Dear Employer

LOBO -Predator Press

I missed work today because I was ambushed by a well-armed horde of hot time-traveling space ninjas. Subsequently held in a concentration camp for forty-four years, I escaped with only the cunning use of hair gel and a twig.

The world should be warned of this impending well-armed horde of hot time-traveling space ninja invasion, but as a matter of National Security, I need to conserve my energy in case anything weird happens. Am requesting your discretion via satellite, currently riding on the back of an elephant through Deepest Darkest Africa in search of the US Embassy. But satellites are really heavy, and my elephant is getting tired and cranky. I have to keep this message short.

The President, Myself, and the rest of the Free World all thank you for your cooperation and understanding in this matter, and I will check email as soon as I find a new elephant.

BTW, what do you people have against elephants?

Te Amo

Predator Press

[LOBO #64]

LOBO clone #32 arrived at the Pearly Gates bewildered.

He was dead?

Apparently.  And by now, there was a line of LOBO clones waiting to speak to Saint Peter.

"Hi LOBO clone #32!", says LOBO clone #71 and #16, waving enthusiastically. "Jesus Christ what a handsome clone."

"I was just about to say the same thing," grins LOBO clone #32. "You guys are downright gorgeous!"

"How did you die?" asks #71.

#32 shrugs. "High cholesterol maybe?"

"Wow," says #16.

"Yeah," says #32. "What about you handsome devils?"

#16 blushes. "You know I'm not sure. I was playing with plastic bags.  You know, putting them over my head, and trying to inflate them.  That's the last thing I remember."

"It was probably the mob," offers #71.

"That's a really brilliant insight," ponders #16. "I never thought of that. It could have been a really ugly, jealous mob. #71, you must be a genius."

"A really good looking, sexy genius," ads #32.

"What about you, #71?" asks #32.

#71 held up his right hand, inspecting his fingernails with arched eyebrows coolly. "I knocked up Sapphire."

"No way!" says #32.

"You're kidding!" says #16.

"Nope," says #71. "Several years ago, before I met Terri, me an Sapphire had a, uh, 'thing'."

"You lucky bastard," says #32. "You handsome, brilliant, lucky bastard."

"Tell us how it happened," says #16.

"Yes, please do," says #32, bouncing and clapping his hands. "Give us details!"



***

LOBO hated going to Chicago. It was always a big pain in the ass.

As usual, he would ride straight up Interstate 94 until he hit the inevitable gridlock. Deciding that this was more parking than it was actually driving, he would then abandon his car wherever he was -right there in the sea of beeping and cursing- and walk the rest of the way.

It wasn't a perfect or particularly convenient system admittedly. But on occasion when he came back hours later, the car was still there surrounded by the same beeping and cursing people that were there when he left. And sometimes -when he was really lucky- it would have maybe fifteen or twenty feet of open road in front of it.

At least he didn't have to tote around change for a parking meter.

On this particular day, he got within eight miles of his destination before the "parking" started.

It was shaping up to be a fine day.

Shuffling northward, he was reading the used car classifieds as he walked. In no particular hurry, he arrived at Sapphire's posh apartment building three hours later.

Outside was a disheveled, smelly guy, holding out a tin cup.

LOBO took the cup and looked inside. It was full of nickels and quarters.

"No thanks," he says, handing it back to the bewildered guy. Tapping his temple with his index finger he replies, "I did the free parking thing."

But as he starts to walk away, he notices someone else walk by and drop some change in it.

"Wow," says LOBO. "That guy just gave you money? Just like that?"

The guy with the cup stared.

"Oh I gotta get in on this action," he says to no one in particular. "This city rocks!"



***

So LOBO returns from the nearby convenience store like twenty minutes later with a small bag.

Unwilling to soil himself, he also had a Diet Pepsi which he promptly poured in his lap.

Figuring an environment less hostile to the olfactory senses might be more lucrative, in the bag he had two dozen pine tree air fresheners which he proceeded to sneakily hang on all the other people on the block holding out cups.

With a black marker and cardboard, he countered the abundant "WILL WORK FOR FOOD" signs with "WE ACCEPT VISA AND MASTERCARD". Where one guy's pants hung too low, LOBO's hung lower. Where one's clothes were inside out, LOBO's were inside out and upside-down. When one drooled, LOBO gushed. When one sang tunelessly or cursed at people that weren't there, LOBO would affix a Bluetooth earpiece upon them: this would transform the shabby-looking transient instantly into a trendy Gen-X high powered executive.

"Oh come on!" LOBO complained when the guy in Army fatigues missing his legs scooted by on a skateboard. Frustrated, he beaned "Skateboard Guy" with his empty plastic cup.

Frothing unrepeatable obscenities, he skulked on up to Sapphire's apartment in defeat.



