Showing posts with label farts. Show all posts
Showing posts with label farts. Show all posts

Saturday

I Ate WHAT?

 Predator Press

[LOBO]

A ‘meat and potatoes’ guy myself, not a lot of foreign cuisine sneaks across my rather discriminating palette. But every once in a while there is a lapse in my security -otherwise airtight, I assure- and I feel I owe it to you O loyal reader, to complain about it in great, anguished, and excruciating detail.

While how we got the Grape Nuts cereal remains a mystery, I strongly suspect Terri: we’ve been married six years now, and I’m virtually positive it isn’t the first time poisoning me would have crossed her mind.

It has the texture you would guess human brains mixed with tiny skull fragments might feel like. And how do Grape Nuts taste?  For a toxic gash in the fabric of culinary history, it's surprisingly not very subtle or apologetic: imagine eating pulverized mulch, soil and tree bark dogs have peed on for years.  Mix that with a generous sprinkling of rabbit turds, and eating it out of a corrugated box with only a spade and a rake. Okay, are you picturing that?  Now imagine eating only the box.  Grape Nuts -utterly bereft of grapes or nuts, I should add- should be called ‘Rape Guts.’

Worse, it makes your poop unsinkable, unflushable battleship girders that circle around the whirlpool defiantly, bending the laws of physics and thermodynamics at will -some are so brazen, they swim against the Coreolis Effect! The larger ones exert a gravitational pull over the smaller ones, and they are drawn together -often into skirmishes for control of the tiny blue sea; the clanging and shrieking metal-on-metal sounds become extremely audible as armadas collide in angry, bobbing counter-orbits, and people are soon banging on the bathroom door. “LOBO are you okay?” and ”Where the hell are all those sparks coming from?”

-I would warn them to run for their lives, but I’m far too embarrassed.  In fact I'm sorry but if weeds start growing out of my ass, we’re all going to die and that’s that.

Grape Nuts scores impressively, however, in practical secondary applications. It makes a great spackle for instance. The stucco patterns one can achieve are fantastic. Has a tree in your neighborhood recently been felled by a storm? A box of Grape Nuts, some water and fertilizer, and you can just stick that sucker right back on the stump.

Another high-scoring secondary feature is how it elevates the art of farting: it’s analogous to going from mere garden-variety ma an pa sticks of dynamite to military shaped charges.  Terri had some friends over from work, and I didn’t even have to enter the room: from the top of the stairs, I cut a 'Silent But Deadly' [SBD] that felt like I passed a hot light bulb.

As you can guess, hilarity ensues.  I think they heard the palpable thump as it detonated on the living room floor below ... and what followed was ten seconds of erie silence, four minutes or so of shrill mayhem (choking, weeping, and the opening of windows and doors and such), and then five minutes of watery-eyed fingerpointing.

The next time Terri makes me go to church, I’m gonna choke down a whole box of this crap.

***

There is some good news on the foreign food front. We ate at a place called “Panda Express” the other day. Who knew panda was so delicious?  Judging from the number of customers, I'll bet they were serving up four or five pandas a day!  This is Entrepreneurialism at it's finest. And what better way to raise awareness of the plight of the mighty panda, nearly extinct, than to remind Americans how mouth-wateringly good they are when nuggettized and in a honey glaze -just like you would get them in Nature?

And they're only extinct because they won't have sex, right?  How nappy must those panda bitches and hos be if a male panda -born in a zoo and never had no sex before- don't want to toss 'em good an proper on top of the plastic habitat that looks like a rock?  Maybe the male panda is looking for something a little more upscale and refined, sensitive to his needs -like a panda in a cheerleader outfit.  Would it kill her to wear a cheerleader outfit every once in a while?

Maybe he’s a gay panda.  Or what if he's got, like a racist sex-fetish and wants a grizzly -or a polar- bear?  Hm?  Are the female pandas, like, real fat, or otherwise stricken with infirmities? Try not reminding him of Oreo cookies or Loa Tzu; maybe this bear is just such a hard-core fucking nihilist, he’s trying to end the species. This planet is a dump if you think about it.

Anyway, I can’t say enough about Panda Express, nor their fine work and noble commitment to save the lazy and otherwise worthless panda.

-And maybe they have a card I can get stamped for a free panda in the future!

