The irony of watching plumes of smoke along the coast from the deck of the Honeypot isn't lost on me.
"You look like you would rather be there," Fish giggles, pouring wine.
"Nah," I says, taking a glass. "Protesters, counter-protesters, insurgents ... this is fighting police on police terms."
"So you're admitting it comes down to law?"
I shrug. "Nobody was listening. This had to happen."
Fish and I are coworkers labelled "essential," so we started sort of quarantining together a few months ago to blow off steam. We're an odd pairing. Her house in Malibu burned down several years ago, and local ordinances forbade her rebuilding. In the transition, she moved to the Honeypot to consider her options.
"You understand," she says soberly, "if the business folds, you lose the house."
"Ya," I reply. "Maybe the car too, unless I can pull something out of my keyster. Gina, Rachel and Jiaying are already looking for something else."
They will probably have to take Phil II with them.
"You and Wendy could stay here for a while."
"Thank you," I smile. "But I doubt Guillermo wouldn't stand for that."
Guillermo Del Taco, Fishs' ex husband, is perhaps one of the most intimidating men I've ever met. He lost Honeypot in their bitter divorce. Bad mojo. Plus this is a bit of a trap. Fish isn't good at hiding her romantic intent. For instance, I came aboard under the auspice of 'having dinner.' Where is the food?
When I first met Fish, she was beautiful. But after her divorce, she started getting frequent plastic surgeries. She got the nickname "Fish" when someone unkindly remarked she was starting to look like a Wallace and Gromit love interest. My penis and I have intuited some sort of self-mutilation in process. She's unrecognizable now, and a weird metaphor; like America, I'm not sure I ever knew what she was. Over time, all the cosmetics and polish are observable as a very thin veneer.
This version of 'beauty' must stop. It's not healthy.
"I've been waiting for this my whole life," I muse out loud, and a salty waft of smoke blows by. "And I don't know how to help it."
When I arrived, I was roughly thirty hours late. But the itinerary was fairly arbitrary: I'm still several days ahead of the truck with my stuff, and I don't start work until next week. The only thing I consider a "drawback" is that I'm supposed to meet the new boss today: no more Skype interviews in my dress shirt and underpants. Today is the real deal.
But the property manager's office didn't open for another two hours, and I had no keys.
I woke under windshield-lasering sunlight, with Phil II sleeping on my chest. She went back into her cage with mild protest, and once I stopped bleeding, I traversed the ankle-breaking cobblestone walkway. Everything screams weather-beaten pastel at me. With a few years of experience with ink, it seems ironic to me in that bright colors are the first to fade in sunlight ... and this place reputedly has relentless sunlight, only rudely interrupted by occasional nightfall.
For a place that the most attractive people in the world come to have their dreams ground into a fine paste, the property manager does not disappoint. Mid thirties, petite, and in a loose fitting sundress. Her "office" is a large desk in her living room.
"How many keys do you need?" she asks. "Each additional key requires a fifty dollar deposit."
"Just one."
She stared into her computer screen, eyebrows furrowed. "You don't want to get more keys for your family?"
"I'm divorced," I kinda lie. My wife of seven years is currently in the "honeymoon phase" with her new beau, and inconveniently forgot about how polite an official divorce would be. For a split second, I consider the weirdness that the happier they are, the closer we get to making it happen. But either way, the marriage is moot.
The property manager looks directly at me, and I have this strange feeling it is the first time. There is some sort of weird and palpable change in the atmosphere, and about five minutes later, she is picking Phil II's cat fur from the sternum of my shirt.
Is she flirting with me? I thought.
Let's be fair: it has been a almost a decade since I have use these skills. My ability to detect flirting has been seriously eroded by "Happily Ever After" fantasies.
Eyes are bright, but kinda sad. Prom queen, moved here to become an actress or a model ...
But that's just shooting fish in a barrel here.
No visible tattoos. Great complexion -possibly vegan. Botoxed lips, and breasts possibly fake ...
-Apparently I hate fish.
No wedding ring, but she has at least one kid -the glaring absence of kids screams, "I have kids!"
So she dated a bartender with an armload of screenplays, and they just fizzled out. He was getting some success, and this did nothing but create tension between them.
So what happened to the screenwriter/bartender?
Then I spotted the house arrest ankle bracelet.
Bingo.
***
The property manager circled my apartment on the map, and it was only about a four block drive. A page stapled behind it lists convenient shopping areas and restaurants.
I towed in Phil II's cage and my luggage only to find this place way to big. Even when my furniture arrives, it will be sparse. But that's a great point: I don't have my books, my game stations, cable -all I got is this cellphone wifi hotspot thingy Terri taught me to use.
Lars Arson shows up with a bottle of red wine, and the orientation packet. He has wide shoulders and skinny legs. His body type would be "Spongebob Squarepants."
"Wanna tour the plant?" he asks.
"Sure!" I says.
I am encouraged by the fact he drives a Tesla.
I am discouraged by the fact he only drives forty feet.
"Here we are," he explains.
I am skeptical.
"What can you film here?" I ask innocently. "Is this just some sort of waystation for actors making movies?"
