Predator Press
Dear Rupert Murdoch,
It has been recently brought to our attention that you have placed a 6 billion dollar bid on The Wall Street Journal.
The Wall Street Journal is an infinitely boring publication that no one reads. Jeez, it barely even has any pictures!
We’ll sell you Predator Press for half.
Thursday
Wednesday
Can't We All Just Fight Like Hell?
Predator Press
[LOBO]
First, my house burns down.
Then I have a hard time convincing Babs, her Parole Officer, and the insurance company that my cat accidentally caused the fire thwarting an alien invasion by a technologically advanced mechanical reconnaissance fly.
Today I found out my blogger license has been revoked because I flunked the annual exam.
That, frankly, is just plain silly: there's no freakin way I flunked that test.
--I cheated off of the smartest people there!
[LOBO]
First, my house burns down.
Then I have a hard time convincing Babs, her Parole Officer, and the insurance company that my cat accidentally caused the fire thwarting an alien invasion by a technologically advanced mechanical reconnaissance fly.
Today I found out my blogger license has been revoked because I flunked the annual exam.
That, frankly, is just plain silly: there's no freakin way I flunked that test.
--I cheated off of the smartest people there!
Sunshine of My Love
Predator Press
[LOBO]
"Are you okay?" I says to Babs.
Babs grabs the bars. "LOBO, I didn't do it. I didn't blow up our potential home because you screwed me out of $250,000,000. I swear to God."
"Uh huh," I says. "I suppose you expect me to believe the cat did it."
"The cat knows where the insurance papers are better'n you do!"
I pause. "Okay, I'm on it."
[LOBO]
"Are you okay?" I says to Babs.
Babs grabs the bars. "LOBO, I didn't do it. I didn't blow up our potential home because you screwed me out of $250,000,000. I swear to God."
"Uh huh," I says. "I suppose you expect me to believe the cat did it."
"The cat knows where the insurance papers are better'n you do!"
I pause. "Okay, I'm on it."
Tuesday
Duel of the Fates
Predator Press
[Mr Insanity]
RDO really never lost interest in the goings on here on Earth; he just had to change strategy.
The dinosaurs had been his longest success. But they were difficult to control and bad-tempered overall. And the Earth's tumultuous temperatures over the eons proved to be their greatest vulnerability.
They were simply unable to adapt.
Sapphire, a much more sophisticated, elegant, and expensive design, was constructed to obviate these flaws. But despite being designed a female, she soon was able to drive, vote, think and operate completely independently. She too was difficult to control and bad-tempered overall.
This obviously was completely unforeseen.
Then there was the plan to clone LOBO indefinitely until the Earth self-destructed in a glut of stupidity. But once again, the unforeseen became the plan's undoing; RDO had no idea the capacity for wanton and unnecessary violence that permeated the human species: all the LOBO clones were slain.
-Hell, the humans had contests killing them.
So RDO decided that maybe he would start to think small. He developed tough and flexible micro-alloys, high-speed tiny devices and reconnaissance tools, and chips and processors that bordered defying quantum mechanics.
And there it was, at the paltry sum of $45,006,787, 897.06, sitting on LOBO's coffee table.
At a glance, it might resemble a shiny chrome metallic fly.
***
Templeton scratched and licked at his vast array of eyes, confused.
"Something is definitely wrong," he transmitted. "I can't translate what the big people are saying. I only get 'WOLF' every now and then."
There's a pause, then a response. "Templeton, you were evidently sent with the wrong language module. Yours appears to be Spanish. You are instructed to activate the television when the humans are gone, and observe until you can decode the English language."
"Understood," replied Templeton. "Out."
Templeton darted slightly to the left, facing the television. Then, seeking out the right radio waves, within moments he activated the television and was surfing channels. Earth data streamed gloriously into his memory banks, and were processed and sorted. If every computer on this planet were working for the same goal, Templeton could do it in half the time.
