Is Luann de Lesseps single? Something about that "I'm going to unleash the eels upon you" look turns me on.
Showing posts with label tips. Show all posts
Showing posts with label tips. Show all posts
Thursday
Barking at Satellites
LOBO -Predator Press
Is Luann de Lesseps single? Something about that "I'm going to unleash the eels upon you" look turns me on.
Is Luann de Lesseps single? Something about that "I'm going to unleash the eels upon you" look turns me on.
Monday
Ask LOBO: Bad Gamma Jamma
About halfway into "Thor: Ragnarok," I realized I was crushing on -not Cate Blanchett- but Hela. Having had a similar experience with the "Suicide Squad" villain Enchantress, it invited some mind-blowing introspection.
[I'm not attracted to goth. And Cara Delevingne, admittedly, is not exactly in my age demographic. But Suicide Squad's "Enchantress" demon(?), is like probably older than dirt anyway.]
My first thought is always now this is a woman that gets shit done. No more hassle by airport security for yours truly aka "God's football," lest ye be smoten. And standing in line too long at a grocery store? Pow! Free Slurpees for everyone!
And then I went all swoony.
-I "get" Hela.
This says a lot about me and past relationships. I'm not capable of that kind of aggression, so maybe it is a yin and yang thing I never noticed in myself before. An excuse for terrible evil for which I can participate, yet be divorced from on a karmic level. Maybe that is the whole new scale of evil.
I would protect her.
Tuesday
Generation Landslide
Predator Press
[LOBO]
Recently at work I made the observation that the really good and profitable jobs were occupied by -almost exclusively- “Baby Boomers.” This sizable group is currently very competitive by virtue of sheer mathematics, virtually impossible to replace.
So then I thought, “Well shit. I guess I am waiting for someone to die? And then I could do that same job even worse?”
Bookmark this thought here, because I did tedious “research” for you to understand “Age Generation Classification” from a bullshit, unheard of website I found via Google, defining them:
(I did some “edits” via Excel)
- 1900-1924 - G.I. Generation (WAS ASSIGNED TO READ YOUR BOOK IN SCHOOL)
- 1925-1945 - Silent Generation (MAYBE READ YOUR BOOK)
- 1946-1964 - Baby Boom (SLOWLY DYING OUT)
- 1965-1979 - Generation X (ME)
- 1980-2000 - Millennials or Generation Y (MORE PRICKS)
- 2000/2001-Present - New Silent Generation or Generation Z (EVEN MORE PRICKS!)
-Generation “X” (ME) is a LOT smaller than the “Baby Boomers” (NOT ME). But unfortunately we again had fewer babies, and Generation “Y” (PROBABLE PRICKS) is small too: that means a bunch of smarter, younger, more well-adjusted prototype mes (ME plural) are out there, trying to steal my ability to fire all the “Baby Boomers” (NOT ME) FIRST! And even as I argue I am only 29 years old, there is some 13 year old “Generation Z” (NOT US) claiming he is only 25 years old -Generation “Y” (PROBABLE PRICK)- on Facebook, and POW! I lost the job. And if you think about it, you did too!
If those opportunistic and mercenary Generation “Z” (NOT US) fuckers somehow survive, I hope they get a lot of pimples. I am too old and too tired to have all the “Baby Boomers” (NOT ME) and Generation “Z” (NOT US) wiped out by alien zombies!
(Besides, I cursed the alien zombies with pimples in 1997 -I wouldn't count on any sympathy from those assholes.)
Long Live the Alien Zombie Omnacracy!
Sunday
Guy Lombardo and the Vile Prince of Zanzibar
Predator Press
[LOBO]
My wife is having an affair with the Prince of Zanzibar.
I know this, because I am the Prince-of-Zanzibar101@aol.com.
I don’t blame her. She thinks I am a wealthy guy with long flowin’ Fabio hair ridin in his 3,000 foot yacht.
And how can I blame her? I never would have thought AOL would let me have the official logon “Prince-of-Zanzibar101@aol.com" unless I presented proper credentials verifying my royal lineage: through what was doubtlessly an oversight, perhaps a 'comedy of cascading errors' on AOL’s part, the name slipped through their corporate security –and that’s how I seduced my wife.
-Well, that’s how I got her to add me to her ‘Buddy’ list. But that’s where it all starts, right?
If you doubt any this tragic story, Guy-Lombardo101@aol.com can verify it.
I know this, because I am also Guy-Lombardo101@aol.com. And “Guy” will be the first person to tell you that the vile Prince of Zanzibar is up to no good. The vile Prince of Zanzibar will woo her with all his money and good looks, and then just toss her aside like a prom dress made of wicker!
Still, it would be cool to ride in a 3,000 foot yacht.
[LOBO]My wife is having an affair with the Prince of Zanzibar.
I know this, because I am the Prince-of-Zanzibar101@aol.com.
I don’t blame her. She thinks I am a wealthy guy with long flowin’ Fabio hair ridin in his 3,000 foot yacht.
And how can I blame her? I never would have thought AOL would let me have the official logon “Prince-of-Zanzibar101@aol.com" unless I presented proper credentials verifying my royal lineage: through what was doubtlessly an oversight, perhaps a 'comedy of cascading errors' on AOL’s part, the name slipped through their corporate security –and that’s how I seduced my wife.
-Well, that’s how I got her to add me to her ‘Buddy’ list. But that’s where it all starts, right?
If you doubt any this tragic story, Guy-Lombardo101@aol.com can verify it.I know this, because I am also Guy-Lombardo101@aol.com. And “Guy” will be the first person to tell you that the vile Prince of Zanzibar is up to no good. The vile Prince of Zanzibar will woo her with all his money and good looks, and then just toss her aside like a prom dress made of wicker!
Still, it would be cool to ride in a 3,000 foot yacht.
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.
Saturday
I Ate WHAT?
A ‘meat and potatoes’ guy myself, not a lot of foreign cuisine sneaks across my rather discriminating palette. But every once in a while there is a lapse in my security -otherwise airtight, I assure- and I feel I owe it to you O loyal reader, to complain about it in great, anguished, and excruciating detail.
While how we got the Grape Nuts cereal remains a mystery, I strongly suspect Terri: we’ve been married six years now, and I’m virtually positive it isn’t the first time poisoning me would have crossed her mind.
It has the texture you would guess human brains mixed with tiny skull fragments might feel like. And how do Grape Nuts taste? For a toxic gash in the fabric of culinary history, it's surprisingly not very subtle or apologetic: imagine eating pulverized mulch, soil and tree bark dogs have peed on for years. Mix that with a generous sprinkling of rabbit turds, and eating it out of a corrugated box with only a spade and a rake. Okay, are you picturing that? Now imagine eating only the box. Grape Nuts -utterly bereft of grapes or nuts, I should add- should be called ‘Rape Guts.’
Worse, it makes your poop unsinkable, unflushable battleship girders that circle around the whirlpool defiantly, bending the laws of physics and thermodynamics at will -some are so brazen, they swim against the Coreolis Effect! The larger ones exert a gravitational pull over the smaller ones, and they are drawn together -often into skirmishes for control of the tiny blue sea; the clanging and shrieking metal-on-metal sounds become extremely audible as armadas collide in angry, bobbing counter-orbits, and people are soon banging on the bathroom door. “LOBO are you okay?” and ”Where the hell are all those sparks coming from?”-I would warn them to run for their lives, but I’m far too embarrassed. In fact I'm sorry but if weeds start growing out of my ass, we’re all going to die and that’s that.
