Tag Archives: Toilet Gator

Son of Toilet Gator – Chapter 1


August 2019

Goddamn it, Dirk Smegma was one good looking son of a bitch.  His lush locks were perfectly coiffed, not a single hair out of place, not the tiniest bald spot to be found.  His six-pack abs were breathtaking, as was the rest of his muscular frame.  His teeth looked as though they had been chiseled out of a hunk of the finest ivory by Michaelangelo himself and his face? Forget about it.  Some men claim to be God’s gift to women, but this fellow actually was.

Alas, when Dirk’s current conquest, Muffy Fappaway, picked up her X-Tab to read the daily news, she felt a sneaking suspicion that she should have marked this gift, “return to sender.”  The ex-supermodel turned villain’s moll calmed herself by looking out at the sweeping sight of the clear blue Caribbean ocean, then reached over to slap her lover in the face, nearly knocking him out of his lounge chair.

Dirk’s accent was positively Patrician, giving the stud a bearing of American aristocracy, the type of confident demeanor that only old money and an Ivy League education could buy.  “Ow!  Darling, what was that for?”

“You bastard!”  Muffy said as she hurled the X-Tab at Smegma.  “How could you?”

Smegma raised his sunglasses to read a news article.  “Seventeen of Dr. Malfeasor’s Top Henchmen Die on Can:  International Fiend’s Criminal Network is Decimated.”

The hunk read on.  “Authorities claim that a series of bizarrely coincidental plumbing malfunctions across multiple countries and continents claimed the lives of…”

“Oh,” Smegma said.

“Is that all you have to say for yourself?”  Muffy asked.  “Oh?”

Smegma grinned.  In doing so, he showed off his pearly whites, which made the buxom redhead swoon.

“You won’t do me in again with your charms, Dirk Smegma,” Muffy said.

The virile man sipped from a glass filled with rum and generic cola.  “Well, darling, not to rub it in, but when you run around dirty bars, telling strange men you just met about the bathroom habits of all the vile ne’er-do-wells in your boyfriend’s employ, what do you think might happen?”

Muffy clenched a fist and shook it at Smegma.  As she did, the bosoms in her tight, leopard print bikini top jiggled to and fro.  “I thought you were just an unscrupulous pervert with a penchant for scat play!”

Smegma laughed.  “Oh, darling.  And you honestly thought a man who would be into such a revolting fetish would be worth your time?”

“If a man’s rich and handsome, his kinks are eccentric,” Muffy said.  “If he’s poor and ugly, they’re disgusting.  Surely, everyone has been aware of that since Fifty Shades of Gray became a bestseller. Who do you work for?”

Smegma sipped more rum and generic cola.  “I’ll never tell,” he said, just before he let out a belch.  “Pardon me.”

“Damn it, you paragon of masculinity!” Muffy cried.  “Even your burps are sexy!”

The hottie threw herself on top of the manly man.  “You’re CIA, aren’t you?  Oh, who cares?  Now that I’ve crossed Dr. Malfeasor, my life is over!”

Muffy unleashed a torrent of kisses on Dirk’s neck.  Please!  Just ravish me one more time before I die!”

Dirk laughed and pushed the scrumptious tart away.  “Darling, please.  Such a defeatist attitude.  Get dressed and I’ll bring you in.  You’ve spent a great deal of time with the good doctor.  I’m sure my employer will consider you a great asset and give you all the protection you require.”

The vixen pressed her lips against Smegma’s, pushing her tongue into the stud’s mouth.  She then pulled her head back.  “How many times have you used your charms to baffle a woman into ignoring her own sense of self-preservation?”

“A lot,” Dirk said.  “I don’t have an exact figure but, a metric shit ton.”

“And you promised to protect them?” Muffy inquired.

“Of course,” Smegma replied.

“And what happened to them?” Muffy asked.

“They all died,” Dirk said.

“Damn it!” Muffy cried as she slapped Dirk once more across the face.  “How could you do this to me?”

“Darling,” Dirk said.  “Come now.  I’ll have you know I always try my best to protect the strumpets I snooker but you know how villains are.  Once they get pissed off at a woman who betrayed them, there’s no stopping them.”

Muffy looked into Dirk’s eyes.  “Yet, you’ll sit there with a straight face and tell me there’s a chance you can protect me from Dr. Malfeasor?”

Dirk frowned.  “I’m not, not going to tell you there’s a chance I can protect you from Dr. Malfeasor.”

“Ugh,” Muffy said as she stood up.  “You’re infuriating.”

Dirk patted the babe’s finely formed tucas.  “Freshen up, darling.  I’ve chartered a jet and it leaves in an hour.”

As Muffy stared at the spy, her rage transformed into a deep, intense love.  “How could I stay mad at that face?”

