Cynical Airline Denies "Pay It Forward" Frequent Flyer Miles, Haley Joel Osment Stranded at O'Hare

Predator Press

[LOBO]

At some point, one of the kids is going to inherit the LOBOnian Empire.

-And before you ask, no, I don’t intend on dying. But while the LOBOnian Empire is a vast and complex kingdom, it’s also often excruciatingly boring too: I wouldn’t have bothered having kids were it not for the need of someone to dump bestow it upon.

Regarding the ability to run said empire, it’s too early to tell with the youngest, Screechy. He's seven. At this age, he has the attention span of a gnat -no, that’s too moderate: picture a hyper spaz gnat, suddenly paroled from a ten-year stint in prison, jazzed up on a half gallon of expresso, and then dropped off immediately at the gnat equivalent of the Playboy Mansion. Scatter empty juice boxes in the most improbable places you can think of, stir in an insatiable appetite for restless eight-second viewings of Spongebob Squarepants, and there you go: Screechy.

I’m forced to admit Screechy’s cousin, a year older, currently looks a bit more promising: she’s not only focused, but she’s a conniving, relentlessly talkative tattletail that -over a long enough timeline- drives everyone in earshot murderously insane.

-As a potential heir, she’s light years ahead of any of my immediate brood.

Her name is, eh, Freckles or something I think. And at the request of my mother in law, I’m taking her to school this morning. This is not a big deal as Screechy goes to the same one -but as a consequence of the unexpected detour, were running the risk of being late.

“I’m going to be Darth Vader,” Screechy says of Halloween, tiny feet beating the pavement hard to keep up with us. I can’t see his face under the hood of his jacket, but you can tell by his voice he’s beaming. “I got the cape and the and the mask 'an lightsaber and everything!”

“I’m going to be a princess,” Freckles challenges.

We’re at the crowded and narrow school gate, and this is where the whole ‘bonding with the kids’ thing pays off for me and I humiliate them mercilessly: the last time we were here it was “Crazy Sock Day,” and in front of a boy Freckles has a crush on I pointed at the sign and announced loudly, “See? I told you. Crazy Sock Day -there’s no such thing as Crazy Face Day!”

Freckles -having no appreciation for the laughter she inadvertently provided- turned beet red and smoldered with mixed rage and embarrassment instantly.

Well that was only a week ago. She shoulda known better than to set me up with this ‘princess’ thing. And as a potential heiress to the LOBOnian Empire, she's going to have to learn to anticipate these things.

“You can’t be a princess,” I explain, wading through chattering waist-high traffic. “You have to be nice to be a princess. I think you guys should trade costumes.”

Wobbling dangerously under the weight of his backpack, Screechy punches my thigh. Simultaneously, Freckles doubles the distance between us.

“You’re a princess!” she taunts.

“Nice comeback, Potsie,” I says

-Because nothing cripples the logic of an eight year old little girl like ‘Happy Days’ references.

“I’m calling you princess from now on, Ha ha,” she says in sing-song, skipping. “Prin-cess, prin-cess … “

Under dozens of tiny amused stares I lost a beat pondering this. How bad could it be? I’m thinking. Nice cars, a big castle, and a cadre of servants … I could lay around poolside drinking margaritas. You know … eye candy. And make people try to slay dragons and stuff.

Assuming there’s no homosexual component, the only downside of being a princess I could think of would be having a tennis instructor and a fitness trainer … but surely my dungeon could always hold a few more, right?

Heck, I would probably make a kickass princess.

“Fine,” I says, aloof and to no one in particular in a British-sounding falsetto voice. Holding up my hand daintily, I swish a bit as I walk to her and stick my foot out. “And my first act as a monarch is to command you to kiss Our Royal Pinkie Toe.”

“You’re a jerk,” she says.

“Princess,” I correct.

Torque

Predator Press

[LOBO]

“I suppose,” I says, pacing back and forth across the room, “you’re all wondering why I’ve called you here.”

Complainy doesn’t miss a beat. “Because you haven’t found a job yet, and you’re slowly losing your mind?”

I stop and turn slowly to face my 16 year old daughter, but Screechy tugs on my leg. “Can I play Star Wars Legos?”

“No Star Wars Legos for anyone until I find out who did it,” I reply.

“Did what?” asks Terri.

“Something so vile and horrendous,” I says eyeing Shiftless warily, “the consequences will be dire.” I lean into a squirmy Shiftless and repeat in an ominous whisper, elongating two sylables slowly: “Die-re!”

“Mom he’s gone completely crazy,” says Complainy.

“Crazy like a fox!” I exclaim. “A crime-solving fox with X-Ray vision so’s he can peer into the dark hearts of evildoers!”

“Honey,” says Terri. “Would you please at least shave? You look like the guy in Cast Away.”

I look down at my own chest. Without a mirror I can’t quite see the beard yet, but it occurs to me that I’m in rumpled pajamas, an untied bathrobe and slippers.

-In and of itself this isn’t so weird, but it’s two o’clock in the afternoon.

I turn to Terri suspiciously. “And you sure seem to want to change the subject a lot!” I snap.

Shiftless is clearly losing patience. “So what is this ‘horrendous act’ you had to wake me up for?”

I grab the sheet and pause for a moment to build the drama. Then, in a quick, smooth motion I pull it away. Having revealed what was underneath, I point at it while facing them accusingly.

“What’s wrong with the television?” asks Terri.

My jaw almost falls open at her lack of observation.

I point again.

“Nobody messed with your crappy TV,” says Complainy.

“Can I play Star Wars Legos?” asks Screechy.

"There will be no fun in this household until justice is served!" Shaking with rage, I point a little closer to the upper left corner.

Terri squints. “What. Is it that fingerprint?”

Finally!

Rendered by fury unable to speak, I nod.

“So somebody probably touched the screen while we were moving it,” says Shiftless. “Heck it might’ve been you.”