Grape Nuts scores impressively, however, in practical secondary applications. It makes a great spackle for instance. The stucco patterns one can achieve are fantastic. Has a tree in your neighborhood recently been felled by a storm? A box of Grape Nuts, some water and fertilizer, and you can just stick that sucker right back on the stump.
Another high-scoring secondary feature is how it elevates the art of farting: it’s analogous to going from mere garden-variety ma an pa sticks of dynamite to military shaped charges. Terri had some friends over from work, and I didn’t even have to enter the room: from the top of the stairs, I cut a 'Silent But Deadly' [SBD] that felt like I passed a hot light bulb.
As you can guess, hilarity ensues. I think they heard the palpable thump as it detonated on the living room floor below ... and what followed was ten seconds of erie silence, four minutes or so of shrill mayhem (choking, weeping, and the opening of windows and doors and such), and then five minutes of watery-eyed fingerpointing.The next time Terri makes me go to church, I’m gonna choke down a whole box of this crap.
***
There is some good news on the foreign food front. We ate at a place called “Panda Express” the other day. Who knew panda was so delicious? Judging from the number of customers, I'll bet they were serving up four or five pandas a day! This is Entrepreneurialism at it's finest. And what better way to raise awareness of the plight of the mighty panda, nearly extinct, than to remind Americans how mouth-wateringly good they are when nuggettized and in a honey glaze -just like you would get them in Nature?
And they're only extinct because they won't have sex, right? How nappy must those panda bitches and hos be if a male panda -born in a zoo and never had no sex before- don't want to toss 'em good an proper on top of the plastic habitat that looks like a rock? Maybe the male panda is looking for something a little more upscale and refined, sensitive to his needs -like a panda in a cheerleader outfit. Would it kill her to wear a cheerleader outfit every once in a while?
Maybe he’s a gay panda. Or what if he's got, like a racist sex-fetish and wants a grizzly -or a polar- bear? Hm? Are the female pandas, like, real fat, or otherwise stricken with infirmities? Try not reminding him of Oreo cookies or Loa Tzu; maybe this bear is just such a hard-core fucking nihilist, he’s trying to end the species. This planet is a dump if you think about it.
Anyway, I can’t say enough about Panda Express, nor their fine work and noble commitment to save the lazy and otherwise worthless panda.
-And maybe they have a card I can get stamped for a free panda in the future!
Tuesday
The Nature Versus the Nurtured
Predator Press
[LOBO]
“No, I will not teach you to play guitar,” I says to the Butterbean kid flatly. “I don’t know where you got the idea I play guitar in the first place. These are crazy rumors, spread by an obviously deranged individual. Probably a meth freak.”
Butterbean unslings his guitar on the porch. “Miss Terri said you used to be real good at it.”
“Terri knows better than to get addicted to meth,” I argue. “Shit. TMZ doesn’t even know we exist yet.”
“My mom says she’ll give you ten bucks a lesson.”
“Is this the same woman that insists you are ‘big boned’? I have serious doubts about her mathematical prowess. Tell your mom I want fifty million.”
Butterbean seems strangely skeptical.
"Maybe fifteen?"
"Your mom is a shrewd woman," I reply thoughtfully. "Tell her forty nine million, nine hundred and ninety nine thousand, nine hundred and eighty five is my final offer. Anything less would be cutting into my overhead."
“I don’t think she would go that high really,” he says.
“Then how about we compromise and just tell your mom I’m giving you guitar lessons?" I counteroffer. "We'll split whatever we get.”
“Seriously,” says the boy. “I want to hear you play.”
“Of course you do,” I says. “That’s what a lad I once knew insisted –almost verbatim- many, many years ago. ‘I want to hear you play, I want to hear you play, I want to hear you play.’ Christ you couldn’t shut him up about it. And then he quit drugs, fired David Lee Roth, started playing keyboard, and married Valerie Bertinelli.” I eyed the Butterbean kid warily. “This kind of knowledge can destroy your mind. Is Eddie Van Halen’s a fate you would like to share?”
“Who is Eddie Von Helsing?”
“See?” I stammer, almost speechless in frustration. “This is precisely what I mean. Eddie would go on to die broke and in utter obscurity. And worse than that, he died broke and in utter obscurity while having to listen to Valerie Bertinelli clipping her toenails … Crack! Crack! Crack! And have you seen Valerie Bertinelli’s toenails? Somebody is going to lose an eye with those things shooting all over the place.”
“What if I promise to stay away from Valerie Bertinelli?”
“It’s more than just Valerie Bertinelli's deadly aerodynamic toenails and shocking capacity for evil,” I says coolly. “Playing guitar is a strict discipline. A lifestyle. Yes. A lifestyle of long hours, bloody fingertips, and skinny guys named ‘Kirk’ and big-haired chicks named ‘Amber.’ A lifestyle of being woken at three in the morning by colliding trash can lids, and stringing your guitar in under eight minutes. A lifestyle of forcing people to listen to you play ‘Smoke on the Water,’ like, ninety jillion times.”
Punctuating the discussion, I scoop up the welding mask from the counter and strap it to my forehead. Pausing for a moment before flipping down the mask I ask, "I'm making lunch. Do you want a grilled cheese?"
"That's not really grilling them technically," Butterbean points out, eyebrows furrowed.
"Well, I’ve always considered the term 'grilled cheese' more of a guideline than a recipe. After all, there's no reference to the bread or the butter either." Flipping my mask, I crack the arc to life. "You know, say what you will about plasma. But nothing really brings out the flavor like a good old fashioned carbon electrode."
Butterbean cupped his hands to boost his voice over the noise. "Should you be doing that in a Snuggie?"
"It's hard finding footie pajamas in my size," I call.
"No. I mean isn't that thing flammable?"
"I can't wear the gear," I explain loudly. "That stuff chafes, and I have very sensitive nipples." Pulling my torch to the side, I flip my mask back and inspect the soapstone surface. "Man I hope Terri managed to find a company that will give us another fire insurance policy. Grilled cheese is hell on these countertops."
"You think they will cover making arc-welded cheese sandwiches?"
"Well if they have a better way to cook, I'd like to hear it." I look around thoughtfully. "You know, you're right ... I should torch the whole place just in case. I'm getting a little tired of this furniture anyway. Good idea."
"You can do that?"
"That's the whole point of having insurance. Why go through the whole hassle of moving when you can just get new stuff?" I switch off the torch. "They deliver and install it too. Just watch your spelling."
"Spelling?"
"Our last insurance guy got really pissed when I misspelled 'bathtub' as 'H-E-A-T-E-D-I-N-D-O-O-R-P-O-O-L' on the claim. But it was an honest mistake. My spelling acuity is a direct result of the American public education system. I'm the victim here if you think about it."
"So you can get in trouble for it?"
"Well … yes. It turns out some people are really, really touchy about arson. But this was your idea, remember?" I rub my chin, trying to remember if there is any gasoline in the garage. "And frankly I'm shocked you thought of that. If I ever went on trial for arson and insurance fraud, you better hope I never have to testify 'cuz I'm singing like a canary."
"I don't think it's a good idea then."