“Beats me,” Dirk said.

The intensely attractive duo swapped spit, then the beautiful woman walked off toward Dirk’s rented bungalow.  As Dirk enjoyed the feel of the sun’s warm rays on his bare chest, he sang his own ballad to himself.  “Smegma!  Dirk Smegma is his name!  Smegma!  Crushing pussy is his…”

“Telephone call, Mr. Smegma.”

The secret agent looked up to find one of the private resort’s cabana boys standing over him, wearing a crisp, neatly pressed uniform that consisted of a polo shirt and absurdly short shorts.  “Boy” was a poor choice of words, as this individual was a Frenchman in his early thirties who had been suffering the indignities of being Smegma’s personal servant for the past week.

“A call for me, Pierre?” Smegma asked.  “Strange.  Anyone I wish to speak to already has my number, and there are very few people in this world I wish to speak to.”

The servant held out a cell phone on a silver platter.  “My apologies, sir.  I only carry out my orders.  I do not investigate them.”

Dirk took the phone and appeared aghast when the cabana boy held out his hand.

“You want a high five?” Dirk asked.

“No,” Pierre replied.  “But a tip is customary, sir.”

“Oh,” the spy said as he held the phone up to his ear.  “Always pull out even if the girl swears she’s on birth control, otherwise she’ll own your ass for eighteen years.”

Pierre rolled his eyes.

“What?” Dirk said.  “That’s the best tip my father ever gave me.”

The agent and the servant engaged in a tense staring contest.  Finally, the waiter blinked first.

“I don’t have any pockets, frog,” Dirk said as he pointed out his skin-tight speedo.  “Put an egg in your shoe and beat it, will you?”

The exasperated cabana boy stomped away in a huff.  “Lousy American asshole!  I poo poo all over your face, you swine!”

Dirk held the phone up to his ear.  “Go for Smegma.”

The gravelly voice on the other end of the line brought a chill to Smegma’s spine.  “Greetings and salutations, Agent Smegma.”

Smegma sat up in his lounge chair.  “Malfeasor!”

“Guilty as charged,” the internationally abhorred supervillain said.  “I do hope you are enjoying your holiday on the island.  I hear the Bahamas are positively breathtaking this time of year.”

“Enough small talk, doctor,” Smegma said.  “To what do I owe this…displeasure?”

“Imagine my surprise to discover that America, the supposed land of the free and home of the brave, is now sanctioning the Central Intelligence Agency’s efforts to put the world’s most dastardly doers of misdeeds into the belly of a slavishly servile toilet gator.”

“I know of no such program,” Smegma said.

“Of course, you don’t,” the doctor said.

“Perhaps your paranoia is getting the best of you if you think an initiative like that is even possible,” Smegma said.

“That fat ass pop star and the South Floridian hayseeds who were devoured by a toilet gator in 2017 learned it was very possible,” Dr. Malfesor said.  “Leave it to Uncle Sam to devise a way to militarize such a bizarre phenomenon.”

“What does any of this have to do with me?” Smegma asked.

“You sweet talked me main squeeze into telling you when my men can usually be found cutting a brown log, shared this information with your handler, Ms. McKenna, and then your big green pet did the dirty work.”

“That’s preposterous,” Smegma said.  “I just read the news, doctor.  Your henchmen died in a series of bizarrely coincidental plumbing malfunctions that took place across several countries and continents…”

“I understand,” Dr. Malfeasor said.  “You could never admit the existence of such a program publicly.  Meanwhile, the press, as usual, are a bunch of schmendricks who can’t see the forest through the trees, so they’ll just regurgitate what your government tells them.”

“Is there a point to this call?” Smegma asked.  “Because if I wanted to listen to the insane ramblings of an impotent jerkoff, I’d give my French house boy an extra fiver.”

Dr. Malfeasor chortled.  “A good one, Agent Smegma!  I wonder though, do your superiors in your government realize that by allowing a toilet gator to become the judge, jury, and executioner of the world’s most nefarious nasties, without so much as giving them a trial before the Hague or allowing any sort of due process, you’ve wreaked more havoc upon the globe than my Malfeasance Network ever could.”

“I don’t follow,” Smegma said.

“Of course, you don’t,” Dr. Malfeasor said.  “Good looking people rarely comprehend anything.  They don’t have to, as they’ve been able to get by on their good looks for their entire lives.  Its ugly men like me who are the real doers in this world.”

“I don’t have time to listen to one of your rants about how you couldn’t find a date to the prom, Malfeasor,” Smegma said.

The doctor’s voice turned shrill.  “That bitch took all my lunch money for a year and she still wouldn’t…no…I didn’t call you for that.”

