Monday

LOBO, PREGNANT, SOON TO WED BABS

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HUNDREDS OF WOMEN ACROSS GLOBE -AND AROUND IT TOO- SPONTANEOUSLY BURST INTO UNCONTROLLED TEARS AT SURPRISE ENGAGEMENT

--or maybe "Pollen Index", explain scientific crackpots

"Hell yeah, I was surprised," says innocent bystander LOBO. "But all the signs were there if you think about it: the inexplicable gaining of weight, the magnetic pull of Desperate Housewives episodes, the strange transformation into a bitchy, insufferable, insatiable fatass ... "

Okay, YOUR Turn

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Insert "Purple Lightsaber" joke (in crayon) here:______________

Stephen Grant Shocking Photo-Shoot Transcript!

[LOBO]

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C'mon Steph --can I call you Steph? Gimme something wild. Something crazy. You're a wild animal ... a savage, crazy animal!

You know what? This isn't working. Steph, it's like you're not even trying. Your wife told us how you would puss out like this ......

Sunday

pi

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[LOBO]

“Ethan,” I says. “I quit.”

“You quit what?”

“I quit Hawley Enterprises.”

“You quit doing what exactly?”

“Well, I was hoping you could help me out with that. I’m having a lot of trouble with my ‘Letter of Resignation’.

“What brought this on?” says Ethan.

“I’ve decided I want to be a sheepherder.”

“A sheepherder.”

“Think about it. The sheep is not a very fast animal.”

“Do tell.”

“Yeah. I figure I could virtually watch the little bastards disappear over the horizon, and still catch 'em in a jeep like an hour later.”

“Possibly,” says Ethan, scratching his chin. “But you would have to protect the sheep from predators too.”

“Oh please,” I says. “The only other animals I ever see around sheep are cows, and cows are pussies. My sheep will be combat-trained, hardened bad-asses.”

I drift off for a second.

My sheep will have leather jackets.

“What do you think ‘Sheepherder’ pays?”, asks Ethan.

“$40-$60 thousand a year according to this Devry University brochure. Next semester –Satellite Tracking, GPS and Radio starts in three weeks.”

“Really?”

“It ends in four.”

I Understand Completely

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[LOBO]

Ethan came into the office quietly and shut the door behind him; I can tell by the look on his face that something is wrong.

He flips a thick folder onto my desk, sits down, and just stares at me expectantly.

"What?" I says, perplexed. I look at the file. "I read one of those once. I thought it was wordy and pedantic. I'm into Louis L'Amour now.”

“Who,” says Ethan finally, “is Frank Gilmore?”

“He’s the VP-ATL of Hawly Enterprises.”

“And what exactly is a ‘VP-ATL’?”

“Vice President of All Things LOBO.”

“Excuse me?”

“Well, I couldn’t exactly make him President,” I says, leaning back in my chair. “That’s way too much responsibility. But he’s an invaluable asset to your organization, I assure you. Would you like to speak to him?”

“Yes,” says Ethan. “I would.”

I grab my phone, hit ‘speed dial’, then the number one.

There’s a knock at the door.

“Come in, Mr Gilmore.” I says.

Mr Gilmore enters, and just then his cell phone rang. With a deft maneuver into his jacket, the ringing stops. “Yes sir?” he says, all dignified.

I look at Ethan. “I just love how he does that.”

“It’s good to see you again sir,” says Gilmore. “Have you lost weight? I never thought a ladykiller such as yourself could get actually more devastating in only two hours.”

“He’s a fuckin’ genius,” I whisper to Ethan. “He can translate too.”

“Really?” says Ethan.

“Yeah! Watch.” I turn to Gilmore. “Gilmore, say, um, ‘roadkill’.”

“Roadkill.”

“Okay, now say it in ‘South of I-80’.”

“Road pizza.”

I look to Ethan, nodding my amazement. “Now say it in Arkansazian.”

“Not fast enough food,” says Gilmore.

“Is that true?” I says, scowling incredulously. “People from other countries are actually eating roadkill?”

