LOBO -Predator Press
"Of course I'm Celebrating Saint Patrick's Day," says Cindy. "I'm Irish. Don't you care about heritage?"
"Pthbtt," I says. "If any our 'heritages' were worth a shit, our ancestors wouldn't have come to America in the first place."
Showing posts with label mom and dad. Show all posts
Showing posts with label mom and dad. Show all posts
Tuesday
Knox
First I need to apologize to Stephanie Barr, who actually commented on the post "Sisyphus" --a post I promptly deleted. Long story short, about ten days ago I heard from my dad for the first time in a decade, and by osmosis got some contact from other lost relatives and siblings.
I've sort of inferred dad's health is in decline, but I'm not sure anybody was aware of the fact that dad found me. What ensued became quickly toxic, as I was accused of conveniently showing up by people already dividing his estate. Worse, most of this was spilling out on my Facebook account. I keep my "real" life off of Facebook. I consider Facebook and Twitter more of a playground. Worse than even that? Remember how I said it had been a decade? My mom helped me track these people down that time, and what I found was a viper pit. Don't get me wrong, family is family, but they all just stopped answering communication efforts ten years ago. See, I'm dad's only kid from a different mom. By not picking sides in the frequent feuds, inevitably, I became my own side.
I guess I thought dad's new pack would mellow with age, but it's full-on Game of Thrones shit at the moment. So this time I preemptively purged everybody. For posterity, I would like to leave two final thoughts for them:
#1) Congratulations!
If you all had not foiled my diabolical plan, a year from now I would be driving a Fisker at 35 miles per hour wearing goggles, scarf, and driving gloves, and smoking a cigarette with a filter like four feet long sticking out the window because fuck oncoming traffic.
#2) Thanks For My Sense Of Humor, Dad
-Michael
Sunday
The Rabbit Hole
[LOBO]
Since we're doing "flashbacks," I thought I would tell you about my great, great, great, great grandfather: King LOBO the First.
In an effort to conquer both the Crips and the Bloods, King LOBO found himself and his army lost in a desert. This was due to a clerical error ... they were all seeking a Dairy Queen for dessert, and way back in those days Predator Press mapticians were terrible spellers.
"We shall send scouts!" he proclaimed. "One to the north, one to the south, one to the east, and one to the west. And they will tell us which way will provide us with safe passage and much-needed parfaits!"
The next day Bob's horse returned, Bob's severed head in the saddle bag.
"Shit!" proclaimed King LOBO. "Does anybody remember which direction we sent Bob?"
Saturday
The War Room
Predator Press [LOBO]
Why he has an enormous map of such an obscure location in Nevada is fairly mind-blowing. But within moments he retrieves it, and sprawls it over the large table.
"First let me say that if there is even one percent truth in what you are telling me," he barks, "you would be the last soldier on Earth I would trust on an important mission like this. You are ill-equipped, untrained, inept, and virtually worthless."
"Thanks dad," I reply.
"Have you considered just hiring a mover?"
"That sectional couch came from Ikea. Only the most brilliant minds on Earth and Koreans can reassemble it."
He ignores my answer, poring over the map with a fingertip. "Her signal is coming from ... "
... his finger thumps the map. "Here."
"There's nothing there," I note.
"Eh ..."
"There's nothing on Google Maps either, which proves it," he says. Sighing deeply, he rises, pushing his helmet up an inch with his finger. "Son, what we have here is a full-blown conspiracy."
"Obviously."
"So what the hell happened to your eyebrows?"
Ultra-Violent Light
Predator Press [LOBO]
Once I decided I needed to rescue Sapphire from an alien race -who might possibly be planning an invasion- because I needed her help moving some furniture, a week ago I visited my dad for the first time in years.
"Are you on drugs, son?"
"No," I says, forgetting the Chantix.
"You would be a lot easier to explain to people if you started doing drugs."
"I'll try."
It gets quiet for a minute, and -after all the driving- I'm basking in the gaps of his enthusiasm to see me.
My dad is an ex Chicago cop, that, at some point, said "fuck everyone." He bought 100 acres of property on an obscure, undeveloped mountainside patch of land in Arkansas. My mental image of him is often rocking on the porch with a six pack and a shotgun, serenely hoping "The Revenuer" shows up.
He has a garden, tomatoes, peas ... despite the austere doublewide trailer, everything seems kind of subdued and unremarkable.
"How's your mom?" he asks good naturedly. I can't really clock his eyes through his goggle-like Hubble telescope glasses, but I can see by his smile he is sincere. "Fourth husband work out?"
"Fifth husband is treating her well.""Fifth? What. Are you two in some kind of competition?"
"Very funny, dad," I says, a bit stunned by the raw observation. "So what gives? This place looks so ... normal. Where is all the artillery? We've never lived anyplace without at least one anti-aircraft battery within 100 yards."
"I keep most of that in the basement."
The basement of a doublewide trailer.
-Ah shit. Time for the crazy old coot to go into a home. Well, he had a good run ...
Suddenly the lights dim to a flashing blood red, and an alarm blares.
"Quick!" He cries. "To the wardrobe!"
***
The "wardrobe," it turns out, is a super-fast elevator to some kind of safe room.
The doublewide has three floors I notice.
"It's a fucking rabbit," he says, selecting the screen depicting the area that triggered the alarms. Pressing a button, large, unseen turrets slide up from the ground into the camera view. "These guys are eating my tomatoes. Wanna see something cool?"
The monitors lock into glowing, red crosshairs on the rabbit's head.
"Not really."
"But they are eating my tomatoes!"
Sunday
If You're Mad At Paula Deen, Meet My Dad
Predator Press
[LOBO]
The only time I can recall dropping an "N-Bomb" was in the heat of a fistfight -one that I lost- when I was about fourteen years old. For reasons never explained a guy sucker-punched me on a bus, and I pounced him. Shocked, adrenaline-feuled, and furious beyond rationale, pow, out it came. All the oxygen seemed to be suddenly sucked out of the vehicle. Time stopped, and that word just hung there, palpable and malignant in the ether. I was so mortified at hearing myself say it I kinda threw the fight, feeling like I deserved to get my ass kicked. And boy did I ever. (Note to self: pick more prudent times to be stricken with guilt.)
