Predator Press
[Mr Insanity]
I didn’t want to watch Saddam Hussein die.
Which is not to say I don’t think he deserved to die; I just didn’t really want to see it replayed over and over on my television.
If this makes me a hypocrite and a coward, I’m okay with that. I plead guilty.
Hell, Bush slept through it.
This blog doesn’t really deal with topical matters, history, cultural issues, personal problems, et cetera. It’s a comic strip of sorts; a cartoon generally wrapped around tragically flawed people behaving badly, superimposed upon events in normal everyday life. And rather than endorse such behavior, I would like to think it handles the Karmic payback in a rather elegant --and occasionally funny-- manner.
The overall dynamics aren’t really that different than your garden-variety sitcom: Ethan, the fatherly figure. Cobe --the guy that everyone vehemently hates despite the fact that he makes everything “tick”-- is a mom of sorts. LOBO represents the 5-year old “id” that lies in every man, and I guess that leaves me, the cruel older stepsister that is always trying to make the pest stick a fork in the light socket.
Everything is fairly formulaic as such. Aside from this poorly-lit, flimsy paper mache diorama –and horse fucking, or advice on how to safely apply Rain-X to your webcam-- there isn’t anything really unique about it at all; people have been writing like this for thousands of years. All the relationships run in triangles. Character “a” has a relationship with character “b”, but character “c”….
Despite this deceptive simplicity, on occasion you get the easy part; sometimes I hit the “Publish” button to send out a post about a twisted galactic odyssey of hedonistic horseshit so someone can maybe get a laugh or two, only to face a real world which is infinitely more complex, non-sensical, and sadistically ruthless.
Maybe, in some weird way, it does have a certain dignity.
It’s safer in here.
We have a sense of humor.
Saturday
Win, Place, Blow
Predator Press
[Cobe]
It turns out the story of the “real” Mister Insanity reads like a Shakespearian tragedy.
Born to a small rural community in Kentucky, Mister Insanity –or “Knickers” as he was known then—had a rather unspectacular childhood. He wasn’t particularly good in school, probably due to the long hours on the farm.
But could he ever run.
It didn’t take long for friends and colleagues to take notice of his blossoming talent; despite mediocre grades and poor attendance, Knickers was granted a scholarship to Notre Dame.
It was there that Knickers would earn his now-famous moniker “Mister Insanity”, due mostly to his adolescent fondness for campus streaking, avocado dip, and Fuzzy Navels. But now a star on the rise, the inertia of his career was superceding even the lightest of disciplines; endorsement deals soon followed, clouding his adolescent judgment ... among the most notably controversial of which, the 2.2 million dollar “Crazy Glue” commercials.
After graduating with honors, Mister Insanity married track star Gertrude Stewart, his high school sweetheart. Gertrude was an athletic, pretty, and reclusive girl from Louisville that was anxious to start a family. Friends would often comment that these were the happiest days of her life, and she was rarely seen without an effusive, sloppy grin on her face.
But despite the outward appearances, all was not well for our beloved Knickers; the road and stardom were taking their toll. Soon he was going to parties with the likes of Paris Hilton and Winona Ryder, and snorting heroic amounts of cocaine both on and off the field. At the recommendation of his coach, Knickers was ushered secretly away to the Betty Ford clinic, where the long and arduous recovery process had begun. There, Knickers spent months shuffling around in pajamas, shooting pool and playing pinball between therapy sessions.
Hard work paying off, all appeared to finally working out for Knickers, and a year later he was back in the gymnasium preparing for a comeback. It was then that misfortune struck yet once again: during the course of a routine physical, it was discovered that so much damage was done to his knees over the course of his young career he would never run professionally again. Only deepening his situation, multiple knee surgeries in the vain hope of restoring his damaged tissue left him virtually hobbled; vulnerable to medical con-artists and quack science, he soon invested his image and entire life savings on a product called Knee-Grow Medical Ointment that was ill-received by the public in general.
Always the fighter, he made efforts to reinvent himself … but he was wholly unprepared emotionally for the disappointment of flunking out of astronaut training school; Knickers entered another downward spiral. His hygiene suffered, and his diet consisted solely of fistfuls of sugar cubes for weeks on end. This triggered diabetic seizures, and simultaneous rampant gonorrhea. Two days later, an alert cop, suspicious of the Fuzzy Navel smell on the car interior, gave Knickers his first DUI.