Unfortunately, nowhere in Templeton's vastly-advanced technological brain was there ever any mention of the Felis domesticus until he spotted a show on it on The Animal Channel.
And just as Templeton settled in for this fascinating documentary, Phil struck.
***
Phil had been aware of Templeton for some time. And to her credit, she had closed on him with the silent grace and keen hunting skill born of centuries of evolution; as Templeton became increasingly engrossed in the 'lighty box', his body language relaxed slightly.
Phil lunged, and almost instantly Templeton was airborne.
Templeton, while not entirely convinced of his own endangerment, charged his defenses, circling curiously. This incited a second strike from Phil. Missing poorly, she hadn't completely calculated her landing properly and landed paws-down on the floor, unsteadily and with her back to Templeton.
Templeton fired a warning shock, and Phil howled furiously. She circled back warily; Templeton, unafraid, simply hovered in haphazard, jerky motions that attracted her attack even more. She hissed.
Templeton was now reading Phil as a confirmed threat, but his curiosity got the best of him. Settling on the window of Babs' China hutch -presumably a safe enough distance-he continued to watch and observe the truly remarkable Earth species from a safe height.
The height that she could jump caught him completely off guard; her clawed paw caught him squarely, but her momentum carried her heavily into the hutch. Numerous China plates came down in a deafening crash.
Templeton, alarmed, fired his tiny jets for a burst of speed as he retreated towards the bedroom. But this cramped and unfamiliar space was Phil's home, and the tiny invader was at a significant disadvantage. Within precious moments of Phil slashing and biting inches behind, Templeton realized he was trapped: the bedroom had only one entrance, hence one exit. Following the natural upward arch of Babs' waterbed, he climbed, buzzed the headboard, and came back in the opposite direction in an attempt to fly back over the cat towards the only escape route.
Phil hit the waterbed claws bared, and with powerful hind legs launched herself high in the air slashing wildly at the tiny intruder -barely catching purchase on a bookshelf before leaping once more. The force of this leap wobbled the shelves, but both hunted and hunter were long gone before they all came crashing to the floor.
***
The kitchen, in a rather uncharacteristic state of tidiness, was brighter than the rest of the house; the drapes were thrown wide in the afternoon daylight.
Templeton's sensor arrays compensated instantly, but Phil's sensitive vision was flared away for a mere fraction of a second -long enough, in this high speed chase. Nonetheless, she maintained her speed and jumped up to the countertop almost entirely by memory.
But she had lost him.
Perfectly still, she blinked and searched with her ears for what seemed an eternity.
Nothing.
Only the occasional faint splash of a repetitive water droplet.
A sound she didn't recognize.
It was coming from the sink.
She circled, seeing nothing. She circled again, accidentally triggering the garbage disposal with her tail and two of the gas burners. She was a little startled by the sudden mechanical whine of the garbage disposal, but it wasn't necessarily an unknown sound for her.
She was focused.
That little shit is right here somewhere.
In the sink, there was a fork, a coffee cup, and a half a glass of water.
And in the bottom of that water under some ice, Templeton sat perfectly still.
Phil dived for him and the glass spilled into the screaming drain, taking Templeton down.
***
CRACK! went an ice cube.
Templeton shook the moisture off, and hovered perfectly still a mere inch over the deafening roar of swinging, grinding steel teeth. He looked up into the star-shaped light -his only way out-and he saw Phil's reptilian eye. Phil, seeing Templeton, opened all four claws and poised to reach in and snatch the little interloper.
With no choice, Templeton fired his afterburners straight up.
The burners ignited the gas, and LOBO's place exploded.
***
LOBO and Ethan were both sitting on the curb. Ethan was talking to the FBI, and LOBO was petting poor Phil, who had her whiskers scorched during the tragic fire.
"Excuse me?" says Ethan into the phone.
"This call is being interrupted by RDO," said a sterile voice.
"I'm talking to the FBI. Whatever it is, I'm sure it can wait."
"I don't know sir," says the monotone voice. "He sure is cursing a lot."
