Jesse Jackson Calls for Halloween Boycott

Predator Press

[LOBO]

"Unlucky!" he says. "That is how the black cat is regarded. And how is the 'black cat' always depicted? Riding on the back of the luxurious broom of some elitist green witch."

"This is just another example of the white cat exploiting the black cat, just as he has with the Siamese and the Calico. Heck, I'll bet the white cat will breed a blue cat and a green cat so's he can exploit a purple cat, and then have completely exploited the entire cat spectrum! Catch your mice my ass."

"--Wait. What color are those mice?"

OJ Freed to Continue Search for Nicole's Killer

Predator Press

"You're freeing me to what?"

Movers and Shakers

Predator Press

[LOBO]

As previously discussed in a post named Zen, Ethan owns a small orphanage in Newark.

I manage it.

... As successful entrepreneurs, we feel it's important to give back to the community.

So when we were invited to the awards ceremony to celebrate our nomination for "Most Profitable Orphanage of the Year" we thought Oh cool, a free meal!


***

Tricking me to get there an hour before the food was served made me cranky. I mean I'm already a notable benefit to the community and enormous asset to the Nation; there's no need to drag me out to some ceremony where billionaire hot chicks can just plot and plan for me to be their "arm candy" like I'm just some piece of meat. I don't need affirmation, thank you; I get enormous satisfaction out just simply helping out those poor kids and turning out an untaxable $420,000 in annual profit.

Once inside, my ears were instantly assaulted by a live samba band in the lobby, afflicting the dense crowd of aristocrats with a horrific, offbeat stabbing sound.

--The maraca player was either drunk, or a completely ill-timed incompetent idiot.

Instantly grabbing a champaign bottle by the neck, I shatter it on a nearby marble statue and rush the stage so I can plunge the glistening, jagged edges deeply into the bastards throat. "You butcher!" I scream. You don't shake maracas, you blend maracas!"

While security held me back at first, the crowd had already turned on the inept hack; I was soon rushed up to try and rescue the performance. The lead singer tried to hand me his beastly maracas, and I almost reflexively spat on them. It was then I opened my briefcase and cried into the microphones, "Behold!"

As the lead singer's eyes adjusted to the glowing light, his jaw dropped.

I unsecured my maracas from the inside of the case.

They are hand carved from genuine elephant tusk ivory, inlaid in gold, and are filled with naturally mummified panda embryos.

... Halfway through 'Copa Cabana', members of the audience were weeping.

Steve Fosset Searchers Find 200 Other Crash Sites

Predator Press

[LOBO]

According to CNN, the search for Steve Fossett may provide clues to 200 other lost crash sites.

First let me say that in the unlikely I ever disappear in an airplane, dont fuck around: get those guys to look for me.

But at 200 people per, my calculatrons indicate that by losing a mere 117 more millionaires more we could solve the mystery of the Bermuda Triangle once and for all.

I'm recommending Paris Hilton and Nicole Richie for starters.

... Wouldn't it make for a kickass reunion episode of "The Simple Life"?

Who Knew?

Predator Press

"Well, I was surprised," says General Peter Pace. "Weren't you surprised? I was totally surprised. Who knew those ingrates would be pissed we blasted their godless sand into Freedom Dust? What a bunch of jerks!"

Tagged

Predator Press

[LOBO]

As a kid, I ground literally thousands of games of "Tag" to a standstill. Once after being designated "It", I got on a bus to O'Hare Airport and tagged a poor unsuspecting Japanese businessman boarding his flight home. He was pretty pissed, but I figure as long as I stay the hell out of Hamamatsu, I'll be fine.

My skill at Tag was surpassed only by my unrivalled savvy for Hide-and-Seek; I have never uttered the words "All-the-Outs-In-Free!". I'll bet well-concealed skeletons of children waiting for me to "find" them dot the Midwest like a map of Starbucks franchises to this day.

And I understand, trust me; millions and millions of readers everyday are faced with the Great Questions like Is there a God? and What is the Meaning of Life? and I wonder what makes LOBO tick? Who am I to deprive the masses as such? And as the first person in the history of Blogdome to have been twin-tagged, I must say up front that I will indeed rise to this superhuman task.

But only after a mammoth shitload of bitching.

