Predator Press
[LOBO]
Most afternoons are certainly dedicated to play once the work is done; mornings, conversely, are spent ramping up to be serious.
--for a few hours anyways.
At the prompt of the shrieking alarm clock, I flip on the news via the remote control while shuffling my way to the kitchen in my fuzzy-bunny slippers. Then I’ll spend about ten minutes with my coffee in the living room, blearily sorting out what you people have done while I was sleeping.
But today I woke a little late, and my beloved morning ritual was rudely disrupted; with no time for cozy commiseration, I could give the television but a momentary look as I headed for the shower.
In that single glance, I caught some familiar ticker tape phrases scrolling across the bottom of the screen; words like Slaughterhouse Five and Breakfast of Champions. And my first thought is that some school is trying to ban books again … or maybe some religious nut is cranking up the political atmosphere by cracking down on controversial writing.
Again.
Very boring.
Must shower.
Click
So it would be another full hour before I would learn that Kurt Vonnegut is dead.
As an amateur and pisspoor satirist, I’m not going to spend a whole lot of time trying to convince you that I’ve got feelings and that I’m actually feeling those feelings now; I wouldn’t insult your intelligence like that. But I will have said that I’ve been reading Kurt’s work –I can call him Kurt now ‘cuz he’s dead and can’t complain—since my early teens, and the dark and existential humor that authors like he and Joseph Heller gave us probably had more influence on me than even my own parents.
Through them I discovered “The Paperback”: tiny little innocuous-seeming rectangles that fit in your back pocket, sometimes cunningly containing wild and savage detonations of imagination, dripping with sharp wit, social commentary, and much-needed acerbic bite. So potent was their power, they could make you spontaneously laugh or cry unexpectedly, drawing awkward stares and looks.
The world of writing just got a lot lonelier somehow.
Thank you KV.
For everything.
Thursday
Friday
Flounder
Predator Press
[LOBO]
The problem with being such an attractive and desirable catch to the opposite sex is that chicks can, upon occasion, be overly aggressive. And the stocky ones wearing combat boots and flannel can be deceptively fast runners too!
Worse, the ingenious six-foot tall disguise that President Bush’s gardener provided me proved highly impractical when fleeing in terror of losing my obviously-endangered chastity; while running as hard and fast as I could, every time I turn, I see nothing but bared teeth framed by a spiky bamboo-addled mullet, pressed tight against scalp by virtue of sheer aerodynamic force.
She’s gaining on me.
Panting, sweating and trailing broken bamboo shoots and leaves, I slam the door to Ethan’s office, and press my back against it.
Sitting in front of Ethan’s desk were both Mr Insanity and Sapphire. And while fresh and rested-looking from their long Winter Break, they looked a little pissed about something.
“Hi guys!” I says excitedly, still out of breath.
Everybody just stares at me.
“Is there a problem?” I ask innocently.
Someone starts banging on the door behind me.
“I was just about to ask you the same thing,” says Mr Insanity.
Even as I press backward, I can feel the door starting to give. “No,” I says. “There’s no problem. What makes you think there’s a problem?”
“Well,” says Ethan smiling. “I was just telling Seth and Sapphire how you were filling in for them over the past few months.”
Desperately holding the door back, I manage a grin over a muffled cursing and a thunderous crash, followed by the sound of cracking oak. “Really, there’s no need to thank me right now.”
“Thank you?” says Mr. Insanity. “You told everyone I was dead!”
“Maybe,” I says. My planted feet are starting to slide over the carpet as the splintering door inches forward.
“Oh that’s nothing,” laughs Ethan. “Wait’ll you here about what he wrote about Sapphire.”
[LOBO]
The problem with being such an attractive and desirable catch to the opposite sex is that chicks can, upon occasion, be overly aggressive. And the stocky ones wearing combat boots and flannel can be deceptively fast runners too!
Worse, the ingenious six-foot tall disguise that President Bush’s gardener provided me proved highly impractical when fleeing in terror of losing my obviously-endangered chastity; while running as hard and fast as I could, every time I turn, I see nothing but bared teeth framed by a spiky bamboo-addled mullet, pressed tight against scalp by virtue of sheer aerodynamic force.
