Predator Press
[LOBO]
Taking Phoebe's advice and going out wasn't such a bad idea after all.
And let me have said, once and for all, that going to bars and not drinking is the slickest predatory move ever devised. Sure it’s a long drive and like eight bucks for a Pepsi, but the with your head clear and eyes open, chasing tail is like shooting blind, drunken, promiscuous fish in a barrel of terrible music ... with a Howitzer. I can’t believe I’ve never thought of it before! In the space of a few hours, this chick I never met before leaves her panties in the car, pounces me in a cheap motel, and now wonders why I have "irrational insecurities over our relationship prospects".
[*sigh*]
My plan to quit smoking hasn't really made much headway, however. This one last vice will undoubtedly be the most difficult of all. Everything I do makes associations with it: driving, working, writing ... I'm thinking about spending some time out of town over the holidays and tackling it then.
But for now, I'm more worried about the bills. It's not that I can't afford to pay them, it's the fact that I'm sick and stuffy; the voice-activated services in place are getting thrown off by my sniffing, sneezing and coughing. It took an hour to do the gas bill ... and now I'm debating whether to even try Comcast ...
Can’t somebody cure this? My cold is fucking up commerce now ...
Sunday
Resplendent
Predator Press
[LOBO]
Phoebe knocked for like two hours before she figured out that the door was unlocked. And there I was, in all my slothful, indolent glory.
“You have to get up,” she says flatly.
“Why?” I says.
Then there’s this big awkward pause.
“Because it’s not healthy,” she says finally. “You’re wasting away.”
“Wasting away with Hi-Def,” I says. “Now would you please go away? You’re blocking the screen.”
“What are you watching?”
“’Nympho Space Accountants From Sector 6’. It’s a sequel to the timeless classic ‘Horny Babe Outlaws From Sector 5’.” I turn it down with the remote, sighing, “but this one is just riddled with plot holes.”
Moving my bag of Cheetos, she sits at the corner of the bed. “LOBO, we’ve know each other a long time. Fess up. Did Sapphire break your heart?”
“My what?”
"Did Sapphire and Edward, you know, break your heart? It's hard seeing you like this."
I happen to glance at her, and suddenly realize she being sincere.
I press pause on the television. "Look", I says, trying to be comforting. "They do heart transplants all the time. It's like getting stitches now. And I like this one. This little thing has carried me a long way already--"
It was at that moment, in a moment of macho bravado, I thumped my chest.
But instead of the solid resonant thud we expected, there was a soft, sharp crack.
"Fuck!" I says, scowling.
"What was that?" asks Phoebe.
"Well, I'm hoping I just broke my breastbone."
[LOBO]
Phoebe knocked for like two hours before she figured out that the door was unlocked. And there I was, in all my slothful, indolent glory.
“You have to get up,” she says flatly.
“Why?” I says.
Then there’s this big awkward pause.
“Because it’s not healthy,” she says finally. “You’re wasting away.”
“Wasting away with Hi-Def,” I says. “Now would you please go away? You’re blocking the screen.”
“What are you watching?”
“’Nympho Space Accountants From Sector 6’. It’s a sequel to the timeless classic ‘Horny Babe Outlaws From Sector 5’.” I turn it down with the remote, sighing, “but this one is just riddled with plot holes.”
Moving my bag of Cheetos, she sits at the corner of the bed. “LOBO, we’ve know each other a long time. Fess up. Did Sapphire break your heart?”
“My what?”
"Did Sapphire and Edward, you know, break your heart? It's hard seeing you like this."
I happen to glance at her, and suddenly realize she being sincere.
I press pause on the television. "Look", I says, trying to be comforting. "They do heart transplants all the time. It's like getting stitches now. And I like this one. This little thing has carried me a long way already--"
It was at that moment, in a moment of macho bravado, I thumped my chest.
But instead of the solid resonant thud we expected, there was a soft, sharp crack.
"Fuck!" I says, scowling.
