Tag Archives: Uncle Hardass

Things that Really Frost My Ass – A Message to the Class of 2017 from Your Graduation Speaker, Uncle Hardass


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

Dun da dun dun dun…ok, that’s enough.  Cut it.  Cut the music!  Everybody sit down and shut your filthy sewer holes!  I’m a busy man.  Time is money and you people are not worth my time.  Let’s get this bullshit dog and pony show that you all think is so important now but none of you will be able to remember a damn thing about it in twenty years over with.

Class of 2017, it’s your Grumpy Uncle Hardass, here with some words of wisdom that you won’t listen to because you all think you’re hot shits who know everything even though what you don’t know could fill that government warehouse in Indiana Jones where the Feds keep all of the mysterious shit they don’t want the world to know about.

Here is, in no particular order, the top five pieces of advice I have for you.  Take it or leave it.  If you don’t want to take it, it’s no sweat off of my wrinkly old sack, I’ll tell you that.

#1 – Get Jobs

Immediately.  Right now.  Seriously, why are you idiots standing around in the hot sun wearing heavy robes like a bunch of dumb asses.  You could have spent the time you’re spending today on patting each other on the back on making money.

Always make money, kids.  Always make money.  At all times.  No matter what you are doing.  Have a day job.  Have a night job.  Have side jobs to do when you can steal five minutes away from you day and night jobs.

Have a job while you are sleeping.  Don’t just sleep at home.  Sleep in a lab where scientists want to pay you to study you sleep patterns.

Don’t eat breakfast for free.  Get paid by a cereal company to eat their latest cereal, then fill out a report about what gastrointestinal distress it caused you.

Don’t shit for free.  There’s a scientist somewhere who wants to study your shit.

Are you having sex for free like a bunch of idiots?  Why, when the prostitution market has never been better.  Beer and hookers.  The two products that everyone will need, and even more so when the economy tanks.  When people are out of work, they get depressed…and they need hookers.

And I’m not just talking to the women.  Men, don’t be too proud to sell your bodies for cents on the dollar.  What, you think your old Uncle Hardass never engaged in unpleasant activities just to make ends meet?

Actually, go on thinking that.  I have a reputation to uphold.

#4 – Always Carry Rubbers

You are all very ugly and I can’t imagine anyone would ever want to see any of you naked.  Frankly, I feel like I’m going to be sick and you’re all covered from head to toe in long black gowns.

Even so, you never know when someone will take pity on one of you uggos and want to get freaky.  Do you want that to happen while you don’t have protection?  I think not.

Back in my day, the worst that would happen if you had unprotected sex is you’d get itchy until the doctor would shoot you up with penicillin.  Or worst case scenario, you get a kid that you can browbeat the shit out of until it grows up and gives up all of its dreams and joins you in working in the salt mines.

Today, there are exotic sex diseases that will turn your organs into liquefied shit.  I don’t care how ugly you are and how attractive your partner is.  Ain’t no one got time for that.

Honestly, you should control yourselves and wait for marriage but if you can’t control yourself, then be sure to bag it before you tag it.

#3 – Save Your Money

A fool and his money are soon parted.  However, a penny saved is a penny earned.  Put your pennies in a bank and your interest will grow and compound.  When a rainy day comes, you’ll be surprised at how much your pennies have grown.  It’s as if your pennies have been fucking all this time, getting each other pregnant and giving birth to new pennies who would, in turn, fuck and make more pennies.  While you were out busy living your life, your pennies were having a Caligula-like Roman orgy and now that you’re older, you can reap the benefits of all that hardcore penny fucking.

So save your pennies, because if you spend your pennies on frivolous shit, then your pennies are just going to fuck for some other asshole’s benefit.  You don’t want that.  You want your pennies fucking for you.

#2 – Fart Often

Life is too short to pretend like we all don’t have to fart.  Stop holding them in.  Let them out…right now…then wave the stench in the direction of all of these lowlife college administrators who keep tacking extra charges to your tuition to fund all kinds of frivolous bullshit even though we all know that the degrees you are about to receive have never been more meaningless and though you’re all convinced you’re about to become great captains of industry, you will all most likely go home and ride Mom and Dad’s couch until the end of time.

