Predator Press
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Showing posts with label don lewis. Show all posts
Showing posts with label don lewis. Show all posts
Wednesday
Friday
Playing With Matches
Predator Press
[LOBO]
Whenever the Mighty Mighty Diesel takes a breather, I like to seize upon his absence as an opportunity to lecture about him –and thusly the entire blogosphere- extensively.
See, nowadays new blogs are poppin up everywhere and all the time. I’m willing to bet at this point there are like fifteen or twenty of them -all industriously ripping off my idea to have an online diary, and paying me, um, zero in royalties.
And I'm fine with that really. There is no real need to thank me ... from the very conception of the concept of “blogging,” I knew it was too great a gift not to share with the rest of Humankind.
-But I cannot, in good conscience, let said Humankind forget the history behind it.
As an example, I invite you to take the following quiz:
HINTS
v
One of these two will transport you to hellish wastelands, and subject you to unimaginable atrocities.
The other will only write about it.
One of these two would wipe out the entire salad bar, and then make out with Princess Leia.
The other is made of Latex and rubber.
One of these two is a visionary of internet comedy.
The other is in a DVD my kid made me buy.
One of these two was in a TV series.
The other runs a weapons factory for irate golfers.
One of these two made an outrageously funny DVD.
The other is somehow cashing in despite "Pet Detective", and Lemony Snicket's "A Series of Unfortunate Budget Surpluses."
One of these two is a highly-pressurized windbag with a reflective surface, containing a gas that makes you talk funny when ingested.
(In this case, both answers are correct. I can't tell the difference either.)
***
Now for any of you that took this quiz and didn’t score like four million points, I think you really need to do some homework. You know, like, “study” or something. Don’t write a blog without knowing the cold hard facts surrounding the glorious history of blogging: it would just embarrass us both.
So where was I?
Oh yeah.
Diesel.
***
See I warned Diesel implicitly about Antisocial Commentary from the Secret Files of the Mattress Police.
“D,” I says. “You have to scale back the awesomeness of this book. If you’re not careful, they’re gonna make you write another one.”
But Diesel can be pretty stubborn when it comes to advice.
“They wouldn’t dare,” he says smugly.
“D, I’m serious,” I insist. “They made this guy Hemingway write like three books.”
“That's impossible,” says D. “No human mortal could endure even reading three books, let alone writing three.”
“I’m totally serious.”
“Have they made you write any books?”
“Hell no,” I smirk. “I’m on to those pricks.”
“What’s your secret?” he asks.
“Bad punctuation, grammar … the occasional smattering of misspellings. All buried deeply in unreadable pedantic and wordy nonsense."
I pause.
“I think it’s more of a gift, really.”
[LOBO]
Whenever the Mighty Mighty Diesel takes a breather, I like to seize upon his absence as an opportunity to lecture about him –and thusly the entire blogosphere- extensively.See, nowadays new blogs are poppin up everywhere and all the time. I’m willing to bet at this point there are like fifteen or twenty of them -all industriously ripping off my idea to have an online diary, and paying me, um, zero in royalties.
And I'm fine with that really. There is no real need to thank me ... from the very conception of the concept of “blogging,” I knew it was too great a gift not to share with the rest of Humankind.
-But I cannot, in good conscience, let said Humankind forget the history behind it.
As an example, I invite you to take the following quiz:
v
One of these two will transport you to hellish wastelands, and subject you to unimaginable atrocities.The other will only write about it.
One of these two would wipe out the entire salad bar, and then make out with Princess Leia.The other is made of Latex and rubber.
One of these two is a visionary of internet comedy.The other is in a DVD my kid made me buy.
One of these two was in a TV series.The other runs a weapons factory for irate golfers.
One of these two made an outrageously funny DVD.The other is somehow cashing in despite "Pet Detective", and Lemony Snicket's "A Series of Unfortunate Budget Surpluses."
One of these two is a highly-pressurized windbag with a reflective surface, containing a gas that makes you talk funny when ingested.(In this case, both answers are correct. I can't tell the difference either.)
