LOBO -Predator Press
I've told so many crazy stories about how I blew up my shoulder two months ago, the boring truth will likely be lost to history.
"I was playing for the 49ers."
"The Kama Sutra doesn't come with warning labels!"
"The MMA put me in the wrong weight class," or
"An old friend bet me I couldn't stick a one-and-a-half somersault with a half twist from a janky Craig's List pommel horse."
-Then, with a straight face, I conclude with "I can't talk about it per the settlement agreement."
But this got me thinking about Predator Press again. Here we both are at the end of the world.
The problem with writing Predator Press is that it isn't a memoir. Yuck. I can't think of anything more pretentious and boring than some douchebag's memoir, let alone mine. But framed as quasi-fictional humor, all the names, dates, locations and scenarios have been changed to protect the guilty to such an extent, even I am having issues tracking this, er, "story."
So I'm going to try and rewind a little bit. The early parts of the past decade were admittedly pretty shitty, and, a pisspoor humorist, I stayed trying to be funny. On a Cosmic scale, I think that was what I was born to do. But while I obfuscated myself so no one had to see the ongoing relentless shitshow, life slowly and incrementally got better.
And I wouldn't tackle such a project it unless it had a happy ending -well, as happy an ending as 2020 will allow.
Welcome to History.