“Well, Jesus H. Fuck, Leslie, why in the name of Zeus’s ball sack did you call me for?” Smegma asked.

“Never use my first name!” the doctor said.

“Oh, you’re being ridiculous,” Smegma said.

“My mother cursed me to a life of villainy by giving me that name,” Dr. Malfeasor said.

“There’s nothing wrong with having one of those names that’s interchangeable between men and women, Les,” Smegma said.  “If you were more secure in your own skin, it wouldn’t bother you so much.”

“I’ll make a note to talk to my therapist about that,” Dr. Malfeasor said.  “As for this phone call, I wish to let you know that the toilet animal arms race has begun, and you have no one to blame but yourself.”

Smegma stood up.  The sun glistened off his ridiculously hot, vagina moistening abs.  “What are you talking about?”

The doctor’s laughter bellowed through the phone.  “Bah ha ha!  All my fellow villains laughed at me when I diverted all of my energies and resources into cracking the secrets of toilet animal genetics!”

“Oh Leslie,” Smegma said.  “Tell me you didn’t.”

“I did!”  Dr. Malfeasor said.  “I studied the self-published toilet animal research of the great Professor Elliot Lambert, perfected it, and gave it away to all of America’s enemies for free!  Open source anal annihilation, baby!”

Smegma said.  “I had so hoped we’d stop your henchmen before they could do that.”

Dr. Malfeasor blew his opponent a raspberry.  “Pbbhht!  You failed!  I gave it all away months ago.  Why, as we speak, the Chinese are building their own answer to your toilet gator.  A toilet octopus of immense size, one capable of pushing its tentacles up through a toilet in order to inject its victim with poisonous ink.”

“I’ll be sure to watch where I shit,” Smegma said.

“That would be wise,” Dr. Malfeasor said.  “Meanwhile, the Iranians are constructing their very own toilet boa constrictor.”

“Death by embrace?” Smegma asked.

“Precisely,” Dr. Malfeasor said.  “Oh and do be careful to avoid public toilets, lest you risk a poke in the tushy from one of the Fatwah Brigade’s toilet narwhals.”

Smegma gulped.  “I heard some mumblings about those.”

“You don’t even want to know what the Russians are cooking up,” Malfeasor said.

“I’m sure I’ll find out,” Smegma said.

“What hubris your nation suffers from that it thought it could utilize a vicious killing machine to eliminate its enemies while they are eliminating their waste and that other nations would not deem it necessary to defend themselves with toilet animals of their own?”

“Why are you telling me this?” Smegma asked.  “You’ve never been known for having a helpful nature, doctor.”

The doctor chuckled.  “Indeed, I’m not known for that whatsoever.  Sooner or later, Smegma, one of these toilet animals will get you and when it does, I want you to know it was all thanks to me.  When you cry out in pain, begging for your life, I want you, in your final moments, to be fully aware that it was I, Dr. Leslie Malfeasor, Ph.D, who did you in.”

“You’ve always been an obnoxious braggart,” Smegma said.

“Yes,” Dr. Malfeasor said.  “And accordingly, it brings me great joy to tell you that while the world’s so called leaders went big, I decided to go small.”

“Well doctor,” Smegma said.  “They say it’s not the size of your boat but its motion in the ocean.  At least Muffy told me she had to tell you that regularly in order to placate your monstrous ego.”

The doctor was infuriated.  “She said it was a good size!”

“Women always say that,” Smegma said.  “Kind souls that they are.”

Dr. Malfeasor comported himself.  “Perhaps size does matter in the bedroom, Agent Smegma, but I think your new girlfriend will soon find that when it comes to the bathroom, small does the trick.”

“My new girlfriend?” Smegma asked.

“You don’t think I’d keep her after you soiled her, do you?” Dr. Malfeasor asked.  “I’m washing my hands of that duplicitous whore completely.”

Smegma’s eyes grew wide.  “My God!  What have you done?!”

Nothing but maniacal laughter came from the other end of the line.  “Muah ha ha!”

Smegma sprinted for the bungalow.  He threw open the door.  “Muffy!”

The spy ran through the immaculately polished kitchen.  “Muffy!  Whatever you do, don’t sit on the…”

Smegma kicked open the locked bathroom door.  Inside, he found the spent carcass of the voluptuous specimen of femininity, her bikini bottom around her ankles, her eyes staring blankly off into a void, blood trickling out of her right nostril.

The agent held the phone up to his ear just in time to hear his opponent’s taunt.  “I win, Mr. Smegma.  Game…set…match.

“Why would you do this?” Smegma asked.  “This is low, even for you.”

