Buy my book! Buy it! Buy it now! Buy it immediately!
Or don’t. See if I care.
Buy my book! Buy it! Buy it now! Buy it immediately!
Or don’t. See if I care.
As the song goes, the best things in life are free, 3.5 readers.
Well, that’s correct, because my books are life changing experiences and I don’t think that’s too much hype, or maybe it is. I don’t know. Know what I do know?
All this week.
I know you’re busy, but you’d be doing me a favor if you’d grab one, or better yet, leave a nice review (that you agree with of course.)
Hey 3.5 readers.
Your old pal BQB here.
It’s official. I have now written 3,500 posts for 3.5 readers. This is not my 3,500th post. My last post was that one. This is the post to let you know that 3,500 posts have been posted.
Thank you, 3.5 readers. It has been a joy to entertain all 3.5 of you. Sometimes I wish you would each tell a friend so I could have 7 readers, but a good writer never looks any gift readers in the mouth.
Actually, after this one, only 9.
And then I will have written 3,500 posts for 3.5 readers.
Should I do anything special for my 3,500th post?
My Big Book of Badass Writing Prompts, available for your reading pleasure, 3.5 readers:
Smegma shrugged his shoulders. “Happens to the best of us. Just wash it off in the sink and I’m sure it will be…”
The bathroom door opened. The buxom blonde came rushing out and hid behind the studly spy. Smegma poked his head into the bathroom to find a three-foot long swordfish. It was flopping about the cramped room, smashing into this and that. On the whole, it appeared relatively harmless, save its long, razor sharp nose.
Smegma gasped. “Toilet swordfish! This must be the work of…”
Clap. Clap. Clap.
Slowly, the agent turned and watched as a man exited the cockpit. He wore khaki pants, a black polo shirt and had a long, bushy black beard. He carried a large, black duffel bag. He slapped his hands together as he approached.
“Congratulations, Mr. Smegma. You’re not as dimwitted as I thought.”
“Meanwhile, you’re dumber than ever if you thought you’d be able to take me out with a fish nose up the ass, Hakeem.”
Bonanza raised her hand. Smegma acknowledge her. “Yes?”
“I’m sorry,” Bonanza said. “It’s just so typical of males to assume that every woman in the room already knows what he knows. Would you explain?”
Smegma sighed. “If I do, will you accuse me of mansplaining?”
Bonanza looked up. She took a few seconds to think. “Not this time.”
The agent nodded. “This is the international terrorist Hakeem Abdul Qassab, a top lieutenant in the Fatwah Brigade. If their leader, Sheikh Omar al-Mutairi decides you’ve offended his disgusting, perverted version of the Islamic faith, he’ll send one of his errand boys to end your life.”
Smegma looked at the fish, still flopping around in the bathroom. “A pity for the Sheikh that good help is hard to find.”
Qassab smiled. “I admit that out of all the toilet animals Dr. Malfeasor offered, the toilet swordfish is truly the lamest. However, you get what you pay for. Perhaps if your country, the Great Satan that is the United States, would stop looting and raping our lands for five minutes, the Sheikh would be able to afford something truly badass, like a toilet stingray or a…”
“Enough small talk,” Smegma said. “The pilot?”
The terrorist set his bag down on a seat. “I forced him engage the autopilot just before I sent him to hell. Care to join him?”
“That’s a date I’ve been postponing for quite some time now.”
Qassab unzipped the duffel bag. “Oh, Mr. Smegma. I think you’ll be making that appointment this time.”
“Then I’ll be sure to say hello to your brothers,” Smegma said. “How many did I send there again?”
The terrorist waved his finger in Smegma’s direction. “They are not in hell! They are basking in the glory of heaven where 72 virgins will wait on them hand and foot and take care of their every need and desire for all eternity.”
Smegma scoffed at that notion. “Meh.”
“No,” Qassab said. “What?”
“I don’t want to rain on your parade.”
“Please,” Qassab said. “Rain away. I’m nothing if I can’t accept a little constructive criticism.”
“Well,” Smegma said. “It’s just that, they’re virgins for a reason you know.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean,” Smegma said. “If you’ve got fully grown, adult female women who died and ended up in heaven and they never once touched a penis, then they’re pretty lame.”
Bonanza inserted herself into the conversation. “Unless they chose to abstain from penis out of their own free will as strong, independent women.”