[Mr Insanity]
RDO really never lost interest in the goings on here on Earth; he just had to change strategy.
The dinosaurs had been his longest success. But they were difficult to control and bad-tempered overall. And the Earth's tumultuous temperatures over the eons proved to be their greatest vulnerability.
They were simply unable to adapt.
Sapphire, a much more sophisticated, elegant, and expensive design, was constructed to obviate these flaws. But despite being designed a female, she soon was able to drive, vote, think and operate completely independently. She too was difficult to control and bad-tempered overall.
This obviously was completely unforeseen.
Then there was the plan to clone LOBO indefinitely until the Earth self-destructed in a glut of stupidity. But once again, the unforeseen became the plan's undoing; RDO had no idea the capacity for wanton and unnecessary violence that permeated the human species: all the LOBO clones were slain.
-Hell, the humans had contests killing them.
So RDO decided that maybe he would start to think small. He developed tough and flexible micro-alloys, high-speed tiny devices and reconnaissance tools, and chips and processors that bordered defying quantum mechanics.
And there it was, at the paltry sum of $45,006,787, 897.06, sitting on LOBO's coffee table.
At a glance, it might resemble a shiny chrome metallic fly.
Templeton scratched and licked at his vast array of eyes, confused.
"Something is definitely wrong," he transmitted. "I can't translate what the big people are saying. I only get 'WOLF' every now and then."
There's a pause, then a response. "Templeton, you were evidently sent with the wrong language module. Yours appears to be Spanish. You are instructed to activate the television when the humans are gone, and observe until you can decode the English language."
"Understood," replied Templeton. "Out."
Templeton darted slightly to the left, facing the television. Then, seeking out the right radio waves, within moments he activated the television and was surfing channels. Earth data streamed gloriously into his memory banks, and were processed and sorted. If every computer on this planet were working for the same goal, Templeton could do it in half the time.
Unfortunately, nowhere in Templeton's vastly-advanced technological brain was there ever any mention of the Felis domesticus until he spotted a show on it on The Animal Channel.
And just as Templeton settled in for this fascinating documentary, Phil struck.
Phil had been aware of Templeton for some time. And to her credit, she had closed on him with the silent grace and keen hunting skill born of centuries of evolution; as Templeton became increasingly engrossed in the 'lighty box', his body language relaxed slightly.
Phil lunged, and almost instantly Templeton was airborne.
Templeton, while not entirely convinced of his own endangerment, charged his defenses, circling curiously. This incited a second strike from Phil. Missing poorly, she hadn't completely calculated her landing properly and landed paws-down on the floor, unsteadily and with her back to Templeton.
Templeton fired a warning shock, and Phil howled furiously. She circled back warily; Templeton, unafraid, simply hovered in haphazard, jerky motions that attracted her attack even more. She hissed.
Templeton was now reading Phil as a confirmed threat, but his curiosity got the best of him. Settling on the window of Babs' China hutch -presumably a safe enough distance-he continued to watch and observe the truly remarkable Earth species from a safe height.
The height that she could jump caught him completely off guard; her clawed paw caught him squarely, but her momentum carried her heavily into the hutch. Numerous China plates came down in a deafening crash.
Templeton, alarmed, fired his tiny jets for a burst of speed as he retreated towards the bedroom. But this cramped and unfamiliar space was Phil's home, and the tiny invader was at a significant disadvantage. Within precious moments of Phil slashing and biting inches behind, Templeton realized he was trapped: the bedroom had only one entrance, hence one exit. Following the natural upward arch of Babs' waterbed, he climbed, buzzed the headboard, and came back in the opposite direction in an attempt to fly back over the cat towards the only escape route.
Phil hit the waterbed claws bared, and with powerful hind legs launched herself high in the air slashing wildly at the tiny intruder -barely catching purchase on a bookshelf before leaping once more. The force of this leap wobbled the shelves, but both hunted and hunter were long gone before they all came crashing to the floor.
