LOBO MOVES INTO
LAVISH NEW PAD
"It's cool, but the neighbors are all real assholes.
... Does anybody 'really' know what this button does?"
Tuesday
Location, Location, Location
LOBO MOVES INTO
LAVISH NEW PAD
"It's cool, but the neighbors are all real assholes.
... Does anybody 'really' know what this button does?"
Sunday
Next Year In Review
Predator Press
TIGER WOODS LOSES COOL
FILMING CEREAL COMMERCIAL,
KILLS "SNAP"
Threatens "Crackle", "Pop"
Next Year In Review
Predator Press
Photo taken on "Casual Friday" in the Predator Press Mailroom.
Currently accepting applications at careerbuilder.com.
Currently accepting applications at careerbuilder.com.
Next Year In Review
Predator Press
PFIZER UNVEILS NEW TARTAR
CONTROL MICROSOFT-
FLAVORED VISTA RITALIN
TO 12 DEAD, MIXED REVIEWS
CONTROL MICROSOFT-
FLAVORED VISTA RITALIN
TO 12 DEAD, MIXED REVIEWS
Next Year In Review
During military enactments of LOBO revealing his true identity, many physically inferior stand-ins were slain; even with extensive protective gear, most are tragically asphyxiated by the confetti.Our hearts go out to the families.
Next Year In Review
Predator Press
“I always knew if I ever got on
Predator Press,I was supposed
to remember to ‘plug’ something.
... Um, do you have a mirror?”
Next Year In Review
Predator Press
"Okay, show of hands.
... Who thinks I should replace the clutch in the Chick Magnet?"
Next Year In Review
Predator Press
Dick and Condoleeza, quietly regretting the failure to implement LOBO’s “Hot Chicks and Beer” initiatives.
--It would bear out historically to be the single biggest blunder of the Bush Administration.
Friday
Over-Reactor Core
Predator Press
[LOBO]
The fatal flaw of “Man”, I think, involves our instinct for aggression; when it all boils down, all we want to do is:
1) fuck, and
2) fight.
That’s why getting married seems like a good idea to us sometimes; the reptilian hippocampus is screaming “Well, how efficient!”
[LOBO]
The fatal flaw of “Man”, I think, involves our instinct for aggression; when it all boils down, all we want to do is:
1) fuck, and
2) fight.
That’s why getting married seems like a good idea to us sometimes; the reptilian hippocampus is screaming “Well, how efficient!”
Thursday
401k-9
Predator Press
[LOBO]
Poring over my Predator Press investment options, I use the little cardboard “calculator” as I ponder reconfiguring them this year.
I am shocked to find out that I won’t be able to retire in 2008.
In fact, I don’t get my first lousy million until 2037. And to do so, I’ll have to finish filling out this boring paperwork, and then start doing lots of healthy crap in the depressing effort to live longer waiting for it.
One million bucks? With inflamation, I figure the minimum for a trophy wife in 2037 to be 2.6 million. And that's probably rock bottom: you'll still get something weird like webbed toes or a redhead.
I chuck the papers in the trash, depressed.
This is all a zero-sum game if you think about it.
For now, rest assured that I have no immediate plans to stop sharing my radiant brainiosity with you, o loyal reader.
Unless I’m not a published author by the time I turn twenty-seven.
[LOBO]
Poring over my Predator Press investment options, I use the little cardboard “calculator” as I ponder reconfiguring them this year.
I am shocked to find out that I won’t be able to retire in 2008.
In fact, I don’t get my first lousy million until 2037. And to do so, I’ll have to finish filling out this boring paperwork, and then start doing lots of healthy crap in the depressing effort to live longer waiting for it.
One million bucks? With inflamation, I figure the minimum for a trophy wife in 2037 to be 2.6 million. And that's probably rock bottom: you'll still get something weird like webbed toes or a redhead.
I chuck the papers in the trash, depressed.
This is all a zero-sum game if you think about it.
For now, rest assured that I have no immediate plans to stop sharing my radiant brainiosity with you, o loyal reader.
Unless I’m not a published author by the time I turn twenty-seven.
Wednesday
The Courtship of Babs and LOBO
Predator Press
[Zombie Mr Insanity]
LOBO and I were making small talk while kicking the crap out of each other playing Worlds of Warcraft, and the phone rang.
Lo and behold, it’s Babs.
I put my rotting finger to my decomposing lip, and LOBO nodded he understood. Smirking, he puts her on speakerphone.
“Yes,” he gasps breathlessly in a feeble attempt to sound sexy.
“Hi handsome,” says the voice over the speaker. LOBO grabs his controller when he realizes I’m molecularizing his WOW character with my +6 Big Hammer.
“What the fuck, you ass!?!” says LOBO.
“Excuse me?” says Babs.
“Not you. Uh. Phil.” LOBO retorts in his usual lack-of-brilliance. He sneaks a peak at his watch. “What’s up Babs? It’s like seven-thirty. Shouldn’t you be sleeping with someone right now?"
I hold back a giggle.
“Well, it’s funny that you mention that,” she says.
Now, I look at LOBO directly, expecting some kind of humorous and silent exchange, but he doesn’t seem to clock this obvious flirtation.
“What do you want?” he asks distractedly, writhing with the controller.
“I want to sleep with you,” she says.
You can almost taste her sexuality through the phone speaker.
She’s good.
“Babs,” says LOBO. “I sleep on a futon, and you know that. It’s hard as a goddamn rock. What do you really want?”
“I want to do anything you want me to do.”
“Will you go get my refrigerator, washer and dryer?”
I would’ve been slack-jawed, had my jaw not fallen off at Taco Bell.
She pauses. “Now?”
“Wouldn’t you be more comfortable sleeping over if we had all those things here?”
“But I drive a Porsche,” she says.
“Bungee cords,” he replies. “Get like ten bucks worth. I’ll pay you back when you get here.”
He hangs up on her.
“You know,” I says. “She’s not coming over here to sleep.”
LOBO 'pauses' the game. “What?”
“I think she has an ulterior motive.”
His eyebrows furrow as he stares at the living room television screen. “Well, if it’s to watch TV, she’s going to have to do it in the bedroom. We have a good game going.”
I feel myself inwardly sigh. Here is LOBO, on the verge of what will most certainly be the most spectacular sex he’s ever had –primarily by virtue that I don’t think he’s ever had it before—and he doesn’t know it. I look at my own rotting hands and sigh.
“I wonder what my prospects are going to be,” I wonder aloud.
“You mean, what with being dead and all?”
“Yeah,” I says.
LOBO takes a long minute to size me up.
“Well,” he concludes, “there’s always fat chicks.”
[Zombie Mr Insanity]
LOBO and I were making small talk while kicking the crap out of each other playing Worlds of Warcraft, and the phone rang.
Lo and behold, it’s Babs.
I put my rotting finger to my decomposing lip, and LOBO nodded he understood. Smirking, he puts her on speakerphone.
“Yes,” he gasps breathlessly in a feeble attempt to sound sexy.
“Hi handsome,” says the voice over the speaker. LOBO grabs his controller when he realizes I’m molecularizing his WOW character with my +6 Big Hammer.
“What the fuck, you ass!?!” says LOBO.
“Excuse me?” says Babs.
“Not you. Uh. Phil.” LOBO retorts in his usual lack-of-brilliance. He sneaks a peak at his watch. “What’s up Babs? It’s like seven-thirty. Shouldn’t you be sleeping with someone right now?"
I hold back a giggle.
“Well, it’s funny that you mention that,” she says.
Now, I look at LOBO directly, expecting some kind of humorous and silent exchange, but he doesn’t seem to clock this obvious flirtation.
“What do you want?” he asks distractedly, writhing with the controller.
“I want to sleep with you,” she says.
You can almost taste her sexuality through the phone speaker.
She’s good.
“Babs,” says LOBO. “I sleep on a futon, and you know that. It’s hard as a goddamn rock. What do you really want?”
“I want to do anything you want me to do.”
“Will you go get my refrigerator, washer and dryer?”
I would’ve been slack-jawed, had my jaw not fallen off at Taco Bell.
She pauses. “Now?”
“Wouldn’t you be more comfortable sleeping over if we had all those things here?”
“But I drive a Porsche,” she says.
“Bungee cords,” he replies. “Get like ten bucks worth. I’ll pay you back when you get here.”
He hangs up on her.
“You know,” I says. “She’s not coming over here to sleep.”
LOBO 'pauses' the game. “What?”
“I think she has an ulterior motive.”
His eyebrows furrow as he stares at the living room television screen. “Well, if it’s to watch TV, she’s going to have to do it in the bedroom. We have a good game going.”
I feel myself inwardly sigh. Here is LOBO, on the verge of what will most certainly be the most spectacular sex he’s ever had –primarily by virtue that I don’t think he’s ever had it before—and he doesn’t know it. I look at my own rotting hands and sigh.
“I wonder what my prospects are going to be,” I wonder aloud.
“You mean, what with being dead and all?”
“Yeah,” I says.
LOBO takes a long minute to size me up.
“Well,” he concludes, “there’s always fat chicks.”
Compromise of the Machines
Predator Press
[LOBO]
In a moment of sate and surfeit I haven't enjoyed in years, I find myself somewhat caught up on the bills and occasionally drifting over “home appliance” specials; I’ve been in dire need of a washer, dryer and refrigerator for some time now.
