Predator Press
[LOBO]
I didn’t have my door locked, and Babs ‘an six big guys in matching jumpsuits just come right in.
The jumpsuited glandular freaks are carrying furniture.
What the fuck?
“Good,” she says. “I’m glad you’re here. I’ve decided I’m moving in.”
“Here?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“What do you mean why? You might’ve squirmed out of that marriage business for now, but you’re still my bitch.”
“But we were getting along so well not seeing or talking to each other,” I reason.
“Yes, well all that’s changing.”
“Ma’am?” says a mover. “There isn’t going to be room for the china hutch.”
“The hell there isn’t,” she scowls, circling the house. Decidedly, she stops and points. “Get rid of that.”
“My big screen television!?” I says. “Look here, sister. What in the hell makes you think you can just walk right in here and start throwing out my stuff?”
“I can bend parking meters with my thighs.”
“What kind of china is it?”
Saturday
Friday
Sugar Rush
Predator Press
[LOBO]
Please stop emailing me and asking me to run for President again.
Despite my $516 "Vote for LOBO Cuz Those Other Guys Suck!" media blitz, I didn't make a dent in the 2006 Elections; frankly, I wasn't even on the damned ballot.
The fact of the matter is I've got what politicians refer to as "baggage".
I used to be a Jolly Rancher whore.
Before I found God, I might've had a hard time talking about my "problem" this openly. But back when I was single --and before rehab-- if you were a hot chick with Jolly Ranchers, I would do anything.
It started off innocently enough; a hot chick offers me an Apple STIX, and then I 'top off' with a Wild Berry Fruit --you know, just to be social and fun.
But before long, I was doing Double and Sourbolt Blasts --you know, the heavy stuff-- and "servicing" three or four hot chicks at a time.
All this has all changed since I've found God, the Republican Party, and a girlfriend that would cut my nuts off for ever eating any Jolly Ranchers again.
So please stop asking me to run for President.
[LOBO]
Please stop emailing me and asking me to run for President again.
Despite my $516 "Vote for LOBO Cuz Those Other Guys Suck!" media blitz, I didn't make a dent in the 2006 Elections; frankly, I wasn't even on the damned ballot.
The fact of the matter is I've got what politicians refer to as "baggage".
I used to be a Jolly Rancher whore.
Before I found God, I might've had a hard time talking about my "problem" this openly. But back when I was single --and before rehab-- if you were a hot chick with Jolly Ranchers, I would do anything.
It started off innocently enough; a hot chick offers me an Apple STIX, and then I 'top off' with a Wild Berry Fruit --you know, just to be social and fun.
But before long, I was doing Double and Sourbolt Blasts --you know, the heavy stuff-- and "servicing" three or four hot chicks at a time.
All this has all changed since I've found God, the Republican Party, and a girlfriend that would cut my nuts off for ever eating any Jolly Ranchers again.
So please stop asking me to run for President.
Thursday
Kyle Sampson is a Big Fat Lying Poo-Poo Head
Predator Press
[LOBO]
It’s jerks like that that completely ruin our ability to enjoy this Zenith of Republican Enlightenment. Look around you! There are no wars, taxes, or poverty. Everyone is free to worship Our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ as much as they choose, and the streets are safe because anyone able to hold a gun, does.
And the spinach will definitely not kill you.
All you alarmist liberal hippies and pinko-commies should put down your hookahs and catch a boat back to whatever other country kicked you out for treason.
Move along. There's nothing to see here America; go about your business.
Everything’s just fine.
[LOBO]
It’s jerks like that that completely ruin our ability to enjoy this Zenith of Republican Enlightenment. Look around you! There are no wars, taxes, or poverty. Everyone is free to worship Our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ as much as they choose, and the streets are safe because anyone able to hold a gun, does.
And the spinach will definitely not kill you.
All you alarmist liberal hippies and pinko-commies should put down your hookahs and catch a boat back to whatever other country kicked you out for treason.
Move along. There's nothing to see here America; go about your business.
Everything’s just fine.
Wednesday
Cured
Predator Press
[LOBO]
“You’re finished with your Penance already my son?” asks a skeptical Father Fritz.
“10,000 ‘Hail Marys’?” I says. “Not a chance.”
“Well then what are you doing here?”
“It’s a Miracle,” I says excitedly. “I’m no longer a pyromaniac, nymphomaniac, or hypocondriac. And my claustrophobia, necrophobia, xylophobia, spectrophobia, bolshephobia, agateophobia, phthiriophobia, syngenesophobia, coimetrophobia, sophophobia, virginitiphobia, agrophobia, russophobia, spacephobia, myrmecophobia, phasmophobia, and phobophobia? Gone. Gone! And best of all, my sinuses decompressed for the first time in weeks.”
“Really?”
“Yeah. Who would’ve thought chemically-treated pallets would smell so good.”
“Pallets?” says Fritz. “Where exactly were you saying those ‘Hail Marys’?”
“At the music studio.”
“You have pallets at a music studio?”
“No, no. I was at the warehouse.”
“I’m not following you.”
“Well, I did like ten or fifteen of them but it was getting really tedious. So I made a recording of saying it, and set it on a loop. According to my calculatrons, by this time next Wednesday I’ll have said like 50,000 of them!”
“I don’t think you understand the concept of Penance,” chided Fritz.
“Sure I do,” I says. “Even after I added drums and guitar, it’s totally mind-numbing after a while. You know, with billions of people doing that every day, I would bet God is ready to blow his brains out.”
“You’re supposed to suffer through it in a show of Faith and Discipline, in hopes that the Saints will prepare your way to Heaven!”
“Aw, but all those guys are dead! Can’t I just smite some pagans or something? I know tons of Protestants just begging to be smoted.”
“Penance isn’t supposed to be fun!”
“We have a gay guy at work. What if I go into Jimmy Orlando’s office once a day, and, like, shuffle all his papers up while he’s a lunch? Or maybe burn his house down?”
“Jimmy Orlando?” says Fritz. “How do you know Jimmy Orlando?”
“I dunno. We met him a year or so ago,” I says. “He claims to work part-time as a pool boy for some hotshot bigwig in Miami.”
“What is Jimmy doing working as a pool boy?”
“I dunno," I shrug. "We checked it out. This guy ain’t got no pool."
[LOBO]
“You’re finished with your Penance already my son?” asks a skeptical Father Fritz.
“10,000 ‘Hail Marys’?” I says. “Not a chance.”
“Well then what are you doing here?”
“It’s a Miracle,” I says excitedly. “I’m no longer a pyromaniac, nymphomaniac, or hypocondriac. And my claustrophobia, necrophobia, xylophobia, spectrophobia, bolshephobia, agateophobia, phthiriophobia, syngenesophobia, coimetrophobia, sophophobia, virginitiphobia, agrophobia, russophobia, spacephobia, myrmecophobia, phasmophobia, and phobophobia? Gone. Gone! And best of all, my sinuses decompressed for the first time in weeks.”
“Really?”
“Yeah. Who would’ve thought chemically-treated pallets would smell so good.”
“Pallets?” says Fritz. “Where exactly were you saying those ‘Hail Marys’?”
“At the music studio.”
“You have pallets at a music studio?”
“No, no. I was at the warehouse.”
“I’m not following you.”
“Well, I did like ten or fifteen of them but it was getting really tedious. So I made a recording of saying it, and set it on a loop. According to my calculatrons, by this time next Wednesday I’ll have said like 50,000 of them!”
“I don’t think you understand the concept of Penance,” chided Fritz.
“Sure I do,” I says. “Even after I added drums and guitar, it’s totally mind-numbing after a while. You know, with billions of people doing that every day, I would bet God is ready to blow his brains out.”
“You’re supposed to suffer through it in a show of Faith and Discipline, in hopes that the Saints will prepare your way to Heaven!”
“Aw, but all those guys are dead! Can’t I just smite some pagans or something? I know tons of Protestants just begging to be smoted.”
“Penance isn’t supposed to be fun!”
“We have a gay guy at work. What if I go into Jimmy Orlando’s office once a day, and, like, shuffle all his papers up while he’s a lunch? Or maybe burn his house down?”
“Jimmy Orlando?” says Fritz. “How do you know Jimmy Orlando?”
“I dunno. We met him a year or so ago,” I says. “He claims to work part-time as a pool boy for some hotshot bigwig in Miami.”
“What is Jimmy doing working as a pool boy?”
“I dunno," I shrug. "We checked it out. This guy ain’t got no pool."
Tuesday
Salsa
Predator Press
[LOBO]
I'm looking down through the trees, and there she is.
And I'm wanting to wave, but I realize she is undressing quickly, and not aware that I can see her undressing; she slides her shorts down over her curvy hips, and in moments she's not even wearing a thong. And then the shirt; a brief and tantalizing silhouette of those magnificent breasts--
"Look," says Father Fritz. "Fine, you're a Republican now. But this isn't therapy, it's Confession --"
"But then she starts rubbing down with this tanning lotion... "
Father Fritz scowls, "Now you're just bragging."
[LOBO]
I'm looking down through the trees, and there she is.
