MAMBA

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Millions and millions of readers are always asking me every day, "LOBO, where are you at with current day politics?"

I have founded the "Make America More Boring Again" party, aka MAMBA.

We promise to do absolutely nothing. All you need is footie pajamas.

Nancy Pelosi tucks us in after milk and cookies.

Choking the Skeleton

Predator Press

[LOBO]

As the worlds' most beloved Anarchist, millions and millions of people are always asking me every day "LOBO! What should we do?"

Look. I'm on a yacht in International Waters surrounded by half-dressed Instagram "Influncers," trying to recover from edibles/wine/various. Frankly, I, this ship, and everyone aboard need to be boiled. STOP BEING A PEST.

I've witnessed and experienced cop abuse … thankfully I haven't been murdered yet, but I do have a nice tan going and the day is young. Our relationship with police needs to be reinvented, and I WILL NOT PAY for bodycams that can be turned off conveniently, more weapons, et cetera; fuck "copaganda" … they decimate lives and communities maintaining an already brutal economic status quo. I'll buy them a dictionary so they understand the words "Protect" and "Serve."

It is our duty to resist authority.

Incremental defunding makes sense. All the "reforms" proposed currently are common sense things police were supposed to be doing in the first place. Harvey Weinstein is getting a trial, and a guy trying to pass a bogus $20 bill is dead. After almost a century, the cops ain't 'learnin SHIT. So fuck 'em.

There ARE good cops. Let's make the dick-wagging bad ones accountable. And then maybe I can stop being an Anarchist, and take up Sudoku or knitting or something.

So Complex Cassandra

Predator Press

[LOBO]

I wasn't surprised when the fight broke out at the plant today.

-Twelve hour six-day weekly shifts, blisters on blisters, and brutal, intense cold since October will get you some fucking fights.

And I started the shift in a state of pre-aggitatation myself: the Feds are wiping their ass with some bullshit “Constitution” via the NSA. Simultaneously, they're shitting on Colorado's State Rights to legalize cannabis by making the proceeds illegal to deposit in banks ... thus, a legal business Colorado supported is being meddled with and physically endangered in a pussy-ass chicken-shit attempt to trick them into laundering money.

-A Federal Offense.

Hmmmmm.

So who owns the banks? Who owns America? Who do they represent?  Who owns this big lie “Freedom," and why did all those all those brave guys die defending it?

I'm not sure why it bothers me frankly. LOBOnia seceded from the “American Dream” many, many, many tax seasons ago.  We don't understand paying somebody to fuck with Us in pursuit of “Liberty”: the “Land-of-Opportunity to rub nickels together for some fuck on a distant foreign beach yelling into his cellephone about his profit margin between blowjobs” can kiss Our royal ass.

LOBOnia formally requests Colorado to send diplomats and delegates to hammer out Peace Treaty terms, and discuss a possible Alliance.

(Catered by Fritos.)

Would You Lazy Criminals Please Ratchet It Up So I Can Get To Work?

Predator Press

[LOBO]

I was in a heightened state of agitation with America well before details of America's PRISM program got leaked.  How many heroic and lucrative speed traps have you seen over the past ten years while those three little girls remained prisoners of Ariel Casto?  Why is Chicago, bankrupt and infested with murderous gang members, preoccupied with an effort to ban plastic bags?  What the Hell is going on here?  If I wrote this as a fiction story a month ago, anyone that read it would consider it paranoid and laughable -a bizarre alternate universe where Amanda Bynes is in charge. Every time I see Air Force One land, I half expect an impossible number of clowns to tumble out.

Everything comes down to money.  There's no revenue in busting up meth labs, solving crimes, and protecting American Society.  Sure those "real" criminals -seriously dangerous threats- might have a few bucks to confiscate, but that's a one-shot deal.  Then you would have to incarcerate them, something expensive in itself.  It's much more prudent to harvest us as we hurry to get to our jobs to pay taxes and fund this whole Ponzi scheme.  We have credit cards and mortgages, something at stake.  It's very clever if you think about it: you don't kill a cow to get milk.

-We hired a security team to fuck with ourselves?

Exclusive: Wikipedia Search Casts Doubt on Bin Laden Assassination

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Q 1: How could a seal possibly have pulled the trigger?

Fact: Seals don’t have opposable thumbs. And perhaps more importantly, they don’t have shoulders. Am I supposed to believe a “navy” seal swam to Pakistan carrying an AK-47 in its flippers the whole way?