"I think it's a great idea!" I says. "We could make it look like an innocent arc welded cheese sandwich making accident. But I would need to make a video all the stuff in our house first. Know where any friendly rich people live? I want another Ming vase to put our umbrellas in."
"You've got a Ming vase? Really?"
"Four of them. We use them as trash cans. See?"
“These say ‘Made in China.’”
“Yeah. Ming, China probably."
"There is no such place as Ming, China."
"Look, it says ‘Ming’ right there,” I point. “Next to the picture of the guy fighting Flash Gordon. How can you possibly doubt its authenticity?”
“I think 'Ming' is supposed to reference an ancient dynasty.”
“Well I would hope these aren't crappy old ones, ” I says, inspecting the container closely. "Over the past century, China has come a long way in an effort to improve the quality of their products."
“Hey, look at this,” says Butterbean, peeling at the label. “The back of this ‘Made in China’ sticker says ‘Made in Korea.’"
“Maybe Ming has a factory there in Korea. You know … outsourcing. China is very busy crafting high end vases like these. Vases, and making pandas boink. Maybe China just doesn’t have time for labels anymore.” Reflecting on this, I add, “I’ve heard of some odd fetishes before. But pandas? That’s just plain weird.”
“Actually,” corrects Mister Smarty-Pants, “they are trying to breed the few remaining pandas to save the species.”
“Yeah, whatever,” I scoff. “Another common misconception. How do you explain all those freaky websites?”
“Websites?”
“Yeah. I’ve downloaded about fifteen hours of panda porn. You’re too young to see it. But I assure you with possible exception of the Kanji, this stuff has no artistic merit whatsoever. It's pure filth.”
“Wait,” says Butterbean. “You downloaded fifteen hours of panda porn?”
“It was strictly for educational purposes,” I says. “If you want to study a culture, there’s only so much one can learn from a couple of vases.”
“But if this is all true," Butterbean speculates shrewdly, "then pandas wouldn’t be an endangered species.”
“Pandas are too busy having sex to make babies.”
Butterbean stares.
“Oh no,” I says, rolling my eyes slightly. “Don’t tell me. Somebody gave you that whole speech on how you make babies having sex, didn’t they?”
“Well, yeah,” says Butterbean. "Mom and Dad said that-"
"Silence!" I command, dangerously close to a lot of unwanted mental imagery of Butterbean's parents rolling around and grunting like sweaty, greasy hippopotami with a background narration by Lorne Greene. 'Mutual of Omaha presents ...' Shivering slightly I persist, trying to come up with an example. "Look. Have you ever watched 'Forensic Files'?"
"That television show about when the police solve those murders?"
"Yes. You watch the half hour program, and by the end the solve the crime."
Butterbean nods expectantly. "Okay."
"Well there's another show called 'Missing Persons Unit.' Similar, but this show is a little less predictable because sometimes they find the missing person alive."
"Go on."
"My point is with 'Forensic Files,' they catch the killer. With 'Missing Persons Unit,' it's almost the same thing ... you watch them interviewing suspects, canvassing the area, dredging the river, interviewing more suspects, blah blah blah. But then after fifty-five minutes of watching all that time, energy, money and manpower wasted, they find the kid waiting tables in Hollywood hoping to blow Steven Spielberg to get their screenplay read or whatever."
"I'm not following you."
"Think about it. We walk away hating the kid that survived. For putting us through all that."
Butterbean nods, but I can tell he's not 'getting it.'
"If you're going to lie and make people think you are dead," I elaborate, "and you aren't dead, don't you think it should be incumbent upon all concerned parties to provide some closure? We can set a dollar amount for it. Let's say when the search costs more than $250,000 and the kid has been alive and safe the whole time, somebody has to die. For $250,000, I want a body. And it should go up from there. For $500,000, I want two bodies. And so on."
"But what does this have to do with sex?"
"We're not there yet. We're still talking about lying. And you have to preface a conversation about sex with a conversation about lying. Any honest adult male will tell you well-woven and elaborate lying is an intrinsic component of having sex ... unless he's lying because he's trying to have sex with you. But we'll get to 'Courtship' soon enough. Stop interrupting me."
"Okay."
"Now where was I? Oh yeah. I'm not saying wax the kid right there on the Spago salad bar ... this all has to be treated on a case-by-case basis. What if maybe the kid was running away from abusive parents, and they should be killed? See? By lying we've transformed the whole situation. People deserve -if not demand- being lied to, and it's in their best interest really. I'm happy, you're happy, and Steven Spielberg is really happy. We all walk away slaked in the confidence and comfort of cosmic justice well-served, and with vastly improved television as a byproduct."
"I gotta tell you, this is way different than the speech my parents gave me," says Butterbean. "Are there birds and bees in this one somewhere?"
“No," I says flatly. "You’re too grown up for those fairy tales. But the truth about babies is actually more horrifying than you could possibly imagine -maybe worse even than being raped by a pack of wild pandas! That's why your parents are distorting the truth,” I assert. "They are trying to protect you."
Pensive and rapt, the boy hung on my every word.
“If sex resulted in babies,” I began, “we would have stopped doing it a long time ago. The first caveman to find a melted Jolly Rancher in his pelt would have been the end of the whole damn human race.”
“Then where did I come from?”
“I doubt anyone really knows with one hundred percent certainty," I confess. "But it definitely was not from sex. I mean put yourself in everyone else's shoes. Would you have sex knowing there was a risk of having you? And I’ve seen your parents. Trust me. Those people aren’t having sex ... especially with each other. Blech.”
“Maybe there are spores? Like mushrooms?”
“Well that seems plausible," I concede. "But it seems far more logical for people to contract babies. Like syphilis or rabies.”
“So the pandas are immune to babies?”
“No. I’ll bet pandas are as susceptible as anything. If there’s a scarcity of baby pandas, it’s more likely due to them being delicious.”
Butterbean’s inquisitive look transformed instantly to horror. “You mean we are eating the baby pandas?”
“There's a Panda Express two blocks from here,” I shrug. “And have you ever eaten baby panda? It’s fantastic. It tastes like chicken.”
Suddenly, I realize that this conversation –if furthered pursued- might actually make Butterbean vomit, cry, or vomit while crying simultaneously. But no matter how desirous these potential outcomes might be, I would prefer none of these events to take place in my kitchen.
“You look a little pale,” I comment. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine,” says Butterbean unconvincingly. He seemed a bit wobbly, and it occurred to me he might faint. Fainting trumps vomiting, crying, and vomiting while crying simultaneously in my kitchen, but he could hurt himself -and I wouldn’t be a very responsible adult if this were to occur when it was completely avoidable, would I?
“Would you like to try some baby panda?” I says, grabbing the almost novelty-large, craziest, jagged-looking knife I can find out of the wooden block. “I’ve got some in the freezer. It’ll take me five minutes if I arc weld it. You can have the ears. They're kinda small, but that's the part Hostess uses to make Ho-Hos-"
WHAM!
It was a clean fall, square in the center of the kitchen ... afterward the sight of which could only be described as a small whale having beached itself on the linoleum. I probably could have caught him, but I would have missed the comedy entirely and therefore couldn't. Plus I was thinking about my new invention: the Sea Skateboard.
See, what we do is we make a really big skateboard without wheels. But here's the kicker: the Sea Skateboard floats on water. You could paddle around on it and ride waves or whatever. (I probably shouldn't have blogged this idea now that I think about it. People have a bad habit about stealing my ideas ... especially those shifty goddamn Hawaiians.)
