Predator Press
[Zombie Mr Insanity]
LOBO and I were making small talk while kicking the crap out of each other playing Worlds of Warcraft, and the phone rang.
Lo and behold, it’s Babs.
I put my rotting finger to my decomposing lip, and LOBO nodded he understood. Smirking, he puts her on speakerphone.
“Yes,” he gasps breathlessly in a feeble attempt to sound sexy.
“Hi handsome,” says the voice over the speaker. LOBO grabs his controller when he realizes I’m molecularizing his WOW character with my +6 Big Hammer.
“What the fuck, you ass!?!” says LOBO.
“Excuse me?” says Babs.
“Not you. Uh. Phil.” LOBO retorts in his usual lack-of-brilliance. He sneaks a peak at his watch. “What’s up Babs? It’s like seven-thirty. Shouldn’t you be sleeping with someone right now?"
I hold back a giggle.
“Well, it’s funny that you mention that,” she says.
Now, I look at LOBO directly, expecting some kind of humorous and silent exchange, but he doesn’t seem to clock this obvious flirtation.
“What do you want?” he asks distractedly, writhing with the controller.
“I want to sleep with you,” she says.
You can almost taste her sexuality through the phone speaker.
She’s good.
“Babs,” says LOBO. “I sleep on a futon, and you know that. It’s hard as a goddamn rock. What do you really want?”
“I want to do anything you want me to do.”
“Will you go get my refrigerator, washer and dryer?”
I would’ve been slack-jawed, had my jaw not fallen off at Taco Bell.
She pauses. “Now?”
“Wouldn’t you be more comfortable sleeping over if we had all those things here?”
“But I drive a Porsche,” she says.
“Bungee cords,” he replies. “Get like ten bucks worth. I’ll pay you back when you get here.”
He hangs up on her.
“You know,” I says. “She’s not coming over here to sleep.”
LOBO 'pauses' the game. “What?”
“I think she has an ulterior motive.”
His eyebrows furrow as he stares at the living room television screen. “Well, if it’s to watch TV, she’s going to have to do it in the bedroom. We have a good game going.”
I feel myself inwardly sigh. Here is LOBO, on the verge of what will most certainly be the most spectacular sex he’s ever had –primarily by virtue that I don’t think he’s ever had it before—and he doesn’t know it. I look at my own rotting hands and sigh.
“I wonder what my prospects are going to be,” I wonder aloud.
“You mean, what with being dead and all?”
“Yeah,” I says.
LOBO takes a long minute to size me up.
“Well,” he concludes, “there’s always fat chicks.”
Wednesday
Compromise of the Machines
Predator Press
[LOBO]
In a moment of sate and surfeit I haven't enjoyed in years, I find myself somewhat caught up on the bills and occasionally drifting over “home appliance” specials; I’ve been in dire need of a washer, dryer and refrigerator for some time now.
... but that stuff looks heavy.
[LOBO]
In a moment of sate and surfeit I haven't enjoyed in years, I find myself somewhat caught up on the bills and occasionally drifting over “home appliance” specials; I’ve been in dire need of a washer, dryer and refrigerator for some time now.
... but that stuff looks heavy.
Tuesday
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.
[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.
Monday
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.
[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.
Sunday
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!”
[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.
[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.
Saturday
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."
[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."
Friday
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.
[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.
[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.
[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.
Thursday
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.
[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.
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