[LOBO]
Thursday
Wednesday
Hex on the Breach
Predator Press
[LOBO]
As I entered the spacious office, McKracken rose from his chair.
"It's a pleasure to see you again sir," he said shaking my hand over the desk.
Trying not to wince visibly under his vice-like grip I reply, "I wish I could say the same."
"The Anti-Brent Diggs security grid we designed isn't working?"
"No it's fine," I says. "To my knowledge, Brent hasn't been within a hundred miles of my place."
"How about the bathtub shark cage?"
"That's fine too."
"I hope you've taken my advice and stopped reading Don Lewis' fear-mongering."
"That guy is a menace and must be stopped."
McKracken gestures to a seat in front of his desk, and eyes me carefully as he sits. "I take it you have further need for our security services."
"And how," I says. Pulling a folded piece of paper from my lapel, I toss it in front of him. "Everywhere I've surfed the Internet lately, I see things like this."
"These sick bastards," I explain, "are tryin to squish the Earth into a weird heart shape!" I punch my finger into the image loudly. "This would almost certainly screw up our orbit around the Sun."
"I think," says McKracken, "this is just an effort to organize awareness for human rights."
"The right to squish the Earth?" I guffaw. "I need the Earth. All my stuff is there. And just look at Canada!"
"No," McKracken says patiently. "I mean the heart-shaped Earth is like a metaphor. As if to say 'the world should be more sensitive'. They aren't really trying to squish it."
"I'm not buying that," I says. "And frankly the last thing I need are bloggers 'uniting'. How long until one of them figures out that they can eliminate the best blog in the universe -Predator Press- by the simple act of sticking a shiv in the back of my neck while I'm mowing the lawn?"
"I've seen your yard," says McKracken. "I wouldn't classify that as a serious threat."
"I think we need to start discussing my options."
"Like what?"
I stand and walk to the window, thinking. "How about a giant vacuum that will suck everyone off of the face of the Earth except me, LadyTerri, Phil and the kids?"
"It sounds expensive," replies McKracken. "Plus you still have to worry about other dangers. You know, earthquakes and so forth."
"Okay," I concede sullenly. "How about if we airlift our house out into the middle of the Pacific where no earthquake -or organized bloggers- could possibly reach us?"
"Well," sighs McKracken. "You would still have hurricanes, tidal waves-"
"An orbiting satellite?"
"Asteroids, meteors, gamma rays-"
"Polar research station?"
"Polar bears, hypothermia-"
"Undersea research vessel?"
"Crushing depth pressure, monkfish, killer whales-"
"Goddamn it McKracken!" I whirl. "I'm completely fed up with your lousy excuses!"
"Hell," says McKracken. "I haven't even started with microorganisms, disease, deadly bacteria-"
"So what you're essentially telling me," I says. "Is that you are completely unable to provide me with any 'security' whatsoever."
McKracken fidgets nervously.
"Well that settles it," I says. Nodding in comprehension, I head for the door. "McKracken, you're fired!"
The door slams.
"Is he gone?" says a voice in the closet.
McKracken breathes a sigh of relief. "Oh thank God yes sir. He's gone."
A shadowy figure emerges. "You have done well."
"It was my pleasure sir. If I got another blood-curdling scream on my home phone at 2:00am, my wife was going to leave me."
The figure throws a small package on the desk.
"A bonus," he says ominously.
"A copy of Tinsel of Doom? Sir, you are too kind!"
"Just be sure that security system is offline today," says the figure. "I just can't take anymore Bee Gees music."
McKracken has deleted all of My Interesting Files.
[LOBO]
As I entered the spacious office, McKracken rose from his chair."It's a pleasure to see you again sir," he said shaking my hand over the desk.
Trying not to wince visibly under his vice-like grip I reply, "I wish I could say the same."
"The Anti-Brent Diggs security grid we designed isn't working?"
"No it's fine," I says. "To my knowledge, Brent hasn't been within a hundred miles of my place."
"How about the bathtub shark cage?"