Anyway. Once more concerned for the still-inert boy's safety, I poke him with the grilled cheese spatula until I'm convinced his vital signs are stable.
-And by the time he fully 'comes to,' I’m already on the phone with his mom.
“I think twenty bucks an hour is more fair," I explain, hardballing Butterbean’s mom over a terrible, static-addled connection. “This lazy kid was uncooperative and fell right to sleep during the lesson. If I'm going to take millions and millions of dollars in my time away from developing the Sea Skateboard, I deserve some kind of equitable compensation."
Butterbean groans. "Is that my mom?"
I put my finger to my lips to shush him quietly, and then cover the ear opposite the phone to hear better over the crackling background noise. "It's a really big skateboard without wheels that floats on water," I explain to her. "You could paddle around on it and ride waves or whatever. Shit ... you're not Hawaiian, are you ma'am?"
"What happened?" he asks, blinking blearily at the ceiling.
"Look," I says into the phone, trying to ignore him. "I'll only charge you ten bucks for this first guitar lesson, but look what I have to work with here ... this is the musical equivalent of smoking a cigar, drinking coffee and eating a box of Oreos in the dentist's waiting room. Your son would be better off doing something for which he was more genetically suitable. Like ..." Thinking quickly, I turn and look at the boy, still on the kitchen floor, for ideas. "Like, I dunno, becoming a perfume or something.”
Absently twirling the phone cord in my fingers, I see Butterbean sit up.
"Those poor pandas," the boy whimpered weakly.
"Shhh!" I says to him irritated, covering the phone mouthpiece. "I'm negotiating." Turning my back to him in order to concentrate, my attention returns completely to Butterbean's mom.
"So we have a deal then?" I ask. "Good. Now how much will you give me not to teach him ‘Smoke on the Water’?"
[LOBO]“No, I will not teach you to play guitar,” I says to the Butterbean kid flatly. “I don’t know where you got the idea I play guitar in the first place. These are crazy rumors, spread by an obviously deranged individual. Probably a meth freak.”
Butterbean unslings his guitar on the porch. “Miss Terri said you used to be real good at it.”
“Terri knows better than to get addicted to meth,” I argue. “Shit. TMZ doesn’t even know we exist yet.”
“My mom says she’ll give you ten bucks a lesson.”
“Is this the same woman that insists you are ‘big boned’? I have serious doubts about her mathematical prowess. Tell your mom I want fifty million.”
Butterbean seems strangely skeptical.
"Maybe fifteen?"
"Your mom is a shrewd woman," I reply thoughtfully. "Tell her forty nine million, nine hundred and ninety nine thousand, nine hundred and eighty five is my final offer. Anything less would be cutting into my overhead."
“I don’t think she would go that high really,” he says.
“Then how about we compromise and just tell your mom I’m giving you guitar lessons?" I counteroffer. "We'll split whatever we get.”
“Seriously,” says the boy. “I want to hear you play.”
“Of course you do,” I says. “That’s what a lad I once knew insisted –almost verbatim- many, many years ago. ‘I want to hear you play, I want to hear you play, I want to hear you play.’ Christ you couldn’t shut him up about it. And then he quit drugs, fired David Lee Roth, started playing keyboard, and married Valerie Bertinelli.” I eyed the Butterbean kid warily. “This kind of knowledge can destroy your mind. Is Eddie Van Halen’s a fate you would like to share?”
“Who is Eddie Von Helsing?”
“See?” I stammer, almost speechless in frustration. “This is precisely what I mean. Eddie would go on to die broke and in utter obscurity. And worse than that, he died broke and in utter obscurity while having to listen to Valerie Bertinelli clipping her toenails … Crack! Crack! Crack! And have you seen Valerie Bertinelli’s toenails? Somebody is going to lose an eye with those things shooting all over the place.”
“What if I promise to stay away from Valerie Bertinelli?”
“It’s more than just Valerie Bertinelli's deadly aerodynamic toenails and shocking capacity for evil,” I says coolly. “Playing guitar is a strict discipline. A lifestyle. Yes. A lifestyle of long hours, bloody fingertips, and skinny guys named ‘Kirk’ and big-haired chicks named ‘Amber.’ A lifestyle of being woken at three in the morning by colliding trash can lids, and stringing your guitar in under eight minutes. A lifestyle of forcing people to listen to you play ‘Smoke on the Water,’ like, ninety jillion times.”Punctuating the discussion, I scoop up the welding mask from the counter and strap it to my forehead. Pausing for a moment before flipping down the mask I ask, "I'm making lunch. Do you want a grilled cheese?"
"That's not really grilling them technically," Butterbean points out, eyebrows furrowed.
"Well, I’ve always considered the term 'grilled cheese' more of a guideline than a recipe. After all, there's no reference to the bread or the butter either." Flipping my mask, I crack the arc to life. "You know, say what you will about plasma. But nothing really brings out the flavor like a good old fashioned carbon electrode."
Butterbean cupped his hands to boost his voice over the noise. "Should you be doing that in a Snuggie?""It's hard finding footie pajamas in my size," I call.
"No. I mean isn't that thing flammable?"
"I can't wear the gear," I explain loudly. "That stuff chafes, and I have very sensitive nipples." Pulling my torch to the side, I flip my mask back and inspect the soapstone surface. "Man I hope Terri managed to find a company that will give us another fire insurance policy. Grilled cheese is hell on these countertops."
"You think they will cover making arc-welded cheese sandwiches?"
"Well if they have a better way to cook, I'd like to hear it." I look around thoughtfully. "You know, you're right ... I should torch the whole place just in case. I'm getting a little tired of this furniture anyway. Good idea."
"You can do that?"
"That's the whole point of having insurance. Why go through the whole hassle of moving when you can just get new stuff?" I switch off the torch. "They deliver and install it too. Just watch your spelling."
"Spelling?"
"Our last insurance guy got really pissed when I misspelled 'bathtub' as 'H-E-A-T-E-D-I-N-D-O-O-R-P-O-O-L' on the claim. But it was an honest mistake. My spelling acuity is a direct result of the American public education system. I'm the victim here if you think about it."
"So you can get in trouble for it?""Well … yes. It turns out some people are really, really touchy about arson. But this was your idea, remember?" I rub my chin, trying to remember if there is any gasoline in the garage. "And frankly I'm shocked you thought of that. If I ever went on trial for arson and insurance fraud, you better hope I never have to testify 'cuz I'm singing like a canary."
"I don't think it's a good idea then."
"I think it's a great idea!" I says. "We could make it look like an innocent arc welded cheese sandwich making accident. But I would need to make a video all the stuff in our house first. Know where any friendly rich people live? I want another Ming vase to put our umbrellas in."
"You've got a Ming vase? Really?"
"Four of them. We use them as trash cans. See?"
“These say ‘Made in China.’”
“Yeah. Ming, China probably."
"There is no such place as Ming, China."
"Look, it says ‘Ming’ right there,” I point. “Next to the picture of the guy fighting Flash Gordon. How can you possibly doubt its authenticity?”
“I think 'Ming' is supposed to reference an ancient dynasty.”
“Well I would hope these aren't crappy old ones, ” I says, inspecting the container closely. "Over the past century, China has come a long way in an effort to improve the quality of their products."