“Silence!” I demand. “If 97 back-to-back episodes of Forensic Files have taught me anything," I says flatly, "It's that when you find a fingerprint there's been a crime. The last time I saw this television, it was snuggly chained between six mattresses and those six mattresses were encased in carbonite!"

“Can I play Star Wars Legos?” asks Screechy.

"-And I have further proof it was not me, as you have so clearly implied.” I show Shiftless the non-matching pads of my finger through my magnifying glass. “If you still think that print is mine," I add, "I’ve prepared a PowerPoint presentation we can go through later that illustrates the differences. My fingerprint is an ‘arch’ while this is clearly a 'whorl.'”

“Look honey,” says Terri from behind me. “It comes right off with a paper tow-“

“Stop!” I scream. “You’re contaminating the DNA!”

Torque

Predator Press

[LOBO]

“I suppose,” I says, pacing back and forth across the room, “you’re all wondering why I’ve called you here.”

Complainy doesn’t miss a beat. “Because you haven’t found a job yet, and you’re slowly losing your mind?”

I stop and turn slowly to face my 16 year old daughter, but Screechy tugs on my leg. “Can I play Star Wars Legos?”

“No Star Wars Legos for anyone until I find out who did it,” I reply.

“Did what?” asks Terri.

“Something so vile and horrendous,” I says eyeing Shiftless warily, “the consequences will be dire.” I lean into a squirmy Shiftless and repeat in an ominous whisper, elongating two sylables slowly: “Die-re!”

“Mom he’s gone completely crazy,” says Complainy.

“Crazy like a fox!” I exclaim. “A crime-solving fox with X-Ray vision so’s he can peer into the dark hearts of evildoers!”

“Honey,” says Terri. “Would you please at least shave? You look like Tom Hanks in Cast Away.”

I look down at my own chest. Without a mirror I can’t quite see the beard yet, but it occurs to me that I’m in rumpled pajamas, an untied bathrobe and slippers.

-In and of itself this isn’t so weird, but it’s two o’clock in the afternoon.

I turn to Terri suspiciously. “And you sure seem to want to change the subject a lot!” I snap.

Shiftless is clearly losing patience. “So what is this ‘horrendous act’ you had to wake me up for?”

I grab the sheet and pause for a moment to build the drama. Then, in a quick, smooth motion I pull it away. Having revealed what was underneath, I point at it while facing them accusingly.

“What’s wrong with the television?” asks Terri.

My jaw almost falls open at her lack of observation.

I point again.

“Nobody messed with your crappy TV,” says Complainy.

“Can I play Star Wars Legos?” asks Screechy.

"There will be no fun in this household until justice is served!" Shaking with rage, I point a little closer to the upper left corner.

Terri squints. “What. Is it that fingerprint?”

Finally!

Rendered unable to speak by fury, I nod violently.

“So somebody probably touched the screen while we were moving it,” says Shiftless. “Heck it might’ve been you.”

“Silence!” I demand. “If 97 back-to-back episodes of Forensic Files have taught me anything," I says flatly, "It's that when you find a fingerprint there's been a crime. The last time I saw this television, it was snuggly chained between six mattresses and those six mattresses were encased in carbonite!"

“Can I play Star Wars Legos?” asks Screechy.

"-And I have further proof it was not me, as you have so clearly implied.” I show Shiftless the non-matching pads of my finger through my magnifying glass. “If you still think that print is mine," I add, "I’ve prepared a PowerPoint presentation we can go through later that illustrates the differences. My fingerprint is an ‘arch’ while this is clearly a 'whorl.'”

“Look honey,” says Terri from behind me. “It comes right off with a paper tow-“

“Stop!” I scream. “You’re contaminating the DNA!”

Catch

Predator Press

[LOBO]

I originally wrote this in 2008, and the reason I remembered it today will be obvious.

-Should be writing more shlock soon.

One of the most fascinating and perplexing bonds people can have is the one with their children.

-You love and nurture them, clothe and feed them, teach them everything you know … all in preparation for the day when they will rise up to slay you, and thus rightfully assume the mantle of your vast and mighty empire.

And on this Father's Day of 2008, I was virtually certain my number was up.

I had no regrets ... it is the natural order of things. One day I’ll hear “catch!”, and one of my progeny will hurl a rounded white plastic explosive stuffed with lethal wire and molten rubber for shrapnel –all stitched together with a det cord primer.

It might be a baseball, but I don’t take any chances.

-They are my brood after all.

But LadyTerri and the would-be heirs opted for a rather strange way to commence with the Father’s Day ceremonial rite of passage. None of my entrails were spilled to be danced upon. In fact, to my knowledge it was virtually patricide free.

Since there was no point in pensively waiting for my iPod Touch (as there is no mail delivery on Sunday) we took the really small and loud one -eh, Screechy- to see “Kung Fu Panda” which was unexpectedly great.

Here’s where the teenager -eh, Shiftless, I think- blew it: while I was riveted to what will undoubtedly be regarded as the most important motion picture ever made by humankind ever, he could have crept up on me unawares in the Kung Fu Panda-induced darkness and beat me to death with cinderblocks and pointy sticks.

Nothing.

Later that day I found a used copy of The Best of Phillip K. Dick for $8 on Amazon.com and ordered it. But do you think the credit card was coated with deadly neurotoxins?

Zip.

… At this point, I started to doubt my lazy worthless kids were even trying.

The evening culminated into grilled grub and brews while watching a rather exciting Lakers/Celtics Finals game, and the short, loud one has been shooting me evil looks since he can’t play Lego Star Wars while the game is on.

Here we go, I figured. Screechy will climb up on a small stack of phone books behind the recliner, wrap the controller cable around my neck and swing straight into Destiny ...

... But to my shock and disappointment he started coloring quietly at the kitchen table.