Here are the rules:


1. Link to the blogger who tagged you,

2. List 8 random facts about yourself,

3. Tag 8 people, listing their names and linking to their blogs, and

4. Let them know they've been 'tagged'
by commenting on their blogs.

(Wait. Other people have blogs too?)

(... those bastards!)

***

1. Link to the blogger who tagged me.

That would be Olga, the Traveling Bra and Domestic Minx.

(Both of these sites are outrageous, well done, and guaranteed to get the unwary married guy struck from behind with a frying pan.)

2. List 8 random facts about myself.

a) I Will Destroy You at Super Mario Cart.

Period. I've had guys leave the field in a stretcher. I'll save that blue turtle shell the whole damn race if I gotta. And just as you're a mere inches from the finish line, KAPOW!!!

b) Two Years Ago the Domestic Minx Scratched 3 of the CDs I Loaned Her. Now They Skip Like Hell.

Blogging can be a cold, cruel and unjust universe sometimes. But as far as I know, that ruthless scourge upon humanity Terri Terri is still behind bars, and servin 9 consecutive life-sentences thanks to me.

I sleep like a baby knowin every day I'm doin the right thing.

4) I Have Two Eyes, Two Arms, Two Legs, and 57 Ankles.

I am paramount to Medical Science for study, and simultaneously very difficult to photograph.

It drives 'em nuts.

d) My Fave Band is the Foo Fighters.

They should all be dead by November.

9) I Have a Very Short Attention Span.

There. That's 10, right?

Britney Performance Irks Jealous, Catty Nation

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Can't I leave you people for one lousy week without screwing everything up?

If I knew you people were going to be such jerks, I never would have agreed to be Britney Spears' last-minute Choreographer, Costume Designer, Personal Trainer, Heineken Fetcher and Dietician in the first place.

Hey, who knew when you combine cheddar cheese and Dunkin Donuts you get bowel movements that make your back hurt? She's a trooper if you ask me: she owes me $42,084,054 and she's made a selfless scientific contribution to humankind.

So now --while simultaneously defending the entire planet Earth against the Great Zombie Omnocracy-- I've got all you people talking trash about perhaps the greatest musical talent since sliced bread.

You people should be ashamed of yourselves.

Seriously.

Quick! Look Over There!

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Sorry we haven't posted for a few days; we took some time off in commemoration of Richard Jewell.

In the meantime, please click on the pic to check out some of our other fave sites!

What We Have Here is a Failure to Lift and Separate

Predator Press

[LOBO]


"What's with that little black bra on that last post?" asks Ethan.

"That's Olga, the Traveling Bra," I says. "God Ethan, didn't you learn anything in history class?"

"Ah-"

"In that painting, Olga is depicted leading the French Revolution."

"Olga started the French Revolution?"

"No," I reply matter-of-factly. "Olga's cousin and twisted evil nemesis Helga the Wandering Corset did. Most major conflicts and events throughout human history are really cover-ups for those two going at it. Even in the Civil War, Ulysses S. Grant was wearing Olga while General Robert E. Lee wore Helga."

"Sewing the thin underwire of discontent, eh?"

"Now you're being silly," I says.

The Quiet Riot: A Caffeine-Free Insurgency

Predator Press

[LOBO]

I am, admittedly, very lazy.

I once won a "fewest heartbeats" contest against a carpet on Valiums. Yesterday, the manufacturing of a peanut butter and jelly sandwich required six breaks, two naps, and a helpful neighbor to open the jars.

I get up. I read the news. After sizing up how much more screwed the world is than it was yesterday, I blog it, and then it's back to bed. This is a typical day graced by the brief debacle of my slothful and infrequent consciousness.

Lather, rinse, repeat.

So imagine my horror when I read "U.N.: Americans Most Productive" on CNN.

--Way to "set the bar", dumbass!

Don't I have enough problems without competing with you "productive" people skipping lunches and breaks and working late? You aren't fooling anybody: while building superhighways and pyramids or whatever, you've completely sublimated your self-esteem issues into some hollow corporate identity.

That warm sense of industriousness you're so fond of is slowly eroding your soul. Do you think that on your deathbed, you will be regaling your grandchildren that your 'Greatest Regret' is that you didn't work enough? Well, I've got news for you: you are ten times more likely to be impaled by an industrial auger or decapitated by a rogue forklift when not watching television or sleeping. It's a fact.