“Hey, look at this,” says Butterbean, peeling at the label. “The back of this ‘Made in China’ sticker says ‘Made in Korea.’"
“Maybe Ming has a factory there in Korea. You know … outsourcing. China is very busy crafting high end vases like these. Vases, and making pandas boink. Maybe China just doesn’t have time for labels anymore.” Reflecting on this, I add, “I’ve heard of some odd fetishes before. But pandas? That’s just plain weird.”“Actually,” corrects Mister Smarty-Pants, “they are trying to breed the few remaining pandas to save the species.”
“Yeah, whatever,” I scoff. “Another common misconception. How do you explain all those freaky websites?”
“Websites?”
“Yeah. I’ve downloaded about fifteen hours of panda porn. You’re too young to see it. But I assure you with possible exception of the Kanji, this stuff has no artistic merit whatsoever. It's pure filth.”
“Wait,” says Butterbean. “You downloaded fifteen hours of panda porn?”
“It was strictly for educational purposes,” I says. “If you want to study a culture, there’s only so much one can learn from a couple of vases.”
“But if this is all true," Butterbean speculates shrewdly, "then pandas wouldn’t be an endangered species.”
“Pandas are too busy having sex to make babies.”
Butterbean stares.
“Oh no,” I says, rolling my eyes slightly. “Don’t tell me. Somebody gave you that whole speech on how you make babies having sex, didn’t they?”
“Well, yeah,” says Butterbean. "Mom and Dad said that-"
"Silence!" I command, dangerously close to a lot of unwanted mental imagery of Butterbean's parents rolling around and grunting like sweaty, greasy hippopotami with a background narration by Lorne Greene. 'Mutual of Omaha presents ...' Shivering slightly I persist, trying to come up with an example. "Look. Have you ever watched 'Forensic Files'?""That television show about when the police solve those murders?"
"Yes. You watch the half hour program, and by the end the solve the crime."
Butterbean nods expectantly. "Okay."
"Well there's another show called 'Missing Persons Unit.' Similar, but this show is a little less predictable because sometimes they find the missing person alive."
"Go on."
"My point is with 'Forensic Files,' they catch the killer. With 'Missing Persons Unit,' it's almost the same thing ... you watch them interviewing suspects, canvassing the area, dredging the river, interviewing more suspects, blah blah blah. But then after fifty-five minutes of watching all that time, energy, money and manpower wasted, they find the kid waiting tables in Hollywood hoping to blow Steven Spielberg to get their screenplay read or whatever."
"I'm not following you."
"Think about it. We walk away hating the kid that survived. For putting us through all that."
Butterbean nods, but I can tell he's not 'getting it.'
"If you're going to lie and make people think you are dead," I elaborate, "and you aren't dead, don't you think it should be incumbent upon all concerned parties to provide some closure? We can set a dollar amount for it. Let's say when the search costs more than $250,000 and the kid has been alive and safe the whole time, somebody has to die. For $250,000, I want a body. And it should go up from there. For $500,000, I want two bodies. And so on."
"But what does this have to do with sex?"
"We're not there yet. We're still talking about lying. And you have to preface a conversation about sex with a conversation about lying. Any honest adult male will tell you well-woven and elaborate lying is an intrinsic component of having sex ... unless he's lying because he's trying to have sex with you. But we'll get to 'Courtship' soon enough. Stop interrupting me."
"Okay.""Now where was I? Oh yeah. I'm not saying wax the kid right there on the Spago salad bar ... this all has to be treated on a case-by-case basis. What if maybe the kid was running away from abusive parents, and they should be killed? See? By lying we've transformed the whole situation. People deserve -if not demand- being lied to, and it's in their best interest really. I'm happy, you're happy, and Steven Spielberg is really happy. We all walk away slaked in the confidence and comfort of cosmic justice well-served, and with vastly improved television as a byproduct."
"I gotta tell you, this is way different than the speech my parents gave me," says Butterbean. "Are there birds and bees in this one somewhere?"
“No," I says flatly. "You’re too grown up for those fairy tales. But the truth about babies is actually more horrifying than you could possibly imagine -maybe worse even than being raped by a pack of wild pandas! That's why your parents are distorting the truth,” I assert. "They are trying to protect you."
Pensive and rapt, the boy hung on my every word.
“If sex resulted in babies,” I began, “we would have stopped doing it a long time ago. The first caveman to find a melted Jolly Rancher in his pelt would have been the end of the whole damn human race.”
“Then where did I come from?”
“I doubt anyone really knows with one hundred percent certainty," I confess. "But it definitely was not from sex. I mean put yourself in everyone else's shoes. Would you have sex knowing there was a risk of having you? And I’ve seen your parents. Trust me. Those people aren’t having sex ... especially with each other. Blech.”“Maybe there are spores? Like mushrooms?”
“Well that seems plausible," I concede. "But it seems far more logical for people to contract babies. Like syphilis or rabies.”
“So the pandas are immune to babies?”
“No. I’ll bet pandas are as susceptible as anything. If there’s a scarcity of baby pandas, it’s more likely due to them being delicious.”
Butterbean’s inquisitive look transformed instantly to horror. “You mean we are eating the baby pandas?”
“There's a Panda Express two blocks from here,” I shrug. “And have you ever eaten baby panda? It’s fantastic. It tastes like chicken.”
Suddenly, I realize that this conversation –if furthered pursued- might actually make Butterbean vomit, cry, or vomit while crying simultaneously. But no matter how desirous these potential outcomes might be, I would prefer none of these events to take place in my kitchen.
“You look a little pale,” I comment. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine,” says Butterbean unconvincingly. He seemed a bit wobbly, and it occurred to me he might faint. Fainting trumps vomiting, crying, and vomiting while crying simultaneously in my kitchen, but he could hurt himself -and I wouldn’t be a very responsible adult if this were to occur when it was completely avoidable, would I?
“Would you like to try some baby panda?” I says, grabbing the almost novelty-large, craziest, jagged-looking knife I can find out of the wooden block. “I’ve got some in the freezer. It’ll take me five minutes if I arc weld it. You can have the ears. They're kinda small, but that's the part Hostess uses to make Ho-Hos-"
WHAM!It was a clean fall, square in the center of the kitchen ... afterward the sight of which could only be described as a small whale having beached itself on the linoleum. I probably could have caught him, but I would have missed the comedy entirely and therefore couldn't. Plus I was thinking about my new invention: the Sea Skateboard.
See, what we do is we make a really big skateboard without wheels. But here's the kicker: the Sea Skateboard floats on water. You could paddle around on it and ride waves or whatever. (I probably shouldn't have blogged this idea now that I think about it. People have a bad habit about stealing my ideas ... especially those shifty goddamn Hawaiians.)
Anyway. Once more concerned for the still-inert boy's safety, I poke him with the grilled cheese spatula until I'm convinced his vital signs are stable.
-And by the time he fully 'comes to,' I’m already on the phone with his mom.
“I think twenty bucks an hour is more fair," I explain, hardballing Butterbean’s mom over a terrible, static-addled connection. “This lazy kid was uncooperative and fell right to sleep during the lesson. If I'm going to take millions and millions of dollars in my time away from developing the Sea Skateboard, I deserve some kind of equitable compensation."
Butterbean groans. "Is that my mom?"