Even at the time, it wasn't in my lexicon. My dad and stepmom were (are? more on this later) vehement racists -my dad in particular- so I most certainly was exposed to it. But dad lost custody to my "birth" mother when I was six or so. Mom, in weird contrast, was the first of her migrant family to be actually born in the United States, and as a consequence she was definitely not down with the whole racism thing. In retrospect I don't know how those two crazy kids got together in the first place. A quasi "foreigner" herself, not only did she suffer her own racial discrimination issues, but she was among the first women trying to break into the workforce vis-à-vis "Mad Men." Working for a sexual harassment factory posing as a law firm, she returned us to the cultural squish of Chicago where I was born and raised. There, I made friends with every race and nationality imaginable -hence underlining the horror and deep regret of my action.
The last time I saw my dad's side of the family was maybe ten years ago, and I regret to inform you some of them were just as racist as ever. Dad was a perplexing and textured cat: a former Chicago cop that passionately hates cops, and a white supremacist that had black friends who were aware he was a white supremacist. As a decorated Chicago cop, he fought the Mob until a crime lord threatened his family, i.e. my mom (his first wife) and the toddling bundle of joy aka yours truly. Legend has it he set his badge on the Mob guy's desk and walked away from the force, never looking back. He would also go on to sell his house and go into bankruptcy in the bitter custody battle over me which he would subsequently lose.
I speak of him in a past tense now as I'm not sure he's even alive; he got so fed up with the country he bought a large piece of property on an Arkansas mountain, and a whole chunk of that family side sort of just receded into it. To imagine him in a rocking chair, shotgun cradled in his arm, waiting for a hapless "revenuer" to wander up to his doorstep is not far-fetched; that single visit was anachronistic to the point that it was cartoony. And that I don't share his views shamed him I think. I have on numerous occasions amused myself with the idea of getting a black woman in a police uniform to go there with me and introduce her as my wife. Hellooo, life insurance!
So let's not kid ourselves. That culture, as back-assward as it seems today, is still out there. And Paula Deen's situation, on the face, might not seem that different than mine other than she didn't make the conscious effort to take herself out of it that I did. She is also much (much!) older, so one could argue I had an easier time than she might have.
But the idea of hosting cotillion-like events replicating that whole ugly era is utterly bizarre. I suppose it may have some historic value and tradition, but it borderlines being insensitive if not outright distasteful, thusly magnifying anything she can claim would have been a simple "youthful indiscretion." Why people don't just emulate something more neutral puzzles me. If you're not racist, why look, act, and dress like one for fun? Even if bigotry is sincerely the furthest thing from her mind, wouldn't anyone with a double-digit I.Q. recognize she is asking for trouble? Go get really jazzed up about something else like the Monroe Doctrine instead. "Hooray for the 1854 Kansas-Nebraska Act!" has a nice ring to it.
Unfortunately, that won't work either. America was arguably founded in 1776 and the Civil Rights movement wasn't until 200 years later. That only leaves 20% of American history to draw from -and if you count a certain compound on a remote Arkansas mountainside, you have 0.
So Paula, please enjoy your "Smurfs 2"-themed wedding. Don't tell any midget Avatar jokes. And sprinkle in frequent "I'm sorrys" to all who participate and attend.
Like I do for my do for my dad.
[LOBO]
The only time I can recall dropping an "N-Bomb" was in the heat of a fistfight -one that I lost- when I was about fourteen years old. For reasons never explained a guy sucker-punched me on a bus, and I pounced him. Shocked, adrenaline-feuled, and furious beyond rationale, pow, out it came. All the oxygen seemed to be suddenly sucked out of the vehicle. Time stopped, and that word just hung there, palpable and malignant in the ether. I was so mortified at hearing myself say it I kinda threw the fight, feeling like I deserved to get my ass kicked. And boy did I ever. (Note to self: pick more prudent times to be stricken with guilt.)
Even at the time, it wasn't in my lexicon. My dad and stepmom were (are? more on this later) vehement racists -my dad in particular- so I most certainly was exposed to it. But dad lost custody to my "birth" mother when I was six or so. Mom, in weird contrast, was the first of her migrant family to be actually born in the United States, and as a consequence she was definitely not down with the whole racism thing. In retrospect I don't know how those two crazy kids got together in the first place. A quasi "foreigner" herself, not only did she suffer her own racial discrimination issues, but she was among the first women trying to break into the workforce vis-à-vis "Mad Men." Working for a sexual harassment factory posing as a law firm, she returned us to the cultural squish of Chicago where I was born and raised. There, I made friends with every race and nationality imaginable -hence underlining the horror and deep regret of my action.
The last time I saw my dad's side of the family was maybe ten years ago, and I regret to inform you some of them were just as racist as ever. Dad was a perplexing and textured cat: a former Chicago cop that passionately hates cops, and a white supremacist that had black friends who were aware he was a white supremacist. As a decorated Chicago cop, he fought the Mob until a crime lord threatened his family, i.e. my mom (his first wife) and the toddling bundle of joy aka yours truly. Legend has it he set his badge on the Mob guy's desk and walked away from the force, never looking back. He would also go on to sell his house and go into bankruptcy in the bitter custody battle over me which he would subsequently lose.
I speak of him in a past tense now as I'm not sure he's even alive; he got so fed up with the country he bought a large piece of property on an Arkansas mountain, and a whole chunk of that family side sort of just receded into it. To imagine him in a rocking chair, shotgun cradled in his arm, waiting for a hapless "revenuer" to wander up to his doorstep is not far-fetched; that single visit was anachronistic to the point that it was cartoony. And that I don't share his views shamed him I think. I have on numerous occasions amused myself with the idea of getting a black woman in a police uniform to go there with me and introduce her as my wife. Hellooo, life insurance!
So let's not kid ourselves. That culture, as back-assward as it seems today, is still out there. And Paula Deen's situation, on the face, might not seem that different than mine other than she didn't make the conscious effort to take herself out of it that I did. She is also much (much!) older, so one could argue I had an easier time than she might have.
But the idea of hosting cotillion-like events replicating that whole ugly era is utterly bizarre. I suppose it may have some historic value and tradition, but it borderlines being insensitive if not outright distasteful, thusly magnifying anything she can claim would have been a simple "youthful indiscretion." Why people don't just emulate something more neutral puzzles me. If you're not racist, why look, act, and dress like one for fun? Even if bigotry is sincerely the furthest thing from her mind, wouldn't anyone with a double-digit I.Q. recognize she is asking for trouble? Go get really jazzed up about something else like the Monroe Doctrine instead. "Hooray for the 1854 Kansas-Nebraska Act!" has a nice ring to it.