"What was that?" asks Phoebe.
"Well, I'm hoping I just broke my breastbone."
Saturday
What’s This?
Predator Press
[LOBO]
While trying to install the television, I was pleased to find I own a tool.
A tool commonly referred to as a “screwdriver”.
This tool, which I had previously mistaken as a fancy cooking utensil, is a steel rod with a four-sided pointed tip used to drive screws. Hence it’s designation: a flathead screwdriver.
Used properly, this item can be held by the silvery thin part and used to bash the screws in with the wider end, also known as the handle.
... but this television sucks ...
[LOBO]
While trying to install the television, I was pleased to find I own a tool.
A tool commonly referred to as a “screwdriver”.
This tool, which I had previously mistaken as a fancy cooking utensil, is a steel rod with a four-sided pointed tip used to drive screws. Hence it’s designation: a flathead screwdriver.
Used properly, this item can be held by the silvery thin part and used to bash the screws in with the wider end, also known as the handle.
... but this television sucks ...
Friday
Bedsore
Predator Press
[LOBO]
I finally got a kickass little plasma flatscreen for my bedroom.
I originally bought it as an X-mas present for a friend, but then I decided I liked it, and that he was probably an asshole anyway. That's how I scored these really cool Lawn Jarts!
Now I can watch the Playboy channel and browse porn simultaneously.
I need to go buy somebody an X-mas helicopter.
[LOBO]
I finally got a kickass little plasma flatscreen for my bedroom.
I originally bought it as an X-mas present for a friend, but then I decided I liked it, and that he was probably an asshole anyway. That's how I scored these really cool Lawn Jarts!
Now I can watch the Playboy channel and browse porn simultaneously.
I need to go buy somebody an X-mas helicopter.
Thursday
Enema of the State
Predator Press
[LOBO]
I’ve decided to marry Sapphire.
This marriage counselor I know is hot ... and I could drag an actual marriage on for years.
Maybe then she'll notice me.
But Sapphire, it turns out, is far too self-absorbed to marry me so I can win the love of our marriage counselor. This conversation did, however, prompt an appearance from the baby’s father:
My Presidential running mate, Edward Harrows.
“Oh my God,” I says. “You’re banging Sapphire?.”
“Yes.”
“Better’n me?”
Edward hesitates, “Sapphire says all you ever did was run around the room with your fingers in your ears, going ‘la la la la’.”
“Better’n me?” I repeat.
“Yes,” he admits. “I have no idea why she likes that so much, but I’m a Baritone.”
“Have you any idea how much this is going to effect our polls?”
“Vaguely.”
“Well, she can have all her Enya CDs back," I says. "But I’m keeping the Häagen-Dazs."
“Like hell you are.”
[LOBO]
I’ve decided to marry Sapphire.
This marriage counselor I know is hot ... and I could drag an actual marriage on for years.
Maybe then she'll notice me.
But Sapphire, it turns out, is far too self-absorbed to marry me so I can win the love of our marriage counselor. This conversation did, however, prompt an appearance from the baby’s father:
My Presidential running mate, Edward Harrows.
“Oh my God,” I says. “You’re banging Sapphire?.”
“Yes.”
“Better’n me?”
Edward hesitates, “Sapphire says all you ever did was run around the room with your fingers in your ears, going ‘la la la la’.”
“Better’n me?” I repeat.
“Yes,” he admits. “I have no idea why she likes that so much, but I’m a Baritone.”
“Have you any idea how much this is going to effect our polls?”
“Vaguely.”
“Well, she can have all her Enya CDs back," I says. "But I’m keeping the Häagen-Dazs."
“Like hell you are.”
Wednesday
Measured Results
Predator Press
[LOBO]
“Dude,” I says. “That was amazing. I mean, ‘Ox Nuts’ is going to be a major bestseller. It’s genius. I don’t think I’ve ‘punched the clown’ while crying this much since, like, September ... Who knew you could write like that?”