***

Three hours later, the phone seemed to ring forever.

Finally, the semi-familiar voice answers. "Yeah?"

"Is this Fat Louie?" asks LOBO.

"Who wants to know?" says the disembodied voice.

"This is LOBO."

"Who?"

"You know, LOBO. We met downstairs. You asked me if I needed anything. Like 'H' or dope or crack or women."

"Oh yeah. You're the guy that said you were bored and looking for a 'good time'."

"Yep," says LOBO. "That's me."

"Well what do you want?"

"When you sold me this, uh, Liquid G stuff, you said 'one drop in a girls drink, and I was guaranteed to have a good time'."

"What happened?"

"She fell asleep!"

"Ummm ... what did you think was going to happen?"

"I don't know. I figured maybe she would call up some friends and we could play Trivial Pursuit or Monopoly."

Pause

"Uh huh," says Fat Louie.

"Should I give her some more?"

"God no," says Louie. "Too much of that stuff could be dangerous. I would put it away. In something you know nobody will accidentally drink out of."

"Like a can of Tab? I'm way ahead of you." LOBO pauses. "How long is Sapphire going to be out? I think I need a ride home."

"About eight hours. She won't remember a thing, either."

"So I'll need to write out some directions?"

Another pause

"So what can I do for you?" asks Louie.

"Well, I'm bored. And I already watched all her Dawson Creek dvds." LOBO sighs. "So how's the wife and kids?"

"Look, 'LOBO'," says Fat Louie. "You got any condoms?"

"Yeah. I found some in her purse."

"Well use them, dumbass."

A click, and a dial tone.



***

Use the condoms? LOBO thought. What am I going to do? Make ribbed, glow-in-the-dark, 'lubricated for her pleasure' sausage?

He didn't get any ideas until he went in her bathroom. There, he found rows and rows and rows of Sapphire's bottled perfume.

It was all cheap crap, too. No Safari.

Remembering the hobos in the street, he started making pleasant-smelling water balloons. It took about five or six burst ones to determine the maximum density of a water-slash-perfume filled condom, and he disposed of the unusable ones in the toilet.

"Bombs away!" he cried over Sapphire's 35th story balcony, scoring a direct hit on Skateboard Guy.

Finally out of ammunition, he returned to the kitchen, thirsty. Finding an unfinished can of Tab, he chugged the whole thing as he wandered in to see if Sapphire had woken yet.

... And passed out right next to her.



***

Sapphire woke to find LOBO snoring loudly.

That's strange, she thought.

Having been unconscious for quite some time, she headed immediately for the bathroom, where she found an empty vial labeled "Liquid G", and a half-dozen burst condoms floating in the toilet.

She screamed.



***

"What happened then?" asks LOBO clone #16.

"She was trying to wake me up, but I couldn't understand a word she was saying; for some reason she was really upset and had one of those Early Pregnancy Test slides in her mouth. Evidently, I might have gotten her pregnant somehow-"

"Maybe you're so virile that just being near her was enough. Did you go near any cabbage patches?" asked #32.

"No."

"Or leave a half dollar under her pillow?" asked #16.

"Nope," replies #71, shaking his head.

"I'll bet that sneaky Skateboard Guy had a half dollar to sneak under her pillow," reflected #32.

#71 points to his nose, and continues. "I calmly explained that she shouldn't be ashamed of succumbing to her natural sexual desires for me, what with me screaming out all these incredibly manly testosterates everywhere. She's only human for God's sake: it's biology. And even though it was more likely Skateboard Guy's baby, I would raise it with her like it was my own, and we should get hitched so's the kid ain't no bastard."

"So ..."

"I don't know what happened next. Something crashed into my head. I turned to look, and it was the sidewalk."

"Hah!" says Saint Peter. "See Gabriel? You owe me fifty bucks!"

Com-Castrated

Predator Press


[LOBO]

One of the casualties of trying to pay for my car was my cable television.

-Between renting the equipment and blah blah services, I cut my bill by ninety dollars.

Still it was rough; pulling those cables out this morning was a very painful experience, analogous almost to euthanizing a pet. 

"So why are you working here?" I ask Barbarossa as we stand in the cafeteria chow line.  Friday chow has a Mexican food theme, and it's the only day of the week I may deign to eat there.

And the only lunchtime I see Barbarossa, now a non-smoker.

"My last boss was a racist," he replies.

The lady behind the counter 'wraps up' her last customer and turns to me.  "What can I get you?"

I manage a smile, despite the fact that I don't have cable.  "I would like the mega nachos with everything -including jalapenos- but without beans."  Well rehearsed and recited, my thoughts never left my dearly departed cable TV.

-But I decided to be strong.

"A racist?" I asked Barbarossa.  "What happened?"

