Thursday

Intensive Carelessness

Predator Press

[LOBO]

“Let me get this straight,” says Nurse Garrison, looking out at me over her glasses. “You narrowly escaped being assassinated by the United States Government disguising yourself as a flesh-eating cicada … like the ones that wiped out your entire town?”

“Check,” I says.

“Then,” she says while flipping through pages on her clipboard, “Lindsay Lohan kicked your ass.”

“Lindsay Lohan and four bodyguards kicked my ass,” I corrected.

“That’s funny,” says the nurse. “Because there’s no mention of any bodyguards in the Police Report.”

“Well they were there,” I insist. “They must’ve snuck off. Like ninjas. In fact, yes. Now that I’ve thought about it, all six of those bodyguards were wearing black pajamas.”

“But Lindsay Lohan has issued sworn testimony that she doesn’t employ any bodyguards.”

“Currently.”

“Currently?”

“They could’ve been ninjas from the future. What if Lindsay Lohan, like, meets this creepy weirdo one day? Then she gets the bodyguards.”

“Ninja bodyguards … that can time travel.”

“You know for somebody that took the Hypocritical Oath to ‘Serve and Protect’, I’m starting to think you’re not taking me seriously.”

“Well, I am a little puzzled by some things.”

“Like what?”

“Like, if you escaped millions of carnivorous cicadas by dressing as one, why didn’t you just dress as Lindsay Lohan?”

“Look, just kiss my ass. Okay?”

“Not with that stiletto heel in there. Someone could poke their eye out.”

Internet Swag

Predator Press

Predator Press Interviews: Lindsay Lohan

Predator Press


LOBO: Wow. You're that famous chick!

Lohan: Who are you, and why are you dressed like that?

LOBO: My name is LOBO. So why are you here? Are you getting your Blogger License too?

Lohan: My rehab doctor thinks that exploring other methods of expression might curtail my self-destructive behavior and speed up my recovery.

LOBO: Rehab? I thought you were in prison.

Lohan: That's Paris Hilton.

LOBO: Sorry. It's hard to see through these pasta strainers. I really love your movies.

Lohan: Well thank you.

LOBO: What was it like working with Mike Myers on 'Shrek 3'?

Lohan: That's Cameron Diaz.

LOBO: Oh, that's right. Sorry. Did you ever get to meet Tim Robbins when you narrated 'The Shawshank Redemption'?

Lohan: That's Morgan Freeman.

LOBO: I thought you said you were in movies.

Lohan: I am. I was in 'Freaky Friday' 'Herbie Fully Loaded' and 'The Parent Trap'.

LOBO: So you do mostly documentaries?

Lohan: [pause] Would you please just get away from me?

LOBO: Any Oscars? Emmys?

Lohan: I'm calling the cops.

LOBO: Well you go right ahead there little Miss Hoity-Toity 'Can't-Take-Some-Pointed-Questions-From-A-Guy-Wearing-A-Trash-Can'. Call 'em! I'll have you arrested for impersonating an actress!

Teacher: All right class, pencils down. Please hand your Blogger License Exam to the person in front of you.

LOBO: Damn it!

Lohan: You bastard!

Remedial Blogging 101

Predator Press

[LOBO]

So dressed as a giant cicada –complete with ingenious pasta strainer eyes, a trash can carapace, and two old wireless routers stuck above the ears as antennae-- I arrived at the testing center early enough to smoke three cigarettes before being ushered in.

And while worried at first that being dressed as a giant bug might be rather ‘conspicuous’, I was relieved to find that I was taking the exam with four bees, two bears, a badger, and Lindsay Lohan.

Cauterized

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Well, I'm stranded in Mr Insanity's house surrounded by tanks hoisted 3 feet in the air by camouflage-painted helicopters --all sporting streamers and sparklers-- and billions of starving carnivorous, flesh-eating cicadas.

And it dawns on me.

Oh my God, my Blogger's License re-exam is in five minutes!!!

Tuesday

Warhead

Predator Press

[Mr Insanity]

Once Sapphire called Ethan to verify she had the pictures, Ethan called President Bush.

Then President Bush called General Petraeus.

"You want me to bomb a city in the continental US?" asks General Petraeus incredulously.

"And how," says Bush.

"And not one in New Jersey?"

"Nope. Pianosa, Illinois."

"Why sir?"

"It's part of a new strategy in our War on Terror. Who's going to screw with us if we're so crazy we'll nuke ourselves?"

"Good point sir. Still, what with the fallout and all, I would suggest something a little more suitable to the scale of the threat."

"Like a giant robot crocodile?"

"No sir. Like a surgical strike. A platoon of tanks maybe."

