Killswitch
Predator Press
[LOBO]
Sometimes the toughest decisions in life are ones where ultimately there is no choice at all.
Without a heart transplant from Phil, Cobe will die.
The stress of all this coupled with two lengthy stays at the hospital, the Thanksgiving/Christmas rush, annual reviews and a frustratingly-lengthy murder attempt during eighteen hours of snow was enough; I grab up Phil and head to a secluded, unnamed beach in Rio to hole out for a while.
It turned out to be a nude beach, so I took Phoebe too.
She’s had a rough week.
Plus maybe I’ll get that pictorial after all. In fact, maybe she just gets really wild on the idea of public nudity once she tries it; I could easily fry billions of brain cells trying to burn that image into my mind. And then she says, 'Sure, I would love to do a pictorial for Predator Press ... it would be so hot,' and then asks me to oil her bronzed breasts while she complains how long it's been since she's been to her Nymphomania Therapy because her bronzed breasts weren't oiled correctly ...
I just don't think you readers give me enough appreciation for how much work I put into this blog.
Well, this all sounds great, doesn’t it? Just me, my cat, and a hot, naked, maybe-nympho princess soaking up the sun, impatiently awaiting the news of Cobe’s untimely death?
Leave it to Ethan to go and wreck it all up.
***
The only thing that blows about Predator Press gearing down for the holiday season is that Ethan makes me sign all the Christmas cards we send to friends and business associates.
Last year, there were more than 16,000.
I started out writing my full name, but my hand got tired --and my handwriting isn’t all that great to start with; people were calling us and asking who the hell “Myrtle L. Forensics” was.
So then I started signing “LOBO”. Then just “LOB”. And then finally “L”. This only prompted a January and February chocked full of ‘Laverne’ jokes at my expense.
So by leaving quietly for South America, I figured I would slip out on that little detail this year. But Ethan has his ways, and crates of the stupid cards were drop shipped right to my door the very same morning. This leaves me trapped in a motel room with a bitchy Phoebe, who, wrapped tightly in a bathrobe, refuses to go to the beach because Phil took a shit on it.
I wasn’t the one that gave him all those Pena Coladas now, was I?
Surly from my ruined vacation plans, I refocus my unrequited rage. That “doctor” was nothing more than a Republican zealot and a quack besides. Why should Phil, who has given birth to at least sixty kittens, get murdered just because Cobe is a jerk? Is it because Phil leads an ‘alternative lifestyle’ that is none of my business? Like Predator Press needs hassles from the Rainbow Coalition?
I pick out the doc’s Christmas card from the piles, and affix it with Phil’s pawprint. Then, right over "Wishing you a Merry Christmas", I put a big red “CANCELLED’ and “VOID” stamp.
That'll learn 'im.
Happy Holidays, Doctor Biggot Jerkface MD.
[LOBO]
Sometimes the toughest decisions in life are ones where ultimately there is no choice at all.
Without a heart transplant from Phil, Cobe will die.
The stress of all this coupled with two lengthy stays at the hospital, the Thanksgiving/Christmas rush, annual reviews and a frustratingly-lengthy murder attempt during eighteen hours of snow was enough; I grab up Phil and head to a secluded, unnamed beach in Rio to hole out for a while.
It turned out to be a nude beach, so I took Phoebe too.
She’s had a rough week.
Plus maybe I’ll get that pictorial after all. In fact, maybe she just gets really wild on the idea of public nudity once she tries it; I could easily fry billions of brain cells trying to burn that image into my mind. And then she says, 'Sure, I would love to do a pictorial for Predator Press ... it would be so hot,' and then asks me to oil her bronzed breasts while she complains how long it's been since she's been to her Nymphomania Therapy because her bronzed breasts weren't oiled correctly ...
I just don't think you readers give me enough appreciation for how much work I put into this blog.
Well, this all sounds great, doesn’t it? Just me, my cat, and a hot, naked, maybe-nympho princess soaking up the sun, impatiently awaiting the news of Cobe’s untimely death?
Leave it to Ethan to go and wreck it all up.
The only thing that blows about Predator Press gearing down for the holiday season is that Ethan makes me sign all the Christmas cards we send to friends and business associates.
Last year, there were more than 16,000.
I started out writing my full name, but my hand got tired --and my handwriting isn’t all that great to start with; people were calling us and asking who the hell “Myrtle L. Forensics” was.
So then I started signing “LOBO”. Then just “LOB”. And then finally “L”. This only prompted a January and February chocked full of ‘Laverne’ jokes at my expense.
So by leaving quietly for South America, I figured I would slip out on that little detail this year. But Ethan has his ways, and crates of the stupid cards were drop shipped right to my door the very same morning. This leaves me trapped in a motel room with a bitchy Phoebe, who, wrapped tightly in a bathrobe, refuses to go to the beach because Phil took a shit on it.
I wasn’t the one that gave him all those Pena Coladas now, was I?
Surly from my ruined vacation plans, I refocus my unrequited rage. That “doctor” was nothing more than a Republican zealot and a quack besides. Why should Phil, who has given birth to at least sixty kittens, get murdered just because Cobe is a jerk? Is it because Phil leads an ‘alternative lifestyle’ that is none of my business? Like Predator Press needs hassles from the Rainbow Coalition?
I pick out the doc’s Christmas card from the piles, and affix it with Phil’s pawprint. Then, right over "Wishing you a Merry Christmas", I put a big red “CANCELLED’ and “VOID” stamp.
That'll learn 'im.
Happy Holidays, Doctor Biggot Jerkface MD.
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