While never directly implicated in the Sweet'N Low shootings, Knickers had dropped from the public eye completely; little is known up until his recent indictment for Tax Fraud and Money Laundering. Always a fan of art, he now sits in Federal Prison, riddled with hepatitis and syphilis, tattooing his fellow inmates while awaiting his inevitable execution.
Gertrude since left him for a successful and svelte young greyhound racer, and they now live in Twenty-Nine Palms, California.
Understandably, she doesn’t have that big, sloppy grin anymore.
But she’s comfortable.
[Cobe]
It turns out the story of the “real” Mister Insanity reads like a Shakespearian tragedy.
Born to a small rural community in Kentucky, Mister Insanity –or “Knickers” as he was known then—had a rather unspectacular childhood. He wasn’t particularly good in school, probably due to the long hours on the farm.
But could he ever run.
It didn’t take long for friends and colleagues to take notice of his blossoming talent; despite mediocre grades and poor attendance, Knickers was granted a scholarship to Notre Dame.
It was there that Knickers would earn his now-famous moniker “Mister Insanity”, due mostly to his adolescent fondness for campus streaking, avocado dip, and Fuzzy Navels. But now a star on the rise, the inertia of his career was superceding even the lightest of disciplines; endorsement deals soon followed, clouding his adolescent judgment ... among the most notably controversial of which, the 2.2 million dollar “Crazy Glue” commercials.
After graduating with honors, Mister Insanity married track star Gertrude Stewart, his high school sweetheart. Gertrude was an athletic, pretty, and reclusive girl from Louisville that was anxious to start a family. Friends would often comment that these were the happiest days of her life, and she was rarely seen without an effusive, sloppy grin on her face.
But despite the outward appearances, all was not well for our beloved Knickers; the road and stardom were taking their toll. Soon he was going to parties with the likes of Paris Hilton and Winona Ryder, and snorting heroic amounts of cocaine both on and off the field. At the recommendation of his coach, Knickers was ushered secretly away to the Betty Ford clinic, where the long and arduous recovery process had begun. There, Knickers spent months shuffling around in pajamas, shooting pool and playing pinball between therapy sessions.
Hard work paying off, all appeared to finally working out for Knickers, and a year later he was back in the gymnasium preparing for a comeback. It was then that misfortune struck yet once again: during the course of a routine physical, it was discovered that so much damage was done to his knees over the course of his young career he would never run professionally again. Only deepening his situation, multiple knee surgeries in the vain hope of restoring his damaged tissue left him virtually hobbled; vulnerable to medical con-artists and quack science, he soon invested his image and entire life savings on a product called Knee-Grow Medical Ointment that was ill-received by the public in general.
Always the fighter, he made efforts to reinvent himself … but he was wholly unprepared emotionally for the disappointment of flunking out of astronaut training school; Knickers entered another downward spiral. His hygiene suffered, and his diet consisted solely of fistfuls of sugar cubes for weeks on end. This triggered diabetic seizures, and simultaneous rampant gonorrhea. Two days later, an alert cop, suspicious of the Fuzzy Navel smell on the car interior, gave Knickers his first DUI.
While never directly implicated in the Sweet'N Low shootings, Knickers had dropped from the public eye completely; little is known up until his recent indictment for Tax Fraud and Money Laundering. Always a fan of art, he now sits in Federal Prison, riddled with hepatitis and syphilis, tattooing his fellow inmates while awaiting his inevitable execution.
Gertrude since left him for a successful and svelte young greyhound racer, and they now live in Twenty-Nine Palms, California.
Understandably, she doesn’t have that big, sloppy grin anymore.
But she’s comfortable.
Friday
BREAKING MORE NEWS
Predator Press
BI-POLAR RACEHORSE INDICTED FOR
TAX EVASION, MONEY LAUNDERING
Hah! Let’s see your hoity-toity 'Wall Street Journal' top that.
TAX EVASION, MONEY LAUNDERING
Hah! Let’s see your hoity-toity 'Wall Street Journal' top that.