The kitchen, in a rather uncharacteristic state of tidiness, was brighter than the rest of the house; the drapes were thrown wide in the afternoon daylight.
Templeton's sensor arrays compensated instantly, but Phil's sensitive vision was flared away for a mere fraction of a second -long enough, in this high speed chase. Nonetheless, she maintained her speed and jumped up to the countertop almost entirely by memory.
But she had lost him.
Perfectly still, she blinked and searched with her ears for what seemed an eternity.
Nothing.
Only the occasional faint splash of a repetitive water droplet.
A sound she didn't recognize.
It was coming from the sink.
She circled, seeing nothing. She circled again, accidentally triggering the garbage disposal with her tail and two of the gas burners. She was a little startled by the sudden mechanical whine of the garbage disposal, but it wasn't necessarily an unknown sound for her.
She was focused.
That little shit is right here somewhere.
In the sink, there was a fork, a coffee cup, and a half a glass of water.
And in the bottom of that water under some ice, Templeton sat perfectly still.
Phil dived for him and the glass spilled into the screaming drain, taking Templeton down.
CRACK! went an ice cube.
Templeton shook the moisture off, and hovered perfectly still a mere inch over the deafening roar of swinging, grinding steel teeth. He looked up into the star-shaped light -his only way out-and he saw Phil's reptilian eye. Phil, seeing Templeton, opened all four claws and poised to reach in and snatch the little interloper.
With no choice, Templeton fired his afterburners straight up.
The burners ignited the gas, and LOBO's place exploded.
LOBO and Ethan were both sitting on the curb. Ethan was talking to the FBI, and LOBO was petting poor Phil, who had her whiskers scorched during the tragic fire.
"Excuse me?" says Ethan into the phone.
"This call is being interrupted by RDO," said a sterile voice.
"I'm talking to the FBI. Whatever it is, I'm sure it can wait."
"I don't know sir," says the monotone voice. "He sure is cursing a lot."
Monday
"Special" Effects
Predator Press
[LOBO]
Ethan and I, smoking cigars, watch 'the dailies' with great interest.
"Rumsfeld is killing Osama?" he asks. "I thought Cheney killed Osama about twenty minutes ago."
"No, that was Saddam. Remember the mustache?"
"No, that was Chemical Ali."
"No, Chemical Ali was killed by Ann Coulter."
"I'm confused."
"Remember, when Cheney and Limbaugh had to hook south at the Anthrax factory? Rush, the team medic, told her he had something she could take that would let her take six or seven more direct mortar hits. Then Chemical Ali attacks them, and Ann rips out all eight of his arms and pushes him over the cliff?" I sigh. "I agree. This edit seems a little disjointed. Maybe it was a bad idea to have Cobe play all the bad guys after all."
"Cobe just doesn't seem to have any acting range whatsoever," Ethan observes.
"Vince!" I yell up at the projection booth. "Play the opening sequence." I settle back in. "Still Ethan, you're gonna love this."
[LOBO]
Ethan and I, smoking cigars, watch 'the dailies' with great interest.
"Rumsfeld is killing Osama?" he asks. "I thought Cheney killed Osama about twenty minutes ago."
"No, that was Saddam. Remember the mustache?"
"No, that was Chemical Ali."
"No, Chemical Ali was killed by Ann Coulter."
"I'm confused."
"Remember, when Cheney and Limbaugh had to hook south at the Anthrax factory? Rush, the team medic, told her he had something she could take that would let her take six or seven more direct mortar hits. Then Chemical Ali attacks them, and Ann rips out all eight of his arms and pushes him over the cliff?" I sigh. "I agree. This edit seems a little disjointed. Maybe it was a bad idea to have Cobe play all the bad guys after all."
"Cobe just doesn't seem to have any acting range whatsoever," Ethan observes.
"Vince!" I yell up at the projection booth. "Play the opening sequence." I settle back in. "Still Ethan, you're gonna love this."
Sunday
Chiefly Speaking
Predator Press
[LOBO]
George Bush Junior, clutching a fire hydrant, was begging. "Please don't do this anymore. I'll do anything!"