Those guns have straps for a reason.

Q 2: What the hell is a "navy" seal doing in the dessert anyway?

Fact: Osama bin Laden [ObL] wasn’t holed out on some parfait. That’s a dessert. A desert, it turns out, is a place like the beach except there is explicitly no ocean by definition. So where did the “navy” park all their boats an crap without somebody seeing them do it?

Remember this isn’t attacking a dessert -you can’t just throw sprinkles on your aircraft carrier and hope for the best ... Pakistan would have hit you broadside with a strawberry in a second.

Q 3: Why does President Obama’s Birth Certificate make no mention of the effort?

Fact: Obama’s Birth Certificate was created by ancients like fifteen or twenty years ago, and it could not have known about the events that transpired on 9/11.

-Or could it? Obama's Birth Certificate contains a wealth of knowledge about Obama such as where and when he was born, his parents' names, and the fact that he was once black.

The Birth Certificate, therefore, has demonstrated repeated culpability and motive in the entire presidency from infancy -maybe even from inception.

So how can we ever know that the afore-mentioned Birth Certificate itself didn’t hide Mother Obama’s birth control on that fateful, romantic night in Syria or Iran?

-Or that the fate of America‘s 2008 president wasn't SEALED [eh?] that night on a blue EPT stick by Hitler himself?

Hm?

Taste

Predator Press

[LOBO]

"... and that is why," I conclude, "Every time you blew on a rose petal, a dust of diamonds would float off."

"Wow, man," Barbarossa breathes.

"So okay, your turn. If you could bang a celebrity, who would you fuck?"

"Sonia Sotomayor," he replies. "She is sooooo hot."

"Who?"

"The Supreme Court Justice. I would bend her over the waffles,  and smack that hot booty ... "

-I will reply as soon as I can stop blinking.

Rejection Coverage 2012

Predator Press

[LOBO]

The Showtunes Must Go On

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Slightly bleary, President Barack Obama pads to the breakfast table in his bathrobe, a series of newspapers -with stories already highlighted for his attention- crooked under his arm. The rest of the family out of town, the large empty table only seems to underline the eerie quiet.

Obama presses a discrete button built into his chair, an aide allows himself in.

“Good morning sir,” says the aide.

“I guess that depends on what you have to say,” Obama smiles, eyes still skimming his newspapers. “What’s on my agenda today?”

The aide flips through his clipboard. “Well there’s the war, the economy, taxes, gays in the military, the other war-“

Obama groans. “Jesus. You people might as well have those pre-printed on your stationary.”

“There has been some movement in the Middle East Peace Process.”

“Yeah," Obama guffaws. "Whatever.”

“Kim Jong Un is here requesting an audience.”

“I don’t understand a word that guy says. He’s, like, French or something.” Obama yawns deeply. “What would you do?”

“As President?”

“Yes.”

“With my wife and kids out of town?  I would probably just surf porn I suppose.”

“Can’t,” says Obama. “My wife found the line item in the budget I pay for it out of.”

"Ouch,” the aide winces.

“Let’s back up. What about that ‘gays in the military’ thing?"

“People of,” the aide coughs, “’alternate lifestyles’ are feeling persecuted out of serving in the armed forces.”

“Wait.  These people want to enlist? They’re aware of the dress code, right?”

“Yes.”

“Well what’s the problem? Don’t we have enemies that need a good smacking around?"

“Not really.”

“How about one that should be patronized condescendingly during an ambush makeover?

“Kim Jong Un maybe?”

“Word," laughs Obama.  Fist-bumping ensues. "He wouldn’t understand a damn thing they said. It would be hilarious.  But in all seriousness, we can’t, under any circumstances, allow homosexuals to get killed in war.”

“Why is that, sir?”

“Too valuable.  You know what happens to an America without gays?”

“No.”

“Pittsburgh.”

“Really?”

“I’m serious. We had a whole Top Secret study done.  We would have full saturation in six months if we're lucky.  And anyone alive a year later better damn well like Coors Light, playing pool, and NASCAR.”

The aide shuddered visibly.

“No, homosexuals can’t be allowed to get in the military, period.  They're a national resource.” Obama scratched his chin, pondering aloud. “And we can’t ask them about their sexuality directly anymore-"

“Wait. Can I ask you some questions about that ‘Pittsburgh’ thing-?"