"Oh god no. Have you seen the price of gas lately? I like the 'Giant Robot Crocodile' idea better."

"Yes, well-"

"It'll come up out of Lake Michigan, and seek out Terror with X-Ray vision, and smash it with the Tail of Liberty. Bam! Bam!"

"Well, while I understand your enthusiasm--"

"BOOM!"

"--I would still go with the tanks."

"General, this is the dawn of the Twentieth Centurion. Unless they hover, tanks are boring."

"We don't have a giant robot crocodile sir. The Liberals scuttled the budget in Congress."

Bush sighed audibly into the phone. "Just how many damn schools do I have to build before I get a giant robot crocodile that fights Terror?"

There's a long pause. "I don't know sir," the General finally answered.

"Why can't we nuke it again?"

"Because it's American soil sir."

"Is it New Jersey?"

"No sir. It's Pianosa, Illinois. Look," says Petraeus, exasperated. "We could put streamers and sparklers on the tanks. Then it would look cool as we bomb that house into the Mesozoic."

"Like a parade!"

"Yes sir. A really loud and pissed-off parade."

"All right General," says Bush. "Make it so."


***


The 99th Battalion left Decatur Illinois at precisely 3:17am, and stopped to refuel in Bloomington, Schaumburg, Danville and Arlington Heights before anyone realized that they had no idea where Pianosa was.

This single blunder took up 18% of the entire annual military budget.

Due to this --and the Vast Liberal Conspiracy-- the Terror-Fighting Robot Crocodile Project would never get off the ground.

Monday

Silly Girl

Predator Press

[LOBO]

There was a knock at the door.

“Who is it?” I asked.

“It’s me, Sapphire.”

“How do I know that—?“

“Look, just shut up and open the door!”

Sapphire enters.

She’s crying.

“Sapphire, what’s wrong?”

“Oh LOBO,” she sobs. “I really want to go to Twentynine Palms, California, but I don’t know how to get there!”

“Sapphire,” I says calmly. “I’ve got some trucker's 2004 Road Atlas right here under this tuna sandwich!”

“Really?” she says.

“Sure!” I says, handing her the maps. “Now have fun in California.”

God, I’m thinking. What would chicks do without me?

Bling

Predator Press

[Mr Insanity]

"Sir," says Sapphire, closing the door to Ethan's office behind her. "I know you've asked me to come so you can try to talk me out of nuking Pianosa, but in a matter of weeks, those cicadas will-"

"Talk you out of it?" says Ethan. "Are you kidding?"

"I don't understand," says Sapphire, taking the seat in front of the desk.

"LOBO just put a bunch of his crap art up on eBay. It's completely worthless. I can't believe he's got an 'AA' in Graphic Design from Denver Business College." Ethan pauses. "Still, if LOBO was dead ... "

"Oooooh," says Sapphire, slowly comprehending. "Okay."

"I'll give you ten percent."

"Deal."

Ethan swivels in his chair, facing the window. "Then I'll have two bags of money. I might even have to hire someone to hold my cigar!"

Boom

Predator Press

[LOBO]

I know that every time you people come to Predator Press and see our fine art, you’re thinking “Wow, I would certainly like to have that piece mounted over my fireplace. I wish there was a way I could buy it.”

Well now you can.

I’m selling my entire private collection on ebay!

CLICK HERE


Sunday

Booster

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Primer

Predator Press

[Mr Insanity]

Templeton -who had only narrowly escaped the garbage deposal- had affixed himself to the back of Phil's rabies tag.

There, Phil couldn't find him.

And LOBO -who always assumed the tag to be some sort of symbol of Phil's commitment to Jewish faith- was never willing to do anything that would be religiously intolerant; he chose only to read Bible passages too loudly as Phil slept, and occasionally squirting her with a Super-Soaker full of Holy water shouting 'The Power of Christ Compels You!'

But LOBO, a Catholic, had long since resigned himself to the fact that Phil was going to burn for eternity in the Lake of Fire at this point.

Attached firmly to a deadly predator owned by a complete idiot, and surrounded by millions of the horny and carnivorous man-eating Cicada Brood VIII, Templeton figured he was momentarily safe.

Until he intercepted Sapphire's transmission to RDO.

In order to save Humanity, she argued, they were going to have to nuke Pianosa into a crater.

And then nuke the crater.

And then airlift the crater over the Atlantic Ocean, and nuke it a few more times while dropping it in.

Templeton snuck a peak from behind Phil's collar. Having finally run out of 'Food Delivery' options in the Yellow Pages that were still answering the phone, LOBO was in the kitchen trying to boil one of my frozen pot pies.

Needless to say, it burst into flames.