Barbarossa, next in line, stares at the menu, jaw agape.  "He found a half a joint in my F-16.  And then he had me take a piss test."

"Did you want jalapenos?" asked the lady behind the counter.

"Yes please,"  I nod politely.

"So," I pause, "where did the racism come in?"

Barbarossa, still reading a menu that said, "Nachos or MEGA Nachos," scratched his beard in thought.

"I think he was like ... Ukrainian  or something," he replied.

The lady making my nachos dips the big spoon into a big, blacked pot.

"You said extra beans, right?"

Predator Press got a BETTER Sponsor. FUCK YOU, Nike

LOBO

Predator Press

Too slithy for anything but the mimsy of gyring toves, wabe bororoves and gamey bandersnatches every frumious brillig?

Do you find yourself always galumphing around the tulgey with uffish, manxome, whiffling thoughts of completely outgrabed mome raths?

Well, break out your vorpal sword under the Tumtum tree and chortle with frabjous, beamish joy as you gimble up some all-natural nutritious lowfat Snicker-Snacks ®! *


Eat Snicker-Snacks ®
by Jabberwocky

-Now chocked full of vitamin-fortified Jubjub!

* Warning: possible side effects may include drowsiness, dizziness, migraines, insomnia, temporary blindness, stomach cramps, hallucinations, aneurisms, nausea, cancer, democratic fundraisers, projectile vomiting, projectile diarrhea, projectile vomiting and projectile diarrhea, tsunamis, wormholes, lesions, Microsoft updates, Chelsea Handler, malignant tumors, and conspicuous erections in prison.

If consumed, please consult your physician immediately.

Rejection Coverage 2012

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Hmmmmmm.

My life was never worse than it was under the much-ballyhooed Ronald Reagan.

But Ronald Reagan is credited with restimulating the American Economy exponentially during the 80's.

Thus -despite being all old and battered and spent- I owe another hellish decade to protect the Nation's future for my kids and should vote Republican?

-Have you seen my kids?

Fifty Shades of Grey Matter

Predator Press


[LOBO]

"So who are you voting for?" Barbarossa asks in a disinterested, sing-song manner.

"Obama," I reply through a foamy upper lip.  Setting the large mug down authoritatively on the bar with my left hand I simultaneously hold my right fist to my heart, belching softly. "Jesus. Are you kidding? The Dems are going to hunt the rich people down and burn them at the stake."

Looking to me from the overhead television for the first time in a half hour, he grunts.  "I never had you pegged as a Liberal."

"I'm not," I reply. "At some point the Conservatives will get tired of being burned at the stake, and hire me to eliminate the 'Liberal Scourge' out of desperation.  Remember, the Republicans have all the money.  And guns."

"Wow. What's fucking awesome," Barbarossa ponders.  "You're gonna play one side to eliminate the other.  Then what?"

"I dunno," I shrug at the television.  "Margaritas maybe?"

The Concrete Ceiling

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Three weeks ago I requisitioned 100 Q-Tips and this morning I received, on official and spiff Predator Press stationary, the rejection letter.  Evidently a minimum of three contract bids are required.

So I either need to triple the money I make, or reduce bills below the excruciating level I live at now.  And with the American economy obviously flagging -and apparently dragging the LOBOnian down as well- I'm probably being more realistic addressing the latter at the moment.  But what am I supposed to do?  Cut High Definition out of my cable bill and watch football like poor people?

Why in America is it so hard to find an affordable modest, clean, crime-free apartment adjacent to an Emergency Room with a helicopter pad?

It's Official: EVERYTHING Pain in the Ass Now

Predator Press


[LOBO]

"Just because I took you off of Probation doesn't mean I don't still own 51% of Barbarossa Enterprises," I says, menacingly poking my finger into his birdcage chest. "And things like this could get you right back on Probation."

"Well I don't know if you're aware of this," Barbarossa retorts, "but congratulations J.R. Ewing. You are proud owner of 51% of all four seasons of Sealab 2021 on DVD and 100,000 pairs of socks."

"Ah-HA!" I says.

Wait.

-What?

"And don't ask about the sock thing," Barbarossa warns. "I have OCD as a consequence of childhood trauma. If I don't buy socks, I stab people."

Man those must be some pretty cool socks.

"Fine," I demand. "Then we'll start with the socks. I would like my 51% of them immediately. And don't think you're gonna to give me all the crappy socks either -I want all of the left-side ones, and 1,000 right-side of my choice."

Editorial: There Are Far Too Many Firemen

Predator Press

[LOBO]

People are always asking me, "LOBO, here on the precipice of fiscal disaster, how can America rekindle it's economy and simultaneously get out of staggering international debt?"

Well, I'm glad you asked me this.

See, the biggest problem America faces is money wasted fruitlessly by The Govenment due to sheer inertia.