Qassab pointed at Bonanza, but directed his eyes to Smegma. “Will you shut that bitch up and tell her that men are talking?”
Smegma smirked. “You forget in the West, women have rights.”
The terrorist laughed. “Ha! The great, world renowned ladies’ man, Dirk Smegma, standing up for a woman. Now I’ve seen everything. You have become, how you say, beta cuck bitch boy, yes?”
“Something like that,” Smegma replied.
Qassab and Smegma locked eyes. The terrorist unzipped his bag and pulled out a sedated swordfish. It was devoid of any movement, perfectly still. He held it by the tail and pointed the sharp end at Smegma. “En garde!”
The spy kept his cool as he stared down the end of that incredibly pointy fish schnoz. On pure instinct, he reached into the bathroom and punched the floppy fish in the face, knocking it out cold. He then grabbed its tail and pointed the fish toward the terrorist. “Touche!”
Clang, clang, clang! Like a scene straight out of The Three Musketeers, Smegma and Qassab exchanged a dazzling array of thrusts and parries, each more powerful than the last. As they each struggled to be the last man standing, Attorney Bonanza couldn’t help but offer some commentary. “I can’t watch this. There’s way too much toxic masculinity here.”
Qassab struck at Smegma and missed, giving the agent the wiggle room he needed to kick the terrorist in the stomach, causing him to stumble backward.
“Oh, what a senseless display of violence!” Bonanza cried. “What could possibly be the root of all this?”
Qassab charged at Smegma, hoping to stick the spy in the gut with his swordfish. As he did so, he shouted, “Allahu Akbar!”
The grim spectacle made the luscious babe feel feint. She raised the back of her hand, held it against it forehead and looked upward towards the heavens, or at least, the ceiling of the plane’s interior. “Why is this happening?”
Smegma dodged the attack and locked his swordfish with Qassab’s. Clang, clang, clang! The battle was epic and there was no end in sight, for each man was, strangely enough, quite skilled in the art of swordfishplay.
“I will kill you in the name of the prophet, Smegma!” Qassab cried.
Clang, clang, clang!
“What on earth could be causing this sad display?” Bonanza asked herself.
Clang, clang, clang!
“Today is the day you die!” Qassab shouted. “For I, the great Hakeem Abdul Qassab, will destroy you in the name of Islam!”
Bonanza collapsed in a seat. “Oh, we may never know.”
The lady’s persistent questioning distracted Qassab. He looked towards the woman. “Filthy whore! Get the shit out of your ears! I’m telling you directly and very succinctly that I am about to murderer this son of a motherless cow in the name of Allah and Islam!”
“The motivation of this attack will forever be a mystery!” Bonanza shouted back.
Smegma took advantage of the confusion by punching Qassab in the face. “Don’t call her a whore! That’s slut shaming!”
At that moment, Smegma made a critical error by looking at Bonanza in the hopes of acquiring her approval. She nodded. “Thank you. It is. However, Agent Smegma, the optics of your current predicament are quite abysmal.”
Bam! Smegma’s face contorted as it accepted a shoe attached to a foot that was delivered by a roundhouse kick. Clang, clang, clang! Terrorist and spy traded swordfish blows again.
“The optics?!” Smegma asked.
Bonanza stood up in front of her seat. “Yes! The sight of you, a white, Anglo-Saxon male of European descent, a cultural Christian attacking a person of color…”
Qassab got the upper hand on his opponent by cornering Smegma against a wall. The terrorist gripped his hand around the spy’s face. Smegma’s eyes focused on the sharp swordfish nose that Qassab was bringing closer and closer. Despite it all, Smegma managed to defend himself from Attorney Bonanza’s protestations. “He started it!”
Smegma kneed Qassab in the groin, sending the terrorist to the floor in a spent heap.
“Did he?” Bonanza asked. “Or did America start it when…”
The agent lifted his leg and brought his foot down on Qassab’s chest. “Look, I’m not a racist.”
“Anyone who starts a sentence with, ‘I’m not a racist’ is most assuredly about to say something racist,” Bonanza said.
Qassab had been weakened by the attack on his testicles, but he managed to back Bonanza up. “She’s got you there.”
“All I’m trying to say is that Islam has a problem.”