Eh, Templeton figured, it was a good run.

Predator Press Revealed!

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Yes, 'o loyal reader!

As promised, today is the day I dispel this 'shroud of mystery' by releasing high-resolution pictures of the entire Predator Press staff!



Phoebe:



Sapphire:



Ethan:



Mr Insanity:

And 'Yours Truly':



Friday

Chinese

Predator Press

[LOBO]

So where the heck is FEMA already?

Phil and I are alone in Mr Insanity's place, surrounded by millions of deadly, carnivorous, man-eating cicadas!

Sapphire abandoned us after a speech about "Needing to save humankind from certain destruction," or something. Ah, you know chicks ... 'blah, blah, blah blablah, blah'. I wasn't paying attention.

But while exploring my rather posh tomb, I found Mr Insanity's digital scanner. And since I'm not under adult supervision --as mandated by Illinois State Law I might add-- I've decided to publish pictures of the entire Predator Press staff tomorrow, myself included.

How dare these people flout Illinois State Law?

But that’s tomorrow. Right now I'm starving, and the jerk delivering my Chinese is 45 minutes late.

I think the cicadas got him.

That means in another 15 minutes, they are going to be pissed.

Thursday

On Mom's Fridge (Magnetized for Your Protection)

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Pontius Pirate

Predator Press

[LOBO]

I watched Sapphire crunch through the pile of skeletons as she made her way from the car to the front door. While the carnivorous cicadas eyed her warily, they appeared disinterested in dining on the advanced synthetic plastics and alloys she was constructed from.

To them, she's the human equivalent of tofu.

Half of the entire town has been wiped out. Their skeletons, scattered and twisted in agonized poses, were baking dry in the noonday sun.

It's the biblical Plague of Locusts.

Armageddon.

--Jerry Falwell must've told Jesus about Sanjaya.


Someone knocked at the door.

"Who is it?" I ask.

"It's me, dumbass," says Sapphire.

"How do I know it's really you, and not some particularly intelligent cicada?"

"Open this goddamn door," demands the voice, "or I'll pull your tongue through your keyster!"

"It is you!" I says, letting her in quickly. "Thank God you came."

"What happened here? Why are there so many bodies in the lawn?"

I point at a group of skeletons sprinkled with gardening tools. "Well, in chronological order, those guys are gardeners. Those guys are the Fire Department, who I called to rescue the gardeners. Those guys are the cops I called to rescue the Fire Department. And that's what's left of the pizza delivery guy."

"Why did you call the pizza delivery guy?"

"I was hungry."

Wednesday

The Great Al Fresco

Predator Press

[LOBO]

I was rudely awakened by a knock at Mr Insanity's door.

Who in the hell would be knocking at this hour?

I yawned and stretched, "I'm coming!"

Wincing in the bright light, and see a man with tough-looking pitted tanned skin. He's carrying a shovel over his shoulder. His eyes, bright and intelligent, belie his apparent advanced age, and his smile reveals overly-large, bright white teeth.

"My God man!" I complain in the sun. "Have you any idea what time it is?"

"10:30 in the morning," says the man.

"Well, try and show a little courtesy," I says reproaching. "Some people are still trying to sleep at this hour!"

"My apologies," says the man, still grinning. He removes his faded, beaten hat. "My name is Al Fresco, and I am the finest gardener in Illinois."

I pause. "Really?"

"Yes sir," he says. "I was just trying to scrounge up some work, and I saw your yard in somewhat of an advanced state of-"

"Hold it right there buddy," I says. "This is Mr Insanity's yard. Don't go blaming me for his laziness."

"Of course sir," he says.

"How much do you charge?"

"I will do the preliminary work for $100, and then I will come back every week to do maintenance for another $20."

"Deal," I says.

"Can I start now?"

"Absolutely," I says.

This is really cool, I'm thinking. If this works out, I can go back to sleep.


***


Deciding to take a few moments to evaluate the man's work ethic, Phil and I sat watching out the living room window as Al Fresco prepared. After retrieving his various tools from the truck he paused for a second, wiping his wet forehead with his hat contemplatively.

Then, he pointed the shovel into the ground and plunged it in with seemingly little effort.

"Well, Phil," I smile at the cat. "It looks like our new friend Al is going to work out just fine."

Staring out the window, Phil froze suddenly.

His back arched up.

What the hell?

I examine the rather unspectacular scene closely and see nothing.

Al shovels another load of dirt.

Phil growls.

I lean toward the window, still seeing nothing.

And then I realize that the ground is subtly moving.

Just a little at first ... in random patches. But within moments, the very Earth is seething in movement.

Cicadas.

