LOBO Unplugged
Predator Press
[LOBO]
By virtue of the fact that you are reading a blog, I’m going to assume you’re already sitting. This is good. You need to be.
What I’m about to tell you is going to come as quite a shock:
I’m not perfect.
I know, I know. You’re reeling. I’ll give you a second to let that sink in.
I’m single again.
[And before you dudes start getting any funny ideas, keep in mind: I love them both like crazy, but if neither of my ex-wives made me gay nothing will.]
At33 27 years old, one becomes a bit seasoned -wiser, if you will- at the whole dating scene. The mileage has allowed me to hone my taste in women appreciate them individually. To respect them and listen in an effusive yet understanding manor. But perhaps most importantly, the maturity has taught me to look out for the "danger signs" of a potential screaming estrogen train wreck poised to inflict widespread suffering upon humanity with rancor considered legendary even in Hell.
So. Thusly seasoned, what exactly am I looking for in a woman? Well, currently I’m thinking a hot, rich, bi-polar Olympic gymnast currently slumming ... but a Hawaiian Tropic Model with drug and alcohol problems, anger issues and a collection of Smurf memorabilia would probably be great too.
Babes that are blind, deaf, mute, and/or have absolutely no understanding of the English language have a MAJOR advantage for longer-running relationship possibilities.
Brains are completely optional. And she should ALWAYS be considerate and return the toilet seat to the upright position when she's done using it (Jesus, is that so HARD!?).
The chick of my dreams would also be tolerant of a barely-noticeable minor obsessive/compulsive "quirk" I have: the tendency to scream seamless "angry-at-world" obscenities -sometimes for hours- at the top of my lungs in the middle of the night while sleeping … Experience in administration of massive Lithium doses and dart gun aptitude would be helpful. My renown team of psychotherapists believe that this is a result of a traumatic event that happened when I was an impressionable lad of 26 years old: I had fallen asleep poolside and a vast, merciless battalion of savage army ants ambushed me for my Mountain Dew. I fought valiantly, but was inevitably overpowered by the sheer number of the ferocious beasts (there was EASILY eleven or twelve of them). Forced into retreat and trapped -devoid of provisions and hope- I precariously balanced on the plastic pool chair for thirty-seven hours, while the massive bloodthirsty caffeine and sugar-juiced horde seethed below.
Finally I was rescued by 3 clever Girl Scouts using a garden hose. [*choke/sob*]
It was horrible!
(Hold me!)
In the words of Demetry Martin, “The downside of the internet is that it’s full of predators. The upside of the internet is that it’s full of prey." Still, I don’t meet and date women online. I figure I’m going to get some pissed Feminist chick or some creepy guy from Montana. But I do try to answer all of my emails, and suddenly maggie64@funkytown.net is complaining that we don’t get any “quality time” in email anymore and she wants her nudes back.
Look, don't e me and get pissed if I happen to want to try to evolve a friendly relationship before anything heavy; I have found over the years that some girls will just say ANYTHING to get into a guy's pants, and I'm not just some floozy you can just knock up and then kick to the curb like so much used up ... uh ... use-uppable kind of floozy stuff. Yeah. In fact, most likely you will have to buy me flowers or a car or something first before I will even consider 'putting out'.
I have been accused in the past of not being very romantic, and I don’t think that’s true at all. But I’m really not on board with the whole flowers thing. “Here! I killed something beautiful for you!” Kinda creepy. The best dates I've ever had were when we just got so lost in conversation that everything else just kind of evaporated into the background ... I didn't have to spend a DIME.
The ideal girl for me would delight in parading around my ex-girlfriends; you know, showing off what I'm squeezing NOW. And would spend weekends with me crank calling my exes that now live out-of-state. Man, now THAT’S what I call romantic.
Chicks are all about the image you keep up, and most guys my age start trying to start looking sophisticated and worldly. But because I once broke the space/time continuum by putting a photo of the inside of my pocket in my pocket, I can't mill about with those cats at The Leading Edge of the Center of the Universe anymore. "Club Hubba Hubba" is now my favorite haunt, at least when Sapphire is working ... she needs the money for all that dental reconstruction. And sometimes I go to "Nipples Italy" on Half-Price Lapdance Night.
“Like your job, love your wife” was an axiom I adopted very young. It seemed to make sense in pursuit of a healthy relationship, and it lays the groundwork for the foundation of the ideal family. But I do love my work, and it interferes in a lot of my relationships. You people in relationships are all "yakketty-yakketty" all damn day. I mean jeez you people just yakketty all damn day and you never stop and you get all in my brains with your "yakketty this" and "yakketty that" and you never stop and you just keep yakking and yakking and sometimes i just want to pick up a pickaxe and drive it through your yakketting head like i did in Ohio and but then i take my medication and think of baby bunnies like doctor says or i have to wear that awful jacket in the "soft room" again.
Um, what was the question again?
As far as hobbies go, I pretty much just crank call ex-girlfriends.
