Skeet

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Look, nobody told me my brother’s squeeze was in the Peace Corps.

I heard the cell phone ring and yelled “PULL!”

But instead of throwing it, he answered.

I'll bet the Emergency Room sees a lot more of this than they are willing to admit.

Shake a Leg

Predator Press

[LOBO]

This weekend is going to be huge.

I’m switching to nights for a few months at the job Monday, so I have to flip my sleep cycle. Predator Press will be getting the most posting I can manage, but in an effort to increase traffic, I also have to find four or five hours to add our tags to about 30 web-searching engines. Plus I need to shop for a car. And let’s not forget The Game, which will more or less wipe out all of Sunday.

In hopes of borrowing some deep-arctic gear, I paid a visit to my outdoorsy “little” brother. We didn’t grow up together, and tend to have long stretches with little or no contact. Still, it’s always good to see the handsome pup.

In the preliminary phone call, I got the sense that he was on the verge of landing a new femme fatale; so when I got to his place, I was a little distressed to see his house still a veritable shrine for the old one.

“Why are you keeping this crap?” I ask bluntly.

“I dunno,” he says, a little uncomfortable. “I guess it’s not mine and I don’t feel right about getting rid of it.”

“Dude, she played you for six months and then dumped you during a crisis. I’ll bet she didn’t even send a Christmas card. Why are you contorting over this at all? She doesn't care about this stuff; she just left it here like your house is her own personal trash can.”

“So I’m supposed to just throw it out?”

I start grabbing her pictures, baubles, and dainty crap into a plastic bag. They are easy to pick out, as they contrast heavily with the pressboard furniture and bikini posters. “Look,” I says, wincing at a shelf full of Anne Rice novels, “There comes a time in every healthy relationship when it must be terminated with extreme malice in order for the healing to begin.” After scooping the books into the bag with a single arc of my arm, I pause. “Do you still have your guns?”

“I’m not going to fucking kill her,” he snaps.

“No you’re not. You’re going to live a robust, healthy and successful life and hope she does the same, so she sees what she fucked up for a good long time. Every success, every conquest, every breath will be another joyous opportunity to stick it to her.” I continue gathering everything pink, frilly, or shiny. “What time does the gun range open on Saturday?”

“Eight in the morning.”

I hold up the heavy bag, smiling, “Now we know what to do with her stuff.”

He gets a sly smile I haven’t seen in awhile. “Even the stereo?”

“Especially the stereo.”

Slings and Arrows

Predator Press

[LOBO]

I was really having a great week at work.

First, my iPhone got approved, and then I got this nifty wireless transmitter with a range larger than the entire plant. Now I can yell at people or pretend I'm talking to Twiki from the bathroom, the parking lot, anywhere.

But things went south in a big way today.

For the past few weeks, the company has been buying 8 Chicago Bears tickets a game and raffling them off to us. And this week I won the stupid pool.

Well technically Louie won. But since he’s lucky enough to no longer be with us, Babs says now I’m the one that has to endure all that traffic both ways and sit in like 12 degrees for nine hours with ten billion of you drunk and rabid crazies.

Sunday, I’m going to my first live professional football game.

You know, say what you will about my anti-social tendencies, but I’m a basically happy guy when it all boils down. And I like football. But I passionately hate being in crowds; I would much rather catch the game at home. My first impulse was to sell the tix, or maybe even give them away.

But High Command has spoken: attendance is non-transferable and mandatory.

The memo concludes teasingly, “Wear something skimpy.”

Based on the weather report, I’m hoping gasoline and matches qualify.

Memento

Predator Press

[LOBO]

It struck me while visiting a friend this weekend how apparent one’s personal philosophy can be when looking for the clues. In stark contrast to my place, I observed walls peppered with pictures of loved ones. Family heirlooms abound. Antiques. Home entertainment systems and trendy furniture.

Souveniers.

Personal treasures.

And I remember something.

One day, on my way to work, a man on foot ran across the busy, speeding highway to retrieve his errant hubcap. Heavyset, tall, and about my age, I could see his dumbass sheepish smile.

But somehow, the truck behind me did not.

It swung around to pass me, and in my rearview, I saw it blow the foolish pedestrian into many unrecognizable pieces like a child’s doll. The truck jackknifed across the highway, and I would be among the last cars to pass for several hours.

It was amazingly horrible. I don’t know how I got the car over to the shoulder safely.

I do not keep objects of sentiment.

Especially fucking hubcaps.

Catch 3.14

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Well, I’ve pretty much wasted the weekend.

