Wild Kingdom
Predator Press
[Mr. I]
LOBO says, "The moment you lose the ability to reinvent yourself, you get old."
Unfortunately, he learned this at the ripe old age of six, and will probably stay there indefinitely.
This is already getting worse than when he went into self-imposed astronaut training last year. We'll be publishing his NASA application and blogging some of those stories as soon as they're declassified.
Stay tuned in 2075.
While his quixotic short-attention span-addled noggin keeps his ego virtually indestructible, it never seems to make screwball ideas like "Running for President" evaporate with any efficiency whatsoever.
I'm banking on the idea that this whole thing will have run it's course within a few days.
***
LOBO understood that a presidential campaign was probably going to take him the better part of the whole day. He got out of bed bright and early --10:30-- so he could do the yard before the press conference.
When I got there, he was just finishing hosing off the green linoleum that used to be grass.
Hands on his hips, he scowled at his 'yard'...
"It just looks so plain somehow," he says finally.
"Green linoleum instead of a yard looks too plain?"
"Yeah. And it's not patriotic enough."
"You could tear out the green and put in red, white and blue."
"God that would be so tasteless."
"Yes," I agreed. "The green is much more tasteful."
"Hm," he says, looking at me. He was lighting up with that creepy enthusiasm I've grown to dread. "Are you thinking what I'm thinking?"
"What are you thinking?" I ask. Here it comes.
"Garden gnomes." he says flatly. "And I could put little American flags on 'em. You know, so it'll look like they're all waving Old Glory."
"You know, I have to say I was definitely not thinking that."
"Does Home Depot carry garden gnomes? And tiny American flags?"
"Oh, sure. But it's Wednesday, and there's always a big rush on those two items on Wednesday."
LOBO, fingertips thoughtfully pressed his mouth, mutters, "Jesus, I'll bet you're right."
A UPS truck pulled up.
"Wow!" Says LOBO. "I can't believe they're here already!"
***
The UPS guy dollied in all eight gargantuan and heavy boxes into the living room in only two trips. As my eyes adjusted to being out of the daylight, LOBO was already signing for them.
I faintly hope whatever it is, it's not expensive.
"See you tomorrow!" he says to the UPS guy.
To me, he says "Was I supposed to tip him?"
"What's all this?" I ask.
"My campaign posters," he says absently as he tears open a box like it's Christmas.
"How can you make posters before you even know who you are running against?"
He pulls one out. It says:
"___________ is a DICK
VOTE FOR LOBO"
"We can put 'em up now and fill em out later," he says.
***
I notice a large blackboard with my name on it.
Well, more accurately, it reads:
Democrats
Mr Insanity
Ethan
And in another column it says:
Republicans
Sapphire
Phoebe
Under these columns are a bunch of complex, algebraic-looking scribbly and smudged equations.
And under those, it's scrawled:
Democrats=2
Republicans=2
Seeing me reading it, LOBO explains. "It's a representative sample I was working on. It came out inconclusive."
"That you would have a hard time getting elected from us?"
"No, I'm trying to figure out which party would win, so I can represent it. And I have to say, the Republicans are a lot cuter."
"Ever seen Rush Limbaugh?"
"Eeeyikes--!"
"Or Ann Coulter?"
Wincing, LOBO covered his groin as if someone were kicking it. "Okay dude. Stop. I get the picture. I've decided to start my own party anyway. All new tenants, brand new philosophy."
"Wouldn't inventing a whole political movement take a lot of time?"
"Well sure if you're gonna write the whole thing out."
"Which you're not going to do," I says. "You going to bother to name it?"
"My current favorite is squishing together 'LOBO' and 'humanity': Lobanity."
"I kinda like it. It could double as a diagnosis."
"I'm still working on it. It doesn't seem to have the same cachet as Catholicism or Scientology. It should be something cool sounding if I'm going to be king."
"You mean President."
"Right. Whatever. Now I've also got to think of an animal."
"An animal?"
"Yeah," he says. "You know, like the elephant-donkey thing. I'm thinking of maybe a crocodile. A crocodile would kick the shit out of an elephant or a donkey."
"You think?"
"How about a gorilla?"
"I think a crocodile would probably fair better against an elephant."
"What if the gorilla had a machine gun?"
Now, in my mind I'm picturing the printer not understanding perfectly, and making a half a million posters of machine gun-toting guerillas, and followed shortly by subsequent inevitable visits from the Secret Service, the FBI, the CIA, the ATF ...