... but that stuff looks heavy.
[LOBO]
In a moment of sate and surfeit I haven't enjoyed in years, I find myself somewhat caught up on the bills and occasionally drifting over “home appliance” specials; I’ve been in dire need of a washer, dryer and refrigerator for some time now.
... but that stuff looks heavy.
Tuesday
Blindside
Predator Press
[Zombie Mr Insanity]
You didn’t think I would show up at the gun range, did you?
You’re forgetting I know LOBO. He was going to require something subtle. Something sneaky … like showing up at Wrigley Field to bash that little fucker’s brains in with this tire iron.
I didn’t foresee Babs making a "less-than hostile” bid at a Hawly Enterprises takeover.
This is a rather intriguing development.
[Zombie Mr Insanity]
You didn’t think I would show up at the gun range, did you?
You’re forgetting I know LOBO. He was going to require something subtle. Something sneaky … like showing up at Wrigley Field to bash that little fucker’s brains in with this tire iron.
I didn’t foresee Babs making a "less-than hostile” bid at a Hawly Enterprises takeover.
This is a rather intriguing development.
Monday
History Depletes Itself
Predator Press
[LOBO]
Back in the golden days of the Roman Empire, the woolly mammoth and 8-track tapes, Roman radiators fought to the death for the viewing pleasure of a bloodthirsty audience. “Going to a Bears game” meant that at the coliseum that week, gigantic and hungry bears were going to be set loose to publicly devour criminals, Christians, and other undesirables.
This, incidentally, made going to a Jets game really cool.
But nowadays, apparently, it’s different.
Babs and Mr Insanity carried me to the hospital, and after I got my ankle all bandaged up -- and jacked up high with Children's Morphine to stop my hysterical screaming-- we all headed back to face the throng of people at Wrigley Field. I was just wondering why Children’s Morphine tasted suspiciously like Tic Tacs, and then it dawned on me:
There was no game.
I don’t care what you think you saw on television. I was right there, loyal and enthusiastic, waving my giant Blackhawks foam finger at gametime, and there was nothing on that field except for tumbleweeds.
At first I thought maybe they were short of players; quite the physical specimen myself, I valiantly prepared to volunteer by drinking a whole 22 oz Gatorade. But the only other people at the field at all were those mean Japanese tourists that followed me because of my foam finger.
Just like Bigfoot, the Lunar Landing, and the female orgasm, football is a myth.
No one was more shocked than I. Doubting even myself, I went over my DVR copy of the game to look for inevitable inconsistencies. And sure enough, numerous times you can see the string attached to the football. Further, exactly 2 minutes into the second quarter if you look closely behind Rex Grossman, you can see Kenny, Stan, Cartman, and Kyle lining up for scrimmage. It happens right after the “Your DVR has run out of space,” techno-babble.
Luckily, I have noted journalist Oliver Stone on speed dial.
[LOBO]
Back in the golden days of the Roman Empire, the woolly mammoth and 8-track tapes, Roman radiators fought to the death for the viewing pleasure of a bloodthirsty audience. “Going to a Bears game” meant that at the coliseum that week, gigantic and hungry bears were going to be set loose to publicly devour criminals, Christians, and other undesirables.
This, incidentally, made going to a Jets game really cool.
But nowadays, apparently, it’s different.
Babs and Mr Insanity carried me to the hospital, and after I got my ankle all bandaged up -- and jacked up high with Children's Morphine to stop my hysterical screaming-- we all headed back to face the throng of people at Wrigley Field. I was just wondering why Children’s Morphine tasted suspiciously like Tic Tacs, and then it dawned on me:
There was no game.
I don’t care what you think you saw on television. I was right there, loyal and enthusiastic, waving my giant Blackhawks foam finger at gametime, and there was nothing on that field except for tumbleweeds.
At first I thought maybe they were short of players; quite the physical specimen myself, I valiantly prepared to volunteer by drinking a whole 22 oz Gatorade. But the only other people at the field at all were those mean Japanese tourists that followed me because of my foam finger.
Just like Bigfoot, the Lunar Landing, and the female orgasm, football is a myth.
No one was more shocked than I. Doubting even myself, I went over my DVR copy of the game to look for inevitable inconsistencies. And sure enough, numerous times you can see the string attached to the football. Further, exactly 2 minutes into the second quarter if you look closely behind Rex Grossman, you can see Kenny, Stan, Cartman, and Kyle lining up for scrimmage. It happens right after the “Your DVR has run out of space,” techno-babble.
Luckily, I have noted journalist Oliver Stone on speed dial.
Sunday
Huddle
Predator Press
[LOBO]
I see Babs climbing the bleachers, and I’m excited to see a familiar face in this lonely place.
She hands me a cup of hot chocolate, and I nearly cut myself on her sweater reaching for it; indeed, at eight degrees, her nipples were deadly and fascinating weapons. Cuddling close to me, she nuzzles them heavily in my arm, and I can smell the Safari wafting through the air.
We stare in silence and stark solitude at the flat, square place guys play sports on.
“Do you know what I’m thinking?” she whispers.
“That maybe I should put golf on my blog after all?”
“No,” she says, inching closer.
Suddenly, she screams “Zombie!” and Mr. Insanity lurches from out of the dugout.
Now, I tried to throw her out of the way so I could escape without trampling her, but my foot got caught in the seat; I toppled to the ground, bolts of pain shooting through my ankle.
“Don’t you even think about leaving me behind!” I scream at Babs, weeping openly. “I’ll throw my hot chocolate at you!”
[LOBO]
I see Babs climbing the bleachers, and I’m excited to see a familiar face in this lonely place.
She hands me a cup of hot chocolate, and I nearly cut myself on her sweater reaching for it; indeed, at eight degrees, her nipples were deadly and fascinating weapons. Cuddling close to me, she nuzzles them heavily in my arm, and I can smell the Safari wafting through the air.
We stare in silence and stark solitude at the flat, square place guys play sports on.
“Do you know what I’m thinking?” she whispers.
“That maybe I should put golf on my blog after all?”
“No,” she says, inching closer.
Suddenly, she screams “Zombie!” and Mr. Insanity lurches from out of the dugout.
Now, I tried to throw her out of the way so I could escape without trampling her, but my foot got caught in the seat; I toppled to the ground, bolts of pain shooting through my ankle.
“Don’t you even think about leaving me behind!” I scream at Babs, weeping openly. “I’ll throw my hot chocolate at you!”
Go Bears
Predator Press
[LOBO]
I decided to “get the drop” on the game day crowd, and camp out all night here at Wrigley Field.
These fucking seats are awesome.
[LOBO]
I decided to “get the drop” on the game day crowd, and camp out all night here at Wrigley Field.
These fucking seats are awesome.
Saturday
Brunch
Predator Press
[Zombie Mr Insanity]
I knock three times.
No answer.
I raise my arm to knock again, and I can hear sounds behind the door.
“What?” says a voice.
“LOBO?” I says.
“Maybe.”
“It’s me, Seth.”
“Who?
“You know, Mr Insanity?”
“I thought you were dead or something.”
“Oh heavens no!” I says chucking. “It was all a big prank. Now let me in so I can tell you all the details and eat your brains.”
“Well,” says LOBO. “I’m running late. I’m supposed to meet my brother at the gun range. Why don’t you meet us there?”
I scratch my chin, thinking, and a slab of flesh falls of. “I lost my car to probate. Can I ride with you guys?”
“Well that depends,” says LOBO. “Was that a chunk of rotting flesh I just heard hit the floor?”
Kicking the maggot-riddled swatch deftly away, I reply, “No. Of course not.”
“Was that the sound of you kicking away a chunk of rotting flesh and 131 maggots?” says LOBO.
“Oh all right,” I concede. “You got me.”
“I really don’t want all that crap falling off in my car.”
“So it’s 20 degrees, and you want me to walk eight miles,” I says, recapping.
“Hey, Fred or whatever,” says LOBO. “It’s a rental. I can’t even smoke in the fucking thing. Quit being such a pussy about it. It’s not like I’m asking you to pick up ammo and donuts something.”
“You’re an asshole.”
“I’m an asshole? You’ll be walking right by Kmart!”
"So?"
"Ammo and donuts make my brains tastier," he replies.
"Really?"
"And coffee makes them taste like hickory-smoked barbequed ribs."
[Zombie Mr Insanity]
I knock three times.
No answer.
I raise my arm to knock again, and I can hear sounds behind the door.
“What?” says a voice.
“LOBO?” I says.
“Maybe.”
“It’s me, Seth.”
“Who?
“You know, Mr Insanity?”
“I thought you were dead or something.”
“Oh heavens no!” I says chucking. “It was all a big prank. Now let me in so I can tell you all the details and eat your brains.”
“Well,” says LOBO. “I’m running late. I’m supposed to meet my brother at the gun range. Why don’t you meet us there?”
I scratch my chin, thinking, and a slab of flesh falls of. “I lost my car to probate. Can I ride with you guys?”
“Well that depends,” says LOBO. “Was that a chunk of rotting flesh I just heard hit the floor?”
Kicking the maggot-riddled swatch deftly away, I reply, “No. Of course not.”
“Was that the sound of you kicking away a chunk of rotting flesh and 131 maggots?” says LOBO.
“Oh all right,” I concede. “You got me.”
“I really don’t want all that crap falling off in my car.”