And my life’s ambition? Crank calling huge numbers of ex-girlfriends in a technologically superior space-age Jetsons car.
Sure I’m not without my faults. I think I could make a better “significant other” if I could find some way to be more sensitive to a woman’s needs. You know, stop sleeping around on them. Or well at LEAST never to forget the videotape of me cheating on top of the VCR during her Baby Shower again ... boy was my face red. That crazy shrew left bullet holes in EVERYTHING! (Complete whacko! ... who knew?).
I have also been considering penis reduction surgery. Everyone tells me "it's fine", but I'm very self-conscious about it ... and I'm developing lower back problems. And seriously, you only have to have it slammed in a car door once or twice for incentive (even though your hair looks pretty cool afterwards, I think you get the picture).
The Honest-to-God TRUTH of the matter is I'm really insufferably BORING, and completely HAPPY that way. And it's not my fault, either ... It's due to a rare congenital birth defect: I'm as lazy as a rug on Valiums. Having a personality, being stimulating ... my GOD what a hassle. You get a wild hair to make your life "interesting" and the next thing you know you're walking past the 'City Limits' sign at 2:17 am carrying nothing other than a caged, pissed-off possom and someone else's car keys.
And even as you marvel at the alien "Beyond Bitch" keychain in the moonlight, a gang of transvestite pink Yakuza screeches up in a taupe-colored Hummer. Then they all leap out of the bushes (just for effect), kick your ass into dogfood, give you a facial while burning incense and blaring Air Supply records at 78-speed, finally leaping back INTO the bushes and peeling off in the taupe-colored hummer during the chipmunk-like sounding chorus of "All Out of Love".
WITH the possum.
Well, screw it. I'll stick with "Insufferably Boring", thanks. Is there such a thing as “Excruciatingly Boring”? Put me down for that too.
I know what you’re thinking ladies: this stud isn’t going to be out to pasture for long. And I hear that pasty, pudgy poor guys are going to make a huge comeback soon … I might be able to get you in on the ground floor.
But keep in mind that I’m about to graduate from all my internet classes, and soon we will have to relocate as I am about to get my Doctorate in Pulmonary Medicine, Dentistry, Gynecology and Mixology from the University of Tijuana. The U.S. has apparently has these things called "Severe Restrictions" on where I'll be allowed to practice, so it's off to Arkansas ... and I've actually painted 'Arkansas or Bust' on the side of my van already -right under the Frazetta airbrush of that naked chick riding a panther. Skill in coordinating plaids, flannels, denims, and all clothing referred to as "duds" will be extremely useful. Please demonstrate general aptitude in your photos by wearing Daisy Dukes so I can check out your assets.
Then you meet mom and ZOOM!, the three of us take off to Vegas to get hitched.
Now that’s romantic.
[LOBO]
By virtue of the fact that you are reading a blog, I’m going to assume you’re already sitting. This is good. You need to be.
What I’m about to tell you is going to come as quite a shock:
I know, I know. You’re reeling. I’ll give you a second to let that sink in.
I’m single again.
[And before you dudes start getting any funny ideas, keep in mind: I love them both like crazy, but if neither of my ex-wives made me gay nothing will.]
At
So. Thusly seasoned, what exactly am I looking for in a woman? Well, currently I’m thinking a hot, rich, bi-polar Olympic gymnast currently slumming ... but a Hawaiian Tropic Model with drug and alcohol problems, anger issues and a collection of Smurf memorabilia would probably be great too.
Babes that are blind, deaf, mute, and/or have absolutely no understanding of the English language have a MAJOR advantage for longer-running relationship possibilities.
Brains are completely optional. And she should ALWAYS be considerate and return the toilet seat to the upright position when she's done using it (Jesus, is that so HARD!?).
The chick of my dreams would also be tolerant of a barely-noticeable minor obsessive/compulsive "quirk" I have: the tendency to scream seamless "angry-at-world" obscenities -sometimes for hours- at the top of my lungs in the middle of the night while sleeping … Experience in administration of massive Lithium doses and dart gun aptitude would be helpful. My renown team of psychotherapists believe that this is a result of a traumatic event that happened when I was an impressionable lad of 26 years old: I had fallen asleep poolside and a vast, merciless battalion of savage army ants ambushed me for my Mountain Dew. I fought valiantly, but was inevitably overpowered by the sheer number of the ferocious beasts (there was EASILY eleven or twelve of them). Forced into retreat and trapped -devoid of provisions and hope- I precariously balanced on the plastic pool chair for thirty-seven hours, while the massive bloodthirsty caffeine and sugar-juiced horde seethed below.
Finally I was rescued by 3 clever Girl Scouts using a garden hose. [*choke/sob*]
It was horrible!
(Hold me!)
In the words of Demetry Martin, “The downside of the internet is that it’s full of predators. The upside of the internet is that it’s full of prey." Still, I don’t meet and date women online. I figure I’m going to get some pissed Feminist chick or some creepy guy from Montana. But I do try to answer all of my emails, and suddenly maggie64@funkytown.net is complaining that we don’t get any “quality time” in email anymore and she wants her nudes back.
