Predator Press
[LOBO]
Regarding the still-emerging story about the local boys in New York who were thwarted by the FBI from destroying synagogues and planes, I’m just as intrigued as anyone else.
-But I can’t finish reading msnbc.com’s version (linked here); every time I get to the line in the story that asserts one of them “smoked marijuana the day the plot was to be carried out,” my brain just strokes off.
Am I the only one here impressed that guy even showed up? And why couldn’t he just eat frozen Snickers and play XBox like everyone else? Did he even have an Xbox?
Cripes, you can’t start a Holy War if you can’t get a damn Xbox -Osama would laugh at you and send you home with a note pinned to your shirt! And perhaps justly so; The FBI arranged for these guys to be given useless explosives ... the real Al Qaeda probably drug tests their members to ensure they don't try to detonate tapioca or, stricken with "the munchies," eat half the explosives before arriving at the target.
Anywho, as mentioned earlier, they intended to shoot down planes as well. Where do you get stuff to shoot down planes in New York of all places? I don’t remember seeing bazookas and so forth readily available there, so I suspect you have to order them out of a catalog or something.
-So now I’m stuck with this image in my head of the guy calling a weapons company customer service rep:
Rep: Thank you for holding sir, my name is Frances. May I help you?
Terrorist: Yes, um. I would like to order the M-950. Does it come in black?
Rep: No I’m sorry sir. It does not.
Terrorist: How about the A-75?
Rep: Well, yes we have the A-75 in black. But may I ask what you want to use it for?
Terrorist: Hunting.
Rep: You are hunting with an anti-aircraft weapon?
Terrorist: Let’s just say I don’t mess around with ducks and quail pal.
Rep: How big is the game?
Terrorist: About 900,000 pounds.
Rep: You don’t want to use an A-75. I would still go with the M-950.
Terrorist: Yeah, but those only come in pastels.
Rep: They're very popular in Hawaii.
Terrorist: What would shipping come out to?
Rep: We ship free of your order is for ten or more. You could take your friends hunting too.
Terrorist: Hmmm. Okay. But I want a tracking number when they ship. It’s really depressing when you are watching for the mailman everyday and he doesn’t have your stuff.
Rep: I understand completely. Are you ready to give your credit card information?
Terrorist: Uh yeah. It’s in this here purse. Hang on.
Rep: Purse?
Terrorist: I mean wallet. My wallet. Here it is. The card is a … VISA, and my name is Nancy Zimmerman. You know what? It was a purse after all. Nancy Zimmerman. I have a very deep voice for a woman. I hear that all the time.
Rep: Nancy, can I get you any ammunition?
Terrorist: Twenty cases.
Rep: Nancy if you order twenty-five cases, you get a free set of Franklin Mint Charlton Heston commemorative plates ...
Thursday
Wednesday
The Piltdown Clan
Predator Press
[LOBO]
”LOBO,” says God.
“What?”
”I see you’re reading the story on CNN about-“
“God, can you please crank it down a notch?” I says. “You’re making my teeth vibrate.”
”Oh, eh, sorry. How’s this?”
“That’s perfect. What’s up, G?”
”I see you’re reading the story on CNN about those 47 million year old fossilized remains.”
“Yeah,” I says. “They’re speculating it might be an ancestor of humans.”
“What do you think about humans being descended from apes?”
“Have you met my parents?”
[Holy Pause]
“Touché.”
[LOBO]
”LOBO,” says God.“What?”
”I see you’re reading the story on CNN about-“
“God, can you please crank it down a notch?” I says. “You’re making my teeth vibrate.”
”Oh, eh, sorry. How’s this?”
“That’s perfect. What’s up, G?”
”I see you’re reading the story on CNN about those 47 million year old fossilized remains.”
“Yeah,” I says. “They’re speculating it might be an ancestor of humans.”
“What do you think about humans being descended from apes?”
“Have you met my parents?”
[Holy Pause]
“Touché.”
Tuesday
Monday
Tammy Faye Pillowcases to Hang at Louvre Amid Controversy
Predator Press
[LOBO]
From the moment the Louvre announced it’s intent to display all sixteen pieces of “Rhapsody in Linen” this June, protesters lined up in the streets of Paris.
“This is disgraceful,” marked one picketer. “The idea these pillowcases should hang next to great works such as the Venus de Milo and the Mona Lisa is simply outrageous!”
