Predator Press
[LOBO]
"Why do you keep screwing with Lindsay Lohan?" asks Nurse Garrison.
"Thut up!" I says.
"You realize she's pulled your tongue through your keyster, right?"
"Yeth I do, thankth."
Sunday
Aftermath
Predator Press
[LOBO]
"Why do you keep screwing with Lindsay Lohan?" asks Nurse Garrison.
"Thut up!" I says.
"You realize she's pulled your tongue through your keyster, right?"
"Yeth I do, thankth."
The Final Conflict
Predator Press
[LOBO]
"Lohan," I says. "I knew it!"
"Look," says Lohan. "See this hand?"
She shows me her gloved left fist, and then punches me with her right.
"I have nothing to do with all this crap," says Lohan. "I don't even know who you are. Now please stop writing about me, before my agents sue you into the Middle Ages."
"You don't fool me Lohan!" I says, sobbing courageously. "Although I would really appreciate it if you stopped punching me."
"Get back up you wuss!" she screams, kicking me in the stomach. "You're not getting off that easy."
"RDO would never threaten to ignite the atmosphere and wipe out all Humankind!" I protest though broken teeth. "I would delete his entire Halo 3 profile!"
"What?" I hear from my watch. "You wouldn't dare!"
"Oh yeah I would, RDO," I says into the watch, spitting dental shrapnel. "Just try me."
"You would sacrifice all my Halo 3 achievements for that scubby little planet?"
"It's your call Miss Lohan," I says, openly weeping.
"I'm not done beating you yet," she says.
"I'll wait," says RDO.
[LOBO]"Lohan," I says. "I knew it!"
"Look," says Lohan. "See this hand?"
She shows me her gloved left fist, and then punches me with her right.
"I have nothing to do with all this crap," says Lohan. "I don't even know who you are. Now please stop writing about me, before my agents sue you into the Middle Ages."
"You don't fool me Lohan!" I says, sobbing courageously. "Although I would really appreciate it if you stopped punching me."
"Get back up you wuss!" she screams, kicking me in the stomach. "You're not getting off that easy."
"RDO would never threaten to ignite the atmosphere and wipe out all Humankind!" I protest though broken teeth. "I would delete his entire Halo 3 profile!"
"What?" I hear from my watch. "You wouldn't dare!"
"Oh yeah I would, RDO," I says into the watch, spitting dental shrapnel. "Just try me."
"You would sacrifice all my Halo 3 achievements for that scubby little planet?"
"It's your call Miss Lohan," I says, openly weeping.
"I'm not done beating you yet," she says.
"I'll wait," says RDO.
Welcome to the Fall
Predator Press
[LOBO]
Now that it's virtually October, that means that one of my fave holidays is coming up.
Really, the only thing that sucks about Halloween is that it also means I finally gotta take down the Christmas Tree from last year.
I can reuse the coal and cinderblocks, but the razorwire has somehow lost it's gleaming holiday luster ...
[LOBO]Now that it's virtually October, that means that one of my fave holidays is coming up.
Really, the only thing that sucks about Halloween is that it also means I finally gotta take down the Christmas Tree from last year.
I can reuse the coal and cinderblocks, but the razorwire has somehow lost it's gleaming holiday luster ...
Saturday
This Land is My Land, This Land is My Land
Predator Press
[LOBO]
An Open Letter to Lindsay Lohan
Lindsay Lohan,
According to a web site I found, the United States --currently embroiled in a debate over immigration-- has 20 million illegal aliens within her borders. Stormtroopers are already dancing in the streets of Tokyo! Why have you convinced everyone that RDO is poised to ignite the Earth's atmosphere and wipe it clean of all life whatsoever?
I don’t know what evil scheme you’re hatching, but you’re scaring the hell out of Tom Cruise.
George Clooney narrowly escaping death by having a particularly nasty swatch of speeding blacktop crash into him 'an his poor motorcycle has your earmarks all over it: you ain't foolin nobody ... and I'm onto your whole "E Coli-China toys-Van Halen-George Bush" conspiracy too.
But for God's sake, why the stripper pole at Nipples Italy?
What the hell is wrong with you?
Why Lindsay?
Why?
[LOBO]
Lindsay Lohan,
According to a web site I found, the United States --currently embroiled in a debate over immigration-- has 20 million illegal aliens within her borders. Stormtroopers are already dancing in the streets of Tokyo! Why have you convinced everyone that RDO is poised to ignite the Earth's atmosphere and wipe it clean of all life whatsoever?
I don’t know what evil scheme you’re hatching, but you’re scaring the hell out of Tom Cruise.
George Clooney narrowly escaping death by having a particularly nasty swatch of speeding blacktop crash into him 'an his poor motorcycle has your earmarks all over it: you ain't foolin nobody ... and I'm onto your whole "E Coli-China toys-Van Halen-George Bush" conspiracy too.
But for God's sake, why the stripper pole at Nipples Italy?
What the hell is wrong with you?
Why Lindsay?
Why?
Aging Van Halen Still Kicks Ass
Predator Press
[LOBO]
After squandering the prime of their musical careers over bickering, tantrums and infighting, Van Halen is once again trying to capture their unprecedented thunderous '80s inertia and screw the fans out of a few more bucks.
Van Roth is a strange and quixotic enigma, providing a groundbreaking musical genius fused with no professionalism whatsoever and a c'est la vie attitude toward their fans. This was punctuated loudly by ditching even their own induction to the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame earlier this year.