“So it’s 20 degrees, and you want me to walk eight miles,” I says, recapping.
“Hey, Fred or whatever,” says LOBO. “It’s a rental. I can’t even smoke in the fucking thing. Quit being such a pussy about it. It’s not like I’m asking you to pick up ammo and donuts something.”
“You’re an asshole.”
“I’m an asshole? You’ll be walking right by Kmart!”
"So?"
"Ammo and donuts make my brains tastier," he replies.
"Really?"
"And coffee makes them taste like hickory-smoked barbequed ribs."
Friday
Special Guest Appearance
Predator Press
[Zombie Mr Insanity]
Let me get this straight.
LOBO had my body dug up in order to promote Predator Press?
Wow. And here I am dripping maggots.
I‘m hungry.
[Zombie Mr Insanity]
Let me get this straight.
LOBO had my body dug up in order to promote Predator Press?
Wow. And here I am dripping maggots.
I‘m hungry.
Lake of Pants on Fire
Predator Press
[LOBO]
Please stop asking me why --despite this kickass physique-- I don’t play professional football.
Once and for all, it’s because of practical, ecological, humanitarian, and litigious considerations:
I don’t think I can quarterback without spilling my Latte Frappuccino all over those glaringly white tights during a “blitz” defense.
Yet.
[LOBO]
Please stop asking me why --despite this kickass physique-- I don’t play professional football.
Once and for all, it’s because of practical, ecological, humanitarian, and litigious considerations:
I don’t think I can quarterback without spilling my Latte Frappuccino all over those glaringly white tights during a “blitz” defense.
Yet.
Whore
Predator Press
[LOBO]
Well, let's see.
Sex: check.
Guns: check.
Violence: check.
Beastiality: check.
Necrophilia: pending. (I've got Max, Brighta and Vetter digging up Mr Insanity to see if there are any takers.)
Honestly, the only other thing I can think of perverse enough to trigger shit-tons of search engines is maybe golf, and that’s just going way too far even for me.
All set for the onslaught of Googlites, Yahoonians and maybe even a weathered Lycosian or two, I just found out that the site crawlers could take as long as six weeks to kick in.
Please try to remain interesting-looking in the meantime.
[LOBO]
Well, let's see.
Sex: check.
Guns: check.
Violence: check.
Beastiality: check.
Necrophilia: pending. (I've got Max, Brighta and Vetter digging up Mr Insanity to see if there are any takers.)
Honestly, the only other thing I can think of perverse enough to trigger shit-tons of search engines is maybe golf, and that’s just going way too far even for me.
All set for the onslaught of Googlites, Yahoonians and maybe even a weathered Lycosian or two, I just found out that the site crawlers could take as long as six weeks to kick in.
Please try to remain interesting-looking in the meantime.
Thursday
WE ARE GETTING "CRAWLED" BY GOOGLE
Predator Press
[LOBO]
We aren't getting enough web hits.
Look, I know I've been tawdry ... but how am I to warn the masses of, say, a zombie uprising? Or an alien invasion? It is my sacred duty as a self-appointed Defender of Humankind to increase readership. So your brains don't get eaten! Or you get rectal-probed or something!
***
Well wow, it's morning already ... the cock is crowing somewhere, and my pussy cat can sense it; she is stroking against my ankles after dreaming long and hard of a breast-pounding sweaty hunt of some tit mice in a bush. Or maybe a hole. (What am I, a fucking pet psychiatrist? Go back to licking your fur, beast!)
Well, I gotta blow on outta here. My lips are chapped ... they feel like leather. They would probably be pink if I were a member of an enormous cross dressing group and at a costume party where people wore lots of lipstick and hung out with lesbians.
Lastly, an observation: The words "Penis" and "Vagina" both contain the letters "i" and "n".
Coincidence?
Hm?
Butt I digress.
[LOBO]
We aren't getting enough web hits.
Look, I know I've been tawdry ... but how am I to warn the masses of, say, a zombie uprising? Or an alien invasion? It is my sacred duty as a self-appointed Defender of Humankind to increase readership. So your brains don't get eaten! Or you get rectal-probed or something!
Well wow, it's morning already ... the cock is crowing somewhere, and my pussy cat can sense it; she is stroking against my ankles after dreaming long and hard of a breast-pounding sweaty hunt of some tit mice in a bush. Or maybe a hole. (What am I, a fucking pet psychiatrist? Go back to licking your fur, beast!)
Well, I gotta blow on outta here. My lips are chapped ... they feel like leather. They would probably be pink if I were a member of an enormous cross dressing group and at a costume party where people wore lots of lipstick and hung out with lesbians.
Lastly, an observation: The words "Penis" and "Vagina" both contain the letters "i" and "n".
Coincidence?
Hm?
Butt I digress.
Skeet
Predator Press
[LOBO]
Look, nobody told me my brother’s squeeze was in the Peace Corps.
I heard the cell phone ring and yelled “PULL!”
But instead of throwing it, he answered.
I'll bet the Emergency Room sees a lot more of this than they are willing to admit.
[LOBO]
Look, nobody told me my brother’s squeeze was in the Peace Corps.
I heard the cell phone ring and yelled “PULL!”
But instead of throwing it, he answered.
I'll bet the Emergency Room sees a lot more of this than they are willing to admit.
Shake a Leg
Predator Press
[LOBO]
This weekend is going to be huge.
I’m switching to nights for a few months at the job Monday, so I have to flip my sleep cycle. Predator Press will be getting the most posting I can manage, but in an effort to increase traffic, I also have to find four or five hours to add our tags to about 30 web-searching engines. Plus I need to shop for a car. And let’s not forget The Game, which will more or less wipe out all of Sunday.
In hopes of borrowing some deep-arctic gear, I paid a visit to my outdoorsy “little” brother. We didn’t grow up together, and tend to have long stretches with little or no contact. Still, it’s always good to see the handsome pup.
In the preliminary phone call, I got the sense that he was on the verge of landing a new femme fatale; so when I got to his place, I was a little distressed to see his house still a veritable shrine for the old one.
“Why are you keeping this crap?” I ask bluntly.
“I dunno,” he says, a little uncomfortable. “I guess it’s not mine and I don’t feel right about getting rid of it.”
“Dude, she played you for six months and then dumped you during a crisis. I’ll bet she didn’t even send a Christmas card. Why are you contorting over this at all? She doesn't care about this stuff; she just left it here like your house is her own personal trash can.”
“So I’m supposed to just throw it out?”
I start grabbing her pictures, baubles, and dainty crap into a plastic bag. They are easy to pick out, as they contrast heavily with the pressboard furniture and bikini posters. “Look,” I says, wincing at a shelf full of Anne Rice novels, “There comes a time in every healthy relationship when it must be terminated with extreme malice in order for the healing to begin.” After scooping the books into the bag with a single arc of my arm, I pause. “Do you still have your guns?”
“I’m not going to fucking kill her,” he snaps.
“No you’re not. You’re going to live a robust, healthy and successful life and hope she does the same, so she sees what she fucked up for a good long time. Every success, every conquest, every breath will be another joyous opportunity to stick it to her.” I continue gathering everything pink, frilly, or shiny. “What time does the gun range open on Saturday?”
“Eight in the morning.”
I hold up the heavy bag, smiling, “Now we know what to do with her stuff.”
He gets a sly smile I haven’t seen in awhile. “Even the stereo?”
“Especially the stereo.”
[LOBO]
This weekend is going to be huge.
I’m switching to nights for a few months at the job Monday, so I have to flip my sleep cycle. Predator Press will be getting the most posting I can manage, but in an effort to increase traffic, I also have to find four or five hours to add our tags to about 30 web-searching engines. Plus I need to shop for a car. And let’s not forget The Game, which will more or less wipe out all of Sunday.
In hopes of borrowing some deep-arctic gear, I paid a visit to my outdoorsy “little” brother. We didn’t grow up together, and tend to have long stretches with little or no contact. Still, it’s always good to see the handsome pup.
In the preliminary phone call, I got the sense that he was on the verge of landing a new femme fatale; so when I got to his place, I was a little distressed to see his house still a veritable shrine for the old one.
“Why are you keeping this crap?” I ask bluntly.
“I dunno,” he says, a little uncomfortable. “I guess it’s not mine and I don’t feel right about getting rid of it.”
“Dude, she played you for six months and then dumped you during a crisis. I’ll bet she didn’t even send a Christmas card. Why are you contorting over this at all? She doesn't care about this stuff; she just left it here like your house is her own personal trash can.”
“So I’m supposed to just throw it out?”
I start grabbing her pictures, baubles, and dainty crap into a plastic bag. They are easy to pick out, as they contrast heavily with the pressboard furniture and bikini posters. “Look,” I says, wincing at a shelf full of Anne Rice novels, “There comes a time in every healthy relationship when it must be terminated with extreme malice in order for the healing to begin.” After scooping the books into the bag with a single arc of my arm, I pause. “Do you still have your guns?”
“I’m not going to fucking kill her,” he snaps.
“No you’re not. You’re going to live a robust, healthy and successful life and hope she does the same, so she sees what she fucked up for a good long time. Every success, every conquest, every breath will be another joyous opportunity to stick it to her.” I continue gathering everything pink, frilly, or shiny. “What time does the gun range open on Saturday?”
“Eight in the morning.”