“I post on the blog almost every week or so,” says Mr. I.
“Yeah, but who reads that tripe? 'Ox Nuts' is big. Can you put in some explosions and helicopter chases? I don’t want to infringe on your art, but a scene where Ox fights a giant bug or something might help get some of your boring soppy romance edited out.”
“It’s supposed to be a love story, moron.”
“Well how about some buxom Nordic chicks in Viking helmets, wielding electric battle-axe guitars that go 'bla-WANGGGGGG--'?”
“Maybe.”
[LOBO]
“Dude,” I says. “That was amazing. I mean, ‘Ox Nuts’ is going to be a major bestseller. It’s genius. I don’t think I’ve ‘punched the clown’ while crying this much since, like, September ... Who knew you could write like that?”
“I post on the blog almost every week or so,” says Mr. I.
“Yeah, but who reads that tripe? 'Ox Nuts' is big. Can you put in some explosions and helicopter chases? I don’t want to infringe on your art, but a scene where Ox fights a giant bug or something might help get some of your boring soppy romance edited out.”
“It’s supposed to be a love story, moron.”
“Well how about some buxom Nordic chicks in Viking helmets, wielding electric battle-axe guitars that go 'bla-WANGGGGGG--'?”
“Maybe.”
Tuesday
Moonlighting
Predator Press
[Mr I]
“Oh Ox Nuts, my love,” cries Gwendolyn. “The ocean is so vast, and yet here it is, for us and us only. Our love is captured forever in this meaningless, private moment on a magnificent beach.” She unties her flowing, golden hair. “Even the stars have turned away from us tonight. Take me now, you savage lustful beast! Before you are captured.” Her flimsy clothing slips over her pointed nipples, her curves, finally falling around her bejewelled ankles. “I want to have experienced your mighty passion, so I can remember it fondly while you are tortured and executed by my abusive boyfriend, the vile Prince of Zanzibar. Ox Nuts, ride me like a wild stallion …”
[Mr I]
“Oh Ox Nuts, my love,” cries Gwendolyn. “The ocean is so vast, and yet here it is, for us and us only. Our love is captured forever in this meaningless, private moment on a magnificent beach.” She unties her flowing, golden hair. “Even the stars have turned away from us tonight. Take me now, you savage lustful beast! Before you are captured.” Her flimsy clothing slips over her pointed nipples, her curves, finally falling around her bejewelled ankles. “I want to have experienced your mighty passion, so I can remember it fondly while you are tortured and executed by my abusive boyfriend, the vile Prince of Zanzibar. Ox Nuts, ride me like a wild stallion …”
Idiot Bag
Predator Press
[Mr I]
“10,000 Pounds of Thrush?,” I says. “Where’d you come up with that crap?”
“I do not question THE BAG,” says LOBO. "Ever."
“The bag? What bag?”
“The bag of words I pull from when I’m trying to come up with a title.”
“Every time you need a title, you pull words at random? I call bullshit.”
“Behold!" says LOBO, thumping a heavy sack on his cluttered desk. “Bask in the splendor, ye nonbeliever.”
“Does it work?”
“Try it out,” says the screwball. “What kind of story are you working on?”
“Let’s say a love story.”
"You pansy."
"What?"
"I said 'Oooh, fancy'."
LOBO closes his eyes, as if in a trance.
“Oh for God’s sake--“
“Silence!” LOBO demands. “Oh, mighty and wise bag. Divulge unto us your creative genius, that of which we are so devoided!”
He pulls out two slips of paper, “The title of your romance epic shall henceforth be named,” he opens his hand, “Ox Nuts.”
“Ox Nuts.”
“Yes, Ox Nuts.”
“Well, let's see if this thing will help me with a title for my next post ...”
[Mr I]
“10,000 Pounds of Thrush?,” I says. “Where’d you come up with that crap?”
“I do not question THE BAG,” says LOBO. "Ever."
“The bag? What bag?”