"Son," Lars replied. "We don't do those kinds of movies"
When I left this morning, it was negative eleven degrees.
Holy shit that's cold.
I remote started the car through the kitchen window, and came out minutes later to find it off. I thought, “that's weird” and started her back up. All kinds of blinking lights and crazy warning messages came on -like I was driving the flying saucer from Close Encounters.
“ESC MAINTENENCE REQUIRED.”
What the hell does that mean?
-"I'm too sexy to be stolen from the Earth,” I thought. "People will notice! Important people!
***
Home safely now. Banging the snow from my boots causes blinding pain, as numerous blisters have fused my feet to my socks. But even then it's hard to be upset. For one, I kinda like winter. Even this nigh-impervious dump is vulnerable to the beauty of a fresh coating of snow. But perhaps more importantly, it's almost Christmas … the months of crazy overtime are finally abating, and the four day vacation ahead -the longest I've had since August by far- is right around the corner.
I am greeted by a pleasant rush of warmth, and set the mail, an ironic mix of bills and Christmas cards, on the end table as I engage in the process of removing my winter gear. Phil II waits impatiently, mewing her plaintiff welcomes.
Preoccupied with the Christmas cards, I ponder looking forward to the end of the holiday season for all the wrong reasons.
-For the first time in years I am confronted with the possibility of not celebrating Christmas, and not having a good excuse for it this time.
With my lawyer arriving at 2:00pm, it's with some reluctance I concede it's time to get up; even as the coffee pot gurgles, my mind struggles to find traction between the dreamworlds and reality. Good sleep is a casualty of years of hard living, and the leading edge of consciousness is always the worst.
The rarefied event of entertaining a guest has me self-conscious of the condition of my apartment; the toilet seat is up, and I correct this. Books, in widely different states of completion, are scattered about the floor, as if a small library received the full ire of an illiterate mortar team. Overnight, Phil II scattered a pile of documents -bills mostly. And were it not for the basket of neatly folded laundry, I would probably be doubting the existence of Washington Street entirely by now.
The Laundromat I went to yesterday wasn't on Google. I had learned about it from a friend, and it was considerably closer to home than the one I typically use. Shockingly blighted, the glass doors were cracked in vast spiderweb patterns. The signs were faded with age. Behind the old woman who seemed to be agelessly crocheting, the wall was covered with dusty and yellowed John Wayne memorabilia. A bulbous and antiquated tube television played seemingly endless black and white episodes of I Love Lucy. And on a bulletin board, in stark and bright white contrast, a crude brochure advertising the legal services of Thelonious Reebok Oswald Esq, PhD stood out, replete with tear-off vertical tabs at the bottom, like a skull missing teeth.
I have one of those teeth in my pocket.
The two stage act of doing laundry, as we all know, takes about an hour and a half. And once the drying stage was underway, I found myself restless. With forty-five minutes to kill, I decided to explore Washington Street. It was quaint; general stores, shoe shops, things one might associate with a receding Americana. Music I only vaguely recognized, some kind of mix of blues and jazz, thumped from across the street, subdued by nondescript walls. I wandered over to find a small sports bar. It's at this moment, as I recall, my first suspicions seethe to the surface: the laundromat, the close-by bar, the cozy and oddly functional neighborhood … it all just seemed too familiar, too convenient. And -almost playing to my rising intuition- an apartment building with a “For Rent” sign was well within view once I looked for it.
Upon entry, the dark and smoky bar required my vision to adjust. The first things to come into focus were the large flatscreen televisions, all replaying flaming car crashes from the Daytona 500. Taking the stool closest from the door I ordered a Miller Lite, discretely observing the small yet talkative crowd, while simultaneously attempting to identify the strangely familiar music.
There were perhaps six other bar patrons.
-And they all reminded me of dead people I have known. Joe was there. Billy Taylor -aged twice what Fate allowed him- was there …
It was eerily like being among old friends.
A loud knock at the door interrupts my ponderings of yesterday. I open the door to find Thelonious Reebok Oswald, Esq, Phd, standing before me. He is a black man in dreadlocks, roughly five feet tall, and wearing reflective, round sunglasses. As I mentioned I don't have many guests, and quickly blurted the first thing that came to mind in order to make him feel welcome.
“Word up, Homie!” I said enthusiastically, extending my hand in what I expected to be a complicated handshake.
Theloious Reebok Oswald, Esq, PhD just just kind of froze for a beat, with a simple gaze galvanizing me as perhaps the whitest man on Earth.
“You Michael Wolfe?” he asked finally, grinning in gold.
“Yes,” I reply. “Please come in.”
He enters, looking around in mild distaste. “My name is Thelonious Reebok Oswald, Esquire. Widely renown in legal circles as 'TRO.' And it has come to my attention that you have had a recent issue with the pigs.”
“Indeed,” I reply. “But first let me thank you for making a house call. I tried to find your office, but ...”
“Yeah,” he dismisses me, raising his hand. “I used your retainer to get the van an oil change.”
“Good thinking. I love that suit by the way. Is that Armani?”