I hold up the heavy bag, smiling, “Now we know what to do with her stuff.”
He gets a sly smile I haven’t seen in awhile. “Even the stereo?”
“Especially the stereo.”
Tuesday
Slings and Arrows
Predator Press
[LOBO]
I was really having a great week at work.
First, my iPhone got approved, and then I got this nifty wireless transmitter with a range larger than the entire plant. Now I can yell at people or pretend I'm talking to Twiki from the bathroom, the parking lot, anywhere.
But things went south in a big way today.
For the past few weeks, the company has been buying 8 Chicago Bears tickets a game and raffling them off to us. And this week I won the stupid pool.
Well technically Louie won. But since he’s lucky enough to no longer be with us, Babs says now I’m the one that has to endure all that traffic both ways and sit in like 12 degrees for nine hours with ten billion of you drunk and rabid crazies.
Sunday, I’m going to my first live professional football game.
You know, say what you will about my anti-social tendencies, but I’m a basically happy guy when it all boils down. And I like football. But I passionately hate being in crowds; I would much rather catch the game at home. My first impulse was to sell the tix, or maybe even give them away.
But High Command has spoken: attendance is non-transferable and mandatory.
The memo concludes teasingly, “Wear something skimpy.”
Based on the weather report, I’m hoping gasoline and matches qualify.
[LOBO]
I was really having a great week at work.
First, my iPhone got approved, and then I got this nifty wireless transmitter with a range larger than the entire plant. Now I can yell at people or pretend I'm talking to Twiki from the bathroom, the parking lot, anywhere.
But things went south in a big way today.
For the past few weeks, the company has been buying 8 Chicago Bears tickets a game and raffling them off to us. And this week I won the stupid pool.
Well technically Louie won. But since he’s lucky enough to no longer be with us, Babs says now I’m the one that has to endure all that traffic both ways and sit in like 12 degrees for nine hours with ten billion of you drunk and rabid crazies.
Sunday, I’m going to my first live professional football game.
You know, say what you will about my anti-social tendencies, but I’m a basically happy guy when it all boils down. And I like football. But I passionately hate being in crowds; I would much rather catch the game at home. My first impulse was to sell the tix, or maybe even give them away.
But High Command has spoken: attendance is non-transferable and mandatory.
The memo concludes teasingly, “Wear something skimpy.”
Based on the weather report, I’m hoping gasoline and matches qualify.
Monday
Memento
Predator Press
[LOBO]
It struck me while visiting a friend this weekend how apparent one’s personal philosophy can be when looking for the clues. In stark contrast to my place, I observed walls peppered with pictures of loved ones. Family heirlooms abound. Antiques. Home entertainment systems and trendy furniture.
Souveniers.
Personal treasures.
And I remember something.
One day, on my way to work, a man on foot ran across the busy, speeding highway to retrieve his errant hubcap. Heavyset, tall, and about my age, I could see his dumbass sheepish smile.
But somehow, the truck behind me did not.
It swung around to pass me, and in my rearview, I saw it blow the foolish pedestrian into many unrecognizable pieces like a child’s doll. The truck jackknifed across the highway, and I would be among the last cars to pass for several hours.
It was amazingly horrible. I don’t know how I got the car over to the shoulder safely.
I do not keep objects of sentiment.
Especially fucking hubcaps.
[LOBO]
It struck me while visiting a friend this weekend how apparent one’s personal philosophy can be when looking for the clues. In stark contrast to my place, I observed walls peppered with pictures of loved ones. Family heirlooms abound. Antiques. Home entertainment systems and trendy furniture.
Souveniers.
Personal treasures.
And I remember something.
One day, on my way to work, a man on foot ran across the busy, speeding highway to retrieve his errant hubcap. Heavyset, tall, and about my age, I could see his dumbass sheepish smile.
But somehow, the truck behind me did not.
It swung around to pass me, and in my rearview, I saw it blow the foolish pedestrian into many unrecognizable pieces like a child’s doll. The truck jackknifed across the highway, and I would be among the last cars to pass for several hours.
It was amazingly horrible. I don’t know how I got the car over to the shoulder safely.
I do not keep objects of sentiment.
Especially fucking hubcaps.
Sunday
Catch 3.14
Predator Press
[LOBO]
Well, I’ve pretty much wasted the weekend.
I’m the worst IT customer you could want: the intermediate.
I need a basic template to get rolling, but I ultimately need to be able to access the raw HTML for custom work as well.
Every time I hire a host, I go in at look at their web tools. And within two hours, I’m leaving looking like I'm one on the writing staff of “The Brady Bunch” that last season. You know, when Mike Brady shows up to shoot in that big perm and silk shorts and rollerblades?
Maybe I should just be happy here at “Blogger”.
Maybe "never being complete" is the natural and healthy state ...
[LOBO]
Well, I’ve pretty much wasted the weekend.
I’m the worst IT customer you could want: the intermediate.
I need a basic template to get rolling, but I ultimately need to be able to access the raw HTML for custom work as well.
Every time I hire a host, I go in at look at their web tools. And within two hours, I’m leaving looking like I'm one on the writing staff of “The Brady Bunch” that last season. You know, when Mike Brady shows up to shoot in that big perm and silk shorts and rollerblades?
Maybe I should just be happy here at “Blogger”.
Maybe "never being complete" is the natural and healthy state ...
Saturday
Dry Socket
Predator Press
[LOBO]
"Well sir, you're all set, " says the guy. "Shall I charge your credit card $7,043 for all your new upgrades now?"
"What?" I says. "I think I was napping."
"You now have higher bandwidth, 5,000,000 gigabytes of memory, and the coveted Dale Earnhardt set of commemorative plates."
"Will the site be in color?" I demand shrewdly.
"For another $50 it will be."
[LOBO]
"Well sir, you're all set, " says the guy. "Shall I charge your credit card $7,043 for all your new upgrades now?"
"What?" I says. "I think I was napping."
"You now have higher bandwidth, 5,000,000 gigabytes of memory, and the coveted Dale Earnhardt set of commemorative plates."
"Will the site be in color?" I demand shrewdly.
"For another $50 it will be."
Friday
Writer's Blockade
Predator Press
[LOBO]
I already quit “Writing.com”. It seems that some of my work is unfit for penetrating the innocent deer-like retinae of today’s youth, and I agree wholeheartedly: screw the kids.
But these people are pretty extreme. Yesterday they upped the rating on “Idiot Bag” to adult, because the word “idiot” is deemed offensive.
This is the worst kind of discrimination there is.
This is the kind against me.
Today, to make matters worse, they “adultrified” a watered-down version of “Because I Care” because in the dialogue, a spreadsheet is referred to as stupid.
They would have saved me a lot of trouble by banning adjectives altogether.
It’s time to go independent. “Blogger” has been getting a little sketchy lately anyways since this Beta release; if I’m lucky enough for it to be available at all, it sometimes takes 20 minutes just to upload text. Plus it doesn't save drafts correctly anymore.
At 25,000 hits, Predator Press is due for a tune up.
What this means to you might require a little work. I generally post almost every day. While www.predatorpress.com is ours, our “hosting” is mirrored to Blogger, hence the weird web address. But if we upgrade, you will continue to be forwarded to this site which --while hopefully, is bookmarked-- will no longer be getting the updated posting.
In a nutshell, if it gets quiet, be afraid. If suddenly you don’t see daily posting, it means we are officially moved. You will have to manually type “www.predatorpress.com” into your browser, and replace the old bookmark.
I’ll do my best to keep you informed when this occurs. And I know this seems a little complicated, but I sincerely hope you will go through the effort.
We’re worth it.
Promise.
[LOBO]
I already quit “Writing.com”. It seems that some of my work is unfit for penetrating the innocent deer-like retinae of today’s youth, and I agree wholeheartedly: screw the kids.
But these people are pretty extreme. Yesterday they upped the rating on “Idiot Bag” to adult, because the word “idiot” is deemed offensive.
This is the worst kind of discrimination there is.
This is the kind against me.
Today, to make matters worse, they “adultrified” a watered-down version of “Because I Care” because in the dialogue, a spreadsheet is referred to as stupid.
They would have saved me a lot of trouble by banning adjectives altogether.
It’s time to go independent. “Blogger” has been getting a little sketchy lately anyways since this Beta release; if I’m lucky enough for it to be available at all, it sometimes takes 20 minutes just to upload text. Plus it doesn't save drafts correctly anymore.
At 25,000 hits, Predator Press is due for a tune up.
What this means to you might require a little work. I generally post almost every day. While www.predatorpress.com is ours, our “hosting” is mirrored to Blogger, hence the weird web address. But if we upgrade, you will continue to be forwarded to this site which --while hopefully, is bookmarked-- will no longer be getting the updated posting.
In a nutshell, if it gets quiet, be afraid. If suddenly you don’t see daily posting, it means we are officially moved. You will have to manually type “www.predatorpress.com” into your browser, and replace the old bookmark.
I’ll do my best to keep you informed when this occurs. And I know this seems a little complicated, but I sincerely hope you will go through the effort.
We’re worth it.
Promise.
Thursday
Because I Care
Predator Press
[LOBO]
One of my duties at work is to make spreadsheets.
Nobody ever told me who or what the spreadsheets are for, but I crank them out left and right.
They are accurate, colorful, and endless; in fact, my last spreadsheet outlined in excruciating detail how the numbers of spreadsheets produced have increased exponentially since my date of hire.