--Of the order Hemiptera, suborder Auchenorrhyncha, in the superfamily Cicadoidea.

Brood XIII.

Still digging, Al Fresco notices nothing as the huge swarm emerges around him, ravenous from their 17-year fast. In seconds, there are hundreds of thousands of the bloodthirsty beasts, and Al is startled by the steady shriek of hungered frenzy. Suddenly aware of them, he drops his shovel and runs for the door. But it's too late I realize when he rings the doorbell for the eighth time: a hideously large cicada leapt into his eye, and burrowed his way into Al's tasty brains.

Al screamed, tearing at his face -but this only excited the frenzied creatures: another attacked, tearing into the exposed flesh of his arm. Then dozens. Then hundreds.

Thousands.

Al Fresco's bones were picked clean before they even fell to the ground.

Unable to take my eyes from the horrific scene, I slowly reach for my phone.

I speed-dial number "1".

"Yes," says a voice.

"Uh, Ethan?" I says. "I'm not coming to work today."

"Why?"

"I'll explain later," I says. "But do you know any fat gardeners that would come over in an emergency?"

Tuesday

Landscapegoating

Predator Press

[LOBO]

My job and house-hunting have been keeping me very busy.

And today, I'm supposed to mow Mr Insanity's lawn in his absence.

But I have a sacred duty to you o loyal reader; thwarting the onslaught of the green menace must wait!

Shocked that some of you are still getting your news from irresponsible news sources like CNN and FOX rather than Predator Press, my main concern today is over the reporting of the afore mentioned mainstream media.

Often, it's what's not said that make up the most well-embraced and magnificent lies of our world. For example, the Lisa Stebic disappearance; this weekend, a story trickled out that an "unnamed source" had revealed that some of Lisa Stebic's blood had been found in her husband's vehicle. By Monday, the story was not surprisingly being reported as coming from "numerous sources".

The media, essentially, was citing itself.

In contrast, Predator Press never cites anybody.

In another example, yesterday I was pretending to read the newspaper, and there was an article about some someone trying to push legislation through to make it illegal to use horses for food.

Now personally, I maintain a strictly-disciplined vegan, vegetarian, meat, poultry and fish diet. Still, with the rare exception of horse de oeuvres, I don't eat horse.

A horse is a big animal.

A horse could kick your ass.

Plus they make lousy pets. It's hard to get an apartment when you have a pet horse. And housebreaking one? Ewe!

So I can only imagine this new legislation coming from extreme groups like "The People for the Ethical Treatment of Animals", aka "PETA". We already agree that aside from glue and keeping blacksmiths on the Liberal Dole, the horse is a pretty damn useless animal overall, right? So where is PETA going with this? And isn't the demand for food essentially 'static'? I mean, if whoever is eating horses becomes forbidden to eat them, wouldn't they just move on to something else? Like puppies and baby seals?

You see here is where Predator Press becomes relevant. Augmented with my radiant braniosity, we've seen straight through the bull and uncovered what is quite possibly the biggest story this year to date:


PETA isn't interested in animals at all.

They want to kill plants.


While the explicit reason for PETA's well-documented anti-foliage conspiracy for murderous rampage isn't clear, this thinly-veiled cabal has been actively pursuing the decimation of the plant population for years now.

Looking out over Mr Insanity's overgrown yard, I'm considering making PETA a sizable donation ....

Sunday

The Sound and the Furious

Predator Press

[LOBO]

The strange, screaming woman on the phone informed me that my alimony payments were late.

"Of course they're late," I explain frantically. "I didn't even know about them until now!"

I put the phone in a drawer, but could still hear it. I tried leaving it at the other end of the house with the same results. Honestly, it was either appease this angry woman somehow, or throw the phone into Mr Insanity's pool ... but it looked like a really expensive phone.

I finally just mailed her Ethan's Super Triple Platinum card.

How I could have married such a disagreeable woman completely defies explanation.

... She must be hot.

Saturday

Oh Darling

Predator Press

[Mr Insanity]

I haven't been able to write very frequently lately; my job has me traveling a lot.

So a six hour delay had me arriving from Quebec at the Dash Cunning International Airport at 9:00 pm.

Then my car broke down.

I ended up dragging myself and my luggage in the house at 2:00 am; LOBO and Phil, still house-hunting since the fire, were sleeping soundly on the couch.

The last thing I remember was collapsing on my bed face-first, and dreaming fitfully of inane conversations in Spanish.

Then my cell rang.

I answered groggily to a hideous, blood-curdling screech I haven't heard since I was married.

Oddly enough, it was my ex wife; she neglected to fax an annual document to the courthouse, and this caused a delay in my alimony payments to her.