“It's FUBU,” he shakes his head. “Says so right on the hoodie. So who the fuck we gonna sue?”
I take a deep breath. “I paid for these streets. And I won't be told when and where I will cross them.”
“The problem is,” Thelonious replies, “You is guilty as Hell of First Degree Jaywalking. As your legal counsel, I recommend you just pay the thirty dollar fine.”
“Fuck that,” I growl. “I want this to go all the way up to the Supreme Court. Terri's credit cards are no object!”
Thelonious scratches his beard thoughtfully. “Well, my office could use new upholstery after the fire.”
“Fire?”
“Never mind,” he replies. “You should try intimidating the judge, like you'll kick his ass. Try and look menacing ...”
Wild-eyed, I bear my teeth.
“Meh,” he replies. “Just walk into the courtroom, tell him to fuck off, and then pee on the podium.”
“I love this strategy,” I confess. “Which law school did you go to?”
“I never went to law school. But I saw 'Flight' four times. And if Denzel Washington doesn't get an Oscar, I'm gonna stab me some whitey!”
No. We got "-but the dogs land in random places at crazy speeds!" blah blah.
So now where is Sports Illustrated on our groundbreaking 'Mag-Cat' Research and Development? My theory that cats -cunning natural predators equipped with lightning-fast reflexes, guile, and grace- are ideally suited for intense Air Hockey competition is gonna make us millions.
First and foremost, the Air Hockey table -pointedly designed for humans- would have to undergo some minor modifications to provide for a suitable and level playing field for serious Feline Competition. So at great expense to you, our own Predator Press Scienticians magnetically reversed an Air Hockey table surface.
Unfortunately, cats are naturally highly-resistant to magnetism, and tiny little magnetically-repellant boots needed to be developed to respond to the magnetic fields. This realistically replicates the 120-decibel gravity-free Air Hockey environment for cats exactly as it would occur in nature.
We should have a good “regulation” set of these boots available commercially by Christmas. And while coming in at a hefty $850, you must remember that there are four ... plus we throw in our patented "This Side Up" polarity collar and a Buell helmet totally for free. Further, we think $850 is a small price to pay for any serious Air Hockey or cat safety enthusiast: once augmented with the $800 fire extinguisher mandated by California State, your cat will be howling past you on the freeway.
Four of our cats can get to Madison Square Garden from here in eight minutes.
-Theoretically. They cannot read maps, and are complete suckers for every Stuckey's they see along the way.
But truthfully I do not consider an insatiable Pecan Roll dependency a side effect of our regimented and complex training: for several months now, one of Phil's kittens (due to her inexplicable and irritable disposition I call her "Fighty") has undergone 1,074 hours of observation actually wearing the boots, and she finally acclimated well to her vastly improved mobility -even with the chainsaw attachments.
And let me tell you buddy, she hates Pecan Rolls.
Fighty -already a Mag-Cat first season veteran- is ready for some healthy competition. And she's virtually undefeated! Her 27-1 record was most unfairly despoiled by Barbarossa rubbing her fur backwards during the Winter Halftime Show last February; this triggered a static discharge resulting in one hell of bang, four molten transformers, subsequent rolling blackouts, two crashed satellites, an irrepressible odor of burning hair permeating everything in the Lab, and me spilling my coffee.
Now, the fire department gets cats out of trees all the time, right? When's the last time you saw a cat skeleton in a tree? But you call those jerks and tell them about your smoldering and pissed steroid-jazzed chainsaw-wielding cat magnetically attached to the side of a water tower and see what happens.
I swear those fire department guys are totally worthless.
Nonetheless, lil' Fighty today is an Air Hockey Champion nose-to-tail; just show her that plastic puck or a Pecan Roll, and she yowls, spits and hisses ...
Before I do a post on Mark A. Rayner's newest and seminal work -the one starring me- I should probably explain where I've been for the past month.
See, every once in a while the Earth tries to kill me. But the problem is that I'm on Earth, and the Earth is dumb and has pisspoor aim. World War II, Chernobyl, Paris Hilton, September 11, Katrina, … the list of the Earth's inept, bungled efforts to murder me is virtually endless.
But this time the Earth tried something uncharacteristically clever. A month ago, watching Thursday Night Football peacefully from my basement apartment, I heard commotion upstairs. Assuming the couple living above were in a particularly virulent argument, I did what every hero does: I turned the television up to drown it out.
When the door –out of my field of vision- got kicked in, I was annoyed. When four flashlight beams swirled in, I was confused. When the SWAT team captain's boot was suddenly on my neck, I was indignant. “I am the Senior LOBOian Ambassador to the United States! A national treasure. My blog readers will not stand for this! Your badges will be shoved up your asses so far they'll be mistaken as dental work-!”
Clearly they weren't Predator Press readers. When I came to, the bleeding had slowed considerably. Handcuffed to a chair, I wondered furiously why you people hadn't rescued me yet -it was, after all, one measly SWAT team. Some of them weren't even carrying automatic weapons, preferring shotguns instead. Have all the millions and millions Predator Press readers gone soft?