So, you might as well be happy and fart.

#1 – Don’t Become Bloggers

Seriously.  Don’t do it.  My lousy, incompetent, good for nothing nephew, Bookshelf Q. Battler, has been blogging for literally 3.5 years now and all he has to show for it is a lousy 3.5 readers.

You want to be a writer?  Good for you.  Knock knock.  Who’s there?  The world.  We do not give a shit what you have to say.  We all have our own problems.

There are more productive ways to spend your time, like clipping your toe nails and waxing your bikini zone.

Your Advice

Do you have advice for the Class of 2017?  Share it in the comments.

Tagged , , , , , , ,

Things that Really Frost My Ass – Uncle Hardass Continues to Run for President


E Pluribus Hardass

Hello degenerate 3.5 readers.

We meet again and I see you’re all still working on those writing careers.

In fact my incompetent nephew Bookshelf Q. Battler just informed me that November is “National Novel Writing Month” or “NaNoWriMo.”

You know what I call it? “LosersFindAnotherWayToNotWorkMo.”

Get a job, 3.5 readers. You people are an embarrassment to all 7 of your parents.

Moving on, the big presidential election is Tuesday, November 8.

You all laughed at me when I announced my bid earlier this year.

But now after you got to know the two frontrunners, suddenly old Uncle Hardass doesn’t seem like such a bad option, does he?

Sure, I’m old and I’ve never worked anywhere but the Salt Mines (which you should apply to) but I’ve never grabbed anyone by the pussy, that’s for damn sure.

Not only is that rude but it is also highly unsanitary.  I’ll have you know my ex-wife, BQB’s Aunt Gertie, tried to get me touch her there all throughout our many years of marital bliss and my response was always, “No dice!  Do you have any idea how many germs are on that thing?!”

Also, I’ve never had an e-mail scandal because I don’t e-mail, or use phones.  Whenever I want someone to know something, I just should at them very loudly and wherever they are in the world, they hear it.  I call it Uncle Hardass mail.

I don’t write crazy tweets because I think anyone who uses social media is an asshole, and that goes double for my lazy nephew, who you should not follow on Twitter – @bookshelfbattle

Seriously. Don’t follow him. You’ll just encourage him to keep this useless blog going and then he’ll never get a job at the salt mines.

Where was I?  Oh right. Comparing myself to the candidates. Also, I don’t engage in pay for play or take big donations in exchange for favors.

That’s not because I don’t want the money but because I don’t do shit for anyone.

That’s right.  Whatever you want done, you should do it yourself.  Sure, I could do all your shit for you but then what would you learn? What would you get for it?

When I was a kid if I wanted a road I had to build a road.

If I wanted to go to school I had to build the school then teach myself.

If someone needed to be arrested I just arrested them.

If another country declared war, I had to fight the war single handed. I personally fought and won 29 wars all by myself and I’m damn proud of it.

So no, I’m not going to take your money to do a political favor for you.  You keep your money and you get off your lazy ass and do whatever it is that needs doing.

Oh. BQB’s meddling attorney just handed me an envelope. “This blog is in no way encouraging people to undertake any kinds of official actions that they do not have the authority to do.”

For crying out loud. Ban all the lawyers! That’ll be the first thing I’ll do when I’m elected and then after that I’ll take a nap for a year.

In summation, here are more reasons why you should vote for me, Uncle Hardass, this Tuesday, November 8.

  • I’m younger than both candidates.  You wouldn’t think so but both are very, very, very old.
  • I’m going to be championing a new jobs initiative entitled, “Jobs! You Should Get One, You Lazy Son of a Bitch.” No need to create any new laws or organizations or programs to get people jobs. I am just going to go on TV once a week and nag all of you unemployed people about how awful you are for not having jobs and then surely all those people will do anything to get a job rather than be around to listen to me on TV, because my speech will be on every channel.
  • I will forego all wars and challenge opposing world leaders to an arm wrestling match instead.  Before you scoff, just keep in mind it gets kind of lonely for an old man, so I’ve been known to keep myself busy by shaking hands with the old bishop, often for hours at a time because honestly, at this point its just like pulling taffy.  Like it sort of wants to do something but not really.