And I'm wanting to wave, but I realize she is undressing quickly, and not aware that I can see her undressing; she slides her shorts down over her curvy hips, and in moments she's not even wearing a thong. And then the shirt; a brief and tantalizing silhouette of those magnificent breasts--
"Look," says Father Fritz. "Fine, you're a Republican now. But this isn't therapy, it's Confession --"
"But then she starts rubbing down with this tanning lotion... "
Father Fritz scowls, "Now you're just bragging."
Bittersweet
Predator Press
[LOBO]
I don't tell you this often, so when I say explicitly "this is a true story," this is a True Story. My mom, given the opportunity, will confirm it.
And neither one of us recall me as a toddler being a particularly fussy eater.
But when introduced to Brussels's sprouts, it was on.
I still hate those innocuous-looking vile little hellspawned biological perversions.
Oh, sure mom issued the S.O.P. 'Miranda Rights' for a kid: "No desert 'til you clean your plate!" --generally this heralded "GAME OVER"; it was a matter of time before I would capitulate.
Except this time; even after a cascading portfolio of ice cream and Popsicles, I would not budge.
Dad said "Fine," and put me in the high chair. "No desert at all then. Yell for us when you're done."
And then they left for the living room.
They turned the lights off, and the television on.
... My god, these people aren't bluffing.
***
Around 9:30, I was kaput.
And I had no ideas.
I made an audible sound, acknowledging tiredly 'I give up!'. The living room stirred to life in that flickering pale blue light of the television amongst giggles like, "Well, I was starting to think he was never going to cave in."
It was at that exact moment, as they so smugly gloated, that I stuffed those vile green horrible objects into my cheeks.
And I waited.
***
6:30 the next morning was routine: I get deposited in the bathroom momentarily while mom gathers the diaper change and my daily threads.
But just starting to scuttle and crawl, I've got some surprising mobility, and right at that Single Perfect Moment I drag myself of the side of the toilet bowl, and spit those hateful sprouts from last night directly in the toilet.
It was the perfect crime.
Except I didn't know how to flush yet.
[LOBO]
I don't tell you this often, so when I say explicitly "this is a true story," this is a True Story. My mom, given the opportunity, will confirm it.
And neither one of us recall me as a toddler being a particularly fussy eater.
But when introduced to Brussels's sprouts, it was on.
I still hate those innocuous-looking vile little hellspawned biological perversions.
Oh, sure mom issued the S.O.P. 'Miranda Rights' for a kid: "No desert 'til you clean your plate!" --generally this heralded "GAME OVER"; it was a matter of time before I would capitulate.
Except this time; even after a cascading portfolio of ice cream and Popsicles, I would not budge.
Dad said "Fine," and put me in the high chair. "No desert at all then. Yell for us when you're done."
And then they left for the living room.
They turned the lights off, and the television on.
... My god, these people aren't bluffing.
Around 9:30, I was kaput.
And I had no ideas.
I made an audible sound, acknowledging tiredly 'I give up!'. The living room stirred to life in that flickering pale blue light of the television amongst giggles like, "Well, I was starting to think he was never going to cave in."
It was at that exact moment, as they so smugly gloated, that I stuffed those vile green horrible objects into my cheeks.
And I waited.
6:30 the next morning was routine: I get deposited in the bathroom momentarily while mom gathers the diaper change and my daily threads.
But just starting to scuttle and crawl, I've got some surprising mobility, and right at that Single Perfect Moment I drag myself of the side of the toilet bowl, and spit those hateful sprouts from last night directly in the toilet.
It was the perfect crime.
Except I didn't know how to flush yet.
"Beta" Blogger
Predator Press
[LOBO]
I swear to God, I can't tell you how much I hate what they've done to Blogger ... On a tight schedule, I just lost two hours worth of work because of their defective "Word Verication" software --I even backed the page up both times to see if the mistake was mine!
I would so love to freeze every last one of them in liquid nitrogen, and slowly chip little pieces off until I was knee deep in gory slush ...
[LOBO]
I swear to God, I can't tell you how much I hate what they've done to Blogger ... On a tight schedule, I just lost two hours worth of work because of their defective "Word Verication" software --I even backed the page up both times to see if the mistake was mine!
I would so love to freeze every last one of them in liquid nitrogen, and slowly chip little pieces off until I was knee deep in gory slush ...
Monday
The Truth About Goats
Predator Press
[LOBO]
I use really stringent email filters.
So every once in a while I have to check the “junk” mailbox, just in case any of you rabid and screaming fans are leaving more steamy love letters and/or death threats.
“Spammers”, as they are called by you techno-geeks, are getting more clever all the time, weaving their schemes in a ‘hot stock tip’, or ‘Flandsa Ha’asasanba needs your help to smuggle $80 billion dollars out of Wangswaba’ or ‘enlarge you penis’ ads.
You know, news you can use.
Today, I was shocked to find one that said, “Give Poor Farmers a Fighting Chance.”
Farmers?
Fuck the farmers!
Look, I don’t know about you, but I get my food straight from the grocery store. What Liberal conspiracy is even keeping these guys around anymore? I know for a fact by watching lots of television that farmers don’t do shit except for breed 'goats' (frankly, the ugliest and least-domesticatable strain of dog I've ever seen), obstruct much-needed superhighways and airports over greedily-oversized real estate claims, and occasionally provide a vehicle for another critically acclaimed Pauly Shore movie.
You know, if those hippies stopped soliciting hand-outs via these emails all blitzed on hemp and got a real job, I’ll bet their luck would change real fast. How about getting off of your lazy asses and maybe helping out poor Flandsa Ha’asasanba, you selfish jerks?
This country is completely going to shit.
[LOBO]
I use really stringent email filters.
So every once in a while I have to check the “junk” mailbox, just in case any of you rabid and screaming fans are leaving more steamy love letters and/or death threats.
“Spammers”, as they are called by you techno-geeks, are getting more clever all the time, weaving their schemes in a ‘hot stock tip’, or ‘Flandsa Ha’asasanba needs your help to smuggle $80 billion dollars out of Wangswaba’ or ‘enlarge you penis’ ads.
You know, news you can use.
Today, I was shocked to find one that said, “Give Poor Farmers a Fighting Chance.”
Farmers?
Fuck the farmers!
Look, I don’t know about you, but I get my food straight from the grocery store. What Liberal conspiracy is even keeping these guys around anymore? I know for a fact by watching lots of television that farmers don’t do shit except for breed 'goats' (frankly, the ugliest and least-domesticatable strain of dog I've ever seen), obstruct much-needed superhighways and airports over greedily-oversized real estate claims, and occasionally provide a vehicle for another critically acclaimed Pauly Shore movie.
You know, if those hippies stopped soliciting hand-outs via these emails all blitzed on hemp and got a real job, I’ll bet their luck would change real fast. How about getting off of your lazy asses and maybe helping out poor Flandsa Ha’asasanba, you selfish jerks?
This country is completely going to shit.
Sunday
PEACE ACCORD ACHIEVED
Predator Press
[LOBO]
Well, thanks to extensive LOBOnian Diplomacy, over the span of a single weekend the long-sought-after Peace between the volatile Fort Waynians and the warlike Sanduskanites has been achieved.
God, to look at them you never think the potentially-Apocalyptic conflict even occurred!
As Prime Minister of LOBOnia, I would just like to say no thanks or Nobel Peace Prizes are necessary; we only wanted to intervene before more needless bloodshed.
… but didn't Yasser Arafat get, like, 9 billion dollars for this sort of thing?
[LOBO]
Well, thanks to extensive LOBOnian Diplomacy, over the span of a single weekend the long-sought-after Peace between the volatile Fort Waynians and the warlike Sanduskanites has been achieved.
God, to look at them you never think the potentially-Apocalyptic conflict even occurred!
As Prime Minister of LOBOnia, I would just like to say no thanks or Nobel Peace Prizes are necessary; we only wanted to intervene before more needless bloodshed.
… but didn't Yasser Arafat get, like, 9 billion dollars for this sort of thing?
See Ethan? We Can Do Politics Too!
Predator Press
[LOBO]
Alas, fair Fort Wayne, Indiana; there is treachery afoot!
Even as you sleep, Sansduky, Ohio is spreading disinformation about you and beloved LOBOnia in a vain effort to divide our peoples by eroding our long-standing diplomatic ties for an inevitable attack.
I trust, by your name, that you indeed have a "fort", and hopefully it is of the good sturdy treehouse variety; we have intercepted 'chatter' sent to us that contains invasion plans, as well as a string of malicious obscenities about your mommas so vile I dare not print them here.
As you ready your war machines to avenge this slander, you may take solace in that all peace efforts have already been exhausted without heed: the Sanduskians, a warlike and expansionist community just seething with cooties, would have no part in any of the numerous LOBOnian efforts to achieve a diplomatic resolution.
The hearts, minds and prayers of the LOBOnain people go with you into the doubtlessly bloody carnage that they have wrought upon us all.
Woe to thee, o Sandusky! Why have you demanded the righteous, indignant wrath of two staunchly unified and powerful allies upon yourselves?
