Predator Press watches Prometheus

LOBO -Predator Press

Like The Phantom Menace, Prometheus got an almost immediate second viewing due to 1) trying to explain the plot so someone, and 2) hearing myself trying to do so.

Now I'm not a horror fan.  Prometheus required some extra discipline, because I spent both viewings fucking terrified.  Between the shrieking and frequent underpants changing, I'm surprised I caught as much of the plot as I did the first time.  In retrospect, watching this movie by myself was a bad idea.

Critics can bang up on it, but Prometheus shares the same rarified air as the original Alien and John Carpenter's The Thing: they are all excellent examples of why you don't want me on a Mars mission, on any job in an area classified as 'uncharted,' or making a fast food run with a really, really complicated order.

At the first sign of even a nosebleed, I would just start blowtorching every last one of you assholes.  Aliens, marines, civilians, cats ...

... especially cats.

Heart of Gold Part II

LOBO -Predator Press

Click here for Heart of Gold Part I

"Listen," says the cop, uncuffing me.  "We are going to throw this ... thing ... into the Hadron Collider."

"Oh really," I says, rubbing my wrists.  "We're going to do exactly what I planned to do before you so rudely arrested me?"

"We don't have time to send this to a committee," he barks.  "But the backup I called will be here any second.  This scourge on humanity must be stopped."

"Well, duh!" I says, choosing my words carefully.  But as he scurries around the room looking for anything useful, I begin to reconsider.  This guy is an all-business professional.  And he's big, barrel chested, and "cuts a good jib." Natural heroic looks.  He will be on the cover of magazines.

-Real or not, America needs heroes like this.

"Open that hatch on the floor," he commands, yanking at some cables.

"This hatch is clearly labelled 'DO NOT OPEN HATCH.'" I point out.

"That is an access point to the 27 kilometer ring they race the particles in."

"Kilometers?" I says, swinging the hatch wide.  "This goes to Europe-?"

But the second my eyes fall on the inside of the ring, I am lost in its violent beauty.  Glowing reds, yellows, greens and blues, flying by at thousands of miles per hour.  Utterly dazzled, I find myself wanting to fall to my knees and weep.

This must be what God sees.

Suddenly, the cop smacks me on the back.

"-and that's the plan," he continues, furiously tying the cable around his waist.  "Now remember.  One tug means 'Throw me the backpack.'  Two tugs mean 'Pull me back, fast.'  And if I don't make it," he hesitates, "tell my wife and kids I love them.  I did this to protect them."

"What is your name?" I yell over the maelstrom.

"Officer Clint McMannanaugh!" he salutes.

He dove in.  And immediately, the coiled cable next to me started to swirl away.

The end of the cable disappeared into the hatch with a violent crack against the hatch edge.

"Hey!" I yell into the hatch.  "Shouldn't you have tied this to something?"

Nothing.

I stick my head in to listen closer, and see a small metal object whip by my head from behind.

"Officer McMannanaugh!" I yell.  "You've lost your badge!"

A shoe.  And then a human ear.

"I think you should tug the cable twice!"

The cable flew by.  His revolver clanged behind, firing randomly.

"God bless you Officer Clint McMannanaugh," I mutter.  Opening the backpack, I look at the vile contents, the moist evil pulsing.  "But enough blood has been spilled over Europe."

At that point, I could have just Fed-Exed the whole pulsing squishy mass of weirdness to someone else.  But who?  I thought.  I don't hate anyone else enough!

The sirens approached.

All I can do is put this fruitcake someplace where no other human will ever dare touch it.

Tires squealed in pain against concrete.

-I'll put it under another fruitcake.

Click here for Heart of Gold Part I

Heart of Gold

LOBO -Predator Press

Click here for Heart of Gold Part II

His moves are so well-practiced, the handcuffs are on me before I know it.

Blase yet clear, the cop explains. "You are under arrest for criminal trespassing."

"I object!" I says.

He rolls his eyes with the enthusiasm of a man who can tear his ACL rolling his eyes. "May I ask you why you were trying to break into the CERN Hadron Collider?"

"This time?"

"Yes sir."

"It came back," I says.

"Excuse me?"

"It came back!" I says. "Look in my shirt pocket."

He procures the paper, and unfolds it.

"This is a signed receipt of delivery from Fed-Ex."

"It snuck in.  I was acually expecting por -eh- art movies.  But it can't come in uninvited," I explain. "It's like a vampire."