I would not learn until later the Earth was way ahead of us this time. She had distracted you all with a rather diabolic diversion: Superstorm Sandy. Now I love you readers. Seriously. But when a natural disaster occurs, nobody stops to think that maybe it's an elaborate plot to kill LOBO? That's the oldest trick in the book! You people better start thinking these things through.
So I was brought in for questioning. Supposedly, roughly ten pounds of marijuana and twenty guns were found on the premises -all of which I was completely oblivious. I had a separate entrance to the house, through the garage to my basement apartment. I didn't have keys to the upstairs. Utterly unhelpful, they released me to walk twenty two miles home in the freezing cold to a totally trashed apartment. Phil II, obviously rattled by the search and seizure, hissed as I assessed the situation.
The place was sacked. All “recording devices” were confiscated.
This unfortunately included my computers and cellphone.
And things got somehow got worse. I wasn't on the lease, so Phil II and I were technically trespassing. While I desperately searched for an apartment, the homeowner was essentially looting the place of valuable televisions and electronics, and would change the locks while I was at work. So for three weeks I would randomly come “home” locked out. But I had an ID reflecting my address, so the locksmiths would just let me right back in at $75 a pop. The next day I would have to spring Phil II out of the Humane Society at $40 a pop. And indeed I had a visceral joy perplexing the landlord with continued access, and how the evil cat, farmed away, would mysteriously return despite their effort.
I found a half a pack of "Fuzzy Sticks" -kinda like really long pastel pipe cleaners.
For a full bag containing 100 the Walmart label says "$1.99." The product code suggests they can be found in the Crafts Department, and the fact that Walmart has a "Crafts Department" is probably most profound thing in this post altogether.
Still, it started with me bouncing a "Fuzzy Stick" playfully off of Phil II's noggin. Once I got her attention, she would try and catch the end. And as she inevitably caught it here and there, random kinks and elbows would form in the wire ... only serving to make the thing more wobbly and unpredictable.
Ultimately I set it down, and she continued to play with it relentlessly for two hours straight, hopping on one bent end only to have the other rise.
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.
Detachable laser targeting scope (pictured) is optional and sold separately.
I don’t really watch much prime time television –in fact I’ll wager 85-90% of what I watch is documentaries.
My favorite show, I guess, would be “The Universe” on the History channel.
At first blush this series appears to be a modern incarnation of Carl Sagan’s “Cosmos,” but it has one huge noteworthy difference: ‘The Universe’ is utterly devoid of the trademark feelgood optimism Sagan seemed to insist on. ‘The Universe,’ in contrast, makes it a point to scare the hell out of you: many a night I’ve found myself involuntarily rocking in an upright fetal position on the couch, making peace with Jesus while waiting for a rouge pulsar or quasar to incinerate the our atmosphere. Or perhaps an undetected black hole, swinging by at seven zillion miles per hour, pulling our solar system out of orbits around the sun. Or maybe just a good ‘ol fashioned colossal meteor strike that’ll bake the bones of the lucky to ash, and leave everyone else to slowly die in the subsequent nuclear winter.
Thusly rendered unable to sleep, over the next few hours I’ll try and relax myself with more uplifting material such as Forensic Files -a show often about solving unbelievably ruthless murders. This show typically runs back-to-back until about 5:00 am -at which point the rising sun will find me hiding under the coffee table, swinging the table lamp at anything vaguely resembling moving ankles with deadly precision. Everyone in the house –from Terri down to my cat Phil- now walks with a limp, but a few bruises are a very small price to pay for my personal safety. And if you think about it, what am I supposed to do? True, the house is probably oozing serial killers with ankles distinct in appearance ... but the last thing I would need is a bunch of selfish family members oozing nuclear fallout under the coffee table with me: if I get radioactive poisoning, who will be left to ensure the serial killers aren’t the only ones left to repopulate the Earth?
SO last night -with a 2-hour gap between intergalactic apocalypses and sociopathic killing sprees- I found myself deeply engrossed in a show highlighting the National Transportation Safety Bureau’s efforts to solve mysterious plane crashes. This was followed by another program dissecting the space shuttle Challenger’s final, fatal voyage.
And behind my bloodshot, riveted eyes, my brain started quietly working over the question Why am I doing this to myself?
I’m too young to remember Evil Knieval’s career when it was in it’s heyday, for instance. But I remember having the toy motorcycle [pictured], the Snake River Lunchbox, and a vague sense of hope that -whoever this lunatic was- he would somehow survive failing to jump something insane this week. Let’s face it: Knieval’s daredevil skills and stunts were in inverse proportion … the more his jumping skills seemed to diminish, the crazier his stunts became.
But at that age, I was out of the “media loop” and operating off of schoolyard legends. In retrospect, Evil Knieval’s daredevil career was already over … and this was probably good for Knieval: over a long enough timeline, him smashing headlong into the Sears Tower filled with half-starved piranhas, rabid ocelots and flame-spewing sulfuric acid in a futile attempt to jump it was inevitable. Imagine how many lunchboxes he would have sold after that!