Thursday

Prey-dar

Predator Press


[LOBO]

"I'm not going to be able to make it in today," wheezes Barbarossa over the radio. "I'm actually in the hospital."

Knowing Barbarossa's susceptibility to allergies, his first sick day doesn't really come as a surprise ... particularly in the pollen surfeit of this early Illinois Spring. But I have a corporate meeting scheduled this morning where toothy, well-dressed execs will want to decide what he should be fired for; Barbarossa's absence today would be professional suicide.

"Dude," he rasps over the phone cradled in my palm. "I think I just saw a the nurse fart!"

Switching the labels on his nasal decongestant spray and eye drops was merely hastening the inevitable.

-And inspired.

Saturday

Do Sharks Fart?

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Due to the holidays, I wasn’t going to post for a while. But science waits for no blog -not even Predator Press, dammit!

And you may remember that Predator Press is one of the few blogs that actually has a 47’ Great White Shark in captivity. And if Predator Press was going to keep this as an “exclusive” we needed to act fast.

What if Kathy Frederick at The Junk Drawer tried to 'scoop' me on this?

Hm?

So at great expense to you, Predator Press scienticans have been dragged out of various pubs and meth labs to answer the burning question on everyone's mind: Do sharks fart?

But good Predator Press-like science is a harsh mistress, and these experiments were beset with difficulties from the outset: immediately selecting 10,000 Taco Bell Fresco Bean Burritos as our explosive gas-inspiring catalyst, no matter how hard we tried, we couldn’t get Daisy to eat them.

This was perplexing. I have personally witnessed Daisy, our monstrous oceanic hunter, eat everything from Taylor Swift albums to pimply gangsta teenagers that piss me off in a swirling bloody chainsaw-like fashion. But guacamole? Wouldn’t touch it with a ten-foot pole no matter what we did. So I figured we feed them to one of the Predator Press Scienticians, and then feed him to the shark, right? Well it turned out that Predator Press Scienticians were too lazy and worthless for this historic opportunity.

After an unsuccessful ad I took out in Victoria's Secret, I was frustrated; the odds of a waify supermodel finding out there were 10,000 free Taco Bell Fresco Bean Burritos laying around and us catching her before she threw them up couldn’t possibly be improved upon.

This was going to take all my cunning.

-And frankly having them delivered to a Weight Watchers meeting was sheer genius.

Daisy broke wind at precisely 3:51 this afternoon.



Wednesday

The Fart of War

or "Piece on Earth"

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Operating on the theory that you can get Christmas-related posts virtually anywhere, we here at Predator Press have decided to briefly defy convention, continuing with the world-renown medical science millions and millions of readers have come to expect.

Yes, we're going to talk about farts.

Again.

Few associate Christmas with farting. In fact, farting is really more of a Thanksgiving thing I suppose -the phrase "Black Friday" is no accident. But I contend that after Thanksgiving, a whole month of leftovers, questionable company dinners, and experimental baking, we have created an entire society of unsung "gastronomical daredevils"; this under-appreciated methane-fueled event is currently at an apex unprecedented in the -dare I say- annals of human history.

In the many years I have known my beloved wife, I have never known her to fart. Not once! This distresses me immensely; I suspect that once she hits critical mass, she sneaks out with the car in the middle of the night and screams out to some obscure cornfield on the outskirts of town, blasting a crop circle into the otherwise orderly and unsuspecting topography.

This must be the case, right? Like it or not, everybody has to fart -and the more restraint you exercise, the worse the occurrence; forcing those things to percolate unnaturally is dangerous, and one could spontaneously explode in a big stinky bang that craters and kills everything biological for several miles, with the equivalent force of six Rosie O'Donnells at the Ponderosa salad bar. Sure I've got "Flight of the Bumblebee" in the chamber ... but are those arctic scuba divers, chipping out their now-frozen bubbles of mirth and mischief, Fed-Exing the joy abroad for no reason whatsoever?

Farting cannot -and should not- be regulated for any reason, and some of the oldest cultures on Earth still revere this fact. Muslims, for instance, don't eat burritos; if all Muslims broke wind simultaneously while facing Mecca during prayer, over the years it would gradually decelerate the Earth's rotation, causing environmental chaos!