"What can't come in?" he asks.

I nod my head to my backpack. "I already had it in 2006."

The cop's trepidation is palpable, and he opens it slowly. "Is it a head?"

"Worse."

Sweat drips from his forehead. "Is it a bomb?"

"You wish."

"Oh shit," the cop reals, shutting the backpack. "You got the fruitcake."

"Twice!" I point out.

He staggers a little, but regains composure like a pro. "Look. You signed for it. I get that it isn't fair you got it twice, ..." He gags for a second. "But it's yours now."

"Or is it?" I says. "If you arrest me, you have to take it as evidence. That makes it yours."

"That's a lie!" he sobs, tears welling.

"I was trying to destroy it by throwing it into the CERN Hadron Collider and banishing it to a parallel universe once and for all."

"Or cause a space-time disruption that wipes out all of Existence?"

I shrug.

"Either way."

Click here for Heart of Gold Part II

Black Knight Satellite

LOBO -Predator Press

J.J. Abrams' concept art of "R2D2" blows chunks.

 

Behind the Scenes: Nyota Uhura

Predator Press

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Life began unspectacularly for Nyota Uhura. And after years of hard work, she was set to graduate top of her cosmetology class. But due to a typographical error, she was recruited to the starship Enterprise as Captain Kirk’s Communications Officer and Chief Exfoliator.

“Communications Officer,” however, would be a sad irony for Nyota as she was wildly dyslexic: during Romulan and Klingon attacks she would run up and down the ship screaming, “Trela Der! Trela Der!” This directly led to the destruction of Enterprises I, II, V, Va, theVIIb, and the much ballyhooed IX.2 -as well as numerous models of the Reliant, a school bus, and at least four poorly-documented bicycles.

Soon thereafter, her arrest at a Star Trek convention for the assault of George Lucas made the papers worldwide. She would subsequently tell police, “I kept punching [Lucas] until my knuckles could feel the inside of the back of his head.” Uhura nonetheless denied any motivation involving the hot Star Trek v Star Wars rivalry. “I just wanted [Lucas] to stop making shitty movies. Somebody should have done that in 1983.”

Now experimenting with drugs, Uhura's behavior only became increasingly erratic. According to Wikipedia, “Star Trek III: The Search for Spock sees Uhura take an assignment in the transporter room as part of a plot to steal the Enterprise. After locking a colleague in a closet, Uhura uses the transporter station to beam Kirk, Leonard McCoy and Hikaru Sulu to the Enterprise so they can use it to rescue Spock from the Genesis Planet.”

Uhura’s prosecutors found this defense preposterous. “She locked a guy in a closet?“ said District Attorney Jorge Sackwood. “Okay. Forget that the future doesn’t even have bathrooms … but there is a closet in the Transporter Room? Why? Is it full of red shirts? Or is it simply there for Sulu to come out of?”

Disillusioned with her military career -and now hopelessly addicted to Fuzzy Navels and a myriad of over-the-counter cold medications- Uhura’s downward spiral would lead to feelance work with Vivid Entertainment. 2011 would see the release of a poorly-produced sex tape with NFL star Bret Lockett, something Uhura’s agent disavows as her having been “heavily intoxicated and exploited.” The agent would continue on to say, “Were she fully in command of her faculties at the time it never would have happened. She thought she was making a tape with Hines Ward.”

After an embarrassing appearance on History Channel’s Pawn Stars in an attempt to sell her tricorder and phaser, Ohura finally caught a romantic break and started dating Corey "Big Hoss" Harrison. And because she never did a film with Nicolas Cage or Rob Schneider, this was the same year she was awarded two Predator Press Oscars, six Predator Press Emmys, and three Predator Press Nobel Peace Prizes.

Ohura and Harrison intend to wed this year.

-As soon as they resolve the ongoing Tribble situation.

The Definitive Unbiased History of Future LOBOnian Earth

 Predator Press  

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Occasionally, I am reminded that a lot of things had to happen for me to happen. And as the final culmination of all that galactic effort, I feel we should take a moment to reflect and appreciate the things that made me possible.


ne day, God and Jesus were in the garage working on Jesus' Pinewood Derby car. Both were frustrated, because Jesus' healing powers kept making the blocks of wood turn back into trees. They tried everything: gloves, robots, dinosaurs ... but nothing worked, and soon the garage was stuffed with pine trees. This, coupled with the annoying habit Jesus had of making slurpy sounds with his straw, frustrated God to the point that He created the horrifically disgusting dump we all know as "Earth."