Obama snaps his fingers. “I got it,” he says with authority. “During boot camp, there’s a mandatory twenty-four hour David Hasselhoff marathon.  And all the recruits get nothing but water and Cheetos."

“I’m not following you,” the aide squirmed.

“Then discharge everyone with glowing orange genitals.”

“Ah. Medical reasons.”

“And this 'condition'" Obama makes quote marks in the air, "-no, diagnosis- makes it impossible to serve in the military as the occasional strobe effect could inavertently give away their location to the enemy."

"So to keep gays out of the military, you want to make up a disease -'Bioluminescent-Affected Mammallian Disorder'-"

"Uh-huh.  'BLAMD.' Perfect."

"That has no other symptoms or cure?"

"Excellent."

"-To save America from becoming Pittsburgh."

"It's genius," Obama smiled. “Now get me Rick Astley on the phone! Stat.”

So What is a Caucus?

Predator Press

[LOBO]

A caucus is a meeting held by Caucasians –hence why most are held in Iowa.

Caucasians are a group of light skinned people who, like the Jews, have faced decades of oppression. For instance in early American history, the North American Indians started firing arrows at them almost upon sight.

The "Anne Coulter" was a
popular Caucasoid model
in the late 19th Century.

The peaceful Caucasians -armed only with firearms, cannons, a naval armada and organized militia- were soundly conquered on the battlefield of Indianapolis, Indiana. Even to this day, Caucasians are subjugated by horrifying casino odds, and Caucasian children are issued agonizing "Indian burns" on the playground.

Later in early American history, plantations and farming became big business.  But while darker-skinned people were allowed to have jobs, Caucasians were forced to stay home and perform vastly less dignified duties such as accounting and planning cotillions.

Widespread violence and cruelty often forces Caucasians to deploy decoy robots of themselves. These are called Caucasoids.

Modern Caucasians, while not attending caucuses, are often found watching NASCAR, playing in the NBA [citation needed], attending square dances, and buying Toby Keith records.

Rejection Coverage 2012

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Hmmmmmm.

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

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

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

-Have you seen my kids?

Predator Press Interviews: James Carville

Predator Press

[LOBO]

“Federation or Borg?” the Butterbean kid demands. He’s standing on a chair, looking through the peephole of my front door.

“Excuse me?” asks a muffled voice from outside.

Sensing the kid’s alarm, I approach. “Who is it?”

“You gotta see this,” he replies, face pressed against the door. “It’s either Jean-Luc Pickard or Locutus.”

“Jesus,” I breathe. “What the hell is he selling?”

The kid steps down and moves the chair. “I don’t know yet.”

I open the door. “Can I help you?”

“Hello,” says the well-dressed man. “My name is James Carville.”

Butterbean and I stare.

“The lead strategist for the Clinton presidential campaign?” he adds helpfully.

I scowl. “You’ve got the wrong house. There’s nobody here named ‘Clinton.’ And do you have any idea what time it is?”

He looks at his watch. “10:30 in the morning?”

“I better get some free ice cream for dragging me out of bed like this,” I says.

He smiles. “I believe you’re confusing me with Carvel ice cream. I’m just visiting random registered democrats to get their feelings on the 18 billion in bailout money earmarked for executive bonuses.”

“No Fudgie the Whale, no dice,” I insist. “Besides, you should probably know I’m a registered republican, populist, libertarian, and anarchist too. I like being on the winning team.”

Butterbean whistles. “You can screw everything up and get 18 billion in bonuses?” He looks at me. “You’re in the wrong business.”

“Shut up,” I says.

“Look,” says Carville. “We’re on the precipice of major change. A few years ago, America elected it’s first African-American president, and-“

“We have a black president?” I says. “Is it Tupoc?”

There’s and uncomfortable silence.

“No,” Carville says finally.

“Can you teach me the Vulcan Nerve Pinch?” asks Butterbean.

“You’re thinking of Leonard Nimoy,” replies Carville.

“Don’t confuse this guy with Leonard Nimoy,” I says to Butterbean. “Leonard Nimoy is a class act.” I eye Carville. “Leonard Nimoy would’ve brought us ice cream.”

“Uh-huh,” Butterbean agrees. “Plus he would’ve stayed out of those tanning beds.”

“Seriously!” I says. “Carville you look fifty years older since The Lord of the Rings. You know there’s spray-on stuff now that doesn’t turn your skin into melted leather.”