Dr. Malfeasor giggled.  “Oh, you know the age-old expression.  Snitches get stitches.  I gave her everything she could have ever wanted but one flash of your smile and she gave up my entire operation.  Do you have any idea how long it took to build a worldwide network dedicated to the facilitation of malfeasance on a global scale?”

Smegma felt his spirit shatter as he watched the blood drip out of Muffy’s nose and onto the floor.  “I have no idea.”

“A really long ass time,” Dr. Malfeasor said.  “But no bother, what’s done is done.  I built myself up from nothing and I can do so again.”

“She’s gone,” Smegma said.  “But her body’s still here.  I don’t understand.”

“It’s brilliant, really,” Dr. Malfeasor said.  “While most killer toilet animals leave behind a trail of blood, guts, and carnage in their path, I’ve taken a more subtle approach.”

Smegma watched in horror as a tiny pair of black legs kicked its way out of Muffy’s nose.  Within seconds, an insect roughly six inches in length emerged.  It clung to its victim’s face until it sprouted wings, took flight and hovered toward the secret agent.

“What in God’s name?”

“Agent Smegma,” Dr. Malfeasor said.  I give you…the toilet beetle.  A marvel of genetic science of my own design, it easily fits into pipes without even having to morph itself into a gelatinous ooze as other, larger toilet creatures do.”

The toilet beetle hissed.

“Like you, it’s disgusting,” Smegma said.

“While your toilet gator loves to grind his victims between its powerful jaws, leaving a bathroom looking like a bucket of spaghetti blew up inside a blender, my creation simply crawls up into a victim’s anus, makes its way through the intestines and finally, lodges itself in the brain where it chows down until the subject dies instantly.  Isn’t it lovely?”

Smegma reached into his speedo and pulled out a compact weapon – a snub nose, .38 special revolver.  He pointed it at the beetle.

“The best part is the authorities will never be able to figure out what happened,” Dr. Malfeasor said.  “It will appear as though the subject simply suffered a brain hemorrhage while straining too hard on the crapper.”

The beetle flew closer to Smegma.

“Did I mention my little colleague has the ability to spit a rather deadly, acidic venom?” Dr. Malfeasor asked.

The insect hocked a loogie.  The spittle landed on the stainless steel counter top, burning a hole into it.

“It was nice knowing you, Agent Smegma,” Dr. Malfeasor said.  “Once you are dispatched, my diminutive assassin will return to my lair, where I shall mass produce an army of these tiny fiends and take control of the..”

BLAM!  Smegma exploded the bug with a single shot.

“Dude!”  Dr. Malfeasor cried.  “What the fuck?”

“What?” Smegma asked.  “I shot it.”

“Why the hell did you do that for?” Dr. Malfeasor asked.

“Because it was about to spit deadly acidic venom into my face,” Smegma said.  “I can’t have my moneymaker wrecked, Leslie.  It’s my bread and butter.”

“But that was my only one!” Dr. Malfeasor said.

“Seriously?” Smegma asked.

“Yes!” Dr. Malfeasor said. “Oh, I knew it was stupid to send my one and only prototype but I was so mad at that bitch and…no.  You know what?  Screw it.”

“This sounds like it’s your problem,” Smegma said.

“It is,” Dr. Malfeasor said.  “And I won’t bore you with it.  It’s no matter.  I’ve committed every last detail regarding toilet beetle construction to memory, so I will just retire to my lab to…ugh…excuse me.”

A symphony of “pbbbht” sounds burrowed their way into Smegma’s ear.

“Why, Dr. Malfeasor,” Smegma said.  “Did you call me while you’re sitting on the commode?”

“What?” Dr. Malfeasor asked.  “Ugh.  No.”

“Are you sure?” Smegma asked.

“Of course,” Dr. Malfeasor said.  “I would never…ugh…commit such an unsavory social faux pas.”

Smegma peaked at his solid gold watch.  “It’s funny, Dr. Malfeasor.  “It’s morning here, which means it’s night time in your secret lair.”

“Ugh,” Dr. Malfeasor said.  “So, what?”

“Fun fact,” Smegma said.  “Muffy informed me that you usually retire to your water closet right about now to take your evening shit.”

“Ugh,” Dr. Malfeasor said.  “What of it?  Curse that wretched cow and her treacherous mouth!”

The pipe that connected Dr. Malfeasor’s toilet to the sewer rumbled.  The sound reverberated into the phone.

“Doctor,” Smegma said.  “I suggest you pinch off and wipe.”

“Why?” Dr. Malfeasor asked. “Ugh, I would but it was Taco Tuesday here at the secret lair and…ugh…boy, I do love all that extra salsa on my taco but I sure do pay for it later and…ugh…oh no.  Wait.  Smegma.  What have you done?  No, please…”

Smegma smiled.  “Game…”

Another rumble.