Aside from her rather striking makeup style, Tammy Faye Messner is probably best remembered for her doomed marriage to television evangelist Jim Bakker who, due to his extramarital affair with Jessica Hahn, was subsequently exposed and found guilty of numerous crimes including mail fraud and conspiracy.Director Henri Loyrette concedes that that display is unlike any other displayed in the Museum’s illustrious history, but defends his decision.
“All art is suffering,” says the aficionado. “Michelangelo had censoring detractors. Van Gogh had depression. I don’t see how Tammy Faye running out of cold cream at 3 am at a Holiday Inn would be any different.”When asked to comment, the InterContinental Hotel Group [IHG], owner of the Holiday Inn franchise issued only the following statement: “We have no interest in exploiting the late Tammy Faye’s good image. But we washed and bleached the damn things like 50 times. We have a right to recoup our losses in any way we see fit.”
Sunday
LOBO 1, Nature 0
Predator Press [LOBO]
While being convinced to move here, a mystifying, eh, 'economy of words' were employed when describing native Californian wildlife -in fact I don’t think the phrase “spiders that can kill you” alighted my ear a single time. Hence my eye-rolling when Terri picked up a bite a few weeks ago ... What do I look like? Some kind of spideronomist? Blech! I simply hadn’t yet been briefed on the matter.
“Why didn’t you kill it?” I says, twisting the jar as to eye her tiny assailant better.
“Because I need to find out what kind it is,” she says, already on Google.
“Haw, look at this teeny thing,” I guffaw, tapping the glass. “Should I call the life insurance company and triple your policy?”
“It’s not funny,” she insists. “I once saw a woman in the hospital with her leg almost rotted off from the venom.”
I’m willing to bet I had dug through the plaster, six inches of fiberglass insulation and two inches of floorboarding clear to the ceiling joists before that jar even started to shatter.
SO I’ve been a little edgy lately, but I seriously don’t think it’s paranoia; I think it’s due more to sleep depravation from imagining those crawly things moving ever closer in the quiet darkness, chattering in increasingly brazen sub-human (perhaps telepathic) frequencies, and drooling insatiably for human flesh, blood and bone.
Technically that's insomnia.
Unfortunately I saw another one this morning.
In the kitchen.
In the house.
And –I swear upon various gods this is true- the thing ran at me when it saw me.
As I stepped back reflexively, it dawns on me that I’m in socks and shorts. Worse, my bandoleer of alphabetized aerosol pesticides -carelessly set aside in a moment of reckless bravado- is on the counter several feet away.
This little bastard had it all planned out, didn’t he? I’m smirking to myself. Just be cool LOBO. Don’t show it any fucking fear. That’s what it wants. You can't let something the size of a quarter push you around when your bandoleer of alphabetized aerosol pesticides is just a few ... more ...
It moved forward –to me- again.
I moved back, creeping closer to the bandoleer.
... inches ...
Another advance by the spider.
... away ...
And just as I got my fingers around that leather belt, the spider -from a distance of maybe a yard or so- jumped on my leg.
These aren’t Infantry! I realize in horror. I got Airborne! I got Airborne!
But I was prepared for this eventuality: with cunning and guile, I begin flailing my arms wildly while running in circles and screaming exactly as I’d drilled so many times already ... and the second that thing dropped to the floor again WHAMMO I smashed it under the swift, lethal Justice of my microwave oven. Unconvinced my foe was truly vanquished, I then toppled the refrigerator over that wreckage.
-It's a good thing we rent, or fighting these things would be expensive.
Saturday
It's Funny Until Someone Loses An "I"
Predator Press
[LOBO]
I’ve spent the last two weeks mulling over retiring Predator Press, and finally figured I’m not going to do so –well, not in any formal sense anyway.
Instead, I think I’m going to return it to how it was a few years ago: experimental writing that is not necessarily humorous.
The drawback of a “humor” blog is that it should be funny, and in my archives I’ve found over a hundred posts –short stories and opinion pieces- that didn’t qualify as such. Beyond that there have been dozens and dozens of posts deleted as too serious, vitriolic or adult for broad appeal. Beyond that are the countless stories I’ve back-burnered for the lack of humor, and this is the biggest travesty of all: I’ve caught myself lately concluding some projects are “not funny enough to pursue” and abandoned them at inception.