I’m the worst IT customer you could want: the intermediate.

I need a basic template to get rolling, but I ultimately need to be able to access the raw HTML for custom work as well.

Every time I hire a host, I go in at look at their web tools. And within two hours, I’m leaving looking like I'm one on the writing staff of “The Brady Bunch” that last season. You know, when Mike Brady shows up to shoot in that big perm and silk shorts and rollerblades?

Maybe I should just be happy here at “Blogger”.

Maybe "never being complete" is the natural and healthy state ...

Dry Socket

Predator Press

[LOBO]

"Well sir, you're all set, " says the guy. "Shall I charge your credit card $7,043 for all your new upgrades now?"

"What?" I says. "I think I was napping."

"You now have higher bandwidth, 5,000,000 gigabytes of memory, and the coveted Dale Earnhardt set of commemorative plates."

"Will the site be in color?" I demand shrewdly.

"For another $50 it will be."

Writer's Blockade

Predator Press

[LOBO]

I already quit “Writing.com”. It seems that some of my work is unfit for penetrating the innocent deer-like retinae of today’s youth, and I agree wholeheartedly: screw the kids.

But these people are pretty extreme. Yesterday they upped the rating on “Idiot Bag” to adult, because the word “idiot” is deemed offensive.

This is the worst kind of discrimination there is.

This is the kind against me.

Today, to make matters worse, they “adultrified” a watered-down version of “Because I Care” because in the dialogue, a spreadsheet is referred to as stupid.

They would have saved me a lot of trouble by banning adjectives altogether.

It’s time to go independent. “Blogger” has been getting a little sketchy lately anyways since this Beta release; if I’m lucky enough for it to be available at all, it sometimes takes 20 minutes just to upload text. Plus it doesn't save drafts correctly anymore.

At 25,000 hits, Predator Press is due for a tune up.

What this means to you might require a little work. I generally post almost every day. While www.predatorpress.com is ours, our “hosting” is mirrored to Blogger, hence the weird web address. But if we upgrade, you will continue to be forwarded to this site which --while hopefully, is bookmarked-- will no longer be getting the updated posting.

In a nutshell, if it gets quiet, be afraid. If suddenly you don’t see daily posting, it means we are officially moved. You will have to manually type “www.predatorpress.com” into your browser, and replace the old bookmark.

I’ll do my best to keep you informed when this occurs. And I know this seems a little complicated, but I sincerely hope you will go through the effort.

We’re worth it.

Promise.

Because I Care

Predator Press

[LOBO]

One of my duties at work is to make spreadsheets.

Nobody ever told me who or what the spreadsheets are for, but I crank them out left and right.

They are accurate, colorful, and endless; in fact, my last spreadsheet outlined in excruciating detail how the numbers of spreadsheets produced have increased exponentially since my date of hire.

Louie is a big guy, to say the least. He’s got to be approaching 400 lbs. His job is to take the numbers from my spreadsheets and input them into a computer so all the information can be verified.

Louie hates me.

I knock on his door, and hear a grunt. And as it opens, the sounds of his labored breathing fills the room. “You’re car is being cancelled,” he begins without a greeting. Enshrined by candy bar wrappers, empty nachos polystyrene and Diet Pepsi cans, he says distractedly, “You’ve had a month now.”

“That’s too bad,” I says. I can tell by his voice he’s not done. “Why are you sweating?”

“Your stupid spreadsheets,” he says. The chair creaks under his girth as he leans back, and holds up the two fingers he uses to type. They look lean and muscular in stark contrast to the rest of his body. “The least you could do is do them in numeric order. The way you do them now, I have to delete and type the whole thing.”

“You mean you want me to put them in order so you can just delete the last digit and type in the new one?”

He nods, skull pivoting gracefully over rolls and rolls of neck.

“Sure Louie,” I says, already planning a spreadsheet outlining how many broken chairs come out of this department. “But why don’t you just cut and paste them?”

The impossibly fat eyebrows arch. “Huh,” he says. “That’s a pretty good idea. Between that and you doing them in numerical order, my life will be a hell of a lot easier.”

“Always happy to be of help, Louie,” I says cheerfully, excusing myself.

So for a month, I made spreadsheets using the letter “O” instead of zeroes, “Z” for “2”s, and even brazenly threw in “E” instead of “3” on special occasion.

It’s more than a little ironic that I was asked to deliver Louie's eulogy …

Hack

Predator Press

[LOBO]

I’ve been compiling a “best of” collection over at writing.com. I don’t think the pieces are really as good as the originals, as I’ve had to make them self-contained short story “adaptations” for readers who have never been to this site before. Still, the immediate feedback is good, and I like the specific “hit-by-post” breakdowns. While I can’t tell who is reading, I can tell what is being read; it’s like a cheap demographic study.

