Going Topless

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Nestled just south of Angry Seafood and west of Musings of a Barefoot Foodie, Alltop just got it’s newest resident.

-I didn’t want to do it, but Guy Kawasaki was just relentless.

“LOBO,” he says. “Alltop’s motto is ‘We’ve got humor covered’. If Predator Press isn’t on it, I’ll be sued!”

“I just can’t Guy,” I reply. “And just what kind of name is 'Kawasaki'? Is that Swedish?"

"No."

"First of all," I says, "This isn’t a humorous-type blog. It’s more like the Wall Street Journal -‘cept with pictures and interesting content. If I allow this critical and historical document’s philosophy to be corrupted, the very fabric of our Great Nation will unravel. Do you Swedes want the terrorists to win? Do you? Hm?”

“But you’ll get more traffic,” he persists.

“I can’t handle anymore traffic! I got like four comments on my last post. Four! I defy you to show me any other blog with four comments. My server is completely ground to a standstill, and I simply can’t afford any more fruit baskets.”

“I can get you 30 days free on AOL.”

“Deal.”


Thanks Guy!

Divining Rod

Predator Press

[LOBO]

If you're reading this blog, most likely you are already sitting.

This is good, because what I'm about to tell you may come as quite a shock ... and I don't need any more lawsuits.

Here goes:


There's a pretty significant statistic of planet
Earth that isn't reading Predator Press.
Okay.

Relax.

Deep breaths.

Take a few seconds before continuing.

I don't type that fast.

Naturally, no one was more shocked than I at this news. I had the Predator Press scienticians check and recheck my figures and spreadsheets, and unfortunately there's just no doubt about it: at this moment you, 'o loyal reader, may be among the lucky few with my selfless Wisdom, Purity, Hope and Truth screaming electronically through your doe-like retinas and into your frontal lobe.

But we cannot judge this widespread ignorance too harshly.

See, roughly 70% of the Earth's population just doesn't get the internet at all. And of the remaining 30%, half of those have Comcast so they aren't able to read any blogs either.

This leaves about 15%.

Now two-thirds of these people are an acceptable margin that I classify as "blog fodder": they are the mindless yet litigiously-solvent and loveable masses of chaff that do the dumb things I make fun of -and won't sue me because they don't know I'm alive.

The remaining 5% are likely the surgeons, firemen, and congressmen -far too busy maintaining the infrastructure of the world, and clearly under the misconception that I am paying attention to it.

Essentially, this leaves Rodney Morgan who lives at 1664 Wintergreen Terrace in Pennsauken, New Jersey.

Rodney has internet connectivity, a fairly mindless job, not much of a social life, no lawn to maintain, no pets, and only goes to family functions twice a year.

Rodney has no excuses whatsoever.

And I want his ass kicked.


Earth is a pretty nice place when viewed From the Roads.

Out Go the Lights

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Those silly bastards at Comcast thought that I would be stupid enough to pay them $200 a month to insult their lousy online service to the rest of the world.

So due to a complete failure in negotiations, I've decided to go back to a far more prudent $9.95 56k Earthlink dial-up modem.

... Earthlink has a 5X Accelerator now!

History Depletes Itself

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Back in the golden days of the Roman Empire, the woolly mammoth and 8-track tapes, Roman radiators fought to the death for the viewing pleasure of a bloodthirsty audience. “Going to a Bears game” meant that at the coliseum that week, gigantic and hungry bears were going to be set loose to publicly devour criminals, Christians, and other undesirables.

This, incidentally, made going to a Jets game really cool.

But nowadays, apparently, it’s different.

Babs and Mr Insanity carried me to the hospital, and after I got my ankle all bandaged up -- and jacked up high with Children's Morphine to stop my hysterical screaming-- we all headed back to face the throng of people at Wrigley Field. I was just wondering why Children’s Morphine tasted suspiciously like Tic Tacs, and then it dawned on me:

There was no game.

I don’t care what you think you saw on television. I was right there, loyal and enthusiastic, waving my giant Blackhawks foam finger at gametime, and there was nothing on that field except for tumbleweeds.

At first I thought maybe they were short of players; quite the physical specimen myself, I valiantly prepared to volunteer by drinking a whole 22 oz Gatorade. But the only other people at the field at all were those mean Japanese tourists that followed me because of my foam finger.

Just like Bigfoot, the Lunar Landing, and the female orgasm, football is a myth.

No one was more shocked than I. Doubting even myself, I went over my DVR copy of the game to look for inevitable inconsistencies. And sure enough, numerous times you can see the string attached to the football. Further, exactly 2 minutes into the second quarter if you look closely behind Rex Grossman, you can see Kenny, Stan, Cartman, and Kyle lining up for scrimmage. It happens right after the “Your DVR has run out of space,” techno-babble.

Luckily, I have noted journalist Oliver Stone on speed dial.