Take the Fire Department, for instance. I mean Jesus, how many firemen do we really need?

Look around you. Do you see any fires?

We have to reexamine this from an efficiency standpoint: a perfect balance of fires and firemen means you should see one fire and one fireman fighting it at all times. Anything more is poor planning and flat out wasteful.

And to prove my theory, I started a few fires (in the glaring absence of any) and like fifty firemen showed up at every single one of them.

OMG!

I, for one, am sick to death of coddling this Liberal fraternity of do-nothings. These guys are so lazy, they have beds! Beds people! You read that correctly! When's the last time you saw an honest, hard-working truck driver with a bed where he works for instance? Or Emergency Room doctors? Hm? Does the guy making my French fries at Burger King pose for calendars and get naps while on the job?

No.

Why?

Because he's doing something important, god damn it!

Somewhere in this Great Nation, at this very moment, a fireman is snoozing away our future.

Clearly, there are far too many firemen milking on the teat of my hard-earned money, and this is just another Left Wing fiscal debacle. The time has come to face the readily available facts: we should get rid of the beds, cut our entire fire department staff down to a skeleton crew, and jazz up the lucky few left 24/7 with steroids and PCP instead.

FREE

NASA photo, or L.A. taxi windshield?
Either way, the universe is a dump.

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Hundreds of years ago -back before many of our parents were even born- clouds of hydrogen succumbed to the intrinsic gravitational forces they exerted on each other, drifted together, combined, and eventually collapsed.  This increased the core temperatures.

Some of these clouds would become so hot and dense they would ignite and become stars. These stars would burn all the available hydrogen, and thus transform what was left into more complex elements in the process.

Hydrogen, in essence, is the first and simplest step toward everything we know in the physical universe. Earthquakes? Hydrogen. Asparagus? Hydrogen. Colon Cancer? Hydrogen. Matthew McConaughey’s acting chops? Hydrogen.

-Hydrogen has been trying to kill us since the beginning of fucking time.

I dunno what this movie was about, but I'm sure it
was chocked full of Oscar-worthy performances

So why has Nature afflicted us with this hydrogen scourge? And more importantly, why has Nature afflicted me with this hydrogen scourge? If you want to know the truth, Nature doesn’t give two shits and a fart about us. Remember that environmentalist guy who was on the high seas trying to protect some dolphins, and a bear jumped out of his closet and killed him? That’s how much Nature ‘cares’ about us. And do you know how much hydrogen it takes to make a bear that will stowaway onboard a ship in a closet to kill a man? This was no accident, Sherlock … this was a Homicide by Natural Causes.

Doubtlessly by virtue of this dialog I have incurred Nature’s wrath: even as we speak, She is vengefully destroying some unpronounceable place on the other side of the Earth, bathing a hapless indigenous people in the full fury of Her terrible lightning, insatiable fires, crippling diseases, howling cold winds, and decades of subsequent famine and strife. Ooooo. I’m so scared! You know what Nature? Is that all you got? Fuck you! Take this craptastic maggot farm and shove it up your ass! I am so sick to death of taking your ill-tempered bullshit, I'm making up profanity -words like 'clitch' and 'slunt!'  It’s high time we showed you once and for all who is in charge, bitch!

Another sandstorm.  Really.  [*yawn*]  How original.

As most of you already know, I, like Mother Theresa, have dedicated my life to easing the suffering of others by marketing a line of products guaranteed to improve otherwise decimated lives. Luckily, seeking out said otherwise decimated lives turned out to be easy.

The Greyhound station was perfect for many other reasons as well. First, it’s a small audience … perhaps thirty people at a time, and all thirty “attendants’ would essentially have recycled themselves on an hourly basis. That means every hour, my message of salvation would race across the country in fleet brick-shaped economic cans of Truth and Justice, stuffed with people spreading The Word of a Hydrogenless Utopia at an exponential rate.

Alas, Nature had beaten me there. I swear every other passenger was carrying a bottle of water –every last one just oozing in hydronic pestilence!  These people were unwittingly spreading Nature’s evil like a disease, and if I didn’t do something fast, hydrogen would be all over the United States within, like, eighty-seven days.

See? This proves it. With science.

All I really remember is smacking an Aquafina out of someone’s lips so hard, it cracked against the wall audibly. ”Don’t be Nature’s whore!” I demanded. “Is that what you want? To be Nature’s filthy slut?” Stunned, the little girl started crying –it would appear being nature’s whore and slut can be a little overwhelming to children. But I didn’t have much time to ponder this, as before the teddy bear she dropped even hit the floor a couple of largish guys started circling me.

Deducing I had already lost the crowd somehow, I dove at a public water fountain against the wall. “Don’t come any closer!” I growled, fingering the fountain lever menacingly. “I’ll fucking do it!”