You know 'lobo', in Spanish, means wolf, right?" I volunteer.
"Really?" he says glumly. "I was hopin it was 'handsome' ... or maybe 'wealthy visionary genius' ... "
Okay, bad idea. "I'm leaning towards the crocodile myself."
"... I would have settled for 'Chainsaw'." he says. "I always thought that I would dig people callin me Chainsaw. It sounds cool. 'Hey everybody, Chainsaw's here.' and 'Hey Chainsaw, I want you to meet Veronica--'"
I look at him for a second. "Chainsaw."
"That settles it. My first kid is going to be named Chainsaw."
Suddenly I can't breath.
"--Unless it's a boy. If it's a boy, it's going to be Ted."
Anyone else in here got the shivers over LOBO actually breeding? "I think you should give the idea of having kids a lot of thought," I stammer. Then, thinking quickly, I add "and over a very prolonged amount of time, actually."
"There's nothing that says the crocodile can't have a machine gun too," LOBO reflects.
"Absolutely," I blurt, desperately changing the subject again. "The fact that there isn't a machine-gun toting crocodile representing a political ideology is a direct inditement of America's complete lack of imagination."
LOBO looks at me. "That was beautiful. Can I quote you on that?"
"Absolutely not."
LOBO sulks.
"How did you pay for the posters?"
"Credit card," he says.
"You realize that you have to eventually pay your credit card off, right?
"I already thought of that. I didn't use mine."
I reflexively check for my wallet. "Whose, exactly, did you use?"
"Phoebe's." he says. "I already maxed Sapphire's booking Korn for my Inaugural." He grabs an invisible guitar and starts bounding around the room. "... BUM, BUM, BUM CHUGGA-CHUGGA-CHUGGA ... "
"You stole Sapphire and Phoebe's credit cards?"
"--CHUGGA-CHUGGA-CHUGGA--"
"Do you have any idea how pissed they're going to be?" I says, louder.
He stops jumping on the couch. "It will be a very republican-friendly administration."
"I don't think that's going to help you."
"Do you know Jack Abramoff's phone number?"
"No," I says.
"Well, for someone so negative you're certainly not helping things."
***
I don't know where he got all the garden gnomes with little flags, but damn it there was a million of them at the press conference. And it was all going fairly well until the Newsweek guy asked if LOBO had ever done drugs.
"Have I ever!" brags LOBO. "Mr Insanity gets some really good shit."
I have no idea what happened after I slammed my car door and peeled out.
It was soon evident that my police scanner was malfunctioning.
" ... Kringle Control, this is Agent Foxtrot. Please come in."
"Go ahead Foxtrot, we read you."
"I found him. I'm on the premises. Awaiting further instructions."
"Terminate the subject without raising suspicions at your first opportunity. And then come on home."
"Affirmative. How is it up there?"
"It's fucking COLD, Foxtrot. What are you expecting a heat wave? Now cut the chatter and get busy--"
I clicked off the useless scanner, hoping it's still under warranty.
***
The next morning, I hadda go get LOBO out of Bertram Asylum again.
Having watched the news coverage of the Andrea Yates trial, LOBO figured it to be the foolproof angle for getting back in.
So he threw five of the garden gnomes in the bathtub, and called 911.
So I absolutely fuming as I drove him home. "Garden Gnomes!?!"
"Yeah. But Lowes ripped me off. One of them went all soft after it soaked for twenty minutes. Won't even stand up anymore."
"You knew Doctor Keller would recognize you," I yell.
"Yeah," he says glumly. "But I didn't go there hoping to stay really."
"What do you mean?"
"I needed to break out my running mate."
"Oh really." I says. "Is this 'running mate' here now?"
"Yes," says LOBO.
Oh great. Delusions about imaginary people too, I'm thinking. "Where is he?" I says sarcastically searching the dashboard and floorboards. "In the back seat?" I says, snarky as I look closely in the rearview.
LOBO at me strangely. Then he looks in the back seat, and then at me again. "No dude. Are you alright?"
"Well, I just figured--"
"He's in the trunk." LOBO confided.
I slammed on the brakes, nearly killing me, him, and fifty other motorists on the freeway.
In my trunk, I find a skinny black man in ill-fitting jeans and a t shirt that reads "I'm with stupid".
"Hello," he says, a little annoyed, wincing at me through harsh, new light.
"This guy is going to lock up my election," LOBO explains. "Mr I, I'm pleased to introduce you to the next Vice President of the United States. Napoleon Bonaparte himself!"