Far too notoriously lazy to start a second blog showcasing “serious” writing efforts, the all-too-frequently recurring feeling that I’m stuck in a slapstick mode is becoming extremely pervasive. I suppose in this manner I’ve been letting this insidious little blog increasingly dictate how I write and what I write about, and from a creative standpoint I need that to change.
This isn’t to say Predator Press won’t still be funny upon occasion. Quite the contrary, humor writing and dark satire are in no danger of being unseated as my favorite mediums. But I think “mixing it up” a bit can do little but help improve my storytelling, and thusly enrich the experience overall.
What it does mean, however, is that I don’t know what I’ll be writing about anymore.
And for the first time in months, I’m excited at the prospect.
[LOBO]
I’ve spent the last two weeks mulling over retiring Predator Press, and finally figured I’m not going to do so –well, not in any formal sense anyway.
Instead, I think I’m going to return it to how it was a few years ago: experimental writing that is not necessarily humorous.
The drawback of a “humor” blog is that it should be funny, and in my archives I’ve found over a hundred posts –short stories and opinion pieces- that didn’t qualify as such. Beyond that there have been dozens and dozens of posts deleted as too serious, vitriolic or adult for broad appeal. Beyond that are the countless stories I’ve back-burnered for the lack of humor, and this is the biggest travesty of all: I’ve caught myself lately concluding some projects are “not funny enough to pursue” and abandoned them at inception.
Far too notoriously lazy to start a second blog showcasing “serious” writing efforts, the all-too-frequently recurring feeling that I’m stuck in a slapstick mode is becoming extremely pervasive. I suppose in this manner I’ve been letting this insidious little blog increasingly dictate how I write and what I write about, and from a creative standpoint I need that to change.
This isn’t to say Predator Press won’t still be funny upon occasion. Quite the contrary, humor writing and dark satire are in no danger of being unseated as my favorite mediums. But I think “mixing it up” a bit can do little but help improve my storytelling, and thusly enrich the experience overall.
What it does mean, however, is that I don’t know what I’ll be writing about anymore.
And for the first time in months, I’m excited at the prospect.
Friday
The Last Command
Predator Press
[LOBO]
Out on the Las Vegas city limits, The Hotel Palm was quite detached from the glamour and glitz. In fact, were there not slot machines in the lobby, you might guess you were in the middle of Arizona.
It was three in the morning, but Sandra wore sunglasses to cover her badly-bruised face. Indeed, with the dark wig and trench coat, she looked rather like a Russian spy in a bad "B" movie.
She found the elevator and the stairs roughly at the same time.
On a gut-level instinct, she chose to take the stairs.
***
In the still night, Dean easily heard the car door outside. Heart racing, he flipped the safety on the stolen nine millimeter. A large man, he crouched -almost impossibly small- in the corner behind the door.
In the dark, he held the gun in both hands as he listened.
Sandra tapped lightly. "Dean!" she whispered, afraid. She knew the gun was pointed at her. "It's me."
Dean flicked the safety back on and stood. This certainly could be a setup. But he was now a wanted thief and a killer; even if Sandra betrayed him, he wouldn't endanger her in a firefight. Summoning his courage, he cracked the door open.
And a battered, barefoot Sandra stood there alone.
"Baby," he said pulling her into the small room. Locking the door behind him, he kissed her forehead, her diminutive frame disappearing almost completely in his bear-like embrace. "He can't hurt you anymore. He's gone."
She sobbed into his chest.
"You shouldn't have come here baby. Were you followed?"
"No."
She could smell the recently-fired gun as he tucked it in his jeans. He gently pulled her wig away, the glasses, looking at the inflamed cuts and swollen bruises carefully, consciously trying not to wince. He had never actually met Sandra before, and he mirthlessly mused that a savage monster had ironically rendered her so he never would see her beauty.
As the poor lighting brought his face close to hers, Sandra laughed a little, embarrassed. "I'll be okay in a few days."
Wondering if she had more injuries, Dean opened the trench coat. She wore nothing underneath but a tattered silk blouse. Buttons torn away, the blouse did little to cover her ample breasts.
Instantly erect, Dean pushed her back on the bed.
"Wait," she protested.
In the darkness, he followed her smooth athletic thighs with large, powerful hands, finding her soft clit. Fingertips tracing over the soft, wet flesh -it was either shaved or extremely trim; he couldn't tell, and did not care- he kissed his way closer, drinking in her sweet, natural aroma. Her hard thighs locked tightly around his head as he sucked her off. She climaxed, quickly and violently against his face.