Thank you, degenerate lazy 3.5 readers.

In conclusion of my summation, your writing ambitions are a waste of time and utterly pointless and also do something useful for a change and vote for me, Uncle Hardass.

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

Things that Really Frost My Ass – Uncle Hardass for President

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


In Hardass We Trust

Hello degenerate 3.5 readers.

Still working on your writing careers, I see.  Insert joke about how you’re all lazy bastards who need to quit writing and get jobs at the salt mines here.

So the presidential election is in full swing and for awhile I thought I might dip a toe into the old wading pool of muck that this contest has become.

Then I said to myself, “No Hardassimo.  You’re no spring chicken anymore. The kids want to see fresh faces with new ideas, not some wrinkled up old has been who has lost all hope after year after year of being put down by the man.”

But then I saw who you people are interested in.   Donald Trump?  Hillary Clinton? Bernie Sanders?

Holy shit.  Is this an election or a cocktail party at the Golden Girls condo?

Somebody hit the music. “Thank you for being a friend. Travel round the road and back again….”

Oh sorry. My incompetent nephew Bookshelf Q. Battler informs me that if I sing any more of that song I’ll owe Betty White a hundo.

Anyway, seeing as how Methuselah-esque politicians are in style this year, allow me to announce my candidacy right here on a blog with 3.5 readers, which might make you laugh, but keep in mind that most news website proprietors would sell their kidneys to black market organ traffickers just to get 2.5 readers.

The following is a brief synopsis of my platform.  You can like it or leave it, I really don’t give a crap.  In fact, you should leave it because you won’t understand any of it because you’re all so stupid.


That’s right. I said it. You’re all incredibly stupid.

Don’t blame yourselves.  The public school system has failed you.

You know the Japanese kids get up at 3 a.m., go for a 50 mile jog, practice martial arts and break boards in half with their fists, feet and faces, study math, science, languages, quantum physics and so on and so forth until 2 a.m. the next day. Then they sleep for one hour and do it all over again.

Enough with the “high school is the best time of our lives” bullshit. Listen, if high school was the best time of your life, then you’re a loser.

No one likes high school.  High school memories only become moderately interesting when you’re seventy-five years old and suddenly you’d gladly give your entire nut sack away just to be that young kid getting pelted in the back of the head with spitballs all day instead of a decrepit old bastard who has to get up five thousand times a night to pee.

In short, my education system is simple. Beat the Japanese.

Oh, and get a job between 2 and 3 a.m. you lazy bastards. You can sleep when you die.


My plan here is two-fold.

First, all of the poor, shitty countries need a one-hundred percent increase in pornographic access.

Look, I’m sorry, but all of these people are blowing themselves up out of frustration.

Get them some Internet.  Get them set up with some movies of some broads with gigantic knockers and you’ll see a 9,000 percent decrease in people being violent because they’ll all be too busy pounding the old flounder.

Why no one else has thought of this I don’t know but few will ever be as smart as I am.

Second, everyone needs to get jobs.  When you have jobs, you have money coming in and therefore you don’t want to do shit that will stop the money from coming in (like blow yourself up for example.)

Moreover, when you have a job, you just don’t have enough time to worry about petty bullshit that makes you hate people enough to want to blow them up.  “That guy doesn’t believe in the same god as I do.  That guy doesn’t read the same holy book as I do…who gives a shit? I have to go to work tomorrow so I can get my ass paid, son.”

Porn.  Jobs.  Spread both around the world and pretty soon everyone will be joining their sticky hands together to sing a chorus of “kumbaya.”


You. Right there. The dumb ass reading this.

My plan for you is simple.

Get a job!

What? You can’t find a job?

Get any job!

What? You can’t find anything?