Look, don't e me and get pissed if I happen to want to try to evolve a friendly relationship before anything heavy; I have found over the years that some girls will just say ANYTHING to get into a guy's pants, and I'm not just some floozy you can just knock up and then kick to the curb like so much used up ... uh ... use-uppable kind of floozy stuff. Yeah. In fact, most likely you will have to buy me flowers or a car or something first before I will even consider 'putting out'.
I have been accused in the past of not being very romantic, and I don’t think that’s true at all. But I’m really not on board with the whole flowers thing. “Here! I killed something beautiful for you!” Kinda creepy. The best dates I've ever had were when we just got so lost in conversation that everything else just kind of evaporated into the background ... I didn't have to spend a DIME.
The ideal girl for me would delight in parading around my ex-girlfriends; you know, showing off what I'm squeezing NOW. And would spend weekends with me crank calling my exes that now live out-of-state. Man, now THAT’S what I call romantic.
Chicks are all about the image you keep up, and most guys my age start trying to start looking sophisticated and worldly. But because I once broke the space/time continuum by putting a photo of the inside of my pocket in my pocket, I can't mill about with those cats at The Leading Edge of the Center of the Universe anymore. "Club Hubba Hubba" is now my favorite haunt, at least when Sapphire is working ... she needs the money for all that dental reconstruction. And sometimes I go to "Nipples Italy" on Half-Price Lapdance Night.
“Like your job, love your wife” was an axiom I adopted very young. It seemed to make sense in pursuit of a healthy relationship, and it lays the groundwork for the foundation of the ideal family. But I do love my work, and it interferes in a lot of my relationships. You people in relationships are all "yakketty-yakketty" all damn day. I mean jeez you people just yakketty all damn day and you never stop and you get all in my brains with your "yakketty this" and "yakketty that" and you never stop and you just keep yakking and yakking and sometimes i just want to pick up a pickaxe and drive it through your yakketting head like i did in Ohio and but then i take my medication and think of baby bunnies like doctor says or i have to wear that awful jacket in the "soft room" again.
Um, what was the question again?
As far as hobbies go, I pretty much just crank call ex-girlfriends.
And my life’s ambition? Crank calling huge numbers of ex-girlfriends in a technologically superior space-age Jetsons car.
Sure I’m not without my faults. I think I could make a better “significant other” if I could find some way to be more sensitive to a woman’s needs. You know, stop sleeping around on them. Or well at LEAST never to forget the videotape of me cheating on top of the VCR during her Baby Shower again ... boy was my face red. That crazy shrew left bullet holes in EVERYTHING! (Complete whacko! ... who knew?).
I have also been considering penis reduction surgery. Everyone tells me "it's fine", but I'm very self-conscious about it ... and I'm developing lower back problems. And seriously, you only have to have it slammed in a car door once or twice for incentive (even though your hair looks pretty cool afterwards, I think you get the picture).
The Honest-to-God TRUTH of the matter is I'm really insufferably BORING, and completely HAPPY that way. And it's not my fault, either ... It's due to a rare congenital birth defect: I'm as lazy as a rug on Valiums. Having a personality, being stimulating ... my GOD what a hassle. You get a wild hair to make your life "interesting" and the next thing you know you're walking past the 'City Limits' sign at 2:17 am carrying nothing other than a caged, pissed-off possom and someone else's car keys.
And even as you marvel at the alien "Beyond Bitch" keychain in the moonlight, a gang of transvestite pink Yakuza screeches up in a taupe-colored Hummer. Then they all leap out of the bushes (just for effect), kick your ass into dogfood, give you a facial while burning incense and blaring Air Supply records at 78-speed, finally leaping back INTO the bushes and peeling off in the taupe-colored hummer during the chipmunk-like sounding chorus of "All Out of Love".
WITH the possum.
Well, screw it. I'll stick with "Insufferably Boring", thanks. Is there such a thing as “Excruciatingly Boring”? Put me down for that too.
I know what you’re thinking ladies: this stud isn’t going to be out to pasture for long. And I hear that pasty, pudgy poor guys are going to make a huge comeback soon … I might be able to get you in on the ground floor.
But keep in mind that I’m about to graduate from all my internet classes, and soon we will have to relocate as I am about to get my Doctorate in Pulmonary Medicine, Dentistry, Gynecology and Mixology from the University of Tijuana. The U.S. has apparently has these things called "Severe Restrictions" on where I'll be allowed to practice, so it's off to Arkansas ... and I've actually painted 'Arkansas or Bust' on the side of my van already -right under the Frazetta airbrush of that naked chick riding a panther. Skill in coordinating plaids, flannels, denims, and all clothing referred to as "duds" will be extremely useful. Please demonstrate general aptitude in your photos by wearing Daisy Dukes so I can check out your assets.
Then you meet mom and ZOOM!, the three of us take off to Vegas to get hitched.
Now that’s romantic.
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