(God, this is fun. I feel just like Ronald Reagan!)
[LOBO]
Alas, fair Fort Wayne, Indiana; there is treachery afoot!
Even as you sleep, Sansduky, Ohio is spreading disinformation about you and beloved LOBOnia in a vain effort to divide our peoples by eroding our long-standing diplomatic ties for an inevitable attack.
I trust, by your name, that you indeed have a "fort", and hopefully it is of the good sturdy treehouse variety; we have intercepted 'chatter' sent to us that contains invasion plans, as well as a string of malicious obscenities about your mommas so vile I dare not print them here.
As you ready your war machines to avenge this slander, you may take solace in that all peace efforts have already been exhausted without heed: the Sanduskians, a warlike and expansionist community just seething with cooties, would have no part in any of the numerous LOBOnian efforts to achieve a diplomatic resolution.
The hearts, minds and prayers of the LOBOnain people go with you into the doubtlessly bloody carnage that they have wrought upon us all.
Woe to thee, o Sandusky! Why have you demanded the righteous, indignant wrath of two staunchly unified and powerful allies upon yourselves?
(God, this is fun. I feel just like Ronald Reagan!)
Saturday
Armada
Predator Press
[LOBO]
Oh, noble Sandusky, Ohio, I too was shocked at the news that you had been maligned, and maligned under the guise of LOBOnian Diplomacy!
But as you can see via satellite photos, we have not even air support; our entire Naval Armada lies dry and askew scattered across my bathtub! Surely we could not have wanted to provoke a conflict with a power as great, merciful, and as capable of enjoying some good-natured ribbing such as yours.
Our Intel suggests the true source of those slanderous allegations to be Fort Wayne, Indiana. Those jerks have been talking shit about you for years, and their Japanese cohorts are making fun of your penis size!
Once I fill the bathtub with that "Safety Fluid", the LOBOnian Navy will be reactivated and fully operational again, ready to deliver swift and lethal payback to Fort Wayne, Indiana --thusly thwarting the evil Japanese plot for autocracy. I'll even throw in six 'GI Joes', a shark, and a giant rubber duck!
Don't laugh at the duck, dude. He may have a cute smile, but he's got 4 settings:
1) LOW,
2) MEDIUM,
3) NAPALM, FILLET, AND DESTROY WITH NUCLEAR AND BIOLOGICAL PREJUDICE WHEN NECESSARY, and
4) HIGH.
Nodody fucks with The Duck, pal.
[LOBO]
Oh, noble Sandusky, Ohio, I too was shocked at the news that you had been maligned, and maligned under the guise of LOBOnian Diplomacy!
But as you can see via satellite photos, we have not even air support; our entire Naval Armada lies dry and askew scattered across my bathtub! Surely we could not have wanted to provoke a conflict with a power as great, merciful, and as capable of enjoying some good-natured ribbing such as yours.
Our Intel suggests the true source of those slanderous allegations to be Fort Wayne, Indiana. Those jerks have been talking shit about you for years, and their Japanese cohorts are making fun of your penis size!
Once I fill the bathtub with that "Safety Fluid", the LOBOnian Navy will be reactivated and fully operational again, ready to deliver swift and lethal payback to Fort Wayne, Indiana --thusly thwarting the evil Japanese plot for autocracy. I'll even throw in six 'GI Joes', a shark, and a giant rubber duck!
Don't laugh at the duck, dude. He may have a cute smile, but he's got 4 settings:
1) LOW,
2) MEDIUM,
3) NAPALM, FILLET, AND DESTROY WITH NUCLEAR AND BIOLOGICAL PREJUDICE WHEN NECESSARY, and
4) HIGH.
Nodody fucks with The Duck, pal.
WWID
Predator Press
[LOBO]
While torching this hideous PC seemed rather innocuous and necessary at first, I failed to recognize the intrinsic flammable properties that an office full of paper airplanes might indeed possess; in the moments before the sprinkler kicked on, I witnessed the horror of the entire LOBOnian Air Force rendered to ineffective ash.
It was like Pearl Harbor all over again ... 'cept worse, because this happened to me.
Lousy Slants!
Of the entire elite cadre of my finest and deadliest engineering marvels, the only craft that survived was the badly charred T-14 Super-Sonic Stealth Death Bomber Plus II. And during the preliminary test flight to assess the damage, she arched straight to the ground with a soggy and ungraceful splat; her ruptured frame failed to keep the munitions from detonating, and she too joined the ranks of the staggering, catastrophic loss.
On this historic day, March 24, 2007 --even as Sandusky, Ohio is receiving a noterized LOBOnian Declaration of War that states flatly that their entire city has cooties, and lays out in detail my brazen demand for it's unconditional surrender-- the LOBOnian air defenses have been wholly and utterly wiped out.
Military might decimated, we are forced to recruit.
We're looking for a few good men.
... and a lot of really bad girls.
[LOBO]
While torching this hideous PC seemed rather innocuous and necessary at first, I failed to recognize the intrinsic flammable properties that an office full of paper airplanes might indeed possess; in the moments before the sprinkler kicked on, I witnessed the horror of the entire LOBOnian Air Force rendered to ineffective ash.
It was like Pearl Harbor all over again ... 'cept worse, because this happened to me.
Lousy Slants!
Of the entire elite cadre of my finest and deadliest engineering marvels, the only craft that survived was the badly charred T-14 Super-Sonic Stealth Death Bomber Plus II. And during the preliminary test flight to assess the damage, she arched straight to the ground with a soggy and ungraceful splat; her ruptured frame failed to keep the munitions from detonating, and she too joined the ranks of the staggering, catastrophic loss.
On this historic day, March 24, 2007 --even as Sandusky, Ohio is receiving a noterized LOBOnian Declaration of War that states flatly that their entire city has cooties, and lays out in detail my brazen demand for it's unconditional surrender-- the LOBOnian air defenses have been wholly and utterly wiped out.
Military might decimated, we are forced to recruit.
We're looking for a few good men.
... and a lot of really bad girls.
Friday
Errata
Predator Press
[LOBO]
Ethan,
I'm due for a computer upgrade.
I hate this "off-white" CPU color ... it clashes badly with the interior of my office. Don't they make 'Dells' with maybe an imported walnut finish? Corinthian leather keyboards? Cup holders?
You don't want important corporate visitors thinking we're unsophisticated barbarians back here, do you?
Cripes, now this thing reeks of gasoline too!
In any case, we should take this one back to Microsoft and demand a full refund, as well as a personal apology from Bill Gates.
And a car.
[LOBO]
Ethan,
I'm due for a computer upgrade.
I hate this "off-white" CPU color ... it clashes badly with the interior of my office. Don't they make 'Dells' with maybe an imported walnut finish? Corinthian leather keyboards? Cup holders?
You don't want important corporate visitors thinking we're unsophisticated barbarians back here, do you?
Cripes, now this thing reeks of gasoline too!
In any case, we should take this one back to Microsoft and demand a full refund, as well as a personal apology from Bill Gates.
And a car.
Thursday
A Body Apolitique
Predator Press
[LOBO]
In a world of politically polarized blogs, my lack of "affiliation" drives Ethan totally bats.
The truth is, I've known some pretty fine people -and some rather spectacular train wrecks-- from both ends of the spectrum; my personal experience has taught me that a person's political and religious beliefs are rarely a reliable moral barometer. In fact, I find extreme levels of involvement bear out to the contrary; it often seems the more a person talks about what they believe, the less they behave in the manner of their chosen endorsement.
I've tried "staying on top" via various media, but the political charge always seems to bring out the worst in people; everybody is so busy distilling the information and calling everyone else liars, provocateurs and thieves, I couldn't tell you a good, reliable and objective news source were there a gun pointed at my head.
–besides Predator Press, of course.
Look, it's not complicated; either you want to defend, elevate and improve your own circumstances, or you want to improve, elevate or defend the environment of the circumstances and the collective whole, uh, thereby indirectly improving your own circumstances.
Hm.
Well, far be it from me to get in your ardent and virtuous way; hell, you screwballs are already so choked of fantastic conspiracy theories, finger-pointing and wild accusations, there isn't enough room for Predator Press to contribute!
Ultimately, this results in more leisure time for me; I'll step aside and let you make the comedy. Give kids 9mms in schools in an effort to understand the Metric System, and then automatic weapons while guarding the home in case of massive and well-coordinated quail or deer uprisings. Change the word "Prison" in the dictionary to "Low-Income Housing", "Starving" to "Sheik and Slender", and "Homeless" to "Independent Dwelling". Wreck the planet --and pay an oil man $3 a gallon of gas to do it! Bomb people frequently, and then pay "think tanks" to try and figure out why those people are are so irrationaly pissed off. Follow divisive religious tenants, and by all means kill people in Righteous Indignation. "Liberate" faraway communities of people of people you've never even heard of by either employing them or exterminating them --better yet, letting them exterminate each other once there services are no longer required! Fail not to look with adoring eyes and wallets (and various other body parts) upon the staggering contributions to humanity by such towering intellects as Anna-Nicole, Dick Cheney and Paris Hilton.