She’s gaining on me.
Panting, sweating and trailing broken bamboo shoots and leaves, I slam the door to Ethan’s office, and press my back against it.
Sitting in front of Ethan’s desk were both Mr Insanity and Sapphire. And while fresh and rested-looking from their long Winter Break, they looked a little pissed about something.
“Hi guys!” I says excitedly, still out of breath.
Everybody just stares at me.
“Is there a problem?” I ask innocently.
Someone starts banging on the door behind me.
“I was just about to ask you the same thing,” says Mr Insanity.
Even as I press backward, I can feel the door starting to give. “No,” I says. “There’s no problem. What makes you think there’s a problem?”
“Well,” says Ethan smiling. “I was just telling Seth and Sapphire how you were filling in for them over the past few months.”
Desperately holding the door back, I manage a grin over a muffled cursing and a thunderous crash, followed by the sound of cracking oak. “Really, there’s no need to thank me right now.”
“Thank you?” says Mr. Insanity. “You told everyone I was dead!”
“Maybe,” I says. My planted feet are starting to slide over the carpet as the splintering door inches forward.
“Oh that’s nothing,” laughs Ethan. “Wait’ll you here about what he wrote about Sapphire.”
Wednesday
Bamboo
Predator Press
[LOBO]
“Sir,” asks the lady behind the Democratic Headquarters desk, “May I help you?”
I say nothing.
“Sir,” she says in a more authoritative tone. “I’m going to call Security. Why exactly are you hiding in the corner dressed like a shrub?”
Thinking quickly, I says, “I’m a Bamboo.”
“I saw you getting off of the elevator.”
A pause.
I tilt the top of the tree forward, leaning into her confidingly, “I really doubt that.”
“I’m calling Security,” she says finally.
“On a Bamboo plant explicitly not trying to gain sensitive information for the Republican party?”
She looks at me sternly.
“That’s a very nice Mullet, by the way.”
“Pig!” she screams while blowing the air horn, punctuated occasionally by her silver whistle.
“No!” I scream reassuringly at the Godless whore. “Bamboo!”
[LOBO]
“Sir,” asks the lady behind the Democratic Headquarters desk, “May I help you?”
I say nothing.
“Sir,” she says in a more authoritative tone. “I’m going to call Security. Why exactly are you hiding in the corner dressed like a shrub?”
Thinking quickly, I says, “I’m a Bamboo.”
“I saw you getting off of the elevator.”
A pause.
I tilt the top of the tree forward, leaning into her confidingly, “I really doubt that.”
“I’m calling Security,” she says finally.
“On a Bamboo plant explicitly not trying to gain sensitive information for the Republican party?”
She looks at me sternly.
“That’s a very nice Mullet, by the way.”
“Pig!” she screams while blowing the air horn, punctuated occasionally by her silver whistle.
“No!” I scream reassuringly at the Godless whore. “Bamboo!”
Tuesday
Landscaping
Predator Press
Newt shuts the door. “Look, I can’t do this. It’s just too heartless.”
“An he’s cryin like a sissy,” says Bush, wincing. “I told you not to cancel his decoder ring yet!”
“Look,” says Newt. “Everyone makes mistakes. Both Clinton and Bush admitted to some rather nefarious ‘youthful indiscretions'. The media went nuts.“
“Ooo, I love stories!" says Bush. "Then what happened?”
“What we’re gonna do,” says Rush, “is ask him to be a spy Democrat.”
“We wouldn't even have to wait for Jesus to kill him," exclaims Bush. "That’s geniusness!”
“We could even make him report to somebody,” gloats Newt.
“I vote my gardener,” says Rush, raising his hand.
“Aw,” complains Bush. “Your gardener is already handling Social Security. It’s my turn to have a kewl gardener.”
Newt shuts the door. “Look, I can’t do this. It’s just too heartless.”
“An he’s cryin like a sissy,” says Bush, wincing. “I told you not to cancel his decoder ring yet!”