Now for any of you that took this quiz and didn’t score like four million points, I think you really need to do some homework. You know, like, “study” or something. Don’t write a blog without knowing the cold hard facts surrounding the glorious history of blogging: it would just embarrass us both.
So where was I?
Oh yeah.
Diesel.
See I warned Diesel implicitly about Antisocial Commentary from the Secret Files of the Mattress Police.“D,” I says. “You have to scale back the awesomeness of this book. If you’re not careful, they’re gonna make you write another one.”
But Diesel can be pretty stubborn when it comes to advice.
“They wouldn’t dare,” he says smugly.
“D, I’m serious,” I insist. “They made this guy Hemingway write like three books.”
“That's impossible,” says D. “No human mortal could endure even reading three books, let alone writing three.”“I’m totally serious.”
“Have they made you write any books?”
“Hell no,” I smirk. “I’m on to those pricks.”
“What’s your secret?” he asks.
“Bad punctuation, grammar … the occasional smattering of misspellings. All buried deeply in unreadable pedantic and wordy nonsense."
I pause.
“I think it’s more of a gift, really.”
Monday
Children of the Spud
Predator Press
[LOBO]
I’m an optimist when it all boils down.
-I mean here I am faced with an economic apocalypse which will doubtlessly spiral America into a feudal and barbaric warlike state over control of ever-dwindling resources: cities will collapse and burn under the fleeting interests of growing dissonance and anarchy.
I think this would, in fact, finally catapult my career into high gear.
Now I’ve never actually been a feudal overlord before, so I may stop just short of that -you know, maybe I’ll spend a few weeks as an underlord so I can ‘learn the ropes.’
But ultimately -once I’ve re-unified all the global superpowers and voluntarily abdicated my throne- you won’t be able to throw a rock without hitting my movie or book deals. My biography will be all the rage, ‘an the poster will be me in some kind of crazy battle armor swinging a high-tech battleaxe with a scantily-clad Terri hangin on my bulging pectorals.
See?
Optimist.
But Northern Idaho stands poised to change all that.
See most people don’t put the words “evil” and “Idaho” together often. It’s true about me too: I just don’t care that much about foreign policy abroad, and tend to stick with domestic issues. Besides, sometimes I really question this whole prejudice against big scary "evil." I mean what has evil ever done to me?
-Nor do I think "Regular Joe" Americans really know Idaho’s rich heritage of blood-soaked serious evildoing. Even today Idaho grows potatoes. Hitler loved potatoes: a large part of Idaho’s economy is subtly intertwined with nourishing the Fuhrer (should he have survived).
It’s Prima Facie: the average Idahoan capacity for evil is underestimated and completely unregulated, and I don’t understand why we don't send our navy to bomb the crap out of that place before Don Lewis returns.
[LOBO]I’m an optimist when it all boils down.
-I mean here I am faced with an economic apocalypse which will doubtlessly spiral America into a feudal and barbaric warlike state over control of ever-dwindling resources: cities will collapse and burn under the fleeting interests of growing dissonance and anarchy.
I think this would, in fact, finally catapult my career into high gear.
Now I’ve never actually been a feudal overlord before, so I may stop just short of that -you know, maybe I’ll spend a few weeks as an underlord so I can ‘learn the ropes.’
But ultimately -once I’ve re-unified all the global superpowers and voluntarily abdicated my throne- you won’t be able to throw a rock without hitting my movie or book deals. My biography will be all the rage, ‘an the poster will be me in some kind of crazy battle armor swinging a high-tech battleaxe with a scantily-clad Terri hangin on my bulging pectorals.
See?
Optimist.
But Northern Idaho stands poised to change all that.
See most people don’t put the words “evil” and “Idaho” together often. It’s true about me too: I just don’t care that much about foreign policy abroad, and tend to stick with domestic issues. Besides, sometimes I really question this whole prejudice against big scary "evil." I mean what has evil ever done to me?-Nor do I think "Regular Joe" Americans really know Idaho’s rich heritage of blood-soaked serious evildoing. Even today Idaho grows potatoes. Hitler loved potatoes: a large part of Idaho’s economy is subtly intertwined with nourishing the Fuhrer (should he have survived).