“The bag of words I pull from when I’m trying to come up with a title.”
“Every time you need a title, you pull words at random? I call bullshit.”
“Behold!" says LOBO, thumping a heavy sack on his cluttered desk. “Bask in the splendor, ye nonbeliever.”
“Does it work?”
“Try it out,” says the screwball. “What kind of story are you working on?”
“Let’s say a love story.”
"You pansy."
"What?"
"I said 'Oooh, fancy'."
LOBO closes his eyes, as if in a trance.
“Oh for God’s sake--“
“Silence!” LOBO demands. “Oh, mighty and wise bag. Divulge unto us your creative genius, that of which we are so devoided!”
He pulls out two slips of paper, “The title of your romance epic shall henceforth be named,” he opens his hand, “Ox Nuts.”
“Ox Nuts.”
“Yes, Ox Nuts.”
“Well, let's see if this thing will help me with a title for my next post ...”
10,000 Pounds of Thrush
Predator Press
[LOBO]
Every year, Cobe gets together with his friends and family for a catered Christmas ho-down of galactic proportion.
And every year I decline the invitation and just send a gift.
This year I’m sending Lawn Jarts.
I’ve been sharpening these things for weeks.
[LOBO]
Every year, Cobe gets together with his friends and family for a catered Christmas ho-down of galactic proportion.
And every year I decline the invitation and just send a gift.
This year I’m sending Lawn Jarts.
I’ve been sharpening these things for weeks.
Don't Blink
Predator Press
[LOBO]
Phoebe sets the big bowl of chicken soup on the counter, and Phil lands gracefully right next to it.
“That’s very sweet of you,” I says, shooing away Phil.
“Ethan and I were just going to see Rocky VI, and your place was on the way.”
“Who is 'The Italian Stallion’ fighting this time? His HMO?”
Phoebe shoos away Phil. “LOBO, we need to talk.”
“What’s on your mind?”
“How are you going to explain this whole ‘Sapphire’ thing?"
“What do you mean?” I says, shooing away Phil.
“Well, how can she have a black baby? There aren’t that many black people on this blog.”
I'm puzzled.
“Is it Jimmy Orlando?” she demands.
“First of all, I go to great lengths not to describe people, so the readers can just superimpose themselves over the characters. What are you saying? That I’m not kicking around minorities enough? For anyone knows, you're black." I shoo away Phil, "Jimmy Orlando is Hawaiian, by the way. Thanks for reading."
“I guess I never figured you as a inter-racial kind of guy. Don’t you think this might be kind of sensitive material? It's very important that you handle this properly. The very next thing you write could have dramatic polarizing effects on how mixed races will coexist for generations.”
“As far as I’m concerned, everybody should keep fucking everybody else until we’re all the same color."
”Hey, it’s really hot in here,” says Phoebe. “Do you mind if I take off my clothes?”
“What?” I says, startled.
“I said ‘it’s really cold in here, and you should keep that window closed’.”
“Oh. Yeah.”
“Do you know it’s rude to blog while someone is talking to you?” she says. "And, hey, the cat is eating your soup!"
"What?"
[LOBO]
Phoebe sets the big bowl of chicken soup on the counter, and Phil lands gracefully right next to it.
“That’s very sweet of you,” I says, shooing away Phil.
“Ethan and I were just going to see Rocky VI, and your place was on the way.”
“Who is 'The Italian Stallion’ fighting this time? His HMO?”
Phoebe shoos away Phil. “LOBO, we need to talk.”
“What’s on your mind?”
“How are you going to explain this whole ‘Sapphire’ thing?"
“What do you mean?” I says, shooing away Phil.
“Well, how can she have a black baby? There aren’t that many black people on this blog.”
I'm puzzled.
“Is it Jimmy Orlando?” she demands.
“First of all, I go to great lengths not to describe people, so the readers can just superimpose themselves over the characters. What are you saying? That I’m not kicking around minorities enough? For anyone knows, you're black." I shoo away Phil, "Jimmy Orlando is Hawaiian, by the way. Thanks for reading."