I mean who the fuck pays alimony these days?


***


Now when you get divorced, doesn't that mean explicitly that you don't have to wake up like this anymore? Isn’t it tacitly implied? I paid a lot of money for that divorce. That was a damn fine divorce I might add: if I was going to get fucked, I was going to score some dinner and dancing first.

We even threw a party.

Yet here she is.

If I listen too long, I decide, she will make me gay.

I hung up, and grabbed my bags.

Fuck this. I'm going back to Canada.

Do I have to pay alimony in Canada?

As I struggled my bags though the hall the phone rang again, and LOBO sat up, rubbing his eyes.

"Hey," he yawns cheerily.

I toss my ringing phone into his lap.

"It's for you," I says, leaving.

Divorce, my friends, is a complete rip-off.

Go with murder.

Friday

On Top

Predator Press

[LOBO]

“Babs,” I says into the prison phone. “You look great. Make up, hot outfit … it’s totally amazing how well you’re doing in here.”

“Thanks,” she spits. Snapping her fingers, she points at a guard. “You. Bring me a sifter of cognac.” Eyeing LOBO, she adds, “Make that a double.”

“Sure thing sugar,” says the guard.

“Wow,” I says, dazzled. You’re practically running the place now. But why is your lipstick all messed up? And why are you always brushing your teeth?”

“When are you getting me out of here?”

“Why would you want to get out? Hell, with all those chicks in there, I wanna get in. I'm tired of hanging out in the parking lot and getting rebuffed by the parolees. Can you imagine how much action I would probably somehow not get if was inside? I've already started a tunnel!”

“LOBO, please. I want out. To see birds in the blue sky--”

Birds!?” I interrupt. “Listen baby, there are three rules in life you need to follow. The first is Don’t eat egg salad sandwiches out of vending machines. The second is Always wear underwear because your zipper conducts electricity. And the third is Never ever ever trust an animal that doesn’t have the decency to be on the ground when it takes a crap.”

Wednesday

New Jersey Ablaze, Thousands Flee

Predator Press

Predator Press salutes Jerry Falwell, already doin God's Will.

--Now do France.

Insomnia

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Phil can't sleep.

And as a consequence, neither can I.

Yes, I know cats are naturally nocturnal. But I've had Phil for about a year now, and usually he's pretty content and peaceful at night. Lately he's just so fidgety; in and out of bed, meowing at absolutely nothing ... I just don't get it.

This is becoming a problem; I absolutely need eight hours of sleep at night -as well as four or five during the day- or I can't function at all.

Whatever angst and anxieties are riddling Phil are slowly deteriorating my vice-like grip on sanity; often in the quiet darkness, I swear I hear a soft, tinny voice repeatedly asking for someone named 'Templeton', followed by another, doggedly replying "Hola!"

But that's nothing; last night Phil was curled up on my pillow and I heard a full-on conversation:

Voice: Templeton?

Other Voice: Buenas noches!

Voice: Ah, hmmm ... Hablo un poco español; ¿comprende usted?

Other Voice: Si. Yo comprendo.

Voice: ¿Habla usted inglés?

Other Voice: No.

Voice: Hablo un poco español. ¿Dónde esta el baño?

Other Voice: ¿Cómo?

Voice: Un momento.

Other Voice: Está Bien; Muy bien.

Goddamn it, this goes on for hours.

Monday

Bundle of Joy

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Because all the neighborhood kids think it's fun pushing the Chick Magnet back into my driveway every time I try to leave the house 'cuz it only has 3rd gear anymore, Gilmore and I get stuck buying flowers for Mother's Day together.

--I don't know how much longer I can complain.

"Nobody buys me flowers for getting laid," I protest.

"How would you know?"

"Hey, I get plenty of action," I says as we get in line at the cashier. "Chicks dig me." I put my hands behind my head and sigh. "Yep, I've wrecked more than my share of uterus."

"I'll bet," says Gilmore.

"'The General' is longer 'n Bill Gates' password!"

"That will be $300," says the florist. "Will that be all for you gentlemen?"

"Can we get a big side of ranch dressing?" I says. "And does this come with a baked potato?"

Saturday

In Carnations

Predator Press

[LOBO]

I went to visit Babs in the Pianosa Women's Correctional Facility on Saturday morning.

"Jesus Christ," I says into the telephone. "You look like shit."

"I will kill you," Babs smiles through the window.

"I didn't know that they facilitate bail only 9 to 5 Monday through Friday. It wasn't my fault I showed up at five thirty," I point out. "But seriously, you've completely let yourself go in here. You couldn't bother to at least put on some makeup? And what's the deal with the cornrows? And those fuzzy green tattoos on your knuckles? Who the hell is 'Fisty'?"