As Americans, we are a wisely fart-tolerant, fart-friendly, fart-encouraging society, and the fart is imprinted solidly into our national olfaction -steeped deeply in tradition and heritage. Indeed, Supreme Court Chief Justice John G. Roberts has been quoted to say "When we see Sonia Sotomayor's robes a-flappin' in the wind, we immediately pull the fire alarm and engage in a orderly and well-practiced evacuation of the chambers."

Tuesday

Detonator

Predator Press

[LOBO]

After four days of unchecked growth, it was admittedly less like shaving and more like carving. Still, all cleaned up, I felt strangely giddy and lucid for the day ahead; within an hour I was at the employment facility -completely transformed from a person into shaven and spiff Subject 26 of Unit R.

The truth is I don’t mind the interviews and tests so much, but I hate filling out applications. It’s sooo repetitive. And pointless too if you think about it: I’m very pleased with my résumé ... why scrawl all that same information over and over and over by hand? I'm very, very busy busy being unemployed, and have better things to do than happity horsecrap. What am I, Jobe here?

Anywho, due to a scheduling snafu today was “Surprise Prospective Employee Aptitude Testing Day,” and four grueling one-hour tests and five hours later I staggered through our front door fini. Terri, already aware of the testing by virtue of a text message I managed to squeeze off, was already home and waiting.

“How did it go?” asked Terri. Noticing the shave, “You look nice.”

“Good I think,” I replied, buzzing with the dancing numbers, formulas and symbols seared painfully in my mind. Still, I felt unconsciously impelled to make excuses in case that wasn’t true. “I kinda struggled with the Math and Analytics parts though. It was tough to finish on time.”

“I’m sure you did fine baby.”

“The results should be available online already,” I reluctantly offered. In truth I was a bit burned out; the last thing I wanted to deal with at this moment was more test-related material. But -as was inevitable- curiosity prevailed.

As Terri logged in I lobbed more excuses.

“Threes are passable,” I volunteer. “Most serious jobs require a score of four. Engineering-type jobs require fives.”

Oh please God gimmee some fours.

“But threes are passable,” I repeated nervously. “I was pretty distracted toward the end. You know these tests are crap. And with the shabby way they are administered, I seriously doubt they produce an accurate assessment of-“

“It says you got a seven, two fives, and … and another seven.”

There’s a seven?

“And according to this,” Terri continues, “seven is the highest-“

She stops in mid-sentence, despite knowing fully the damage has already been done.

“Genius,” I says from over her shoulder. “I knew it.”

Without looking at me, Terri slumps into a slightly defeated posture.

I recognize her 'slightly defeated' posture. I know it because I’m a

-“Genius,” I repeat, nodding.

Terri, collapsing into the keyboard, sighs. “Oh Christ.”

“Please do not blaspheme in My Presence.”

“You put two CDs in the toaster yesterday.”

“And they sounded amazing,” I insisted. "C'mon. You're looking at irrefutable proof. These tests are very scientific."

“You’re going to be unbearable for weeks now, aren’t you?”

“Maybe,” I says coolly. Then, leaning in, I whisper in her ear. “Hey baby. Wanna get ‘wild an freaky’ with a bona-fide genius?

Terri smirks, sitting up. “I don’t think so. But let me know if you see one. I might change my mind.”

I shrugged with disappointed resolve, sighing. "Okay."

-And then farted.


***
Despite my genius, I have no idea what I would have done if she said 'yes' anyway. I suppose I could have risked serious injury and held that fart in for a while longer, but the only thing worse than serious injury to myself would be me causing serious injury to myself. Let's just say we were probably better off letting things play out like this ... just exactly the way God -in His Infinite Wisdom- obviously intended in the first place. And who am I to stand in the way of His Almighty Will? Hm? I don't know about you, but I'll not be causing myself serious injury messing around with God's Plan, thanks. What are you people? Atheists?

And I don’t know how long Terri chased me -or even if she did at all. Apparently it wasn't just some garden-variety mortal gas I passed: this gas -stewing on itself for five hours of earnest and excruciating job-hunting prudence and corked by a sphincter you could sharpen a pencil in- was some kind of unnatural lethal and unholy freak force of nature: the second I saw that wallpaper curl and peel I became alarmed and, eyes burning, threw a melting end table through the living room window, thus selflessly providing clean oxygen and a single tenuous shred of hope for the remaining household occupants: my wife and kids.