Unfortunately, that won't work either. America was arguably founded in 1776 and the Civil Rights movement wasn't until 200 years later. That only leaves 20% of American history to draw from -and if you count a certain compound on a remote Arkansas mountainside, you have 0.
So Paula, please enjoy your "Smurfs 2"-themed wedding. Don't tell any midget Avatar jokes. And sprinkle in frequent "I'm sorrys" to all who participate and attend.
Like I do for my do for my dad.
Femmolition
Predator Press
[LOBO]
I remember Mom looking down at me and smiling.
“You can be anything you want to be,” she explained. “You can be a musician, an astronaut, a scientist … anything.” Winding in the strained peas on the yellow plastic spoon she soothed, “The only thing you can’t be is a failure.”
And she was right.
-I should have been a musician, astronaut, or scientist.
Thursday
Canadian Breakin'
Predator Press [LOBO]
“How come you never mentioned you had an uncle in the National Hockey League?" Terri asks, pointing at the scrapbook picture.
“Well he wasn’t a very nice guy,” I says. “He was stubborn, over-achieving, and fiercely anti-symmetric.”
“But we aren’t Jewish.”
 |
| My Uncle had more hits than Wikipedia. |
“Huh," says Terri. "But I thought hockey rink ice was only a few inches thick?”
“Hence the ‘stubborn’ and ‘over-achieving’ part,” I shrug.
Sunday
Bringing the Giant Down
Predator Press Nurse Garrison pulls the curtain back with a well-practiced snap, and in my mind’s eye I can clearly see her, clipboard in hand, taking her seat. Doctor Nyarlathotep’s unmistakable tall, thin frame is silhouetted in full view.
“Why are you still in your leisure suit?” says Nurse Garrison with clearly insincere cheer. “We need you to put on the hospital gown as requested.”
“I’m sorry miss,” the man replies. “If I were anything other than polyester, I break out in hives.”
Nurse Garrison audibly scrawls on her clipboard. “What seems to be the problem?”
“Ah,“ says Doctor Nyrlathotep in a thick accent. “When did your erection start?”
“October.”
“Really?”
“October 1991, actually.”
-I hear Nurse Garrison’s pencil tumbling on the linoleum.
“Why would you wait all this time to seek medical help?” asks the doctor.
“Because of my occupation.”
Nurse Garrison flips some pages. “It says here you are a … cruise ship captain?”
“It’s kind of a long story. You know those cruises for single senior citizens?”
“Like Seniors Meet?“ Nurse Garrison offered.
“Love and happiness?” says Nurse Garrison. “It says here you’re only in your forties.”
“Yep. I would seek out the most unhealthy and oldest women possible. Triple bypasses, cancer, whatever. Then I would wine them and dine them until properly seduced. Then I would have the ship captain marry us.” I could see the shadow of his hands folding behind his head. “Once geezed up on booze, cocaine, meth, and wild freaky sex, they rarely survived the honeymoon.”
“Well the captain apparently thought so too,” the man continued. “And during the subsequent investigation he found out I was a stowaway.”
Nurse Garrison snorted. “So you were thrown in the brig I would hope.”
“Nah. Seniors -somewhat skittish by nature- tend to be touchy about security issues. The crew of the Sea Nile found the whole situation embarrassing. I was forced to work in the galley to earn my fare until we reached the next port, where I would presumably face charges.”
The doctor seemed incredulous. “So what happened then?”
“Damndest thing,” the man replied. “The whole crew came down with food poisoning.”
“Really,” Nurse Garrison breathed. “I wonder how that happened.”
“Me too. Oddly, as in naval tradition, when a captain is knocked out of commission he is replaced by the first mate. And if the first mate is knocked out …”
“Yes,” Doctor Nyarlathotep nodded. “The succession of command at sea.”
I could see the shadow of Doctor Nyarlathotep’s head shaking. “So as the only unpoisoned member of the crew, you became captain.”
“Well, acting captain I suppose. But I did get me one of those cool hats.”
“You were never caught?”
“I assigned a passenger task force of little old ladies to solve the crimes, but they all turned up dead.”
“Booze, cocaine, meth, and wild freaky sex. It was all very mysterious. My First Mate -Noodlecakes- was concerned-
"Noodlecakes?"
"He is a Yorkshire Terrier, I think. But anyway, Noodlecakes was concerned the seniors might mutiny. We decided to, uh, distract them somehow.”
Sensing an uncomfortable pause, the doctor prompted the man. “What did you do then?”
“I started marrying the passengers to each other. Randomly at first, then alphabetically. Soon I had the system pretty refined based on size, race, religion …”
“Oh my God,” Nurse Garrison moaned.
“Doesn’t this all sound strangely familiar?”
I could resist no longer. Leaping up from my own hospital bed, I threw the curtain wide on the startled three that I may lay eyes on this singular man, this patient who could be no other than-
“Dad!” I cried.
Wednesday
Did I Eat This?
Predator Press [LOBO]
After five years, I finally got my RSS feed working.
I'm really impressed with myself.
-I called my dad.
"Hey Dad!" I says. "I got my RSS feed working!"
"What? Who is this?"
"Dad, it's me. LOBO."
"Who?"
"Very funny Dad," I says chuckling. "We missed you at the wedding."
"What wedding?"
"I married the fair Terri."
"Oh man, she's hot."
"I know!" I says.
"Who is this really?"
"LOBO," I says. "Remember? You were undefeated at finding the most Easter eggs. I was the short one wearing the blindfold.""Has it ever occurred to you that maybe your dad was the one hiding the Easter eggs in the first place?"
"You would get frustrated after a few hours, and from then on only let us paint them white so they would be easier to spot," I muse. "I found one on my Big Wheel yesterday."
"Well I wouldn't eat it. Look. I'm sorry. I think you have the wrong-"
"You used to drill us at 3:30 every morning in case of a zombie uprising."
"Zombie uprising-?"
"Unless it was Wednesday or Sunday. That's when we practiced for alien robot overlords."
"I have no idea what you are talking about. Say, are you calling me from a cell phone?"