Complicating Matters
Predator Press
[LOBO]
Contrary to popular belief, faking paralysis for sponge baths is fraught with peril.
They stop giving you anesthetics for one. And before long they are doing agonizing and cruel, inhumane things to your supposedly sensory-free flesh.
You wouldn’t believe how much starch they put in these sheets.
Body Up
Predator Press
[Mr Insanity]
Ethan, in an ill-fitting Letterman jacket, waved the VT pennant I gave him with little animation or interest.
“Is this so you can work on that new line of children’s books you’ve been talking about?” he asks.
“No,” I says, cleaning off my desk. There really isn’t all that much to pack ... I was hoping if I was quick enough, I could avoid this exact confrontation.
“But why Canada?” he moped.
“We’re having accreditation issues locally,” I reply.
“You couldn’t have picked a worse time,” Ethan complained. “With LOBO missing, I might even have to call Cobe back.”
“You should really rethink that sir,” I says, choosing my words carefully. “I mean face it, when the going got tough, the ‘tough’ were long gone.”
“So what are you saying?”
“I think you should pick your companions more carefully,” I shrug.
“Yeah, well … I hired you, and you’re going too.”
“Yes, but Ethan, I’m tired,” I says. “Give me some credit. For months, my life has been doing nothing but revolve around this--“ I look around the barren office, and I’m unable to capture anything tangible. I give up and shrug, “I just can’t be the only grown-up anymore.”
“Don't do this," sighs Ethan. "Not now. We just lost Gerald Ford --and soon Saddam Hussein-- two of our most influential and ardent fans. Mr. Insanity, this one of our darkest days.”
Sliding the heavy banker box off of the desk, I pause. “Seth,” I says.
“What?”
“My name is Seth.”
“How have you been cashing your paychecks?”
“I opened a checking account for the horse.”
[Mr Insanity]
Ethan, in an ill-fitting Letterman jacket, waved the VT pennant I gave him with little animation or interest.
“Is this so you can work on that new line of children’s books you’ve been talking about?” he asks.
“No,” I says, cleaning off my desk. There really isn’t all that much to pack ... I was hoping if I was quick enough, I could avoid this exact confrontation.
“But why Canada?” he moped.
“We’re having accreditation issues locally,” I reply.
“You couldn’t have picked a worse time,” Ethan complained. “With LOBO missing, I might even have to call Cobe back.”
“You should really rethink that sir,” I says, choosing my words carefully. “I mean face it, when the going got tough, the ‘tough’ were long gone.”
“So what are you saying?”
“I think you should pick your companions more carefully,” I shrug.
“Yeah, well … I hired you, and you’re going too.”
“Yes, but Ethan, I’m tired,” I says. “Give me some credit. For months, my life has been doing nothing but revolve around this--“ I look around the barren office, and I’m unable to capture anything tangible. I give up and shrug, “I just can’t be the only grown-up anymore.”
“Don't do this," sighs Ethan. "Not now. We just lost Gerald Ford --and soon Saddam Hussein-- two of our most influential and ardent fans. Mr. Insanity, this one of our darkest days.”
Sliding the heavy banker box off of the desk, I pause. “Seth,” I says.
“What?”
“My name is Seth.”
“How have you been cashing your paychecks?”
“I opened a checking account for the horse.”
Thursday
The Ballad of Mr Insanity
Predator Press
[Cobe]
Last April, a thirsty Ethan and LOBO pulled into an Off Track Betting facility.
“So what are we gonna do with Captain Burlap in the trunk?” LOBO says, unfolding his menu.
“Ask him about the odds on the 5th race.”
“Look, he’s not a calculatron,” says LOBO. “He’s a guy that was hanging out in front of a drug store near Oxford University with a broken shoelace.”
“Which obviously makes him a 187 pound mathematical savant.”
“I’m not arguing about his mathematic prowess,” LOBO repeats. “I’m just saying he’s been in our trunk for 16 hours. He’s probably hungry.”
“So get him some French fries.”
“I’m not buying fries for someone that has been trapped in my trunk for 16 hours.”
“Just look at that horse,” says a distracted Ethan, pointing at one of 452 closely-joined monitors. In the bottom right corner, ESPN identified a singular steed as “Mister Insanity” that was smashing the crap out of everything in sight.