Well, you had better be sitting down. What I found out could just give you an aneurysm.

The internet is full of perverts.

It turns out that my fairly soft-core porn draws three times more hits than anything else. This lame porn is followed roughly equally by drug references and curse words.

I don’t know what I expected to find, but I’m pretty pleased with the demographic anyway.

Thanks for reading!

I love living in this day and age, and how inventive it all is. The Internet has once again given us instant satisfaction and gratification rather than that crappy other kind of satisfaction and gratification. As a kid, what did I have to play with? Basically it was either GI Joes or Stretch Armstrong. “Kung Fu Grip” gets old fast, and stabbing Stretch with a pencil will get you yelled at a lot, but subsequent new carpeting.

As a grown-up, maybe I'm still a little conflicted on the whole “Stretch Armstrong” thing, but I’m not on technology.

Bring on the toys, and please bring them on fast.

As a quasi, low-grade tech support goob where I work, I’m getting a crash course in a variety of tech toys lately, and I still need to pick my “weapon of choice” as far as mobile communication.

My cellphone.

I told them I think I want an iPhone.

I know I do more than my share ragging on Mac products, but while I prefer PC, I’m perfectly comfortable using a Mac as well; the bulk of computers at my college were Macs. The bulk of my hamburgers have been Macs. Those people are definitely onto something periodically, so I keep my eye out. Even a broken clock is right twice a day, after all.

That iPod phone looks slick. I even sold the idea to the purchasing department. In fact, I had them already ready to order them for themselves too until they saw the $500 sticker price. Then the tightwads started to backpedal. “Maybe when the price comes down,” or “Let’s let the technology prove itself first,” blah blah. How dare you become “reasonable” and “responsible” at a time like this? Just what are you calculatrons hiding?

Immediately, I’m suspicious.

After some convincing, I got Ethan to fire them all for conspiracy to embezzle iPhones. But now, corporate iPhone “approved”, there’s nobody in the office to help me with the paperwork to buy one.

What the fuck is happening to this country?

Well, I wasn’t particularly excited about getting a cellphone in the first place, and I’ve just created another six-month excuse to wait to get one.

I am the uncontested World Champion of Procrastination.

Don’t think so?

Just wait.

Catwalk

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Mounting pressure from work to “dress for success” has forced me to do some shopping.

Evidently, they want me in disguise as somebody ‘respectable’.

This is no small feat for a guy who has procrastinated buying shoes for six months; for years, I have blown into Wal-Mart and bought 32X32 “loose fit” Levis and three-packs of T-shirts, finishing my annual clothes shopping –without even trying anything on—in maybe four minutes and for about eight bucks. I don’t know anything about clothes and colors and whatever, and now I gotta learn how to dress like a grown-up virtually overnight.

It was clear I needed help.

A small squad of concerned friends enlisted, and I got dragged to the mall.

I got khakis, ties, cardigans, shoes, belts, aftershave, and dark socks. And of course I hadda “polarize”; we continued on to spiff coats, gloves, scarf, boots and so on.

And after $1,100, wanna know what I’m wearing to work tomorrow?

Wal-Mart and bought 32X32 “loose fit” Levis and a T-shirt.

Well, at least I got my fucking shoes.

Stainless Steel Rat

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Posting is going to get a little sketchy for a while; I’m getting ready for some company.

First of all, thanks to LadyTerri for not only plugging Predator Press yet once again, but for giving me a good laugh over what she used. It never ceases to amaze me the unexpected and screwball stuff that just gets seized upon from here, and sometimes I forget just how bizarre this page is myself. The furthered circulation of Best Squishes even made me blush.

Secondly, my unpopular decision to kill off “Mister Insanity” is final. And trust me, I mulled over it quite extensively.

The initial conception was to develop a character that represented each of the “Seven Deadly Sins”, and as a writing exercise, write for each independently. Eventually refined, we would have LOBO for Sloth, Phoebe for Vanity, Mr Insanity for Gluttony, et cetera.

But new readers just found this “multiple writer” format too confusing. Let’s not call it an outright artistic failure, but an opportunity for growth; perhaps, as my writing skill improves, I will achieve the talent necessary to pull off something that ambitious. At that point, I would certainly reassess my options.

But for now, Predator Press is slimming down to its original “fighting weight” of 162,457 metric tons.

(Cobe is a fat fuck.)