Cosmic Background Explorer
Predator Press
[LOBO]
Cobe and I don't get along very well.
But we have some mutual business interests, so we extend a certain "professional courtesy" to our relationship, which is a euphemism for keeping a wide berth of each other.
I'm far too lazy to pick fights anymore. What do I do to stay in shape, you ask? I basically cling desperately to my skeleton as the Earth hurdles through the universe at blistering speeds.
I'm getting tired just thinking about it.
But today, Cobe is in charge ... the "regular guy" is out sick. And to be honest, I'm kinda impressed. Cobe has made good calls all day. Everything is going smooth, and for once we're way ahead of schedule. Inevitably, we get stuck in a car together. He's driving, and I'm in the passenger seat. At some point, he waves at somebody, and I reflexively look.
It's a carload of teenage girls.
Now Cobe has got twenty years on me ... I get the creeps. "Damn Cobe," I wondered aloud, "Got a thing for those low-mileage babes?"
He looks at me confused, and then notices the girls in the car next to us. "Oh Christ no!" he replies, suddenly realizing what I meant. "Steve made this light and just passed us." He points at the tail car in the next lane, and sure enough there's Steve.
Steve's wavin back, laughing.
Okay ... Cobe is vindicated, and I relax a little. But then Cobe says something that really throws up red flags. "Oh God don't even joke about that," he says, taut as a goddamn drum. "If my old lady even thought that I was screwing around she'd blow my head off!"
Okay, it's creepy again. I look at him and his eyes are fixed on the road ahead, suddenly a little pale. He's dead serious.
So I start musing. Cobe is a fairly successful guy that's been married for thirty years. Is the secret to a successful marriage deciding that, while divorce is not an option, murder is? Is honest, hardworkin Cobe just one "Do you think she's pretty?" from gettin his skull turned into some kind of macabe bird feeder? I started to feel bad for good 'ol honest, hardworkin Cobe.
But then, with a "captured audience", Cobe made me listen to country music.
For forty minutes.
An hour later I get home totally crushed over some girlfriend I never had, and a pickup truck I never owned. That night I found myself serving my guests Scoopable Fritos and french onion dip in a polished hubcap, weeping openly about the plight of Catherine Bach.
I had lost six full IQ points.
I checked.
Right after Hee Haw.
So to cheer myself back up, I'm and planning to leave Cobe messages on his wife's answering machine. Something like "Hey Cobe! You can't just up and leave me with these horndog chicks. And you still owe Jasmine fifty bucks!" Who knows? Maybe this will be the one crippling lost consumer the entire country music industry can't withstand: It could all spontaneously collapse --in a furious God-smiting tempest of rhinestones, bad footwear and Stetson cologne-- to a teeny morose singularity that can be banished from our grateful planet completely with some Simple Green and paper towels.
I'm doing a public service here.
But I walk in the house my roomie has got this internet story up about this guy in Florida that got a hand axe buried in his forehead by his wife for cheating. The woman hacked the guy into chunks, and then fed the chunks to a bunch of prizewinning chinchillas she was breeding.
Righteous and joyous mayhem oh so tantalizingly close ... my goddamn roomie is always online when I need to make a phone call! Is there no God?!?
So what the hell is a "chinchilla"? And can you buy them bulk?
[LOBO]
Cobe and I don't get along very well.
But we have some mutual business interests, so we extend a certain "professional courtesy" to our relationship, which is a euphemism for keeping a wide berth of each other.
I'm far too lazy to pick fights anymore. What do I do to stay in shape, you ask? I basically cling desperately to my skeleton as the Earth hurdles through the universe at blistering speeds.
I'm getting tired just thinking about it.
But today, Cobe is in charge ... the "regular guy" is out sick. And to be honest, I'm kinda impressed. Cobe has made good calls all day. Everything is going smooth, and for once we're way ahead of schedule. Inevitably, we get stuck in a car together. He's driving, and I'm in the passenger seat. At some point, he waves at somebody, and I reflexively look.
It's a carload of teenage girls.
Now Cobe has got twenty years on me ... I get the creeps. "Damn Cobe," I wondered aloud, "Got a thing for those low-mileage babes?"
He looks at me confused, and then notices the girls in the car next to us. "Oh Christ no!" he replies, suddenly realizing what I meant. "Steve made this light and just passed us." He points at the tail car in the next lane, and sure enough there's Steve.
Steve's wavin back, laughing.
Okay ... Cobe is vindicated, and I relax a little. But then Cobe says something that really throws up red flags. "Oh God don't even joke about that," he says, taut as a goddamn drum. "If my old lady even thought that I was screwing around she'd blow my head off!"
Okay, it's creepy again. I look at him and his eyes are fixed on the road ahead, suddenly a little pale. He's dead serious.
So I start musing. Cobe is a fairly successful guy that's been married for thirty years. Is the secret to a successful marriage deciding that, while divorce is not an option, murder is? Is honest, hardworkin Cobe just one "Do you think she's pretty?" from gettin his skull turned into some kind of macabe bird feeder? I started to feel bad for good 'ol honest, hardworkin Cobe.
But then, with a "captured audience", Cobe made me listen to country music.
For forty minutes.
An hour later I get home totally crushed over some girlfriend I never had, and a pickup truck I never owned. That night I found myself serving my guests Scoopable Fritos and french onion dip in a polished hubcap, weeping openly about the plight of Catherine Bach.
I had lost six full IQ points.
I checked.
Right after Hee Haw.
So to cheer myself back up, I'm and planning to leave Cobe messages on his wife's answering machine. Something like "Hey Cobe! You can't just up and leave me with these horndog chicks. And you still owe Jasmine fifty bucks!" Who knows? Maybe this will be the one crippling lost consumer the entire country music industry can't withstand: It could all spontaneously collapse --in a furious God-smiting tempest of rhinestones, bad footwear and Stetson cologne-- to a teeny morose singularity that can be banished from our grateful planet completely with some Simple Green and paper towels.
I'm doing a public service here.
But I walk in the house my roomie has got this internet story up about this guy in Florida that got a hand axe buried in his forehead by his wife for cheating. The woman hacked the guy into chunks, and then fed the chunks to a bunch of prizewinning chinchillas she was breeding.
Righteous and joyous mayhem oh so tantalizingly close ... my goddamn roomie is always online when I need to make a phone call! Is there no God?!?
So what the hell is a "chinchilla"? And can you buy them bulk?
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