[Mr. I]
LOBO says, "The moment you lose the ability to reinvent yourself, you get old."
Unfortunately, he learned this at the ripe old age of six, and will probably stay there indefinitely.
This is already getting worse than when he went into self-imposed astronaut training last year. We'll be publishing his NASA application and blogging some of those stories as soon as they're declassified.
Stay tuned in 2075.
While his quixotic short-attention span-addled noggin keeps his ego virtually indestructible, it never seems to make screwball ideas like "Running for President" evaporate with any efficiency whatsoever.
I'm banking on the idea that this whole thing will have run it's course within a few days.
LOBO understood that a presidential campaign was probably going to take him the better part of the whole day. He got out of bed bright and early --10:30-- so he could do the yard before the press conference.
When I got there, he was just finishing hosing off the green linoleum that used to be grass.
Hands on his hips, he scowled at his 'yard'...
"It just looks so plain somehow," he says finally.
"Green linoleum instead of a yard looks too plain?"
"Yeah. And it's not patriotic enough."
"You could tear out the green and put in red, white and blue."
"God that would be so tasteless."
"Yes," I agreed. "The green is much more tasteful."
"Hm," he says, looking at me. He was lighting up with that creepy enthusiasm I've grown to dread. "Are you thinking what I'm thinking?"
"What are you thinking?" I ask. Here it comes.
"Garden gnomes." he says flatly. "And I could put little American flags on 'em. You know, so it'll look like they're all waving Old Glory."
"You know, I have to say I was definitely not thinking that."
"Does Home Depot carry garden gnomes? And tiny American flags?"
"Oh, sure. But it's Wednesday, and there's always a big rush on those two items on Wednesday."
LOBO, fingertips thoughtfully pressed his mouth, mutters, "Jesus, I'll bet you're right."
A UPS truck pulled up.
"Wow!" Says LOBO. "I can't believe they're here already!"
The UPS guy dollied in all eight gargantuan and heavy boxes into the living room in only two trips. As my eyes adjusted to being out of the daylight, LOBO was already signing for them.
I faintly hope whatever it is, it's not expensive.
"See you tomorrow!" he says to the UPS guy.
To me, he says "Was I supposed to tip him?"
"What's all this?" I ask.
"My campaign posters," he says absently as he tears open a box like it's Christmas.
"How can you make posters before you even know who you are running against?"
He pulls one out. It says:
VOTE FOR LOBO"
"We can put 'em up now and fill em out later," he says.
I notice a large blackboard with my name on it.
Well, more accurately, it reads:
Mr Insanity
Ethan
And in another column it says:
Sapphire
Phoebe
Under these columns are a bunch of complex, algebraic-looking scribbly and smudged equations.
And under those, it's scrawled:
Democrats=2
Republicans=2
Seeing me reading it, LOBO explains. "It's a representative sample I was working on. It came out inconclusive."
"That you would have a hard time getting elected from us?"
"No, I'm trying to figure out which party would win, so I can represent it. And I have to say, the Republicans are a lot cuter."
"Ever seen Rush Limbaugh?"
"Eeeyikes--!"
"Or Ann Coulter?"
Wincing, LOBO covered his groin as if someone were kicking it. "Okay dude. Stop. I get the picture. I've decided to start my own party anyway. All new tenants, brand new philosophy."
"Wouldn't inventing a whole political movement take a lot of time?"
"Well sure if you're gonna write the whole thing out."
"Which you're not going to do," I says. "You going to bother to name it?"
"My current favorite is squishing together 'LOBO' and 'humanity': Lobanity."
"I kinda like it. It could double as a diagnosis."
"I'm still working on it. It doesn't seem to have the same cachet as Catholicism or Scientology. It should be something cool sounding if I'm going to be king."
"You mean President."
"Right. Whatever. Now I've also got to think of an animal."
"An animal?"
"Yeah," he says. "You know, like the elephant-donkey thing. I'm thinking of maybe a crocodile. A crocodile would kick the shit out of an elephant or a donkey."
"You think?"
"How about a gorilla?"
"I think a crocodile would probably fair better against an elephant."
"What if the gorilla had a machine gun?"
Now, in my mind I'm picturing the printer not understanding perfectly, and making a half a million posters of machine gun-toting guerillas, and followed shortly by subsequent inevitable visits from the Secret Service, the FBI, the CIA, the ATF ...