It’s Prima Facie: the average Idahoan capacity for evil is underestimated and completely unregulated, and I don’t understand why we don't send our navy to bomb the crap out of that place before Don Lewis returns.
Friday
Playing With Matches
Predator Press
[LOBO]
HINTS
v
One of these two will transport you into hellish wastelands, and subject you to unimaginable atrocities.
The other will only write about it.
One of these would wipe out the entire salad bar, and then make out with Princess Leia.
The other is made of Latex and rubber.
One of these is a visionary of internet comedy.
The other is in a DVD my kid made me buy.
One of these was in a TV series.
The other runs a weapons factory for irate golfers.
One of these two made an outrageously successful DVD.
The other is somehow cashing in despite "Pet Detective", and Lemony Snicket's "A Series of Unfortunate Budget Surpluses".
One of these two is a highly-pressurized windbag with a reflective surface, containing a gas that makes you talk funny when ingested.
... I can't tell the difference either.
[LOBO]
v
One of these two will transport you into hellish wastelands, and subject you to unimaginable atrocities.The other will only write about it.
One of these would wipe out the entire salad bar, and then make out with Princess Leia.The other is made of Latex and rubber.
One of these is a visionary of internet comedy.The other is in a DVD my kid made me buy.
One of these was in a TV series.The other runs a weapons factory for irate golfers.
One of these two made an outrageously successful DVD.The other is somehow cashing in despite "Pet Detective", and Lemony Snicket's "A Series of Unfortunate Budget Surpluses".
One of these two is a highly-pressurized windbag with a reflective surface, containing a gas that makes you talk funny when ingested.... I can't tell the difference either.
Old Mother Hubbard
-as retold by Predator Press
[LOBO]
Miss Hubbard’s mansion was pretty spacious, but I’ll be damned if that old bat didn’t keep every inch of that creepy place spick and span.
“Yeah so you’re three weeks behind on your newspaper deliveries,” I continue. “You a deadbeat or something?”
“How much do I owe you?” she asks flatly.
“Three fifty,” I says. “And it ain’t negotiable. Poppa needs a new Schwinn this year.”
“Such an industrious young man,” she says, tussling my hair. “I’m sure I have a few dollars in my purse.”
“Well I hope so Miss Hubbard,” I says. “Where’s the bathroom? Now you're late on payments and my hair is all screwed up.”
“I wouldn’t go wandering,” says the woman from the next room. “Rommel is friendly, but he doesn’t take kindly to people roaming around.”
Rommel, a Rottweiler roughly the same weight as myself, growled menacingly.
“Now, now Rommel,” she chided. “You mustn’t spook the guests.”
“Man lady,” I says looking around. “You sure got a lot of books on Scientology.”
“My son is a very prolific writer,” she calls from the kitchen.
Mental Note: "prolific" = crappy
I cross my arms. "Yeah I’ll bet.”
“I can’t seen to find my purse," she says exasperated. “Can you check the kitchen? I’ll look upstairs.”
“What about Cujo here?”
“If he growls,” she says fading upwards, “just give him a bone from the cupboard.”
I swing open the door and enter the kitchen.
There’s no purse to be found.
This wrinkle-kit is gonna drag this out into an all-day affair if I let her, I’m thinking. God they should just wax all these lonely old crazy people. Once you get like thirty or so-“
Suddenly Rommel let loose a thunderous bark, and cut my train of thought completely.
He’s sitting on the kitchen linoleum, drooling sloppily, and tail thumping hard against the floor. He's a pretty big dog, too: we are looking eye-to-eye.
And for the first time since I got here, the dog looked friendly.
“Who’s a good boy?” I says, scratching him behind the ears. Remembering what the old crone said about the bones in the cupboard I says “Wanna treat?”
Bam bam bam goes the stumpy tail with increased enthusiasm. Rommel does an exaggerated and clumsy half-trot to the cupboards -impotent claws slipping helpless and loudly across the smooth floor- clearly indicating where the treats are.
What kind of crazy old broad would keep bones in a cupboard? I’m thinking. But sure enough, there’s a big thick meaty one in there. Maybe four or five pounds, eighteen inches or so long.