But the ever-inventive Van Roth has once again hatched a scheme to 'hold the ship together' long enough to squeeze out some new musical "art": this time they have wisely chosen to replace all the members with people that get along better
Don't get me wrong. I'm really excited that the guys will be picking up some new cars, summer homes, and "Mammoth" child support payments only previously achieved by NBA players. WTG and on with the show. But to be honest, I think I would have preferred a Pay-Per-View death match. You know, a "four men in, one comes out" kinda thing.
I think 'lil Wallety and I have other plans this year.
Friday
Bloggers Unite for a Good Cause
Predator Press
[LOBO]
On September 27, there was a lot of buzz about "Bloggers Uniting Against Abuse".
I kinda wanted to participate, but I couldn't really think of a topic. I'm pretty much a whore for the March of Dimes, but that hardly stacks up as "abuse".
And 'Abuse' topics are complicated when your blog's name is Predator Press; if I start putting up pics of abused and missing children, some whack job idiot is going to start misinterpreting stuff and bitching. Then I gotta find 'em, get their ass beat to a fine paste, and arrange their assassination as they are being released from the Emergency Room months later --way, way, way too much work that could be easily avoided with some prudent caution.
But I'm absolutely mystified I missed telemarketers: those intrusive pigs abuse all without discrimination.
I've screwed my share of telemarketers already: a buddy of mine heard me doing it, and has asked me to record a cd of it. I suck them in amiably, rack up massive purchases, and much much later --when it comes time for the Visa-- I just recite random numbers until they hang up.
But a day late for the "Abuse" stuff, I wanted to give you a chance to eradicate this vile pestilence scourge from the face of the Earth altogether:
After signing up at the Do Not Call Registry, in my "comments" field I want to share your collective anger, outrage and insights about telemarketing. I want stories, rants, fables, lies, plans, and outright outrageous creative thinking. I want fantasies about salted and rusty jagged catheters being torn out of their pasty and spongy, writhing, broken and rotting screaming bodies. I want smoky mesqite-flavored strategies involving gasoline and matches, and splatter-pattern jpegs from squishing them through a fine mess screen of acid-dipped razorwire.
This is my 'Cause'.
And I'm sticking to it.
[LOBO]
On September 27, there was a lot of buzz about "Bloggers Uniting Against Abuse".
I kinda wanted to participate, but I couldn't really think of a topic. I'm pretty much a whore for the March of Dimes, but that hardly stacks up as "abuse".
And 'Abuse' topics are complicated when your blog's name is Predator Press; if I start putting up pics of abused and missing children, some whack job idiot is going to start misinterpreting stuff and bitching. Then I gotta find 'em, get their ass beat to a fine paste, and arrange their assassination as they are being released from the Emergency Room months later --way, way, way too much work that could be easily avoided with some prudent caution.
But I'm absolutely mystified I missed telemarketers: those intrusive pigs abuse all without discrimination.
I've screwed my share of telemarketers already: a buddy of mine heard me doing it, and has asked me to record a cd of it. I suck them in amiably, rack up massive purchases, and much much later --when it comes time for the Visa-- I just recite random numbers until they hang up.
But a day late for the "Abuse" stuff, I wanted to give you a chance to eradicate this vile pestilence scourge from the face of the Earth altogether:
After signing up at the Do Not Call Registry, in my "comments" field I want to share your collective anger, outrage and insights about telemarketing. I want stories, rants, fables, lies, plans, and outright outrageous creative thinking. I want fantasies about salted and rusty jagged catheters being torn out of their pasty and spongy, writhing, broken and rotting screaming bodies. I want smoky mesqite-flavored strategies involving gasoline and matches, and splatter-pattern jpegs from squishing them through a fine mess screen of acid-dipped razorwire.
This is my 'Cause'.
And I'm sticking to it.
Mayday
Predator Press
When Security Officer Rand took the job on the small mining facility four years ago, there were bad omens everywhere.
On the first day, the Chief of Operations gave him a tour of the facility. "Sometimes," says Doctor Richard Kief in a well-rehearsed, blasé tone. "We have accidents." Throwing the switch, the ore smelter screeched closed and a high-pitched alarm sounded. "It costs this facility $150,000 a minute to close these filters, because it stops production." Kief sort of spoke into the air around him, almost unaware of Rand. "I love to do that," he added.
As the searing liquid ore started to settle, the fluid became increasingly transparent. "Still," says Kief, "in the event of on ongoing Missing Person Investigation, it's company policy to look here."
Chills ran through Rand's spine, as he quietly imagined what he might see in there: the cloudy shadows of bobbing human remains.
Seeming to have read Rand's mind, Kief continues. "Depending on what cycle the smelting is, you're not going to see much left. Especially if it's been more than an hour or so. Probably just their gear if you're lucky." Kief stared into the glowing fluid.
"We have accidents," he repeated absently.
***
Four years later, Rand wiped the condensation from the cracked porthole with his thick glove, smearing it cloudy with blood. Seeing the station's wobbly, random trajectory and the floating debris of the station never failed to trigger a sense of vertigo.
He pressed the yellow button again. "SOS," he repeated. "This is acting Chief of Security Steven Rand of mining facility 77. We have been attacked."
The sound of his voice betrayed his fading hopes of rescue.
"I believe I am the sole survivor," he added. "Mayday."
Rand was starting to succumb to hypothermia. He wasn't shivering very much anymore. And he was getting sleepy. It was a mistake to sit at the console. Fatigue overtook him, and he pulled the blankets closer; this was almost a futile gesture as they no longer retained any heat.
"Mayday," he repeated, drifting off into slumber.
The sleep was not restful, as his mind churned the horrors over and over. Rand's mother called these things "Devil Marks"; the indelible mental leftovers of having witnessed a traumatic event.