"How about when you burst out from under my bed, and banged a trash can while shining a flashlight into my eyes -the whole time zapping me with a cattle prod and screaming obscenities until I wet my pants?" Rhythmically, I gently kick the kitchen cabinet while absently twirling the curly phone cord in my fingers. "That's one of my fondest memories. 'The Power of Christ Compels You!' Haha. I'll bet you still tell that story."
[audible sigh]"You realize that those same alien robot overlords would be able to intercept cellphone transmissions if they really existed?"
"Um-"
"And that once they secured a foothold on Terra Firma, they would play back all these messages searching for possible insurgents? They would send Ragnarok the Colossus!"
"Or Thrang, the Human Rototiller!"
"-If they existed, which I would never discuss over a cellphone."
"Remember how you disbelieved that new fertilizer gave you 'billions and billions of new grass blades' like it advertised, and I tried to count them for you? Cripes, I was only at 4,155,189 when the cops came."
"Yeah," says the disembodied voice. "But I was still proud of you."
"How is Rex?"
"Zombie."
"Really?"
"Yeah. We hadda put him down in 2005. He unmistakably had The Look."
"So Rex is gone? Who delivers your mail now?"
"I dunno. Some robot."
"How's mom?"
"Possible zombie.""Mom?"
"You know her. It's hard to tell. She's never been the same after the abduction."
"Yeah. Good luck getting her near a trailer park."
"I keep tellin' her the best way to kill aliens is with a tornado. But then she just gives me The Look."
"How about Aunt Phyllis?"
"Robot zombie."
"No way!"
"She always was a social butterfly. It worked out really well for her ... she's, eh, a Class C."
"Stainless model?"
"Fusion powered. All chrome. She's really come a long way. And you should see how fast she can deal the cards at Euchre. Mom and her are still inseparable ... but if we have another incident at the petting zoo, I think they are going to call the cops."
"Poor Aunt Phyllis," I says. "It can't be easy to adjust to being a zombie and then pow, a Class C robot too -especially with all those eating disorders.""Look. I gotta go. You take good care of that LadyTerri, okay?"
"I will dad."
"God she's hot."
"I know dad."
"You realize I have no idea who you are, right?"
"Oh, you old dog! I can see where I get my sense of humor."
"Well, congratulations on that RSS feed thingy anyways. And if you guys ever get down here to Capitol Hill, be sure and have Terri drop by my office."
"We will."
"And stay away from Hittites. Those people are nothing but trouble."
"I will. I love you, dad."
"Fag."
The Piltdown Clan
Predator Press
[LOBO]
”LOBO,” says God.
“What?”
”I see you’re reading the story on CNN about-“
“God, can you please crank it down a notch?” I says. “You’re making my teeth vibrate.”
”Oh, eh, sorry. How’s this?”
“That’s perfect. What’s up, G?”
”I see you’re reading the story on CNN about those 47 million year old fossilized remains.”
“Yeah,” I says. “They’re speculating it might be an ancestor of humans.”
“What do you think about humans being descended from apes?”
“Have you met my parents?”
[Holy Pause]
“Touché.”
[LOBO]
”LOBO,” says God.“What?”
”I see you’re reading the story on CNN about-“
“God, can you please crank it down a notch?” I says. “You’re making my teeth vibrate.”
”Oh, eh, sorry. How’s this?”
“That’s perfect. What’s up, G?”
”I see you’re reading the story on CNN about those 47 million year old fossilized remains.”
“Yeah,” I says. “They’re speculating it might be an ancestor of humans.”
“What do you think about humans being descended from apes?”
“Have you met my parents?”
[Holy Pause]
“Touché.”
Friday
Mom ‘N Dad: New World Disorder
Predator Press
[LOBO]
A little woozy and “loose” from the drugs alcohol, she suppressed a giggle; from this angle she had a rare view of not only his black socks, but the bottom of his shoes. They always appeared gigantic and comically elongated from underneath.
“Is that a new suit darling?”
“Why yes my love,” the man preened. He stood and did a half twirl. Funny, but kinda swank with the big cigar. “What do you think?”
“I don’t think we can afford it.”
“But I closed that purchase we wanted," he puffs. "You're looking at the second largest asbestos manufacturer in the Midwest. I can't go around dressed like a chump you know. Me ‘an you are going places baby. I love you. You are my oxygen.”
Sitting, he swings the metal tray back over her and pours a two shots of Wild Turkey.
“Thank you,” she replies.
“How’s about me ‘an you take a vacation? Huh baby? Maui. Italy. Australia. You name it.”
“Scotland,” she smiles.
“Cigarette?” he asks, fumbling his vest.
“Please.”
While presenting the Camel, he extends the pack to the young Doctor I. M. Nyarlathotep.
“No thanks,” says the pup lowering his stethoscope.
-Despite just graduating from medical school, there was no mistaking this diagnosis.
“I’m afraid I’ve got some bad news," he says finally.
“That’s terrible,” says the man. “Would you like a shot?”
“I mean terrible news for you,” he replies.
The man poured himself a shot.
Taking a deep breath, the doctor sighed. “She’s pregnant.”
The man drank his shot.
“I can’t be pregnant,” laughed the woman.
“Yes,” agreed the man after a satisfied gasp. “She’s just getting really fat.”
“Nope,” says the doctor, holding X-rays up to the light. “Preggers.”
The man gasped. “How long do we have, Doc?”
“Not long,” he says studiously, turning to the man. “Those stomach cramps are actually contractions. You may want to go downstairs and pace around in an anxiety-addled state for a few hours.”
“But if I were pregnant," asks the woman, "wouldn’t I know? I mean wouldn’t he have moved or something by now?”
The doc continues to study the illuminated X-Rays. “Look, I’m not telling you the kid isn’t lazy.”
The woman grabs the man’s hand. “Baby this is wonderful!”
“Yes,” says the man, tracing his finger across the hospital Fire Escape map. “The Maternity Ward is two floors down, and there’s a set of stairs-“
“We’re way ahead of you,” says the doc. “It has been bricked up for four years now.”
“Darling,” she insists. “We’ll have the pitter-patter of little feet running across the pool deck of out summer home.” Wistfully she sighs, “And with you being an asbestos magnate, he can go learn with the greatest minds of our time at the finest of Ivy League schools.”
Exasperated, the man looked down at his her, still clasping his hand hopefully.
And after what seemed an eternity gazing into those big beautiful blue eyes, his icy heart finally melted.