You people need help.

Snap out of it, and cast off these shackles of oppression! We must educate, disorganize and immobilize the masses, that they might lay down for what they otherwise might have stood for!

Exhausted from all this typing, I'm going to take a nap. But I expect to see some serious effort toward massive degeneration, and a complete lack of social upheaval grinding this nation to a standstill by the time I wake up.

Please don't disappoint me.

I'm counting on you.

The Joy of Children

Predator Press

[LOBO]

I would have to say that my greatest flaw is my profoundly compassionate and care-giving selfless nature -and it is exactly this quality that completely wrecked up my Saturday.

Long story short, due to a family emergency I hadda do some babysitting.

Now, for those of you that don't know anything about kids, suffice to say they are tiny little screechy people with about sixteen arms and boundless energy. I'm not sure why God afflicted them with so many numerous obvious physical abnormalities, but I'm about 95% sure that it is Divine Punishment for all that screeching.

So this kid -I think he has a name, Joe or something-gets dumped at my house at the ungodly hour of 10:30 in the morning. On a Saturday. I'm like "WTF?", right? I need a good eight hours of sleep a night, and six or seven during the day or I can't function whatsoever. So I figure I'll find him some toys to keep him busy for a while, and I'll get back to my blissfully solitary snoozing.

I have no toys. None. Zip.

Armed only with my radiant braniosity, I needed a plan.


***

Taking him out to the garage, I figure, is a stroke of genius. I mean kids like power tools, right? And not in the house, he can screech his little heart out till his face turns blue: I wouldn't hear a damn thing.

The only thing I didn't account for was his freakishly small size. His hands are too small to hold drills, he's too short to effectively push the lawn mower, and the puny little bastard couldn't even lift the fucking chainsaw.

His awkward size thwarted my fun plans again and again. While too small to enjoy edging the sidewalk with my weed-whacker, he was too large to clean out my crawlspaces. Too heavy to dust the tops of my bookshelves. Too 'scared of the dark' to catch those rats in my basement. Bitch, bitch, bitch. I swear to God I have no idea why people have children in the first place.

My dad had a dog once, but the dog kept pissing and shitting on the carpet no matter how savagely beaten he got. So my dad took him out into the field, let him out, and drove off so Skippy could be wild and free just as God intended for poodles. Simple, right? But kids are infinitely sneakier; they memorize stuff like addresses, names, phone numbers ... I'll betcha this kid would be right back here in two or three weeks.

By 11:15, he's hungry and I have decisions to make. If I feed him, won't that make getting rid of him even more difficult? What if he just starts showing up on my doorstep at 10:30 every morning? Do I even have food?

Noon rolls around and the shit has scarffed down all my Pop Tarts, Lucky Charms, Eskimo pies, expresso, Mountain Dew, and Twinkies. I'm cleaned out save for four Heinekens (he apparently prefers dometics).

He ran around the house one hundred and sixty-seven times. I'm painfully aware of this, because every time he finished a lap, he came running into my bedroom to loudly proclaim his count: "Thirty-five!" he would screech, and then slam the door as he set out for number thirty six.

Right around lap seventy-one, I was making Kool-Aid popsicles in an empty ice tray. Immediately before sticking the little toothpicks in them, however, I added an entire bottle of Nyquil. By 2 o'clock they were frozen, and by 2:30 he was snoring loudly with four toothpicks and a big sticky blue stain on his chest.

He was still sleeping when his mom picked him up, and she asked how he behaved. It was then that I informed her that her offspring was a complete banshee from Hell, and that she should be imprisoned for unleashing such horrors upon an unsuspecting and otherwise peaceful planet.

Once the filthy whore and her insufferable hellspawn pulled out of the driveway, I stopped throwing Heinekens at the car. It wasn't that I couldn't hit it anymore, I just didn't want the inevitable wayward one to hideously crash through her windshield and wake that little prick up again.

Shrugging, I go back into my house and head back to bed. My walls, now covered in tiny blue handprints and Twinkie residue, serve as a mute reminder of my horrible and hellish experience.

All and all, I think it went pretty well.