“My god man!” gasped a security guard. "Don't!" he begged.

Then, I don’t know -somebody flinched. Turning the faucet on, I stared into the stream as it worked its way past pieces of gum in the drain ... and an instant later I was tasting the ice-cold spearmint-flavored death. A woman screamed, and a tough-looking ex military type guy rolled his eyes and just fainted dead away. I hear the closing footsteps and whirl, revealing my cheeks bulging with Greyhound public fountain water, a trickle of hydrogen-laden venom seeping from the corner of one lip.

"We're peeing with you, not at you."

Everyone in the station threw themselves to the floor and put their hands behind their heads.

"We don't want any trouble son," soothed the security guard into the well-scuffed, toxic-looking linoleum.  "Now calm down-"


***
Long story short, without that helicopter they never would have caught me. And they don’t let me into the Greyhound station anymore. But I did learn a lot from it all.  First, maybe selfless and charitable works aren’t my “thing,” right? I mean don’t remember anybody tazering Mother Theresa. I think I will have to market a line of products guaranteed to improve their otherwise decimated lives for profit from here on out.  Burn cream isn't cheap, you know?

Every case of FREE comes with a cart -I mean
what is more environmentally-friendly than that?

Second, I learned environmentalists are dumb. See, I’ve been working on a few other things to save the planet from the hydrogen scourge: one is a diet bottled water -I call it "FREE"- that is one hundred-percent hydrogen free.  But I’m having a little trouble finding a packaging method: environmentalists are already upset about my proposal to make the bottles out of half inch thick steel.

True it’s a few pounds heavier than a full bottle of hydrogen-contaminated water … but there would be a huge uptick in these jobs, and thus a much-needed boost to the American economy.  What the hell do these hippies have against America?  And think about it: isn’t the best environment one completely devoid of Nature? We spend a lot of money separating ourselves from Nature. Do you environmentalists live in a tent or something? If so, do you know what a tent is for? It’s to keep out Nature, dumbass!

Come on.  Is opening a closet without fear of being mauled by a bear in the sanctity of my own home too much to ask?

Hm?

Why Does Speaker John Boehner Always Look Like He's Sharpening Pencils With His Keyster?

Predator Press

[LOBO]

I don't think I've ever seen someone who might
actually need a drinking problem before.

The Barnside of Abroad

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Apparently I’m not enough of an Obama-hater to be “hip.”

In my defense, I’m pretty ambivalent as far as presidents go. I can’t think of any, for instance, I just fawn over. Presidents are like those lame-assed books from the rack in jail: sure, maybe you’ll find a halfway decent one … but rest assured, some asshole stuck a big green booger in it somewhere.

Still I like that Obama staunchly refused to reschedule today's speech to avoid conflicting with the republican debate, but later promised it wouldn't be so long as to interrupt the NFL season opener.

See? This man’s not unreasonable.

And what are the republicans debating anyway?

Republican 1: I hate Obama more than any of you.

Republican 2: No you don’t. I hate Obama more.

Republican 3: My hate for Obama is so huge, NASA will have to be funded again so we can land on it and explore.

Republican 1: You’re a closet Obama lover, and I’ve got pictures to prove it.

Republican 2: I'll bet you’ve got pictures, you Obasexual.

Mediator: Gentlemen, this is all very confusing. Can we please have a show of hands of all republican candidates who don't like Obama again? Just to be clear ...

Republicans have been around for several years now, and they still haven't figured out who hates Obama more.  So what assurances do we have they will ever figure it out?  Rush Limbaugh, Sean Hannity, Mark Levin, and Glenn Beck are some dedicated motherfuckers in pursuit of this title: never a late pizza, never a surprise birthday party, never a stubbed toe, never getting a puppy, never sleeping in, never a great meal, never stood up by a cable guy, never stuck in traffic, never new ideas, never something fresh, never anything but 24/7 Obama, Obama, Obama, Obama.  Frankly, the republican competition for Obama Loathing Champion of the World only seems more intense than ever.  And at some point, shouldn't these guys owe Obama some royalties?

Politically unaffiliated, I occasionally like to hear a conservative opinion -but "I hate Obama" has run it's course, and teeters on the brink of cliché. Now -just as a republican gets rolling- I'll interrupt suddenly and ask, "But do you like Obama?" This forces them to 'shoot their wad,' and reduces an hour of pontification to, "Well, no."

Economic woes are ideal distractions from the research
and development of my fantasy football secret weapon.

Done. You might think Republican's would thank me for accommodating such brevity, but what follows is usually a lot of frustrated stuttering and furious, monosyllabic profanity.

Conversely, what the hell is Obama giving a speech for? Nobody likes giving speeches. You mean to tell me the United States' freakin president can't get out of giving speeches? Then what is the point of getting to be president?