You know 'lobo', in Spanish, means wolf, right?" I volunteer.
"Really?" he says glumly. "I was hopin it was 'handsome' ... or maybe 'wealthy visionary genius' ... "
Okay, bad idea. "I'm leaning towards the crocodile myself."
"... I would have settled for 'Chainsaw'." he says. "I always thought that I would dig people callin me Chainsaw. It sounds cool. 'Hey everybody, Chainsaw's here.' and 'Hey Chainsaw, I want you to meet Veronica--'"
I look at him for a second. "Chainsaw."
"That settles it. My first kid is going to be named Chainsaw."
Suddenly I can't breath.
"--Unless it's a boy. If it's a boy, it's going to be Ted."
Anyone else in here got the shivers over LOBO actually breeding? "I think you should give the idea of having kids a lot of thought," I stammer. Then, thinking quickly, I add "and over a very prolonged amount of time, actually."
"There's nothing that says the crocodile can't have a machine gun too," LOBO reflects.
"Absolutely," I blurt, desperately changing the subject again. "The fact that there isn't a machine-gun toting crocodile representing a political ideology is a direct inditement of America's complete lack of imagination."
LOBO looks at me. "That was beautiful. Can I quote you on that?"
"Absolutely not."
LOBO sulks.
"How did you pay for the posters?"
"Credit card," he says.
"You realize that you have to eventually pay your credit card off, right?
"I already thought of that. I didn't use mine."
I reflexively check for my wallet. "Whose, exactly, did you use?"
"Phoebe's." he says. "I already maxed Sapphire's booking Korn for my Inaugural." He grabs an invisible guitar and starts bounding around the room. "... BUM, BUM, BUM CHUGGA-CHUGGA-CHUGGA ... "
"You stole Sapphire and Phoebe's credit cards?"
"--CHUGGA-CHUGGA-CHUGGA--"
"Do you have any idea how pissed they're going to be?" I says, louder.
He stops jumping on the couch. "It will be a very republican-friendly administration."
"I don't think that's going to help you."
"Do you know Jack Abramoff's phone number?"
"No," I says.
"Well, for someone so negative you're certainly not helping things."
I don't know where he got all the garden gnomes with little flags, but damn it there was a million of them at the press conference. And it was all going fairly well until the Newsweek guy asked if LOBO had ever done drugs.
"Have I ever!" brags LOBO. "Mr Insanity gets some really good shit."
I have no idea what happened after I slammed my car door and peeled out.
It was soon evident that my police scanner was malfunctioning.
" ... Kringle Control, this is Agent Foxtrot. Please come in."
"Go ahead Foxtrot, we read you."
"I found him. I'm on the premises. Awaiting further instructions."
"Terminate the subject without raising suspicions at your first opportunity. And then come on home."
"Affirmative. How is it up there?"
"It's fucking COLD, Foxtrot. What are you expecting a heat wave? Now cut the chatter and get busy--"
I clicked off the useless scanner, hoping it's still under warranty.
The next morning, I hadda go get LOBO out of Bertram Asylum again.
Having watched the news coverage of the Andrea Yates trial, LOBO figured it to be the foolproof angle for getting back in.
So he threw five of the garden gnomes in the bathtub, and called 911.
So I absolutely fuming as I drove him home. "Garden Gnomes!?!"
"Yeah. But Lowes ripped me off. One of them went all soft after it soaked for twenty minutes. Won't even stand up anymore."
"You knew Doctor Keller would recognize you," I yell.
"Yeah," he says glumly. "But I didn't go there hoping to stay really."
"What do you mean?"
"I needed to break out my running mate."
"Oh really." I says. "Is this 'running mate' here now?"
"Yes," says LOBO.
Oh great. Delusions about imaginary people too, I'm thinking. "Where is he?" I says sarcastically searching the dashboard and floorboards. "In the back seat?" I says, snarky as I look closely in the rearview.
LOBO at me strangely. Then he looks in the back seat, and then at me again. "No dude. Are you alright?"
"Well, I just figured--"
"He's in the trunk." LOBO confided.
I slammed on the brakes, nearly killing me, him, and fifty other motorists on the freeway.
In my trunk, I find a skinny black man in ill-fitting jeans and a t shirt that reads "I'm with stupid".
"Hello," he says, a little annoyed, wincing at me through harsh, new light.
"This guy is going to lock up my election," LOBO explains. "Mr I, I'm pleased to introduce you to the next Vice President of the United States. Napoleon Bonaparte himself!"
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