Really?  Have you tried:

  • Volunteering and/or developing the skills necessary to turn yourself from a useless sack of crap into a productive member of society? As President, I will be opening a “Useless Sack of Crap Reeducation Center” in every state where you can go to learn how to not be a useless sack of crap.
  • Have you sold your hair, teeth, and superfluous body parts? All will be considered currency under my regime.
  • Have you sold your bodily orifices to complete strangers for pennies on the dollar? Prostitution will be legalized under my administration.  Our criminal justice system is much too clogged as it is without having to worry about prosecuting women just for trying to make you holla for a dolla.
  • Finally, and here’s the most important part.  Get a job…AND…feel like a total dumbass until you secure the aforementioned job.  Once you do have a job, you will join the ranks of the self-righteous and enjoy the tremendous feeling of chewing out useless layabouts who do not have jobs.


When engaging in business deals with other nations, the two most important questions are, “Do you want this shit?” and “How much you got?”

The key, you see, is to find the countries that will a) want our shit and b) pay as much as or as close to the amount they got as possible.

By the way, I recently heard some news about child labor that is very disturbing.

We don’t have it here in America and I am very disturbed by that.

Seriously.  You park your kids’ dumb asses in front of the TV for 18 years then wonder why they grow up to become self-absorbed douchebags who start shooting up the joint the first time someone tells them “no?”

I had my first job thirty seconds out of the womb and the only thing I am ashamed of is that it took me that long.

Put the kids to work assembling smart phones for ten cents an hour while some schmuck beats a drum to make sure they go at a steady pace.  I’m telling you, they will grow up to become very productive, high performing, well adjusted adults like yours truly.


Stop stealing shit and get a job. Professional stealer of shit is one of few jobs that will be deemed unacceptable.



These are the broad strokes of my platform thus far and I’ll be revising as the campaign moves forward.

If you forget this column, at least remember:

  • I’m running for president so vote for me, dumb ass.
  • Get a job.
  • Seriously, quit your futile attempts at becoming a writer and get jobs, preferably at the salt mines, so that your parents can be proud of you for once.

Paid for by the Committee to Elect Uncle Hardass

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


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?”


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 – Valentine’s Day Edition

By: Uncle Hardass, Grumpy Old Man Correspondent 


Renowned Romance Expert Hardassimo J. Scrambler, BQB’s Grumpy Uncle

Hello degenerate 3.5 readers.  Still wasting your time trying to become writers I see. Despite your old Uncle Hardass’ repeated efforts to put you on the straight and narrow path, you’re all still convinced that you’re going to be the next Hugh Howey.

And you know what?  Maybe you all ought to shut yourselves up in a big grain silo for a decade or two just to get some inspiration for your next writing project.  God knows the world would be a better place without all you damn hippies in it.

The salt mines are still hiring, by the way.  GET A JOB!

Anyway, it’s Valentine’s Day.  The day of love.  Amor, mon cheri.  I know this comes as no surprise, but back in my day, I was quite the ladies’ man.

Why, when Gertie and I started going steady, I used to whisper sweet nothings in her ear like “Where’s my damn sandwich?” and “My dirty pants aren’t going to launder themselves.”

And Gertie was no slouch either.  Why, I remember one day we were taking a romantic walk through the drug store to pick up my hemorrhoid medication, the kind I like in the tube with the applicator tip, and she said to me, “Well, what the shit, I guess if I could do any better than you, Hardassimo, I’d of done it by now.”

Now that’s love.


Gertrude “Aunt Gertie” Scrambler – Last seen working her way through every roadie employed by a Grateful Dead tribute band.

Nothing spells love like settling, 3.5 hippy readers.  And for those of you at home stuffing your free Dairy Queen blizzards in your suckholes and reading a blog that only attracts an audience of 3.5 readers, let me ask you this:

Have you considered settling?

Listen, I get it.  You have dreams.  You’re probably young and you’ve been led to believe crazy ideas like “I’m special” and “I deserve good things to happen to me” and “I believe in myself so all my dreams will come true.”

Look, that may all be well and good but lets face it.  Ladies, your Prince Charming is not riding up on his noble steed any time soon and men, a bus load of bikini models is not going to ever hire you to be their towel boy either.

If you’re alone this Valentine’s Day and you’re reading this pathetic excuse for a blog, then there’s a statistically high probability that you are what my nephew Bookshelf Q. Battler might call a C.H.U.D. and he doesn’t mean that in a disrespectful tone.  He’d be the first to tell you that he is one.