I'm a hero if you think about it.

Still, I dove out and continued to run a full mile in two minutes and eight seconds. Serpentine too, just in case Terri was still pursuing; there was a good chance her vision hadn't completely cleared up yet.

But there was no sign of her. So now I'm with no wallet, car, keys or cellphone, and -exhausted and a mile away- staring down the grisly task of going home to see if there are any survivors.

And I need a new living room window. And an end table. Cripes, I probably gotta wallpaper too.

This ‘genius’ stuff is harder than it looks.


Thursday

Cat Farts: “SBD,” or Just Plain “D?”

Predator Press

[LOBO]

I’m a little behind in responding to comments, but I have to say I’m a little stunned at what I’m reading.

There happens to be some demand for my “Cat Fart” story mentioned in the post Dr. Conrad Murray is Guilty of SOMETHING.

-This is further compounded by the startling concept of actually having to answer for something on Predator Press: never in a million years -after posting about topics like Planet Earth precariously dancing on the strings of a Robot Dinosaur Overlord- would I have ever guessed I’d be called to the carpet over “cat farts.”

Seriously. Do you guys hate Michael Jackson that much?

Hm.

Well, in any case I’m caught in a total lie. At the time I was joking: I didn’t really have a cat fart post brewing. And if you think about it, you're an asshole to bring it up. Still, while blaming you for this, I forgive you simultaneously.

There. I feel better.

Don't you?

Okay, also I'm sorry - I wanted you all to think this blog was like, cerebral, you know? Do you millions and millions of readers know how much decent cat fart recording equipment costs? And –more importantly- who do I know that will put crap like that on their credit card?

Silently, I handed my buddy Jim Tarkenton (VISA #5426-9425-2775-5555, security code 951) these encrypted instructions while pushing him violently into the Best Buy:

FELINE+(S)B/D = HAPPY READERS


***

To facilitate this groundbreaking research, we subsequently scoured the countryside.

-and what happened next was too horrible to describe in words.


Friday

Ask LOBO: Women and How to Understand Them

Predator Press

[LOBO]

People are always asking me, ”LOBO, you are so smooth and cool when it comes to women. What is the secret?”

Well I’m glad you asked me that.

-It just so happens I live with two women as well: my lovely wife Terri and teenage daughter, eh, Complainy.

So who better to lecture comprehensively on this subject?

Hm?

If you think about it, I’m what you might call an expert.

Yeah.

As a species I wouldn’t trade with women in a million years. For starters there’s that whole “Childbirth” thing. For those of you not familiar with the concept of “Childbirth,” “Childbirth” is where you essentially try and crap a chair. And not just any chair either: it’s like crapping one of those folding steel chairs you see on the WWE.

The weird thing is women keep doing it: even as you read this, somewhere a woman is going through “Childbirth” –and all in the full knowledge of what she’s in for.

It’s pretty crazy if you think about it. If I had fifteen minutes of advance knowledge I was going to stub my toe, I would have the evil building and everything within four square blocks demolished by professionals, burn down the rubble, and after a proper Catholic ceremony have the ashes launched into the sun.

-These people have like six months of advanced knowledge.

Weird!

In an effort to explore this inexplicable trait, I have gone through Terri and Complainy’s bathroom cosmetics. I found mostly unpleasant-seeming things such as “Apricot Scrub.” Yuck. There’s a tube labeled “Morning Burst” that makes me wince just thinking about it: can you imagine stumbling groggily into your shower, and BANG!, getting a burst of any kind? Unless it’s the shrapnel of coffee in paste form, I don't want it.

“Cranberry Tart Body Butter” got my attention. Firstly, on the label “Cranberry Tart” is written in an elaborate flowing calligraphy and looks like “Cranberry Fart” until you look at it closely (I'll take a picture of it when I get my camera back).

But what the heck is “body butter?"

-And wouldn’t something that made your farts smell like cranberries been infinitely more practical?

Well, that’s all the time I have today to lecture on women and how to understand them. I thought it would only take about 20 minutes, but women are a little more complex than I initially thought: I’ll obviously have to do the other half some other time.

In the meantime, the kids are away tonight and Terri is going to be home in a half an hour. I’m going to answer the door absolutely slathered in body butter, and in nothing else but a loincloth made from toast.

I hope she’s hungry.

:)~