Nearly Lost You

Predator Press

[Mr. I]

Well, it's been weeks since LOBO's ill-timed ending of the blog, and Dash has been pointing the shotgun at us the whole time.

Ethan and I have been on cellphones with Geek Squad guys hacking for the Predator Press passwords, ordering up Chinese, pizza and 'Happy Ending' massages, and bitching out Comcast.

Dash, completely emaciated, has been complaining that the shotgun is getting heavy.

So here we are.


***

"So what exactly do you want, Dash?" I says.

"LOBO."

"Why?" asks Ethan.

"BECAUSE YOU AND BABS HAVE NOW SPLIT HAWLY ENTERPRISES FIFTY-FIFTY. BUT LOBO OWNS ONE SHARE."

"That's right!" says Ethan. "I own fifty percent, and so does Babs. Now LOBO, weirdly enough, might have a controlling interest. Can you imagine the wacky things that might occur if LOBO and Babs hook up--?"

"Ethan!" I snap.

Just then a UPS guy showed up, cradling a cardboard box. "Package for LOBO," he says smiling, as he extends the brown electronic pad.

"I'll sign," I says.

"Uh, sir," says the guy. "It's a Code 6."

I look at the return address on the box, and recognize it. "Shit," I says.

"WHAT'S A CODE 6?" asks DASH, alternating pointing the gun at everyone.

"LOBO occasionally gets packages from ex-girlfriends," I explain, signing, "but his personal philosophy is 'If it's not mine I don't want it, and if it is mine, I'm not missing it.'"

"SO?"

"We just find it's more prudent to soak all these packages in a saline base to prevent premature detonation until such a time that we can jettison it into space," Ethan explains.

"BUT WHAT IF IT'S COOKIES?"

"It's not cookies, dumbass," says the UPS guy.

Dash motions him over, and fumbles with the whole pointing-a-shotgun-while-opening-a-package thing as the UPS guy flees. With two fingers he gingerly pulls the string on the package, and promptly blows himself into smithereens.


***

Ethan and I crawl out from the wreckage, even as cybernetic Brad Pitt legs --no longer united by a torso-- cross and clang separately to the ground.

Wheezing smoke and spitting concrete dust, we stand, brushing ourselves off.

"Look," I cough at Ethan, shaking my head. "We're just going to have to start screening LOBO's girlfriends."

Hold Me, Thrill Me, Kiss Me ....

Predator Press

[Mr. I]

Jimmy Orlando, at the podium, continued. "Have any of you noticed that you have been to three funerals for LOBO in six months, and yet he's still here?"

Everyone except LOBO raised their hands.

The conference room lit up with a 3-D hologram of what was apparently our own beloved Milky Way galaxy.

“Cool!” breathed LOBO.

“Yes,” agreed Jimmy Orlando. “What you see now, highlighted in green, is our solar system.” A holographic arrow circled the area. “And here we see,” as another arrow drew our attention, “the recently renamed 'Steve Loves Amanda XOX' galaxy.”

“Slax,” volunteers LOBO helpfully.

“Yes,” Jimmy Orlando agrees again. “In 1997, this galaxy was commonly known as 12Xc25b. But in 1998, the International Star Registry renamed this galaxy, ‘Steve Loves Amanda XOX’.”

“So?”

“Well, unfortunately, in the native language of the current occupants, ‘Steve Loves Amanda XOX’ translates to 'Your mother is a douchebag-chuggin’ bitch so ugly she has to fake orgasms while masturbating'. In response, they have launched a devious plan: to manufacture millions of LOBOs, so there are millions of mindless subscribers overpaying for absolutely nothing whatsoever … the funds for which are to be filtered exclusively to boisterous and baseless propaganda and commercials designed to increase public interest and sympathy here on Earth. They call it: Plan Comcast.”

“Those bastards,” says Phoebe.

"We considered just renaming the thing, but that would've just made us change a lot of maps and astrological readings. So as of now, there is a worldwide call for LOBOcide. Insanely brutal, ruthless and excessive force has been authorized at the highest level of every government of the face of the Earth."

“Is that moral?” asked Phoebe.

“Is that legal?” asked Sapphire.

“Is there a bounty?” I asked.

“Is there going to be food at this thing?” asked LOBO. “At least bagels or something? I’m starving. Are we out of bagels? Are there any of those plastic jellys left? It's too cold in here and this coffee sucks, I might add. Can you turn on those cool graphics again?”

“The fact is,” sighs Jimmy Orlando, “it’s a Class-X Felony not to kill them.”

“This means you won’t turn on those cool graphics again, doesn’t it?” LOBO complains. “What time is break scheduled for? I have to use ‘The Head’, if you catch my drift—“

“Ooooh,” says Sapphire, reaching for her shotgun. “I’ve been waiting for this for a long time—“

BLAM

My ears are ringing.