I put my finger to my lips to shush him quietly, and then cover the ear opposite the phone to hear better over the crackling background noise. "It's a really big skateboard without wheels that floats on water," I explain to her. "You could paddle around on it and ride waves or whatever. Shit ... you're not Hawaiian, are you ma'am?""What happened?" he asks, blinking blearily at the ceiling.
"Look," I says into the phone, trying to ignore him. "I'll only charge you ten bucks for this first guitar lesson, but look what I have to work with here ... this is the musical equivalent of smoking a cigar, drinking coffee and eating a box of Oreos in the dentist's waiting room. Your son would be better off doing something for which he was more genetically suitable. Like ..." Thinking quickly, I turn and look at the boy, still on the kitchen floor, for ideas. "Like, I dunno, becoming a perfume or something.”
Absently twirling the phone cord in my fingers, I see Butterbean sit up.
"Those poor pandas," the boy whimpered weakly.
"Shhh!" I says to him irritated, covering the phone mouthpiece. "I'm negotiating." Turning my back to him in order to concentrate, my attention returns completely to Butterbean's mom.
"So we have a deal then?" I ask. "Good. Now how much will you give me not to teach him ‘Smoke on the Water’?"
Saturday
Where Do Babies Come From?
Predator Press
-By LOBO(My first children’s book. Illustrator needed)
So you have been wondering where babies come from, and you’re not buying the whole “stork” thing anymore?
Fret not.
-I'm gonna give you the straightforward birdless, beeless science.
See when mommies and daddies are in love, they take their pants off and share a ‘Special Hug.’ And if the hug is done right, they shoot Deoxyribonucleic Acid [DNA] all over each other. This sometimes makes babies.
But one day mommy found daddy with his pants off, shooting Deoxyribonucleic Acid all over the realtor lady.
Mommy should have almost certainly gotten therapy -she still has that weird tic in her face. But instead she got an AR15 from the gun rack downstairs, and unloaded the clip on daddy and the realtor lady while they were in the shower.
The lawyers tied up the entire estate in probate, and the whole thing was gone even before the blood, bone and hair had swirled down the shower drain. And they were unable to get mommy a manslaughter plea deal: she was sentenced to six years, and subsequently jumped the $250,000 bail. That’s why you and mommy live out of a car in rural Montana, drink boiled rainwater and eat slightly al dente squirrels six times a week, and poop into a coffee cans for squirrel cooking fuel.Probably.
But now that you’re older and have read the newspaper articles, have you ever wondered why you, daddy, and the realtor lady all had the same last name and mommy doesn't? Or noticed that you look more like the realtor lady than you do your so-called "mommy?"
Babies come from a horrible, horrible place.
Now go to sleep, ya lil bastard.
Tuesday
The Jawbone of an Ass
Predator Press
[LOBO]
Monday Night Football -opening night- is something I've been looking forward to for six months. But staring up at the large television screen, I suddenly realize I have no idea who is playing.
And like a ship coming in from a midnight horizon, I slowly realize Barbarossa is talking to me.
"... I mean it's your third divorce right?" he shrugs in a saccharin optimism. "It's just like riding a bike."
We are regulars here. I even have a drink named after me. But from somewhere deep behind the warm, invisible shield provided by my third or fourth "el LOBO" (a Fuzzy Navel with a miniature umbrella), I concede that there are far too many witnesses present to kill Barbarossa; despite the chemically-exaggerated comfort level and nigh irresistible appeal to irony, "Happy Hour" lacks the sadistic discretion required for murder.
-And it's hard to kill a man with a jukebox, napkins, and neon beer signs frankly ... it would be a lot easier, for instance, if we were at Sears in the Craftsman tools section.
Tall and lanky, Barbarossa's skinny arm lands across my back, grabs my opposite tricep and pulls me in for a sympathetic hug. Balancing haphazardly on the barstool, my eyes bulge in sobering panic.
"Stop walking around so ... so wounded," he slurs in sincere sympathy. "Don't think of them as marriages. Think of them as leases. You know, serial monogamies."
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"For some of us maybe," I says, peeling his spider-like arm off. Scowling thoughtfully, the urge to drive ample fistfuls of spent miniature umbrellas repeatedly through his eyes and deeply into his brain melts away; instead I find myself reeling in Barbarossa's unprecedented nugget of dark philosophical wisdom -an observation so devoid and pure of subjectivity, it borderlined math.
Barbarossa wobbles visibly. "That's the spirit," he agrees apropos of nothing I can readily discern. Then, after perhaps suffering a fleeting glimpse of self-awareness, he sits more upright, raising his drink in an courage-inspiring toast to me.
"So what are you going to do first?"
Absently, halfheartedly colliding my drink into his beer mug, I weigh this murky prospect carefully too.
"Everything," I decide.
"Seriously?" he says in disbelief. "Man, it's already like nine thirty. How about pinball?"
[LOBO]
Monday Night Football -opening night- is something I've been looking forward to for six months. But staring up at the large television screen, I suddenly realize I have no idea who is playing.
And like a ship coming in from a midnight horizon, I slowly realize Barbarossa is talking to me.
"... I mean it's your third divorce right?" he shrugs in a saccharin optimism. "It's just like riding a bike."
We are regulars here. I even have a drink named after me. But from somewhere deep behind the warm, invisible shield provided by my third or fourth "el LOBO" (a Fuzzy Navel with a miniature umbrella), I concede that there are far too many witnesses present to kill Barbarossa; despite the chemically-exaggerated comfort level and nigh irresistible appeal to irony, "Happy Hour" lacks the sadistic discretion required for murder.
-And it's hard to kill a man with a jukebox, napkins, and neon beer signs frankly ... it would be a lot easier, for instance, if we were at Sears in the Craftsman tools section.
Tall and lanky, Barbarossa's skinny arm lands across my back, grabs my opposite tricep and pulls me in for a sympathetic hug. Balancing haphazardly on the barstool, my eyes bulge in sobering panic.
"Stop walking around so ... so wounded," he slurs in sincere sympathy. "Don't think of them as marriages. Think of them as leases. You know, serial monogamies."
.jpg)
Barbarossa wobbles visibly. "That's the spirit," he agrees apropos of nothing I can readily discern. Then, after perhaps suffering a fleeting glimpse of self-awareness, he sits more upright, raising his drink in an courage-inspiring toast to me.
"So what are you going to do first?"
Absently, halfheartedly colliding my drink into his beer mug, I weigh this murky prospect carefully too.
"Everything," I decide.
"Seriously?" he says in disbelief. "Man, it's already like nine thirty. How about pinball?"
Wednesday
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?
Monday
Saturday
Ask LOBO
Predator Press
"Dear LOBO,
I'm growing increasingly concerned my husband doesn't find me attractive anymore, and I'm starting to catch his 'wandering eye' with greater and greater frequency. Can you give me some advice that might spice up our romance?"
Kelly L. Bittencroft
865 Palm Palace
Tampa, Florida 33610
VISA #5194-5559-5555
Exp Date 01/15
Birthday 01/05/85
PIN:VISA
Kelly,
It's a widely-known fact that chicks pack on the pounds as a passive-aggressive hostile act toward their spouses, and nothing is more humiliating to a guy than a having a fat chick in tow. As an ironic consequence, however, this displaced anger exacerbates the cycling negative behaviors between you and your significant other; it leaves you a bitter old dried-up hippopotamus woman with drawn-on eyebrows, well-calloused bristling elbows, and gnarled toenails that snag in carpets and clicketty-clack on linoleum kitchen tiles when you walk barefoot.