“Jesus, I hope he's white,” she adds.
[LOBO]
A little woozy and “loose” from the drugs alcohol, she suppressed a giggle; from this angle she had a rare view of not only his black socks, but the bottom of his shoes. They always appeared gigantic and comically elongated from underneath.
“Is that a new suit darling?”
“Why yes my love,” the man preened. He stood and did a half twirl. Funny, but kinda swank with the big cigar. “What do you think?”
“I don’t think we can afford it.”
“But I closed that purchase we wanted," he puffs. "You're looking at the second largest asbestos manufacturer in the Midwest. I can't go around dressed like a chump you know. Me ‘an you are going places baby. I love you. You are my oxygen.”
Sitting, he swings the metal tray back over her and pours a two shots of Wild Turkey.
“Thank you,” she replies.
“How’s about me ‘an you take a vacation? Huh baby? Maui. Italy. Australia. You name it.”
“Scotland,” she smiles.
“Cigarette?” he asks, fumbling his vest.
“Please.”
While presenting the Camel, he extends the pack to the young Doctor I. M. Nyarlathotep.
“No thanks,” says the pup lowering his stethoscope.
-Despite just graduating from medical school, there was no mistaking this diagnosis.
“I’m afraid I’ve got some bad news," he says finally.
“That’s terrible,” says the man. “Would you like a shot?”
“I mean terrible news for you,” he replies.
The man poured himself a shot.
Taking a deep breath, the doctor sighed. “She’s pregnant.”
The man drank his shot.
“I can’t be pregnant,” laughed the woman.
“Yes,” agreed the man after a satisfied gasp. “She’s just getting really fat.”
“Nope,” says the doctor, holding X-rays up to the light. “Preggers.”
The man gasped. “How long do we have, Doc?”
“Not long,” he says studiously, turning to the man. “Those stomach cramps are actually contractions. You may want to go downstairs and pace around in an anxiety-addled state for a few hours.”
“But if I were pregnant," asks the woman, "wouldn’t I know? I mean wouldn’t he have moved or something by now?”
The doc continues to study the illuminated X-Rays. “Look, I’m not telling you the kid isn’t lazy.”
The woman grabs the man’s hand. “Baby this is wonderful!”
“Yes,” says the man, tracing his finger across the hospital Fire Escape map. “The Maternity Ward is two floors down, and there’s a set of stairs-“
“We’re way ahead of you,” says the doc. “It has been bricked up for four years now.”
“Darling,” she insists. “We’ll have the pitter-patter of little feet running across the pool deck of out summer home.” Wistfully she sighs, “And with you being an asbestos magnate, he can go learn with the greatest minds of our time at the finest of Ivy League schools.”
Exasperated, the man looked down at his her, still clasping his hand hopefully.
And after what seemed an eternity gazing into those big beautiful blue eyes, his icy heart finally melted.
“Jesus, I hope he's white,” she adds.
Wednesday
Funk
Predator Press
[LOBO]
A handful of psychotherapists have indicated some concern over my moodiness lately.
Indeed, I’ve been in an orbit around ‘ah screw it’ for maybe three weeks now.
“Try to do something charitable,” says one. “There’s nothing more satisfying than being in service to others.”
So’s my mom has got a doctor appointment today, right? I figure here’s my chance: taking the old bat to her appointment might be a big step in breaking the sulk, and thusly keep my psychotherapists too busy to dawdle on dumb ideas.
But as this morning rolled around it dawned on me I didn’t know what kind of appointment it was. Hey if it’s an eye doctor or something, fine. But what if it’s, like, a –ahem- feminine doctor? That would be a waiting room experience even the Creepy Meter couldn’t quantify.
”Oh relax,” she laughs over my cellphone speaker. ”It’s just my in-network orthopedic surgeon.”
Calling her on my way to pick her up is dumb on a lot of levels. First of all, I’m committed at this point. There’s no “oops I overslept” option anymore: you’re stuck with faking an aneurysm or swerving into the other lane of traffic.
But second is my admitted inability to drive and talk on the cell in the first place. The driving side is fine, but the conversation suffers: you’re almost more apt to get a tuna casserole recipe out of me than anything useful.
I glance balefully at the phone, which is wedged cleverly in my emergency brake handle.
“Your in-network or torpedic surgeon?” I repeat. “What the hell is a ‘torpedic surgeon’?”
“It’s a bone doctor,” she explains.
“Once you get down to bones, isn’t it a little late?”
”Oh no. They have wonderful new technologies.”
“Sure,” I says. “They can scan you in a second and suck out what’s wrong with a glowing crazy straw made of lasers. But I’ll bet you a dollar nobody has figured out how to keep us out of the waiting room for anything less than an hour.”
“Doctor Quan has a very interesting collection of ceremonial masks on display.”
Ceremonial masks?
“Mom, what kind of doctor is this again?”
“In network.”
“Don’t we have American doctors anymore?” I complain. “You remember. An American doctor stumbles in off of the golf course drinking a glass of bourbon, puts his cigarette out on the floor, and punches you in the stomach. If you get up, you’re fine.” I grab my coffee out of the caddy. “You mean to say there wasn’t a single ‘Doctor Cooter’ in the whole damn phone book?”
”That would be a funny name for a gynecologist,” she points out.
-I blacked out actually hearing my mother utter the ‘G’ word by swinging into my exit lane. I’m pretty adept with my ‘mom’ filters: I don’t think I’ve heard a full sentence she’s said since I was six years old. “Doctor Cooter could do it all,” I says. “The receptionist says ‘next,’ and one by one the patients go in -never to be seen again.
”That sounds kinda creepy.”
“No. Because he cures them. Doctor Cooter doesn’t make you drive thirty miles to a specialist for X-rays before you see him next month. Doctor Cooter doesn’t need lousy X-rays. Doctor Cooter has instinct.”
”And an aptitude for body blows,” she adds.
“Exactly. And it’s not just one hour in the waiting room for Doctor Cooter. No. He calls everyone in at eight o’clock sharp so we could all watch each other slowly thin out. Six minutes later the lights are dimming in synch with an oscillating sound that suspiciously resembles a chainsaw. ReaaaahhhngggingingingAWWWW!”
”That’s awful.”
“-and glowing blue sparks shoot out from the crack under the door!” I kill the car engine in her driveway. “Hey I’m here.”