"Why are you here?"

"So's you know we're still pulling for you here on the outside. You'll be out first thing Monday. Hang in there."

Babs' shoulders sag in a silent resignation.

"I may not be able to get you out of here, but I did do something nice for you. Make sure you're watching channel 6 tonight in the rec room at 5 o'clock.

"Why?"

"Just trust me," he says. "Remember how you cried when you saw on the news all those kids got killed on Prom Night in a car accident?"

"I'm actually surprised you remember that," Babs says, intrigued, studying me closely.

"Well, I think you could use some good PR for a change, and this time it shouldn't only come from the United States Navy."


***


I don't know what happened.

All I know is Babs got into six fights Saturday night, and her bail is now $500,000.

Ethan only authorized $60.

You know, I really thought the 'Kars Kill Kids' fundraising commercials funded by the Babs Foundation would cheer her up.

But six fights in one night?

That's some serious 'Aggression Issues' at play there.

Maybe she should be in prison.

Friday

Mink

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Ethan hands me a credit card

--a Super Triple Platinum card.

"Ooooo ... !" I says, turning it to watch the electroplated genuine Aztec gold surface flash in the light.

It's actually made of platinum.

The raised letters are meticulously carved diamond shards.

After a few minutes, I realize Ethan is talking to someone. Something about "being tired of this," and Babs getting someone out of jail finally or something.

"If those people keep fundraising for Babs on their blogs, you're going to force me to invoice them for Copyright Infringement!" he says, storming out.

I hope Babs gets right on that 'jail' thing.

It would suck to be in jail.

This card has a mink handgrip!

Stretch

Predator Press

[LOBO]

"Is Babs' bail really that much money?" asks Mr. Insanity.

"You wouldn't believe how much it is," I says.

"You could hit up Ethan for it," he says doubtfully.

"After she tried to steal his empire?" I laugh sadly. "Ethan wouldn't piss on her if she was on fire." I scratch my chin. "Maybe we could have a telethon."

"Maybe. Have you gone to see her yet?"

"I'm going tomorrow. Today I'm getting together a 'care package'."

"Well, that's very nice. What's in it?"

"Cigarettes and soap-on-a-rope."

Thursday

Pokey

Predator Press

[LOBO]

It has come to my attention that websites like "Stuff and Stuff and Stuff" are currently fundraising for Babs' bail money.

I've linked all of them in the Site Guide --right under “Petit Mal”-- just so you know that you don't have to go there; I'm bound to come up with that $60 by simple virtue of this huge stack of scratch-off lottery tickets.

These lottery tickets --coupled with about 40,000 of your generous pennies so's I can scratch 'em off-- means I have everything well-in-hand.

... And Babs always wanted to hang with Paris Hilton ... !

Wednesday

Focus

Predator Press

[LOBO]

So I’m worried that Babs is still in jail, and standing in line behind these two guys trying to get into this classy restaurant. One of them is wearing an “I FARM YOU EAT” sweatshirt.

And I’m thinking a guy with that shirt could pull down chicks like crazy.

I mean think about it; a guy that fondles cows knows how to keep his hands warm, right?

... But enough about promiscuous, deviant cows! I have Babs to get out of jail, and $60 worth of inventive bail money to come up with.

I must focus.


***

Now, I’m a vegan.

But for purposes of keeping an eye on this sick 'farming' monster, I eat a big rib-eye steak, baked Alaska, fried mushrooms, pork chops, potato skins, truffles, and drink a diet Pepsi.

--all the while focusing like a laserbeam on how to get Babs out of jail.

Still, I wish this weirdo would leave those poor cows alone.

That sick bastard fits the profile of a ‘Bovine Enabler’ precisely.

Ads We Need to See

Predator Press

[LOBO]

DIAMONDS

"If you're going to smack the bitch around,
give her parents something to think over."

Tuesday

Spring Hopes Eternal

Predator Press

[LOBO]

I venomously hate my lawn.

It's always arrogantly growing, like "Look LOBO, I'm a big green jerk and I'm screwing up your weekend 'cuz now you gotta mow! HAHAHAHA"

I want my lawn dead.

Every last blade.

I want a goddamn chloroform Holocaust.

I'll mow one last @#$!@$!! time, and leave the remains all scattered about as a warning to the other grass thinking about growing here.

Then I can lay down green linoleum, and just hose it off once a month ...

Sunday

I, Calculatron

Predator Press

[LOBO]

The reason I failed the exam for my blogger license is ‘cuz they ask trick questions.

They ask you stuff like:

2 + 2 = ?


I mean come on!