Hell, I tell BQB that he looks like a  “Cannibalistic Humanoid Underground Dweller” all the time and he never thanks me for it.  Don’t blame him for his rudeness.  He’s a blood relative on Gertie’s side of the family, so he never had the chance to inherit his Uncle Hardass’ good manners, looks, hard worth ethic, or his general ability to display kindness and sensitivity.

Look, if you millennials have come to me for advice about your love lives, you’ve come to the wrong place.  Way back when I was a youngster if a man liked a woman he’d ask her out on a date to the malt shoppe and if he had a good job and wasn’t a damn communist, her father would push her out the door like any God fearing American would have done at the time.

Ahh, but you new age young people have it all ass backwards now.  Ask a girl out on a date today and you’ll get accused of intruding on her “safe space” with a “micro aggression.”

Ladies, I’m not saying you have it any better now either.  Women used to be able to bat their eyelashes at a man they liked and that was it.  Now if you do that the guy’s liable to reach into his man purse and offer you a dab of his manscara.

That wasn’t a gay joke.  That was a straight men have become just as bad as women are at primping themselves all the time joke.  My nephew BQB has informed me that one errant gay joke is enough to leave you labeled as being worse than Charles Manson these days and I for one have always been an advocate for the gays.  As long as they work hard, pay their taxes and mow their damn lawns then I could care less what they do behind closed doors. More cooter for me, I say.

But I digress.  Let me return to the topic of settling.

If you’re reading this blog and you are alone on Valentine’s Day….SETTLE!

YOU!  Yes you.  The gal reading this dumb blog while you’re petting a calico cat with one hand and scooping  Ben and Jerry’s into your face hole with the other.

Why aren’t you settling?

You think I’m being mean here but I’m not.  Most of the time I am but not this time.  What was going through your mind when you rejected that geek that you met at your friend’s party last week?  You know.  That loser with the dopey glasses who couldn’t stop talking about the “Settlers of Catan Strategy Club” he’s in.

He called you and left a message.  Why haven’t you called that asshole back yet?

Oh I know.  “Some day things are going to turn around.  I’m going to blossom into a beautiful butterfly and Brad Pitt is going to knock down my door.”

Yeah.  Well.  Look.  One day he might.  One day my dumbass nephew might get a real job too.  Until God starts passing out miracles, call that dufus up and go on a date with him, will you?  What have you got to lose?

Holy shit.  He’s a C.H.U.D.  You’re a C.H.U.D.  Why are you damn C.H.U.D.s at home alone, stroking your ugly pets alone, watching TV alone, when you could be snuggled up nice and tight together as a hideous C.H.U.D. couple, getting a start on your bright C.H.U.D. future together and working on making some C.H.U.D. babies to scare the shit out of the nurses in the maternity ward?

I’ll tell you why.  To quote Marcellus Wallace in that Pulp Fiction movie that my stupid nephew used to watch on a continuous loop when he was growing up, “That’s pride talking.”

Yes.  You’ve convinced yourself that Brad Pitt is just around the corner.  Keep yourself single so you’ll be ready when Brad wakes up one day in his damn mansion, turns to his wife, Angelina Jolie and cries, “Holy shit, Angelina!  I’m sorry but I just realized I’m attracted to she-C.H.U.D.s with a penchant for overweight felines and novelty Vermont based ice cream products!”

Is there anything wrong with you for wanting better?  No.  That’s just human nature.  Shit, the day you stop wanting more is the day they outfit you for a pine box.

Keep wanting better but Jesus, take what you can get in the mean time.  If the bazillion to one shot that Brad leaves Angelina for you ever works out in your favor, then you can let the C.H.U.D. boyfriend you settled for go.  Maybe see if Brad can toss him a few bucks so he can get some plastic surgery to look less hideous so he can find a babe to replace you.

Holy Shit, I’ve dated myself, haven’t I?  None of you dummies know who Brad and Angelina are do you?  Who are the C.H.U.D. millennial girls hoping knocks on their door?  Justin Beiber?  Shit.  I have no idea.