There's always the possibility it'll be important I suppose. I mean maybe Obama will be sitting there drinking beer in boxer shorts and an untied bathrobe, articulating an ardent case of why the Green Bay Packers are probably going to the Finals again, and that the New Orleans Saints are just an overblown 2009 fluke. Or maybe he's a Saints fan, and points out Green Bay averaged only 3.5 yards per carry in four preseason games, tying the team for fifth-lowest in the league.

Presidential decisions are tough.

Vocation, Vocation, Vocation

Predator Press

[LOBO]

“What can I do for you?” asks Mrs. Wahlberg.

“Well,” I says to the primly dressed woman. “My wife told me that if I have time to make Sporn, I have time to look for a job. So I saw your add in the paper saying these things would make me very wealthy. I’m totally in.”

Mrs. Walberg beams an unnaturally white smile as we enter the barn. “Do you have any experience with alpacas?”

“Alpacas are in my blood. My great grandfather ran an alpaca store, and my father lost the whole business in hand of poker. Despite the tragedy of it all, I’m third generation." I stick my thumbs through the belt loops of my jeans and add, "I'm a legacy if you think about it.”

Just inside the barn now, she stops and reaches for my hand and pats it softly in a gesture of comfort. “It must have broken your heart to lose all those dear animals at such a tender age.”

Alpacas are animals?

“Oh yeah,” I says looking sadly at the ground, thinking quickly. “We had it all. Alpaca merchandising, alpaca cages, alpaca um, food … you name it. And every Christmas dad would pick out the fattest alpaca of all, and serve him up open-pit with a balsamic glaze and-”

I feel her hand stop.

“You ate alpacas?” she asks coolly.

Oops.

“There was never any money for food at Christmas,” I begin slowly. “This was due to –ah- dad’s gambling problem. Yeah. It was either eat an alpaca or one of the kids, and the alpacas couldn’t vote.” I pretend to rub a tear from my eye. “Dad was a very sick man,” I sniff.

“How many alpacas do you want?”

“I need to make a lot of money quick. How many do you have?”

“Several hundred.”

“That’s probably a pretty good start,” I says. “Will they all fit in my car or will I have to make a few trips?”

Mrs. Wahlberg laughs. “Oh look,” she says, pointing behind me. “One of them is curious about you. Her name is Molly.”

When I turned to look, I saw a freakish creature so hideously deformed it could only be explained by God being really, really mad at it: it looked like the product of a deeply inbred dog raped by a meth-addled ostrich.

I'm pretty sure I screamed before I passed out.

Meh.

-I've had worse job interviews.

Predator Press Economic Proposal Rejected: Old, Poor Allowed to Remain in US (For Now)

Predator Press

Despite a bleak economic forecast, the United States Senate and Congress roundly rejected a proposal set forth by the world’s greatest website, Predator Press.

“We thought the United States was serious about rectifying its financial woes,” said a Predator Press staff member on condition of anonymity. “Welfare and Social Security are a major factor in America’s out-of-control deficit spending. Old and poor people are the primary recipients of Welfare and Social Security. The solution seems pretty obvious.”

The plan -to efficiently use trucks bringing illegal aliens into Arizona to deport old and poor people to Mexico on the way back- was defeated by a narrow margin.

When asked for reasons for the bill failing, our source cited wanton bipartisanship and an unwillingness to discuss the issue like mature, rational adults. “We asked really nicely -in fact we removed the language about stupid and ugly people entirely. Regardless of these huge compromises, those dumb fucks in Washington wouldn’t know good economic policy from a zit on their dorks.”

Surviving the Ameripocalypse

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Despite me warning you people a whole week ago, America’s credit rating has been dropped for the first time in history. And as a consequence it lost, like, ten jillion points on the Dow Jones.

I’ve never played the Dow Jones, but I can tell from tedious “research” that Dow Jones is no Halo: all I saw was bottomless Excel spreadsheets and pie charts. It's worse than FarmVille! Whoever lost 10 jillion points playing that stale piece of crap deserves swift and lethal payback. Did they at least get us to a new savepoint?

Worse, America doesn’t handle bad news like this well.

Sometimes I wish we were more classy, smooth and polished.

-You know, like the British.

Mexican Blues

Predator Press

[LOBO]

It turns out a large part of this beloved nation’s crippling debt is due to Social Security.

Social Security, it turns out, is money we have to pay people once they get old. You know, like 30 or so.

So all we need to do is get rid of the old people.

There. We're all thinking it, and I finally said it: we need to get rid of old people, and the sooner the better.

You know how all those Mexicans are sneaking into Arizona? We should just funnel the old people out the same way, and at the same rate -you know, like a señor citizen exchange program. Those truck trailers goin back empty is a total waste of precious fuel anyway.