“Look,” says Newt. “Everyone makes mistakes. Both Clinton and Bush admitted to some rather nefarious ‘youthful indiscretions'. The media went nuts.“
“Ooo, I love stories!" says Bush. "Then what happened?”
“What we’re gonna do,” says Rush, “is ask him to be a spy Democrat.”
“We wouldn't even have to wait for Jesus to kill him," exclaims Bush. "That’s geniusness!”
“We could even make him report to somebody,” gloats Newt.
“I vote my gardener,” says Rush, raising his hand.
“Aw,” complains Bush. “Your gardener is already handling Social Security. It’s my turn to have a kewl gardener.”
Monday
Night in the Ruts
Predator Press
[LOBO]
The blindfold comes off, and I’m sitting in a small room.
Around me –left to right-- is Newt Gingrich, Rush Limbaugh, and President George Bush.
“Word up, homie!” I says to Bush, who artfully avoids my conspicuous 'High Five'.
“LOBO,” says Newt. “We have to talk. In your first week as a Republican, you’ve enraged senior citizens, published smutty innuendoes, and insulted maybe every religion on the face of the Earth.”
I look around, and I can read it in their eyes.
I’m being kicked out.
“Look,” says Rush, puffing a stogie. “Not everyone is cut out to be a Republican. We think you should join the Democratic Party." He taps his ash, "We've already cancelled your decoder ring."
[LOBO]
The blindfold comes off, and I’m sitting in a small room.
Around me –left to right-- is Newt Gingrich, Rush Limbaugh, and President George Bush.
“Word up, homie!” I says to Bush, who artfully avoids my conspicuous 'High Five'.
“LOBO,” says Newt. “We have to talk. In your first week as a Republican, you’ve enraged senior citizens, published smutty innuendoes, and insulted maybe every religion on the face of the Earth.”
I look around, and I can read it in their eyes.
I’m being kicked out.
“Look,” says Rush, puffing a stogie. “Not everyone is cut out to be a Republican. We think you should join the Democratic Party." He taps his ash, "We've already cancelled your decoder ring."
I'm Sorry
Predator Press
[LOBO]
All you cranky seniors sending me hate mail and downing me in the blog ratings because you were offended by that last post should probably "cool your jets" for a minute.
Firstly, this is an adult site. This sophomoric humor, while brilliant and intrinsically vital to Humankind as a whole, should under no circumstances ever be viewed by children or cranky old bastards like you.
But on a personal level – thereby infinitely more important-- anyone that reads this blog for any length of time knows that no one in it gets spoofed harder than me.
Period.
So what can I say to all that, other than I only hope your sorry, miserable mirthlessness will one day soon be extinguished in a swift and merciful way?
I, conversely, choose laughter.
[LOBO]
All you cranky seniors sending me hate mail and downing me in the blog ratings because you were offended by that last post should probably "cool your jets" for a minute.
Firstly, this is an adult site. This sophomoric humor, while brilliant and intrinsically vital to Humankind as a whole, should under no circumstances ever be viewed by children or cranky old bastards like you.
But on a personal level – thereby infinitely more important-- anyone that reads this blog for any length of time knows that no one in it gets spoofed harder than me.
Period.
So what can I say to all that, other than I only hope your sorry, miserable mirthlessness will one day soon be extinguished in a swift and merciful way?
I, conversely, choose laughter.
Saturday
Smitten
Predator Press
[LOBO]
I didn’t have my door locked, and Babs ‘an six big guys in matching jumpsuits just come right in.
The jumpsuited glandular freaks are carrying furniture.
What the fuck?
“Good,” she says. “I’m glad you’re here. I’ve decided I’m moving in.”
“Here?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“What do you mean why? You might’ve squirmed out of that marriage business for now, but you’re still my bitch.”
“But we were getting along so well not seeing or talking to each other,” I reason.
“Yes, well all that’s changing.”
“Ma’am?” says a mover. “There isn’t going to be room for the china hutch.”
“The hell there isn’t,” she scowls, circling the house. Decidedly, she stops and points. “Get rid of that.”
“My big screen television!?” I says. “Look here, sister. What in the hell makes you think you can just walk right in here and start throwing out my stuff?”