“Will you shoot an arrow off of my head?” asks Butterbean.

“No I will not shoot an arrow off of your head,” replies Carville. “You’re thinking of Orlando Bloom.”

“Yeah dumbass,” I says to Butterbean. “This is the guy that burned the picture of the Pope.”

“That’s Sinead O'Connor,” corrects Carville.

“Pulp Fiction?” I offer.

“Bruce Willis,” says Carville.

"The Transporter?" asks Butterbean.

"Grant Latham," replies Carville.

"Triple 'X'?" I venture.

"That's Vin Diesel," says Carville. “Are you guys just going to bark out a bunch of random bald celebrities now in an effort to figure out who I am rather than discussing government policy?”

“Probably," I says. "Why?"

Fifty Shades of Grey Matter

Predator Press


[LOBO]

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

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

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

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

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

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

Welcome to History Todd Akin

Predator Press

[LOBO]

I feel bad for Todd Akin, the Missouri Congressman who opposes abortion even in cases he coined "legitimate rape" because women's bodies resist pregnancy due to the shock.

This is what happens when you get your medical credentials from Wikipedia and have seen "Porky's" waaaay too many times.

The Concrete Ceiling

Predator Press

[LOBO]

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

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

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

Divided You Fall

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Want a decent example of how fucked contemporary America is? Rush Limbaugh and I are in total agreement.

The single surviving facet not struck down by the Supreme Court in Arizona's attempt to get a handle on their "Immigration" issue was the one where, if lawfully stopped, the police were authorized to verify the citizenship status of the individual.

Let me start by saying I do not think the need to present an ID is a racist issue. Even I, the Mighty LOBO -Senior LOBOnian Diplomat and Liason to the United States- have to present identification several times a week.

So all ten people legally in Arizona said, "Hey, we have to pay for these untaxed people through social services funded by our legal residents. Federal law prohibits this type undocumented 'occupation,' but you Feds are not enforcing your own laws. And this is really screwing the four people in Arizona who are paying taxes."

The Supreme Court rejected virtually every element of Arizona's proposed laws -based ironically on the fact that "immigration" is an exclusively Federal issue- but retained Arizona's right to identify "illegals" to the Feds.

So cool, right? At least the Feds are still on board?

Within HOURS of this teeny "victory," Federal officials told Arizona "Yeah. You can find out if they are illegal or not. But don't call us about it." I swear to God that's exactly what happened: the 'United' States told Arizona "You're still on your own."

So Arizona is handcuffed to whatever al qaeda fuck that wanders in without recourse because the Feds decided to be defunct and useless by selective enforcement of their own law? That's at least dereliction of duty if not outright treason, and Arizona is obliged to manage an unenforceable, porous, dangerous and expensive border as a consequence.

-Whoops ... can we really even call it a "border" at this point with a straight face?

I cite the United States in contempt of it's own hallowed "Constitution," and if I were Arizona, I would secede from this so-called "Union" entirely. LOBOnia backs Arizona 100%. Moreover, LOBOnia has plenty of room for Arizona, and invites Arizona to become an official LOBOnian territory -replete with a LOBOnian government and LOBOnian taxation.

C'mon Arizona. Think about it at least.

-LOBOnia has better weather too.

Borne Leader

Predator Press


[LOBO]

"I regret to inform you," sighs Barbarossa, "That you have been nominated as Union Steward."

My attention snaps from the computer screen. "What?"

"The People like your plan to bring back sexual harassment. Restoring the two martini lunch would be cool too." He scratches his chin. "Even piss testing us is a violation of the HIPPA law."

My eyebrows furrow. "I can't be a corporate lickspittle and a Union Steward. And have you looked around? SFIC is a soiree of Asperger's Disease and, well, ugly. You want drugs too? This place would be a seething cesspool of literally toxic DNA."

"We want the American workplace to be restored back to the glory days of 1960."

"Barbarossa, what year were you born?"

"1961," he replies.

"I rest my case."

Rejection Coverage 2012

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Staring down the barrel of one of the most depressing, disproportionately-charged presidential elections in decades, I suppose some rare political commentary is warranted.

From Romney’s poor categorization of Russian foreign policy to Obama’s flabbergasting ignorance(?) of the role of the Supreme Court, I have seen enough historic distortion and political boobery to be genuinely concerned over the fate of a country LOBOnia shares deep and mutually-beneficial diplomatic ties with.