“Ugh,” Dr. Malfeasor said.  “Where’s the TP?  I need to…that incompetent maid!  Where is my toilet paper?”

Yet another rumble.

“Screw it,” Dr. Malfeasor said. “I’ll just get up with half a turtle poking out of my shell. What do I care?”

“…set…” Smegma said.

Boom! Smegma listened to the sounds that came next – the smashing of porcelain, the chugging of water out of a pipe, the crunching of bones between razor sharp teeth, the blood curdling screams and last but not least, the telltale roar.


“ARRGGH!” Dr. Malfeasor shouted. “Oh, no! No, not my vital organs! I need those! Eat a dick, Smegma!”

“…match,” Smegma said.

“You think this changes anything?!” Dr. Malfeasor screamed through the sounds of his bones being chomped. “ARRGH! Strike down my evil enterprise and a thousand more will spring up in its place! BARGGHHH..ACK! What are going to do? Feed us all to your alligator?”

“If I must,” Smegma said. “Goodbye, Doctor.”

Smegma hanged up the phone and laid it down near the bathroom sink. He stared sullenly at Muffy, then pressed his hands against the beauty’s eyelids, closing them.

The agent retired to the bedroom, where he changed into a dapper white suit. He left the bungalow, walked to the main house of the resort and handed a ticket to the valet. As he waited outside the doors of the main lobby for his ride to arrive, the cellphone inside his pocket, the one he actually owned, rang.

“Go for Smegma.”

A woman in her late twenties answered. “Dirk, we’ve received confirmation that Dr. Malfeasor is no more.”

“File that under ‘Late News,’ Kendra, darling,” Smegma said. “I was on the horn with the late doctor as he gave his last words…and bowel movements.”

“He called you personally?” Kendra asked.

“To boast of the untimely demise of the lovely Ms. Fappaway,” Smegma said.

“Oh Dirk,” Kendra said. “I’m so sorry.”

“Just another day in the life of a secret agent,” Smegma said. “Besides, we have bigger problems.”

“Such as?” Kendra replied.

“This is an in-person kind of conversation, I’m afraid,” Smegma said.

“I see,” Kendra said. “Then our problems must be very big indeed.”

“You don’t know the half of it,” Dirk said. “I’m on my way to the airport. I’ll be at Langley, ASAP.”

“Dirk,” Kendra said. “If you ever need to talk…”

“Goodbye, Kenda,” Dirk said as he hanged up the phone abruptly.

A blue sports car rolled up. The Frenchman emerged from the driver’s seat and handed Smegma the key.

“Your vehicle, Mr. Smegma,” the waiter turned valet said as he held out his hand.

“My stars, Pierre,” Smegma said. “You’re a jack of all trades around here, aren’t you?”

“I do what needs to be done sir,” Pierre replied.

Smegma took the key and stared at Pierre’s waiting hand. The agent held up his hand. “Up high?”

Pierre rolled his eyes. Smegma moved his hand downward. “Down low?”

“Mr. Smegma,” Pierre said.

Smegma pulled his hand back and ran it through his hair. “Too slow.”

“Mr. Smegma, please,” Pierre said. “If you don’t wish to provide a gratuity, that’s your prerogative, but there’s no need to mock me.”

Smegma reached into his pocket and pulled out what appeared to be a single dollar bill. He tucked it into the Frenchman’s hand. “Pierre, there’s…an unfortunate…I hate to use the word ‘mess’ so I’ll call it, ‘a situation,’ in my bungalow.”

“I shall take care of it, sir,” Pierre said.

The agent patted Pierre on the back and hopped into the front seat of his fancy ride. “See that you do.”

Pierre scoffed when he looked at the single. “I’ll try not to spend it all in one place.”

“See that you don’t,” Smegma said as he closed the car door and drove away.

The Frenchman unfolded the single and to his great shock, found a large number of crisp, green Benjamin Franklin portraits. He counted them out. “Five…ten…fifteen…twenty…twenty-five…thirty….sacre bleu!”




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Son of Toilet Gator – Prologue


Late 2017, Directly After the Events of Toilet Gator

              The clientele of the Titty Wing Shack had been cleared out, save for the exotic dancers, a secret service team, President Vinny Stugotz and Professor Elliot Lambert who, at present, was chowing down on a hot wing that a secret service agent had just shoved through the mouth slit in the bag that was covering the world-renowned toilet animal scientist’s head.

“Mr. President,” Professor Lambert said between chews.  “Is the head bag really necessary? You’ve already bought my loyalty.”

“Of course, it’s necessary,” the president said.  “The CIA doesn’t want you having any idea what part of the country their top-secret underground lab is located under and if there’s one thing I’m known for, it’s my discretion.  In fact, I’ve posted about my ability to keep a secret at least a thousand times on Lifebox.”