In unison, Qassab and Bonanza let out the same reply. “Oh my God!”
“The nerve!” Bonanza added.
Qassab spit up a bit of blood. “I know, right?”
“Agent Smegma,” Bonanza said. “Are you oblivious to the fact that acts of terrorism are often committed against people of color by white Christians who believe their violence is justified by their religion?”
Smegma sighed. “I’m not saying there aren’t bad apples in every bunch.”
“Oh,” Bonanza said. “Here we go.”
Qassab coughed and winced from the pain he was in. “Spare us your platitudes, klansman!”
Smegma pointed downward at Qassab. “I’m just saying the number of apples in HIS bunch is higher than average.”
Bonanza and Qassab gave the same reply. “Oh my God!”
“I can’t believe you schtupped this guy,” Qassab said.
“You heard that?” Bonanza asked.
“I’m sorry,” Qassab answered. “There’s an intercom in the cockpit that lets you hear everything going on back here. I wasn’t trying to pry, I just shot the pilot in the head before I asked him how to turn it off. My bad.”
Bonanza shot Smegma a cold stare. “You really think this way, don’t you?”
“Dar….” Smegma stopped himself from using the word “darling,” but felt the title of attorney was too formal for the situation. “Cooter, please understand, the world isn’t black and white.”
“Oh,” Bonanza said. “Now you’re just going to casually throw around words like ‘black’ and ‘white’ without considering the underlying racial implications?”
“They’re just words!” Smegma shouted.
“Ugh!” Bonanza said. “Now it all makes sense.”
“What does?” Smegma asked.
“I’m starting to figure out why I’ll feel like you retroactively raped me in 2060,” Bonanza said.
Qassab choked and gasped. “What’s wrong with rape? A little rape never hurt anyone.”
Bonanza ignored that statement as she looked to Smegma. “You disgust me. You’re so blinded by your white privilege that you can’t see what a monster you’ve become.”
“I’m not saying that EVERY Muslim is a bad person,” Smegma said. “In fact, there are, last time I checked, 1.8 billion followers of the Islamic faith in the world, so if they wanted to, they could conquer the globe and impose their will on us all easily. The fact that they don’t tells us that the majority of devotees to the Islamic faith are fine, upstanding people who are just looking to live lives of peace and prosperity and have no desire to harm anyone.”
Qassab spit on the floor. “Pbbht! Wretched dogs! They have no right to call themselves true Muslims if they do not adhere to the Fatwah Brigade’s version of Islam, for it is the one and only true version! Oh, I would burn all 1.8 billion of them alive if I could!”
“See?” Smegma said. “It’s worth mentioning that peaceful Muslims are victimized the most by radical Islamists.”
“I’ve never liked the term ‘radical Islamist,’” Qassab said. “It sounds like I should be skateboarding down a half-pipe or something.”
“And you don’t think there are violent Christians out there?” Bonanza asked.
“I never said there weren’t,” Smegma said. “And I never said that Christians who perpetrate violence should get a free pass for their evil deeds. You’re confusing things quite needlessly.”
“Am I?” Bonanza asked. “So, if a Muslim commits an act of terror, he’s a terrorist, but if a white Christian male commits an act of terror, he’s crazy, right?”
“Sometimes, yes,” Smegma said. “Other times, no. It’s all very muddled up, but I’ll concede that sometimes there are people of the Islamic faith who will suffer from mental illness and commit an act of violence as a result of that illness and that shouldn’t be counted against the Islamic faith as a whole just as the acts of violence perpetrated by mentally ill white Christians shouldn’t be held against all white Christians.”
“Oh,” Bonanza said. “But acts of terror committed by sane Muslims should be held against all Muslims, but acts of terror committed by sane white Christians shouldn’t be held against all white Christians?”
Qassab laughed. “She’s got you there, white devil.”
“I think anyone who commits an act of terror should be held responsible for that act of terror,” Smegma said. “And broader arguments that it is the fault of everyone who shares the terrorists race or religion are ridiculous.”
“Finally,” Qassab said.
“Now we’re getting somewhere,” Bonanza added.
Smegma cleared his throat. “I just think…
“Oh boy,” Qassab said.
“And now you’re going to ruin it,” Bonanza added.