Anyway. My point is I wasn’t hoping he would crash. In contrast, I was rooting for the guy to survive himself somehow. Was that just youthful naivety, or did I change? Or did we change as a culture collectively? Following my implied trend from Knieval, we see the dramatic rise of NASCAR –a sport enthusiasm for which I cynically suspect comes largely from the inevitable spectacular crashes. “America’s Funniest Home Videos” soon thereafter broke ground with the idea that watching a guy snap his femur in a bizarre trampoline accident would make we, the viewers, laugh and laugh and laugh. Add to the list the “Faces of Death” series and [admittedly poorly juxtaposed, but bearing mention] John Walsh vehicles. Today, we have websites and entire cable television networks wholly devoted to cataloging car crashes, tragedy, disasters, and general human boobery.
Don’t get me wrong ... I’m aware the Roman Coliseum was built for explicitly these same purposes. But haven't we evolved at all since then? Judging from the materialization of a lucrative schadenfreude-based, ShamWow-fueled economy, as a species we seem to love this stuff now just as much as we ever did -if not more.
When my Fantasy Football Team failed to reign in an unexpectedly winnable matchup Sunday, I was miffed. And when my tire went flat yesterday, I resisted. But when I found out the Jon and Kate Gosselin were getting a divorce, that was the last straw.
-It was time to eliminate the source of all my misfortunes, none other than Brent Diggs.
The connection to football, automotive failure, ‘Jon and Kate Plus 8,’ and Brent Diggs I don't exactly understand. But I don’t understand how fusion works either, and it does. It’s called science. You should try it sometime.
In a ghillie suit made of almond tree branches I made, I followed Brent completely undetected. And in a brazen act of stealth and guile, I slipped silently behind him as he let himself in his front door. He tried to make me into think he did see me by saying “Hello LOBO” -but because I was in camouflage, I knew he was bluffing.
Conveniently, Brent left the room and I began to plot how and where his murder would take place. I decided that because it was almost Christmas, I would hide in his fireplace chimney ... and then, when he opened the flue for Santa Claus on Christmas Eve, POW.
The problem with this plan is that a ghillie suit made of almond tree branches is too flammable to wear hiding in a chimney, and I would need a trash can of adequate size to dispose of them properly so I not annoy Mrs Brent. I am a guest. This may be Brent’s murder, but that’s no excuse not to be tidy.
“Psst!” I whisper from the center of the room, waving subtly. “Doc! It's me, LOBO. I’m over here in camouflage!”
"I was wondering why the Christmas tree reeked of Old Spice."
“Are you here to murder Brent Diggs too?”
"No, he is still useful to me as my web-lackey, working off his therapy bill and publishing my exploits. But I used up all my compassion today at the office, so if you simply must "bump him off" I won't stand in the way.In fact, unless your aim has improved, I won't even stand in the room."
“Probably a good idea," I agree. "Seein' as this is a murder, things could get ugly. Brent is an ex Marine, and Marines are extremely difficult to kill. Luckily I’m an ex-Marine too.”
"Reaaaaaaally?"
“No. I made that up. Besides I’m far too deadly for the Marines. They said so. It wouldn’t be fair to the other countries.”
"Well you definitely put the special back in Special Forces..."
"When did you start growing your mustache upside down?"
"Is it upside-down again?!!! I mean...well LOBO, sometimes when I put my entire focus on a single problem, like acquiring your debit card number, my follicles actually invert. It's quite a rare phenomenon, in fact now that Einstein is gone I think I'm the only one that still does it."
“Doc," I says, laying out on the couch. "I’ve probably got some time to kill before Brent gets back, and then something else to kill, and then more time. Mind doing an impromptu interview? On the last step of ‘800 Steps To Adequacy,’ and only $2,000 away from graduating to the 'Ladder of Adequate Empowerment,' I'm a huge fan of your work.”
"No session today, I'm fresh out of pepper spray. But be sure to purchase my latest self-help masterpiece, 'Learning to Live With Self-Loathing.' It's perfect for challenging cases like yourself."
"Wow!" I whistle, impressed. "That's the biggest book I've ever seen. It must be brilliant. And it just so happens I'm in dire need of a large, heavy and brilliant blunt object. How much is it?
"How much do you have?"
***
LOBO: Your new series, Mind Over Memphis, is a towering triumph of both science and cinematographical achievement. It’s like a burrito with a mountain of information for beef and intriguing guests for cheese ... all wrapped in a delightfully soft, still-steaming entertainment tortilla. Do you know if Brent has any food here?
DT: Yes, my videos are quite amazing. It's the sort of work Spielberg would do if he were ready to move to the next level. And yes, I think there is some jello in the back of the fridge that isn't too badly molded.
LOBO: What will become of your Mind Over Memphis show if you find the fabled ‘Memphis’? And how did you get your mind over it without knowing where it is? And where was the rest of you at the time?
DT: Actually the title refers to the way my intellect towers over this town like a benevolent thundercloud of wisdom. Unfortunately, the city does stray form under my impressive shadow from time to time and I have to track it down. Such is the price of greatness.
LOBO: In your lecture series “Approaching the Outer Edge of Adequacy,” DVD 192 -roughly 80 minutes in- you said “over-adequacy can be just as dangerous as a lack of adequacy.” Can you elaborate on that theory?