Promise me eons of Enrons, ages of atrocity, and volumes of vanity!
Because that's funny.
[LOBO]
In a world of politically polarized blogs, my lack of "affiliation" drives Ethan totally bats.
The truth is, I've known some pretty fine people -and some rather spectacular train wrecks-- from both ends of the spectrum; my personal experience has taught me that a person's political and religious beliefs are rarely a reliable moral barometer. In fact, I find extreme levels of involvement bear out to the contrary; it often seems the more a person talks about what they believe, the less they behave in the manner of their chosen endorsement.
I've tried "staying on top" via various media, but the political charge always seems to bring out the worst in people; everybody is so busy distilling the information and calling everyone else liars, provocateurs and thieves, I couldn't tell you a good, reliable and objective news source were there a gun pointed at my head.
–besides Predator Press, of course.
Look, it's not complicated; either you want to defend, elevate and improve your own circumstances, or you want to improve, elevate or defend the environment of the circumstances and the collective whole, uh, thereby indirectly improving your own circumstances.
Hm.
Well, far be it from me to get in your ardent and virtuous way; hell, you screwballs are already so choked of fantastic conspiracy theories, finger-pointing and wild accusations, there isn't enough room for Predator Press to contribute!
Ultimately, this results in more leisure time for me; I'll step aside and let you make the comedy. Give kids 9mms in schools in an effort to understand the Metric System, and then automatic weapons while guarding the home in case of massive and well-coordinated quail or deer uprisings. Change the word "Prison" in the dictionary to "Low-Income Housing", "Starving" to "Sheik and Slender", and "Homeless" to "Independent Dwelling". Wreck the planet --and pay an oil man $3 a gallon of gas to do it! Bomb people frequently, and then pay "think tanks" to try and figure out why those people are are so irrationaly pissed off. Follow divisive religious tenants, and by all means kill people in Righteous Indignation. "Liberate" faraway communities of people of people you've never even heard of by either employing them or exterminating them --better yet, letting them exterminate each other once there services are no longer required! Fail not to look with adoring eyes and wallets (and various other body parts) upon the staggering contributions to humanity by such towering intellects as Anna-Nicole, Dick Cheney and Paris Hilton.
Promise me eons of Enrons, ages of atrocity, and volumes of vanity!
Because that's funny.
Tuesday
Samsara
Predator Press
[LOBO]
Didja ever notice how rare it is when everything seems to be "in tune"?
Like maybe your job is great, the bills are paid, and you're surrounded by friends and loved ones ... but then your best friend and your old lady accidentally knock a scented candle over while having sex, and burn the house and all your worldly possessions to the ground? Or you win the lottery, and while jumping around in jubilant celebration you snag a testicle on a protruding rusty nail? Remember the first time when --beguiled by the rather grandiose name-- you found out a urinal cake was not the fluffy confection you were led to believe it was?
Well, that's how life works. It's a box of chocolates where you often find nothing but coconut creams.
After weeks, I got the blog "spider friendly" again and we're already back up to number 2 --I anticipate overtaking those wildlife jerks in the number 1 spot again anytime now. But I've got a nasty cold again and I'm so stuffy I can't think of anything 'spiff' to write; while usually slowed down scrawling notes on Post Its against my steering wheel at 94 MPH, I'm way early for work today. Staggering around in a Nyquil-induced fog, drinking coffee that tastes like a roast boot, I'm spinning the unappetizing food in the vending machine in an apparent effort to make spraypainted soybean products dizzy.
This colorless and blasé "Wheel of Suffering" has nothing new to hold my interest today. It cares not for the lost souls it sustains, nor how it tastes to the wreched fools who dare the inevitably fatal rectal trauma; joylessly shorting you 85 cents change, it shares its bountiful array of microwavable cheeseburgers that were never cheese or beef, chicken fajitas that are tortillas stuffed with lettuce and green peppers idly mulling rumors that chicken was involved in the process somewhere ...
And, staring absently into that smudgy glass, I don't particularly care.
We're number 2?
To Environmentalists?
I find this highly offensive.
For those of you that have known me awhile, you may remember that I'm twice the survivor of pneumonia. And I don't use the word 'survivor' loosely, either; the last time I was in the ICU for three weeks. The doctor told me a third 'bout' would likely be the last. So we have to take 2nd place to a bunch of jerks trying to protect an environment that's unabashedly been trying to kill me for years? Hell, if anything, the 'environment' should get it's ass kicked; for years now, it's presented me with nothing more than a constant assault of inclement weather and deadly microscopic flesh-eating bacteria, in a world infested by clever and fast-moving hungry carnivores and axe-wielding Heisman Trophy winners.
The fact is that 'The Environment' kills dozens of people every day, and there are various scientists that can prove it: "Mother Nature" would like nothing more than to dance in the splendor of my tasty and nutritious slippery entrails!
I've had just about enough of this 'environment' crap, thank you. I say we all take this moment in history to show this bitch "Mother Nature" exactly who's in charge around here ...
[LOBO]
Didja ever notice how rare it is when everything seems to be "in tune"?
Like maybe your job is great, the bills are paid, and you're surrounded by friends and loved ones ... but then your best friend and your old lady accidentally knock a scented candle over while having sex, and burn the house and all your worldly possessions to the ground? Or you win the lottery, and while jumping around in jubilant celebration you snag a testicle on a protruding rusty nail? Remember the first time when --beguiled by the rather grandiose name-- you found out a urinal cake was not the fluffy confection you were led to believe it was?
Well, that's how life works. It's a box of chocolates where you often find nothing but coconut creams.
After weeks, I got the blog "spider friendly" again and we're already back up to number 2 --I anticipate overtaking those wildlife jerks in the number 1 spot again anytime now. But I've got a nasty cold again and I'm so stuffy I can't think of anything 'spiff' to write; while usually slowed down scrawling notes on Post Its against my steering wheel at 94 MPH, I'm way early for work today. Staggering around in a Nyquil-induced fog, drinking coffee that tastes like a roast boot, I'm spinning the unappetizing food in the vending machine in an apparent effort to make spraypainted soybean products dizzy.
This colorless and blasé "Wheel of Suffering" has nothing new to hold my interest today. It cares not for the lost souls it sustains, nor how it tastes to the wreched fools who dare the inevitably fatal rectal trauma; joylessly shorting you 85 cents change, it shares its bountiful array of microwavable cheeseburgers that were never cheese or beef, chicken fajitas that are tortillas stuffed with lettuce and green peppers idly mulling rumors that chicken was involved in the process somewhere ...
And, staring absently into that smudgy glass, I don't particularly care.
We're number 2?
To Environmentalists?
I find this highly offensive.
For those of you that have known me awhile, you may remember that I'm twice the survivor of pneumonia. And I don't use the word 'survivor' loosely, either; the last time I was in the ICU for three weeks. The doctor told me a third 'bout' would likely be the last. So we have to take 2nd place to a bunch of jerks trying to protect an environment that's unabashedly been trying to kill me for years? Hell, if anything, the 'environment' should get it's ass kicked; for years now, it's presented me with nothing more than a constant assault of inclement weather and deadly microscopic flesh-eating bacteria, in a world infested by clever and fast-moving hungry carnivores and axe-wielding Heisman Trophy winners.
The fact is that 'The Environment' kills dozens of people every day, and there are various scientists that can prove it: "Mother Nature" would like nothing more than to dance in the splendor of my tasty and nutritious slippery entrails!
I've had just about enough of this 'environment' crap, thank you. I say we all take this moment in history to show this bitch "Mother Nature" exactly who's in charge around here ...
Sunday
Hawk
Predator Press
[LOBO]
“So you’re a Republican now?” says Ethan.
“Yes I am,” says me. “Someone has to look out for the AARP.”
“So you’re going to help the elderly get decent medical and drug coverage?”
“No,” I says. “I’m going to 'level the playing field', and make everyone under 30 drive blindfolded and on Valiums.”
[LOBO]
“So you’re a Republican now?” says Ethan.
“Yes I am,” says me. “Someone has to look out for the AARP.”
“So you’re going to help the elderly get decent medical and drug coverage?”
“No,” I says. “I’m going to 'level the playing field', and make everyone under 30 drive blindfolded and on Valiums.”
Predator Press Interviews: Barney
Predator Press
LOBO: “So you’re Barney? Can I call you Barney?”
[‘Barney’ pulls off his massive head, and extends his 'paw']
BARNEY: “I’m Doug. Doug Anderson. A guy that wears the ‘Barney’ suit”
LOBO: “So, ‘Doug Anderson’ –if indeed that is your real name-- you are, in fact, Barney?"
BARNEY: “Uh, no.”
LOBO: "--Or a paid representative of the omnipresent Barney Empire?”
BARNEY: “I guess. I do kid shows for $18 an hour or so. Hadda take a class, and make sure I could sing the songs—“
LOBO: ”Yes yes, I’m familiar with your musical contributions. But tell me, are you aware of how much drugging it takes for an average adult to exploit your momentary distraction of the kids? Ever try to 'torpedo Das Booty' while Wheels on the Bus is seeping through the walls?”