The house DJ spoke over some funky club music.  “Alright, alright, alright.  Mister President, we’re so honored to have you and your friend with the bag on his head here at the Titty Wing Shack.  Our motto?  If you’ve got the cash, then we’ve got the best chicken wings and titties.”

“Fine,” Professor Lambert said.  “It’s just that it’s kind of lame to be in a titty bar without the ability to look at all the titties.”

“Yeah,” the president said as he pointed to a busty blonde who was gyrating on stage. “Not gonna lie.  You’re missing some spectacular cans.  Believe me.  Nobody is a better judge of the female form than yours truly.”

“Wing me, please,” Professor Lambert said.

The secret service agent assigned to feed the professor sighed as he shoved another wing into the captive’s mouth.

“So, when am I going to get me toilet gator?” the president asked.

“Soon, Mr. President,” Professor Lambert said.  “I’m working on the genetics aspect of this project with great interest, making sure that the specimen will retain the mighty strength and power of his father while still being controllable.  Plus, I’ll need to find a suitable female alligator to inseminate and…”

“Jesus Christ, Egghead McGee,” President Stugotz said as he sipped a diet soda.  “Just fill up a turkey baster with Skippy the Toilet Gator’s joy juice, use it to knock up a fine ass lady gater and bada bing, bada boom, we’re done.  Come on. Let’s get this show on the road!”

“It will be done within a year, Mr. President,” Professor Lambert said.  “That, I assure you.  Can I get a drink, please?”

The same secret service agent who had been feeding Lambert scoffed as he picked up a beer bottle, shoved a straw into it, and held it up to Lambert’s mouth.  The scientist sucked away like a baby.

“Thank you,” Professor Lambert said.

“What a psycho that Buford Dufresne was,” President Stugotz said.  “Keeping a fridge full of his pet alligator’s baby batter.  I mean, I kept a hefty supply of my own man goo on standby, but that’s only because it would be a damn shame if there were ever to be a world without a Stugotz in it.”

“Hey, alright,” came the DJ’s voice.  “That was Chastity on the main stage.  She’s available now for lap dances and the champagne room.”

The president punched a few buttons into his cell phone, then held the device up to his ear.  “Hello, crooked lawyer.  Wait, what?  You’re charging me how much per minute for this call? OK, let me get it over with quick, then.  I’m in a strip club.  Yeah.  Uh huh. So what would be the legal ramifications if I want to take one of these broads to the champagne room?  Right.  Uh huh.  Are you serious?  You’re telling me if I DON’T pay her to shut her piehole with my campaign funds it would be illegal?  You’re kidding me.  And here all these years I thought I was doing the taxpayer a favor by shutting these bimbos up on my own dime.  Wait?  How many forms would I have to file?  And I’d have to list ‘Affair Hush Money’ on my campaign finance report?  And then it would be legal?  And you’re telling me this with a straight face? What a strange new world this is.  Yeah, something tells me this rule only applies to me.  No.  No, never mind, it’s too much work.  I’m just going to sit here and sip my soda.  Goodbye.”

Stugotz hanged up his cellphone.  “Damn ambulance chasers.”

A beautiful redhead wearing a cowboy hat and nothing else strutted onto the stage.

“Coming up next,” the DJ said.  “It’s everybody’s favorite cowgirl, Lorelai.  Everyone give Lorelai a warm Texas welcome.”

President Stugotz looked to one of the secret service agents.  “Plug his ears.”

“What?” Professor Lambert asked.  “I can’t listen either? Come on.”

The secret service agent assigned to Lambert licked his pointer fingers, then stuck them deep into the scholar’s ear canals.

“You’ve lost your hearing privileges, nerd,” President Stugotz said as he chomped on a chicken wing.  “Mmm.  This is a fantastic chicken wing, by the way.  Simply fantastic.  Best chicken wing I’ve ever had and I know chicken wings.  Nobody’s a better judge of poultry quality than I am.  Believe me.”

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Toilet Gator Final Draft Complete

Coming soon to a toilet near you…




Toilet Gator Off to Editor Soon

Hey 3.5 readers.

BQB here.

20 months.  A year and a half.  That’s how long I’ve been writing this book:


You might think this book is cheap, throwaway drivel and that I’ve wasted a year and a half on tomfoolery.  Technically, you’d be right, except you aren’t, because this is by far the best book ever written.

It’s a tale of passion…romance, love, betrayal, horror and people being eaten by a giant lizard while they are pooping.

It’s a tale of redemption, of how a broken down, defeated officer of the law makes amends with his ex-wife and learns to forgive himself for his past mistakes while hunting down…a giant lizard who eats people while they are pooping.