Inevitably Jesus, bored, snuck into the garage alone. And there was the Earth, sitting in God's vice grips, getting ready for it's last application of water sealant. Jesus, a mischievous lil scamp, paused from making slurpy sounds long enough to take a piece of ice out of his Pepsi, and dropped it on the hapless planet.

"Look out Noah!" he cried. "I'm killing the dinosaurs!"

Noah floated all over the place, and finally discovered America. And because he had all the animals, Noah quickly cornered the market on fast food franchises -crushing the vegetarian competition. This depressed the vegetarian Steve Jobs so much, he started working on computers. Steve Jobs would subsequently invent the iPod, and thusly made space exploration possible. And a lot less boring. His company, Apple, would go on to defeat the Pharaoh by dropping frogs on him via helicopter. While perhaps not the most effective method of warfare, it is certainly by far the funniest: after a few years that Pharaoh was freaking out. "Why are all these frogs falling on me?" he would demand from the Jews. The Jews, tired of cleaning frog guts off of the pyramids, formed a tax-free consortium and bought up 51% of Egypt in a hostile takeover bid.

The Pharaoh was summarily fired from the Board of Directors, and the Jews lived happily ever after.

Here. Have a Migraine.

Predator Press

@SnarquisdeSade

Just like all the other greatest minds of our time, I have pondered the enigma of "Dark Matter."  But unlike those other dumbasses, I figured it out during a rerun of "Happy Days."  It was during the episode where The Fonz entered a demolition derby, and Pinky Tuscadero was nearly killed.  (I'm not going to elaborate here on my research methods as the science would bore you to tears.  Suffice to say, fuck the Mallachi Brothers.)

If the universe is expanding at the speed of light, suppose one side (point "A") watches the opposite side (point "B") race away faster than the speed of light.

So if matter and time and energy are all interrelated, maybe we are watching ancient photons escape faster than it can be witnessed in a "linear" sense, and taking on the illusion of physical properties such as mass and time.

So kiss my ass Stephen Hawking.

-You pussy.

NASA Retires Space Shuttle "Atlanta" to Undisclosed Location

Predator Press

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New Mars Rover Convertible, Has Cup Holders

Predator Press

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"AM radio?  Dammit Houston, the antennae is fucked up again."

Middle-aged men buy exotic sports cars in an effort to be more alluring to women.

It occurs that NASA, trying to find life on Mars, should adopt this same logic: perhaps they should build a rover that would be more alluring to aliens.

-You know.  Fill it up with rednecks not wearing pants and carrying crappy cameras.

The Astronaut Whisperer

Predator Press

[LOBO]

After being struck by a landing space shuttle, air traffic controller Dirk Elway’s life is completely transformed: sunken into the bleak menthol fog of Nyquil and Altoids addiction, even his goldfish have run away.

Similarly one of the surviving astronauts on board that very same space shuttle goes crazy, buys a box of Depends, and rides across the country –ultimately killing everyone in Twentynine Palms California with a rake.

On a hunch, Clint Eastwood –a world-renown Astronaut Whisperer- gambles that Dirk and The Astronaut’s macabre killing spree are somehow linked; armed with nothing but a 32 oz jar of Tang and a walkie-talkie Clint makes contact, culling the rogue Astronaut and reuniting him with ailing Dirk … but soon thereafter Dirk is mysteriously killed by an overdose of rake to the back of the skull.

Can Clint teach The Astronaut to laugh and love again? Will The Astronaut once again claim his coveted spot in the London Symphony Orchestra? And how can The Astonaut's lowly new job of testing 747 engines by tossing live seagulls into them let him rise once again to his once-lofty astronaut status? Only time and a ragtag group of Baptist church choir enthusiasts led by Whoopi Goldberg can tell.

We here at Predator Press give The Astronaut Whisperer, like, ten big thumbs up: this is the surprisingly engaging tale of an astronaut beset by tragedy and a love for gardening, and Clint's dogged and relentless efforts to repair his broken and battered spirit.

Scheduled for release this summer, it’s an uplifting, fun and romantic little film that’s a must-see for the whole family.

Nicolas Cage is not in this movie.