Another car door slam.
"Goddamn it!" says Dean, rising to his feet. "What the hell am I doing?" he asks the air, furious with himself.
Sandra pulled the long coat around her as she sat up, confused.
Fearfully, he peeks out from behind the curtain on the window. "Baby, I'm a wanted man by a lot of really pissed-off people. We shouldn't be together right now." He watches four plain-clothed cops get out of the car, heading for the motel registration office.
You always can tell a cop by how he sizes up a situation.
"It's dangerous," he continued. Unexpectedly, he turns on the light. "Do you have your passport?"
Sandra pats her coat pocket. "Yes".
Kneeling, Dean slides out a black briefcase from under the bed. And then another, similar. "It would be smart to separate the cash too." He flips one open, revealing half of 2.2 million dollars. "Now we have to do this as planned. Get your ass out of here and meet me in Rio, one month from today."
As she gathered herself, he handed the closed bag to her. Kissing her gently on a bruised lip, he whispered, "I love you."
The door clicked shut, and from behind the window's curtain Dean watched her slink into the darkness. The police, still in the office, were probably not expecting to actually find him here in a place so painfully obvious. That was the one advantage of the cops finding him first. The mob would have already posted thugs.
The cops were muddying up the mob search by virtue of merely being present.
***
In the bathroom, he quickly liquefied a rather large and lethal dose of heroin. While Dean had never actually done heroin before, during his time in prison he had gleaned enough about the subject from addicts to be familiar with the subject.
And connections for that matter.
He tied the small rubber tourniquet over his elbow, and patted for a visible vein. With the hypodermic --almost cartoonishly small in his nervous fingers-- he went back to the hotel bed where over a million dollars cash lie exposed to all in a carelessly sprawled briefcase.
A loud bang issued at the door. "Open up!" said the forceful, disembodied voice. "It's the police!"
Finishing the hypo plunge took great concentration. Dean had never administered a shot on himself before.
"We know you're in there!"
A sweet-tasting cottony sensation came over Dean's mouth.
"Go ahead," the faraway voice commanded. "Break it down."
Dean's room imploded, a fantastic display of frantic light and color. Surrounded, he looks up smiling as one of the cops climbs on his massive chest in an attempt to revive him.
The trail ends here officer, he grins helplessly, fading.
And I ain't telling you shit.
[LOBO]
Out on the Las Vegas city limits, The Hotel Palm was quite detached from the glamour and glitz. In fact, were there not slot machines in the lobby, you might guess you were in the middle of Arizona.
It was three in the morning, but Sandra wore sunglasses to cover her badly-bruised face. Indeed, with the dark wig and trench coat, she looked rather like a Russian spy in a bad "B" movie.
She found the elevator and the stairs roughly at the same time.
On a gut-level instinct, she chose to take the stairs.
In the still night, Dean easily heard the car door outside. Heart racing, he flipped the safety on the stolen nine millimeter. A large man, he crouched -almost impossibly small- in the corner behind the door.
In the dark, he held the gun in both hands as he listened.
Sandra tapped lightly. "Dean!" she whispered, afraid. She knew the gun was pointed at her. "It's me."
Dean flicked the safety back on and stood. This certainly could be a setup. But he was now a wanted thief and a killer; even if Sandra betrayed him, he wouldn't endanger her in a firefight. Summoning his courage, he cracked the door open.
And a battered, barefoot Sandra stood there alone.
"Baby," he said pulling her into the small room. Locking the door behind him, he kissed her forehead, her diminutive frame disappearing almost completely in his bear-like embrace. "He can't hurt you anymore. He's gone."
She sobbed into his chest.
"You shouldn't have come here baby. Were you followed?"
"No."
She could smell the recently-fired gun as he tucked it in his jeans. He gently pulled her wig away, the glasses, looking at the inflamed cuts and swollen bruises carefully, consciously trying not to wince. He had never actually met Sandra before, and he mirthlessly mused that a savage monster had ironically rendered her so he never would see her beauty.
As the poor lighting brought his face close to hers, Sandra laughed a little, embarrassed. "I'll be okay in a few days."