”I don’t think I want to go anymore,” says mom. ”Can I just tell them you overslept?”
“By all means.”
[LOBO]
A handful of psychotherapists have indicated some concern over my moodiness lately.
Indeed, I’ve been in an orbit around ‘ah screw it’ for maybe three weeks now.
“Try to do something charitable,” says one. “There’s nothing more satisfying than being in service to others.”
So’s my mom has got a doctor appointment today, right? I figure here’s my chance: taking the old bat to her appointment might be a big step in breaking the sulk, and thusly keep my psychotherapists too busy to dawdle on dumb ideas.
But as this morning rolled around it dawned on me I didn’t know what kind of appointment it was. Hey if it’s an eye doctor or something, fine. But what if it’s, like, a –ahem- feminine doctor? That would be a waiting room experience even the Creepy Meter couldn’t quantify.
”Oh relax,” she laughs over my cellphone speaker. ”It’s just my in-network orthopedic surgeon.”
Calling her on my way to pick her up is dumb on a lot of levels. First of all, I’m committed at this point. There’s no “oops I overslept” option anymore: you’re stuck with faking an aneurysm or swerving into the other lane of traffic.
But second is my admitted inability to drive and talk on the cell in the first place. The driving side is fine, but the conversation suffers: you’re almost more apt to get a tuna casserole recipe out of me than anything useful.
I glance balefully at the phone, which is wedged cleverly in my emergency brake handle.
“Your in-network or torpedic surgeon?” I repeat. “What the hell is a ‘torpedic surgeon’?”
“It’s a bone doctor,” she explains.
“Once you get down to bones, isn’t it a little late?”
”Oh no. They have wonderful new technologies.”
“Sure,” I says. “They can scan you in a second and suck out what’s wrong with a glowing crazy straw made of lasers. But I’ll bet you a dollar nobody has figured out how to keep us out of the waiting room for anything less than an hour.”
“Doctor Quan has a very interesting collection of ceremonial masks on display.”
Ceremonial masks?
“Mom, what kind of doctor is this again?”
“In network.”
“Don’t we have American doctors anymore?” I complain. “You remember. An American doctor stumbles in off of the golf course drinking a glass of bourbon, puts his cigarette out on the floor, and punches you in the stomach. If you get up, you’re fine.” I grab my coffee out of the caddy. “You mean to say there wasn’t a single ‘Doctor Cooter’ in the whole damn phone book?”
”That would be a funny name for a gynecologist,” she points out.
-I blacked out actually hearing my mother utter the ‘G’ word by swinging into my exit lane. I’m pretty adept with my ‘mom’ filters: I don’t think I’ve heard a full sentence she’s said since I was six years old. “Doctor Cooter could do it all,” I says. “The receptionist says ‘next,’ and one by one the patients go in -never to be seen again.
”That sounds kinda creepy.”
“No. Because he cures them. Doctor Cooter doesn’t make you drive thirty miles to a specialist for X-rays before you see him next month. Doctor Cooter doesn’t need lousy X-rays. Doctor Cooter has instinct.”
”And an aptitude for body blows,” she adds.
“Exactly. And it’s not just one hour in the waiting room for Doctor Cooter. No. He calls everyone in at eight o’clock sharp so we could all watch each other slowly thin out. Six minutes later the lights are dimming in synch with an oscillating sound that suspiciously resembles a chainsaw. ReaaaahhhngggingingingAWWWW!”
”That’s awful.”
“-and glowing blue sparks shoot out from the crack under the door!” I kill the car engine in her driveway. “Hey I’m here.”
”I don’t think I want to go anymore,” says mom. ”Can I just tell them you overslept?”
“By all means.”
Sunday
Dear Mom
Predator Press
[LOBO]
Having officially decided to move West, I think maybe I overshot.
We ended up in China just in time for the “Jump to Your Feet, Get on your Vespa and Drive to a Dennys and Order Something Not Weird From the Bitchy Waitress” Event.
After much ado we were soon chowing down on Sh** on a Shingle loaded with fried pig parts, a side of chicken embryos and a brown-colored juice made from beans.The much-lauded decathlon was cool to watch, but seeing all the losers shot in the head was a bit distressing. Still, a bike and a gun are always handy in these circumstances; I was happy to have them.
Anyways, I did well in the Olympic Kites Event as you always predicted, and will be bringing home some gold we can melt down for rent.
Love Always,
LOBO
Silent Night, oh Holy Crap
Predator Press
[LOBO]
Come to think of it, I guess I've always been a complete bastard.
I blame everybody else, and simultaneously forgive them.
There. I feel better. Don't you?
I remember Christmas one year. We were spectacularly poor ... Depression Era geezers used to circle us on wheelchairs and walkers, pointing and mocking how poor we were.
I often got the crap beat out of me at public school for having to wear thrift shop clothing. In Chicago, nothing will seal your inner-city fate quicker than making your debut on the first day of class dressed to the nines in ill-fitting plaid pants, a button-up green shirt and white dress shoes. Without cufflinks or zodiac jewelry! To pull off that look, you've either got to be really cool or really durable: Always leaning to the practical side, I chose the latter.
One day as the kids at school held me down while the Depression Era geezers did unspeakable things in my Dukes of Hazzard lunchbox, I accidentally busted Timmy Farkas' pinky finger on my forehead. It was pretty bad. He was bleedin 'an stuff.
I got scared and skipped school so's I could duck THE MAN.
I had been skipping school a lot anyway. Back then we had Truant Officers roamin the streets, and I was on a first name basis with my local guy. Invariably -after a grand chase- he'd return me by the ear to that kiddie prison of sadistic glandular freaks, drug and firearm deals and atomic wedgie-dishing where I would be safe from all the evils of the world. Long story short, I got suspended from school anyway because of the grievous wound I had inflicted on poor Jimmy Farkas.
Mom subsequently informed me that -as far as Christmas was concerned- Santa "had my number": as the virtual poster boy for 'naughty', I was essentially going to get screwed.
"Everybody tells their kid that," I thought. "Every kid's gotta get something for Christmas. You know, like a retainer!"
By December 23rd, I positively beamed with wholesome goodness and a youthful, zesty exuberance. And despite this mammoth effort, Santa's rat never changed his story or revealed his or her identity. At one point I was virtually certain it was the guy that ran the arcade. Maybe he was feeding encrypted info to the Ice Cream guy ...
