No, THIS is Like a Metaphor-Thingy

Predator Press

[LOBO]

You know on one hand I want to thank Dr. Tundra for the great title, and on the other I'm furious with him for almost making me look up what "metaphor" means.

I shouldn't be too angry. I mean it's not like I actually bothered looking up what “metaphor” means, right?

No harm, no foul.

Plus I think I can fake my way through this. Sure maybe I couldn't tell a metaphor from a migraine headache waiting to happen -but I am the World’s Leading Authority on ”Thingys." Heck I probably have more “Thingys” in my garage than most people have altogether.

Anywho, we cannot wax on and on about my expertise on “Thingys,” for that is merely a byproduct of my radiant braniosity.

My radiant braniosity is what we should be waxing on and on about.


***

It has yet to be explained to me what these "problems" are America is so worried about. I mean if you can get past the fact that you can't get plain white toothpaste anymore, the rest of the place is pretty cool, right? Just today in the news is an Associated Press story about how Half of US Doctors Use Placebo Treatments. Heck ten years ago I'll bet one tenth of doctors didn't have decent placebo technology!

So when I went to the debate where John Nobody presumably smeared Don Lewis into a thick paste over on Radioactive Liberty, there was a full two hours or so where I had to pretend I was paying attention to "issues" -and oh man if I heard any more "Legislate This" or "Subsidize That" blah blah, I woulda been snorin right there in the front row.

I thought a "debate" was like a cage match or something. You know, like a "Two Men In, One President Out!" kinda thing? ... But all these guys did was talk at each other!

No wonder John Nobody seemed puzzled when I recommended he wear an athletic cup.

Just as I was about to look up the definition for "Debate," The Question hit me: Has my radiant brainiosity ever been quantified?

I immediately closed some of my porn windows and Googled "Radiant + Brainiosity + Calculator + LOBO."

Nothing.

“Hey Buddy,” whispers Trent Lott as he taps my shoulder. “What was the name of that site?”

“What? Google?"

“No,” he says, tugging on his collar. "The one with the, eh,-"

Eyebrows furrowed, he cups his hands in front of his chest.

“This is no time for shenanigans," I exclaim with reproach. "This is a presidential debate, and the worst kind possible: the kind without a cage match or monster trucks! I would've expected some decorum from you, President Lott.”

“Actually I was a Senator.”

“You were never a president?”

“No.”

Puzzled, I look to the guy next to me. “But you are a president, right?”

“No,” says Dick Durbin.

“So what, they just let any kind of losers into these things now?”

“Apparently,” says Durbin.

"Well, at least that explains the glaring absence of monster trucks."

“Say," says Durbin. "Can you email me a copy of your bookmarks?”

“Not right now,” I says. “I’m doin’ something for Science.”

“So was I,” says Lott.







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