“Well it’s a good day to be Rommel!” I smile, tossing him the grizzly trophy. “So does this hag got any pop or anything? I'm thirsty.”
I open the fridge. She has iced tea, a half bottle of Shasta, a human head in a jar of clear liquid, and what is most likely orange juice-
My heavy bag of newspapers slides off of my shoulder, and lands on the ground with a with a solid thud.
As I stare -the hairs rising on the back of my neck- the magnetic refrigerator door eases closed.
And there’s an audible sickening crack of broken bone as Rommel enjoys his “prize” behind me.
“Oh there you are!” says Old Mother Hubbard, proudly brandishing her newly-found purse. “Three fifty you say?”
“You know what lady?” I says, dragging my bag. “We’re good.”
This Message Brought to You By: 
[LOBO]
Miss Hubbard’s mansion was pretty spacious, but I’ll be damned if that old bat didn’t keep every inch of that creepy place spick and span.
“Yeah so you’re three weeks behind on your newspaper deliveries,” I continue. “You a deadbeat or something?”
“How much do I owe you?” she asks flatly.
“Three fifty,” I says. “And it ain’t negotiable. Poppa needs a new Schwinn this year.”
“Such an industrious young man,” she says, tussling my hair. “I’m sure I have a few dollars in my purse.”
“Well I hope so Miss Hubbard,” I says. “Where’s the bathroom? Now you're late on payments and my hair is all screwed up.”
“I wouldn’t go wandering,” says the woman from the next room. “Rommel is friendly, but he doesn’t take kindly to people roaming around.”
Rommel, a Rottweiler roughly the same weight as myself, growled menacingly.
“Now, now Rommel,” she chided. “You mustn’t spook the guests.”
“Man lady,” I says looking around. “You sure got a lot of books on Scientology.”
“My son is a very prolific writer,” she calls from the kitchen.Mental Note: "prolific" = crappy
I cross my arms. "Yeah I’ll bet.”
“I can’t seen to find my purse," she says exasperated. “Can you check the kitchen? I’ll look upstairs.”
“What about Cujo here?”
“If he growls,” she says fading upwards, “just give him a bone from the cupboard.”
I swing open the door and enter the kitchen.
There’s no purse to be found.
This wrinkle-kit is gonna drag this out into an all-day affair if I let her, I’m thinking. God they should just wax all these lonely old crazy people. Once you get like thirty or so-“
Suddenly Rommel let loose a thunderous bark, and cut my train of thought completely.
He’s sitting on the kitchen linoleum, drooling sloppily, and tail thumping hard against the floor. He's a pretty big dog, too: we are looking eye-to-eye.
And for the first time since I got here, the dog looked friendly.
“Who’s a good boy?” I says, scratching him behind the ears. Remembering what the old crone said about the bones in the cupboard I says “Wanna treat?”Bam bam bam goes the stumpy tail with increased enthusiasm. Rommel does an exaggerated and clumsy half-trot to the cupboards -impotent claws slipping helpless and loudly across the smooth floor- clearly indicating where the treats are.
What kind of crazy old broad would keep bones in a cupboard? I’m thinking. But sure enough, there’s a big thick meaty one in there. Maybe four or five pounds, eighteen inches or so long.
“Well it’s a good day to be Rommel!” I smile, tossing him the grizzly trophy. “So does this hag got any pop or anything? I'm thirsty.”
I open the fridge. She has iced tea, a half bottle of Shasta, a human head in a jar of clear liquid, and what is most likely orange juice-
My heavy bag of newspapers slides off of my shoulder, and lands on the ground with a with a solid thud.
As I stare -the hairs rising on the back of my neck- the magnetic refrigerator door eases closed.And there’s an audible sickening crack of broken bone as Rommel enjoys his “prize” behind me.
“Oh there you are!” says Old Mother Hubbard, proudly brandishing her newly-found purse. “Three fifty you say?”
“You know what lady?” I says, dragging my bag. “We’re good.”
