Blindside

Predator Press

[Zombie Mr Insanity]

You didn’t think I would show up at the gun range, did you?

You’re forgetting I know LOBO. He was going to require something subtle. Something sneaky … like showing up at Wrigley Field to bash that little fucker’s brains in with this tire iron.

I didn’t foresee Babs making a "less-than hostile” bid at a Hawly Enterprises takeover.

This is a rather intriguing development.

History Depletes Itself

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Back in the golden days of the Roman Empire, the woolly mammoth and 8-track tapes, Roman radiators fought to the death for the viewing pleasure of a bloodthirsty audience. “Going to a Bears game” meant that at the coliseum that week, gigantic and hungry bears were going to be set loose to publicly devour criminals, Christians, and other undesirables.

This, incidentally, made going to a Jets game really cool.

But nowadays, apparently, it’s different.

Babs and Mr Insanity carried me to the hospital, and after I got my ankle all bandaged up -- and jacked up high with Children's Morphine to stop my hysterical screaming-- we all headed back to face the throng of people at Wrigley Field. I was just wondering why Children’s Morphine tasted suspiciously like Tic Tacs, and then it dawned on me:

There was no game.

I don’t care what you think you saw on television. I was right there, loyal and enthusiastic, waving my giant Blackhawks foam finger at gametime, and there was nothing on that field except for tumbleweeds.

At first I thought maybe they were short of players; quite the physical specimen myself, I valiantly prepared to volunteer by drinking a whole 22 oz Gatorade. But the only other people at the field at all were those mean Japanese tourists that followed me because of my foam finger.

Just like Bigfoot, the Lunar Landing, and the female orgasm, football is a myth.

No one was more shocked than I. Doubting even myself, I went over my DVR copy of the game to look for inevitable inconsistencies. And sure enough, numerous times you can see the string attached to the football. Further, exactly 2 minutes into the second quarter if you look closely behind Rex Grossman, you can see Kenny, Stan, Cartman, and Kyle lining up for scrimmage. It happens right after the “Your DVR has run out of space,” techno-babble.

Luckily, I have noted journalist Oliver Stone on speed dial.

Huddle

Predator Press

[LOBO]

I see Babs climbing the bleachers, and I’m excited to see a familiar face in this lonely place.

She hands me a cup of hot chocolate, and I nearly cut myself on her sweater reaching for it; indeed, at eight degrees, her nipples were deadly and fascinating weapons. Cuddling close to me, she nuzzles them heavily in my arm, and I can smell the Safari wafting through the air.

We stare in silence and stark solitude at the flat, square place guys play sports on.

“Do you know what I’m thinking?” she whispers.

“That maybe I should put golf on my blog after all?”

“No,” she says, inching closer.

Suddenly, she screams “Zombie!” and Mr. Insanity lurches from out of the dugout.

Now, I tried to throw her out of the way so I could escape without trampling her, but my foot got caught in the seat; I toppled to the ground, bolts of pain shooting through my ankle.

“Don’t you even think about leaving me behind!” I scream at Babs, weeping openly. “I’ll throw my hot chocolate at you!”

Go Bears

Predator Press

[LOBO]

I decided to “get the drop” on the game day crowd, and camp out all night here at Wrigley Field.

These fucking seats are awesome.

Brunch

Predator Press

[Zombie Mr Insanity]

I knock three times.

No answer.

I raise my arm to knock again, and I can hear sounds behind the door.

“What?” says a voice.

“LOBO?” I says.

“Maybe.”

“It’s me, Seth.”

“Who?

“You know, Mr Insanity?”

“I thought you were dead or something.”

“Oh heavens no!” I says chucking. “It was all a big prank. Now let me in so I can tell you all the details and eat your brains.”

“Well,” says LOBO. “I’m running late. I’m supposed to meet my brother at the gun range. Why don’t you meet us there?”

I scratch my chin, thinking, and a slab of flesh falls of. “I lost my car to probate. Can I ride with you guys?”

“Well that depends,” says LOBO. “Was that a chunk of rotting flesh I just heard hit the floor?”

Kicking the maggot-riddled swatch deftly away, I reply, “No. Of course not.”

“Was that the sound of you kicking away a chunk of rotting flesh and 131 maggots?” says LOBO.

“Oh all right,” I concede. “You got me.”

“I really don’t want all that crap falling off in my car.”

“So it’s 20 degrees, and you want me to walk eight miles,” I says, recapping.

“Hey, Fred or whatever,” says LOBO. “It’s a rental. I can’t even smoke in the fucking thing. Quit being such a pussy about it. It’s not like I’m asking you to pick up ammo and donuts something.”

“You’re an asshole.”

“I’m an asshole? You’ll be walking right by Kmart!”

"So?"

"Ammo and donuts make my brains tastier," he replies.

"Really?"

"And coffee makes them taste like hickory-smoked barbequed ribs."

Special Guest Appearance

Predator Press

[Zombie Mr Insanity]

Let me get this straight.

LOBO had my body dug up in order to promote Predator Press?

Wow. And here I am dripping maggots.

I‘m hungry.

Lake of Pants on Fire

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Please stop asking me why --despite this kickass physique-- I don’t play professional football.

Once and for all, it’s because of practical, ecological, humanitarian, and litigious considerations:

I don’t think I can quarterback without spilling my Latte Frappuccino all over those glaringly white tights during a “blitz” defense.

Yet.

Whore

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Well, let's see.

Sex: check.

Guns: check.

Violence: check.

Beastiality: check.

Necrophilia: pending. (I've got Max, Brighta and Vetter digging up Mr Insanity to see if there are any takers.)

Honestly, the only other thing I can think of perverse enough to trigger shit-tons of search engines is maybe golf, and that’s just going way too far even for me.

All set for the onslaught of Googlites, Yahoonians and maybe even a weathered Lycosian or two, I just found out that the site crawlers could take as long as six weeks to kick in.

Please try to remain interesting-looking in the meantime.

WE ARE GETTING "CRAWLED" BY GOOGLE

Predator Press

[LOBO]

We aren't getting enough web hits.

Look, I know I've been tawdry ... but how am I to warn the masses of, say, a zombie uprising? Or an alien invasion? It is my sacred duty as a self-appointed Defender of Humankind to increase readership. So your brains don't get eaten! Or you get rectal-probed or something!


***

Well wow, it's morning already ... the cock is crowing somewhere, and my pussy cat can sense it; she is stroking against my ankles after dreaming long and hard of a breast-pounding sweaty hunt of some tit mice in a bush. Or maybe a hole. (What am I, a fucking pet psychiatrist? Go back to licking your fur, beast!)

Well, I gotta blow on outta here. My lips are chapped ... they feel like leather. They would probably be pink if I were a member of an enormous cross dressing group and at a costume party where people wore lots of lipstick and hung out with lesbians.

Lastly, an observation: The words "Penis" and "Vagina" both contain the letters "i" and "n".

Coincidence?

Hm?

Butt I digress.

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.”