It’s a parody that mocks our news media entertainment complex, our political system, restores comedy to its natural, off the chain, no holds barred, everyone gets offended because that’s what good comedy does state…and it’s also about a giant lizard who eats people while they are pooping.

Thank you for joining me on this adventure.

I am but one man.  I like to think I am superhuman, that I am capable of anything, but from time to time, my health reminds me that I am only capable of so much.

Unfortunately,  I can’t write about people getting eaten while they are pooping 24/7.  I just can’t.  I wish I could.  I really do.  No, I really do.  That would be an awesome job.

But that day isn’t here yet, so in the meantime, I must work, and take care of myself, and take time to exercise, eat well, relax, and destress.  Novels about people being eaten while they are pooping will have to be written during the random, sweet moments of time I get to steal from the various forces of the world that keep me down.

I have so many ideas, but for now I must put them on my magic bookshelf.  Don’t worry. They’ll be there when the time is right.

For now, I’ll focus on Toilet Gator Sequels, and on continuing the story of “The Last Driver.”

Perhaps one glorious day, novels about human eating alligators will make me rich, and I can write about alligators eating unsuspecting bathroom users all day.  Why, that’s been the dream of many a writer ever since Gutenberg invented the printing press, so I would be very blessed by such a life.

But I’m not there yet, and if it’s ever to happen, it will take time and patience.

Some rest tonight, then I’ll be sending “Toilet Gator” to my editor soon, and then I’ll…well I think I might actually take a crack at “Toilet Shocker” next and see how that goes.

There are times in my life where I get very sad…when I think about all I hoped for in my youth and compare it with how I barely got 1 percent of a percent of a percent of what I wanted.

But then I remember I live in a world where the dream of self-publishing a book about a giant lizard who eats people while they are pooping is not only real, but you can also pay women in medical lab coats to talk about it:

Thank you for being my 3.5 readers.


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Toilet Gator Second Draft Complete!

Hey 3.5 readers.

BQB here.

I’m so happy to report that the second draft of Toilet Gator is complete.  It will need a third draft, but there is a light at the end of this toilet.



Son of Toilet Gator – From the Desk of Bookshelf Q. Battler


Good day to you, noble reader.

You came back for more?  Jumpin’ Jesus H. Christ on a pogo stick, seek psychiatric counseling, will you?

Look, the first book was called “Toilet Gator” and it was about an alligator who ate people while they were sitting on the toilet.  I get it.  We can chalk your initial interest up to morbid curiosity.  Most people realize it’s wrong to gawk at an accident along the side of the road, but they can’t help it.  They spotted it, so now they feel an innate need to find out what happened, what it the carnage looks like, who lived, who died.

But it’s one thing to rubberneck at a car accident while you’re driving past it and a completely different thing to make a U-turn, head back the way you came, then turn around and come back again just so you can take a second look at the mayhem.  That’s sick, noble reader, and that is essentially what you are doing here.  Be ashamed.  Be very ashamed!

Will more people be eaten by an alligator while they are sitting on the toilet in this book?  Yes.  That’s a no brainer.  You know this.  If you read the first book, don’t pretend like you don’t know what lies in store for you.  People will sit down to poop and as they are doing so, they will become a massive lizard monster’s lunch.

Did I mention that I’ve upped the ante and now there is a shark who eats people while they are sitting on the toilet in this installment of the ongoing Toilet Gator series? Yes.  Sequels must always up the ante and this one is no different.  Now, if people aren’t being eaten by an alligator while they’re sitting on the toilet,  they’re being eaten by a shark while they’re sitting on the toilet.  Basically, if you are a character in this book and you feel the urge to drop a deuce, there’s a fifty percent chance you will be eaten by an alligator and a fifty percent chance you will be eaten by a shark.  Even the most carefree Vegas oddsmakers wouldn’t take a bet on the continued existence of a character in this novel who needs to pinch a brick.

Do you have any idea how precious life is?  The best thinkers, scientists, philosophers, theologians and others have tried their best to explain how tenuous our grasp on our own mortality is but suffice it to say, you’re born, you do some stuff and then before you know it, you’re dead.  Every single moment of your life is precious and you have now made the conscious decision to take your very limited time and use it to read not one but two novels involving people being devoured by an alligator while they are squeezing the cheese.  For shame, noble reader, for shame.

Oh, what?  You think I should feel worse for writing a book about people being eaten by an alligator (and/or a shark) while they are sitting on a toilet?  Why would I?  Someone has to warn the public at large about the dangers of being eaten by toilet animals while sitting on a toilet and that someone might as well be me.  Is it my fault that all of the high falutin’ book award people refuse to give an award to a book about people being eaten by an alligator while they are sitting on the toilet?  No, it is not.