“I guess I never figured you as a inter-racial kind of guy. Don’t you think this might be kind of sensitive material? It's very important that you handle this properly. The very next thing you write could have dramatic polarizing effects on how mixed races will coexist for generations.”
“As far as I’m concerned, everybody should keep fucking everybody else until we’re all the same color."
”Hey, it’s really hot in here,” says Phoebe. “Do you mind if I take off my clothes?”
“What?” I says, startled.
“I said ‘it’s really cold in here, and you should keep that window closed’.”
“Oh. Yeah.”
“Do you know it’s rude to blog while someone is talking to you?” she says. "And, hey, the cat is eating your soup!"
"What?"
Monday
Fight in the Dog
Predator Press
[LOBO]
Okay. I’m sick.
It’s two o’clock in the afternoon, ‘an I’m staring into my blog with puffy eyes, dry as a bone. With a 175 degree fever, my skull feels like a hot bowling ball has been installed behind my eyes.
I would’ve been sent home sick had I bothered to go to work.
Still, I called Ethan, trying frantically to think of some crazy story so I could get the day off:
“What?” says Ethan.
“I'b sick”.
“Dude. It’s noon.”
[pause]
“It's Daylight Sabings already?” I says.
“No. But you can work from home on this one. I want you to get started on that 'Plan 9' script."
“But I’ve nebber even seen that—“
[dial tone]
***
number of pages: 01 of 01
12:16 pm
To: Ethan
Re: “Plan 9” script
Wesley Snipes, currently embroiled in some kind of local contract dispute, can’t help me on this one. So we'll have to go light on the stunts.
Our movie opens with me floating around in a really cool looking hangar bay, making out with a space chick. Like a space Jennifer Anniston.
And then I go fight some aliens.
The Aliens capture me, and then I make out with a bunch of space chicks in a substance that looks and tastes like lime Jello. This is because the only way the Aliens can survive is by banging us in lime Jello --thereby extracting our virus-immune potassium-charged DNA via squirty vertebrate sex and an apocalyptic number of helpless Styrofoam banana slices-- and then lopping off our heads.
Then I fight some more space aliens. But this time I unveil a sinister plot that the ‘lopping off the heads’ part is really optional.
The End
I interpret 'Plan 9' as a love story. Your thoughts?
LOBO
[LOBO]
Okay. I’m sick.
It’s two o’clock in the afternoon, ‘an I’m staring into my blog with puffy eyes, dry as a bone. With a 175 degree fever, my skull feels like a hot bowling ball has been installed behind my eyes.
I would’ve been sent home sick had I bothered to go to work.
Still, I called Ethan, trying frantically to think of some crazy story so I could get the day off:
“What?” says Ethan.
“I'b sick”.
“Dude. It’s noon.”
[pause]
“It's Daylight Sabings already?” I says.
“No. But you can work from home on this one. I want you to get started on that 'Plan 9' script."
“But I’ve nebber even seen that—“
[dial tone]
12:16 pm
To: Ethan
Re: “Plan 9” script
Wesley Snipes, currently embroiled in some kind of local contract dispute, can’t help me on this one. So we'll have to go light on the stunts.
Our movie opens with me floating around in a really cool looking hangar bay, making out with a space chick. Like a space Jennifer Anniston.
And then I go fight some aliens.
The Aliens capture me, and then I make out with a bunch of space chicks in a substance that looks and tastes like lime Jello. This is because the only way the Aliens can survive is by banging us in lime Jello --thereby extracting our virus-immune potassium-charged DNA via squirty vertebrate sex and an apocalyptic number of helpless Styrofoam banana slices-- and then lopping off our heads.
Then I fight some more space aliens. But this time I unveil a sinister plot that the ‘lopping off the heads’ part is really optional.
I interpret 'Plan 9' as a love story. Your thoughts?
LOBO
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