Not-So-Fast Food

Predator Press

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Someone left a slice of Pizza Hut in the sink, neglecting to jam it down into the garbage disposal.

-This brought about the rather alarming observation that the thing is so greasy it doesn’t take on water. I mean if it wasn’t boyant, I think it would make a good cork.

Or maybe a space shuttle tile.

Ragnarök

Predator Press

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I don’t really watch much prime time television –in fact I’ll wager 85-90% of what I watch is documentaries.

My favorite show, I guess, would be “The Universe” on the History channel.

At first blush this series appears to be a modern incarnation of Carl Sagan’s “Cosmos,” but it has one huge noteworthy difference: ‘The Universe’ is utterly devoid of the trademark feelgood optimism Sagan seemed to insist on. ‘The Universe,’ in contrast, makes it a point to scare the hell out of you: many a night I’ve found myself involuntarily rocking in an upright fetal position on the couch, making peace with Jesus while waiting for a rouge pulsar or quasar to incinerate the our atmosphere. Or perhaps an undetected black hole, swinging by at seven zillion miles per hour, pulling our solar system out of orbits around the sun. Or maybe just a good ‘ol fashioned colossal meteor strike that’ll bake the bones of the lucky to ash, and leave everyone else to slowly die in the subsequent nuclear winter.

Thusly rendered unable to sleep, over the next few hours I’ll try and relax myself with more uplifting material such as Forensic Files -a show often about solving unbelievably ruthless murders. This show typically runs back-to-back until about 5:00 am -at which point the rising sun will find me hiding under the coffee table, swinging the table lamp at anything vaguely resembling moving ankles with deadly precision. Everyone in the house –from Terri down to my cat Phil- now walks with a limp, but a few bruises are a very small price to pay for my personal safety. And if you think about it, what am I supposed to do? True, the house is probably oozing serial killers with ankles distinct in appearance ... but the last thing I would need is a bunch of selfish family members oozing nuclear fallout under the coffee table with me: if I get radioactive poisoning, who will be left to ensure the serial killers aren’t the only ones left to repopulate the Earth?

SO last night -with a 2-hour gap between intergalactic apocalypses and sociopathic killing sprees- I found myself deeply engrossed in a show highlighting the National Transportation Safety Bureau’s efforts to solve mysterious plane crashes. This was followed by another program dissecting the space shuttle Challenger’s final, fatal voyage.

And behind my bloodshot, riveted eyes, my brain started quietly working over the question Why am I doing this to myself?

I’m too young to remember Evil Knieval’s career when it was in it’s heyday, for instance. But I remember having the toy motorcycle [pictured], the Snake River Lunchbox, and a vague sense of hope that -whoever this lunatic was- he would somehow survive failing to jump something insane this week. Let’s face it: Knieval’s daredevil skills and stunts were in inverse proportion … the more his jumping skills seemed to diminish, the crazier his stunts became.

But at that age, I was out of the “media loop” and operating off of schoolyard legends. In retrospect, Evil Knieval’s daredevil career was already over … and this was probably good for Knieval: over a long enough timeline, him smashing headlong into the Sears Tower filled with half-starved piranhas, rabid ocelots and flame-spewing sulfuric acid in a futile attempt to jump it was inevitable. Imagine how many lunchboxes he would have sold after that!

Anyway. My point is I wasn’t hoping he would crash. In contrast, I was rooting for the guy to survive himself somehow. Was that just youthful naivety, or did I change? Or did we change as a culture collectively? Following my implied trend from Knieval, we see the dramatic rise of NASCAR –a sport enthusiasm for which I cynically suspect comes largely from the inevitable spectacular crashes. “America’s Funniest Home Videos” soon thereafter broke ground with the idea that watching a guy snap his femur in a bizarre trampoline accident would make we, the viewers, laugh and laugh and laugh. Add to the list the “Faces of Death” series and [admittedly poorly juxtaposed, but bearing mention] John Walsh vehicles. Today, we have websites and entire cable television networks wholly devoted to cataloging car crashes, tragedy, disasters, and general human boobery.

Don’t get me wrong ... I’m aware the Roman Coliseum was built for explicitly these same purposes. But haven't we evolved at all since then? Judging from the materialization of a lucrative schadenfreude-based, ShamWow-fueled economy, as a species we seem to love this stuff now just as much as we ever did -if not more.

But why?

NASA is Dumb

Predator Press

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As I see it, the biggest economic quagmire in the United States is all the money we are paying those so-called "engineers" at NASA.