Louie is a big guy, to say the least. He’s got to be approaching 400 lbs. His job is to take the numbers from my spreadsheets and input them into a computer so all the information can be verified.
Louie hates me.
I knock on his door, and hear a grunt. And as it opens, the sounds of his labored breathing fills the room. “You’re car is being cancelled,” he begins without a greeting. Enshrined by candy bar wrappers, empty nachos polystyrene and Diet Pepsi cans, he says distractedly, “You’ve had a month now.”
“That’s too bad,” I says. I can tell by his voice he’s not done. “Why are you sweating?”
“Your stupid spreadsheets,” he says. The chair creaks under his girth as he leans back, and holds up the two fingers he uses to type. They look lean and muscular in stark contrast to the rest of his body. “The least you could do is do them in numeric order. The way you do them now, I have to delete and type the whole thing.”
“You mean you want me to put them in order so you can just delete the last digit and type in the new one?”
He nods, skull pivoting gracefully over rolls and rolls of neck.
“Sure Louie,” I says, already planning a spreadsheet outlining how many broken chairs come out of this department. “But why don’t you just cut and paste them?”
The impossibly fat eyebrows arch. “Huh,” he says. “That’s a pretty good idea. Between that and you doing them in numerical order, my life will be a hell of a lot easier.”
“Always happy to be of help, Louie,” I says cheerfully, excusing myself.
So for a month, I made spreadsheets using the letter “O” instead of zeroes, “Z” for “2”s, and even brazenly threw in “E” instead of “3” on special occasion.
It’s more than a little ironic that I was asked to deliver Louie's eulogy …
[LOBO]
One of my duties at work is to make spreadsheets.
Nobody ever told me who or what the spreadsheets are for, but I crank them out left and right.
They are accurate, colorful, and endless; in fact, my last spreadsheet outlined in excruciating detail how the numbers of spreadsheets produced have increased exponentially since my date of hire.
Louie is a big guy, to say the least. He’s got to be approaching 400 lbs. His job is to take the numbers from my spreadsheets and input them into a computer so all the information can be verified.
Louie hates me.
I knock on his door, and hear a grunt. And as it opens, the sounds of his labored breathing fills the room. “You’re car is being cancelled,” he begins without a greeting. Enshrined by candy bar wrappers, empty nachos polystyrene and Diet Pepsi cans, he says distractedly, “You’ve had a month now.”
“That’s too bad,” I says. I can tell by his voice he’s not done. “Why are you sweating?”
“Your stupid spreadsheets,” he says. The chair creaks under his girth as he leans back, and holds up the two fingers he uses to type. They look lean and muscular in stark contrast to the rest of his body. “The least you could do is do them in numeric order. The way you do them now, I have to delete and type the whole thing.”
“You mean you want me to put them in order so you can just delete the last digit and type in the new one?”
He nods, skull pivoting gracefully over rolls and rolls of neck.
“Sure Louie,” I says, already planning a spreadsheet outlining how many broken chairs come out of this department. “But why don’t you just cut and paste them?”
The impossibly fat eyebrows arch. “Huh,” he says. “That’s a pretty good idea. Between that and you doing them in numerical order, my life will be a hell of a lot easier.”
“Always happy to be of help, Louie,” I says cheerfully, excusing myself.
So for a month, I made spreadsheets using the letter “O” instead of zeroes, “Z” for “2”s, and even brazenly threw in “E” instead of “3” on special occasion.
It’s more than a little ironic that I was asked to deliver Louie's eulogy …
Wednesday
Hack
Predator Press
[LOBO]
I’ve been compiling a “best of” collection over at writing.com. I don’t think the pieces are really as good as the originals, as I’ve had to make them self-contained short story “adaptations” for readers who have never been to this site before. Still, the immediate feedback is good, and I like the specific “hit-by-post” breakdowns. While I can’t tell who is reading, I can tell what is being read; it’s like a cheap demographic study.
Well, you had better be sitting down. What I found out could just give you an aneurysm.
The internet is full of perverts.
It turns out that my fairly soft-core porn draws three times more hits than anything else. This lame porn is followed roughly equally by drug references and curse words.
I don’t know what I expected to find, but I’m pretty pleased with the demographic anyway.
Thanks for reading!
I love living in this day and age, and how inventive it all is. The Internet has once again given us instant satisfaction and gratification rather than that crappy other kind of satisfaction and gratification. As a kid, what did I have to play with? Basically it was either GI Joes or Stretch Armstrong. “Kung Fu Grip” gets old fast, and stabbing Stretch with a pencil will get you yelled at a lot, but subsequent new carpeting.
As a grown-up, maybe I'm still a little conflicted on the whole “Stretch Armstrong” thing, but I’m not on technology.
Bring on the toys, and please bring them on fast.
As a quasi, low-grade tech support goob where I work, I’m getting a crash course in a variety of tech toys lately, and I still need to pick my “weapon of choice” as far as mobile communication.
My cellphone.
I told them I think I want an iPhone.
I know I do more than my share ragging on Mac products, but while I prefer PC, I’m perfectly comfortable using a Mac as well; the bulk of computers at my college were Macs. The bulk of my hamburgers have been Macs. Those people are definitely onto something periodically, so I keep my eye out. Even a broken clock is right twice a day, after all.
That iPod phone looks slick. I even sold the idea to the purchasing department. In fact, I had them already ready to order them for themselves too until they saw the $500 sticker price. Then the tightwads started to backpedal. “Maybe when the price comes down,” or “Let’s let the technology prove itself first,” blah blah. How dare you become “reasonable” and “responsible” at a time like this? Just what are you calculatrons hiding?
Immediately, I’m suspicious.
After some convincing, I got Ethan to fire them all for conspiracy to embezzle iPhones. But now, corporate iPhone “approved”, there’s nobody in the office to help me with the paperwork to buy one.
What the fuck is happening to this country?
Well, I wasn’t particularly excited about getting a cellphone in the first place, and I’ve just created another six-month excuse to wait to get one.
I am the uncontested World Champion of Procrastination.
Don’t think so?
Just wait.
[LOBO]
I’ve been compiling a “best of” collection over at writing.com. I don’t think the pieces are really as good as the originals, as I’ve had to make them self-contained short story “adaptations” for readers who have never been to this site before. Still, the immediate feedback is good, and I like the specific “hit-by-post” breakdowns. While I can’t tell who is reading, I can tell what is being read; it’s like a cheap demographic study.
Well, you had better be sitting down. What I found out could just give you an aneurysm.
The internet is full of perverts.
It turns out that my fairly soft-core porn draws three times more hits than anything else. This lame porn is followed roughly equally by drug references and curse words.
I don’t know what I expected to find, but I’m pretty pleased with the demographic anyway.
Thanks for reading!
I love living in this day and age, and how inventive it all is. The Internet has once again given us instant satisfaction and gratification rather than that crappy other kind of satisfaction and gratification. As a kid, what did I have to play with? Basically it was either GI Joes or Stretch Armstrong. “Kung Fu Grip” gets old fast, and stabbing Stretch with a pencil will get you yelled at a lot, but subsequent new carpeting.
As a grown-up, maybe I'm still a little conflicted on the whole “Stretch Armstrong” thing, but I’m not on technology.
Bring on the toys, and please bring them on fast.
As a quasi, low-grade tech support goob where I work, I’m getting a crash course in a variety of tech toys lately, and I still need to pick my “weapon of choice” as far as mobile communication.
My cellphone.
I told them I think I want an iPhone.
I know I do more than my share ragging on Mac products, but while I prefer PC, I’m perfectly comfortable using a Mac as well; the bulk of computers at my college were Macs. The bulk of my hamburgers have been Macs. Those people are definitely onto something periodically, so I keep my eye out. Even a broken clock is right twice a day, after all.
That iPod phone looks slick. I even sold the idea to the purchasing department. In fact, I had them already ready to order them for themselves too until they saw the $500 sticker price. Then the tightwads started to backpedal. “Maybe when the price comes down,” or “Let’s let the technology prove itself first,” blah blah. How dare you become “reasonable” and “responsible” at a time like this? Just what are you calculatrons hiding?
Immediately, I’m suspicious.
After some convincing, I got Ethan to fire them all for conspiracy to embezzle iPhones. But now, corporate iPhone “approved”, there’s nobody in the office to help me with the paperwork to buy one.
What the fuck is happening to this country?
Well, I wasn’t particularly excited about getting a cellphone in the first place, and I’ve just created another six-month excuse to wait to get one.
I am the uncontested World Champion of Procrastination.
Don’t think so?
Just wait.
Tuesday
Catwalk
Predator Press
[LOBO]
Mounting pressure from work to “dress for success” has forced me to do some shopping.
Evidently, they want me in disguise as somebody ‘respectable’.
This is no small feat for a guy who has procrastinated buying shoes for six months; for years, I have blown into Wal-Mart and bought 32X32 “loose fit” Levis and three-packs of T-shirts, finishing my annual clothes shopping –without even trying anything on—in maybe four minutes and for about eight bucks. I don’t know anything about clothes and colors and whatever, and now I gotta learn how to dress like a grown-up virtually overnight.
It was clear I needed help.
A small squad of concerned friends enlisted, and I got dragged to the mall.
