Thanksgiving? Try Complaints-giving with my grumpy Uncle Hardass:
Thanksgiving? Try Complaints-giving with my grumpy Uncle Hardass:
The Complainer in Chief…
#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.
By: Uncle Hardass, Official Bookshelf Battle Blog Grumpy Old Man Correspondent
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.
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.
By: Uncle Hardass, Grumpy Old Man Correspondent
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:
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!!!”
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…
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:
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.
By: Uncle Hardass, Grumpy Old Man Correspondent
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?
“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:
“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!”
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.
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:
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.
We were all exceptionally bored.
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.
I turned around.
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:
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?”
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.”
“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.
“You don’t take her for granted do you?”
Uncle Hardass cut his sandwich in half.
“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.
“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.
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.”
By: Uncle Hardass, Grumpy Old Man Correspondent
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:
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.