And what if we raised a few bucks via Pay-Per-View by capitalizing on old people’s apparently universal inability to drive?

-Just enter gramma in a demolition derby, and tell her it’s a Walmart parking lot.

Whereas LOBO Must Once Again Rescue America

-Hello Washington? Are you listening? Hello?

Predator Press

[LOBO]

People are always asking me, “LOBO, as one of the most widely-respected thinkers of the Twentieth Centurion, can you please weigh in on what America must do to salvage itself in these dark economic times?”

Well I’m glad you asked me that. See while not yet heralded for my accomplishments in the field of economics, I’m cool with that because those guys are a bunch of dumbass morons anyways.

As a staunch fan of space exploration and scientifical development, I think the gradual fade of our NASA funding may have been a clarion call things have been in economic decline for some time.

We have no one to blame but yourselves. And decades of unspectacular clarion players.

Am I bitter you people waited so long to consult me? Hell yes. Still it is incumbent upon all endowed with the radiant brainiosity such as mine -however uncommon- to protect all of Humankind under my iron fists of galvanized wisdom:

Warfare: We can’t pay Pakistan two billion dollars a year to fight terrorism. I’ll be kind and suggest Pakistan is merely incapable of reciprocating the intended value of that money, as demonstrated by the recently-found hideout of Osama bin Laden [ObL].

We look at the situation like cancer: if we don’t encourage or enable governments to resist the infiltration of extremists, in ten years the respective “host” will be so addled they will be impossible to diplomatically relate to.

-But the problem is our cancer patient doesn’t want to get the necessary chemotherapy.

I think this is self-correcting. Like cancer, the host dies and takes the disease with it. Remember ObL was once our ally, and to some degree 9/11 is the result of the United States “playing ball” with him: the landscape of that war abruptly changed, and the sudden withdrawal of US support left ObL feeling betrayed ... Jihad was declared, and the rest is history.

Groups such as these are not necessarily under a social contract. Nor have they unified methods -in fact they often operate completely independently of each other, thus even attempts to appease them will draw unpredictable results. But if Pakistan -much more accessible to middle-eastern “payback” both geographically and fiscally- wishes to handle this on their own, I feel we cannot and should not attempt to force it upon them.

They’ll figure it out eventually. Probably too late … But hey, we tried, right?

Eugenics: Sterilize everybody. The temporary antidote is $1,000 cash, which you get back in the form of paying the emergency room bill and/or baby formula and diapers. Does this mean only people with money can have babies? Yes it does.

Firstly, $1,000 is not exactly a princely sum. But it is enough for you to need a job (and presumably a car and a home) to have it.

I don’t really care if the money comes from relatives either. Grandparents desperate for grandkids? If they are that enamored with the concept they will fork out a grand, I’m fine with that. This money shows a level of commitment where it’s unlikely the child will end up a tool for a welfare dole, in an orphanage, or roving the streets in gangs to supplement the emotional void of apathetic and broken families.

Can’t raise $1,000? Can’t raise a baby. Period. I have it on good authority raising babies can be $1,500 -and sometimes even more.

Consider: This game would be a lot easier
if we got it down to one fucking button.

Economic Diversity: I have always felt a service-based economy is lunacy. If you buy an American product or service from an American, you have added nothing to the cash pool -you have merely changed where the money is locally. When -inevitably- you buy a foreign product or service, you have removed that money from the pool. Thus if we sell nothing, our pool slowly shrinks. Like it or not, we are dependent on commerce from other countries to make our pool larger. In terms of labor we can’t compete with a lot of the world: if it costs half as much to create or service outside of the United States, guess what? That industry -and money- is going elsewhere.

But wasn’t this always true? From the 50s through the 70s -arguably an American ’heyday’ of sorts- we would compete on a global scale in terms of quality. Everything we made was simply better.

I was watching a classic sitcom the other day, and two men were bonding while repairing a toaster. I thought repair? How quaint! Now it’s almost more practical to simply buy a new toaster … one that is just as likely to break down in a year as well. But wouldn’t you pay a little more for a toaster knowing it was likely to be the last toaster you ever need buy? Screw male bonding. Let’s get back to monosyllabic grunts between football plays.

I’ll go a little further on this and suggest it’s a good idea for this to be a migration-friendly country, especially with regard to foreign businesses and real estate. Both bring in more cash, making our pool bigger. Further, as an ancillary benefit, it gives other countries a vested interest in our overall well-being.

Marijuana: I would have done tedious “research” to bring out some specific dollar amounts, but every figure I came up with varied wildly from source to source. And all seemed shamelessly modified by the motives of the respective organization.

But when you imagine the cost of the misplaced law enforcement (and tools like helicopters, cars, et cetera), violator incarceration, attorneys, trials, facilitation of probation, ad nauseam, doesn’t it seem like a hefty pile of cash to spend busting a guy who only wants to watch cartoons and order Dominos’ Pizza?