The United States of America.

My issue with Obama is simply that if he held off the announcement of Osama Bin Laden’s [OBL] death at least for a few weeks, we could have used the intelligence we gathered at his compound and snuffed out Al Qaeda entirely. My issue with Romney is kinda less-specified, but one only has to listen to Rush Limbaugh for five minutes to cement distrust for the Republican Party .

Under the much-ballyhooed Ronald Reagan, my life was never worse. I bussed tables at a “Duff’s” smorgasbord, and worked as a pizza cook in an effort to feed my family –all for four dollars and twenty-five cents an hour. And I was “lucky” to have it, as there was always five or six job applications from people just as desperate for the jobs I had.

There’s no point to this post, other than the sheer creeping horror I’m dealing with.

I always took it on Faith that the people in charge would be better than me. Smarter.

-I am officially concerned.

Put Down the Chunky Monkey, and Step Away from the Refrigerator

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Oh come on -you're all thinking it.

Picture: the Bailiff calls “All rise,” and here she comes in flip flops -the usual schlop schlop schlop sounds drowned out in the clicketty-clackitty of hippopotamus toenails spilling over to grip the marble floor (in case gravity spontaneously reversed itself).

Approaching “The Bench,” she pushes yesterday’s cellophane wrappers and donut boxes off of her desk -in a single swipe- at the bailiff.

"File those, asshole" she demands, and punches in an eight digit combination on her government-issued briefcase to procure the sole item enclosed: a George Foreman Grill.

Belching contentedly, she then skims a jelly-stained copy of a Row v. Wade deposition while picking her teeth with a still-smoking rib from yesterday's losing prosecuting attorney -a Pfizer rep that smelled vaguely of Old Spice and barbeque sauce.

Look, I’m sure whatever the Supreme Court does is very, very important from time-to-time: I don’t want to turn on C-SPAN only to see out-of-fuel helicopters crashing due to misjudged close-up shot distances.

I’m as “Progressive” and “Enlightened” as anybody regarding chicks doing men's work. And at 70% of the pay? Hey toots, knock yourself out. But unlike American Idol, this isn't based on weight: the Senate isn't doing her any favors by mincing about the seemingly-taboo issue of her immense, galactic-scale girth. What if, for instance, she’s in Tokyo and innocuously wants to go to the beach?

Those panic-prone Japanese might call Mothra!

The Barnside of Abroad

Predator Press

[LOBO]

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

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

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

See? This man’s not unreasonable.

And what are the republicans debating anyway?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Presidential decisions are tough.

The Misery Machine

-Rorschach

Predator Press

In a bathrobe and slippers, she rubbed her temples. Little House on the Prairie still seemed blaringly loud, and once again she thought of looking for the remote control for the television.

-And once again, the thought was drowned out in the thick fog of her fever.

A nasty cold would be bad enough. But if this was her dreaded shellfish allergy too, she was going to be here for several more days waiting for the swelling to subside regardless. An accidental glance in the mirror earlier certainly seemed to make this case, and reduced her to tears; she looked bug-eyed and simultaneously pasty and pink. Her hands, bloated and almost useless, felt like overly-large mitts with no tactile sense whatsoever. So when the phone rang, despite being within her immediate grasp, she was almost unable to answer until the fourth ring -a fraction of a second more, and it would have gone to voicemail.

“Hello?” she snuffled. Somewhat rattled back to reality, she began collecting the numerous scattered crumpled tissues surrounding her into an organized pile.

“Doctor Alex Smith?”

She puzzled at the somewhat familiar voice.

“Yes.”

“The Doctor Smith that graduated from Stanford in 2004 with a doctorate in psychology? And currently works at Bertram Asylum?”

She paused. Something in the furthest reaches of her mind was sounding an alarm, but the efficacy was lost in the wake of muddled malaise.

“Yes,” she replied, almost on autopilot. A sense of dread seemed to fill her almost instantly.

“Hi!” said the enthusiastic voice over the phone. “It‘s LOBO.”

“Lobo-”

“LOBO,” the disembodied voice corrects.

“LOBO, how did you get this number?”

“I‘m sorry but it‘s very important. I got your number off of your Facebook profile.”

Doctor Smith bit at the inside of her lip, but her teeth could get no purchase against the smooth, swollen surface. “I haven’t had a Facebook profile in years,” she denied flatly.