BARNEY: “Excuse me?”
LOBO: “Oh come on. I mean, I don't doubt you're an invaluable resource to juvenile delinquency and neglect and worth every penny. But the tunes need work. Think about it: have you ever ONCE been blown by a rabid, crying groupie off of ‘Sharing is Caring’?”
BARNEY: ”I think you would be amazed.”
LOBO: “Really?”
BARNEY: “Lonely single moms, a big puple tail. You do the math.”
LOBO: “Wow. Well, I still think you should consider updating your image a little. Have you ever considered doing, maybe, Tool? And then a finale getting slain by a large-breasted chick in a Viking helmet?”
BARNEY: "I’m sure that would have to come down from Corporate.”
LOBO: “So you’re Barney? Can I call you Barney?”
[‘Barney’ pulls off his massive head, and extends his 'paw']
BARNEY: “I’m Doug. Doug Anderson. A guy that wears the ‘Barney’ suit”
LOBO: “So, ‘Doug Anderson’ –if indeed that is your real name-- you are, in fact, Barney?"
BARNEY: “Uh, no.”
LOBO: "--Or a paid representative of the omnipresent Barney Empire?”
BARNEY: “I guess. I do kid shows for $18 an hour or so. Hadda take a class, and make sure I could sing the songs—“
LOBO: ”Yes yes, I’m familiar with your musical contributions. But tell me, are you aware of how much drugging it takes for an average adult to exploit your momentary distraction of the kids? Ever try to 'torpedo Das Booty' while Wheels on the Bus is seeping through the walls?”
BARNEY: “Excuse me?”
LOBO: “Oh come on. I mean, I don't doubt you're an invaluable resource to juvenile delinquency and neglect and worth every penny. But the tunes need work. Think about it: have you ever ONCE been blown by a rabid, crying groupie off of ‘Sharing is Caring’?”
BARNEY: ”I think you would be amazed.”
LOBO: “Really?”
BARNEY: “Lonely single moms, a big puple tail. You do the math.”
LOBO: “Wow. Well, I still think you should consider updating your image a little. Have you ever considered doing, maybe, Tool? And then a finale getting slain by a large-breasted chick in a Viking helmet?”
BARNEY: "I’m sure that would have to come down from Corporate.”
Saturday
Blame it on San Andreas
Predator Press
[LOBO]
Well, I have harshly criticized Blogger “The Butcher” Beta, so’s I guess I should mention a rather cool feature I’ve found. No one was more surprised than I; usually when I activate one of these mysterious unknown features, vipers pour out of my cd-rom drive, or huge spinning drills fly out of my monitor and drive themselves past my retinas and deeply into my brain.
You may have noticed lately that I have been “labeling”; these are those little eyesore tags under every post that I can’t seem to hide. But these little tags have enabled me to begin an alphabetize a navigation tool in the Site Guide of past historic and brilliant Predator Press posts related to the subject in question.
It's going slow, and I'm working backwards; with hundreds of posts, it will likely take months. But this will be an amazing aid to people new to the blog --as well as an academic researching organizer in the future, when scientists and archeologists are studying my heroic efforts to keep you people from freaking out and becoming mindslaves to such evils as Rush Limbaugh, Fran Tarkenton, and Ashley Olsen.
Mary-Kate is cool, but Ashley?
Pure Evil.
[LOBO]
Well, I have harshly criticized Blogger “The Butcher” Beta, so’s I guess I should mention a rather cool feature I’ve found. No one was more surprised than I; usually when I activate one of these mysterious unknown features, vipers pour out of my cd-rom drive, or huge spinning drills fly out of my monitor and drive themselves past my retinas and deeply into my brain.
You may have noticed lately that I have been “labeling”; these are those little eyesore tags under every post that I can’t seem to hide. But these little tags have enabled me to begin an alphabetize a navigation tool in the Site Guide of past historic and brilliant Predator Press posts related to the subject in question.
It's going slow, and I'm working backwards; with hundreds of posts, it will likely take months. But this will be an amazing aid to people new to the blog --as well as an academic researching organizer in the future, when scientists and archeologists are studying my heroic efforts to keep you people from freaking out and becoming mindslaves to such evils as Rush Limbaugh, Fran Tarkenton, and Ashley Olsen.
Mary-Kate is cool, but Ashley?
Pure Evil.
Thursday
A Patriot Act
Predator Press
[LOBO]
"I really appreciate you coming out Mister President," I says, climbing into the limousine.
"What?" calls Bush in the distance. "I can't hear you."
"Where are you sir?" I call into the palatial interior.
"By the pinball machines!"
Homing in on his voice, I find him excitedly contorting over a game of Super Faulken Ball.
"One more Island, and I'll control Argentina and Czechoslovakia -the gateway country to Australia!"
"Wow," I says. "That's really cool. And educational."
Just then, the game let out a low falling tone and all the lights went out --except for a bright flashing 'PAPAL SANCTIONS' marquee.
"Damn!" Bush growls. "I 'tilted' it."
"When did you put in the pool?"
Bush brightens. "There's a pool?"
"Yeah. Right next to the pizza oven."
"Wow. That's really cool."
"This thing must be hell on gas."
Bush winks, and puts a finger to his lips. "Hydrogen. Had it since 1989. Want a gelato?"
"No thanks."
Bush sighs and steps back to size me up. "You look terrible."
"So when you wrap up this whole 'Presidential' thing, I take it you'll be giving self-esteem seminars?"
"Sorry buddy," he guffaws. "When I was told you were feeling a little down, I flew directly in. Those meetings with Krin Kan Chung or whoever are all redunderances anyway." He presses a button on the wall. "Kristanna?"
"Yes sir?" says a sultry voice.
"Could you bring me a gelato?"
I nudge him sheepishly, holding up two fingers.
He grins. "Make that two gelati."
"Thank God for you selfless and caring Republicans," I sigh. "This whole world would go straight to hell without the deeply-seeded compassionate nature of your party as a whole."
"Anytime. So what's bothering you?"
"Did you know that other people are blogging now?"
"I have seen some Intel that suggests that. You want 'em killed or something?"
I think for a moment. "Nah." Eyebrows furrowed, I scratch my chin for a second. "Well--," I start ... but then I shake my head. "Nah," I repeat emphatically. "It's mostly people that drive SUVs bitching about gas prices, American Idol prattle, and stuff about Iraq."
"God. People are still talking about that?" Bush rolls his eyes. "Let it go already."
"I found like five or six web sites that made virtually no mention of me whatsoever."
"Really?" says Bush. "I wish I had your problems."
"No you don't," I says. "The entire concept of the blog has been tainted with the idea that people are to foist their own self-indulgent crap upon the world ... the very essence of blogging is at stake here!"
"I'm sure you are exaggerating. Five or six already? How many web pages are there altogether?"
"Lots," I says. "Three, four hundred. Maybe more. In fact, it turns out that new web pages not about me could be getting made every day."
"It's a goddamn bastardization," says Bush.
"Tell me about it," I cry. "Now, good media is getting drowned out by MSN, CNN, or any other weirdo nut job with a PC!"
"You could become a Republican and fix that problem," says Bush flatly.
"Really?" I says, brushing away a tear. "I'm really sick of being treated like a crackpot by mainstream media while I'm trying to warn them of the activities of the Zombie Aliens. I want to stand back while the Zombie Aliens eat the brains of people reading the Wall Street Journal so I can point and laugh at them for a change," I says. "Just like Moses did. Then those jerks would be sorry."
"How would you like Predator Press to be the only web page on the internets?"
"Imagine the porn!" I says.
"No. See, the Religious Right would take issue with that."
"Screw them," I says.
"The Religious Right are Republicans."
"So get rid of them. If you get rid of them, I'm in."
"Republicans and Democrats are composed of groups of individuals affiliated for greater voting power, dumbass." He pauses for effect. "This is a Democracy."
Suddenly, we're rolling on the ground, laughing.
"Oh man," I says, trying to stop. "I'm so glad you came along to cheer me up."
"It's the very least I can do," says Bush. "The very fate of the nation hangs on the state of your emotional well-being."
"Yeah, I know," I says apologetically.
"Look," says Bush. "Just stay the course. Always tell people the truth, no matter how much you have to endure. And I'll bet for a while they will hate you for it. But they will come back to you in the end."
"Your gelatos gentlemen," says a stunningly hot, naked woman with a serving tray.
"Is that Kristanna Loken?" I says astonished.
"Heh, oh heck no," laughs Bush. "The real Kristanna Loken is a sweet girl, but she can't make a gelato for shit."
[LOBO]
"I really appreciate you coming out Mister President," I says, climbing into the limousine.
"What?" calls Bush in the distance. "I can't hear you."
"Where are you sir?" I call into the palatial interior.
"By the pinball machines!"
Homing in on his voice, I find him excitedly contorting over a game of Super Faulken Ball.
"One more Island, and I'll control Argentina and Czechoslovakia -the gateway country to Australia!"