I’ve been arguing that the Space Shuttle should be retired for years already … I wouldn't scrounge that thing for parts. Forget the last recorded oil change, I don’t think they even wash the thing anymore.

Like the El Camino, there comes a time for all vehicles when we stop hammerin out the dings, prop them up on cinderblocks, and leave them retired in the trailer park with dignity.

So to me, the news that NASA was developing the next generation of spacecraft couldn’t have been more welcome.

The mind reels in the technological possibilities:




Now brace yourselves for what the dynamic and sexy NASA nerds picked.

Ready?




-I haven't been this excited about science since we discovered a whole new strain of mold.

Those NASA rubes are probably pulling down like $9 or $10 an hour ... and this is what we get? Oh holy crap. This isn't cutting-edge stuff. I've seen it before in the 60s -'cept back then they called it "Gemini."

What is NASA trying to do ... embarrass us on a galactic scale? It doesn't even have a lousy death ray. Not one! Can we at least get the guys from American Chopper to glue some fake ones on? And who signed off on this paint scheme? Can't we get some flames down the side, or maybe a chick riding a panther put on it somewhere?

As it stands, this laughable design would only encourage a hoard of would-be space overlords.

And speaking of would-be space overlords, how many hundreds of our tax dollars are spent every year without those lazy SETI pricks finding anybody for us to have wars with? We all know aliens out there, smugly and hiding behind a phony shroud of blissful tranquility and plotting the violent demise of the Human Race in secrecy -we have to find them and kick their space asses first!

But if SETI doesn't find anything, don't you think they it's incumbent upon them to make some stuff up every once in a while? They’re probably bored, starin at a blank cosmic answering machine all day and night like some heartbroken teenager anyway; life still hopeful and dreams yet uncrushed, isn't maybe stirring up a little drama the least they can do?

Consider it a drill ... a drill to encounter intelligent aliens and bring the galaxy "Freedom." After all, the ability to exterminate an entire military, occupy their respective distant home worlds, and make the survivors do forced labor doesn't come easy -and we're running out of terrestrial stuff to practice "Freedom" on.

In conclusion, SETI shouldn't get another dime until we see at least a ten-page outline on a vaible and sinister celestial threat.

-And not some M Night Shamma-lamma-ding-dong bullshit either: this thing better be every inch Spielberg.

As for NASA? The way I see it, ruling the primitive war-like inhabitants of the galaxy under Enlightened, iron-fisted human Benevolence and Wisdom is our sacred intergalactic duty, and not taking the initiative here will most assuredly invite cosmic despotic tyranny.

Nosebleed

Predator Press

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Possessing the radiant braniosity of 1,000 men (or roughly six women) can be a lonely cross to bear.

See, people don’t always embrace genius. True, genius is often well-received ... but more often than not genius is dressed like Rihanna and in front of Chris Brown’s house, yelling disparaging comments about his penis size.

-But I carry on because I care.

Still, when I found out there was a scientific institute named The National Aeronautics and Space Administration (NASA) that I wasn’t a part of, I was furious.

Not only was I not invited to participate, but they didn’t even change the name -lifting it directly from my own institution: The National Aeronautics and Space Administration of LOBO (NASAL).

And how can you have an “aeronautic space administration” –national or otherwise- without the world’s foremost theoretical astrophysicizer?

Hm?

The Westward Ho Bag

Predator Press

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Yes, it is true that Terri and I are indeed are headed to California.

I mentioned it before on this blog.

But I have also mentioned conspiring with space aliens for the overthrow of Humankind, indestructible fusion-powered robotic ex-girlfriends, and a dragon that plays spectacular Scrabble.

-If you weren’t taking me seriously then, I don’t think you people will take anything seriously.

I must say a tearful goodbye to my beloved Pianosa.

I will miss this place.

My initial reaction was what some people might call a bit selfish: If I can’t continue to enjoy Pianosa, why should anyone else?

I figured by nuking Pianosa to smithereens and starting Pianosa II in California, I would be doing everyone a favor.

-It is, after all, the most practical course of action. Instead of moving, I could just collect the insurance money and start all over with brand new stuff!

Unfortunately, some of my favorite people live in Pianosa I.

Bastards.

I would like to assure the following “former Pianosians” that they will not be burned to cinders:

1) Dantheinventoryman: Oh man, if anyone deserves to be burned to cinders, it’s you.

