GRACELAND
Predator Press
[LOBO]
Congratulations Jake and Christie!
The mere sight of this tiny newborn innocent has moved me deeply. I solemnly swear from this day forward, I will never rest until this a better world for you and your adorable progeny.
But at some point, alas, control of the conquered and festering cosmic pothole aka "Earth" must be handed down to a new heir, and there are no guarantees that this new line will kick ass even half as long or as well as my glorious, brilliant and sexy rule did. Hey let's face it ... it's not even really all that likely, is it? Wasn't it cool?
Despite this, in a fit of unprecedented benevolence and mercy, I’m scrapping my rather unpopular plan to extract and devour Earth's creamy nougat center, and subsequently harvesting whatever's left of the hollowed-out, useless planet --as well as everyone on and around it-- into raw materials for the War Effort.
A war, I remind you, that has been established clearly as being one in the interest of your protection.
It's really your war, after all. And I'm behind you 110%.
Ah screw it.
Let's move on.
Instead, as I was saying, I will be presenting this worthless chunk of crap to the new heir.
As a gift.
Trust me; you'll have a far better chance of survival if I pretend you have some sort of intrinsic value.
Other than that, it won't seem all that different really. She shall rule for a thousand million years with iron fists of galvanized wisdom, exactly as I did. I suppose the major differences will be illustrated best in sentences like "The joyous and worshipful citizenry will be voraciously taxed to their nutritional limits in order to ensure compliance, population control, and easy management," and "they shall enjoy mandatory participation in the universal benefits provided by the purest democratic voice of the people: The War Machine," and, "Failure to comply fully will incur two mandatory and immediate consecutive death penalties that consist of brutal execution, then medical resurrection, and then brutal re-execution," blah blah blah.
Look ... relax. I'll bet you guys are going to get along just fine. My father once told me "A thick glaze of character-building forced labor, horrific, indescribable torture and mortifying public humiliation is the best recipe for a vast, harmonious kingdom that quietly sublimates the will of the people, feeding directly on their defenseless, withering souls for the rest of measurable time and space."
Good luck with that. I never really had any idea what that crazy fuck was talking about.
... And I am just kidding of course; this new heir can do whatever she wants with you, which or may not include feeding on your souls for eternity. Personally, I'm thinking not, but I'll keep my ears peeled and let you know if I hear any differently.
But this is pretty damn cool for a gift, don't you think? How can I gift wrap it to cleverly disguise the contents? ... With anything conventional, one look and she'll instantly know what it is, and the surprise is totally ruined.
That's why she's not getting a bicycle.
YESTERDAY
I've just endured 18 hours of labor, and I’m freakin’ exhausted. Christie, dammit, you just have no idea how arduous it is sitting in that waiting room, pacing the floor, eating out of dubious vending machines, chain smoking, and hassling the random snooty medical personnel wandering about. Quit being so inconsiderate and get on with the birthing already, woman! Have you even the vaguest notion of what this is costing? The hospital fiscal unit is making up numbers by now, and adding them feverishly with their "Calculatrons" or whatever fancy space-age devices people are using now to do math.
I am so bored! Security has already warned that if I go joyriding around the parking lot in their kickass precious ambulance again, those sanctimonious paramedic assholes will totally freak and call the cops. But I just checked: my Restricted Learner's Permit doesn't expire for four more days: I'm totally legal assholes.
Besides, I got an eighteen hour head start.
I was here first.
But every time that alarm goes off, it's the same old story: the paramedics come running, but rather than handling this in a civilized manner -calling "shotgun", and squeezing that fat ass on over to the passenger side- he, she, they bitch.
Invariably, they make a case of some sort, but my logic is rational, elegant, and completely airtight: I says, "Who died and made you 'Ambulance Driver For Life'?"
More bitching.
"Then walk to the fucking plane crash for all I care," I finally says exasperated.
That usually does the trick.
Now, I’m not an asshole … I'll drive slow for a while, as to give them a chance to rethink their situation while running at around 15 MPH or so to keep up. And I'll remind them of those poor people burning alive while their paramedics couldn't suck it up, temporarily setting their pride aside and just letting me drive. And admitting that I am right and they are wrong. And that Van Roth was waaay better than Van Hagar, and that everyone working at their hospital is a overvalued pompous stooge, a mere shill suckling at the diseased, bloated teat of the Food and Drug Administration which is secretly controlled by an elite agenda-driven cartel of diabolical tofu-hawking devil worshipers.