“…that statistically speaking, members of the Islamic faith, as a whole, could do a little more to purge the bad actors out of their communities, ostracize and cast out those who are preaching hate and twisting their faith for their own evil ends.”
All the color drained from Bonanza’s face. “I think I’m going to be sick.”
Qassab guffawed from his spot under the agent’s foot. “Smegma, you oblivious douche! Do you really think that some old Muslim granny sitting in her rocking chair is going to be able to nag me out of existence? Me, who runs around blowing up buses and trains and chops the heads off infidels and…”
Smegma threw up his hands. “This is going nowhere.”
“Tell me about it,” Bonanza replied.
“Can I try to make on last point?” Smegma asked.
“If you must,” Bonanza said.
“This ought to be good,” Qassab said.
“When it comes right down to it, there’s more to all of us that unites us than there is that divides us. Surely, all the people of the world can set aside their cultural, racial and religious biases and accept a universal standard of right and wrong, and good people from all races, colors and creeds should stand together, united against bad people of all races, colors, and creeds. Evil isn’t a particular race, or religion, or color. Evil is just evil, and wherever you are, whoever you are, it has an uncanny ability to weave its way into the hearts of men and women alike. This isn’t a racial war or a religious war. Right will always be right and wrong will always be wrong, race, sex, or religion be damned.”
Bonanza and Qassab were silent for a time.
“Fucking pussy!” Qassab said.
“White nationalist!” Bonanza added.
Smegma gave up on the argument. He gripped his swordfish with both hands and raised it high in the air, ready to bring the sharp end down on his opponent’s head. “Enough talk! This ends now!”
Wham! Qassab’s boot connected with Smegma’s groin. The agent dropped his fish and fell to the floor, doubled over in pain.
“Mommy!” Smegma cried.
The terrorist jumped up to his feet and dusted himself off. He looked to the blonde. “Thank you, spoiled rotten, mouthy American bitch! Your insolent failure to defer to your man bought me the time I needed to rest and gather my strength so that I could smash Smegma’s gonads!”
“Ergh,” Smegma said as he writhed around on the floor. “Hoisted on…my own…petard!”
“Thank you, foolish woman,” Qassab said. “And as you meet your imminent death, know that one day, when the Fatwah Brigade rules over all it surveys, big mouthed broads such as yourself will be put in their place. You will scrub the floors, wash the dishes, do the laundry, clean the house, make the meals, give men all the sex they require, perform all requested maneuvers in the bedroom, and when you are not in use, you will be chained to a radiator or failing that, the largest immobile object available. Failure to comply with a man’s orders will result in your death, followed by immediate replacement with a younger, more obedient wife-slave.”
“Ugh,” Smegma said as he grabbed his balls. “You know, Hakeem, when you lay it all out like that, it doesn’t sound like such a bad deal.”
Qassab laughed. “I know, right?”
“I mean, it’d be a terrible deal for the women,” Smegma said. “Positively dreadful. For me, it would be great though.”
“Yeah, well,” Qassab said. “Only a dumbass fails to do what is best for him.”
“Makes me…” Smegma coughed. “Makes me think I’ve been fighting for the wrong team all along.”
“You have,” Qassab said. “Stories of how you use and loose women are abundant all over the globe, Mr. Smegma. You could have joined us and been rewarded with a wife-slave that you could have literally used as a foot stool, but alas, you bought into all that American red, white and blue propaganda.”
“Tell me about it,” Smegma said.
“Pity,” Qassab said.
“I know,” Smegma said. “Here I am, busting my ass, trying to protect Western women from the likes of you, and here one is, taking your side.”
Bonanza stomped her foot. “I’m not taking his side. I just don’t think everyone who looks like him should be blamed for what he does.”
“We always agreed on that point, Cooter,” Smegma said. “We just had different ways of saying it.”
Qassab checked his watch. “Well, Mr. Smegma and Miss Bonanza, I’d love to stay and continue this round robin circle jerk of political punditry, but I must bid you adieu, for I neglected to mention that five minutes ago, I began the timer for a bomb I left in the cockpit and that was, oh, roughly four minutes and thirty seconds ago.”
The terrorist located his duffel bag, reached inside, and pulled out a packed parachute. He strapped it to his back, then made his way to the exit door. He turned the latch and the door swung open, causing massive amounts of air to come rushing inside.