And what the hell do these people have against Domino’s Pizza?

Defense Spending: I’m not going to make sweeping reformation suggestions here, because nobody knows better than me that our safety relies on having the best state-of-the-art board with the highest-tech nail in it.

But shrewdness is the watchword here. Would it kill us to occasionally buy scratch ‘n dent Apache helicopters? We all know an Apache helicopter decreases in value the second it leaves the showroom -so why aren’t we buying up the ones the Saudis only put a few thousand miles on before they became bored with it?

Boeing: Isn’t she a beauty? Formerly flown only ever-so-gently by a little old lady from Ethiopia.

America: What is the odometer reading?

Boeing: Fifty-six Bulgarians. Then she washed, waxed, and mothballed it. I doubt it has even needed an oil change yet.

America: [whistles] We’ll take it.

And while we’re on the subject, doesn’t Lockheed Martin issue coupons and customer loyalty discounts? We would get a lot more bang for our buck [literally] if we shopped for warheads and submarines on Double Coupon Day …

Diary of a Scapegoat Herder

Predator Press

[LOBO]

I had a feeling I shouldn’t have used the orphanage’s food budget for a line of credit in Vegas.

-But we're in the middle of an unexplained recession. And did you ever think maybe this was a better country when addled with snortable cocaine, fun-loving alcoholics, unbridled sexual harassment, and wave after endless wave of citizens suffering from yet-undiagnosed Attention Deficit Disorder? I'm not letting the Rainbow Coalition off the hook either: it seems like as soon as the world got gay people -the 1990s or so- pow, the entire damn nation went into the crapper.

As far as the orphan food, don't give me some 'Holier 'n Thou' crap: I should first point out that the imitation gruel is really popular. Christ it’s not like I’m making them eat ‘Grape Nuts,’ right? And speaking of horrible crap, people are forced to hang out with Sally Struthers starving to death in other countries -meanwhile you people eat a bran yogurt tofu muffin only to purposely burn it off on a treadmill later while watching Jersey Shore.

And again speaking of horrible crap, what is the fascination with Jersey Shore? Those people look like the CPR dummies at a cosmetology school. (No, I am not a cosmetologist. But if something is going to enable me to give Martians mudpacks and facials, it ain't going to be the goddamn Russian space program. Those people don't even make a car.)

We have a saying in the orphanage business: “One never runs out of orphan food, just orphans.” Over time, I think my new taco franchise will offset the Vegas losses entirely.

-And I defy you to find any orphan taste whatsoever.

What The Hell Is Wrong With You, MicroSoft?

Predator Press

[LOBO]

I just made my default browser “Google Chrome” after what seems like far too much debate.

Only now does it occur to me that for decades the thought of buying an Apple computer over a PC would have been ardently scoffed at.  I've been ‘on board’ with computers since the TI-99 -one could argue that’s from the inception of the Personal Computer Revolution- and so help me God, through the defective chip releases and temperamental software, I've been a PC guy all the way.

But I look around my desk to see an iPhone, iPod, iTunes, iThis, iThat … now I’ve even ditched even Internet Explorer.  And you know what PC?  I ain’t married to you either: if Apple brings all this CrApple together into one collapsible device the size of a DVD case or so, I can’t imagine Intel ever getting another nickel from me.

Unless it’s some sort of government bailout.

Editorial: There Are Far Too Many Firemen

Predator Press

[LOBO]

People are always asking me, "LOBO, with such a volatile housing market, how can America get out of economic stagnation and staggering international debt?"

Well, I'm glad you asked me this.

See, the biggest problem America faces is wasted money pissed away fruitlessly due to sheer bureaucratic governmental inertia.

Take the Fire Department, for instance. I mean Jesus, how many firemen do we really need?

Look around you. Do you see any fires?

I, for one, am sick to death of watching my tax money frittered away on this Liberal fraternity of do-nothings. These guys are so lazy, they have beds! Beds people! You read that correctly! When's the last time you saw an honest, hard-working truck driver with a bed where he works for instance? Or Emergency Room doctors? Hm? Does the guy making my french fries at Burger King get naps while on the job?

No.

Why?

Becuase he's doing something important, god damn it!

Somewhere in this great nation, at this very moment, a fireman is snoozing away our very future.

Clearly, there are far too many firemen milking on the teat of my hard-earned money, and this is just another Left Wing fiscal debacle. The time has come to face the readily available facts: we should get rid of the beds, cut our entire fire department staff down to a skeleton crew, and jazz the lucky few left up 24/7 with steroids and PCP instead.

And there you have it.

You read it here first.

[Note: to further publicize this idea, I'm one of the three Uber-Firemen pictured above. Guess which one is me!]