But instead of being reasonable, they just chase me yelling the usual tedious stuff, like "That vehicle is for emergency use only," and "There isn't going to be any nitrous left if you keep that up," and, "Please, we need to get to that Big Fire."
Well, blah blah blah-itis to you this time, Doctor Buzzkill!
Maybe in the future, you will conduct pregnancies like a modern, civilized medical facility with rigidly-scheduled, timely and efficient procedures that are accommodating and considerate to all people involved, rather than all this "waiting around for dilation" and "anesthesia" and whatever other unnecessary bullshit you mal-practitioning quacks deign to pad our bills with. “Observation?” Oh please … Take a goddamn picture, and let us the fuck out of here you pervert.
The act of simply waiting at a hospital costs sixty-seven cents a second … And --even at that rate—the waiting still sucks. Try spending sixty-seven cents a second at a local strip bar and then compare your notes. Ten times out of ten you'll pick the set of lipstick-stained notes that smell like Safari.
For sixty-seven cents a second, this "hospital" once daringly risked fiscal collapse by squeaking out six 'Sports Illustrated' issues dating from 1993-1996, and a perpetual cycle of four full episodes of 'Family Matters' playing way too loud on a four pixel television with no knobs, sunken in cracking drywall to my left.
Each thirty minute episode can be enjoyed at a leisurely rate of roughly $8,000 apiece.
After about $31,000 I finally point at the kid in glasses on the TV and ask how the hell Webster got so damned tall. "Now that guy’s got a doctor that knows his shit," I taunt. "What hospital does he go to?" the crowd titters. "Your doctors suck, and I’m glad Christie's insurance card is fake and you’re getting totally screwed on the bill, you blood-sucking, voodoo-science vultures!" I dutifully inform the receptionist. "Jake, go pull those needles and tubes and catheters out of Christie so the three of us can storm out of this colossal effigy of medical mockery together with our dignity and pride intact.”
I'm sure Christie wanted intact dignity and pride, but she was distracted by sudden, intense contractions that doubled her over. I tried to ease her pain and buttress her courage by starting a fire, but an orderly tackled me! As the ninety-pound girl thrusts my arm up painfully behind my shoulderblades, I growl a warning to the other orderlies wheeling Christie away to the delivery room, "Don't think for a second that your health witchcraft and sorcery will lighten our mood at The Trials. All you doctors and wizards will burn alike!"
A needle pricks my arm, and I start dozing off.
"I shall show no quarter," I yawn. "None ... "
***
So after 21 hours, Christie FINALLY grunts out this tiny glob of horrifyingly misshapen flesh. And once they got Christie's blood and guts and stuff off, there was a sorta wrinkly little girl smiling up at us. It's a damn good thing someone thought to check inside that goo I suppose, but for that and cleaning off Christie's blood and guts and stuff, these mercenary hospital ghouls charged Jake and Christie another $1,400.
$1,400! If I wasn't restrained in the hospital bed next to her and still woozy from Vicodin, I could have done that with 8 cents worth of Scott towels and a well-placed squirt or two of Simple Green. Probably at cost too, if I didn't see any Teamsters around.
That leaves over $1,399. Now true, raising the kid alone will run you upwards of eighty or ninety bucks, but you’ve still have over $1,300 in profit for scratch-off lottery tickets, Franklin Institute Commemorative NASCAR Plates, and a vast number of comprehensive Extended Service Warrantees.
BTW, when they let me loose, I’m stealing every fucking tongue depressor in the whole goddamned facility: with the chains of The Depressor cast off, I’m hoping it will be moments before upbeat, manic tongues swarm over the place, starting fires and looting until Marshall Law is declared.
It could happen.
Wait. Did I say tongue depressors? I meant Vicodin.
Sorry.
***
As the automatic doors slide open, screeching alarms and black smoke pour out. We calmly wheel Christy to the car, hoping no important one sees us.
And I am relieved it's a girl anyway. I'm far too lazy for a little boy; little boys like to play football and tag and bring home fast-moving, slippery, hard-to-catch lizards and stuff … [*yawn*] ... Good call, Jake and Christie!
"Jake, here’s your kid. And some tongue depressors. I need a nap ... I'm totally bushed."
Indeed, childbirth is a very tough thing to go through, and raising children is a challenging, demanding, and often thankless job. I stand here a forever changed man.
And I won't soon be forgetting whatever it was I was thinking about just now.