There was no warning of the attack, save the moment when Kief blew his brains out with a .45 caliber pistol in this very chair. The attack came so suddenly afterward, the splatters were still all over the cockpit.
As for the attack itself, it was very surgical and precise; most of the station remained largely intact. It still held oxygen and it's internal pressure. But the inertial dampeners were destroyed, and the station could no longer keep it's "spin", and as a result there was no artificial gravity.
But the real danger was the hopelessly damaged temperature regulators; as the relentless cold of space overtook the failing heat in the vessel, any survivors --such as Rand-would be dead in a matter of hours.
They could just wait him out.
Tiredly, Rand woke again. He didn't know how long he had been out this time. Weakly, he rubbed his glove against the glass one more time, but the condensation and blood had frozen solidly.
As he leaned in closely in an attempt to peer through the opaque window, Kief's frozen blood cracked and snapped as is separated from Rand's suit and the chair.
Rand saw nothing.
Even the debris was gone.
He pressed the yellow button.
"Mayday," he slurred, before drifting into sleep one last time.
When Security Officer Rand took the job on the small mining facility four years ago, there were bad omens everywhere.On the first day, the Chief of Operations gave him a tour of the facility. "Sometimes," says Doctor Richard Kief in a well-rehearsed, blasé tone. "We have accidents." Throwing the switch, the ore smelter screeched closed and a high-pitched alarm sounded. "It costs this facility $150,000 a minute to close these filters, because it stops production." Kief sort of spoke into the air around him, almost unaware of Rand. "I love to do that," he added.
As the searing liquid ore started to settle, the fluid became increasingly transparent. "Still," says Kief, "in the event of on ongoing Missing Person Investigation, it's company policy to look here."
Chills ran through Rand's spine, as he quietly imagined what he might see in there: the cloudy shadows of bobbing human remains.
Seeming to have read Rand's mind, Kief continues. "Depending on what cycle the smelting is, you're not going to see much left. Especially if it's been more than an hour or so. Probably just their gear if you're lucky." Kief stared into the glowing fluid.
"We have accidents," he repeated absently.
Four years later, Rand wiped the condensation from the cracked porthole with his thick glove, smearing it cloudy with blood. Seeing the station's wobbly, random trajectory and the floating debris of the station never failed to trigger a sense of vertigo.
He pressed the yellow button again. "SOS," he repeated. "This is acting Chief of Security Steven Rand of mining facility 77. We have been attacked."
The sound of his voice betrayed his fading hopes of rescue.
"I believe I am the sole survivor," he added. "Mayday."
Rand was starting to succumb to hypothermia. He wasn't shivering very much anymore. And he was getting sleepy. It was a mistake to sit at the console. Fatigue overtook him, and he pulled the blankets closer; this was almost a futile gesture as they no longer retained any heat.
"Mayday," he repeated, drifting off into slumber.
The sleep was not restful, as his mind churned the horrors over and over. Rand's mother called these things "Devil Marks"; the indelible mental leftovers of having witnessed a traumatic event.
There was no warning of the attack, save the moment when Kief blew his brains out with a .45 caliber pistol in this very chair. The attack came so suddenly afterward, the splatters were still all over the cockpit.
As for the attack itself, it was very surgical and precise; most of the station remained largely intact. It still held oxygen and it's internal pressure. But the inertial dampeners were destroyed, and the station could no longer keep it's "spin", and as a result there was no artificial gravity.
But the real danger was the hopelessly damaged temperature regulators; as the relentless cold of space overtook the failing heat in the vessel, any survivors --such as Rand-would be dead in a matter of hours.
They could just wait him out.
Tiredly, Rand woke again. He didn't know how long he had been out this time. Weakly, he rubbed his glove against the glass one more time, but the condensation and blood had frozen solidly.
As he leaned in closely in an attempt to peer through the opaque window, Kief's frozen blood cracked and snapped as is separated from Rand's suit and the chair.
Rand saw nothing.
Even the debris was gone.
He pressed the yellow button.
"Mayday," he slurred, before drifting into sleep one last time.
Wednesday
"Wicked" Cancels Iran Tour After College Speech
Predator Press
[LOBO]
Citing ticket sales that slumped faster than the bullet-riddled local fans, all scheduled productions of Wicked in Iran have been cancelled until Mahmoud Ahmadinejad "gets a full-body Brazilian Wax, and stops dressing like he's on Miami Vice."
Fans interviewed all over the world put down their frilly blue drinks and spoke out in a similarly unified determination. "If 20 more years of 'Cats' doesn't topple that scrubby little regime, nothing will."
Tuesday
Techno, Safari and Pasties Oh My
Predator Press
[LOBO]
When I heard about that missing stripper pole, I immediately recognized the larger potential ramifications.
Ethan bought Nipples Italy based on his keen scientific business insights and a predatory understanding of how much a guy will pay to see a naked woman: if those industrial guys at Zayne had no place to spend all their money, they might sober up, get married, raise families, and start acting responsibly; this would ultimately mean we would have to either pay them more, or shitcan the entire lot of them and find a bunch of other guys that'll do that work real cheap.
I don't know about you, but I'm not prepared to see the entire vital workforce of Pianosa unemployed and possibly assassinated in order to protect our trade secrets (as explicitly described in the excruciatingly small print of their contracts). Plus this might start a chain reaction that could shut down the entire nation, and a complete economic collapse of possibly dozens of other economic global juggernauts and superpowers.
I'll bet having strippers with no poles isn't even OSHA compliant.
I couldn't sleep at night knowing a tawny young Tiffany is somewhere baring her first public pelvic thrusts to a bunch of drunken assholes, and throwing her leg in the air during a pirouette to find no pole to support her balance! Boom! There lies little Tiffany with a twisted ankle and deployed airbags. And as 'lil Tiffany busts into uncontrollable flames, her hard-earned college money and diuretic suppositories scatter slowly through the air like so many flammable negligent little leaves ...