It could just be two couples hanging out, right? I mean that’s open to a lot of interpretation. Now a question like:

2 X 2 = ?

-That’s obviously a 'fourgy'!

When Dreams Go All Frappe

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Well, Rupert Murdoch’s check never materialized.

--Honestly, I don’t know why people do business with guys like that.

Worse, I got like ten calls from Babs asking me why I haven’t bailed her out of prison yet.

It’s not like I forgot, it’s just that that sixty bucks was supposed to come out of Rupert’s 3 billion.

After a couple of days, I realized Rupert was stiffing me, and then I guess I just got a little embarrassed.

God I wish she would stop calling.

Friday

Cashing In

Predator Press

[LOBO]

I didn't expect to be at work today, but Rupert Murdoch's 3 billion dollar check is apparently delayed.

I don't know what the number '3 billion' even looks like, but I imagine the check to be very, very long; it's probably in a very, very long envelope and jamming some machine at the post office.

So I gotta go to work today.

Phooey.


***


I find myself daydreaming about 3 billion dollars. Dammit, that's a lot of scratch-off lottery tickets I'll bet. And my hand would get all cramped up after a while, and then I would have to hire someone to help me. But I'll have to hire someone to do my hiring first -I hate job interviews. And I'll bet the jerk steals my lucky scratching quarter, and I have to call the cops on him. And then the lawyers have my 3 billion dollars.

I don't like this plan anymore.

And who is going to shuffle up Jimmy Orlando's paperwork when I retire with 3 billion dollars?


***


With 3 billion dollars, I could travel.

I could go clear to Portland Oregon if I wanted. Hell, with 3 billion dollars, I could have Portland Oregon brought to me.

Where the hell am I going to put Portland Oregon?

Rupert, did you make the check out for 'cash'? The bank always gives me shit because the only ID I got is a library card that expired in 1999. But I'll bet they change their tune when they see that check! They'll all be like "Yes, sir," and "No, sir," hoping I will buy them stuff.

And buy stuff I shall! With 3 billion dollars, I could go to the Dollar Store, and buy presents for, ah ... well ... a lot of people!

Rupert, I hope you sent it certified.

Rupert?

Thursday

Dear Rupert Murdoch

Predator Press

Dear Rupert Murdoch,

It has been recently brought to our attention that you have placed a 6 billion dollar bid on The Wall Street Journal.

The Wall Street Journal is an infinitely boring publication that no one reads. Jeez, it barely even has any pictures!

We’ll sell you Predator Press for half.

Wednesday

Can't We All Just Fight Like Hell?

Predator Press

[LOBO]

First, my house burns down.

Then I have a hard time convincing Babs, her Parole Officer, and the insurance company that my cat accidentally caused the fire thwarting an alien invasion by a technologically advanced mechanical reconnaissance fly.

Today I found out my blogger license has been revoked because I flunked the annual exam.

That, frankly, is just plain silly: there's no freakin way I flunked that test.

--I cheated off of the smartest people there!

Sunshine of My Love

Predator Press

[LOBO]

"Are you okay?" I says to Babs.

Babs grabs the bars. "LOBO, I didn't do it. I didn't blow up our potential home because you screwed me out of $250,000,000. I swear to God."

"Uh huh," I says. "I suppose you expect me to believe the cat did it."

"The cat knows where the insurance papers are better'n you do!"

I pause. "Okay, I'm on it."

Tuesday

Duel of the Fates

Predator Press

[Mr Insanity]

RDO really never lost interest in the goings on here on Earth; he just had to change strategy.

The dinosaurs had been his longest success. But they were difficult to control and bad-tempered overall. And the Earth's tumultuous temperatures over the eons proved to be their greatest vulnerability.

They were simply unable to adapt.

Sapphire, a much more sophisticated, elegant, and expensive design, was constructed to obviate these flaws. But despite being designed a female, she soon was able to drive, vote, think and operate completely independently. She too was difficult to control and bad-tempered overall.

This obviously was completely unforeseen.

Then there was the plan to clone LOBO indefinitely until the Earth self-destructed in a glut of stupidity. But once again, the unforeseen became the plan's undoing; RDO had no idea the capacity for wanton and unnecessary violence that permeated the human species: all the LOBO clones were slain.

-Hell, the humans had contests killing them.

So RDO decided that maybe he would start to think small. He developed tough and flexible micro-alloys, high-speed tiny devices and reconnaissance tools, and chips and processors that bordered defying quantum mechanics.

And there it was, at the paltry sum of $45,006,787, 897.06, sitting on LOBO's coffee table.

At a glance, it might resemble a shiny chrome metallic fly.


***


Templeton scratched and licked at his vast array of eyes, confused.