I even tried to make it easy for them by conspicuously removing my bulletproof vest numerous times.

Still the night wore on without a single shot fired.

I cannot fault them, I decide. Perhaps they are simply not yet ready to seize the reins of my sprawling rule. They require more preparation, and it is my sacred duty to provide that until they are.

It was at that exact moment that I was brought a huge bowl of one of my favorite foods: Jalapeno poppers.

So this is the plan, I thought. Slowly poisoning me with a huge heaping deep-fried pile of cholesterol-laden death so my little black heart grinds to a standstill!

Wolfing them down hungrily, I eye them with glowing pride as a single tear rolls down my cheek.

They grow up so fast.

[*sniff*]

It Takes a Child to Raze a Village

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Playing a lot of Final Fantasy XII, I can only guess how many marriages and careers have been wrecked by this highly addictive game ... I’m already beginning to hallucinate little blue and red health bars hovering over people’s heads. But when Screechy (our six year old) was stricken by an unmerciful God with pinkeye, it kinda “shook me out of it.”

It was time for comedy.

A year or so ago Crackers, his oldest sister, playfully sprayed his neck with a perfume ... and as a result Screechy is also affectionately known as “Stinkneck.” Now of course with pinkeye, I say he has “Stinkeye” too. Psychotherapeutic technique is improving all the time, and he’s get a good ten years until then … let's get our laughs in early and often.

So I’m watching television and commiserating with him, and Go, Diego, Go! comes on. I’m immediately suspicious. I never trust children’s programming that wears punctuation like a two dollar whore, and in three words we have two commas and exclamation point. Is that even a sentence? Then it turns out this “Diego” character is a spinoff of another show called Dora the Explorer. So now I have huge chasms of missing information, and the first of which is their resemblance: is it a byproduct of the cartoon style, or is asking this question the equivalent of a racist comment on par with “all Hispanics look alike”?

Okay I’m like eight minutes into the show and I’m stressing out in a soiree of Politically Correct confusion. I speed-dial Terri, and she narrowly averts my cranial detonation with the news that Diego and Dora are indeed cousins -the likelihood if fast forwarding twelve years to find Dora putting a bullet in Diego’s noggin because he came home meth-addled and covered in lipstick, glitter, and Safari perfume are significantly reduced. This makes it all "come together" really: the glaring absence of Dora and Diego's parents -the ones that let their kids run around jungles and play with wild animals unsupervised- is now explainable ... they were obviously jailed long, long ago for child endangerment and neglect.

But just as I hung up the phone and the anxiety began to pass, Diego was now rescuing a Chinchilla on a breaking tree branch from falling into a waterfall with a hang glider. And even as I tried to piece together all the improbable physics required for this to occur, the Chinchilla looked at Diego and said -plain as day- “Gracias.”

Seething once again with questions, I tried to call Terri again ... but I kept getting her voicemail.

If the Chinchilla is bilingual, isn’t it fair to say that the stupid thing shouldn’t have been on that tree branch in the first place? And if I found out I just risked life and limb (and let’s face it: hang gliders are probably expensive) for a creature perfectly qualified to score a few hundred points on a SAT that I couldn't sue, I would be really mad.

And wouldn't a Chinchilla being rescued from falling into a waterfall by a kid on a hang glider be, well, freaky for a Chinchilla? This would be the human equivalent of a UFO abduction. Maybe the aliens are snatching up those people to try and explain why they should get the hell away from the trailer park before the tornado comes, but once confronted with the staggering opacity of the individuals, the discouraged aliens just anal probe the daylights out of them in sheer frustration.

Well, we’re all thinkin’ it so I’m just going to come right out and say it: we've been coddling the Chinchilla for far too long now, and it's high time they switched habitats with the trailer park people. The trailer park people would be far safer in the mountains where there aren’t any tornados, and the Spanish-speaking Chinchillas would probably know what to do with all those broken down El Caminos.

Anywho, be back soon.

“Backyardigans” is coming on.

Chi

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Having not been in a Dojo since Grand Master Futon awarded me my honorary white belt, little Screechy’s first karate class left me pondering my own illustrious martial arts career. That is where I developed the strict discipline and physical fitness I continue to emulate even today, and I consider it one of the most demanding -yet rewarding- weeks of my entire life.

-And Screechy is lucky to be following in my footsteps: a “legacy,” he too was bestowed with the rank of whitebelt on his very first day.

But the congratulatory ceremonies were cut short: just we were about to break out the traditional karate booze and piñatas shaped like ninjas, a bunch of kids wanting to play basketball started to harass some of the students.

Expecting a spectacular display of compound fractures and bloodletting, I was really disappointed when a small group of lowly blackbelts circumvented the incident entirely and without any violence whatsoever.

Why, when there must have been sixty or seventy of us deadly whitebelts in the auditorium, would three or four amateur blackbelts allow our sacred Dojo be besmirched thusly so? After doubtlessly devoting several hours studying the great Wisdom of the Orient, have these people learned nothing about when someone needs their ass kicked good an proper? Has all that effort and time learning to rip someone’s arm off and beat them to death with all gone to waste entirely?

This is why I will never become a Sensei.

An That's How I Found Out I'm Jewish

Predator Press

[LOBO]

“… and as a consequence,” Terri concludes, shutting her Bible, “The Jews are God’s Chosen People.”

Slowly coming out of a trance of binge writing, I pause on that random thought.

“I didn’t know I was Jewish,” I interject.

It’s the first thing I’ve said in forty minutes or so, and Terri, Screechy and Shiftless turn and stare at me blankly.

“What do you mean?” asks Terri cautiously. "We're not Jewish."

“Well I don’t want to brag, but if God has a 'Chosen People,'” I gesture to myself. “I’m clearly it. Ergo I’m Jewish, right?”

Screechy, six years old, rolls his eyes for the first time.

I’m so proud.