… You people have no idea what I go through in order to save the Universe.
[LOBO]
When I heard about that missing stripper pole, I immediately recognized the larger potential ramifications. Ethan bought Nipples Italy based on his keen scientific business insights and a predatory understanding of how much a guy will pay to see a naked woman: if those industrial guys at Zayne had no place to spend all their money, they might sober up, get married, raise families, and start acting responsibly; this would ultimately mean we would have to either pay them more, or shitcan the entire lot of them and find a bunch of other guys that'll do that work real cheap.
I don't know about you, but I'm not prepared to see the entire vital workforce of Pianosa unemployed and possibly assassinated in order to protect our trade secrets (as explicitly described in the excruciatingly small print of their contracts). Plus this might start a chain reaction that could shut down the entire nation, and a complete economic collapse of possibly dozens of other economic global juggernauts and superpowers.
I'll bet having strippers with no poles isn't even OSHA compliant.
I couldn't sleep at night knowing a tawny young Tiffany is somewhere baring her first public pelvic thrusts to a bunch of drunken assholes, and throwing her leg in the air during a pirouette to find no pole to support her balance! Boom! There lies little Tiffany with a twisted ankle and deployed airbags. And as 'lil Tiffany busts into uncontrollable flames, her hard-earned college money and diuretic suppositories scatter slowly through the air like so many flammable negligent little leaves ...
… You people have no idea what I go through in order to save the Universe.
Monday
$50 CASH MONEY REWARD
Predator Press
On average, 12 Nipples Italy girls are bruised in dancing accidents every day due to the theft of this pole. You can help them.
* Last seen August 23rd at Nipples Italy
* Color: Brass
* Height: 8'
* Frequently surrounded by thongs, singles * Might be sticky
* Probably tastes salty
* No questions asked
CONTACT LOBO IMMEDIATELY
Okay, Who Pissed Off the Space Guys?
Predator Press
[LOBO]
"What happened?" I says.
"I don't know," says Mr Insanity, removing his oxygen mask. "Why are you dressed like that?"
"Like what?"
"Like that."
"I always wear Spandex during intergalactic conflicts. You know that."
"Well it's disgusting. Shouldn't you at least work out for a while first?"
"I'm far too busy and important to indulge in luxuries like exercise."
Mr Insanity winced as he sat up in the hospital bed. "Well that's pretty damned obvious." He shrugged painfully. "I don't really know how else to explain it. I was dropping off Sapphire for her shift at Nipples Italy. We pull into the parking lot, and suddenly it gets dark. I mean like almost night time dark; the temperature even dropped a few degrees. We look up, and there's a giant spaceship blocking out the entire sky. Hundreds of smaller fast-moving metallic objects start zipping around, shooting everything." He swings his legs weakly over the side, and attempts to stand. "You know what I think?"
"You think it's Lindsay Lohan too?"
"No dumbass. I think someone pissed off RDO."
"Oh come on," I says. "RDO is a pussycat. This whole thing smacks of Lohan."
"Well, those ... machines blasted their way into the club, tore out the stripper pole, and kidnapped Sapphire."
"Those assholes took the stripper pole?"
[LOBO]
"What happened?" I says."I don't know," says Mr Insanity, removing his oxygen mask. "Why are you dressed like that?"
"Like what?"
"Like that."
"I always wear Spandex during intergalactic conflicts. You know that."
"Well it's disgusting. Shouldn't you at least work out for a while first?"
"I'm far too busy and important to indulge in luxuries like exercise."
Mr Insanity winced as he sat up in the hospital bed. "Well that's pretty damned obvious." He shrugged painfully. "I don't really know how else to explain it. I was dropping off Sapphire for her shift at Nipples Italy. We pull into the parking lot, and suddenly it gets dark. I mean like almost night time dark; the temperature even dropped a few degrees. We look up, and there's a giant spaceship blocking out the entire sky. Hundreds of smaller fast-moving metallic objects start zipping around, shooting everything." He swings his legs weakly over the side, and attempts to stand. "You know what I think?"
"You think it's Lindsay Lohan too?"
"No dumbass. I think someone pissed off RDO."
"Oh come on," I says. "RDO is a pussycat. This whole thing smacks of Lohan."
"Well, those ... machines blasted their way into the club, tore out the stripper pole, and kidnapped Sapphire."
"Those assholes took the stripper pole?"
Sunday
Predator Press Reviews: Blue Harvest
Predator Press
[LOBO]
Far, far and away the best Star Wars spoof ever.
-Set your DVR for "fun."
(God ... That pun was worse than "The Phantom Menace." I'm removing myself from my own link list ...)
Tales of Flesh and Steel
Predator Press
When Jimmy Orlando smashed into Templeton at 220 miles per hour, he was unaware of the tiny robot fly entirely; for all he knew, the sports car just violently exploded and died for no apparent reason.
Pressed for time, this is how Jimmy came to stealing LOBO's precious Chick Magnet and his beloved pet Phil.
Templton's damage was severe. He had pierced the radiator, the engine block, and finally lodged in the exhaust system of the doomed vehicle. And for almost a month, he lie there dormant and undetected.
The car was eventually crushed into a cube, the steel melted to be recycled. But as Templeton drifted lifelessly in the smelting ore, a back-up system of self-repair programming activated; one by one, Templeton's sophisticated sensor systems blinked and popped back into operation.
