Predator Press
PFIZER UNVEILS NEW TARTAR
CONTROL MICROSOFT-
FLAVORED VISTA RITALIN
TO 12 DEAD, MIXED REVIEWS
CONTROL MICROSOFT-
FLAVORED VISTA RITALIN
TO 12 DEAD, MIXED REVIEWS
Sunday
Next Year In Review
During military enactments of LOBO revealing his true identity, many physically inferior stand-ins were slain; even with extensive protective gear, most are tragically asphyxiated by the confetti.Our hearts go out to the families.
Next Year In Review
Predator Press
“I always knew if I ever got on
Predator Press,I was supposed
to remember to ‘plug’ something.
... Um, do you have a mirror?”
Next Year In Review
Predator Press
"Okay, show of hands.
... Who thinks I should replace the clutch in the Chick Magnet?"
Next Year In Review
Predator Press
Dick and Condoleeza, quietly regretting the failure to implement LOBO’s “Hot Chicks and Beer” initiatives.
--It would bear out historically to be the single biggest blunder of the Bush Administration.
Friday
Over-Reactor Core
Predator Press
[LOBO]
The fatal flaw of “Man”, I think, involves our instinct for aggression; when it all boils down, all we want to do is:
1) fuck, and
2) fight.
That’s why getting married seems like a good idea to us sometimes; the reptilian hippocampus is screaming “Well, how efficient!”
[LOBO]
The fatal flaw of “Man”, I think, involves our instinct for aggression; when it all boils down, all we want to do is:
1) fuck, and
2) fight.
That’s why getting married seems like a good idea to us sometimes; the reptilian hippocampus is screaming “Well, how efficient!”
Thursday
401k-9
Predator Press
[LOBO]
Poring over my Predator Press investment options, I use the little cardboard “calculator” as I ponder reconfiguring them this year.
I am shocked to find out that I won’t be able to retire in 2008.
In fact, I don’t get my first lousy million until 2037. And to do so, I’ll have to finish filling out this boring paperwork, and then start doing lots of healthy crap in the depressing effort to live longer waiting for it.
One million bucks? With inflamation, I figure the minimum for a trophy wife in 2037 to be 2.6 million. And that's probably rock bottom: you'll still get something weird like webbed toes or a redhead.
I chuck the papers in the trash, depressed.
This is all a zero-sum game if you think about it.
For now, rest assured that I have no immediate plans to stop sharing my radiant brainiosity with you, o loyal reader.
Unless I’m not a published author by the time I turn twenty-seven.
[LOBO]
Poring over my Predator Press investment options, I use the little cardboard “calculator” as I ponder reconfiguring them this year.
I am shocked to find out that I won’t be able to retire in 2008.
In fact, I don’t get my first lousy million until 2037. And to do so, I’ll have to finish filling out this boring paperwork, and then start doing lots of healthy crap in the depressing effort to live longer waiting for it.
One million bucks? With inflamation, I figure the minimum for a trophy wife in 2037 to be 2.6 million. And that's probably rock bottom: you'll still get something weird like webbed toes or a redhead.
I chuck the papers in the trash, depressed.
This is all a zero-sum game if you think about it.
For now, rest assured that I have no immediate plans to stop sharing my radiant brainiosity with you, o loyal reader.
Unless I’m not a published author by the time I turn twenty-seven.
Wednesday
The Courtship of Babs and LOBO
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.”
[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.”
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.
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