But I also intuitively know you would somehow survive the radioactive fallout and find us.

You are a map slut, and billions and billions of phone books would have to be recalled and reprinted to correct your reckless and wanton geographical infidelity.

Well I like trees, and I will have no part of this.

2) HST: I’ve been a member of the band Hot Sauce Tamales for over two years now. We do Red Hot Chili Peppers cover tunes backwards-masked with Satanic messages on six rubber bands stretched to varying lengths, an oscillating weed-whacker and a slide whistle.

Way ahead of our time.

We were far and away the most innovative music space-age polymers, a two-stroke engine, latex and Spandex could possibly provide.

The people just weren’t ready for us yet.

3) Ethan: Far and away the person I’ve least fantasized about killing with an ice pick. What am I going to do without my oldest, dearest friend and mentor?

[*sniff*] And what will I do with this ice pick?

Anywho, soon I’ll be engaged simultaneously in the three most hideous and horrible experiences ever known: moving, applying for jobs, and taking acting classes.

I'm taking acting classes are just in case I can't get any other type of work.

-But I sure hope Pianosa II has a Space Program.

A CERN Talking Through

Predator Press

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I don’t get the fuss over the CERN Large Hadron Collider experiment.

Some mad scientists build a measly 17 mile long black hole generator, and here go all the whiny Liberals, “Boo Hoo! It could destroy the universe? Wah!”

These selfish pricks should just shut up. I might like having my own personal black hole. In fact, I’ve already compiled a list of things I would like to try it out on:

Leftover Brussels Sprouts

Mail Labeled ‘Occupant’

Nuclear Waste

Tom Brady

Cable Bill

Cats

Prince

Don Lewis

SEO Optimizers

People Named 'Travis'

Puppy that Followed the Kids Home

The CERN Large Hadron Collider (now that be cool, eh? Eh?)

And frankly, why bother fighting for this crap Universe? I'm not sure the complete destruction of this dump would be so bad anyway.

Now Alpha Proxima?

-That’s a Universe.


Thank you Miss Moneypenny CPU!

Sleeping Dogs

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Well, Steven Spielberg has officially rejected my screenplay "Schindler's Full Black Down Metal Hawk Jacket": it came back in the mail today with a rejection letter smelling suspiciously like urine.

It would appear I have only one hope left for getting a movie made, and I’m banking all Terri's money on my secret weapon: The Scalding.

It’s an epic two page script about a buxom hot chick relentlessly tormented and attacked by a radioactive space toaster.

You should see the poster!


***

On the first day of shooting, the cast and crew effusively greeted me as I arrived on the set.

“Pleased to meet you sir,” says a homeless-looking guy. “I am the Producer of The Scalding, and I’m sparing no effort or expense to make this the greatest epic thriller since The Exorcist V." A thick bourbon smell complimented his whispers. "We are now filming the scene when Large-Breasted Scantily-Clad Chick Number One’s boyfriend arrives after his CIA mission."

"Oooh, goodie!" I says. "The part where the waffle iron spawns a second head?"

"Yes."

“Alright, everybody,” demands the apparent director. “Quiet on the set. Large-Breasted Scantily-Clad Chick Number One, this is your Big Scene. I want to see some fear. And ... Action!”

Large-Breasted Scantily-Clad Chick Number One cringes against the large picture window in the kitchen as special effects guys pull a rather un-menacing looking waffle iron crablike across the countertop with fishing line.

LBSCC#1 screams, mascara-stained tears raining down over her magnificent bosoms. She kicks at the waffle iron vainly with her stiletto heels. “You’re lucky my boyfriend isn’t here,” she cries.

“Alright, mark!” says the director. “Cue airplane now!”

A tiny plastic model airplane –also on fishing line— starts randomly spinning in a downward trajectory by the picture window.

"Hey!" I whisper to the producer. "That's supposed to be a stealth bomber!"

"Well to be fair sir," the producer says quietly. "How many kitchens have picture windows overlooking military airport runways?"

“There he is!”, exclaims LBSCC#1, pointing at the hero on a motorcycle. “He’ll stop you, you evil radioactive space waffle iron!” As she crosses off-screen, the click click click of her heels diminish audibly from the plastic microphone.

"Well," I concede. "She does have large breasts and is scantily clad."