The process was slow and excruciating; dramatic repairs as such would typically require he be towed into a tiny hanger to be completely disassembled by busy miniscule emergency robot triage crews ... a process that would normally take several days if done properly.
But Templeton was on his own.
Fortunately -while not quite the futuristic super-alloys from which Templeton was forged- in a fluke of Cosmic Fortune, the alloys being created were some of the finest and advanced high-test durable lightweight steel ever seen on Earth.
It was being forged into stripper poles.
... And in an even more improbable fluke of Cosmic Fortune, this stripper pole was destined for a strip club called Nipples Italy.
"Sir," says the First Lieutenant. "I really think you should take a look at this."
"What is it now Eric?" says RDO into the comlink. "I'm not in the mood for any more of your YouTube crap."
"No sir," says Eric. "We are starting to receive some sketchy transmissions from Templeton."
RDO scowled. "Are you sure? We haven't heard from Templeton in months."
"It's definitely him sir, Eric insists. "And I think he's found Sapphire."
"Sapphire?" smiled RDO. "My, my, my. It's been years since we've heard from her! Are Sapphire and LOBO currently enjoying the rest of their blissful existence together as planned?"
"Uh," says Eric. "Sir, I really think you should come up here and see this."
Saturday
Census Reveals More Horses Asses Than Horses
Predator Press
[LOBO]
President George W. Bush prepares to mysteriously withdraw
a quarter from Iraqi Prime Minister Nouri Al-Maliki's ear.
[LOBO]
a quarter from Iraqi Prime Minister Nouri Al-Maliki's ear.
Landmark 'Halliburton v. Blackwater' Suit Filed
Predator Press
[LOBO]
"As you can see by my charts and graphs, Blackwater
currently holds the marketing edge due to disproportionate
liberties only enjoyed by MicroSoft and Pepsi."
[LOBO]
currently holds the marketing edge due to disproportionate
liberties only enjoyed by MicroSoft and Pepsi."
Hindsight is 50/50
Predator Press
[LOBO]
You know, when we were nominated "Worst Blog of All Time", we figured we were pretty safe.
I mean, maybe we couldn't hold onto #1 forever, but we might drift into the 'Top Ten' from time to time and give 'ole www.virusspammingchickswithdicks.com a decent run for their sticky money.
[LOBO]You know, when we were nominated "Worst Blog of All Time", we figured we were pretty safe.
I mean, maybe we couldn't hold onto #1 forever, but we might drift into the 'Top Ten' from time to time and give 'ole www.virusspammingchickswithdicks.com a decent run for their sticky money.
Thursday
Jesse Jackson Calls for Halloween Boycott
Predator Press
[LOBO]
"Unlucky!" he says. "That is how the black cat is regarded. And how is the 'black cat' always depicted? Riding on the back of the luxurious broom of some elitist green witch."
"This is just another example of the white cat exploiting the black cat, just as he has with the Siamese and the Calico. Heck, I'll bet the white cat will breed a blue cat and a green cat so's he can exploit a purple cat, and then have completely exploited the entire cat spectrum! Catch your mice my ass."
"--Wait. What color are those mice?"
[LOBO]"Unlucky!" he says. "That is how the black cat is regarded. And how is the 'black cat' always depicted? Riding on the back of the luxurious broom of some elitist green witch."
"This is just another example of the white cat exploiting the black cat, just as he has with the Siamese and the Calico. Heck, I'll bet the white cat will breed a blue cat and a green cat so's he can exploit a purple cat, and then have completely exploited the entire cat spectrum! Catch your mice my ass."
"--Wait. What color are those mice?"
Saturday
Movers and Shakers
Predator Press
[LOBO]
As previously discussed in a post named Zen,
Ethan owns a small orphanage in Newark.
I manage it.
... As successful entrepreneurs, we feel it's important to give back to the community.
So when we were invited to the awards ceremony to celebrate our nomination for "Most Profitable Orphanage of the Year" we thought Oh cool, a free meal!
***
Tricking me to get there an hour before the food was served made me cranky. I mean I'm already a notable benefit to the community and enormous asset to the Nation; there's no need to drag me out to some ceremony where billionaire hot chicks can just plot and plan for me to be their "arm candy" like I'm just some piece of meat. I don't need affirmation, thank you; I get enormous satisfaction out just simply helping out those poor kids and turning out an untaxable $420,000 in annual profit.
Once inside, my ears were instantly assaulted by a live samba band in the lobby, afflicting the dense crowd of aristocrats with a horrific, offbeat stabbing sound.
--The maraca player was either drunk, or a completely ill-timed incompetent idiot.
Instantly grabbing a champaign bottle by the neck, I shatter it on a nearby marble statue and rush the stage so I can plunge the glistening, jagged edges deeply into the bastards throat. "You butcher!" I scream. You don't shake maracas, you blend maracas!"
While security held me back at first, the crowd had already turned on the inept hack; I was soon rushed up to try and rescue the performance. The lead singer tried to hand me his beastly maracas, and I almost reflexively spat on them. It was then I opened my briefcase and cried into the microphones, "Behold!"
As the lead singer's eyes adjusted to the glowing light, his jaw dropped.
I unsecured my maracas from the inside of the case.
They are hand carved from genuine elephant tusk ivory, inlaid in gold, and are filled with naturally mummified panda embryos.
... Halfway through 'Copa Cabana', members of the audience were weeping.
[LOBO]
As previously discussed in a post named Zen,
Ethan owns a small orphanage in Newark.I manage it.
... As successful entrepreneurs, we feel it's important to give back to the community.
So when we were invited to the awards ceremony to celebrate our nomination for "Most Profitable Orphanage of the Year" we thought Oh cool, a free meal!