"George," says the guy in the Nixon mask. "Join me, and together we shall rule the galaxy."
"Shit, I'd join you if you just took me to Dennys!"
"You have no idea the power of the Dark Side."
"Look, asshole. I already said I would join you." Bush gets up, walks to the mysterious stranger's car, climbs in the passenger side and slams the door. Rolling down the electric window, he yells, "This is the maximum level of joining you."
"George," says the masked stranger. "I am your father."
Suddenly, the Nixon mask comes off, and it's George Bush Senior!
"Oh yeah Dad," says George Junior tiredly from the car. "Like that bit didn't get old the first time you did it. What was I, eight then? Huh Dad? I'm thirty-five now. I'm in college fer Chrissake. Plus I think I'm a goddamn member of Congress or something like that."
Sulkily, George Bush senior drops the mask, and shuffles for the car.
"Chop chop, there pops," says Bush Junior. "I'm trying to decide between the AARP and the military defense fund even as we speak."
George Senior shuts the door, and puts his seat belt on.
"I'm gonna have twelve Happy Burgers and fifty milkshakes!" Cries Bush Junior. "Yeah!"
"Look," mumbles Bush Senior, adjusting the bulletproof mirror. "Just don't make a scene if some kid's already done the maze on the menu again. They have thousands of those in back. We just have to ask a waitress."
"Okay Dad," Says George Junior. "But can you make this car bounce in the air like those Mexican cars do?"
Bush Senior scowls and starts the car.
"Phooey,” says George Junior, folding his arms. “I don't know what the point is of being President is if you can't have a bouncy car."
[LOBO]
George Bush Junior, clutching a fire hydrant, was begging. "Please don't do this anymore. I'll do anything!"
"George," says the guy in the Nixon mask. "Join me, and together we shall rule the galaxy."
"Shit, I'd join you if you just took me to Dennys!"
"You have no idea the power of the Dark Side."
"Look, asshole. I already said I would join you." Bush gets up, walks to the mysterious stranger's car, climbs in the passenger side and slams the door. Rolling down the electric window, he yells, "This is the maximum level of joining you."
"George," says the masked stranger. "I am your father."
Suddenly, the Nixon mask comes off, and it's George Bush Senior!
"Oh yeah Dad," says George Junior tiredly from the car. "Like that bit didn't get old the first time you did it. What was I, eight then? Huh Dad? I'm thirty-five now. I'm in college fer Chrissake. Plus I think I'm a goddamn member of Congress or something like that."
Sulkily, George Bush senior drops the mask, and shuffles for the car.
"Chop chop, there pops," says Bush Junior. "I'm trying to decide between the AARP and the military defense fund even as we speak."
George Senior shuts the door, and puts his seat belt on.
"I'm gonna have twelve Happy Burgers and fifty milkshakes!" Cries Bush Junior. "Yeah!"
"Look," mumbles Bush Senior, adjusting the bulletproof mirror. "Just don't make a scene if some kid's already done the maze on the menu again. They have thousands of those in back. We just have to ask a waitress."
"Okay Dad," Says George Junior. "But can you make this car bounce in the air like those Mexican cars do?"
Bush Senior scowls and starts the car.
"Phooey,” says George Junior, folding his arms. “I don't know what the point is of being President is if you can't have a bouncy car."
Let Freedom Scream
Predator Press
[LOBO]
"Alright Newt," I says. "Lets go over this scene once more."
"I'm standing right here," says Newt. "I don't think you need the megaphone."
"Look Newt," I says frustrated. "This ain't Capitol Hill. I handle all the censorship around here. Now in this scene, you jump off of the fourth story, somersault gracefully to the ground by virtue of this crane and harness, and kick the crap out of six insurgents."
Newt pulls on the harness nervously. "Are you sure this thing is safe?"
"It's all physics, baby," I says walking back to my chair. "As long as you're exactly 180 pounds like it says on your driver's license, you're as safe as if in your mother's arms. Now the second you here the 'All Clear' safety bell, jump."