Sensing a religious discussion, Shiftless fidgets uncomfortably.

“Don’t mock religion,” Terri scowls. “It’s not funny.”

“Mock religion?” I defend. “I love religion. Heck, the two hours of church you guys go to on Sunday is the most peaceful this house is all week. Stop oppressing my people.”

“You’re going to start going to church too,” she insists.

“Then how will I know when my NFL teams need prayers?”

Terri shakes her head. “God doesn’t meddle with football games.”

“Yeah well maybe not with the Bears' anyway,” I concede.

“God is busy. He orchestrates the cosmos. He feeds the animals.”

“God feeds the animals the other animals,” I point out wandering to the kitchen. “Today is Friday, right?”

“Yes.”

Disappointedly, I gape into the refrigerator.

“Is KFC kosher?”

A Gift Certificate From 'Best Buy' Could Probably Fix This

Predator Press

[LOBO]

“Dad,” whines Screechy. “They wont let me watch Dora!”

On the one hand, the teenagers are quietly watching television.

-But on the other, being unemployed and bored has made me an increasingly dark and deeply-conflicted individual: the five-year old and both teenagers are available for my potential amusement.

“What!?” I’ll say, feigning shock. “Well, you tell them I said ‘hoop-boobli-flip flang!’”

-And dutifully, Screechy runs down the stairs, back into the living room, and announces with distant-yet-undeniable authority, “Dad said … !”

I have to hide my laughter as the rapid footsteps return.

“They didn’t listen!” he complains. “They just, well, stared at me!”

I scowl menacingly. “Oh really? Well you tell them I said, “Quit spoinking and flizz-flazzle!” But just as he begins to run back, I grab his shoulder and look him in the eye real serious-like. “Don’t forget to tell them ‘pttttthbt’ first.” Holding my thumb to my nose, I wiggle my fingers and wince crossed eyes for effect. “Remember. Pttthbt! -or it won’t work!”

He practices the hand motion. "Spoinking the flizz-flazzle!"

“Perfect,” I smile parentally.

-This is followed by running footsteps down the stairs, muffled cursing teenagers (possibly throwing objects), and then running footsteps up the stairs.

"It's not working," he points out, breathing heavily. "You have to put on Dora."

"Did you remember the 'pttthbt' thing?"

"Yes."

"-And the fingers?"

He demonstrates. "Uh huh!"

"You did it wrong. You have to use your other hand ..."

Zero

Predator Press

[LOBO]

“Why is it so cold in here?” I demand. “Jesus this pillow is mushy. And for what we paid, I thought this mattress would stay springy longer! Could we possibly find an alarm clock even more difficult to turn off? This coffee tastes like hibachied cat crap ... !”

“Mom,” asks Screechy. “Why does Dad always wake up like this?”

“He hasn’t been able to complain for about eight hours,” Terri explains. “He’s achieving equilibrium.”

Democracy

Predator Press

[LOBO]

“Mom,” says Screechy, our six-year old. “If you make one big plate of pork chops a week, it’s .08% less cholesterol. Plus dad will be awake 42% less, thereby mitigating our entire deductible.”

Terri whirls.

“Did he trick you into doing our insurance paperwork again?”

"He's taking out the garbage next month."

The Brood Network

Predator Press

[LOBO]

A vague dalliance with "Facebook" has given me an often-unrequested glimpse into the past, and friends from way back are beginning to build their own blogs and web page variants.

One remarked recently that Predator Press was weird.

"Weird!" I says indignant. "Just look at her site. It's like 1000 pictures of her kids she slapped together a few months ago."

"Blogging means different things to different people," Terri defended.

"Well that's weird if you ask me," I retort. "Putting up pictures and the names of your kids on the internet seems like an invitation to weirdoes. And if your audience is weirdoes, that's weird by definition."

"What's your point?" she asks sarcastically.

Skimming, I scroll down to the bottom of the page and find the following quote:


NO TO PLAGIARISM
***Please don't RIP nor COPY any CONTENTS here.***
***LEARN TO RESPECT***


"WTF?" I demand. "Like some retired international jewel thief is scouring the internet for pics of children to claim are his? Imagine the overhead on that operation," I surmise. "The child support alone would be staggering."

Terri chuckles over my shoulder. "She's obviously very protective."

I scowl checking the hit counter. "Well we got kids fair and square. I might want to capitalize on this idea while I can -particularly with Screechy on the verge of moving out on his own."

Terri stares. "He's seven."

"We can't coddle him forever!"

Dynasty

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Having caved to the pressure to move west, Terri and I took the kids to O’Hare yesterday so’s they could stay with relatives while we put our affairs in order.

The house is quiet without Screechy pointlessly runnin back and forth bangin’ and breakin stuff. And now instead of uselessly arguing for weeks with Shiftless, the lawn is getting mowed promptly. The phone is quiet and fully-charged in it’s cradle, cold to the touch in the absence of the medium-sized one one -eh, Complainy.

[*sigh*]

Who would’ve thought I would miss them?

I don’t have anyone to blame stuff on anymore!

[*sniff*]

Righteous Fire

Predator Press

[LOBO]

“Now why in the blazes would you come in here and tell me you’re watching gay porn?”

“I said I was watching a documentary on the Homo erectus,” replies Terri. “You should write about that. You know, Evolution versus Creationism.”

“For all I know, God created the Earth in a fraction of an instant -and that instant might have dilated into our perception of a hundred jillion years,” I says, shaking my head. “Predator Press isn’t taking sides on this one. We’re just going to wait and see who Jesus kicks the crap out of, and then go from there.”

Watching for gaps in Terri's scowl, I choose my next words carefully. “And speaking of Jesus," I continue "-a name veritably synonymous with ‘Forgiveness,’ I think I blew a fuse in the Predator Press Researchatorium.”

“You blew a fuse at the kitchen table?”