I got khakis, ties, cardigans, shoes, belts, aftershave, and dark socks. And of course I hadda “polarize”; we continued on to spiff coats, gloves, scarf, boots and so on.
And after $1,100, wanna know what I’m wearing to work tomorrow?
Wal-Mart and bought 32X32 “loose fit” Levis and a T-shirt.
Well, at least I got my fucking shoes.
[LOBO]
Mounting pressure from work to “dress for success” has forced me to do some shopping.
Evidently, they want me in disguise as somebody ‘respectable’.
This is no small feat for a guy who has procrastinated buying shoes for six months; for years, I have blown into Wal-Mart and bought 32X32 “loose fit” Levis and three-packs of T-shirts, finishing my annual clothes shopping –without even trying anything on—in maybe four minutes and for about eight bucks. I don’t know anything about clothes and colors and whatever, and now I gotta learn how to dress like a grown-up virtually overnight.
It was clear I needed help.
A small squad of concerned friends enlisted, and I got dragged to the mall.
I got khakis, ties, cardigans, shoes, belts, aftershave, and dark socks. And of course I hadda “polarize”; we continued on to spiff coats, gloves, scarf, boots and so on.
And after $1,100, wanna know what I’m wearing to work tomorrow?
Wal-Mart and bought 32X32 “loose fit” Levis and a T-shirt.
Well, at least I got my fucking shoes.
Monday
Stainless Steel Rat
Predator Press
[LOBO]
Posting is going to get a little sketchy for a while; I’m getting ready for some company.
First of all, thanks to LadyTerri for not only plugging Predator Press yet once again, but for giving me a good laugh over what she used. It never ceases to amaze me the unexpected and screwball stuff that just gets seized upon from here, and sometimes I forget just how bizarre this page is myself. The furthered circulation of Best Squishes even made me blush.
Secondly, my unpopular decision to kill off “Mister Insanity” is final. And trust me, I mulled over it quite extensively.
The initial conception was to develop a character that represented each of the “Seven Deadly Sins”, and as a writing exercise, write for each independently. Eventually refined, we would have LOBO for Sloth, Phoebe for Vanity, Mr Insanity for Gluttony, et cetera.
But new readers just found this “multiple writer” format too confusing. Let’s not call it an outright artistic failure, but an opportunity for growth; perhaps, as my writing skill improves, I will achieve the talent necessary to pull off something that ambitious. At that point, I would certainly reassess my options.
But for now, Predator Press is slimming down to its original “fighting weight” of 162,457 metric tons.
(Cobe is a fat fuck.)
[LOBO]
Posting is going to get a little sketchy for a while; I’m getting ready for some company.
First of all, thanks to LadyTerri for not only plugging Predator Press yet once again, but for giving me a good laugh over what she used. It never ceases to amaze me the unexpected and screwball stuff that just gets seized upon from here, and sometimes I forget just how bizarre this page is myself. The furthered circulation of Best Squishes even made me blush.
Secondly, my unpopular decision to kill off “Mister Insanity” is final. And trust me, I mulled over it quite extensively.
The initial conception was to develop a character that represented each of the “Seven Deadly Sins”, and as a writing exercise, write for each independently. Eventually refined, we would have LOBO for Sloth, Phoebe for Vanity, Mr Insanity for Gluttony, et cetera.
But new readers just found this “multiple writer” format too confusing. Let’s not call it an outright artistic failure, but an opportunity for growth; perhaps, as my writing skill improves, I will achieve the talent necessary to pull off something that ambitious. At that point, I would certainly reassess my options.
But for now, Predator Press is slimming down to its original “fighting weight” of 162,457 metric tons.
(Cobe is a fat fuck.)
Saturday
Pissing Off the Gods
Predator Press
[LOBO]
I have a great job. It pays good, and the hours and people are fantastic.
But wow it can be stressful sometimes ... particularly when my boss calls off. On these days, millions of dollars annually in clients --representing accounts-- live or die by my ability to do what I do well.
I'm not exaggerating.
I came home and dragged some pillows and a blanket to the couch, gratefully collapsing in an exhausted heap; here it was barely six o'clock on a Friday night, and I was curling up with the television remote, whipped.
For those of us that didn't know this, please be warned: television sucks on a Friday night. Completely frazzled, somehow I mindlessly ended up sputtering out on some show on The Travel Channel about famous American haunted houses. And they do an amazingly bad fifteen-minute piece on sightings of Pelé, the Goddess of the Hawaiian Islands.
Why was it amazingly bad?
Because I've seen Her.
Personally.
I used to laugh at people who told ghost stories, chalking it up to vivid imaginations coupled with normal unexplained phenomena. That's how humans have dealt with stuff we don't understand for as long as we've been able to not understand stuff; we make it "magic".
But for summer vacation during my angelic High School years, my mother invited me to come out and visit Oahu for a month, and I would come back to the mainland United States forever changed.
***
After being there a week or so the magnificent splendor of the place just kind of petered out, and rampant teenage angst took over once more. With maybe twenty days or so left, I don't need a full-blown romance either: I need to get laid.
I ended up accepting an invitation to a club from a girl I didn't particularly find attractive. But she was witty, intelligent and sweet, and I was so horny I could've fucked a plate of sheet steel; if something "magical" didn't happen soon, we could've had another Pearl Harbor.
As male, my sexual gratification upon occasion is an issue of national security.
I considered myself as doing my patriotic duty.
So she's over twenty-one and stops to buy a six-pack of Budweiser, and we share them at the top of Mount Tantalus. And what is it about having sex under all those stars while looking out over city lights that makes it so erotic? I suspect it has something to do with the naked chick on the hood of her car with her legs wrapped around me, but I'm not 100% on that. Don't quote me.
Having "finished up", we were soon preparing to leave. I didn't want open beer cans in the car, so I'm perplexed as she gets genuinely pissed at me for throwing one of them over the cliff side. And believe it or not, she throws the cans in her otherwise immaculate car, and we drive down the mountain.
Now, to drive up and down Mount Tantalus is no small matter. The severely winding road limits you to very slow crawl, and if I remember correctly, it's about an hour each way. By the time we get to the bottom I have to pee, and ask her to pull over in a nearby parking lot. Figuring I would find a dumpster or something and get rid of the beer cans too, I grab them up and crush them, and slip off behind what appeared to be an abandoned warehouse or something.
But in back, it opens into a larger area behind it. In front of me is a cage of "monkey bars" and series of dilapidated swing sets, amazingly overgrown with weeds.
This is a school.
Well, I have to pee anyways. I'm not proud ... but judging from the lack of upkeep, I'm figuring the kids are on summer vacation too. I don't see trash receptacles of any kind, but I figure I've broken line of sight with the chick anyways; rationally, I discard the beer cans in the grass and unzip my fly in a dark corner of the building.
In the corner, there is a window on each side, and slightly behind me.
And from one, I start hearing murmurs in a language I don't understand.
A little louder, I hear another from the other window.
I think the thing that really freaked me out about it was the fact that they weren't talking to each other.
They were talking to me.
Stopping in mid-stream, I zipped up and fled in terror.
After picking up the beer cans.
***
Now Oahu isn't really that big. It's maybe fifty square miles, and you can cover it pretty thoroughly after a few years. So I'm staggered when "local" Hawaiians, having lived there all their lives, have never heard of the school.
It was as if the land had swallowed up every miniscule piece and memory of my tenuous evidence.
No one had ever heard of the place.
But what was really worse than that were the nightmares. My mother will verify this. For the first time in my life, I was suffering from what I would guess are considered "night terrors"; I would wake out sweating and out of breath, with no memory of the dream whatsoever. And after a week of shattered sleep, this was taking its toll. Ten days, and I'm edgy and worn out, and growing increasingly concerned that this was something that wasn't ever going to go away at all.
But I do remember the last dream.
I'm sitting in the center of a clearing in a thick jungle that recedes away only to return and close off the sky above me. And without a sound, a naked woman nimbly approaches. She stops, waist deep in thick woods, and stares at me in quiet serenity.
I remember feeling very sorry, and pleading for forgiveness. At some point I realize that below the obscuring foliage, she doesn't have human legs.
Without spectacle or fanfare, she leaves as quietly as she came.
And I slept like a baby.
***
The night before my flight home, my mom set up a big farewell shindig and invited all the friends I made over the past month. Laughing and joking, I end up relaying this story at my mom's request. And to her chagrin, I also added the previously undisclosed details of the dream.
Everyone at the next table gets noticeably quiet.
I look over, and it's a group of native Hawaiians just staring daggers at me.
"Fucking haole," one says finally, insulted. "You come here on vacation, and you see Pelé?"
But it was only a dream.
Right?
[LOBO]
I have a great job. It pays good, and the hours and people are fantastic.
But wow it can be stressful sometimes ... particularly when my boss calls off. On these days, millions of dollars annually in clients --representing accounts-- live or die by my ability to do what I do well.
I'm not exaggerating.
I came home and dragged some pillows and a blanket to the couch, gratefully collapsing in an exhausted heap; here it was barely six o'clock on a Friday night, and I was curling up with the television remote, whipped.
For those of us that didn't know this, please be warned: television sucks on a Friday night. Completely frazzled, somehow I mindlessly ended up sputtering out on some show on The Travel Channel about famous American haunted houses. And they do an amazingly bad fifteen-minute piece on sightings of Pelé, the Goddess of the Hawaiian Islands.