Wondering if she had more injuries, Dean opened the trench coat. She wore nothing underneath but a tattered silk blouse. Buttons torn away, the blouse did little to cover her ample breasts.
Instantly erect, Dean pushed her back on the bed.
"Wait," she protested.
In the darkness, he followed her smooth athletic thighs with large, powerful hands, finding her soft clit. Fingertips tracing over the soft, wet flesh -it was either shaved or extremely trim; he couldn't tell, and did not care- he kissed his way closer, drinking in her sweet, natural aroma. Her hard thighs locked tightly around his head as he sucked her off. She climaxed, quickly and violently against his face.
Another car door slam.
"Goddamn it!" says Dean, rising to his feet. "What the hell am I doing?" he asks the air, furious with himself.
Sandra pulled the long coat around her as she sat up, confused.
Fearfully, he peeks out from behind the curtain on the window. "Baby, I'm a wanted man by a lot of really pissed-off people. We shouldn't be together right now." He watches four plain-clothed cops get out of the car, heading for the motel registration office.
You always can tell a cop by how he sizes up a situation.
"It's dangerous," he continued. Unexpectedly, he turns on the light. "Do you have your passport?"
Sandra pats her coat pocket. "Yes".
Kneeling, Dean slides out a black briefcase from under the bed. And then another, similar. "It would be smart to separate the cash too." He flips one open, revealing half of 2.2 million dollars. "Now we have to do this as planned. Get your ass out of here and meet me in Rio, one month from today."
As she gathered herself, he handed the closed bag to her. Kissing her gently on a bruised lip, he whispered, "I love you."
The door clicked shut, and from behind the window's curtain Dean watched her slink into the darkness. The police, still in the office, were probably not expecting to actually find him here in a place so painfully obvious. That was the one advantage of the cops finding him first. The mob would have already posted thugs.
The cops were muddying up the mob search by virtue of merely being present.
In the bathroom, he quickly liquefied a rather large and lethal dose of heroin. While Dean had never actually done heroin before, during his time in prison he had gleaned enough about the subject from addicts to be familiar with the subject.
And connections for that matter.
He tied the small rubber tourniquet over his elbow, and patted for a visible vein. With the hypodermic --almost cartoonishly small in his nervous fingers-- he went back to the hotel bed where over a million dollars cash lie exposed to all in a carelessly sprawled briefcase.
A loud bang issued at the door. "Open up!" said the forceful, disembodied voice. "It's the police!"
Finishing the hypo plunge took great concentration. Dean had never administered a shot on himself before.
"We know you're in there!"
A sweet-tasting cottony sensation came over Dean's mouth.
"Go ahead," the faraway voice commanded. "Break it down."
Dean's room imploded, a fantastic display of frantic light and color. Surrounded, he looks up smiling as one of the cops climbs on his massive chest in an attempt to revive him.
The trail ends here officer, he grins helplessly, fading.
And I ain't telling you shit.
Monday
Chi
Predator Press
[LOBO]
Having not been in a Dojo since Grand Master Futon awarded me my honorary white belt, little Screechy’s first karate class left me pondering my own illustrious martial arts career. That is where I developed the strict discipline and physical fitness I continue to emulate even today, and I consider it one of the most demanding -yet rewarding- weeks of my entire life.
-And Screechy is lucky to be following in my footsteps: a “legacy,” he too was bestowed with the rank of whitebelt on his very first day.
But the congratulatory ceremonies were cut short: just we were about to break out the traditional karate booze and piñatas shaped like ninjas, a bunch of kids wanting to play basketball started to harass some of the students.
Expecting a spectacular display of compound fractures and bloodletting, I was really disappointed when a small group of lowly blackbelts circumvented the incident entirely and without any violence whatsoever.
Why, when there must have been sixty or seventy of us deadly whitebelts in the auditorium, would three or four amateur blackbelts allow our sacred Dojo be besmirched thusly so? After doubtlessly devoting several hours studying the great Wisdom of the Orient, have these people learned nothing about when someone needs their ass kicked good an proper? Has all that effort and time learning to rip someone’s arm off and beat them to death with all gone to waste entirely?
This is why I will never become a Sensei.
[LOBO]
Having not been in a Dojo since Grand Master Futon awarded me my honorary white belt, little Screechy’s first karate class left me pondering my own illustrious martial arts career. That is where I developed the strict discipline and physical fitness I continue to emulate even today, and I consider it one of the most demanding -yet rewarding- weeks of my entire life.-And Screechy is lucky to be following in my footsteps: a “legacy,” he too was bestowed with the rank of whitebelt on his very first day.