A bell rang, and Newt jumped. The crane buckled, and what followed was a scene of catastrophic mechanical failure.
The bell rang again.
Exasperated, I answered my cell phone.
"Hello? Oh hi Mom. Listen I can't talk right now. I'm shooting a movie."
Somewhere below, I could hear Newt groaning.
The 'All Clear' safety bell rang.
"Cut!," I yell. "Print it. That was fantastic! Newt, nice touch with that look of terror. It looked absolutely believable."
"Uhhnn," he says.
"Alright everyone," I says into the megaphone. "We have 30 more scenes to shoot today. Is the Limbaugh Piranha Cannon ready?"
"We're all set sir," says a wincing aide two feet away. "But Rush is complaining that there aren't any piranhas in Iraq."
"Fucking actors," I breathe. "Is he at least in his suit basted with goldfish flakes and pork chops?"
"Yes."
"Well, just push him in the ammo pool and shoot that. I suspect the piranhas aren't such sticklers for detail."
[LOBO]
"Alright Newt," I says. "Lets go over this scene once more."
"I'm standing right here," says Newt. "I don't think you need the megaphone."
"Look Newt," I says frustrated. "This ain't Capitol Hill. I handle all the censorship around here. Now in this scene, you jump off of the fourth story, somersault gracefully to the ground by virtue of this crane and harness, and kick the crap out of six insurgents."
Newt pulls on the harness nervously. "Are you sure this thing is safe?"
"It's all physics, baby," I says walking back to my chair. "As long as you're exactly 180 pounds like it says on your driver's license, you're as safe as if in your mother's arms. Now the second you here the 'All Clear' safety bell, jump."
A bell rang, and Newt jumped. The crane buckled, and what followed was a scene of catastrophic mechanical failure.
The bell rang again.
Exasperated, I answered my cell phone.
"Hello? Oh hi Mom. Listen I can't talk right now. I'm shooting a movie."
Somewhere below, I could hear Newt groaning.
The 'All Clear' safety bell rang.
"Cut!," I yell. "Print it. That was fantastic! Newt, nice touch with that look of terror. It looked absolutely believable."
"Uhhnn," he says.
"Alright everyone," I says into the megaphone. "We have 30 more scenes to shoot today. Is the Limbaugh Piranha Cannon ready?"
"We're all set sir," says a wincing aide two feet away. "But Rush is complaining that there aren't any piranhas in Iraq."
"Fucking actors," I breathe. "Is he at least in his suit basted with goldfish flakes and pork chops?"
"Yes."
"Well, just push him in the ammo pool and shoot that. I suspect the piranhas aren't such sticklers for detail."
Saturday
The Best Laid Mice of Plans and Men
Predator Press
[LOBO]
"The idea," says Ethan touring me through the studio, "is simply that if the media is responsible for the state of current affairs-"
We enter a room where Donald Rumsfeld, shirtless with an M-60 and bandoliers, is shooting six Al Qaeda guys while rifle-butting another and rescuing a puppy.
"-that we can end the end the war the same way," Ethan finishes.
Donald 'tucks and rolls' into an adjacent set, where he delivers an Iraqi baby waving a tiny American flag, all the while ducking gunfire and lobbing potent hand grenades.
"Okay," I says. "But I don't see where I come in."
"LOBO," sighs Ethan. "I want you to film Bush, Cheney and Rumsfeld getting pissed off and flying to Iraq, and ending the war once and for all. Personally."
"I like the name 'Gen. David H. Petraeus' too. It sounds kinda Latin. Biblical. Greek even. 'Petraeus' almost sounds Roman, and even after all these centuries the Romans are still kicking ass. Shit, you can't make a movie sequel anymore if it doesn't have an 'V' or an 'X' or a vowel in it somewhere. What the hell would Sylvester Stallone have called his movies then?"
"Exactly."
