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Predator Press

[LOBO]

Ah, September.

And we all know what that means, don't we?

It's finally that special time of the year when all hearts and minds prepare for the biggest event of the year: The Santa Claus Blanket Party.

I can sense some of you starin' at this blog in utter disbelief. Oh, get over it. You're all thinking it ... at least I've got the stones to put it in print: that fat bastard has violated the sanctity of our homes for the last time. When he sneaks down the chimney 'an goes to greedily wolf down my milk 'an cookies this year, WHANG!, he's getting a snow shovel full of holiday cheer right upside the head.

Too chicken to help me with this? Fine, cowards! I'll keep all those Xbox 360s for myself then!

Look, it's not like I'm going to make Santa 'toss my salad' or anything weird; I just wanna rough the guy up a little. Maybe take the reindeer for a spin down to the Burger King drive-thru, that sort of thing. And can you imagine how much those little elves will pay in ransom for the safe return of their poorly dressed, fried food-scarfing king?

God, just the thought of that food-stained, grease-dripping beard gives me chills.

"But LOBO," I hear the mincing liberal pansies cry, "Why do you want a rusty, jagged, salted catheter put in Santa and the other end hooked up to a team of startled Clydesdales? Santa brings joy all over the world to often less-fortunate children!"

Yeah? Well screw them. I know all about being less-fortunate, thank you: one July when I was a kid I helped out the mailman by relieving him of the entire neighborhood's food stamps. But when the eighty-six pallets of Velveeta Pepper Jack arrived at my house, there wasn't anyplace to keep them except in the neighbor's empty swimming pool.

I would've pulled the whole thing off, but the dumb kid that lived there dove in and tried opening his eyes in the thick, spicy, bubbling murk. Screaming, he then attempted to wipe away the blistering sauce with fistfuls of my tortilla chips and somehow punctured one of his water wings in the process; this caused a potentially fatal clockwise downward spiral smack into the sour cream.

If that sour cream wasn't there, he most certainly would have drowned. But did the prosecuting attorney ever bother to point out my valorous consideration of the Coriolis Effect in this unfortunate incident? No. In fact, that jerk tried to my the whole thing look like it was my fault!

You just don't get any "less fortunate" than that: I'm a hero if you think about it.

This year, the fat man pays up.