But the congratulatory ceremonies were cut short: just we were about to break out the traditional karate booze and piñatas shaped like ninjas, a bunch of kids wanting to play basketball started to harass some of the students.
Expecting a spectacular display of compound fractures and bloodletting, I was really disappointed when a small group of lowly blackbelts circumvented the incident entirely and without any violence whatsoever.
Why, when there must have been sixty or seventy of us deadly whitebelts in the auditorium, would three or four amateur blackbelts allow our sacred Dojo be besmirched thusly so? After doubtlessly devoting several hours studying the great Wisdom of the Orient, have these people learned nothing about when someone needs their ass kicked good an proper? Has all that effort and time learning to rip someone’s arm off and beat them to death with all gone to waste entirely?This is why I will never become a Sensei.
Thursday
California
Predator Press
.jpg)
[LOBO]
As action movie star Governor Arnold Schwarzenegger opens a dialogue regarding the legalization of marijuana, Federal Emergency-level wildfires rage out of control and a teenage beauty queen simultaneously lectures the rest of the Nation on morality.
I dunno.
-Some pot sounds like a good idea actually.
.jpg)
[LOBO]As action movie star Governor Arnold Schwarzenegger opens a dialogue regarding the legalization of marijuana, Federal Emergency-level wildfires rage out of control and a teenage beauty queen simultaneously lectures the rest of the Nation on morality.
I dunno.
-Some pot sounds like a good idea actually.
Wednesday
DePeste Mode
Predator Press
[LOBO]
Today is the big day.
May 6, 2009 will mark the precise point when Predator Press finally offended every last human on Earth.
This momentous feat would have been accomplished sooner, but 22 year old Ranma Chu [pictured left] turned out to be very tricky to track down; customs officials took issue with “Dental Floss Jokes” as my Reason for Visiting the Country, and the Singaporean authorities became completely intransigent.
-Lousy Communists.
Tuesday
Sailing the Estrogen Seas
Predator Press
[LOBO]
There’s a time in every decent father’s life when he realizes his 16 year old daughter has been possessed by The Devil and needs to be tried as a witch, exorcised, and then burned at the stake anyways (just in case).
-The main difference between me ‘an those pansies is they are too chicken to follow through.
[LOBO]
There’s a time in every decent father’s life when he realizes his 16 year old daughter has been possessed by The Devil and needs to be tried as a witch, exorcised, and then burned at the stake anyways (just in case).
-The main difference between me ‘an those pansies is they are too chicken to follow through.
Monday
Saturday
Predator Press Commemorates Global Dig Dug Day
Predator Press
[LOBO and guest Beau Horner]
Oh sure we celebrate firemen and police or whatever. But how often do these so-called "heroes" go toe-to-toe with fire breathing dragons and deadly balloon-like creatures sporting Oakleys?
Most people think that "The Dug's" contribution to Humankind is limited to gardening safety. But let me tell you pal Indiana Jones has nothing on this guy! Read The Nothing Report author Beau Horner's harrowing account of the unearthing of Cleopatra's tomb:
"Cleopatra, better known as 'Patty,' was discovered frozen in time in the infamous 'walk like an Egyptian' pose, underneath several layers of strata....apparently they're color coded now. The only person capable of traveling this far down into the earth was David Duchovny, A.K.A Dig Dug. All of his crew unfortunately was wearing over-sized goggles in the hopes of bringing some laughs to the party."-The fact that Dig Dug heralds employment for David Duchovny alone gives one a brief glimpse into the staggering influence Double-D has in our everyday lives.
But what would a world without this unsung hero actually look like? The Moon -once a lush tropical environment and a candidate for filming "Lost" episodes- is now a barren rock unsuitable even for people from Los Angeles.A tearful Duchovny recalls the events in chilling detail: "It was a war that couldn't be won. In that gravity instead of crushing the monsters the rocks would just bounce off -dammit they would just bounce off! Have you ever heard a Fygar laugh? It's terrifying. Hold me."
So here's to you, David "Dig Dug" Duchovny.
-May you live a long, full life fighting evil down there.
(Clicking the Lego icons immediately left and right will bring you to different amusing Dig Dug YouTube spoofs.)
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