“Yes,” I complain. “There goes the entire 2010 budget for Predator Press R and D.”

“How did you do it?”

“I got it recycling some cans a few months ago.”

“No,” says Terri, irritated. “I mean how did you blow the fuse?”

"Well technically I didn't. The fire did."

"What fire?"

“You know how sick we are of Screechy watching that Pixar movie WALL-E?“

“Ugh,” says Terri. “Don’t even utter that word aloud.”

“Well, the reign of terror is over,” I says. “But I’m pretty sure the DVD took the toaster out with it.”

“You blew the fuse putting the DVD in the toaster?”

“Honey, can you please set your anger aside for a moment? We have just suffered a tragedy!” I put my hand on my heart. “I loved that toaster. And taking that DVD for us was the most courageous thing I‘ve ever seen a household appliance do.” Thinking quickly, I change the subject. “Let‘s get back to that 'Homo-Phobia' thing. Why in the world would I write about people afraid of houses? What homeless people do in the privacy of their own homes is none of our business.”

“I said Homo erectus!“

“For the last time I'm not doing gay porn,” I says with finality. "And I don't care how bad we want toast."

Nicole Richie Got LAID?

Predator Press

[LOBO]

The Global Scientific Community was rocked today by recent confirmation that Nicole Richie is indeed 'knocked up'.

Doctor Winifred Shaw, Head Researcher for the Darwin Institute, took a moment from looting the laboratory of microscopes and Petri dishes to clarify.

"For a long time now, we have lived in a shadow of doubt regarding Darwin's Theory of Evolution. This, finally, is a clear refutation. And think about it for a second. If Darwin's theory is correct, why are there still ugly people all over the place? What kind of creature looks at a screechy broomstick with a bad attitude and thinks "I simply must thrust my genitalia in that"?

Hurling a fire extinguisher through a rack of cathode tubes, doctor Shaw continues. "Barring the statistically improbable confluence of a blind recent parolee wearing earplugs and consuming heroic amounts of alcohol, we have no explanation for this whatsoever. Now if you will excuse me, I've had my eye on a supercollider on the fourth floor for years."

Predator Press and the Tomb of the Velvet Ropes

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Saturday I decided I needed to take out all the cash from the “Feed LOBO” fundraising effort.

Despite coming from Don Lewis, a buck is a buck. And after the government does it’s ‘Where’s My Money?’ shell game, that’s about 67 cents.

That’s mac and cheese money, baby.

In fact that’s Kraft mac and cheese money.

According to my calculatrons, I’m only a few weeks away from the salt, butter and milk required to complete the recipe.

Maybe I'll just go crazy and hold out for Velveeta.


***

A bank being open during Predator Press Month should have been my first sign of trouble. But I equate going to the bank with Purgatory: a sea of disinterested, dismantled vacant faces waiting in twisty and random excruciatingly slow roped queues.

They'll be open.

True, you might see one or two upon occasion that are still somehow faintly hopeful this is the line that leads to a thick, turbulent swill of soul-harvesting interest rates and mortgage loans. Not even dignifying them with full annunciation, we call them the 'Unngghhh' and nudge each other quietly when we spot them. And once awareness has been sufficiently raised, we taunt them with subtle mercilessness until they either 'join the ranks' or flip out, screaming in macabre frustration.

It’s this ‘screaming’ phase you don’t want. An un-culled Unnngh sobbing and screaming in line can make the hair on the back of your neck stand up. If the screaming phase takes too long, accelerate the process of permanently breaking their Will by tripping them frequently. Sneak a few kicks in if you can.

Every so often -if an unobserved opportunity presents itself- I’ll rearrange the ropes. I mean you never know, right? And if I can’t solve the maze in this manner, I’ll make them into a loop for the people behind me to wander through for all Eternity.

If, on the other hand, I solve the maze, I'll arrange the ropes so they’ll spill out at The Gap or something. The water bill remains unpaid, but they leave with their souls intact and a nice new cardigan.

Unless there's an Unghh behind me.

I hate those lousy Unngghs.


***

In this case, I solved the maze in an hour and twenty minutes. A record for me. Nervously peering over my shoulder, I discreetly slide the signed check and my driver’s license across to the teller.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “There appears to be a lien against any ‘Feed LOBO’ funds raised.”

I owe the Loyal Reader a sidebar explanation here: due to the money I blew for the 'Feed LOBO' telethon on entertainers, costumes, advertising, caterers and pyrotechnics, the first 4-5 million is supposed to come right off the top as overhead; I, conversely, contend that hideous and catastrophic fiscal debacle is not my fault, and should be blamed on lousy entertainers, costumes, advertising, caterers and pyrotechnics.

Various collection agencies apparently disagree.

“How dare you,” I demand. “Do you have any idea how much money I have in this bank?”

“It says here $6.87,” he says. “And apparently there’s a lien on that too.”

“Well I’m not going to keep my liquid cash here. It’s not safe!”

“Our impregnable vault was secretly designed and constructed from the outside in by two mysterious German engineers. Upon completion, it could only be opened from the inside –and those engineers are long since presumed dead.”

“How do you get the money in and out?”

“We don’t. We keep it in a mason jar on the fridge in the break room.”

"You can't do this," I explain calmly. "It's Predator Press Month for God's sake. What will the kids say?"

"You have kids? What are their names?"

"Shiftless and, eh, Screechy I think. In fact, that $6.87 is Shiftless' college fund."

"I'm sorry sir."

“Can I still play with that cool toy with the beads?”

"Only if you give all the pens back."

The Joy of Children

Predator Press

[LOBO]

I would have to say that my greatest flaw is my profoundly compassionate and care-giving selfless nature -and it is exactly this quality that completely wrecked up my Saturday.

Long story short, due to a family emergency I hadda do some babysitting.