DT: The pool of over-adequate individuals on this planet is fairly small, basically just me. And if there is one thing I don't tolerate, it is competition. It can be quite dangerous, if you know what I mean.
LOBO: In DVDs 404, 405 and 406, were you aware you had linguine in your mustache? I have always thought it was symbolic of something.
DT: LOBO, my entire life is a symbol of hope to lesser intellects...And to money launderers everywhere.
LOBO: I haven’t found any references to “Cryohydrotachophobia Purging” in your work. Yet during your “Crouching to Competence Wilderness Retreat,” you had me wear a sack over my head while the rest of the campers punched me -insisting it was the only cure for the morbid fear of rogue icebergs. Is that an experimental treatment? And why was everyone laughing?
DT: You just have to trust me, I'm the doctor.
LOBO: There has been some speculation –and numerous lawsuits- surrounding the fact that your anti-zombie patch Cerebitol causes sterility in a significant number of it’s users. Why people would people want to have babies in the face of the Zombie Menace is completely beyond me. Have you any thoughts you wish to share on this clearly-frivolous pending litigation?
DT: Really? That's excellent. It means I can market it as a contraceptive too. Your words ring with the sound of money.
LOBO: And you heard they can cause blindness, right?
DT: That was you. You aren't supposed to put the patches on your eyes.
LOBO: Pirates have zombie troubles too -and given the growth potential of that market, don't you think it's a mistake to alienate them? You could be a hero in their circles. Just imagine ... every time you vacationed in Somalia, they would buy you drinks and stuff. [wistful sigh] Say, you know what Doc? The mere calming effect of your presence has inexplicably diminished my desire to kill Brent. Is there a cure for that? Or am I just being lazy?
DT: Actually, you've been field testing my latest innovation, Slumberoos. Imagine a custom blend of ritalin and tranquilizers all together in a giant patch. Now take that patch and weave a snug undergarment out of it. Then sneak it into someones wardrobe and watch the therapy begin.
LOBO: Well, being unable to feel my legs while wearing them is difficult to get used to -but you can't beat this absorbency. By the way, this gum is terrible. I didn’t know gum spoiled. I probably shoulda known ‘cuz there was hairs in it.
DT: That's spirit gum. Don't worry about the lint, it's a great source of fiber.
LOBO: [slurring] Is that spearmint?
DT: No, that's Aqua Velva.
LOBO: Doctor T, you’re amazing. I’ll bet you could cure anyone. Any thing! I’ll bet you could take, like, sick polar bears that think they are deep sea bass and get them to think they are polar bears again. Or at least some kind of mammal ....
DT: Ah LOBO, so many issues, so little time. I guess Brent lives another day.
But when you own a cat, doesn’t it seem incumbent upon them not to have flies in your house?
I only bring this up because moments ago I’m skimming blogs and drinking coffee –as is my morning routine- and a fly landed on my hand. I slapped at it, but the quick little bastard zigzagged off somewhere.
Phil, at the base of my desk chair, is giving me a migraine meowing.
“No!” I says to her. “Didn’t you see that fly land on my hand? I’m not feeding you for an hour, you damned freeloading moocher!”
To underline this sweeping new policy I take a huge swig of coffee, and realize there’s a fairly large and fuzzy foreign object in my mouthful.
I found the fly.
“Oh yeah Miss Smartypants?" I says moments later to a disappointed Phil, wiping my chin. "Well it’ll take me at least an hour to get all that coffee off of my monitor!”
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 $249, 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 never requires “seasoning.”
*Detachable laser targeting scope (pictured) is optional and sold separately.
So now where is Sports Illustrated on our groundbreaking 'Mag-Cat' Research and Development? My theory that cats -cunning natural predators equipped with lightning-fast reflexes, guile, and grace- are ideally suited for intense Air Hockey competition is gonna make us millions.
First and foremost, the Air Hockey table -pointedly designed for humans- would have to undergo some minor modifications to provide for a suitable and level playing field for serious Feline Competition. So at great expense to you, our own Predator Press Scienticians magnetically reversed an Air Hockey table surface.
Unfortunately, cats are naturally highly-resistant to magnetism, and tiny little magnetically-repellant boots needed to be developed to respond to the magnetic fields. This realistically replicates the 120-decibel gravity-free Air Hockey environment for cats exactly as it would occur in nature.
We should have a good “regulation” set of these boots available commercially by Christmas. And while coming in at a hefty $850, you must remember that there are four ... plus we throw in our patented "This Side Up" polarity collar and a Buell helmet totally for free. Further, we think $850 is a small price to pay for any serious Air Hockey or cat safety enthusiast: once augmented with the $800 fire extinguisher mandated by California State, your cat will be howling past you on the freeway.
Four of our cats can get to Madison Square Garden from here in eight minutes.
-Theoretically. They cannot read maps, and are complete suckers for every Stuckey's they see along the way.