"Wow," I says. "That's really cool. And educational."
Just then, the game let out a low falling tone and all the lights went out --except for a bright flashing 'PAPAL SANCTIONS' marquee.
"Damn!" Bush growls. "I 'tilted' it."
"When did you put in the pool?"
Bush brightens. "There's a pool?"
"Yeah. Right next to the pizza oven."
"Wow. That's really cool."
"This thing must be hell on gas."
Bush winks, and puts a finger to his lips. "Hydrogen. Had it since 1989. Want a gelato?"
"No thanks."
Bush sighs and steps back to size me up. "You look terrible."
"So when you wrap up this whole 'Presidential' thing, I take it you'll be giving self-esteem seminars?"
"Sorry buddy," he guffaws. "When I was told you were feeling a little down, I flew directly in. Those meetings with Krin Kan Chung or whoever are all redunderances anyway." He presses a button on the wall. "Kristanna?"
"Yes sir?" says a sultry voice.
"Could you bring me a gelato?"
I nudge him sheepishly, holding up two fingers.
He grins. "Make that two gelati."
"Thank God for you selfless and caring Republicans," I sigh. "This whole world would go straight to hell without the deeply-seeded compassionate nature of your party as a whole."
"Anytime. So what's bothering you?"
"Did you know that other people are blogging now?"
"I have seen some Intel that suggests that. You want 'em killed or something?"
I think for a moment. "Nah." Eyebrows furrowed, I scratch my chin for a second. "Well--," I start ... but then I shake my head. "Nah," I repeat emphatically. "It's mostly people that drive SUVs bitching about gas prices, American Idol prattle, and stuff about Iraq."
"God. People are still talking about that?" Bush rolls his eyes. "Let it go already."
"I found like five or six web sites that made virtually no mention of me whatsoever."
"Really?" says Bush. "I wish I had your problems."
"No you don't," I says. "The entire concept of the blog has been tainted with the idea that people are to foist their own self-indulgent crap upon the world ... the very essence of blogging is at stake here!"
"I'm sure you are exaggerating. Five or six already? How many web pages are there altogether?"
"Lots," I says. "Three, four hundred. Maybe more. In fact, it turns out that new web pages not about me could be getting made every day."
"It's a goddamn bastardization," says Bush.
"Tell me about it," I cry. "Now, good media is getting drowned out by MSN, CNN, or any other weirdo nut job with a PC!"
"You could become a Republican and fix that problem," says Bush flatly.
"Really?" I says, brushing away a tear. "I'm really sick of being treated like a crackpot by mainstream media while I'm trying to warn them of the activities of the Zombie Aliens. I want to stand back while the Zombie Aliens eat the brains of people reading the Wall Street Journal so I can point and laugh at them for a change," I says. "Just like Moses did. Then those jerks would be sorry."
"How would you like Predator Press to be the only web page on the internets?"
"Imagine the porn!" I says.
"No. See, the Religious Right would take issue with that."
"Screw them," I says.
"The Religious Right are Republicans."
"So get rid of them. If you get rid of them, I'm in."
"Republicans and Democrats are composed of groups of individuals affiliated for greater voting power, dumbass." He pauses for effect. "This is a Democracy."
Suddenly, we're rolling on the ground, laughing.
"Oh man," I says, trying to stop. "I'm so glad you came along to cheer me up."
"It's the very least I can do," says Bush. "The very fate of the nation hangs on the state of your emotional well-being."
"Yeah, I know," I says apologetically.
"Look," says Bush. "Just stay the course. Always tell people the truth, no matter how much you have to endure. And I'll bet for a while they will hate you for it. But they will come back to you in the end."
"Your gelatos gentlemen," says a stunningly hot, naked woman with a serving tray.
"Is that Kristanna Loken?" I says astonished.
"Heh, oh heck no," laughs Bush. "The real Kristanna Loken is a sweet girl, but she can't make a gelato for shit."
Van Roth
Predator Press
[LOBO]
Honestly?
I think they all suck now except Michael Anthony and Sammy Hagar.
You couldn't get together once for your fans?
Or even history?
I'll let my wallet do my talking. ("What's that little Wallety? Van Roth should fuck off you say?")
[LOBO]
Honestly?
I think they all suck now except Michael Anthony and Sammy Hagar.
You couldn't get together once for your fans?
Or even history?
I'll let my wallet do my talking. ("What's that little Wallety? Van Roth should fuck off you say?")
Tuesday
Show Me Where it Hurts
Predator Press
[LOBO]
Going to work today was rather surreal; rather than facing biting cold and gunmetal gray skies, I was awash in a light 70-degree breeze and sunshine.
Sunshine.
Now, I’ve gone three months without “Cabin Fever” or “Seasonal Effective Disorder” or whatever –and for a guy riddled with weird phobias and neuroses, that’s pretty damn good—but today I was a little overwhelmed by it all.
I was suddenly made aware of how sick I am of winter.
The fact that I did not put the words ’this year’ anywhere in that sentence is not an accident.
A great deal of the day was spent sort of playfully daydreaming about the logistics of just 'packing it in' and going West. In fact, my helplessness against this strange preoccupation only further distressed me; this isn’t really about the weather at all, is it? I’ve been here for seven of winters in a row, and this one was certainly among the milder.
What is impelling me to consider leaving someplace I’ve been pretty damn happy for so long? What soured this earth? Is it something innate telling me it’s merely time once again for a change in landscape? A ‘sense of adventure’? I love this place, this job, the people; these have been the best years I've ever had.
But everything just seemed so colorless, barren and flat in that sunny, warm luster ...
[LOBO]
Going to work today was rather surreal; rather than facing biting cold and gunmetal gray skies, I was awash in a light 70-degree breeze and sunshine.
Sunshine.
Now, I’ve gone three months without “Cabin Fever” or “Seasonal Effective Disorder” or whatever –and for a guy riddled with weird phobias and neuroses, that’s pretty damn good—but today I was a little overwhelmed by it all.
I was suddenly made aware of how sick I am of winter.
The fact that I did not put the words ’this year’ anywhere in that sentence is not an accident.
A great deal of the day was spent sort of playfully daydreaming about the logistics of just 'packing it in' and going West. In fact, my helplessness against this strange preoccupation only further distressed me; this isn’t really about the weather at all, is it? I’ve been here for seven of winters in a row, and this one was certainly among the milder.
What is impelling me to consider leaving someplace I’ve been pretty damn happy for so long? What soured this earth? Is it something innate telling me it’s merely time once again for a change in landscape? A ‘sense of adventure’? I love this place, this job, the people; these have been the best years I've ever had.
But everything just seemed so colorless, barren and flat in that sunny, warm luster ...
Sunday
POPPER SEIZES ORANGE COUNTY
Predator Press
RAMPANT WILDFIRES PROMPT JOHN POPPER TO MAKE HIS MOVE ON METROPOLITAN LOS ANGELES
Paulie, Mikey and Vinnie reported safe
Friday
When Dreams Come Through
Predator Press
[LOBO]
The title of this post was originally supposed to be “LOBO FOUND DEAD, PELVIS CRUSHED BY ROGUE SQUAD OF HORNY VICTORIA'S SECRET MODELS; WEDDING TO BABS POSTPONED” –but it wouldn’t fit.
Plus, I don't think she would fall for it.
Look, Babs is hot and all, and I’ll bet she’s probably got a redeeming personality too. But the fact of the matter is that Babs has slept with everyone I know, and probably a few people I don’t know as well … maybe even French Canadians!
If you stand close to her, you can virtually hear the virulent space herpes crawling around that thong.
While getting violently “consummated” on over and over might sound like fun, I would inevitably contract The Virus which would cause my Hippocampus to ignite, thusly making me a mindless sex slave to the Space Herpe Queen.
--Which probably implies I gotta do stuff, right? I mean right in the middle of smashing a galaxy into a fiery hell-storm of molten slag, the bitch wants to “talk about our relationship”, or redecorate the kitchen. And I’ll bet the Space Herpe Queen has some fucked up relatives ...
… God I’m getting tired just thinking about this!
[LOBO]
The title of this post was originally supposed to be “LOBO FOUND DEAD, PELVIS CRUSHED BY ROGUE SQUAD OF HORNY VICTORIA'S SECRET MODELS; WEDDING TO BABS POSTPONED” –but it wouldn’t fit.
Plus, I don't think she would fall for it.
Look, Babs is hot and all, and I’ll bet she’s probably got a redeeming personality too. But the fact of the matter is that Babs has slept with everyone I know, and probably a few people I don’t know as well … maybe even French Canadians!
If you stand close to her, you can virtually hear the virulent space herpes crawling around that thong.
While getting violently “consummated” on over and over might sound like fun, I would inevitably contract The Virus which would cause my Hippocampus to ignite, thusly making me a mindless sex slave to the Space Herpe Queen.
--Which probably implies I gotta do stuff, right? I mean right in the middle of smashing a galaxy into a fiery hell-storm of molten slag, the bitch wants to “talk about our relationship”, or redecorate the kitchen. And I’ll bet the Space Herpe Queen has some fucked up relatives ...