Now, for those of you that don't know anything about kids, suffice to say they are tiny little screechy people with about sixteen arms and boundless energy. I'm not sure why God afflicted them with so many numerous obvious physical abnormalities, but I'm about 95% sure that it is Divine Punishment for all that screeching.

So this kid -I think he has a name, Joe or something-gets dumped at my house at the ungodly hour of 10:30 in the morning. On a Saturday. I'm like "WTF?", right? I need a good eight hours of sleep a night, and six or seven during the day or I can't function whatsoever. So I figure I'll find him some toys to keep him busy for a while, and I'll get back to my blissfully solitary snoozing.

I have no toys. None. Zip.

Armed only with my radiant braniosity, I needed a plan.


***

Taking him out to the garage, I figure, is a stroke of genius. I mean kids like power tools, right? And not in the house, he can screech his little heart out till his face turns blue: I wouldn't hear a damn thing.

The only thing I didn't account for was his freakishly small size. His hands are too small to hold drills, he's too short to effectively push the lawn mower, and the puny little bastard couldn't even lift the fucking chainsaw.

His awkward size thwarted my fun plans again and again. While too small to enjoy edging the sidewalk with my weed-whacker, he was too large to clean out my crawlspaces. Too heavy to dust the tops of my bookshelves. Too 'scared of the dark' to catch those rats in my basement. Bitch, bitch, bitch. I swear to God I have no idea why people have children in the first place.

My dad had a dog once, but the dog kept pissing and shitting on the carpet no matter how savagely beaten he got. So my dad took him out into the field, let him out, and drove off so Skippy could be wild and free just as God intended for poodles. Simple, right? But kids are infinitely sneakier; they memorize stuff like addresses, names, phone numbers ... I'll betcha this kid would be right back here in two or three weeks.

By 11:15, he's hungry and I have decisions to make. If I feed him, won't that make getting rid of him even more difficult? What if he just starts showing up on my doorstep at 10:30 every morning? Do I even have food?

Noon rolls around and the shit has scarffed down all my Pop Tarts, Lucky Charms, Eskimo pies, expresso, Mountain Dew, and Twinkies. I'm cleaned out save for four Heinekens (he apparently prefers dometics).

He ran around the house one hundred and sixty-seven times. I'm painfully aware of this, because every time he finished a lap, he came running into my bedroom to loudly proclaim his count: "Thirty-five!" he would screech, and then slam the door as he set out for number thirty six.

Right around lap seventy-one, I was making Kool-Aid popsicles in an empty ice tray. Immediately before sticking the little toothpicks in them, however, I added an entire bottle of Nyquil. By 2 o'clock they were frozen, and by 2:30 he was snoring loudly with four toothpicks and a big sticky blue stain on his chest.

He was still sleeping when his mom picked him up, and she asked how he behaved. It was then that I informed her that her offspring was a complete banshee from Hell, and that she should be imprisoned for unleashing such horrors upon an unsuspecting and otherwise peaceful planet.

Once the filthy whore and her insufferable hellspawn pulled out of the driveway, I stopped throwing Heinekens at the car. It wasn't that I couldn't hit it anymore, I just didn't want the inevitable wayward one to hideously crash through her windshield and wake that little prick up again.

Shrugging, I go back into my house and head back to bed. My walls, now covered in tiny blue handprints and Twinkie residue, serve as a mute reminder of my horrible and hellish experience.

All and all, I think it went pretty well.

How I Got Back on the Board of Education

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Being back in the Principle’s office, I believe, makes my edginess warranted.

My fifteen years of adolescent “education” were absolutely riddled with paddlings.

-They don’t do it anymore, but I still make the association.

For a few moments I fall behind the gentleman as we walk to Screechy’s classroom, and I find myself staring at the back of his head and thinking I could take this guy.

“This is the classroom,” he says, swinging the door wide.

What followed was an assault of color and information that reminded me of that mushroom pizza I had in Amsterdam: there wasn’t a square inch of that place that wasn’t both visually stuffed with information and somehow delicious in appearance like candy.

This room could make me insane.

“He’s a good student,” the Principle says. “He just-“

OMG they’ve got 'HOP on Pop‎.'

“-and upon occasion we’ve noticed-“

I LOVE 'HOP on Pop!'

“Sir?” says the Principle.

“I said this room is terrifying,” I repeat.

I think.

“How so?”

“Well,” I begin. “The alphabet pictures over the chalk board. They show pictures of animals. A-Aardvark, B-Brontosaurus, C-Cat, D-Dog…”

“And this is a problem?”

“S is a stethoscope. Until ‘S’, we have all animals.” I shake my head. “You people will be the first to ditch me when my son asks for a pet stethoscope. How could you be so heartless?”

“We’re trying to tell you,” Principle Estevez continues, “that your son is exhibiting narcissistic delusions of grandeur, aggression and slightly paranoid antisocial behaviors.”

“That comes from his mother,” I explain. “Are you guys serving donuts? You guys dragged me in here at 8:30 in the morning and don’t have coffee and donuts? Seriously?”

"Sir, we-"

"I should totally kick your ass."

For Screechy

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Once when I was a child, my father –an expert mechanic- took me into the garage.

“Son,” says Dad. “Do you want to grow up to be a great mechanic like myself?”

“Sure I do, Dad!” I says.

He scruffs my hair, grinning. “That’s my boy.”

I reach for a hammer on the shelf –it seemed gigantic compared to my smallish hands- but Dad stopped me.

“No son,” he corrects. “As a mechanic, you gotta understand the nature of things.” He walks me outside to the now harsh-seeming daylight. Scooping up a handful of dirt, he sifts it through his fingers and says “You want to work on an internal combustion engine? Well this is where it all begins. You see we get our blah oil from the ground, and blah blah energy into blah petroleum and blah blah blah blah fires the pistons blah blah blah … ”


*** Despite not knowing shit about being a mechanic, at sixteen I was tenured at Harvard and consequently became the Chief Engineer for Boeing.