Suddenly the airplane’s fishing line got tangled with the toaster's electrical cord. And after a few frenetic moments, the toaster flew up in the air and the two unlikely objects collide solidly. Both burst into flames, and -fishing line burned away- they fall to the ground with a hideous clang off camera.

“Cut!” yells the director. He stands. “That was brilliant! I'm already envisioning the 'Revenge of the Toaster' sequel!”

“What exactly is the budget for this production?” I ask.

“About eight bucks.” Says the producer. “You got a quarter? We need more fishing line.”

“Can’t any of you guys work with a budget?” I complain. “With six bucks, I’m funding the Predator Press Space Program, the Topless Holistic Online Medicine and Cancer Research Institute, and the LOBO Foundation for Sickly, Dying, Hungry-Yet-Hard-Working Orphans with Gambling Problems!”

"I'll pay you that $50 Friday, sir," he says. "But please don't put me back in the Space Program!"

"It's not my fault you bet on the Lakers with only a six point spread."

The International Star Registry

Predator Press

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Let me get this straight.

For a few measly bucks, you can name your own star?

Does this mean that in 2090 we are going to be fiercely embroiled in a galactic war against creatures from 'Steve Loves Amanda XXXOOOXXX'?

Look you waffling space pansies, pick a team for god's sake: I won't even play Tic Tac Toe unless we are both "X"s or "O"s simultaneously and I get to go first.

And how would you write catchy graffiti on the bombs like, "Take that, creatures from Steve Loves Amanda XXXOOOXXX"? You know how military spending goes: every single one of those "X"s and "O"s will be like ten billion dollars!

By 2090, an aging, balding-yet-mulletized Steve will have a flying El Camino on spaceblocks with the fusion engine hanging from a space tree in his spacetrailer's back yard. And while slaving over his spacemeth spacelab in a spacewife-beater -skillfully intercepting space disability checks and artfully avoiding spacechild support payments- he will be basking in the glorious privacy of Amanda's Temporary Restraining SpaceOrder.

Let's leave the naming space stuff to guys like Stephen Hawking. One look at the guy, and you know he's a big Dungeon and Dragons head: we'll have cool places to have wars with like The Great Ogre Vortex and The Giant Leech galaxies.


Thanks for showing up at LIVE LOBO SATURDAY Citizen Dorph!

Mars Rovers Found at Hawking Summer Home

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A search for drugs and pornography at Stephen Hawking's summer home in Casa de Rio turned up more than was bargained for: both $350M Mars Rovers -supposedly on Mars since 2004- have actually been sending photos from the beach, and fetching drinks for scantily-clad supermodels.

"Oh come on people!" says noted physicist Hawking as he is handcuffed and escorted away. "Microbes? On Mars? Please. I coulda sent you guys pictures of turkeys an you would've bought it."

Space: The Final Dumpster

Predator Press

[LOBO]

As I see it, the biggest problem in the United States -besides Shia LaBeouf's unlawful incarceration- is all the money we are paying those so-called "engineers" at NASA for space exploration.

I mean come on already! This is 2008. We're supposed to have this:




-but instead we have this?




I'll bet those NASA rubes are pulling down like $9 or $10 an hour. And rather than developing cool-looking planet-smashing war machines and evil alien empires to have wars with, we're in a garage hammering the dings out of a two-toned spaceship so dumpy looking the mere site of it would only encourage a deadly hoard of would-be space overlords!

I wouldn't scrounge that thing for parts. I mean it doesn't even have a lousy Death Ray. Not one! Shouldn't we at least get Congress to pass a Bill to pay for gluing some fake ones on? Heck, Pfizer would do it for free if you stuck on some Viagra stickers!

And for that matter, how many hundreds of our tax dollars are being spent every year on this stuff without finding any would-be space overlords? Heck at least wash the damn thing ... the would-be space overlords are probably laughin at us right now!

I hate those guys, all smug and hiding out there behind a phony shroud of tranquility while obviously plotting the demise of the Human Race in secrecy. Those guys should get their asses kicked! We need to find them, exterminate their military with extreme prejudice, and then occupy all of their home worlds while making the survivors do forced labor before the inevitable sneak attack and subsequent invasion.

The way I see it, the only way to bring them Freedom is by ruling the primitive war-like inhabitants of the galaxy under Enlightened, iron-fisted Human Benevolence; not taking the initiative here will most assuredly invite cosmic despotic tyranny.

I, for one, won’t stand for that.