Xanadu

LOBO -Predator Press

While ruling out a torn cruciate ligament via MRI, Doctor Gudenstont found a bullet my ankle.  Getting it non-surgically reduced requires a series of lethal injections, so I'll be home for a few weeks.

Of the hundreds of screeners I haven't watched, I picked "Terminator:Genysis." Why I could not tell you.  But an hour in, I found myself seething in a blind rage.  I wanted to burn down the theater.  The fact I couldn't because I live here only redoubled my frustration.  After a ceremony to appease various gods, now I have to watch this steaming crap at a friends house, and then burn that place down.

Gina pulled up as I was returning the can of gasoline to the shed.

"If the bad terminators only need to kill Reece or Sarah Connor," I bark, "why do they spend the whole damn movie fighting with Arnold Schwarzenegger?"

"What? "asks Gina, still getting out of the car.  "Hey.  Is that gasoline?"

"Give me a hand with it," I says, wobbling clumsily on my cane.  "I have a bullet in my leg."

"You have a cyst in your ankle," she corrects.

"Everyone knows 'cyst' is a medical euphemism for 'bullet.'" I argue.  "They do that for insurance reasons."

"The oil change guy wanted to charge me forty dollars for windshield wipers," she says.  "Can you imagine?  This car isn't even a year old."

"Well ..."

"What?"

Having a bullet in your leg makes it hard to run serpentine.  I hesitate.  "I've been meaning to mention that.  Your windshield wipers are an eyesore.  The neighbors are talking.  This can't go on."

"That's ridiculous," she says.

"Is it?" I says.  "Every day you pull up with those droll windshield wipers, I have to go into damage control.  It's fine that you are making some hippie statement.  But don't think I don't suffer the consequences."

For some reason, I'm not allowed to have a shed key anymore.

Sin Limite

LOBO -Predator Press

At this point in my life (and my fantasy football season), I figure I need to make peace with God.

But which one?

On the face, the seventy two virgin thing sounds pretty cool right?  But are they legal and consenting? Heck ... are they even female?  And do the virgins disappear once you *ahem*, so I have to space them out? I live with two women now, and I can tell you shelf space for my shampoo is already precious real estate; there is a lot of zit cream and kissing potions.

Is there a second tier?

I would settle for 36 voracious cougars.

Hard "R"

LOBO -Predator Press

I'm not here to take a political stance.  When the election rolled around, it occurred to me I couldn't help pick out the living room furniture; I really have no business picking out your leaders.  But while perhaps less surprised at the outcome than most, a morbid fascination grew.  For better or worse, we are watching history unfold.

Domestically, I've never felt we are as far along race-wise as we think.  My company, around 300 people, is roughly 30% white, 20% Latino, 25% African American, et cetera.  Then we have subsets of gender, language, religion, politics, and interests.  They do tend to cluster in their own ethnicities, which suggests to me we are all experiencing the "culture" differently, and people sharing similar histories have a gravitational pull socially.  These ever-diminishing groups refine and sharpen their borders the deeper we get.  But I also think my company, were it 100% white male, would break down into similar cliques --so I have a problem with the message "we can all get along just fine ... if we all just think like white males."  It feels like tribal dick-wagging.

And speaking of tribal dick-wagging, the international policies are likely to shift dramatically as well.  That is what actually prompted this post.  You are reading a guy on his second cup of coffee, who, in order to go to work, must convince himself that a piano won't fall on him when he steps outside.  I must navigate a world full of bear attacks, dolphin rapes, bath salts, dolphins raping bears on bath salts, plagues, plaques, floods, locusts, and irresponsible uninsured piano movers -all under the all-seeing eye of Kelly Ripa- just to get to the punch clock.  But what about those guys fighting ISIS?  Somewhere, in the middle of a hellish desert battle (remember this isn’t attacking a dessert -you can’t just throw sprinkles on your tank and hope for the best. ISIS would hit you broadside with a strawberry in a second), our soldiers just got new bosses.  New plans.  If a single poorly-chosen manager can decimate a TGIF, what can this mean?

I, for one, won't stand for our selfless protectors overseas getting cold mozzarella sticks and soggy potato skins.