... and so it goes.
On Christmas Eve, Mom was pretty adamant that Santa was still pissed, and at this point, I'm essentially panicked. Whoever this squealer was, he wasn't changing his story for anything short of curing cancer, and I had busted my microscope during a GI Joe interrogation months ago. ["No, Mr Joe. I expect you to die!"] And while burnin stuff down is always fun, lumps of coal aren't really the best medium for it. This was the day and age of napalm thank you.
I paced in my room, my massive soon-to-be-unfulfilled Christmas list ran through my mind like those glowing numbers on the Stock Exchange. No aircraft carrier. No F-16s. Probably not even some lousy weapons-grade plutonium.
No tanks.
Nothing.
I went back downstairs to get a last forlorn look at the Christmas tree. It was really pretty, and the colored lights danced playfully along the walls. Why I could swear there was more lights than you could count. One for every curse word Dad uttered as he dragged the box of 'em out of the garage attic, hauled them in, located and fixed the busted bulbs, and drag the ladder in to put that star on top.
Scattered around the bottom of the tree, there was already presents.
"To Mom from Dad".
"To Dad from Mom"
It was a beautiful thing. While there was nothing for me there, I stood gazing at the spectacular demonstration of love expressed between my parents.
I teared up. For it was in that one shining moment that I understood the true spirit of Christmas.
While Santa might not be coming to give me presents, he would be coming here tonight.
For them.
My mind raced as I padded upstairs. What kind of fight could one expect from the fat man? Was he even fat? Santa obviously had a vast intelligence network ... could the rotund, happy and good-natured image be entirely composed of a propaganda campaign? What if he's all slimmed down from a Mrs Claus-mandated diet of lowfat proteins and carbs? I pictured a Rambo-like Santa running on a Nordic Track, Glock in each hand, picking off pictures of people on his "naughty" list.
From my closet, I dug out my armor and weapons: my football helmet, pads, cup, and a nice aluminum baseball bat.
"You don't come on my turf and mess with the bull," I growled. "You'll get the horns."
Then, arching my body impossibly over the presents, I nestled myself comfortably behind the tree.
And I waited.
Now, I'll bet the Emergency Room sees a lot more of this on Christmas morning than they are really willing to admit.
My mom got up early and -in her bathrobe and big fuzzy bunny slippers- made coffee. In a rare moment of quiet solitude, she wandered by the tree to admire it. The big cup of coffee cupped in both hands, head slightly cocked ... in my mind's eye I can almost see her angelic wistful face admiring the splendid culmination of all my dad's cursing.
Spotting a fallen ornament, she gracefully leans down to pick it up and re-hang it.
I woke up to the rustling sound of activity nearby. Bleary, I listened through the helmet. No, I definitely heard something. I opened my eyes cautiously, and spotted movement.
It was time.
I tensed up and sprung out like a cat, screaming.
Now, my mom, previously enjoying a quiet solemn Christmasy moment, probably reacted pretty normally to a screaming midget in a football uniform wildly waving a baseball bat bursting out of her Christmas tree dragging huge, macabre tangles of Christmas lights and tinsel.
She screamed.
Dad, hearing us both screaming, came tearing out of bed and rushing downstairs. Now, do you know how many times this man has yelled at me about running up and down the stairs? Sure enough, he missed a stair and crashed noisily to the ground, breaking his leg.
Mom looks at dad and screams. I scream. Mom looks at me again, screams, and then faints --cutting herself on the broken ornament and requiring four stitches. I see blood and I faint.
... And so on.
The paramedics and police, alerted immediately by the neighbors, got on the scene in minutes.
I woke running a fever. Seems Santa not only has a sense of humor, but he possesses biological weapons and is more than willing to use 'em. Must have injected me while I was asleep.
Next year, fat man.
Next year.
Thursday
A Pilgram's Progress
Predator Press
[LOBO]
Aside from Halloween, Thanksgiving is simply one of the most darkly disturbing holidays ever ... and I've already dubbed this year "Cranksgiving 2007".
You know, I am thankful. I'm having one of my best years ever: I've got great friends, a fantastic job, and a big-assed television. Game over. I win, right? So why stick me in that viper pit of poultry pounding relatives?
Jesus. I sneak peeks around the room, and find my mind turning the same thought over and over: how the hell did I come out normal around these weirdoes?
Then I force my attention back to the football game on my big-assed television.
God I love that television.
Inevitably, my cozy, slothful splendor will be torn asunder: somebody forgot something at the store, and I've gotta face the cold to address an emergency cranberry deficit or something. I mean why do I have to suffer for someone else's pisspoor planning? History is absolutely littered with the arrow-riddled bodies of pilgrims toting last-minute yams and 12 packs of Coke ... even after fifty of sixty years, have we learned nothing?
Mom should be fired immediately. Hey, I'm sorry ... I understand that you were up all night poking and prodding a dead bird in the oven. But this is like the 20th Century already: we have frozen turkey dinners now. Six minutes in the microwave. Plastic sporks. Boom! On to the football.
It's called the Pilgrim's Progress, and Americas neverending quest for big-assed televisions and footbal is well-documented in all the history books. Embrace it. Learn from it. And never forget, lest ye be slain horribly by Indians too.
.. And please note that I'm not saying be mean to mom; I mean she is mom after all. Give her a decent reference. Set her up with one of them "Golden Parachutes" and a nice severance package to make sure she can afford COBRA for the duration while she seeks some other deserving nomadic tribe of needful pilgrims without microwave ovens. It wouldn't be so bad if done properly; I mean all she needs to do is hang out on the beach and wait for a boat, right?
Mom could use a tan.
And every family has one. The member -usually a brother- who has a new "significant other" every year. So every year you gotta mince about on eggshells to impress this new person you will never see again.
Last year, we took the new harlot aside and insisted that the entire family had been genetically blessed with a superfluous nipple that, until blessed with new progeny, we primarily use to feed the cats.
She was gone before the football even started.
Inescapably my mind will turn to our troops overseas. Each and every one of them is a million miles from home, friends, and family, blowin the crap out of stuff. This is the one day of the year I'm completely overtaken by jealousy of them.
And it's here that the sarcasm screeches to an abrupt and uncharacteristic halt ...
Even as I sit and write and bitch, there are people being shot at to defend me. Kids mostly. Undeniably, a quantifiable statistic of them will never see the land they are fighting for again ... and some will be so brutalized, they might wish they were part of that statistic.