“I‘m looking right at it,” countered LOBO. “Your last update was in 2001. You were complaining about being overwhelmed with schoolwork.”

“How did you find it? There must be thousands of ‘Alex Smiths’ on Facebook.”

“There‘s 409,204,” LOBO points out with some pride. “But remember roughly half of those are males. After that, about a third are black. With some deduction I got it down to around 60,000-”

“You said it was an emergency.”

“I said it was important,” LOBO clarifies.

“What do you want?”

“I was wondering if you would give me a blurb for my book jacket. A doctor would give me some cred.”

Her head throbbed. “But I’m your therapist.”

“Well you‘re still a doctor, right? I don‘t think it matters.”

Doubling over forward in cramp, phone still absently pressed to her ear, Doctor Smith’s eyes slowly came to focus on what she soon realized was the television remote control: it was half-hidden under her chair on the floor, obviously knocked there by her gargantuan, bloated feet. Fumbling, she clicked the ’Off’ button for the television and somehow sank even further into the easy chair, lost in swirling thought. Where did, despite her typically vigilant precautions, she ingest shellfish? A carelessly washed dish at a restaurant?

“Hello?”

“Uh,” she began, sort of rebooting the conversation. Insightfully she decided not to discourage LOBO’s new project. What harm could he do hammering away at a book for a few years?

“What’s the book about?” she croaked.

“It‘s an exposé on the sordid, secret life of Paul Revere.”

“Really.”

“Yeah. Remember recently how Sarah Palin made those weird remarks about Revere at the Old North Church?”

“No.”

“I‘ve got the quote right here,” LOBO explains, audibly shuffling through some papers. “And I quote: ‘He ... warned the British that they weren’t going to be taking away our arms by ringing those bells and making sure -as he’s riding his horse through town- to send those warning shots and bells that we were going to be secure and we were going to be free ...’”

“Yeah, okay. I remember now.”

“Well on the face it sounded like nonsense and babble. But then I got to thinking maybe, as a Governor, she is privy to information we aren‘t. Like maybe there was more to this story than anyone was letting on to the, you know, the plebs.”

“The plebs?”

“Yeah. The, eh, plebeians. You know, you people. What I found out was nothing short of stunning.”

“About Paul Revere.”

“Yes. See most people don't know lighthouse duty was a punishment, and Paul Revere wasn't supposed to be on it that night. Julio -the married owner of an underpants factory- got it for giving his wife the crabs he caught while fornicating with a high-maintenance coke whore named Romiette. And witchcraft.”

“Uh huh,” Doctor Smith snuffled absently.

“But one night during a drill, Julio accidentally lit three lanterns and freaked everyone out -three either meant land and sea, or British invasion by means of a quasi-dimensional wormhole. Long story short, Julio made a fortune selling underpants the next morning. So he got a good lawyer, and bought so much cocaine that he, Romiette, and the crabs lived happily ever after.”

Wondering if she had any Tylenol, out of simple polite reflex Doctor Smith found herself saying the exact opposite of what she was thinking.

“Go on.”

“Next in line for lighthouse duty was Paul Revere, who was booked on a public urination charge. Revere -with little else to do in the lighthouse- would go on to make history despite wishing to Christ he was Julio instead: he invented a much-needed exotic line of chamber pots the lighthouse guards could hose out and sell for contraband, with the intention of seducing a coke whore of his own.”

“I see.”

“But Revere was freakishly hideous -so ugly, even when masturbating he had to fake orgasms. No matter how much coke he could get, the coke whores would have nothing to do with him -and the mere handful of skanky meth freaks he acquired only fueled his jealousy and stole his Brillo pads. Worse, the enterprising guards had invested all the venture capital from his chamber pots, quit their jobs, and became overnight millionaires by founding a toilet company that endures to this day. And once every year, they thoughtfully sent Revere and the new lighthouse guards a thank you note, accompanied by a thick stack of pictures of their coke whores in bikinis posing over foreign cars and lounging on tropical beaches. This biography explores Revere's deep, irrational hatred for people that had essentially done nothing to him at all. I call it ‘Romiette and Julio.’”

“And I suppose you already have a publisher?” Doctor Smith asked facetiously.

“Jack Jones," said LOBO, perceptibly smug.

“The Jack Jones?” The doctor was floored. “Jack Jones of Vanguard Publishing? ”

“Yep.”

Incredulous. “You know Jack Jones.”

“Well I will if he's on Facebook.”