Sunday
People Are So CUTE With Their Lil "Votes"
Predator Press
[LOBO]
I find it hard to believe our Founding Fathers wanted this fantastic idea of “Democracy” to be bogged down with non-violent “debating” and the excruciatingly-long and unperfected process of “voting."
We need to strip away all the years of excess baggage we’ve added to this concept and boil Democracy back down into it’s purest and simplest form:
-The Cage Match.
Now I would “debate” Don Lewis myself, but I’m currently experiencing a nasty yeast infection. Despite my protests, the doctors have flatly benched me from any cage match debates for an indefinite period.
Suggestions of a “stunt debater” to take my place have all had a rather lukewarm reception from Don Lewis’ camp; despite the slightly inferior physical specimen provided, they still appear reluctant to seize upon the concession.
Alternatives appeared to be drying up rather quickly, so I put together a spectacular Pay-Per-View Texas Electric Razorwire Bullwhip Lumberjack Deathcage debate between John Nobody and Don Lewis, whereas I would referee and ensure fair "down the middle" calls and watch for cheating, et cetera.
-Again, Don's camp whined. "No LOBO I don't wanna debate in salted, broken glass," and "Boo-hoo! A lava-filled moat that spews flammable oil, jets of flame, searing acid and pissed-off starving alligators is too dangerous!"
Pansies.
-And I may never get the fine folks at Hasbro back as a sponsor with this wishy-washy campaigning.
Why is the Lewis camp making this so difficult for me? You can’t even see John Nobody. Don Lewis –100% perfectly visible in the human spectrum- has a clear and significant advantage for paramedics to find his remains!
To mitigate this, I submit that John Nobody should be allowed to bring a lightweight fully-fueled well-oiled STIHL chainsaw with no less than an 18-inch bar -ideally suited for general electoral dismemberment- to any function that requires the two appear together.
-Don in turn will get an equally-deadly icky plastic mellon baller I found in the backyard with the serrated edges worn down by dogs chewing on it for the last six months or so.
Democracy has become such an unsanitary pain in the ass nowadays, I don’t know why we bother.
Blech!
This Message Brought to You By:
[LOBO]I find it hard to believe our Founding Fathers wanted this fantastic idea of “Democracy” to be bogged down with non-violent “debating” and the excruciatingly-long and unperfected process of “voting."
We need to strip away all the years of excess baggage we’ve added to this concept and boil Democracy back down into it’s purest and simplest form:
-The Cage Match.
Now I would “debate” Don Lewis myself, but I’m currently experiencing a nasty yeast infection. Despite my protests, the doctors have flatly benched me from any cage match debates for an indefinite period.
Suggestions of a “stunt debater” to take my place have all had a rather lukewarm reception from Don Lewis’ camp; despite the slightly inferior physical specimen provided, they still appear reluctant to seize upon the concession.Alternatives appeared to be drying up rather quickly, so I put together a spectacular Pay-Per-View Texas Electric Razorwire Bullwhip Lumberjack Deathcage debate between John Nobody and Don Lewis, whereas I would referee and ensure fair "down the middle" calls and watch for cheating, et cetera.
-Again, Don's camp whined. "No LOBO I don't wanna debate in salted, broken glass," and "Boo-hoo! A lava-filled moat that spews flammable oil, jets of flame, searing acid and pissed-off starving alligators is too dangerous!"
Pansies.
-And I may never get the fine folks at Hasbro back as a sponsor with this wishy-washy campaigning.
Why is the Lewis camp making this so difficult for me? You can’t even see John Nobody. Don Lewis –100% perfectly visible in the human spectrum- has a clear and significant advantage for paramedics to find his remains!
To mitigate this, I submit that John Nobody should be allowed to bring a lightweight fully-fueled well-oiled STIHL chainsaw with no less than an 18-inch bar -ideally suited for general electoral dismemberment- to any function that requires the two appear together.-Don in turn will get an equally-deadly icky plastic mellon baller I found in the backyard with the serrated edges worn down by dogs chewing on it for the last six months or so.
Democracy has become such an unsanitary pain in the ass nowadays, I don’t know why we bother.
Blech!