But truthfully I do not consider an insatiable Pecan Roll dependency a side effect of our regimented and complex training: for several months now, one of Phil's kittens (due to her inexplicable and irritable disposition I call her "Fighty") has undergone 1,074 hours of observation actually wearing the boots, and she finally acclimated well to her vastly improved mobility -even with the chainsaw attachments.
And let me tell you buddy, she hates Pecan Rolls.
Fighty -already a Mag-Cat first season veteran- is ready for some healthy competition. And she's virtually undefeated! Her 27-1 record was most unfairly despoiled by Ethan rubbing her fur backwards during the Winter Halftime Show last February; this triggered a static discharge resulting in one hell of bang, four molten transformers, subsequent rolling blackouts, two crashed satellites, an irrepressible odor of burning hair permeating everything in the Lab, and me spilling my coffee.
Now, the fire department gets cats out of trees all the time, right? When's the last time you saw a cat skeleton in a tree? But you call those jerks and tell them about your smoldering and pissed steroid-jazzed chainsaw-wielding cat magnetically attached to the side of a water tower and see what happens.
I swear those fire department guys are totally worthless.
Nonetheless, lil' Fighty today is an Air Hockey Champion nose-to-tail; just show her that plastic puck or a Pecan Roll, and she yowls, spits and hisses ...
Finally persuaded that coaching the Lakers for Game 3 myself was going to be the best course of action, I figured I had better do it disguised as Phil Jackson as not to send the wrong message to the Celtics, Lakers and fans.
The team was already warming up when I arrived. And taking a page from Bobby Knight’s playbook, I took my giant yellow ‘Lakers are #1’ foam hand and hurled it violently against the wall.
The players stopped and stared at me, bewildered.
But even before the unattended ball stopped bouncing off the court, my unrequited rage had impelled me to yet another act of wanton destruction: with a short running start, I kicked an empty Gatorade bottle three or four yards.
Masking my cry from the sudden pain in my toe with that of a furious scream, I bared my teeth at them, hissing and spitting.
“Are you okay coach?” asked one player.
“Weren’t you taller yesterday?” asked another.
“Shut up!” I bellowed, grabbing a gym towel at the ends with my fists.
While unsuccessfully trying to tear it in half for a few seconds, the entire team has assembled in a semicircle. I finally toss the intact towel to a largish guy in a Lakers uniform who promptly tears the towel in half.
Pacing, I glower wild-eyed up at their kneecaps.
“I don’t know what’s more disgusting,” I begin. “That pisspoor excuse for basketball I saw Sunday, or how alarmingly few of you are wearing underwear right now!"
“But coach,” says a Laker. “We came back 30 points in ten minutes, and almost-“
“Almost what?” I demand.
The players head fell forward, silenced.
“That’s what I thought," I says.
Standing on a chair, I arch an accusing finger up at all of them. "And that whole time five or six of of you were out on the court, dozens of you lazy jerks were lounging on the bench with towels around your necks!”
“Were only allowed this many on the floor coach,” says my new towel-tearer, holding up five fingers.
“Say’s who?”
“The referees.”
My eyebrow arches high. “And which side is the referee on?”
The players look at each other.
“Well it ain’t yours!”
Pleased with having driven my point home with such dramatic flair, I relax a little. “How many of these games do we have left?”
“At least four, coach.”
“Four!? Ah crap. And we have to win them all?”
“If we lose two more, that’s the end of the season.”
"Wait. We can lose one?"
"Yes."
“That’s a relief,” I says exhaling. “Alright. We’re going to go with Plan X.”
“Plan X?”
“For this first game, we’re only going to use white guys that aren’t Hungarian or Ukrainian, and names that amount to 66 points or less on an official Scrabble board. You other guys lay low and rest up for the last four games."
“How are we going to win this game?”
“We're not … And it’ll lull them into a false sense of security. Then bam, we win the next four games in a row.”
Towel-tearer raises his hand, and I acknowledge him.
"What if," he asks timidly, "we can get our usual run in the fourth quarter?"
"Fourth quarter? Jesus how long are these games? I'm going to miss L.A Law!"
“I’ve been better. We’re down by 30 points.” Phil sighs audibly. “We need you to suit up.”
“Phil, I haven’t seen my Bulls uniform since the 3-Peat.”
“I’m with the Lakers now.”
“Really?”
“Yeah. We’re in Game 2 of the Finals against the Celtics.”
“The Celtics? Wow. So Larry Bird is really handing it to you, huh?”
“Larry Bird is retired.”
“Well then Magic Johnson should totally cream them!”
“We need you LOBO.”
“But Phil, I’ve only got 29 free days left on AOL. Then those jerks are going to start chargin me.” I rub my temples thoughtfully. “Did you try good ‘ole number 23?”
“Beckham plays soccer.”
“I mean Michael Jordan.”
“Well, no. That's a good idea though. But we were really hoping you would come through.”
“Phil, you know I hate doing that. All the other players do is complain, ‘wah, LOBO jumps too high’ and ‘boo-hoo coach, I never get the ball now’. I mean it just wears on me, you know?”
“If you give Kobe the ball once or twice during the game, I’m sure he’ll be cool with it.”