Within moments, that horse drove off the gate, kicked the head off his own jockey, crushed the race’s announcer in the skybox, and finally screeched to a halt across the finish line.
Then the race started.
LOBO lost $100.
[Cobe]
Last April, a thirsty Ethan and LOBO pulled into an Off Track Betting facility.
“So what are we gonna do with Captain Burlap in the trunk?” LOBO says, unfolding his menu.
“Ask him about the odds on the 5th race.”
“Look, he’s not a calculatron,” says LOBO. “He’s a guy that was hanging out in front of a drug store near Oxford University with a broken shoelace.”
“Which obviously makes him a 187 pound mathematical savant.”
“I’m not arguing about his mathematic prowess,” LOBO repeats. “I’m just saying he’s been in our trunk for 16 hours. He’s probably hungry.”
“So get him some French fries.”
“I’m not buying fries for someone that has been trapped in my trunk for 16 hours.”
“Just look at that horse,” says a distracted Ethan, pointing at one of 452 closely-joined monitors. In the bottom right corner, ESPN identified a singular steed as “Mister Insanity” that was smashing the crap out of everything in sight.
Within moments, that horse drove off the gate, kicked the head off his own jockey, crushed the race’s announcer in the skybox, and finally screeched to a halt across the finish line.
Then the race started.
LOBO lost $100.
Yeah, Thanks For That Whole "Gravity" Thing
Predator Press
[LOBO]
Thanks to Isaac Newtron inventing gravity, my daring plan to escape the hospital by jumping out of the eleventh story window hurt like hell. Next thing I know, I hear an ambulance engine start, the sirens go off, the thing drives sixteen feet and then screeches to a halt next to me.
And then a bunch of assholes drag me right back into the hospital.
This is going to be tougher than I thought.
Fuck you, Isaac Newtron.
Wednesday
The Cathouse Mouse
Predator Press
[LOBO]
I’m really disappointed in the lack of public outcry on this blog as of late; according to ‘Spellcheck’, that last post brazenly said “breast” at least twice.
I, a devout religious follower, am deeply offended for some reason.
I would’ve at least sent an angry email to us assholes were I not forgotten in the ICU due to Santa’s treachery, blinking my post in Morse code (like mom taught me) to a registered nurse.
You all should be ashamed of yourselves.
Tuesday
It Could Happen
Predator Press
[Mr Insanity]
I brought Bertha.
There wasn’t really anything "special" behind this decision; she was just another stripper-slash-college student that seems to come standard issue with a Platinum card.
Still, she was magnetically attractive, unpredictably sweet, and my current favorite.
She liked to show off her legs, and the dress she wore did not disappoint; the slit in the side stopped just under her muscular hips. I must say, she was the showstopping eye-candy of the entire night. Further, Bertha seemed to require less drinking to tolerate listening to -for a stripper-slash-college student her age.
And I wasn’t the only one that noticed.
Phoebe -sitting with us by virtue of a seating fluke- and I slam Wild Turkey for hours, while the charming Bertha nursed whiskey sours.
I like how they taste on her breath.
I slow down a little when it dawns on me how well Phoebe and Bertha are getting along. Lingering stares, affectionate giggles ... I’m almost surprised when they don’t go together when Bertha excuses herself for the bathroom.
But Phoebe was clocking me.
“Wow, Mr I,” says Phoebe, with a strange, electrically charged look on her face. “I’m really impressed!”
“We’re not,” I smile, “competing over the same girl, are we?”
Phoebe pauses, calculating. “Of course not,” she says. “But she’s fucking hot.”
***
“Look,” I says abruptly, shutting the door to my office. I grab the entire bottle of bourbon from the bar. “It’s very hot watching you two flirt. But our colleagues are at this party.” I focus on Phoebe, “That whole dance floor scene—“
[Mr Insanity]
I brought Bertha.
There wasn’t really anything "special" behind this decision; she was just another stripper-slash-college student that seems to come standard issue with a Platinum card.
Still, she was magnetically attractive, unpredictably sweet, and my current favorite.