Saturday
No, THIS is Like a Metaphor-Thingy
Predator Press
[LOBO]
You know on one hand I want to thank Dr. Tundra for the great title, and on the other I'm furious with him for almost making me look up what "metaphor" means.
I shouldn't be too angry. I mean it's not like I actually bothered looking up what “metaphor” means, right?
No harm, no foul.
Plus I think I can fake my way through this. Sure maybe I couldn't tell a metaphor from a migraine headache waiting to happen -but I am the World’s Leading Authority on ”Thingys." Heck I probably have more “Thingys” in my garage than most people have altogether.
Anywho, we cannot wax on and on about my expertise on “Thingys,” for that is merely a byproduct of my radiant braniosity.
My radiant braniosity is what we should be waxing on and on about.
It has yet to be explained to me what these "problems" are America is so worried about. I mean if you can get past the fact that you can't get plain white toothpaste anymore, the rest of the place is pretty cool, right? Just today in the news is an Associated Press story about how Half of US Doctors Use Placebo Treatments. Heck ten years ago I'll bet one tenth of doctors didn't have decent placebo technology!So when I went to the debate where John Nobody presumably smeared Don Lewis into a thick paste over on Radioactive Liberty, there was a full two hours or so where I had to pretend I was paying attention to "issues" -and oh man if I heard any more "Legislate This" or "Subsidize That" blah blah, I woulda been snorin right there in the front row.
I thought a "debate" was like a cage match or something. You know, like a "Two Men In, One President Out!" kinda thing? ... But all these guys did was talk at each other!
No wonder John Nobody seemed puzzled when I recommended he wear an athletic cup.
Just as I was about to look up the definition for "Debate," The Question hit me: Has my radiant brainiosity ever been quantified?
I immediately closed some of my porn windows and Googled "Radiant + Brainiosity + Calculator + LOBO."
Nothing.
“Hey Buddy,” whispers Trent Lott as he taps my shoulder. “What was the name of that site?”
“What? Google?"
“No,” he says, tugging on his collar. "The one with the, eh,-"
Eyebrows furrowed, he cups his hands in front of his chest.“This is no time for shenanigans," I exclaim with reproach. "This is a presidential debate, and the worst kind possible: the kind without a cage match or monster trucks! I would've expected some decorum from you, President Lott.”
“Actually I was a Senator.”
“You were never a president?”
“No.”
Puzzled, I look to the guy next to me. “But you are a president, right?”
“No,” says Dick Durbin.
“So what, they just let any kind of losers into these things now?”
“Apparently,” says Durbin.
"Well, at least that explains the glaring absence of monster trucks."
“Say," says Durbin. "Can you email me a copy of your bookmarks?”
“Not right now,” I says. “I’m doin’ something for Science.”
“So was I,” says Lott.
Wednesday
Ballot Boxing
Predator Press
[LOBO]
“LOBO,” says Don Lewis over the speakerphone. “I’m too chicken to keep running this campaign against you and John Nobody. You guys are far more dynamic, have better ideas, and are flat-out better equipped to run this Great Nation.”
“We’re better looking too,” I point out.
”Yes that is absolutely true.”
“Why don’t you just write a conciliatory speech and put it on your blog?”
"I’m afraid rabid Angry Seafood and Predator Press fans will smell blood and-"
“Don, we never published those pictures.”
”What pictures?”
“You know what I would do Don? I would just forget that MC Hammer roadie thing ever occurred and not bring it up on your blog at all. In fact, don’t even post for a week or two. Take a nice long interlude maybe. In the meantime, John Nobody and I will simply accept your surrender real classy and quiet-like.””Thanks LOBO,” says Don.
“No problem,” I says. “I’m just glad you finally came to your senses.”
“Do you guys care if maybe I come out in a few days and act like this surprised me? I could go into a rage and totally claim this conversation never took place. You know, call you guys dirty liars, et cetera.”
I shrug. “I guess not. But that seems a little desperate, don’t you think? And dishonest? I mean this conversation did take place.”“Yeah well those people will believe anything I tell ‘em,” says Don. "I once implied you were, eh, 'somewhat less than a sexy, sexy genius'. They totally bought it."
“Don," I says indignant. "That’s a terrible way to insult the intelligence of your own constituency!"