“Artificially inflating another player’s stats is the equivalent of lying Phil. Why should I jeopardize my reputation of integrity by participating in something dishonest?”
“Well telling everyone I use the Triangle Offense when I actually use a rectangle was your idea.”
“Geometry doesn’t count Phil. You know that.”
[brief silence]
“There’s nothing I can do to change your mind?”
“I don’t think so Phil.”
[*muffled sobbing*]
“Phil. You’re going to be fine. Before you know it people will be throwin octopuses and batteries at you too. But you can’t do it with a negative attitude.”
”[*sniff*] Okay LOBO. I’ll try.”
“Atta boy Phil. Now get out there and sink some touchdowns!”
"No it's fine," I says. "To my knowledge, Brent hasn't been within a hundred miles of my place."
"How about the bathtub shark cage?"
"That's fine too."
"I hope you've taken my advice and stopped reading Don Lewis' fear-mongering."
"That guy is a menace and must be stopped."
McKracken gestures to a seat in front of his desk, and eyes me carefully as he sits. "I take it you have further need for our security services."
"And how," I says. Pulling a folded piece of paper from my lapel, I toss it in front of him. "Everywhere I've surfed the Internet lately, I see things like this."
"These sick bastards," I explain, "are tryin to squish the Earth into a weird heart shape!" I punch my finger into the image loudly. "This would almost certainly screw up our orbit around the Sun."
"I think," says McKracken, "this is just an effort to organize awareness for human rights."
"The right to squish the Earth?" I guffaw. "I need the Earth. All my stuff is there. And just look at Canada!"
"No," McKracken says patiently. "I mean the heart-shaped Earth is like a metaphor. As if to say 'the world should be more sensitive'. They aren't really trying to squish it."
"I'm not buying that," I says. "And frankly the last thing I need are bloggers 'uniting'. How long until one of them figures out that they can eliminate the best blog in the universe -Predator Press- by the simple act of sticking a shiv in the back of my neck while I'm mowing the lawn?"
"I've seen your yard," says McKracken. "I wouldn't classify that as a serious threat."
"I think we need to start discussing my options."
"Like what?"
I stand and walk to the window, thinking. "How about a giant vacuum that will suck everyone off of the face of the Earth except me, LadyTerri, Phil and the kids?"
"It sounds expensive," replies McKracken. "Plus you still have to worry about other dangers. You know, earthquakes and so forth."
"Okay," I concede sullenly. "How about if we airlift our house out into the middle of the Pacific where no earthquake -or organized bloggers- could possibly reach us?"
"Well," sighs McKracken. "You would still have hurricanes, tidal waves-"
Joyce Hopewell enters the studio, and I am immediately freaked out: she's wearing flowing long white sungod-esque robes and a leafy Caesar headband woven in delicate strands of gold.
Without word, she sits.
Joyce Hopewell: It's nice to see you too, LOBO. I'm fine.
LOBO: Joyce! How nice to see you again. How have you been?
Joyce Hopewell: I require no assistance.
LOBO: Would you like one of our techs to hook you up so we can begin the interview?
[A headset microphone floats toward her, and the switchboard modulators adjust themselves noisily.]
Joyce Hopewell: LOBO, you haven't gotten that mole checked out yet, have you?
LOBO: I don't go for all that medical hocus-pocus stuff. God is real strict about witchcraft. He throws all those heathens in a vat of flaming acid for 10,000 years ... and speaking of Eternal Damnation, how is this whole 'Astrology' thing going for you?
Joyce Hopewell: I have gained knowledge and wisdom of things your tiny, callow mind could never appreciate.
LOBO: Wow. So how do you get those butterflies to keep fluttering around you? All I get is regular flies.
Joyce Hopewell: Seriously. You need to get that mole checked out.
LOBO: I read the post where you did a Chart on Ricky Hatton, the Champion Boxer. I thought it was great. What could you reveal about me?
Joyce Hopewell: You want me to do your chart?
LOBO: No. I mean if I fought Ricky Hatton.
Joyce Hopewell: He would kill you.
LOBO: Seriously? At his age?
Joyce Hopewell: You know your plan to mug Santa Christmas Eve?
LOBO: Yeah.
Joyce Hopewell: Santa will kill you.
LOBO: Dammit!
Joyce Hopewell: Do you want to know what happens next time you forget to feed Phil?
LOBO: What?
Joyce Hopewell: She will kill you. And Phil is a girl by the way.
LOBO: Really? I was just giving Phil his privacy.
Joyce Hopewell: You've had her for three years.
LOBO: You are joking, right?
Joyce Hopewell: LOBO, Phil has nipples.
LOBO: I have nipples.
Joyce Hopewell: Eight of them? LOBO: Maybe it's a gene defect. I could easily have them removed by the vet.
Joyce Hopewell: Speaking of medical attention, would you please get that mole checked out?
LOBO: What mole?
Joyce Hopewell: Stop thinking about Britney Spears.
LOBO: There's nothing more depressing than your first Christmas after a divorce. And now her sister is pregnant too.
Joyce Hopewell: Her sister isn't pregnant.
LOBO: You mean on top of all that, her uterus is busted?