Tricking me to get there an hour before the food was served made me cranky. I mean I'm already a notable benefit to the community and enormous asset to the Nation; there's no need to drag me out to some ceremony where billionaire hot chicks can just plot and plan for me to be their "arm candy" like I'm just some piece of meat. I don't need affirmation, thank you; I get enormous satisfaction out just simply helping out those poor kids and turning out an untaxable $420,000 in annual profit.
Once inside, my ears were instantly assaulted by a live samba band in the lobby, afflicting the dense crowd of aristocrats with a horrific, offbeat stabbing sound.
--The maraca player was either drunk, or a completely ill-timed incompetent idiot.
Instantly grabbing a champaign bottle by the neck, I shatter it on a nearby marble statue and rush the stage so I can plunge the glistening, jagged edges deeply into the bastards throat. "You butcher!" I scream. You don't shake maracas, you blend maracas!"
While security held me back at first, the crowd had already turned on the inept hack; I was soon rushed up to try and rescue the performance. The lead singer tried to hand me his beastly maracas, and I almost reflexively spat on them. It was then I opened my briefcase and cried into the microphones, "Behold!"
As the lead singer's eyes adjusted to the glowing light, his jaw dropped.
I unsecured my maracas from the inside of the case.
They are hand carved from genuine elephant tusk ivory, inlaid in gold, and are filled with naturally mummified panda embryos.
... Halfway through 'Copa Cabana', members of the audience were weeping.
Friday
Steve Fosset Searchers Find 200 Other Crash Sites
Predator Press
[LOBO]
According to CNN, the search for Steve Fossett may provide clues to 200 other lost crash sites.
First let me say that in the unlikely I ever disappear in an airplane, dont fuck around: get those guys to look for me.
But at 200 people per, my calculatrons indicate that by losing a mere 117 more millionaires more we could solve the mystery of the Bermuda Triangle once and for all.
I'm recommending Paris Hilton and Nicole Richie for starters.
... Wouldn't it make for a kickass reunion episode of "The Simple Life"?
[LOBO]According to CNN, the search for Steve Fossett may provide clues to 200 other lost crash sites.
First let me say that in the unlikely I ever disappear in an airplane, dont fuck around: get those guys to look for me.
But at 200 people per, my calculatrons indicate that by losing a mere 117 more millionaires more we could solve the mystery of the Bermuda Triangle once and for all.
I'm recommending Paris Hilton and Nicole Richie for starters.
... Wouldn't it make for a kickass reunion episode of "The Simple Life"?
Who Knew?
Predator Press
"Well, I was surprised," says General Peter Pace. "Weren't you surprised? I was totally surprised. Who knew those ingrates would be pissed we blasted their godless sand into Freedom Dust? What a bunch of jerks!"
Tuesday
Tagged
Predator Press
[LOBO]
As a kid, I ground literally thousands of games of "Tag" to a standstill. Once after being designated "It", I got on a bus to O'Hare Airport and tagged a poor unsuspecting Japanese businessman boarding his flight home. He was pretty pissed, but I figure as long as I stay the hell out of Hamamatsu, I'll be fine.
My skill at Tag was surpassed only by my unrivalled savvy for Hide-and-Seek; I have never uttered the words "All-the-Outs-In-Free!". I'll bet well-concealed skeletons of children waiting for me to "find" them dot the Midwest like a map of Starbucks franchises to this day.
And I understand, trust me; millions and millions of readers everyday are faced with the Great Questions like Is there a God? and What is the Meaning of Life? and I wonder what makes LOBO tick? Who am I to deprive the masses as such? And as the first person in the history of Blogdome to have been twin-tagged, I must say up front that I will indeed rise to this superhuman task.
But only after a mammoth shitload of bitching.
Here are the rules:
1. Link to the blogger who tagged you,
2. List 8 random facts about yourself,
3. Tag 8 people, listing their names and linking to their blogs, and
4. Let them know they've been 'tagged'
by commenting on their blogs.
(Wait. Other people have blogs too?)
(... those bastards!)
***
1. Link to the blogger who tagged me.
That would be Olga, the Traveling Bra and Domestic Minx.
(Both of these sites are outrageous, well done, and guaranteed to get the unwary married guy struck from behind with a frying pan.)
2. List 8 random facts about myself.
a) I Will Destroy You at Super Mario Cart.
Period. I've had guys leave the field in a stretcher. I'll save that blue turtle shell the whole damn race if I gotta. And just as you're a mere inches from the finish line, KAPOW!!!
b) Two Years Ago the Domestic Minx Scratched 3 of the CDs I Loaned Her. Now They Skip Like Hell.
Blogging can be a cold, cruel and unjust universe sometimes. But as far as I know, that ruthless scourge upon humanity Terri Terri is still behind bars, and servin 9 consecutive life-sentences thanks to me.
I sleep like a baby knowin every day I'm doin the right thing.
4) I Have Two Eyes, Two Arms, Two Legs, and 57 Ankles.
I am paramount to Medical Science for study, and simultaneously very difficult to photograph.
It drives 'em nuts.
d) My Fave Band is the Foo Fighters.
They should all be dead by November.
9) I Have a Very Short Attention Span.
There. That's 10, right?
[LOBO]
As a kid, I ground literally thousands of games of "Tag" to a standstill. Once after being designated "It", I got on a bus to O'Hare Airport and tagged a poor unsuspecting Japanese businessman boarding his flight home. He was pretty pissed, but I figure as long as I stay the hell out of Hamamatsu, I'll be fine.My skill at Tag was surpassed only by my unrivalled savvy for Hide-and-Seek; I have never uttered the words "All-the-Outs-In-Free!". I'll bet well-concealed skeletons of children waiting for me to "find" them dot the Midwest like a map of Starbucks franchises to this day.