Don laughs evilly. “That’s nothing compared to what I woulda done to ‘em if I got elected.”
Friday
BLORE
Predator Press
[LOBO]
I'm looking for a word I can't find.
So's I call Merriam Webster.
"Merriam," I says. "I need a word for blogging whore."
"I don't think there is one LOBO," says Merriam.
"Well that's pretty shoddy work on your part," I says. "You people need to get with us here in the Twentieth Centurion. We got computers nowadays, and people are whoring their blogs on them."
"I suppose you're right," concedes Merriam. "Any ideas?"
"Well, I'm kinda partial to blore."
"Huh. I like it. It's a noun and a verb."
"Can it have a picture of me in the definition?"
"Do you think you qualify?"
"Do I ever! Humor Bloggers, Alltop, Entrecard ... you name it, I'm bloring on it.""You're on Humor-Blogs too, right?"
"Oh man it should be illegal how much bloring I do on Humor-Blogs. 'Cept Diesel keeps busting it. He calls it 'upgrading'."
"Should I send him a copy of my book?"
"Nah. Between conquering the internet, writing, his job, building a house, kids, wife, et cetera he'd never read it. He's one of those, ah ... Hey, what's a word for 'somebody that's always doin stuff'?"
"Busy?"
"Yeah. He's like really, really busy. Which is probably why he made the site faster."
"I thought you said he busted it."
"I said upgraded. Jeez Merriam ... those two words don't mean anything like each other. I thought you wrote them big thick books with all the alphabetized words and definitions."
"You mean Dictionaries?"
"I dunno. I have a dresser with a broken leg and the corner it props up covers the title almost entirely. You're probably right. It ends with a 'Y', but I don't think there's a book that indexes words by their last letter yet. Hey ... isn't that discrimination against people with dyslexia?"
"Before we get too far off-track, is there anything else you can tell me about blores such as yourself?" asks Merriam. "I'm taking notes here so don't go too fast."
"Well," I says, thinking. "We don't take criticism very well."
"Really."
"Yeah. Like about my last post, this dude damonkappas said 'That's too much to read. Your post wanders all over the highway like a 76 ford pickup with a broken axle. Focus man, focus!'""How did that make you feel?"
"I don't know really. I found a quarter after that. And then while watching television I got hungry so I drove to Wal-Mart and bought some pants."
"You got hungry so you bought pants at Wal-Mart?"
"Well I needed something with pockets to put the quarter in."
"How is your election coming along?"
"Eh, I dunno." I shrug. "I don't really follow politics. I figure John Nobody will let me know one way or another."
"What will you do if you two win?"
"You mean besides have the Secret Service wax damonkappas?"
"Yes."
"And rubbing it good and merciless in Don Lewis' face until the end of time?""Yes."
"Never thought about it."
"Really?"
"Well the President isn't the guy that puts up a stop sign so's playing kids don't get hit by cars. Or get your street's potholes fixed. Or opens an art museum in your neighborhood. All the real important stuff in people's day-to-day lives is handled at a far more local level; I'll bet you a dollar 4/5ths of the people voting on Election Day couldn't name three people on their own City Council."
"Maybe you should change all that," says Merriam.
"You mean become, like, The Pothole Party?"
"Eh ... "
"Waaay too much work. Plus pot is illegal ... all I would get is a very smooth drive to the state pen and maybe a case of "the munchies." No, at this level people don't want anything effectual at all. Effects tend to have consequences. John and I have far too much at stake to risk having any consequences whatsoever.""Why bother then?" asks Merriam.
"Because the risk of Don Lewis winning is far too horrifying. Rather than talking to the people in meaningless and endless reassuring circles, Don Lewis would doubtlessly see some important issue and impudently do something about it. Then, BOOM! Consequences. John Nobody and I are twice as ineffectual as Don Lewis. There will be no consequences while we are in Office."
"I see."
"So does my new word go in the dictionary?"
"Based on your logic, wouldn't having an effect on the American lexicon jeopardize your election?"
"Damn, you're right!" I pause for a second. "What if we said it was Don Lewis' idea?"
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