Men, take a knee because your dumb asses aren’t getting off the hook easy either.  All you male C.H.U.D.s at home playing video games in your mother’s basement instead of asking that girl who works at the Arby’s that you visit three times a day to toss big beef and cheddars down your gullet.  Why don’t you ask her out?  What?  Because she has crooked teeth and a hair lip?

Shit.  I’m sure she’s still a nice gal.  Take her out to a few movies then once you get her in the sack you can plant some subliminal messages around the house.  Put a free coupon for lip waxing in the magazine she’s reading.  Tell her you have no idea how it got there.  Put an orthodontia documentary on the TV and blast it on high while she’s sleeping.  Maybe it’ll sink in.

Or just say screw it and learn to love her for her Yeti lip and snaggle teeth because let’s face it, you’re fatter than most planets and you could sell the rights to your face to Halloween mask companies.  Stop holding out for Blake Lively.  Blake Lively would not touch your diseased micro phallus if it was the only option to keep an alien race from exploding a thermonuclear bomb inside the Earth’s core.

Yeah.  Shit.  When I put it like that you want to call that Arby’s cashier up now, don’t you?

And just as the dopey gal with the cat can drop her C.H.U.D. boyfriend if Brad shows up, you too can show the Arby’s girl the door if Blake Lively falls out of love with her handsome movie star husband Ryan Reynolds and decides she’s been missing out when it comes to the micro genitalia of men that play video games in their mothers’ basements all day.

Yes, I know you young folk have been raised with perpetual pats on your back for doing nothing and participation ribbons for just showing up and you were taught to expect that every one of your wildest dreams will come true, so you may hate my guts for dousing you with this cold water but I’m really doing you a favor here.

I worry about you C.H.U.D.s.  I really, really do.  I’m not just saying that either.  Right now there’s a lonely she-C.H.U.D. and a lonely he-C.H.U.D. reading this and those C.H.U.D.s could be out having a swell time together on Valentine’s Day instead of wasting their time alone, apart, with nothing better to do than read my incompetent nephew’s bullshit blog.


You ugly people should be together, having a good time, talking, laughing, getting to know each other and should the mood strike, exploring each others’ hideous, disgusting bodies, the types of bodies that Brad and Blake wouldn’t touch with rubber gloves covered in disinfectant.

Look, I wanted Rita Hayworth but I settled for Gertie.  And Gertie wanted Frank Sinatra but she got stuck with me.  We each wanted better but we weren’t dummies.  Like a lousy strip mall insurance lawyer, or a new house on a rickety foundation, we settled and you should too.

But Uncle Hardass, why are you telling me to settle for someone who treats me like shit and is mean to me and steals all my money and hits me and so on?

Jesus.  You 3.5 readers have reading comprehension problems.  I didn’t say settle for someone who’s a total asshole or doesn’t treat you with the dignity you deserve and shit, you don’t even have to settle for someone you don’t like or aren’t interested in.  If, for whatever reason, they just aren’t greasing your spark plugs, you don’t have to seem them again.  Don’t settle for someone if you don’t foresee any possible way of being in love with them.

All I’m saying is, at the risk of sounding hokey,  we’re all God’s children, made as he made us, aren’t we?

Ladies, go on a date with that geek.  Fellas, go on a date with that she-nerd.  Worst that happens is you don’t have a good time, it doesn’t feel right, and you don’t go out again.  Best that happens is you gave it a shot and you end up having a great time with someone you’d like to get to know better and you aren’t waiting around for something to happen.  Something is actually happening instead.

All I’m saying is you might be missing out on the love of your life for some dumb superficial reason, you dumbass.

Eh, but what do I know?  The more I watch the news, the more it seems like everyone’s an asshole these days so maybe all you single people are better off alone.  The world’s falling apart, so no need to procreate just to hand a shitty world to a new generation of losers who will cock it all up even worse than it is now, if that’s even possible.

Happy Valentine’s Day, lonely 3.5 readers.  Buck up, keep a stiff upper lip, and better luck next year.

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

Things That Really Frost My Ass – Christmas Edition


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?


