Halo of Files
Predator Press
[LOBO]
I made it through acid rain, ozone depletion, contraction of the thermosphere, global warming, et cetera.
So I was neither surprised or impressed that we cracked the Earth’s crust and spewed millions of gallons of oil into the Gulf of Mexico.
-What really bugged me, I suppose, is that we did it for the oil.
So our options are 1) Buy oil from countries that want to kill us, or B) Drill our own oil via companies that may make our environment completely untenable?
Shit, if we're negotiating for position on a "need-versus-environment" sliding scale, I would rather have the chlorofluorocarbons back frankly.
My hair used to be awesome.
We claim to be interested in alternate forms of energy, yet continue to elect people with a vested interest in oil. Trusting the wolves to guard the sheep is hardly an effort we can take seriously. Want some real progress? Gather up all the physicists, chemists, and biologists, et cetera, dust off Alcatraz, and lock them all up in it. Give them chalk, calculators, and all the meth they can handle, and don’t feed them or let them sleep until they’ve come up with something. Throw in some anonymous violent criminals (to keep it interesting between the occasional ancillary cancer cures and teleportation devices) and Pay-Per-View the whole thing to finance it. Wouldn‘t it be awesome to see an emaciated, blood-soaked and twitchy Doctor Michio Kaku pulling a shiv from Stephen Hawking‘s neck, screaming “Eureka!” in the comfort of your own home?
Now that‘s fucking science.
But even with the oil leak dubiously closed and subtle stirring of the HBFFL‘s inevitable annual wakening, I may never have emerged; safely ensconced in a womblike fog of alcohol and chain-smoked cigarettes, the raging dissonance is blunted by an artificially-inflated perception distance.
Embittered by the lack of resonance to the mighty Predator Press empire, I let the Arizona immigration issue slide while Mexican drug lords rose to power. Sensing my ambivalence, vast anti-Predator Press networks -having jealously long sought the destruction of the greatest bastion of knowledges and wisdomness humanity has ever seen- seized upon this opportunity to strike: Wesley Snipes faces incarceration, rendering him wholly unable to play me in LOBO: The Motion Picture for another three years. Sweet, innocent little Lindsay Lohan, bereft of my protection, has been framed for witchcraft or something and faces a similar fate. China has set their Dalian oil fields afire in open revolt, and Castro has reemerged, emboldened by my glaring absence. And Predator Press didn't even get nominated for an Emmy.
-Not one!
And nourished by this fertile apathy, a brazen and unbound evil blossomed. Heedless of the desperate cries of the United Nations, the Vatican, and various high-ranking members of the 4-H Club, Predator Press offices remained closed and dark; the massive, once-bustling blog ink warehouses gathered dust -a dust accompanied only by the occasional lonely howl of a lifeless wind making way aimlessly through cobwebbed corridors, looking in vain for tumbleweeds to blow.
Millions of readers camped outside, singing songs in joyous anticipation of my return. But an ominous shadow of cold, hard doubt permeated the throngs, like a big, stealthy panther. Yes -a big, stealthy, fire-breathing, flying monkey-panther of permeating doubt.
Those poor throngs.
In grief and despair, many immolated themselves. Many threw themselves from building tops. Many immolated themselves and then threw themselves from building tops. It’s a good thing I had those suicide pits installed: I love my readers, but they ain’t exactly the tidiest people in the world.
And then -just as it seemed that all hope was lost and the Earth was to be plunged into a cold, dark, LOBOless void for all eternity- a familiar voice boomed across the internet.
“Mel Gibson did what!?“
[LOBO]I made it through acid rain, ozone depletion, contraction of the thermosphere, global warming, et cetera.
So I was neither surprised or impressed that we cracked the Earth’s crust and spewed millions of gallons of oil into the Gulf of Mexico.
-What really bugged me, I suppose, is that we did it for the oil.
So our options are 1) Buy oil from countries that want to kill us, or B) Drill our own oil via companies that may make our environment completely untenable?
Shit, if we're negotiating for position on a "need-versus-environment" sliding scale, I would rather have the chlorofluorocarbons back frankly.
My hair used to be awesome.
We claim to be interested in alternate forms of energy, yet continue to elect people with a vested interest in oil. Trusting the wolves to guard the sheep is hardly an effort we can take seriously. Want some real progress? Gather up all the physicists, chemists, and biologists, et cetera, dust off Alcatraz, and lock them all up in it. Give them chalk, calculators, and all the meth they can handle, and don’t feed them or let them sleep until they’ve come up with something. Throw in some anonymous violent criminals (to keep it interesting between the occasional ancillary cancer cures and teleportation devices) and Pay-Per-View the whole thing to finance it. Wouldn‘t it be awesome to see an emaciated, blood-soaked and twitchy Doctor Michio Kaku pulling a shiv from Stephen Hawking‘s neck, screaming “Eureka!” in the comfort of your own home?
Now that‘s fucking science.But even with the oil leak dubiously closed and subtle stirring of the HBFFL‘s inevitable annual wakening, I may never have emerged; safely ensconced in a womblike fog of alcohol and chain-smoked cigarettes, the raging dissonance is blunted by an artificially-inflated perception distance.
Embittered by the lack of resonance to the mighty Predator Press empire, I let the Arizona immigration issue slide while Mexican drug lords rose to power. Sensing my ambivalence, vast anti-Predator Press networks -having jealously long sought the destruction of the greatest bastion of knowledges and wisdomness humanity has ever seen- seized upon this opportunity to strike: Wesley Snipes faces incarceration, rendering him wholly unable to play me in LOBO: The Motion Picture for another three years. Sweet, innocent little Lindsay Lohan, bereft of my protection, has been framed for witchcraft or something and faces a similar fate. China has set their Dalian oil fields afire in open revolt, and Castro has reemerged, emboldened by my glaring absence. And Predator Press didn't even get nominated for an Emmy.
-Not one!
And nourished by this fertile apathy, a brazen and unbound evil blossomed. Heedless of the desperate cries of the United Nations, the Vatican, and various high-ranking members of the 4-H Club, Predator Press offices remained closed and dark; the massive, once-bustling blog ink warehouses gathered dust -a dust accompanied only by the occasional lonely howl of a lifeless wind making way aimlessly through cobwebbed corridors, looking in vain for tumbleweeds to blow.
Millions of readers camped outside, singing songs in joyous anticipation of my return. But an ominous shadow of cold, hard doubt permeated the throngs, like a big, stealthy panther. Yes -a big, stealthy, fire-breathing, flying monkey-panther of permeating doubt.
Those poor throngs.In grief and despair, many immolated themselves. Many threw themselves from building tops. Many immolated themselves and then threw themselves from building tops. It’s a good thing I had those suicide pits installed: I love my readers, but they ain’t exactly the tidiest people in the world.
And then -just as it seemed that all hope was lost and the Earth was to be plunged into a cold, dark, LOBOless void for all eternity- a familiar voice boomed across the internet.
“Mel Gibson did what!?“
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