Why was it amazingly bad?
Because I've seen Her.
Personally.
I used to laugh at people who told ghost stories, chalking it up to vivid imaginations coupled with normal unexplained phenomena. That's how humans have dealt with stuff we don't understand for as long as we've been able to not understand stuff; we make it "magic".
But for summer vacation during my angelic High School years, my mother invited me to come out and visit Oahu for a month, and I would come back to the mainland United States forever changed.
After being there a week or so the magnificent splendor of the place just kind of petered out, and rampant teenage angst took over once more. With maybe twenty days or so left, I don't need a full-blown romance either: I need to get laid.
I ended up accepting an invitation to a club from a girl I didn't particularly find attractive. But she was witty, intelligent and sweet, and I was so horny I could've fucked a plate of sheet steel; if something "magical" didn't happen soon, we could've had another Pearl Harbor.
As male, my sexual gratification upon occasion is an issue of national security.
I considered myself as doing my patriotic duty.
So she's over twenty-one and stops to buy a six-pack of Budweiser, and we share them at the top of Mount Tantalus. And what is it about having sex under all those stars while looking out over city lights that makes it so erotic? I suspect it has something to do with the naked chick on the hood of her car with her legs wrapped around me, but I'm not 100% on that. Don't quote me.
Having "finished up", we were soon preparing to leave. I didn't want open beer cans in the car, so I'm perplexed as she gets genuinely pissed at me for throwing one of them over the cliff side. And believe it or not, she throws the cans in her otherwise immaculate car, and we drive down the mountain.
Now, to drive up and down Mount Tantalus is no small matter. The severely winding road limits you to very slow crawl, and if I remember correctly, it's about an hour each way. By the time we get to the bottom I have to pee, and ask her to pull over in a nearby parking lot. Figuring I would find a dumpster or something and get rid of the beer cans too, I grab them up and crush them, and slip off behind what appeared to be an abandoned warehouse or something.
But in back, it opens into a larger area behind it. In front of me is a cage of "monkey bars" and series of dilapidated swing sets, amazingly overgrown with weeds.
This is a school.
Well, I have to pee anyways. I'm not proud ... but judging from the lack of upkeep, I'm figuring the kids are on summer vacation too. I don't see trash receptacles of any kind, but I figure I've broken line of sight with the chick anyways; rationally, I discard the beer cans in the grass and unzip my fly in a dark corner of the building.
In the corner, there is a window on each side, and slightly behind me.
And from one, I start hearing murmurs in a language I don't understand.
A little louder, I hear another from the other window.
I think the thing that really freaked me out about it was the fact that they weren't talking to each other.
They were talking to me.
Stopping in mid-stream, I zipped up and fled in terror.
After picking up the beer cans.
Now Oahu isn't really that big. It's maybe fifty square miles, and you can cover it pretty thoroughly after a few years. So I'm staggered when "local" Hawaiians, having lived there all their lives, have never heard of the school.
It was as if the land had swallowed up every miniscule piece and memory of my tenuous evidence.
No one had ever heard of the place.
But what was really worse than that were the nightmares. My mother will verify this. For the first time in my life, I was suffering from what I would guess are considered "night terrors"; I would wake out sweating and out of breath, with no memory of the dream whatsoever. And after a week of shattered sleep, this was taking its toll. Ten days, and I'm edgy and worn out, and growing increasingly concerned that this was something that wasn't ever going to go away at all.
But I do remember the last dream.
I'm sitting in the center of a clearing in a thick jungle that recedes away only to return and close off the sky above me. And without a sound, a naked woman nimbly approaches. She stops, waist deep in thick woods, and stares at me in quiet serenity.
I remember feeling very sorry, and pleading for forgiveness. At some point I realize that below the obscuring foliage, she doesn't have human legs.
Without spectacle or fanfare, she leaves as quietly as she came.
And I slept like a baby.
The night before my flight home, my mom set up a big farewell shindig and invited all the friends I made over the past month. Laughing and joking, I end up relaying this story at my mom's request. And to her chagrin, I also added the previously undisclosed details of the dream.
Everyone at the next table gets noticeably quiet.
I look over, and it's a group of native Hawaiians just staring daggers at me.
"Fucking haole," one says finally, insulted. "You come here on vacation, and you see Pelé?"
But it was only a dream.
Right?
Friday
Gainfully Unemployed
Predator Press
[Ethan]
LOBO talks about his “job” like it’s shrouded in secrecy.
Not that he knows it, but in truth he doesn’t do anything at all. He owns one percent of Hawley Enterprises, and because Babs and I are split down the center for control of the company, his one percent happens to be a controlling interest.
Complicating matters, Babs is hot.
It’s ironic; before I hired him, you couldn’t keep him out of here. Now, faced with the option of an honest day’s work, he tries hard to be on the opposite side of the Earth.
I guess I keep him on the payroll so he can afford to be as far from here as possible.
[Ethan]
LOBO talks about his “job” like it’s shrouded in secrecy.
Not that he knows it, but in truth he doesn’t do anything at all. He owns one percent of Hawley Enterprises, and because Babs and I are split down the center for control of the company, his one percent happens to be a controlling interest.
Complicating matters, Babs is hot.
It’s ironic; before I hired him, you couldn’t keep him out of here. Now, faced with the option of an honest day’s work, he tries hard to be on the opposite side of the Earth.
I guess I keep him on the payroll so he can afford to be as far from here as possible.
Thursday
Monster
Predator Press
[LOBO]
Between the brief debacle of my slothful consciousness and full-time commitment to you o loyal reader, I suffer occasional interruptions.
I have to go to this really stuffy place several times a week and do stuff. But the coffee and bagels are free, and I get to run around the whole U.S. giving excruciatingly long PowerPoint speeches about essentially nothing whatsoever, stringing buzzwords like "corporate policy" and "opportunity" together in long sentences that meander aimlessly, only occasionally looping back together. Eventually, if I keep going, I'll stumble onto some random element that vaguely had something to do with what's on the screen and, appearing like it was on purpose, I'll look at my dazzled audience like I just pulled a rabbit out of my arse.
The longer I talk, the more I make.
As the smarter ones inevitably start to nod off, I snap my pointy stick enthusiastically on the part of the pie chart with the longest looking words on it, exclaiming, "--And by scaling back our labor cost four percent, we can cut the this out entirely!"
Pie charts are not entirely exciting unto themselves. Sometimes I’ll replace the projections with films of football games, drawing little "x"es and "o"s on the screen while some guy gets crushed trying to get a home run. One time I spun enthusiastic overtures for three hours for the fiscal unit of IBM using footage from “The Little Engine That Could”.
When there are no seminars, I send out unnecessary faxes with irrational demands to be forwarded to yet another fax machine, which forwards the data back to me. Armed with a small but effective battalion of hot secretaries, they stamp it “REJECTED”, and send it backwards through the cycle again where it is promptly copied, stamped, scanned, emailed, printed, copied again, and whatever can’t be faxed again is promptly filed away.
All this paperwork makes me look so busy, co-workers often comment on my industriousness … and then I deride them for their own personal lack of initiative and dedication, which has been the hallmark of my amazing and patriotic successes.
I had almost forgotten how much I love my job.
It’s good to be back.
[LOBO]
Between the brief debacle of my slothful consciousness and full-time commitment to you o loyal reader, I suffer occasional interruptions.
I have to go to this really stuffy place several times a week and do stuff. But the coffee and bagels are free, and I get to run around the whole U.S. giving excruciatingly long PowerPoint speeches about essentially nothing whatsoever, stringing buzzwords like "corporate policy" and "opportunity" together in long sentences that meander aimlessly, only occasionally looping back together. Eventually, if I keep going, I'll stumble onto some random element that vaguely had something to do with what's on the screen and, appearing like it was on purpose, I'll look at my dazzled audience like I just pulled a rabbit out of my arse.
The longer I talk, the more I make.
As the smarter ones inevitably start to nod off, I snap my pointy stick enthusiastically on the part of the pie chart with the longest looking words on it, exclaiming, "--And by scaling back our labor cost four percent, we can cut the this out entirely!"
Pie charts are not entirely exciting unto themselves. Sometimes I’ll replace the projections with films of football games, drawing little "x"es and "o"s on the screen while some guy gets crushed trying to get a home run. One time I spun enthusiastic overtures for three hours for the fiscal unit of IBM using footage from “The Little Engine That Could”.
When there are no seminars, I send out unnecessary faxes with irrational demands to be forwarded to yet another fax machine, which forwards the data back to me. Armed with a small but effective battalion of hot secretaries, they stamp it “REJECTED”, and send it backwards through the cycle again where it is promptly copied, stamped, scanned, emailed, printed, copied again, and whatever can’t be faxed again is promptly filed away.
All this paperwork makes me look so busy, co-workers often comment on my industriousness … and then I deride them for their own personal lack of initiative and dedication, which has been the hallmark of my amazing and patriotic successes.
I had almost forgotten how much I love my job.
It’s good to be back.
Wednesday
99.99% Crap
Predator Press
[LOBO]
So much for taking a break.
This morning, I cheated on Predator Press.
I cut and pasted three stories from this blog (“A Fairy Tale”, “Silent Night Holy Crap”, and “Love is a Funny Thing”) at www.writing.com.
I feel like such a filthy whore.
But I got four and a half stars out of a possible five in my first review. So screw it.