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 , , , , , , ,

Character Profile – Uncle Hardass


REAL NAME:  Hardassimo J. Scrambler

NICKNAME: Uncle Hardass

BIOGRAPHY:  Hard work.  It’s the mantra that Uncle Hardass lived his life by, and a virtue he pushed on his nephew/adopted son Bookshelf Q. Battler.

Ahh, even today one of BQB’s fondest/worst memories is when Uncle Hardass came home from work one evening to find a young BQB eating junk food and hanging out with a bunch of his friends.

Uncle Hardass shouted, “BQB, what the hell are you doing?  Lollygagging around when decent folk are slaving away in the salt mines. Get a job ya’ bum!”

His wife, Aunt Gertie quickly replied, “Oh leave him alone, Hardassimo!   You’re ruining his third birthday party!”

“That’s no excuse” was Uncle Hardass’ answer and it certainly wasn’t one for him when he was a boy.  There is literally not a single time period of his life when he wasn’t working.  Consider:

  • X-rays showed that he spent his time in his mother’s womb untwisting his umbilical cord
  • He went to work immediately upon birth, organizing medical equipment for the doctor who delivered him.
  • Turned himself into a baby scrub brush by wrapping himself in rags and rolled around his parents’ kitchen floor to keep it clean.
  • Accepted employment at Salt Mines Inc. as soon as he was able to crawl (child labor laws were lax back then) and remained employed there until he died from a pastrami induced heart attack five seconds before his retirement party began.  This led to the completion of his one and only desire – to live a life in which there was never a second when he wasn’t being productive.

Yes, Uncle Hardass was busy one and he was sure to let others know it. On his way to work, he’d drive past East Randomtown Park and shout profanity at lousy hippies who were having picnics when they should be working.  It was his favorite pastime.

He never slept, opting instead to take a second job as an overnight newspaper deliveryman.  Many East Randomtown residents recall being woken up in the middle of the night by a fist pounding on their doors, followed by the voice of a gruff old man shouting, “Get up off your ass and read your damn paper, ya’ lousy hippie!”

BQB recalls an Uncle that was very hard on him.  Uncle Hardass despises writers, openly mocking them with, “Oooo la dee da!  I’m a writer!  I have opinions! My voice must be heard!  Bah, get a job at the salt mines ya’ lazy bastard!”

And while BQB ignored the advice about writing, he took the part about hard work and applies it to his craft.

Thus, our nerdy blog host will always have a love/hate relationship with his Uncle.  Hardass often mocked BQB’s aspirations, but at the same time, was the only adult in his life who let him know that he wasn’t “a special snowflake” and would have to work hard to succeed.

BQB was saddened when Hardass died but saw a ray of sunshine in that he wouldn’t have to listen to his uncle criticize his every move anymore.

That ray lasted for five minutes, quickly disappearing when BQB came home from Hardass’ funeral only to find a ghostly apparition in his uncle’s form, shouting, “JESUS CHRIST, SHUT THAT F%$KING DOOR! WHAT ARE YOU TRYING TO DO?  HEAT THE WHOLE NEIGHBORHOOD ON MY DIME?  GET A JOB YOU LOUSY HIPPY!”

It should be noted that BQB does have a day job but that never mattered to Uncle Hardass.  Whether you’re the President of the United States or a bus station janitor, if you don’t work at the salt mines, he’ll tell you to get a job.  You’re just not working hard enough, and certainly not as hard as he ever did.

Alas, BQB will never know a life without a grumpy old man criticizing him.  But luckily, Uncle Hardass has slowed down and embraced retirement in death, now spending most of his time watching TV and writing his column, “Things That Really Frost My Ass,” a litany of complaints about whatever is drawing his ire at any given moment.

Yes, if complaining ever becomes an Olympic sport, Uncle Hardass will win a gold medal.

Do you have something fun to complain about?  Share it with Uncle Hardass and maybe he’ll share it in his next column.

Tagged , , , ,

Things That Really Frost My Ass – Thanksgiving Edition

By:  Uncle Hardass, Grumpy Old Man Correspondent


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?


“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 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?”


“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.


“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.

“Say it.”


“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.


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 , , , , , , , , , , ,