… God I’m getting tired just thinking about this!
No One Ever Thanked Porn :(
Predator Press
[LOBO]
When I got stranded here 8 years ago, I dropped almost all the cash I had --about $2,500- within the first few days of being aware there was “a crisis”.
--Not on food or rent or a car, but on a CPU tower with a modem, and a dedicated telephone line.
The people here thought I was out of my mind, and that this whole "internet" thing was at best a fad. Why in the world would we want to have a high-priced calculator that can eerily commune instantly with people from faraway places like Indiana?
Now here it is, 8 years later, and both of my neighbors have wireless connections that screw mine up.
It’s amazing. What other creature on Earth can communicate, virtually instantaneously across the world, sophisticated information? In a strictly biological sense, I would argue that this rivals telepathy as an “Evolutionary Step” for a species.
I, eight years ago, needed the Internet; I had come from Honolulu where they had “Internet Cafés” on every corner, and moved to a place where the nearest store sold tools to neuter a horse (and I swear to God that’s the truth). I had friends all over the world, and we didn’t have "digital phone" back then; were it not for Al Gore, my long distance bills would still be $500 or more a month.
Plus I needed porn.
This all begs some questions. Like, "How did we all get the Internet virtually overnight, when it took decades to get other technological innovations such as railroads and electricity?", and "What explains this rapid and expensive saturation?"
Is this whole town now suddenly riddled with people using 'Quicken', and needing immediate downloads and uploads in fear of a mass IRS audit? Are they all physicists tweaking an equation that provides cold fusion? Is 'The Government' desperately trying to cure cancer before 5 more people die untaxed?
No. The answer, my friends, is blowin’ in the simms.
If there were naked chicks on Mars, we would’ve been there in 1984.
[LOBO]
When I got stranded here 8 years ago, I dropped almost all the cash I had --about $2,500- within the first few days of being aware there was “a crisis”.
--Not on food or rent or a car, but on a CPU tower with a modem, and a dedicated telephone line.
The people here thought I was out of my mind, and that this whole "internet" thing was at best a fad. Why in the world would we want to have a high-priced calculator that can eerily commune instantly with people from faraway places like Indiana?
Now here it is, 8 years later, and both of my neighbors have wireless connections that screw mine up.
It’s amazing. What other creature on Earth can communicate, virtually instantaneously across the world, sophisticated information? In a strictly biological sense, I would argue that this rivals telepathy as an “Evolutionary Step” for a species.
I, eight years ago, needed the Internet; I had come from Honolulu where they had “Internet Cafés” on every corner, and moved to a place where the nearest store sold tools to neuter a horse (and I swear to God that’s the truth). I had friends all over the world, and we didn’t have "digital phone" back then; were it not for Al Gore, my long distance bills would still be $500 or more a month.
Plus I needed porn.
This all begs some questions. Like, "How did we all get the Internet virtually overnight, when it took decades to get other technological innovations such as railroads and electricity?", and "What explains this rapid and expensive saturation?"
Is this whole town now suddenly riddled with people using 'Quicken', and needing immediate downloads and uploads in fear of a mass IRS audit? Are they all physicists tweaking an equation that provides cold fusion? Is 'The Government' desperately trying to cure cancer before 5 more people die untaxed?
No. The answer, my friends, is blowin’ in the simms.
If there were naked chicks on Mars, we would’ve been there in 1984.
Thursday
PREDATOR PRESS BREAKS NEWS AGAIN
Predator Press
[LOBO]
I was stunned too. But I kept thinking How did Popper know we were onto him?
Well, it turns out it had nothing to do with us whatsoever, and that's exactly what we want George Lindsey to think right now.
You see, if you play "Run-Around" backwards, you can here Popper clearly discussing his intentions:
VOICE: “[inaudible] … your bottled water sir. The truck … and the canned goods [inaudible] all gone … “
Popper: “I’ve had it with those D-O-T cocksuckers fucking up my ‘Master Plan’!"
VOICE: “Your instructions, Lord Popper?”
Popper: ”There is nothing we can do, unless there’s a tidal wave or an earthquake. Or maybe an eclipse.”
VOICE: "Y-yes, sir."
Popper: "I'm very disappointed, Number Two."
VOICE: "I know sir."
Popper: "This failure is unacceptable. What if there was a tsunami or a forest fire today? We would be completely unprepared."
VOICE: "Yes my Lord."
Popper: "Number Three, are you there?"
NEW VOICE: "Yes, Lord Popper."
Popper: "You are my new Number Two. Now show that maggot how Lord Popper deals with failures."
[gunshot, then chorus]
[LOBO]
I was stunned too. But I kept thinking How did Popper know we were onto him?
Well, it turns out it had nothing to do with us whatsoever, and that's exactly what we want George Lindsey to think right now.
You see, if you play "Run-Around" backwards, you can here Popper clearly discussing his intentions:
VOICE: “[inaudible] … your bottled water sir. The truck … and the canned goods [inaudible] all gone … “
Popper: “I’ve had it with those D-O-T cocksuckers fucking up my ‘Master Plan’!"
VOICE: “Your instructions, Lord Popper?”
Popper: ”There is nothing we can do, unless there’s a tidal wave or an earthquake. Or maybe an eclipse.”
VOICE: "Y-yes, sir."
Popper: "I'm very disappointed, Number Two."
VOICE: "I know sir."
Popper: "This failure is unacceptable. What if there was a tsunami or a forest fire today? We would be completely unprepared."
VOICE: "Yes my Lord."
Popper: "Number Three, are you there?"
NEW VOICE: "Yes, Lord Popper."
Popper: "You are my new Number Two. Now show that maggot how Lord Popper deals with failures."
[gunshot, then chorus]
Press Release:
Predator Press
The plan to go beat up John Popper and steal all his stuff in the event of a Natural Disaster has been officially scrubbed until further notice due to developing information.
We’re thinking maybe George "Goober" Lindsey from The Andy Griffith Show now.
Wednesday
From Hell's Heart
Predator Press
[LOBO]
Since I’ve finally given up endlessly fiddle-f*cking with “Beta” Blogger’s busted crap and completely abandoned all hope of ever getting my site back on Google and Yahoo, I have concentrated efforts on squeaking out posts ever so often while simultaneously researching out potential new hosts.
With my job going well, my love-life "in tune", and my creative efforts, well, eh, 'adequate', somehow it all just highlights the only thing wrong even more; all those years of work to build traffic to a site --once 100 unique hits a day— were pissed away by a bunch of greedy, short-sighted incompetent hacks in a lab.
And it turns out this stuff doesn’t work right before you do anything to it … I mean come on; what kind of a blog site corrupts photo uploads that provide fatal errors and make your site uncrawlable? Or doesn’t let you put external links in the main fields? Or train wrecks if two different users use have logged in from the same computer?
This site, broken, will stay broken. And from the wreckage, I will rebuild it with and despite these inept tools, if only to create the most well-read and embarrassing eyesore to Blogger’s potential advertisers, clients, and members. I will somehow drive readers here again and again, and insidiously underline the dissatisfaction through the fractured lens of Blogger’s programming “triumph”.
From here on out, Predator Press, on Blogger or not, shall be a veritable showcase of Beta Blogger’s technological boobery.
But why stop at Blogger?
[LOBO]
Since I’ve finally given up endlessly fiddle-f*cking with “Beta” Blogger’s busted crap and completely abandoned all hope of ever getting my site back on Google and Yahoo, I have concentrated efforts on squeaking out posts ever so often while simultaneously researching out potential new hosts.
With my job going well, my love-life "in tune", and my creative efforts, well, eh, 'adequate', somehow it all just highlights the only thing wrong even more; all those years of work to build traffic to a site --once 100 unique hits a day— were pissed away by a bunch of greedy, short-sighted incompetent hacks in a lab.
And it turns out this stuff doesn’t work right before you do anything to it … I mean come on; what kind of a blog site corrupts photo uploads that provide fatal errors and make your site uncrawlable? Or doesn’t let you put external links in the main fields? Or train wrecks if two different users use have logged in from the same computer?
This site, broken, will stay broken. And from the wreckage, I will rebuild it with and despite these inept tools, if only to create the most well-read and embarrassing eyesore to Blogger’s potential advertisers, clients, and members. I will somehow drive readers here again and again, and insidiously underline the dissatisfaction through the fractured lens of Blogger’s programming “triumph”.
From here on out, Predator Press, on Blogger or not, shall be a veritable showcase of Beta Blogger’s technological boobery.
But why stop at Blogger?
Tuesday
Love Letters
Predator Press
[LOBO]
Approaching 30,000 hits already!
To tell the truth, when we hit 10,000 we threw a party.
30,000 is going to be like wild, primal lovemaking … the kind where your lover says, “Omygod where did that come from?”, and responds with even more savage ferocity. And as adrenaline amplifies and intensifies the sound of your wet flesh and muscle smacking powerfully together, you are driven far beyond the ‘point of return’; dragging up your exhausted and sated love up by fistfuls of hair, you hold the back of the neck while releasing …
… Or maybe it'll be more like that "permanent marker smell". You know, when you just take the cap off? And people ask you why your nostril is green for days?