Now, I know you’re thinking ”Oh jeez, now his ego is gonna be unbearable.”
Hell yeah you’re freakin right it is! Woo-HOO! Egomaniacs are looking at me and going “Jesus Christ, I wish I had his ego right now!”
Hey, this writing stuff takes a lot of time, and it’s virtually thankless. So I’m having a self high-five today.
Okay, I'm done.
Still, those are older pieces; my favorite stories are the newer ones with people that are flamboyantly flawed and infinitely more interesting. Which is sad in a way ... should I go back to the older stuff?
For instance, “A Slicing Device” --my adaptation of “A Christmas Carol” (God, that’s funny now that I think about it)-- is a much better piece in my opinion. But it doesn’t make much sense without the backstory of the cast: you can't submit stuff like that to anybody at all.
I think this means I’m writing an exponential amount of unappreciable, non-profit crap.
Well, the world needs crap too.
What else would we do with all those toilets?
[LOBO]
So much for taking a break.
This morning, I cheated on Predator Press.
I cut and pasted three stories from this blog (“A Fairy Tale”, “Silent Night Holy Crap”, and “Love is a Funny Thing”) at www.writing.com.
I feel like such a filthy whore.
But I got four and a half stars out of a possible five in my first review. So screw it.
Now, I know you’re thinking ”Oh jeez, now his ego is gonna be unbearable.”
Hell yeah you’re freakin right it is! Woo-HOO! Egomaniacs are looking at me and going “Jesus Christ, I wish I had his ego right now!”
Hey, this writing stuff takes a lot of time, and it’s virtually thankless. So I’m having a self high-five today.
Okay, I'm done.
Still, those are older pieces; my favorite stories are the newer ones with people that are flamboyantly flawed and infinitely more interesting. Which is sad in a way ... should I go back to the older stuff?
For instance, “A Slicing Device” --my adaptation of “A Christmas Carol” (God, that’s funny now that I think about it)-- is a much better piece in my opinion. But it doesn’t make much sense without the backstory of the cast: you can't submit stuff like that to anybody at all.
I think this means I’m writing an exponential amount of unappreciable, non-profit crap.
Well, the world needs crap too.
What else would we do with all those toilets?
Tuesday
Chutes and Chutes
Predator Press
[LOBO]
Spitefully, the sun does rise.
Ethan hangs up the phone, removes his glasses and rubs the bridge of his nose. “We've lost another staff member.”
“Was it Cobe?”
“No,” Ethan sighs. “Seth is gone.”
“Who?”
“Mister Insanity.”
“No shit. That guy?”
“They found his body in a cheap motel in St. Paul, Minnesota.” He shakes his head. “The ‘official’,” Ethan makes quote marks in the air with his fingers, “cause of death was a heart attack. But the investigation is suggesting suicide.” Setting his glasses on his desk, he wonders aloud. “Who knew you could actually drink yourself to death on Fuzzy Navels? They said the room was just covered in orange peels.”
“Well if there were such a thing as 'death by cheerleaders', working those hotlines would certainly be a lot more fun.” I turn the page of the newspaper I’m pretending to read. “Hey, he only made it eight months,” I reflect. “How did he get a week of vacation already?”
“When someone asks to take a week off to go spend it in St. Paul, Minnesota, I don’t ask too many questions. They’re pretty fucked up.” Ethan swivels in his chair to look out the window. “Still, eight months is somewhat of an improvement,” Ethan admits.
“Aren't you getting these people pre-hire physicals?”
Ethan sighs. "Don't you ever get sick of this?"
"This what?"
"This," he says, gesturing around him. "Predator Press."
"Every day," I says. "What are you saying?"
"I think it's time for a breather."
"You mean quit posting for a while? Maybe going out and getting a life? Getting the sun on me? Maybe getting laid?"
"Yeah."
"Who needs that crap?"
"Fuck, lately I'm within inches of just deleting the whole goddamned thing."
"Ethan, I'm almost certain I've repeatedly pointed out how lazy I am. The real world is no place for the likes of me." I put down the newspaper. "I went to the grocery store one time and let me tell you, it was a fucking nightmare. People kept waking me up bumping shopping carts into me --that place was full of jerks.
"I think it's over. At least for a while."
"Well," I sigh. "At least we left on a high note."
[LOBO]
Spitefully, the sun does rise.
Ethan hangs up the phone, removes his glasses and rubs the bridge of his nose. “We've lost another staff member.”
“Was it Cobe?”
“No,” Ethan sighs. “Seth is gone.”
“Who?”
“Mister Insanity.”
“No shit. That guy?”
“They found his body in a cheap motel in St. Paul, Minnesota.” He shakes his head. “The ‘official’,” Ethan makes quote marks in the air with his fingers, “cause of death was a heart attack. But the investigation is suggesting suicide.” Setting his glasses on his desk, he wonders aloud. “Who knew you could actually drink yourself to death on Fuzzy Navels? They said the room was just covered in orange peels.”
“Well if there were such a thing as 'death by cheerleaders', working those hotlines would certainly be a lot more fun.” I turn the page of the newspaper I’m pretending to read. “Hey, he only made it eight months,” I reflect. “How did he get a week of vacation already?”
“When someone asks to take a week off to go spend it in St. Paul, Minnesota, I don’t ask too many questions. They’re pretty fucked up.” Ethan swivels in his chair to look out the window. “Still, eight months is somewhat of an improvement,” Ethan admits.
“Aren't you getting these people pre-hire physicals?”
Ethan sighs. "Don't you ever get sick of this?"
"This what?"
"This," he says, gesturing around him. "Predator Press."
"Every day," I says. "What are you saying?"
"I think it's time for a breather."
"You mean quit posting for a while? Maybe going out and getting a life? Getting the sun on me? Maybe getting laid?"
"Yeah."
"Who needs that crap?"
"Fuck, lately I'm within inches of just deleting the whole goddamned thing."
"Ethan, I'm almost certain I've repeatedly pointed out how lazy I am. The real world is no place for the likes of me." I put down the newspaper. "I went to the grocery store one time and let me tell you, it was a fucking nightmare. People kept waking me up bumping shopping carts into me --that place was full of jerks.
"I think it's over. At least for a while."
"Well," I sigh. "At least we left on a high note."
Monday
Dead Ahead
Predator Press
[Mr Insanity]
As a kid, I once witnessed a barfight.
I remember seeing blood on the pool table soaking into the green velvet --and it was the "blackest" black you could imagine.
Maybe it was the lighting.
Today, I'm a living testament that there is nothing that can't be outdone.
It’s noon on New Years Day, and I’ve already screwed up all five of my “Resolutions”. And as soon as this artsy Bohemian chick wakes up, I’m breaking number four a few more times. Hopefully she will simply leave without incident afterward, not arrogantly hoping to toy with my little black heart like an amateur surgeon binging on whiskey and PCP.
I’ve had my fill of that, thanks. Don’t let the door hit you in the ass.
Admittedly, this is not the product of “social” drinking; this is the result of balls-out wanton and savage revenge drinking. I remember watching "Leaving Las Vegas" on Christmas Eve –a great feelgood romance comedy that’s fun for the whole family, I might add-- trying to muster strength from a vacuum to continue wrestling these demons. "The Fisher King" carried me for a little while. But not a violent man, I have no recourse but to turn unmanaged rage inward. So why deny it? I have catching up to do.
Well, there’s always today. Death by inches, while cowardly, can be very worthwhile with some creative effort. With a little hard work, luck, perseverance, and a lot of accelerants, it won’t take much time at all to be completely destroyed altogether. This coupled with some advance planning and an optimistic ‘can-do’ attitude can even make being slowly murdered fun; just lather, rinse, repeat. The details will take care of themselves.
Bungled and botched, I’ve woken up on the wrong side of the Millennium.
And I've learned to accept it.
[Mr Insanity]
As a kid, I once witnessed a barfight.
I remember seeing blood on the pool table soaking into the green velvet --and it was the "blackest" black you could imagine.
Maybe it was the lighting.
Today, I'm a living testament that there is nothing that can't be outdone.
It’s noon on New Years Day, and I’ve already screwed up all five of my “Resolutions”. And as soon as this artsy Bohemian chick wakes up, I’m breaking number four a few more times. Hopefully she will simply leave without incident afterward, not arrogantly hoping to toy with my little black heart like an amateur surgeon binging on whiskey and PCP.
I’ve had my fill of that, thanks. Don’t let the door hit you in the ass.
Admittedly, this is not the product of “social” drinking; this is the result of balls-out wanton and savage revenge drinking. I remember watching "Leaving Las Vegas" on Christmas Eve –a great feelgood romance comedy that’s fun for the whole family, I might add-- trying to muster strength from a vacuum to continue wrestling these demons. "The Fisher King" carried me for a little while. But not a violent man, I have no recourse but to turn unmanaged rage inward. So why deny it? I have catching up to do.
Well, there’s always today. Death by inches, while cowardly, can be very worthwhile with some creative effort. With a little hard work, luck, perseverance, and a lot of accelerants, it won’t take much time at all to be completely destroyed altogether. This coupled with some advance planning and an optimistic ‘can-do’ attitude can even make being slowly murdered fun; just lather, rinse, repeat. The details will take care of themselves.
Bungled and botched, I’ve woken up on the wrong side of the Millennium.
And I've learned to accept it.
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