"Okay," I says as Rumsfeld climbs into a convenient helicopter, and starts napalming 6 guys that look like Osama. "But we're going to have to get Rumsfeld a stunt chest; his pasty tits just flopping around like that might give us a PG 17 rating." I scratch my chin. "Plus it's hell on the sound guys; they say everything sounds like two fat people fucking. Can we get a prosthetic chest? Or maybe 'CGI' something in?"
"That's why you're here," says Ethan smiling. "I want you to film victory."
[LOBO]
"The idea," says Ethan touring me through the studio, "is simply that if the media is responsible for the state of current affairs-"
We enter a room where Donald Rumsfeld, shirtless with an M-60 and bandoliers, is shooting six Al Qaeda guys while rifle-butting another and rescuing a puppy.
"-that we can end the end the war the same way," Ethan finishes.
Donald 'tucks and rolls' into an adjacent set, where he delivers an Iraqi baby waving a tiny American flag, all the while ducking gunfire and lobbing potent hand grenades.
"Okay," I says. "But I don't see where I come in."
"LOBO," sighs Ethan. "I want you to film Bush, Cheney and Rumsfeld getting pissed off and flying to Iraq, and ending the war once and for all. Personally."
"I like the name 'Gen. David H. Petraeus' too. It sounds kinda Latin. Biblical. Greek even. 'Petraeus' almost sounds Roman, and even after all these centuries the Romans are still kicking ass. Shit, you can't make a movie sequel anymore if it doesn't have an 'V' or an 'X' or a vowel in it somewhere. What the hell would Sylvester Stallone have called his movies then?"
"Exactly."
"Okay," I says as Rumsfeld climbs into a convenient helicopter, and starts napalming 6 guys that look like Osama. "But we're going to have to get Rumsfeld a stunt chest; his pasty tits just flopping around like that might give us a PG 17 rating." I scratch my chin. "Plus it's hell on the sound guys; they say everything sounds like two fat people fucking. Can we get a prosthetic chest? Or maybe 'CGI' something in?"
"That's why you're here," says Ethan smiling. "I want you to film victory."
Australia
Predator Press
[LOBO]
"I left you guys," says Ethan tersely, "on a teambuilding exercise. For two weeks. And you have burned my entire empire to the ground."
"There's always the rubble," I says.
"You burned the rubble down!"
"Well, you can't say I'm not thorough."
"Well, I really appreciate it," says Ethan. "Now Babs doesn't get shit."
"So you're okay with having lost $470,005,058.05 as long as Babs didn't get anything?"
"Oh yeah."
"So we're cool?"
"Shit, as soon as I get some money, I'm giving you a raise!"
"Well," I says. "It had better be substantial. You have no idea how traumatizing this has all been."
"We got a military contract," says Ethan. "$150,000,000,000. The first year."
"Ethan, I don't think I'm up for pissing off other countries anymore. Do you know it's a Class X felony for a woman to have sex with me in Australia now?"
"I told you Australia existed."
"I know. And now I want to have sex there in the worst way!"
"The last thing you need right now is another woman."
"Yeah," I concur, sighing. "Another vagina to feed."
"I need you, and your amazing media prowess on this project."
"Will there be cake?" I'm clapping my hands. "I love cake!"
[LOBO]
"I left you guys," says Ethan tersely, "on a teambuilding exercise. For two weeks. And you have burned my entire empire to the ground."
"There's always the rubble," I says.
"You burned the rubble down!"
"Well, you can't say I'm not thorough."
"Well, I really appreciate it," says Ethan. "Now Babs doesn't get shit."
"So you're okay with having lost $470,005,058.05 as long as Babs didn't get anything?"
"Oh yeah."
"So we're cool?"
"Shit, as soon as I get some money, I'm giving you a raise!"
"Well," I says. "It had better be substantial. You have no idea how traumatizing this has all been."
"We got a military contract," says Ethan. "$150,000,000,000. The first year."
"Ethan, I don't think I'm up for pissing off other countries anymore. Do you know it's a Class X felony for a woman to have sex with me in Australia now?"