First, set down the Chunky Monkey; it will only degrade your health and make you a further embarrassment to your friends, family and loved ones. Then, abandon the concept of 'spicing up your romance' entirely. Try fully embracing your mutual hatred instead.
Go shopping! Buy an entire case of Glade aerosol spray and a nice big fat insurance policy on your husband; the air freshener will be necessary to get the smell of molten flesh, hair, and Pabst Blue Ribbon out of the house when you throw the radio into his bathwater. Think of the flickering, failing lights as your fading once-youthful vibrant beauty -all of which you've squandered on this hairy, bloated, unemployed redneck. Take solace in the fact that over a long enough timeline he would have left you -an utterly spent and decaying husk, oozing the desiccated viscera of unanswered dreams and unrequited passion- for a snaggletoothed bartender with a teardrop tattoo and an obsession for Beanie Babies.
Sell the house and the Dale Earnhardt commemorative plates -especially the Dale Earnhardt commemorative plates- and combine it with the insurance money. This should be plenty to start your life over someplace in South America. Splurge for a well-muscled pool boy named Chavo, and indulge in what will now be a moderately-priced cocaine habit to melt those extra pounds away. And as far as repairing your mortally-wounded self-esteem, the only healthy way is in the hands of a professional physician trained in such delicate matters: with a good plastic surgeon, you'll make Mr. Potato head look like a ranked amateur hack in a matter of weeks. This will also aid in throwing the Authorities off of your trail.
Above all else Kelly, remember: relationships are a piece of cake, but you can't make anyone else happy if you're not happy yourself.
"Dear LOBO,I'm growing increasingly concerned my husband doesn't find me attractive anymore, and I'm starting to catch his 'wandering eye' with greater and greater frequency. Can you give me some advice that might spice up our romance?"
Kelly L. Bittencroft
865 Palm Palace
Tampa, Florida 33610
VISA #5194-5559-5555
Exp Date 01/15
Birthday 01/05/85
PIN:VISA
Kelly,
It's a widely-known fact that chicks pack on the pounds as a passive-aggressive hostile act toward their spouses, and nothing is more humiliating to a guy than a having a fat chick in tow. As an ironic consequence, however, this displaced anger exacerbates the cycling negative behaviors between you and your significant other; it leaves you a bitter old dried-up hippopotamus woman with drawn-on eyebrows, well-calloused bristling elbows, and gnarled toenails that snag in carpets and clicketty-clack on linoleum kitchen tiles when you walk barefoot.
First, set down the Chunky Monkey; it will only degrade your health and make you a further embarrassment to your friends, family and loved ones. Then, abandon the concept of 'spicing up your romance' entirely. Try fully embracing your mutual hatred instead.
Go shopping! Buy an entire case of Glade aerosol spray and a nice big fat insurance policy on your husband; the air freshener will be necessary to get the smell of molten flesh, hair, and Pabst Blue Ribbon out of the house when you throw the radio into his bathwater. Think of the flickering, failing lights as your fading once-youthful vibrant beauty -all of which you've squandered on this hairy, bloated, unemployed redneck. Take solace in the fact that over a long enough timeline he would have left you -an utterly spent and decaying husk, oozing the desiccated viscera of unanswered dreams and unrequited passion- for a snaggletoothed bartender with a teardrop tattoo and an obsession for Beanie Babies.
Sell the house and the Dale Earnhardt commemorative plates -especially the Dale Earnhardt commemorative plates- and combine it with the insurance money. This should be plenty to start your life over someplace in South America. Splurge for a well-muscled pool boy named Chavo, and indulge in what will now be a moderately-priced cocaine habit to melt those extra pounds away. And as far as repairing your mortally-wounded self-esteem, the only healthy way is in the hands of a professional physician trained in such delicate matters: with a good plastic surgeon, you'll make Mr. Potato head look like a ranked amateur hack in a matter of weeks. This will also aid in throwing the Authorities off of your trail.Above all else Kelly, remember: relationships are a piece of cake, but you can't make anyone else happy if you're not happy yourself.
Saturday
Tuesday
Sexual Harassment at the Workplace
Predator Press [LOBO]
“Thank you all for coming,” booms the suited guy at the podium in surround sound. “To the Annual Seminar on Sexual Harassment at the Workplace.”
I stand. “It’s about damn time!”
-And it was as if I had somehow removed all oxygen from the auditorium a half-second too early: the thirty-seven rows of people ahead all stared backwards at me, jaws agape. A woman six rows behind me audibly gasped and fainted.
The suited guy at the podium points at me sympathetically. “Have you been a victim of sexual harassment sir?” he booms in surround sound.
“Not yet,” I yell back. “And I'm getting depressed.”
Monday
Razed Right
Predator Press
[LOBO]
Currently embroiled in my third divorce, I now feel I feel I am qualified to lecture comprehensively on the subject.
-The first strangely invigorating, thoroughly rude sensation, is that initial shower blast.
Hanging from the showerhead, the 80’s songs you propped yourself up with last night thunder in your skull. You fumble for the hairy bar of soap as a weird mix of “Safari” perfume, WD-40, glitter, and some bent tricycle spokes cyclone helplessly down the drain.
Toweling off, you curse whoever made you this coffee. They fucked it up entirely- it’s either too strong or too weak.
In an impotent rage, you realize you made this coffee yourself.
Sunday
Ask LOBO
Predator Press
[LOBO]
People are always asking me, "LOBO, what is the secret to your staggering successes when it comes to keeping women happy?"
Well, I'm glad you asked me that. Now, happily married for well over a year, I feel I am qualified to lecture comprehensively on the subject.
As a busy and successful entrepreneur, trying to fit in all my meetings, alien and zombie insurrections and Muscle and Fitness photo shoots barely leave me any time whatsoever for my more scientific endeavors –let alone the day-to-day chores such as taking out the garbage; one only has to have his still-beating heart ripped from his chest and impaled by salted glass shards a dozen times or so before he realizes that there is definitely room for improvement in overall relationship contentment and stability.
One solution that showed moderate success was to ensure Terri had an ample and adequate supply of chocolate available. This often seemed to “take the edge off” of conventional disputes: when chocolate chip cookies and/or brownies were readily on hand, she would often forget to salt the glass -in fact there were times when she didn’t even impale the pulsing organ with any salted objects whatsoever, instead electing to douse it in gasoline and torch it with matches. While not considered entirely a success, this did in fact provide a sterilizing effect and cauterize the points where her fingernails penetrated, significantly improving the odds of surgical reinstallation.
The seemingly obvious solution –to actually remember to take out the trash- is a simpleminded, Luddite-esqe approach. Why go through all that effort if modern chemistry could take care of all that for you? I then presented the crack staff of Predator Press Scienticians with this problem.
According to the rjxchange.com, “Studies have shown that people in love have an unusually high amount of [Chocolate], thus, [Chocolate] is also known as the “love drug.” [Chocolate] increases blood pressure and sugar levels and creates the feeling of well being and [Chocolate] contentment.”
And so what if the article was really about heroin? The solution is clear: an abundance of chocolate is indeed the key. Confident I was “on” to something, I designed a custom Chips Ahoy holster and spent countless hours practicing a quick-draw technique –ultimately achieving a high level of deadly accuracy.