LOBO, missing the back of his head, slumped to the ground. I followed it closely looking down Sapphire’s barrel.

“You asshole!,” says Sapphire to me. “You didn’t even bring a gun. That kill was mine--"

“Take it outside, dammit!” yells Jimmy, on the ground, fingers in his ears. “Just look at this mess!”

“Hey, how do we know which one’s the original?” I ask.

"Ethan suspects he already has the original in custody," replies Jimmy Orlando. "The suspect has already pounced Anna Nicole Smith, but the Pork Chop Test is still pending." Jimmy Orlando stands, seeing a chunk of bloody brain tissue on his lapel. "You're paying for my dry cleaning, asshole!"

I barely hear. With Sapphire’s shotgun, I’m headed out into the LOBO-infested world.

… and I’m in a murderous mood.

A Simple Blue Dot

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Cryogenic travel wasn’t a perfect science yet, and it’s use as a weapon of war was dubious at best.

As far as I know, I’m the first.

Obviously, the “best case scenario” would be that I was intercepted and unfrozen to the news that peace had been achieved. That’s why I volunteered really; now that I think about it, I would’ve loved to awaken to the news that the war was over.

"Worst Case Scenario", a capsule breach followed by a brief, slow, fatal decompression, part by melting part.

Woulda been worth it.

But that’s not how it happened.

And after two weeks of silent surveillance, Space Station S.L.A. XOX –commonly known as “Slax”-- finally responded to my coded broadcast. And there she is on my tiny navigation screen, a simple blue dot.

“Slax” is so far out on the galactic fringe, my ship is a capsule containing only a life support system and eight ounces of navigational computers and communication transponders . Even I am “modified” to be lighter. Aside from Newtonian physics, we're dead in space: this little tomb with a great view doesn’t have fuel, engines, nothing.

Sure there’s a generic, standard “SOS” broadcast, but as I draw nearer, another far weaker signal should be detectable. The subtle 76 year-old coded message I’m broadcasting is to the descendents of spies doubtlessly long dead. Still, the beacon got intercepted, responded to, and I was awakened, right on time to “work my magic”: to pull the intravenous device from my arm, to listen closely in the dark. To learn.

I can hear them trying to hail me once in a while, but most of the time it’s complaining chatter about the logistics of having to land me. Obviously, the station has grown exponentially. This is not necessarily bad; it’s easier to disappear in a sprawling community that a tiny podunk. But the station spins on an axis using centripetal force to simulate gravity, and unfamiliarly named towers, spires, spikes, and satellites threatened to slam my lazily drifting crucible into oblivion.

By my body temperature, they know I’m alive. Hell, they probably know I’m awake.

I couldn’t broadcast if I wanted to. Which I don’t; all I want is what the spies have arranged in advance: credentials, a weapon, and good, simple transportation.

I’ll take care of the rest.


****

Hours later, a small uniformed black woman with intelligent, suspicious eyes questioned me as I wolfed down pancakes and sausage through an unfamiliar beard. I was in the medical unit recovering from atrophy, surrounded by questions and thugs.

“Why were you the only survivor of the Prima Donna?” she asked again. But with greater interest, she added “And where did you get this vessel?”

The yacht named “Prima Donna” had obviously been destroyed a few years ago, right on cue. “I kinda built it as a hobby based on antiquated technology. My plan was to auction it off.” I casually reply. It’s not even remotely believable, I know. But a calm demeanor and delivery coupled with credentials can take you a long way. “But please, there were more ‘capsules’,” I insist, somehow sincerely. “Surely I can’t be the only one to survive!”

“Sir,” says a thick looking youth with a furrowed brow. “The story checks out. Four identical pods have been found.” She looks at him as he shakes his head all dead.

For dramatic effect, I wait for the brazen little firebrand to break it to me herself. “Sir, as the sole survivor of the doomed vessel Prima Donna, all sixteen other souls lost, welcome aboard. Mister Curr, my name is Captain Dunbar. I’m the manager of Comcast’s Customer Support team.”

I take her hand and rip it from her body, and using it, proceed to kill everyone aboard.

And so it goes.

Comcast

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Skip this post if you are looking for my usual happity horseshit: this post is intended for triggering search engines on the off-chance someone is looking for comments on internet/phone/cable services out here in Blogdom.

Let me say this clearly, and without equivocation:


COMCAST IS THE WORST THING THAT HAS EVER HAPPENED TO ME.

And coming from a survivor of two marriages, that’s saying a lot.

This may be a localized problem; I know a lot of people online that seem to not have many issues. But the only other guy that I know in my immediate area with their services has already had it disconnected!

When you consider Comcast as your provider, be prepared for lies, empty promises, poor installation, long and frequent internet and phone service outages, lost income, blown-off service appointments and COUNTLESS hours on the phone (at your own personal expense).

Oh, and have I mentioned that it’s pretty damn expensive for all that?

Beware.