"I told you Australia existed."
"I know. And now I want to have sex there in the worst way!"
"The last thing you need right now is another woman."
"Yeah," I concur, sighing. "Another vagina to feed."
"I need you, and your amazing media prowess on this project."
"Will there be cake?" I'm clapping my hands. "I love cake!"
White Power
[LOBO]
Well, being in jail is by no means fun; nonetheless, when I found out I was in jail with Richard Gere, I was thrilled.
Richard Gere, star of such brutal fight scenes such as the ones in 'An Officer and a Gentleman' and 'Pretty Woman', was right the fuck here sharing a holding cell with me!
I immediately start talking trash.
Dice, Tic Tock, and Shiv weren’t too impressed at first, but when I told ‘em all they was 'so ugly they hadda fake orgasms while masturbating', they had a huddle.
Dice: “Yo man, these are either the dumbest white men on Earth, or maybe they’re just crazy.”
Tic Tock: “Yeah, dude just said Tom Wopat was the Antichrist. Who the fuck is Tom Wopat?”
Shiv: “Wasn’t that one cracker that dude in Pretty Woman?”
“That’s right!” I exclaim. “And if I give the word, Richard will pull your tongues through your keysters!” I stare at them crazily.
“What you dogs doin time for?” says Tic Tock.
“Tell ‘im Richard!” I says, all twitchy-like.
“I was at Christmas Mass and this guy and a hooker showed up. During the footage, I was holding hands with my wife.” Richard wipes away a tear. “They got the whole thing on film.”
“You know Richard,” I says facing a 6’6” tall angry guy twice my width, “I was hoping --as an artist—you could do better than that.”
“Better than getting arrested for the proliferation of phony ‘Fat Burning' Twinkies?”
Dice: “These niggas are fucked up.”
Tic Tock: “Just be cool.”
Shiv: “I’m tellin you, that cat was in Armageddon or something.”
Suddenly, a voice calls, “LOBO, you’ve made bail. Please exit to your left.”
“Well wow,” I says, grabbing Richard’s hand and shaking it heartily. “Good luck my friend.” I pause. "Can I have your autograph?"
Well, being in jail is by no means fun; nonetheless, when I found out I was in jail with Richard Gere, I was thrilled.
Richard Gere, star of such brutal fight scenes such as the ones in 'An Officer and a Gentleman' and 'Pretty Woman', was right the fuck here sharing a holding cell with me!
I immediately start talking trash.
Dice, Tic Tock, and Shiv weren’t too impressed at first, but when I told ‘em all they was 'so ugly they hadda fake orgasms while masturbating', they had a huddle.
Dice: “Yo man, these are either the dumbest white men on Earth, or maybe they’re just crazy.”
Tic Tock: “Yeah, dude just said Tom Wopat was the Antichrist. Who the fuck is Tom Wopat?”
Shiv: “Wasn’t that one cracker that dude in Pretty Woman?”
“That’s right!” I exclaim. “And if I give the word, Richard will pull your tongues through your keysters!” I stare at them crazily.
“What you dogs doin time for?” says Tic Tock.
“Tell ‘im Richard!” I says, all twitchy-like.
“I was at Christmas Mass and this guy and a hooker showed up. During the footage, I was holding hands with my wife.” Richard wipes away a tear. “They got the whole thing on film.”
“You know Richard,” I says facing a 6’6” tall angry guy twice my width, “I was hoping --as an artist—you could do better than that.”
“Better than getting arrested for the proliferation of phony ‘Fat Burning' Twinkies?”
Dice: “These niggas are fucked up.”
Tic Tock: “Just be cool.”
Shiv: “I’m tellin you, that cat was in Armageddon or something.”
Suddenly, a voice calls, “LOBO, you’ve made bail. Please exit to your left.”
“Well wow,” I says, grabbing Richard’s hand and shaking it heartily. “Good luck my friend.” I pause. "Can I have your autograph?"
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