I'm scared for them, and I don't understand our enemy at all; can't we all just get big televisions, and watch the Packers smear the Lions through a sated tryptophan haze?
Even just today?
Happy Thanksgiving to our troops; you are in our thoughts and prayers.
And I wish you come home safe.
... so I can complain about you next Thanksgiving.
:)
Wednesday
Wet Dement
Predator Press
[LOBO]
So I'm taking a bath.
Because I'm a genius.
See, it's 95 degrees here. I know this with abosolute certain precision; I have a device on my wall that tells exactly what the temperature is at any given moment.
I don't know where or how I got it. I don't even think the thing is hooked up to the internet.
It's downright spooky in a Voodoo kinda way.
So my vertical analog suspension temporatometer is telling me 'Hey man, it's fucking 95 degrees!' and I'm like, 'No way. Why is that?' But with only thin red line movin up and down to converse, I get impatient and throw my vertical-analog suspension temporatometer into the bathtub.
My vertical analog suspension temporatometer suddenly starts singing like a canary. It turns out my vertical-analog suspension temporatometer also functions perfectly as a fully-submersible horizontal thermocalculator! And it screams, 'Hey man, it's fucking 106 degrees in here!'
"Don't patronize me with your trite, red-lined scientific hippie semantics!" I says. "It's hot. My clothes are stuck to my skin from dripping sweat. Right now, an 11 degree difference might be just the cooling off I so badly need."
I strip, and prepare to indulge myself in soothing cool comfort. But then I think Wait. I haven't had a bath since I was twelve. Man, that was like ten years ago at least. How would an adult go about taking a relaxing bath?
It wasn't easy finding Ducky and my battleships, but my mom finally 'Fed-Ex'ed them. And once they were all lovingly set along the ceramic ledge, I proceeded to look for luxurious bath additives to further enhance the rather exotic experience: bubble bath, candles, music, Tide, bleach, 409, Comet, diesel, Drano ... maybe a little vanilla extract for the ladies. Ah, you get the picture.
And as the cooling, fragrant and peaceful fluids sloshed and hissed about, I instinctively held my nose and submerged completely. Playfully, I tried to see if I could still hold my breath as long as I used to. As childhood memories flooded in, I could hear my mom scolding, 'Just don't open your eyes while under there.'
Man I was a stupid kid.
What could possibly happen if you opened your eyes under here?
Monday
Smashing Success
Predator Press
[LOBO]
If George can pardon a scooter, I'm issuing a pardon for Stretch Armstrong.
See, George and I have a lot of unanswered, tawdry aggression to get out. The much-sought-after Mortal Kombat "Fatality" and the collective, visceral dream of ripping someone's spleen out and strangling them with it was still years away, and mitigated only by unceremoniously bursting your 50,000th marauding Galaxian; saving six months of paper route money might get us a six-pixel seizure machine to exterminate entire alien species' on an Atari 2600 from the comfort of your own home.
But for the most part, all we had was either scooters, or "Stretch Armstrong".
George has long since exceded the "Spleen Dream" by simple virtue of not issuing Pardons, and many a tearful, guilty Texan jaywalker has ridden the lightning into oblivion over his admirable tenacity; thus, no one was more suprised than I when George finally had a merciful change of heart today.
But while a scooter was only cool if you could find Christian Slater and tell him to 'Gleam this bitch!' while blowing up a bus; Stretch was cool all the way until you let your dates brothers tie him between two car bumpers and peel out in opposite directions. Remember silently feeling a part of your soul cry out and die?
There was, after all, a more "dignified" fate for Stretch: puncturing him with a pen and leaving him to quietly bleed that weird, sticky and toxic blue gel over the rest of your toys until your mom discovered the ruined carpeting and kicked your ass.
But we are not here to judge your mothers' ability to roller-skate and serve people through the window of parked vehicles! It was a simpler time. Adults used to meet in The Diner, and secretly plot whose kids to buy a Stretch Armstrong for Christmas. (A 'Stretch Armstrong for Christmas' --for those of you that didn't know-- was a 6 month plan to make the whole damn family move because of an unidentified mysterious chemical HAZMAT spill in the closet, with tiny melting plastic red briefs stuck in it to explain away.)
Rise Stretch Armstrong! You are no longer the inanimate subject of our insufferable, unmerciful, unholy wrath.
You are forgiven.
[LOBO]
If George can pardon a scooter, I'm issuing a pardon for Stretch Armstrong.
See, George and I have a lot of unanswered, tawdry aggression to get out. The much-sought-after Mortal Kombat "Fatality" and the collective, visceral dream of ripping someone's spleen out and strangling them with it was still years away, and mitigated only by unceremoniously bursting your 50,000th marauding Galaxian; saving six months of paper route money might get us a six-pixel seizure machine to exterminate entire alien species' on an Atari 2600 from the comfort of your own home.
But for the most part, all we had was either scooters, or "Stretch Armstrong".
George has long since exceded the "Spleen Dream" by simple virtue of not issuing Pardons, and many a tearful, guilty Texan jaywalker has ridden the lightning into oblivion over his admirable tenacity; thus, no one was more suprised than I when George finally had a merciful change of heart today.
But while a scooter was only cool if you could find Christian Slater and tell him to 'Gleam this bitch!' while blowing up a bus; Stretch was cool all the way until you let your dates brothers tie him between two car bumpers and peel out in opposite directions. Remember silently feeling a part of your soul cry out and die?
There was, after all, a more "dignified" fate for Stretch: puncturing him with a pen and leaving him to quietly bleed that weird, sticky and toxic blue gel over the rest of your toys until your mom discovered the ruined carpeting and kicked your ass.
But we are not here to judge your mothers' ability to roller-skate and serve people through the window of parked vehicles! It was a simpler time. Adults used to meet in The Diner, and secretly plot whose kids to buy a Stretch Armstrong for Christmas. (A 'Stretch Armstrong for Christmas' --for those of you that didn't know-- was a 6 month plan to make the whole damn family move because of an unidentified mysterious chemical HAZMAT spill in the closet, with tiny melting plastic red briefs stuck in it to explain away.)
Rise Stretch Armstrong! You are no longer the inanimate subject of our insufferable, unmerciful, unholy wrath.
You are forgiven.
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