“Did I forget to mention I bogarted the one and only parachute?” Qassab asked. “Whoops! My bad! Goodbye!”
And with that, Qassab tumbled backward out of the plane. Smegma raised his hand. The blonde ran over, grabbed it, and helped the wounded man up.
“Truce?” Bonanza asked.
“Truce,” Smegma answered as he ran to the cockpit. There, he saw the slumped over body of the pilot, a bullet wound in his forehead. In the empty co-pilot’s seat, there was a pile of dynamite with an attached digital clock. It was counting down. “00:30…00:29…00…28…”
“Can we throw it out?” Bonanza asked.
Smegma noticed that the bomb was firmly strapped to the seat. “No.”
The agent grabbed the attorney’s hand and ran towards the open door, fighting against the rushing wind.
“What are you doing?!” Bonanza cried.
“I’m sorry but you’ll have to trust me!” Smegma said. “There’s no time to mansplain!”
When they reached the door, Smegma gathered Bonanza in a warm, passionate embrace.
“Do I have your consent?” Smegma asked.
“Of course,” the lady replied.
“Now and forever?”
“Now? Yes. Forever? I don’t know. I’ll let you and the rest of the world know on Lifebox later.”
“Good enough.” Smegma kissed Bonanza, then pushed her out of the plane. He grabbed one of the prostrate swordfish from the floor, then immediately followed the lady out the door.
“Arrrgghhhh!” the blonde shouted as she and Smegma tumbled toward the earth without parachutes. “I didn’t consent to this!”
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.”
#451 – Why do boys get to do all the scouting? Why isn’t there an organization for Man Scouts? Look, nothing against boy scouts, but if I ever need some serious scouting to be done, I’m going to call on some grown ass men to do it.
#452 – If European, then I’mmapoopin.’
#453 – There are countless alternative versions of ourselves spread out across an infinite number of competing timelines. Ergo, it stands to reason that someone, somewhere, found this book funny.
#454 – If the piano man has to sing us a song, does the singer man have to play the piano?
#455 – Who is the idiot choosing to use a sponge over paper towels? Do you have any idea how many germs collect in sponges? Yeah, I said it and I don’t care what the sponge industry thinks.
#456 – I need to clone myself so I have someone to talk to. Another me is the only one who would ever understand me.
#457 – Groupthink is nothing to worry about. At least, that’s what the members of my “Everyone in My Demographic/Age Range/Sex/Gender/Religion/Occupation Club/Geographic Location/Political Party Club” told me during our recent ice cream social.
#458 – Like a bear, I eat a lot out of concern I may not be able to find good food later. Unlike a bear, I neglect to do the part where I just sleep through the entire winter and decline to eat anything. In conclusion, I’m fatter than a bear and not as intelligent.
#459 – When it comes to bodily hygiene, I’m for it.
#460 – I told my doctor he’s a quack, but he called fowl.
#461 – Don’t patronize me unless I start a business. Then patronize my business.
#462 – Frozen yogurt is just trans-ice cream. Discuss.
#463 – So much ennui, so little time.
#464 – I didn’t enjoy my tour in Vietnam. Remind me to fire my travel agent.
#465 – I’m such a Samantha.
#466 – I wish time had stopped forever in 1999.
#467 – I tried once. I didn’t enjoy it.
#468 – I’d like to become a falconer. Does anyone know where I can find a reasonably priced falcon?
#469 – I don’t even know where to start. Do you?
#470 – Vacations make me want to take a vacation.
#471 – I’m not made of musings, you know.
#472 – Will there ever be a rap version of Amazing Grace?
#473 – Donuts are neither dough nor nuts. Discuss.
#474 – The waiting room is next to the doing room.
#475 – A stadium full of puppies would be adorable, but where would one acquire so many puppies?
Below, inform me of your book projects, writing projects or barring that, projects you are working on so that you suck less in January 2020 than you do right now.
Hey 3.5 readers.
I’ve been writing this blog since 2014. Next March, it will be 5 years. My Christmas wish is that next year this little enterprise will actually start turning a profit. Toilet Gator will hopefully come out in 2019 and if a book about an alligator who eats people while they are pooping can’t make me a millionaire then I don’t know what will.
In the meantime, check out one of my books below and if you have a spare 99 cents, feel free to buy one.
What is your Christmas wish? Discuss in the comments.