She liked to show off her legs, and the dress she wore did not disappoint; the slit in the side stopped just under her muscular hips. I must say, she was the showstopping eye-candy of the entire night. Further, Bertha seemed to require less drinking to tolerate listening to -for a stripper-slash-college student her age.
And I wasn’t the only one that noticed.
Phoebe -sitting with us by virtue of a seating fluke- and I slam Wild Turkey for hours, while the charming Bertha nursed whiskey sours.
I like how they taste on her breath.
I slow down a little when it dawns on me how well Phoebe and Bertha are getting along. Lingering stares, affectionate giggles ... I’m almost surprised when they don’t go together when Bertha excuses herself for the bathroom.
But Phoebe was clocking me.
“Wow, Mr I,” says Phoebe, with a strange, electrically charged look on her face. “I’m really impressed!”
“We’re not,” I smile, “competing over the same girl, are we?”
Phoebe pauses, calculating. “Of course not,” she says. “But she’s fucking hot.”
“Look,” I says abruptly, shutting the door to my office. I grab the entire bottle of bourbon from the bar. “It’s very hot watching you two flirt. But our colleagues are at this party.” I focus on Phoebe, “That whole dance floor scene—“
Tat
Predator Press
[Cobe]
If a man’s character can be judged by inexplicable acts of compassion, Ethan is indeed a great man.
To say my house burned down is somewhat understated; where my house was is now a smoldering crater extending four city blocks. A city bus lies in the charred concrete hole that was my basement.
Rather than going to work on Christmas, I rescued all 41 of the passengers.
This, understandably, resulted in my prompt termination.
It’s bad enough being homeless, jobless, and starving during the holidays … but I’ve spent the last six months neglecting friends and family too. That was inexcusable. Still, they were all very gracious, sending burlap bags and only slightly-soiled sheets so I can make myself warm clothing.
As I boiled my ornately-wrapped Christmas bonus from Predator Press --collapsible cardboard banker boxes-- for dinner, Ethan had an apparent "change of heart". He says I can still work here, but I will have to accept a pay cut and transfer to one of the arctic listening posts monitoring our battered planetary defenses.
Mmmm … battered defenses.
[Cobe]
If a man’s character can be judged by inexplicable acts of compassion, Ethan is indeed a great man.
To say my house burned down is somewhat understated; where my house was is now a smoldering crater extending four city blocks. A city bus lies in the charred concrete hole that was my basement.
Rather than going to work on Christmas, I rescued all 41 of the passengers.
This, understandably, resulted in my prompt termination.
It’s bad enough being homeless, jobless, and starving during the holidays … but I’ve spent the last six months neglecting friends and family too. That was inexcusable. Still, they were all very gracious, sending burlap bags and only slightly-soiled sheets so I can make myself warm clothing.
As I boiled my ornately-wrapped Christmas bonus from Predator Press --collapsible cardboard banker boxes-- for dinner, Ethan had an apparent "change of heart". He says I can still work here, but I will have to accept a pay cut and transfer to one of the arctic listening posts monitoring our battered planetary defenses.
Mmmm … battered defenses.
Catlike Reflexes
Predator Press
[LOBO]
Okay, I’ve escaped the hospital to give you the football picks.
Plus, if I don’t show up for work between now and the 31st, my insurance will run out. I don’t know if you’ve ever been thrown into a dumpster full of biological waste and used hypodermics before, but let me tell you: it’s not pleasant.
The Bears are playing the Packers tonight, and I’m leaning toward the Packers.
Don’t get me wrong; I’m not rooting for the Packers. But Brett is a retiring and jazzed veteran seasoned on playing against the Bears; he’s gonna rip into any sloppy playing he sees.
Maybe my Morse code is a little rusty though. I thought I had blinked all this fairly rationaly up on the eleventh floor, but Nurse Garrison seemed to feel like I was rooting for the Soviets. I heard that rubber glove snap, and reflexively leapt out the nearest window.
I hope this doesn't bust my laptop.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
-
LOBO - Predator Press "I can't believe the woman giving the MRI was flirting with you right in front of me ," Wendy growled.... -
Predator Press [LOBO] Yes it's totally true. There is now, in fact, a $14.95 Bionic Ear . And I'm not even going to g...