"Something is definitely wrong," he transmitted. "I can't translate what the big people are saying. I only get 'WOLF' every now and then."

There's a pause, then a response. "Templeton, you were evidently sent with the wrong language module. Yours appears to be Spanish. You are instructed to activate the television when the humans are gone, and observe until you can decode the English language."

"Understood," replied Templeton. "Out."

Templeton darted slightly to the left, facing the television. Then, seeking out the right radio waves, within moments he activated the television and was surfing channels. Earth data streamed gloriously into his memory banks, and were processed and sorted. If every computer on this planet were working for the same goal, Templeton could do it in half the time.

Unfortunately, nowhere in Templeton's vastly-advanced technological brain was there ever any mention of the Felis domesticus until he spotted a show on it on The Animal Channel.

And just as Templeton settled in for this fascinating documentary, Phil struck.


***


Phil had been aware of Templeton for some time. And to her credit, she had closed on him with the silent grace and keen hunting skill born of centuries of evolution; as Templeton became increasingly engrossed in the 'lighty box', his body language relaxed slightly.

Phil lunged, and almost instantly Templeton was airborne.

Templeton, while not entirely convinced of his own endangerment, charged his defenses, circling curiously. This incited a second strike from Phil. Missing poorly, she hadn't completely calculated her landing properly and landed paws-down on the floor, unsteadily and with her back to Templeton.

Templeton fired a warning shock, and Phil howled furiously. She circled back warily; Templeton, unafraid, simply hovered in haphazard, jerky motions that attracted her attack even more. She hissed.

Templeton was now reading Phil as a confirmed threat, but his curiosity got the best of him. Settling on the window of Babs' China hutch -presumably a safe enough distance-he continued to watch and observe the truly remarkable Earth species from a safe height.

The height that she could jump caught him completely off guard; her clawed paw caught him squarely, but her momentum carried her heavily into the hutch. Numerous China plates came down in a deafening crash.

Templeton, alarmed, fired his tiny jets for a burst of speed as he retreated towards the bedroom. But this cramped and unfamiliar space was Phil's home, and the tiny invader was at a significant disadvantage. Within precious moments of Phil slashing and biting inches behind, Templeton realized he was trapped: the bedroom had only one entrance, hence one exit. Following the natural upward arch of Babs' waterbed, he climbed, buzzed the headboard, and came back in the opposite direction in an attempt to fly back over the cat towards the only escape route.

Phil hit the waterbed claws bared, and with powerful hind legs launched herself high in the air slashing wildly at the tiny intruder -barely catching purchase on a bookshelf before leaping once more. The force of this leap wobbled the shelves, but both hunted and hunter were long gone before they all came crashing to the floor.


***


The kitchen, in a rather uncharacteristic state of tidiness, was brighter than the rest of the house; the drapes were thrown wide in the afternoon daylight.

Templeton's sensor arrays compensated instantly, but Phil's sensitive vision was flared away for a mere fraction of a second -long enough, in this high speed chase. Nonetheless, she maintained her speed and jumped up to the countertop almost entirely by memory.

But she had lost him.

Perfectly still, she blinked and searched with her ears for what seemed an eternity.

Nothing.

Only the occasional faint splash of a repetitive water droplet.

A sound she didn't recognize.

It was coming from the sink.


She circled, seeing nothing. She circled again, accidentally triggering the garbage disposal with her tail and two of the gas burners. She was a little startled by the sudden mechanical whine of the garbage disposal, but it wasn't necessarily an unknown sound for her.

She was focused.

That little shit is right here somewhere.

In the sink, there was a fork, a coffee cup, and a half a glass of water.

And in the bottom of that water under some ice, Templeton sat perfectly still.

Phil dived for him and the glass spilled into the screaming drain, taking Templeton down.


***


CRACK! went an ice cube.

Templeton shook the moisture off, and hovered perfectly still a mere inch over the deafening roar of swinging, grinding steel teeth. He looked up into the star-shaped light -his only way out-and he saw Phil's reptilian eye. Phil, seeing Templeton, opened all four claws and poised to reach in and snatch the little interloper.

With no choice, Templeton fired his afterburners straight up.

The burners ignited the gas, and LOBO's place exploded.


***


LOBO and Ethan were both sitting on the curb. Ethan was talking to the FBI, and LOBO was petting poor Phil, who had her whiskers scorched during the tragic fire.

"Excuse me?" says Ethan into the phone.

"This call is being interrupted by RDO," said a sterile voice.

"I'm talking to the FBI. Whatever it is, I'm sure it can wait."

"I don't know sir," says the monotone voice. "He sure is cursing a lot."