A "prodigy," my very first duty as Chief Engineer for Boeing was to determine why so many workers were getting limbs and digits torn off on the factory floor.

I quickly submitted a report stating that the equipment would work more efficiently, faster, and most importantly safer if the workers stopped tearing their limbs and digits off with it.

I was promoted to National Safety Board Chairman, and fired later that same day for driving my forklift to a McDonald's Drive-Thru for fries.

Signs of Life

Predator Press

[LOBO]

I could’ve driven I suppose, but I’ve had two beers. Literally. I would get pulled over, the cop would ask how many beers I had 'an pow -I’m getting tuned up like a baby sea lion wearing an Al Gore sandwich board.

I watch a lot of cop TV: 'two beers' is copspeak for “You pigs are dumb. Kiss my ass.”

And I can’t back it up, but I’ve always held the theory that if you get to the point of a sobriety test you’re pretty fucked anyway: the cops are gonna make you sing 'an dance all night long until you screw up. “Walk this line,” and you walk it. “Now do it backwards,” and you do it backwards. “Now do it without your feet,” and you wobble it out handstanding. “Now doing it singing the alphabet, but only using the letters that correspond with the prime numbers.”

-Eh, “B, C, E, G, eh, … J”

“Ten is a composite number, divisible by two and five!” he says, drawing his gun. “You have the right to remain silent …”

Whatever.

-Spare yourself the funny dashboard cam appearance on Fox News. They got you.

Waking up Terri because I suddenly realize I need cigarettes twenty-five minutes after the store closed isn’t an option either.

I’m not a big fan of ‘walking’ ... at least not in public anyway. Walking in public is something only poor people do: rich people pay a lot of money to walk in the privacy of a health club like God intended.

I could pretend to be more upscale and jog, but this is a neighborhood where that would probably get me mugged. Lots ‘n lots of potential mugger material out here too. Who knew so many people still prowled these streets this late? Shadowy, beady-eyed people with undiagnosed wet-looking black sores from hard drugs lurk everywhere -lean with the animal hunger for more drugs to make their eyes even beadier.

There’s a group ahead on bicycles and I’m in a quandary; I can hold my own against an individual but groups scare me. One guy? I can brass it out. But groups of guys can ratchet up a lot more aggression. Plus now there’s a lot more people witnessing me engaged in this primitive act of 'walking' ... Sure I can easily pooh-pooh a single account of me walking, but denying a group’s account is tougher: the next thing you know I’m bein’ interviewed by Jane Goodall and Mark Rayner.

With my street cred hanging in the balance, I do something of dubious wisdom and detour through a darkened and unfamiliar field. I can’t see the thick soil under my feet, but this stuff hasn’t seen any rain in six months; experience tells me it’s so dry it won’t even stick to my sneakers. On my teeny radio earbuds a commercial I had unconsciously tuned out ends, and I’m plodding through the inky blackness to a story about three Americans in Afghanistan that were supposedly captured in Iran for accidentally hiking over the border.

Jesus Christ I don’t want to be hiking here … what the hell would motivate someone to hike in Afghanistan?

“You know,” says one American. “I’m really sick of this sand those rocks. Let’s go see new sand and rocks!”

Pondering this, I breach the pale streetlights of the grocery store’s desolate parking lot.

-If I’m in Afghanistan, the only recreational hiking I’m doing is preceded by a shovel: I would be the Afghanistani equivalent of veal.

“Did you bring the straw?” I would demand before sliding the money under the door to the Afghanistani delivery guy. “I’m not tipping unless you brought the straw.”

The straw pokes out under the door and I grab it fearfully.

“Okay, now push the pizza through the keyhole!”

The teeny radio earbuds preclude me hearing the automatic doors, but the delicious rush of chill from the air conditioning inside cannot be ignored. Fwoosh! -only then do I realize I’ve made half the journey safely. Still, the sudden transition from subdued blue-black outdoor lighting to an assault of tactically-sprawled colorful packaging requires a split second of blinking reorientation, and I find myself spilled slightly into a small section of bakery goods. Terri, Screechy and Complainy all go ape batshit for chocolate chip cookies, and fatefully standing before a large display I grab a bag without thinking. Cigarettes are up by the cashier in a locked transparent plastic display, so I proceed to the checkout.

What’s up with locking the cigarettes in those displays? I’m thinking. Are cigarettes so dangerous to the public, they require a feux Fort Knox so G. I. Joe figures don’t try ‘an steal them? I’ve seen the locks up pretty close and I gotta tell you they don’t look like much of a deterrent ... sufficiently motivated, I’m sure I could bust into one with little effort. Those things probably couldn’t keep the cigarettes from breaking out.

The only cashier line open has his light on, but I half notice a shopping cart placed diagonally across the access path. It’s one of those bulky-looking plastic red 'an blue ones kids like to get pushed in. I lift up the handled side slightly to pivot it over, and I’m surprised at how light it is despite it’s appearance. Catching the cashier’s eye, I point at his light wordlessly. I’ve still got the earbuds in, but he gives me a “yes I’m still open” nod. I pluck out one of the buds while simultaneously wiggling past the obtrusive cart, and once past I give it a nice shove so it rolls back into a wider thoroughfare of the store out of the way.

I plop the bag of cookies on the counter. “Marlboro Lights in a box too, please,” I says.

After an odd look, he grabs the keys from his belt and kneels in a well-practiced move, and inserts one with a circular tip; the flimsy plastic wobbles slightly as he pulls it open.

I get that cigarettes are expensive, I surmise. But if these people are serious about locking up cigarettes, this plastic crap just doesn’t cut it. If you’re going to bother, you should at least seal them off like a gas station attendant in Los Angeles: bulletproof glass and the works.

“These?” the cashier shows me a red box.

“Lights, please,” I correct.