“I can bend parking meters with my thighs.”
“What kind of china is it?”
[LOBO]
I didn’t have my door locked, and Babs ‘an six big guys in matching jumpsuits just come right in.
The jumpsuited glandular freaks are carrying furniture.
What the fuck?
“Good,” she says. “I’m glad you’re here. I’ve decided I’m moving in.”
“Here?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“What do you mean why? You might’ve squirmed out of that marriage business for now, but you’re still my bitch.”
“But we were getting along so well not seeing or talking to each other,” I reason.
“Yes, well all that’s changing.”
“Ma’am?” says a mover. “There isn’t going to be room for the china hutch.”
“The hell there isn’t,” she scowls, circling the house. Decidedly, she stops and points. “Get rid of that.”
“My big screen television!?” I says. “Look here, sister. What in the hell makes you think you can just walk right in here and start throwing out my stuff?”
“I can bend parking meters with my thighs.”
“What kind of china is it?”
Friday
Sugar Rush
Predator Press
[LOBO]
Please stop emailing me and asking me to run for President again.
Despite my $516 "Vote for LOBO Cuz Those Other Guys Suck!" media blitz, I didn't make a dent in the 2006 Elections; frankly, I wasn't even on the damned ballot.
The fact of the matter is I've got what politicians refer to as "baggage".
I used to be a Jolly Rancher whore.
Before I found God, I might've had a hard time talking about my "problem" this openly. But back when I was single --and before rehab-- if you were a hot chick with Jolly Ranchers, I would do anything.
It started off innocently enough; a hot chick offers me an Apple STIX, and then I 'top off' with a Wild Berry Fruit --you know, just to be social and fun.
But before long, I was doing Double and Sourbolt Blasts --you know, the heavy stuff-- and "servicing" three or four hot chicks at a time.
All this has all changed since I've found God, the Republican Party, and a girlfriend that would cut my nuts off for ever eating any Jolly Ranchers again.
So please stop asking me to run for President.
[LOBO]
Please stop emailing me and asking me to run for President again.
Despite my $516 "Vote for LOBO Cuz Those Other Guys Suck!" media blitz, I didn't make a dent in the 2006 Elections; frankly, I wasn't even on the damned ballot.
The fact of the matter is I've got what politicians refer to as "baggage".
I used to be a Jolly Rancher whore.
Before I found God, I might've had a hard time talking about my "problem" this openly. But back when I was single --and before rehab-- if you were a hot chick with Jolly Ranchers, I would do anything.
It started off innocently enough; a hot chick offers me an Apple STIX, and then I 'top off' with a Wild Berry Fruit --you know, just to be social and fun.
But before long, I was doing Double and Sourbolt Blasts --you know, the heavy stuff-- and "servicing" three or four hot chicks at a time.
All this has all changed since I've found God, the Republican Party, and a girlfriend that would cut my nuts off for ever eating any Jolly Ranchers again.
So please stop asking me to run for President.
Thursday
Kyle Sampson is a Big Fat Lying Poo-Poo Head
Predator Press
[LOBO]
It’s jerks like that that completely ruin our ability to enjoy this Zenith of Republican Enlightenment. Look around you! There are no wars, taxes, or poverty. Everyone is free to worship Our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ as much as they choose, and the streets are safe because anyone able to hold a gun, does.
And the spinach will definitely not kill you.
All you alarmist liberal hippies and pinko-commies should put down your hookahs and catch a boat back to whatever other country kicked you out for treason.
Move along. There's nothing to see here America; go about your business.
Everything’s just fine.
[LOBO]
It’s jerks like that that completely ruin our ability to enjoy this Zenith of Republican Enlightenment. Look around you! There are no wars, taxes, or poverty. Everyone is free to worship Our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ as much as they choose, and the streets are safe because anyone able to hold a gun, does.
And the spinach will definitely not kill you.
All you alarmist liberal hippies and pinko-commies should put down your hookahs and catch a boat back to whatever other country kicked you out for treason.
Move along. There's nothing to see here America; go about your business.
Everything’s just fine.
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