like this that makes it so I never want to leave my house.

That happened to me all the time when I was alive but I should also mention that it happens in the afterlife too.

The afterlife is just like being alive.  Seriously, no one is enlightened or more intelligent for having experienced life on Earth.  Everyone’s just as big a dumbass as they were when they were in the physical realm.

And here’s something else that really puts the cheese on my wiener.

I won’t bother a person when they’re in the store making a selection, even when the odds against a person needing the same obscure product that I require are unlikely and yet there the person’s stupid ass is, blocking my egress to my product of choice.

YET, God forbid I might ever need a minute to make up my mind about something because if I take more than two seconds, some numbnuts will be up my ass like a runaway colonoscope, acting like I’ve committed a treasonous crime for not getting out of the way.

Here’s a list of some of the other things that put a bur in my britches:

  • When I’m driving down the road and some dipshit bicyclist in tight shorts cuts across my car and assumes I understand what his moronic hand signals mean.  Here’s a hand signal for you, assface!
  • People who talk in the movie theater.  Specifically, dirtbags who ask “What have I seen that guy in?” as well as the shit heads who then proceed to rattle off said actor’s entire filmography.
  • People who post pictures of their kids on social media every five seconds.  People, your children are ugly mutants and the quicker you stop deluding them into thinking they’re special the better – not just for you and them but for the rest of society as well.
  • The knowledge that whenever I wash my car, a damn bird will inevitably dive-bomb a juicy white turd spray all over it 3.5 seconds later.  My pristine car is like ex-lax for winged creatures.
  • Idiotic parents who insist on giving their little girls names as if they were cowboys in a frigging Louis Lamour novel.  I’m sorry, but the only time your name should be “Dakota,” “McKenzie,” or “Hunter” is if you’re either driving a herd of cattle across the great plains or you’ve just been deputized and ordered to track down a dangerous stage coach robber.
  • When I call for customer service and I can’t speak to a person and I ask for help and the damn robots are so advanced that they try to help me.  It gets worse when I finally end up speaking to a real person only to discover the robot was an improvement.
  • That miserable degenerate who will honk at you if you take more than 2 seconds to move after a red light.  I’m not joking.  Green – HONK!  I’m sorry, your majesty.  I didn’t realize I was in the way of your coronation procession.
  • Whenever I get a roll of lifesavers and there’s only one red one and one orange one and then a million other differently colored ones that NOBODY WANTS.  I swear to Christ, if some rat bastard where to ever make a bag of hard candies called “Just Orange and Red Lifesavers,” not only would they make a goddamned fortune, but the entire world would be fat as hell because no one would be able to stop sucking on those delicious red and orange candies.  Shit.  Maybe that’s why they don’t do it.  You need a pineapple one to slow you down once in awhile so as to prevent an obesity epidemic.
  • When a woman has a dog and refers to herself as the dog’s “mommy” or worse, to her husband as the dog’s “daddy.”  Gertie did that shit to me all the time when I was alive and I’d tell her, “Listen, Gert.  Unless you can provide me with scientific evidence that that dog popped out of your cooter then stop calling yourself its mother.”

That about does it for this list of things that really bend me out of shape.  3.5 readers, if you can think of something that twists your knob, share it in the comments below.

And remember – stop encouraging BQB with this writing crap.  Dreams are for losers, unwashed hippies, and other assorted lowlives.

Real men get jobs at the salt mines and that’s all there is to it.

Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,