-And if you’re going to go with bulletproof glass, fuck, go the distance. Stop at nothing short of an acid moat spitting flames, teeming with angry, starving alligators and sharks. Vaguely, I’m aware of another customer getting behind me in the short line. Yeah, I’m thinking. If I saw bulletproof glass and acid ‘an flames ‘an a moatful of alligators fighting with sharks, mmmmm, I'd bet those must be some damn good cigarettes …

I absently glance back, and see the red cart once again, now within inches of my thigh.

An angry-looking lady is behind it.

Puzzled, I do a better visual skim of the situation. Under closer examination from this angle I realize there’s a handful of products in the cart.

And as it slowly dawns on me that the lady had left the cart to save her place in line to get a last minute-item, something moves below.

-A tiny baby in a pink jumpsuit is smiling and waving at me.

Alarmed, I look at the furious woman.

Then the baby.

Then the furious woman again.

“That’ll be $8.44,” the cashier interrupts.

“Well it’s a damn good thing I showed up when I did,” I says to the woman while fishing out my credit card. “This asshole was trying to sell her cigarettes.”

The Dogged Pound

Predator Press

[The Author]

Told I was getting MEMED for blogging tips, I wrote this a few months ago. But the MEME fell through once it was discovered that I was actually a terrible writer, blogger, et cetera.

Still, upon occasion I’ll get an email asking for traffic-building tips, writer’s block cures, or just a plain old 'where the **** do you come up with this stuff?'

I thought it was best covered (albeit slightly sarcastically) in the post How to Blog -with particular deference to the links at the bottom. These are some of my favorite authors telling you their stuff, and totally worth reading. I couldn’t do a better job of that than they did.

But ...

There are tips and there are techniques. None of them, for instance, said ‘Well I get the idea, and then I make a flow chart while waving a dead chicken over my computer.’ The “physical” behaviors were seemingly left out for the more metaphorical and conceptual rules and values.

Also perhaps worthy of note is that at the time Predator Press wasn't even in the top 30 at what is far and away the best site on the internet for laughs: Humor-Blogs. Diesel's creation has "turned me on" to 99% of my favorite authors, and it's a flat-out honor to be among them.

Anyways, this is not a particularly funny piece, but if you’re curious about how a Predator Press post is born, tortured, and finally left writhing on this blog until it dies, read on. :)


***

About six months ago, Terri and I arrived at a compromise.

She works a little later than I, so the deal was for me to try and be “finished” blogging by the time she got home. This worked out to be a little over an hour a day.

Now an hour a day will create one of two responses:

The first would be practical.

“My god that’s 7-10 hours a week. That’s a part-time job!"

The second response would be far closer to mine:

“Now how the heck am I supposed to do this in one-tenth the time!?”

So fine. At first I was posting every two or three days, putting the unfinished work down punctually due to this artificial and self-imposed “deadline”.

This caused me a lot of anxiety. I like getting things out while there’s some passion for it; all too often I would return to the same piece and have lost my enthusiasm for it entirely. (Guys like Chris Cameron of Angry Seafood will tell you he plans things out months in advance; while secretly envious of that quality, I think that’s God’s way of protecting me: if I had months worth of good ideas all at one time I would totally explode.)

Over time, an undetected transition into getting the entire post down in under an hour started to happen.

Now keep in mind that this hour is “face time” –actually sitting in front of the computer. Longer posts often took three days, required complex outlines, multiple drafts, blah blah blah. A post you start off intending to finish in one hour will have to be simple, small, potent and tight, and come in at rarely over a few paragraphs.

And a routine developed too: after work, I was "against the clock" so to speak: out of the car, boot up, and get busy.

After time, the difference was amazing.

Now don't get me wrong. I look for blog-fodder 24/7. I’ve always felt that people suffering from writer’s block are introverting too much and not paying close enough attention to their surroundings. Little “seeds” come from just about anything: workplace scenarios, kids arguing, cranky cashiers … Screechy –my five year old- is not only great for titles like “Buyer Seaware,” and “Clash of the Titanics” but he fits ‘LOBO’s’ overall adolescent outlook nicely for occasional inspiration like Spooky. Terri will attest to me waking up from dreams with posting material (Roller Coaster, for instance, was actually a fairly detailed dream that was completed in about 30 minutes after waking). Practice looking for them, and pretty soon you’ll have a notebook full of scribbled story ideas.

(It also helps if you can read your own penmanship ... )

Anyways, most Predator Press stories and blurbs have at least two major plotlines woven in (I’ll spend half the post making you forget where we started, and then twist you back violently once this is accomplished) so there’s a bit more to work out on my end. But once the overall concepts are found, then I’ll start to wrestle with the framework such as “Who/What is the vehicle for my intended destination?” and “What kind of images should I use?” et cetera.

All this is more-or-less worked out before I even touch the computer; when that hour starts, I’ve got a very full agenda already and it’s pretty carefully planned.

If there are images to find and/or doctor, that will eat my writing time. Pics -occasionally necessary BTW- are totally unpredictable: for No Mammograms Were Conducted During the Making of this Post, I spent three times the time Googling the perfect "Seedy-Looking Van with an Airbrushed Naked Chick Riding a Panther on it” than I did writing -and ended up settling on doctoring one I wasn’t 100% happy with. The Astronaut Whisperer took fifteen minutes to write, and two full “sessions” to complete the pic editing (and the final result were terrible pics, but I so badly wanted to move on!).

And I’m certainly not making any claims that these post are of the “highest quality” … in fact to the contrary, I almost have to make it a point not to go through my older stuff ‘cuz I’m always thinking “I wish I had done that differently.”

-But I’m not here to create “fine art” either. If I can get it close enough to convey the idea, that’s close enough.

I guess, in conclusion, blogging and writing are always based on life.

So don't skimp on the 'living' part.

You need it.

:)