In short, while it is a very worthwhile endeavor for me to write a novel about people being eaten by an alligator while they are sitting on the toilet, it is conversely, and some might say an ironically, useless waste of time for you to read a book about people getting eaten by an alligator while they are sitting on the toilet.  After all, at the end of this, I can at least say I wrote a novel (and stop there without any need for further description whilst promoting myself at the various super fancy writer parties I am still waiting for my invitations to), whereas all you can say is you read a novel…about an alligator…who eats people…while they are sitting…on the toilet.

Still not convinced I’m better for writing this dreck than you are for reading it, noble reader?  Consider this scenario:


PARTY GOER: Hi, what have you two done recently?

ME: I wrote a novel and that’s all you need to know about that.

NOBLE READER:  I read a novel about people who are eaten alive by an alligator while they are sitting on the toilet.

PARTY GOER:  Yikes, noble reader!  You sicken me so you must leave now!  BQB you can stay though and have sex with my wife if you want because you’re an awesome person who has written a novel.

And there you have it.  What’s that, noble reader?  You could just tell people that you “read a novel and it’s none of their damn business what the novel was about?”  True.  You got me there.  Plus, if you wanted to go the extra mile, you could say you read a novel about geopolitical intrigue and leave out the part about the epic battle for the fate of the free world between an American toilet gator and a Russian toilet shark.

Also, if you want to, you could just close this book and go expand your mind by reading a classic like “War and Peace” or “The Count of Monte Cristo.”  Both are very long masterworks of fiction that will enrich your lives, expand your minds, open your hearts and broaden your horizons.

However, neither book features a scene that involves a person being eaten by an alligator while they’re sitting on the toilet.  Ha!  You actually thought I was serious before when I told you that you needed psychological counseling for reading this book?  Well, I was…and you do.  But that’s OK.  Disturbed people need reading material too and I’m happy to provide it to you…and also to take your money.

I guess what I’m trying to say is…thank you for the money.  And now, without further ado, please enjoy this second book about people who are eaten by an alligator while they are sitting on a toilet.

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Son of Toilet Gator Sundays

Happy Easter, 3.5 readers!

I’ve decided that Toilet Gator Sundays (where I wrote a new excerpt of Toilet Gator every Sunday last year) worked so well, that I’m now going to give you, “Son of Toilet Gator Sundays.  Yes, now each week you will get a new chapter in the sequel, “Son of Toilet Gator.”

This will allow me to keep fresh but still devote most of my time to getting the draft of Toilet Gator itself together, which I truly hope will be published by the end of the year.

Let’s keep our fingers crossed.  Anyway, I’m not paying this lady to do a new video for “Son of Toilet Gator” though she’s excellent so seek her out on Fiverr if you need a lady in a doctor outfit to read your copy:

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I have edited 100,000 words of Toilet Gator

I think this thing actually has a legit chance of making it’s way to your Amazon Kindle.  God bless you, Jeff Bezos:


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In Case You Were Wondering…

…where Book Three of the Toilet Gator series is going:


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Toilet Gator Second Draft Production Begins

3.5 readers, I am so excited to tell you that I have begun the long, hard slog toward finishing a second draft of my beloved novel, “Toilet Gator,” which really and truly is the best novel ever written about toilets, gators, or toilet gators.


My goodness, 3.5 readers.  Isn’t that a wonderful cover?  Anyway, this is the first time I have begun a second novel draft.  It seems like it will be a long, arduous process.  The novel is approximately 140,000 words and so far I have rewritten 7,000 of them.  It is nice to be able to start solving problems I saw as I wrote the first draft but felt it would just slow me down to fix them, so now the time to fix them has come.

I hope when this book comes out, you will all support it and tell your friends, because if Toilet Gator is a success, then I can really bank some cash on the sequel, Son of Toilet Gator:


You don’t even want to see what the cover of Book 3 will look like.

3.5 readers, I’ll be honest.  I’m no spring chicken and the older I get, the more I just want to stop and smell the daisies, then lie down in the dirt and wawit for the moss to grow over me.

So, if this blog makes you happy, and you think that being able to read wonderful books like Toilet Gator and Son of Toilet Gator would bring joy to your life, then please, do what you can to support my little enterprise here.

Read this fine blog.  Tell your friends.  Help get me some traffic.  If I can make money off this, then I can put more time into entertaining you, my beloved 3.5 readers, who I would never want to see be eaten by a toilet gator.

Do watch out for toilet gators, 3.5 readers.  They’re everywhere and in greater numbers than you’d think.  Frankly, I have taken my life into my hands by publishing their secret, so much so that I get scared every time I sit on the throne to poop now, and not just because I’m a burrito fan.

Stay tuned, 3.5 readers.

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