"Shotgun," I call.
[LOBO]
Congratulations Jake and Christie!
The mere sight of this tiny newborn innocent has moved me deeply. I solemnly swear from this day forward, I will never rest until this a better world for you and your adorable progeny.
But at some point, alas, control of the conquered and festering cosmic pothole aka "Earth" must be handed down to a new heir, and there are no guarantees that this new line will kick ass even half as long or as well as my glorious, brilliant and sexy rule did. Hey let's face it ... it's not even really all that likely, is it? Wasn't it cool?
Despite this, in a fit of unprecedented benevolence and mercy, I’m scrapping my rather unpopular plan to extract and devour Earth's creamy nougat center, and subsequently harvesting whatever's left of the hollowed-out, useless planet --as well as everyone on and around it-- into raw materials for the War Effort.
A war, I remind you, that has been established clearly as being one in the interest of your protection.
It's really your war, after all. And I'm behind you 110%.
Ah screw it.
Let's move on.
Instead, as I was saying, I will be presenting this worthless chunk of crap to the new heir.
As a gift.
Trust me; you'll have a far better chance of survival if I pretend you have some sort of intrinsic value.
Other than that, it won't seem all that different really. She shall rule for a thousand million years with iron fists of galvanized wisdom, exactly as I did. I suppose the major differences will be illustrated best in sentences like "The joyous and worshipful citizenry will be voraciously taxed to their nutritional limits in order to ensure compliance, population control, and easy management," and "they shall enjoy mandatory participation in the universal benefits provided by the purest democratic voice of the people: The War Machine," and, "Failure to comply fully will incur two mandatory and immediate consecutive death penalties that consist of brutal execution, then medical resurrection, and then brutal re-execution," blah blah blah.
Look ... relax. I'll bet you guys are going to get along just fine. My father once told me "A thick glaze of character-building forced labor, horrific, indescribable torture and mortifying public humiliation is the best recipe for a vast, harmonious kingdom that quietly sublimates the will of the people, feeding directly on their defenseless, withering souls for the rest of measurable time and space."
Good luck with that. I never really had any idea what that crazy fuck was talking about.
... And I am just kidding of course; this new heir can do whatever she wants with you, which or may not include feeding on your souls for eternity. Personally, I'm thinking not, but I'll keep my ears peeled and let you know if I hear any differently.
But this is pretty damn cool for a gift, don't you think? How can I gift wrap it to cleverly disguise the contents? ... With anything conventional, one look and she'll instantly know what it is, and the surprise is totally ruined.
That's why she's not getting a bicycle.
I've just endured 18 hours of labor, and I’m freakin’ exhausted. Christie, dammit, you just have no idea how arduous it is sitting in that waiting room, pacing the floor, eating out of dubious vending machines, chain smoking, and hassling the random snooty medical personnel wandering about. Quit being so inconsiderate and get on with the birthing already, woman! Have you even the vaguest notion of what this is costing? The hospital fiscal unit is making up numbers by now, and adding them feverishly with their "Calculatrons" or whatever fancy space-age devices people are using now to do math.
I am so bored! Security has already warned that if I go joyriding around the parking lot in their kickass precious ambulance again, those sanctimonious paramedic assholes will totally freak and call the cops. But I just checked: my Restricted Learner's Permit doesn't expire for four more days: I'm totally legal assholes.
Besides, I got an eighteen hour head start.
I was here first.
But every time that alarm goes off, it's the same old story: the paramedics come running, but rather than handling this in a civilized manner -calling "shotgun", and squeezing that fat ass on over to the passenger side- he, she, they bitch.
Invariably, they make a case of some sort, but my logic is rational, elegant, and completely airtight: I says, "Who died and made you 'Ambulance Driver For Life'?"
More bitching.
"Then walk to the fucking plane crash for all I care," I finally says exasperated.
That usually does the trick.
Now, I’m not an asshole … I'll drive slow for a while, as to give them a chance to rethink their situation while running at around 15 MPH or so to keep up. And I'll remind them of those poor people burning alive while their paramedics couldn't suck it up, temporarily setting their pride aside and just letting me drive. And admitting that I am right and they are wrong. And that Van Roth was waaay better than Van Hagar, and that everyone working at their hospital is a overvalued pompous stooge, a mere shill suckling at the diseased, bloated teat of the Food and Drug Administration which is secretly controlled by an elite agenda-driven cartel of diabolical tofu-hawking devil worshipers.