Unfortunately Terri, when upset, can be very uncooperative with science: numerous computer simulations were conducted, proving conclusively that the cookies would simply shatter against her clenched and growling jaw serving only to enrage her further. (Worse, the broken cookies would only contribute to the afore mentioned neglected trash.)
Thus it was back to the drawing board. If Terri was to resist high doses of chocolate as they are required, what good is this knowledge at all?
And that’s when we developed the Predator Press Chocolate Blowdart [retailing at $799.50, available at Ace Hardware and Autozone]. Days of garbage-forgetting ambushes can be a thing of the past: with a simple deep breath and exhale, you too can watch as your formely-hostile spouse’s eyes glaze over in loving contentedness. And once sedated, you can “tag” them with such pertinent information such as address, blood type, a tracking device, and a microchip preemptively transmitting anniversaries and pertinent birthdays to your Blackberry.
Order today and receive a $10 off coupon for the Predator Press Skillet of Love and free shipping.
[LOBO]People are always asking me, "LOBO, what is the secret to your staggering successes when it comes to keeping women happy?"
Well, I'm glad you asked me that. Now, happily married for well over a year, I feel I am qualified to lecture comprehensively on the subject.
As a busy and successful entrepreneur, trying to fit in all my meetings, alien and zombie insurrections and Muscle and Fitness photo shoots barely leave me any time whatsoever for my more scientific endeavors –let alone the day-to-day chores such as taking out the garbage; one only has to have his still-beating heart ripped from his chest and impaled by salted glass shards a dozen times or so before he realizes that there is definitely room for improvement in overall relationship contentment and stability.
One solution that showed moderate success was to ensure Terri had an ample and adequate supply of chocolate available. This often seemed to “take the edge off” of conventional disputes: when chocolate chip cookies and/or brownies were readily on hand, she would often forget to salt the glass -in fact there were times when she didn’t even impale the pulsing organ with any salted objects whatsoever, instead electing to douse it in gasoline and torch it with matches. While not considered entirely a success, this did in fact provide a sterilizing effect and cauterize the points where her fingernails penetrated, significantly improving the odds of surgical reinstallation.
The seemingly obvious solution –to actually remember to take out the trash- is a simpleminded, Luddite-esqe approach. Why go through all that effort if modern chemistry could take care of all that for you? I then presented the crack staff of Predator Press Scienticians with this problem.
According to the rjxchange.com, “Studies have shown that people in love have an unusually high amount of [Chocolate], thus, [Chocolate] is also known as the “love drug.” [Chocolate] increases blood pressure and sugar levels and creates the feeling of well being and [Chocolate] contentment.”
And so what if the article was really about heroin? The solution is clear: an abundance of chocolate is indeed the key. Confident I was “on” to something, I designed a custom Chips Ahoy holster and spent countless hours practicing a quick-draw technique –ultimately achieving a high level of deadly accuracy.
Unfortunately Terri, when upset, can be very uncooperative with science: numerous computer simulations were conducted, proving conclusively that the cookies would simply shatter against her clenched and growling jaw serving only to enrage her further. (Worse, the broken cookies would only contribute to the afore mentioned neglected trash.)
Thus it was back to the drawing board. If Terri was to resist high doses of chocolate as they are required, what good is this knowledge at all?
And that’s when we developed the Predator Press Chocolate Blowdart [retailing at $799.50, available at Ace Hardware and Autozone]. Days of garbage-forgetting ambushes can be a thing of the past: with a simple deep breath and exhale, you too can watch as your formely-hostile spouse’s eyes glaze over in loving contentedness. And once sedated, you can “tag” them with such pertinent information such as address, blood type, a tracking device, and a microchip preemptively transmitting anniversaries and pertinent birthdays to your Blackberry.Order today and receive a $10 off coupon for the Predator Press Skillet of Love and free shipping.
Tuesday
Keeping the Romance Aflame
Predator Press [LOBO]
I have recently made the observation that the most significant appliance in my marriage is a medium-sized cast iron skillet.
See, upon occasion I lose my sense of decorum and post about, um, fisting androids and random loose allusions about pornography.
!!!WHANGGG!!!
-In a fraction of a second the "message" is delivered loud 'an clear.
Once I'm out of the hospital, several days of apologetic groveling must ensue: this typically includes flowers, chocolates, window serenades, jewelry, luxury cars -whatever it takes to trick her into thinking I have deeply-rooted “feelings” and warrant forgiveness.
Conversely, if I’m mad, she uses this exact same skillet to make my favorite food: pork chops. Pork chops -minus the time to defrost them- take maybe an hour and max out cost-wise at around $15.
This versatile utensil is truly remarkable, and when factoring in the innate marriage-saving properties it must be regarded with a certain awe … an awe that could bring an entrepreneurial blogger such as myself an assload of cash.
-Cash that can be used for the afore mentioned apologetic groveling.
As many of you longtime readers know, Predator Press has always been a blog dedicated exclusively to successful relationships and personal fulfillment. It is in this spirit I’ve contacted DuPont and –with Doctor Phil onboard as a consultant- have developed the official Predator Press Skillet of Love.No couple that takes itself seriously should be without it.
Retailing at around $1,249.93 (plus S&H), the Predator Press Skillet of Love is constructed of contoured space age polymers and alloys making it extremely lightweight, balanced, and aerodynamic for hurling ease and accuracy -while the virtually impervious coating provides a non-stick surface that rarely requires cleaning, seasoning, or even heat.
Thursday
How to Get More Football out of Life
Predator Press
[LOBO]
I was vaguely aware as my youngest son audibly mistyped his name, “J-O-O …”
But then I distinctly heard the G.I. Joe M.A.R.S. Laptop announce with finality, “'Joo' is incorrect. Access denied.”
I am going to have so much fun with that thing at Sunday Mass this week ...
How to Break Up With Gods
Predator Press
Dear Medusa,
I can't do this anymore.
It's not really about the obsession with sculpture, the bloody dandruff, or the thick scales stuck in the soap bar ... I just think we should start hissing and spitting at other people.
I will always remember the good times -like that time we tickled Sisyphus until he dropped his rock and he hadda start history all over. But we've grown in different directions, and I want my half of the direction our music collection has taken. And all my Dean Koontz paperbacks.
We're just too different. I think we should just be friends. It's not you, it's me. Plus I need time to focus on my new career rehabilitating blind mongooses. (Mongeese? Mongai? Mongaggles?) And I'm not good enough for you ... you need to find someone who will treat you like you deserve being treated by.
Your Pal,
LOBO
Dear Medusa,I can't do this anymore.
It's not really about the obsession with sculpture, the bloody dandruff, or the thick scales stuck in the soap bar ... I just think we should start hissing and spitting at other people.
I will always remember the good times -like that time we tickled Sisyphus until he dropped his rock and he hadda start history all over. But we've grown in different directions, and I want my half of the direction our music collection has taken. And all my Dean Koontz paperbacks.
We're just too different. I think we should just be friends. It's not you, it's me. Plus I need time to focus on my new career rehabilitating blind mongooses. (Mongeese? Mongai? Mongaggles?) And I'm not good enough for you ... you need to find someone who will treat you like you deserve being treated by.
Your Pal,
LOBO
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