“Yes sir,” replies Gilmore. “But I’m sure your vast intellect is superior to being preoccupied with historic and factual minutia like that,” he says flatly. “That’s what I’m here for sir. That, and to forcibly remove the women that get too sexually aggressive after being exposed to you for more than a few moments at a time.”

“Remember Gilmore, I don’t want them hurt,” I says.

“I know sir. It’s not their fault.”

Ethan flips open the file on my desk, and leafs down a couple of pages.

“$6 an hour, eh?” he asks.

“Actually, $6.10,” I reply. “I gave him a raise last year.”

Ethan scratches his neck. “Does he have any friends who need a job?”

Tuesday

depthcharge

Predator Press

[LOBO]

“You’re mine now,” says Babs. “Simple as that. I posted bail, and you’ve posted 'The Sh*rt' 85,211 times at $35,000 a pop."

“Yeah,” I says. “Well, maybe you shouldn’t have showed me how to ‘cut and paste’ it.”

“Maybe,” she says. “But it doesn’t matter. You own the controlling interest in Hawly Enterprises, and since you’re mine, Hawly Enterprises is mine.”

“Look,” I says. “Take Ethan--“

“No,” says Babs. “Ethan is too smart to fall for me just trying to have sex with him until he dies of cardiac arrest.”

“Really?”

“—And that just leaves you.”

“Look Babs,” I says, rubbing the ink from my fingertips. “If this is just an elaborate plan to get into my pants--“

“No baby,” Babs smirks, rolling her eyes. “I’m into you for your mind.”

“You’re having wet, hot screamy sex with my mind!?

Babs pauses, perplexed. “Well, I--,” she chokes.

Whore!"

SHART ATTACK

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[LOBO]

Evidently, running around in a sexy tight suit and a mask is frowned upon by society in general.

In fact, some states make you register; according to my lawyer, I would’ve gone to the “Big House” for sure were it not for Babs.

Now, I’m not stupid. I know that “Big Houses” are drafty, haunted, and have really big fucking lawns ... and it’s no secret how much I would despise landscaping for the Undead … hell, the pays lousy, and they bitch no matter where you dig.

On a less professional note, Ethan just informed me that every time I post the words "The Shart" from here on out, the FCC is making me donate $35,000 to charity.

He would’ve told me sooner, but he needed only 70-Large more to cure leukemia.

Super Setbacks

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[The Shart]

Typically as the city sleeps, The Shart's youthful grad-student sidekick Matt McCord dutifully scours The Shart's email in search of leads.

But tonight, Matt played World of Warcaft for nine hours, and "Enlarge Your Penis" SPAM beguiled him into downloading crippling viruses via porn while sleeping with a slice of Dominoes Pizza on his lap.

This effectively shut down The Shart's Central Network of Intelligence Agencies for almost six months.

... and I bet the Dominoes guy never shows again.

Monday

With Great Power Comes Hot Chicks

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[The Shart]

Like any other Superhero, The Shart is ever-tormented by tragic internal struggle.

But The Shart is new at this "Superhero" gig. As soon as The Shart thinks of a cool one, The Shart will let you know.

For now, The Shart is busy seeking out the Pianosian Syndicate: a worldwide wretched and lethal bunch of organized cutthroat thugs that’ll poke your eye out sooner’n look at you.

The Shart didn't find them under The Shart's bed.

… In a few hours, The Shart will probably check the rest of the bedroom ...

Sunday

"THE SHART" BITES



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Unaware that he is about to be apprehended and beaten severely, notorious "Shovelman" attempts to steal snow from the State Capitol of beloved Pianosa
--all to fuel Mister Cold Miser's sinister groundhog-killing "Doomsday Device"

Beware Miscreants!

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[The Shart]

As metropolitan Pianosa slumbers peacefully, I prowl the shadows in a sexy, tight-fitting rubber suit, seeking out evil and injustice that must be smoten.

Wherever there’s a hot chick in danger of some creepy guy stalking her in the night, I’ll be there.

Swift, lethal and tenacious --like the shark-- I'm always one step ahead of the authorities because I’m smart.

I am The Shart.