But instead of being reasonable, they just chase me yelling the usual tedious stuff, like "That vehicle is for emergency use only," and "There isn't going to be any nitrous left if you keep that up," and, "Please, we need to get to that Big Fire."
Well, blah blah blah-itis to you this time, Doctor Buzzkill!
Maybe in the future, you will conduct pregnancies like a modern, civilized medical facility with rigidly-scheduled, timely and efficient procedures that are accommodating and considerate to all people involved, rather than all this "waiting around for dilation" and "anesthesia" and whatever other unnecessary bullshit you mal-practitioning quacks deign to pad our bills with. “Observation?” Oh please … Take a goddamn picture, and let us the fuck out of here you pervert.
The act of simply waiting at a hospital costs sixty-seven cents a second … And --even at that rate—the waiting still sucks. Try spending sixty-seven cents a second at a local strip bar and then compare your notes. Ten times out of ten you'll pick the set of lipstick-stained notes that smell like Safari.
For sixty-seven cents a second, this "hospital" once daringly risked fiscal collapse by squeaking out six 'Sports Illustrated' issues dating from 1993-1996, and a perpetual cycle of four full episodes of 'Family Matters' playing way too loud on a four pixel television with no knobs, sunken in cracking drywall to my left.
Each thirty minute episode can be enjoyed at a leisurely rate of roughly $8,000 apiece.
After about $31,000 I finally point at the kid in glasses on the TV and ask how the hell Webster got so damned tall. "Now that guy’s got a doctor that knows his shit," I taunt. "What hospital does he go to?" the crowd titters. "Your doctors suck, and I’m glad Christie's insurance card is fake and you’re getting totally screwed on the bill, you blood-sucking, voodoo-science vultures!" I dutifully inform the receptionist. "Jake, go pull those needles and tubes and catheters out of Christie so the three of us can storm out of this colossal effigy of medical mockery together with our dignity and pride intact.”
I'm sure Christie wanted intact dignity and pride, but she was distracted by sudden, intense contractions that doubled her over. I tried to ease her pain and buttress her courage by starting a fire, but an orderly tackled me! As the ninety-pound girl thrusts my arm up painfully behind my shoulderblades, I growl a warning to the other orderlies wheeling Christie away to the delivery room, "Don't think for a second that your health witchcraft and sorcery will lighten our mood at The Trials. All you doctors and wizards will burn alike!"
A needle pricks my arm, and I start dozing off.
"I shall show no quarter," I yawn. "None ... "
So after 21 hours, Christie FINALLY grunts out this tiny glob of horrifyingly misshapen flesh. And once they got Christie's blood and guts and stuff off, there was a sorta wrinkly little girl smiling up at us. It's a damn good thing someone thought to check inside that goo I suppose, but for that and cleaning off Christie's blood and guts and stuff, these mercenary hospital ghouls charged Jake and Christie another $1,400.
$1,400! If I wasn't restrained in the hospital bed next to her and still woozy from Vicodin, I could have done that with 8 cents worth of Scott towels and a well-placed squirt or two of Simple Green. Probably at cost too, if I didn't see any Teamsters around.
That leaves over $1,399. Now true, raising the kid alone will run you upwards of eighty or ninety bucks, but you’ve still have over $1,300 in profit for scratch-off lottery tickets, Franklin Institute Commemorative NASCAR Plates, and a vast number of comprehensive Extended Service Warrantees.
BTW, when they let me loose, I’m stealing every fucking tongue depressor in the whole goddamned facility: with the chains of The Depressor cast off, I’m hoping it will be moments before upbeat, manic tongues swarm over the place, starting fires and looting until Marshall Law is declared.
It could happen.
Wait. Did I say tongue depressors? I meant Vicodin.
Sorry.
As the automatic doors slide open, screeching alarms and black smoke pour out. We calmly wheel Christy to the car, hoping no important one sees us.
And I am relieved it's a girl anyway. I'm far too lazy for a little boy; little boys like to play football and tag and bring home fast-moving, slippery, hard-to-catch lizards and stuff … [*yawn*] ... Good call, Jake and Christie!
"Jake, here’s your kid. And some tongue depressors. I need a nap ... I'm totally bushed."
Indeed, childbirth is a very tough thing to go through, and raising children is a challenging, demanding, and often thankless job. I stand here a forever changed man.
And I won't soon be forgetting whatever it was I was thinking about just now.
"Shotgun," I call.
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