I can't decide.
[LOBO]
Approaching 30,000 hits already!
To tell the truth, when we hit 10,000 we threw a party.
30,000 is going to be like wild, primal lovemaking … the kind where your lover says, “Omygod where did that come from?”, and responds with even more savage ferocity. And as adrenaline amplifies and intensifies the sound of your wet flesh and muscle smacking powerfully together, you are driven far beyond the ‘point of return’; dragging up your exhausted and sated love up by fistfuls of hair, you hold the back of the neck while releasing …
… Or maybe it'll be more like that "permanent marker smell". You know, when you just take the cap off? And people ask you why your nostril is green for days?
I can't decide.
Monday
LOBO, PREGNANT, SOON TO WED BABS
Predator Press
HUNDREDS OF WOMEN ACROSS GLOBE -AND AROUND IT TOO- SPONTANEOUSLY BURST INTO UNCONTROLLED TEARS AT SURPRISE ENGAGEMENT
--or maybe "Pollen Index", explain scientific crackpots
"Hell yeah, I was surprised," says innocent bystander LOBO. "But all the signs were there if you think about it: the inexplicable gaining of weight, the magnetic pull of Desperate Housewives episodes, the strange transformation into a bitchy, insufferable, insatiable fatass ... "
Stephen Grant Shocking Photo-Shoot Transcript!
[LOBO]
Predator Press
C'mon Steph --can I call you Steph? Gimme something wild. Something crazy. You're a wild animal ... a savage, crazy animal!
You know what? This isn't working. Steph, it's like you're not even trying. Your wife told us how you would puss out like this ......
Predator Press
C'mon Steph --can I call you Steph? Gimme something wild. Something crazy. You're a wild animal ... a savage, crazy animal!
You know what? This isn't working. Steph, it's like you're not even trying. Your wife told us how you would puss out like this ......
Sunday
pi
Predator Press
[LOBO]
“Ethan,” I says. “I quit.”
“You quit what?”
“I quit Hawley Enterprises.”
“You quit doing what exactly?”
“Well, I was hoping you could help me out with that. I’m having a lot of trouble with my ‘Letter of Resignation’.
“What brought this on?” says Ethan.
“I’ve decided I want to be a sheepherder.”
“A sheepherder.”
“Think about it. The sheep is not a very fast animal.”
“Do tell.”
“Yeah. I figure I could virtually watch the little bastards disappear over the horizon, and still catch 'em in a jeep like an hour later.”
“Possibly,” says Ethan, scratching his chin. “But you would have to protect the sheep from predators too.”
“Oh please,” I says. “The only other animals I ever see around sheep are cows, and cows are pussies. My sheep will be combat-trained, hardened bad-asses.”
I drift off for a second.
My sheep will have leather jackets.
“What do you think ‘Sheepherder’ pays?”, asks Ethan.
“$40-$60 thousand a year according to this Devry University brochure. Next semester –Satellite Tracking, GPS and Radio starts in three weeks.”
“Really?”
“It ends in four.”
[LOBO]
“Ethan,” I says. “I quit.”
“You quit what?”
“I quit Hawley Enterprises.”
“You quit doing what exactly?”
“Well, I was hoping you could help me out with that. I’m having a lot of trouble with my ‘Letter of Resignation’.
“What brought this on?” says Ethan.
“I’ve decided I want to be a sheepherder.”
“A sheepherder.”
“Think about it. The sheep is not a very fast animal.”
“Do tell.”
“Yeah. I figure I could virtually watch the little bastards disappear over the horizon, and still catch 'em in a jeep like an hour later.”
“Possibly,” says Ethan, scratching his chin. “But you would have to protect the sheep from predators too.”
“Oh please,” I says. “The only other animals I ever see around sheep are cows, and cows are pussies. My sheep will be combat-trained, hardened bad-asses.”
I drift off for a second.
My sheep will have leather jackets.
“What do you think ‘Sheepherder’ pays?”, asks Ethan.
“$40-$60 thousand a year according to this Devry University brochure. Next semester –Satellite Tracking, GPS and Radio starts in three weeks.”
“Really?”
“It ends in four.”
I Understand Completely
Predator Press
[LOBO]
Ethan came into the office quietly and shut the door behind him; I can tell by the look on his face that something is wrong.
He flips a thick folder onto my desk, sits down, and just stares at me expectantly.
"What?" I says, perplexed. I look at the file. "I read one of those once. I thought it was wordy and pedantic. I'm into Louis L'Amour now.”
“Who,” says Ethan finally, “is Frank Gilmore?”
“He’s the VP-ATL of Hawly Enterprises.”
“And what exactly is a ‘VP-ATL’?”
“Vice President of All Things LOBO.”
“Excuse me?”
“Well, I couldn’t exactly make him President,” I says, leaning back in my chair. “That’s way too much responsibility. But he’s an invaluable asset to your organization, I assure you. Would you like to speak to him?”
“Yes,” says Ethan. “I would.”
I grab my phone, hit ‘speed dial’, then the number one.
There’s a knock at the door.
“Come in, Mr Gilmore.” I says.
Mr Gilmore enters, and just then his cell phone rang. With a deft maneuver into his jacket, the ringing stops. “Yes sir?” he says, all dignified.
I look at Ethan. “I just love how he does that.”
“It’s good to see you again sir,” says Gilmore. “Have you lost weight? I never thought a ladykiller such as yourself could get actually more devastating in only two hours.”
“He’s a fuckin’ genius,” I whisper to Ethan. “He can translate too.”
“Really?” says Ethan.
“Yeah! Watch.” I turn to Gilmore. “Gilmore, say, um, ‘roadkill’.”
“Roadkill.”
“Okay, now say it in ‘South of I-80’.”
“Road pizza.”
I look to Ethan, nodding my amazement. “Now say it in Arkansazian.”
“Not fast enough food,” says Gilmore.
“Is that true?” I says, scowling incredulously. “People from other countries are actually eating roadkill?”
“Yes sir,” replies Gilmore. “But I’m sure your vast intellect is superior to being preoccupied with historic and factual minutia like that,” he says flatly. “That’s what I’m here for sir. That, and to forcibly remove the women that get too sexually aggressive after being exposed to you for more than a few moments at a time.”
“Remember Gilmore, I don’t want them hurt,” I says.
“I know sir. It’s not their fault.”
Ethan flips open the file on my desk, and leafs down a couple of pages.
“$6 an hour, eh?” he asks.
“Actually, $6.10,” I reply. “I gave him a raise last year.”
Ethan scratches his neck. “Does he have any friends who need a job?”
[LOBO]
Ethan came into the office quietly and shut the door behind him; I can tell by the look on his face that something is wrong.
He flips a thick folder onto my desk, sits down, and just stares at me expectantly.
"What?" I says, perplexed. I look at the file. "I read one of those once. I thought it was wordy and pedantic. I'm into Louis L'Amour now.”
“Who,” says Ethan finally, “is Frank Gilmore?”
“He’s the VP-ATL of Hawly Enterprises.”
“And what exactly is a ‘VP-ATL’?”
“Vice President of All Things LOBO.”
“Excuse me?”
“Well, I couldn’t exactly make him President,” I says, leaning back in my chair. “That’s way too much responsibility. But he’s an invaluable asset to your organization, I assure you. Would you like to speak to him?”
“Yes,” says Ethan. “I would.”
I grab my phone, hit ‘speed dial’, then the number one.
There’s a knock at the door.
“Come in, Mr Gilmore.” I says.
Mr Gilmore enters, and just then his cell phone rang. With a deft maneuver into his jacket, the ringing stops. “Yes sir?” he says, all dignified.
I look at Ethan. “I just love how he does that.”
“It’s good to see you again sir,” says Gilmore. “Have you lost weight? I never thought a ladykiller such as yourself could get actually more devastating in only two hours.”
“He’s a fuckin’ genius,” I whisper to Ethan. “He can translate too.”
“Really?” says Ethan.
“Yeah! Watch.” I turn to Gilmore. “Gilmore, say, um, ‘roadkill’.”
“Roadkill.”
“Okay, now say it in ‘South of I-80’.”
“Road pizza.”
I look to Ethan, nodding my amazement. “Now say it in Arkansazian.”
“Not fast enough food,” says Gilmore.
“Is that true?” I says, scowling incredulously. “People from other countries are actually eating roadkill?”
“Yes sir,” replies Gilmore. “But I’m sure your vast intellect is superior to being preoccupied with historic and factual minutia like that,” he says flatly. “That’s what I’m here for sir. That, and to forcibly remove the women that get too sexually aggressive after being exposed to you for more than a few moments at a time.”
“Remember Gilmore, I don’t want them hurt,” I says.
“I know sir. It’s not their fault.”
Ethan flips open the file on my desk, and leafs down a couple of pages.
“$6 an hour, eh?” he asks.
“Actually, $6.10,” I reply. “I gave him a raise last year.”
Ethan scratches his neck. “Does he have any friends who need a job?”
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