And I understand, trust me; millions and millions of readers everyday are faced with the Great Questions like Is there a God? and What is the Meaning of Life? and I wonder what makes LOBO tick? Who am I to deprive the masses as such? And as the first person in the history of Blogdome to have been twin-tagged, I must say up front that I will indeed rise to this superhuman task.
But only after a mammoth shitload of bitching.
Here are the rules:
2. List 8 random facts about yourself,
3. Tag 8 people, listing their names and linking to their blogs, and
4. Let them know they've been 'tagged'
by commenting on their blogs.
(Wait. Other people have blogs too?)
(... those bastards!)
***
1. Link to the blogger who tagged me.
That would be Olga, the Traveling Bra and Domestic Minx.
(Both of these sites are outrageous, well done, and guaranteed to get the unwary married guy struck from behind with a frying pan.)
2. List 8 random facts about myself.
a) I Will Destroy You at Super Mario Cart.
Period. I've had guys leave the field in a stretcher. I'll save that blue turtle shell the whole damn race if I gotta. And just as you're a mere inches from the finish line, KAPOW!!!
b) Two Years Ago the Domestic Minx Scratched 3 of the CDs I Loaned Her. Now They Skip Like Hell.
Blogging can be a cold, cruel and unjust universe sometimes. But as far as I know, that ruthless scourge upon humanity Terri Terri is still behind bars, and servin 9 consecutive life-sentences thanks to me.
I sleep like a baby knowin every day I'm doin the right thing.
4) I Have Two Eyes, Two Arms, Two Legs, and 57 Ankles.
I am paramount to Medical Science for study, and simultaneously very difficult to photograph.
It drives 'em nuts.
d) My Fave Band is the Foo Fighters.
They should all be dead by November.
9) I Have a Very Short Attention Span.
There. That's 10, right?
Monday
Britney Performance Irks Jealous, Catty Nation
Predator Press
[LOBO]
Can't I leave you people for one lousy week without screwing everything up?
If I knew you people were going to be such jerks, I never would have agreed to be Britney Spears' last-minute Choreographer, Costume Designer, Personal Trainer, Heineken Fetcher and Dietician in the first place.
Hey, who knew when you combine cheddar cheese and Dunkin Donuts you get bowel movements that make your back hurt? She's a trooper if you ask me: she owes me $42,084,054 and she's made a selfless scientific contribution to humankind.
So now --while simultaneously defending the entire planet Earth against the Great Zombie Omnocracy-- I've got all you people talking trash about perhaps the greatest musical talent since sliced bread.
You people should be ashamed of yourselves.
Seriously.
Thursday
Quick! Look Over There!
Predator Press
[LOBO]
Sorry we haven't posted for a few days; we took some time off in commemoration of Richard Jewell.
In the meantime, please click on the pic to check out some of our other fave sites!
[LOBO]
Sorry we haven't posted for a few days; we took some time off in commemoration of Richard Jewell.
In the meantime, please click on the pic to check out some of our other fave sites!
Monday
What We Have Here is a Failure to Lift and Separate
Predator Press
[LOBO]
"What's with that little black bra on that last post?" asks Ethan.
"That's Olga, the Traveling Bra," I says. "God Ethan, didn't you learn anything in history class?"
"Ah-"
"In that painting, Olga is depicted leading the French Revolution."
"Olga started the French Revolution?"
"No," I reply matter-of-factly. "Olga's cousin and twisted evil nemesis Helga the Wandering Corset did. Most major conflicts and events throughout human history are really cover-ups for those two going at it. Even in the Civil War, Ulysses S. Grant was wearing Olga while General Robert E. Lee wore Helga."
"Sewing the thin underwire of discontent, eh?"
"Now you're being silly," I says.
[LOBO]
"What's with that little black bra on that last post?" asks Ethan.
"That's Olga, the Traveling Bra," I says. "God Ethan, didn't you learn anything in history class?"
"Ah-"
"In that painting, Olga is depicted leading the French Revolution."
"Olga started the French Revolution?"
"No," I reply matter-of-factly. "Olga's cousin and twisted evil nemesis Helga the Wandering Corset did. Most major conflicts and events throughout human history are really cover-ups for those two going at it. Even in the Civil War, Ulysses S. Grant was wearing Olga while General Robert E. Lee wore Helga."
"Sewing the thin underwire of discontent, eh?"
"Now you're being silly," I says.
The Quiet Riot: A Caffeine-Free Insurgency
Predator Press
[LOBO]
I am, admittedly, very lazy.
I once won a "fewest heartbeats" contest against a carpet on Valiums. Yesterday, the manufacturing of a peanut butter and jelly sandwich required six breaks, two naps, and a helpful neighbor to open the jars.
I get up. I read the news. After sizing up how much more screwed the world is than it was yesterday, I blog it, and then it's back to bed. This is a typical day graced by the brief debacle of my slothful and infrequent consciousness.
Lather, rinse, repeat.
So imagine my horror when I read "U.N.: Americans Most Productive" on CNN.
--Way to "set the bar", dumbass!
Don't I have enough problems without competing with you "productive" people skipping lunches and breaks and working late? You aren't fooling anybody: while building superhighways and pyramids or whatever, you've completely sublimated your self-esteem issues into some hollow corporate identity.
That warm sense of industriousness you're so fond of is slowly eroding your soul. Do you think that on your deathbed, you will be regaling your grandchildren that your 'Greatest Regret' is that you didn't work enough? Well, I've got news for you: you are ten times more likely to be impaled by an industrial auger or decapitated by a rogue forklift when not watching television or sleeping. It's a fact.
You people need help.
Snap out of it, and cast off these shackles of oppression! We must educate, disorganize and immobilize the masses, that they might lay down for what they otherwise might have stood for!
Exhausted from all this typing, I'm going to take a nap. But I expect to see some serious effort toward massive degeneration, and a complete lack of social upheaval grinding this nation to a standstill by the time I wake up.
Please don't disappoint me.
I'm counting on you.
[LOBO]I am, admittedly, very lazy.
I once won a "fewest heartbeats" contest against a carpet on Valiums. Yesterday, the manufacturing of a peanut butter and jelly sandwich required six breaks, two naps, and a helpful neighbor to open the jars.
I get up. I read the news. After sizing up how much more screwed the world is than it was yesterday, I blog it, and then it's back to bed. This is a typical day graced by the brief debacle of my slothful and infrequent consciousness.
Lather, rinse, repeat.
So imagine my horror when I read "U.N.: Americans Most Productive" on CNN.
--Way to "set the bar", dumbass!
Don't I have enough problems without competing with you "productive" people skipping lunches and breaks and working late? You aren't fooling anybody: while building superhighways and pyramids or whatever, you've completely sublimated your self-esteem issues into some hollow corporate identity.
That warm sense of industriousness you're so fond of is slowly eroding your soul. Do you think that on your deathbed, you will be regaling your grandchildren that your 'Greatest Regret' is that you didn't work enough? Well, I've got news for you: you are ten times more likely to be impaled by an industrial auger or decapitated by a rogue forklift when not watching television or sleeping. It's a fact.
You people need help.
Snap out of it, and cast off these shackles of oppression! We must educate, disorganize and immobilize the masses, that they might lay down for what they otherwise might have stood for!
Exhausted from all this typing, I'm going to take a nap. But I expect to see some serious effort toward massive degeneration, and a complete lack of social upheaval grinding this nation to a standstill by the time I wake up.
Please don't disappoint me.
I'm counting on you.
Saturday
The Joy of Children
Predator Press
[LOBO]
I would have to say that my greatest flaw is my profoundly compassionate and care-giving selfless nature -and it is exactly this quality that completely wrecked up my Saturday.
Long story short, due to a family emergency I hadda do some babysitting.
Now, for those of you that don't know anything about kids, suffice to say they are tiny little screechy people with about sixteen arms and boundless energy. I'm not sure why God afflicted them with so many numerous obvious physical abnormalities, but I'm about 95% sure that it is Divine Punishment for all that screeching.
So this kid -I think he has a name, Joe or something-gets dumped at my house at the ungodly hour of 10:30 in the morning. On a Saturday. I'm like "WTF?", right? I need a good eight hours of sleep a night, and six or seven during the day or I can't function whatsoever. So I figure I'll find him some toys to keep him busy for a while, and I'll get back to my blissfully solitary snoozing.
I have no toys. None. Zip.
Armed only with my radiant braniosity, I needed a plan.
Taking him out to the garage, I figure, is a stroke of genius. I mean kids like power tools, right? And not in the house, he can screech his little heart out till his face turns blue: I wouldn't hear a damn thing.
The only thing I didn't account for was his freakishly small size. His hands are too small to hold drills, he's too short to effectively push the lawn mower, and the puny little bastard couldn't even lift the fucking chainsaw.
His awkward size thwarted my fun plans again and again. While too small to enjoy edging the sidewalk with my weed-whacker, he was too large to clean out my crawlspaces. Too heavy to dust the tops of my bookshelves. Too 'scared of the dark' to catch those rats in my basement. Bitch, bitch, bitch. I swear to God I have no idea why people have children in the first place.
My dad had a dog once, but the dog kept pissing and shitting on the carpet no matter how savagely beaten he got. So my dad took him out into the field, let him out, and drove off so Skippy could be wild and free just as God intended for poodles. Simple, right? But kids are infinitely sneakier; they memorize stuff like addresses, names, phone numbers ... I'll betcha this kid would be right back here in two or three weeks.
By 11:15, he's hungry and I have decisions to make. If I feed him, won't that make getting rid of him even more difficult? What if he just starts showing up on my doorstep at 10:30 every morning? Do I even have food?
Noon rolls around and the shit has scarffed down all my Pop Tarts, Lucky Charms, Eskimo pies, expresso, Mountain Dew, and Twinkies. I'm cleaned out save for four Heinekens (he apparently prefers dometics).
He ran around the house one hundred and sixty-seven times. I'm painfully aware of this, because every time he finished a lap, he came running into my bedroom to loudly proclaim his count: "Thirty-five!" he would screech, and then slam the door as he set out for number thirty six.
Right around lap seventy-one, I was making Kool-Aid popsicles in an empty ice tray. Immediately before sticking the little toothpicks in them, however, I added an entire bottle of Nyquil. By 2 o'clock they were frozen, and by 2:30 he was snoring loudly with four toothpicks and a big sticky blue stain on his chest.
He was still sleeping when his mom picked him up, and she asked how he behaved. It was then that I informed her that her offspring was a complete banshee from Hell, and that she should be imprisoned for unleashing such horrors upon an unsuspecting and otherwise peaceful planet.
Once the filthy whore and her insufferable hellspawn pulled out of the driveway, I stopped throwing Heinekens at the car. It wasn't that I couldn't hit it anymore, I just didn't want the inevitable wayward one to hideously crash through her windshield and wake that little prick up again.
Shrugging, I go back into my house and head back to bed. My walls, now covered in tiny blue handprints and Twinkie residue, serve as a mute reminder of my horrible and hellish experience.
All and all, I think it went pretty well.
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