"That's fine too."
"I hope you've taken my advice and stopped reading Don Lewis' fear-mongering."
"That guy is a menace and must be stopped."
McKracken gestures to a seat in front of his desk, and eyes me carefully as he sits. "I take it you have further need for our security services."
"And how," I says. Pulling a folded piece of paper from my lapel, I toss it in front of him. "Everywhere I've surfed the Internet lately, I see things like this."
"These sick bastards," I explain, "are tryin to squish the Earth into a weird heart shape!" I punch my finger into the image loudly. "This would almost certainly screw up our orbit around the Sun."
"I think," says McKracken, "this is just an effort to organize awareness for human rights."
"The right to squish the Earth?" I guffaw. "I need the Earth. All my stuff is there. And just look at Canada!"
"No," McKracken says patiently. "I mean the heart-shaped Earth is like a metaphor. As if to say 'the world should be more sensitive'. They aren't really trying to squish it."
"I'm not buying that," I says. "And frankly the last thing I need are bloggers 'uniting'. How long until one of them figures out that they can eliminate the best blog in the universe -Predator Press- by the simple act of sticking a shiv in the back of my neck while I'm mowing the lawn?"
"I've seen your yard," says McKracken. "I wouldn't classify that as a serious threat."
"I think we need to start discussing my options."
"Like what?"
I stand and walk to the window, thinking. "How about a giant vacuum that will suck everyone off of the face of the Earth except me, LadyTerri, Phil and the kids?"
"It sounds expensive," replies McKracken. "Plus you still have to worry about other dangers. You know, earthquakes and so forth."
"Okay," I concede sullenly. "How about if we airlift our house out into the middle of the Pacific where no earthquake -or organized bloggers- could possibly reach us?"
"Well," sighs McKracken. "You would still have hurricanes, tidal waves-"
"An orbiting satellite?"
"Asteroids, meteors, gamma rays-"
"Polar research station?"
"Polar bears, hypothermia-"
"Undersea research vessel?"
"Crushing depth pressure, monkfish, killer whales-""Goddamn it McKracken!" I whirl. "I'm completely fed up with your lousy excuses!"
"Hell," says McKracken. "I haven't even started with microorganisms, disease, deadly bacteria-"
"So what you're essentially telling me," I says. "Is that you are completely unable to provide me with any 'security' whatsoever."
McKracken fidgets nervously.
"Well that settles it," I says. Nodding in comprehension, I head for the door. "McKracken, you're fired!"
The door slams.
"Is he gone?" says a voice in the closet.
McKracken breathes a sigh of relief. "Oh thank God yes sir. He's gone."
A shadowy figure emerges. "You have done well."
"It was my pleasure sir. If I got another blood-curdling scream on my home phone at 2:00am, my wife was going to leave me."
The figure throws a small package on the desk.
"A bonus," he says ominously.
"A copy of Tinsel of Doom? Sir, you are too kind!"
"Just be sure that security system is offline today," says the figure. "I just can't take anymore Bee Gees music."
Tuesday
Guns and Drugs
Predator Press
[LOBO]
As a good rule of thumb, if I'm not writing frequently I'm either:
a) sick as a dog
b) sick as a dog, or
c) sick as a dog.
Sure there's always the occasional rare exceptions -such as my amazing pro football career, the grueling astronaut training or the occasional zombie uprising- but in this case, it was mostly "B" with a little dash of "C".
So I spent most of the time staring slackjawed at the pretty colors changing on television. And completely at LadyTerri's mercy, I got a crash course in about 30 years of horror movies.
Gems like The Texas Chainsaw Massacre, Silence of the Lambs, and The Ring worked my addled psyche. Even my muddled dreams were terrifying: one in particular -about some crazy planet where people talked funny and hats were mandatory- had me so upset even LadyTerri's gradually increasing talent for dosing me with sedatives via dart gun failed.
But we cannot fault LadyTerri's mournfully terrible aim in this particular case entirely; my fevered horror was magnified exponentially by superhuman quantities of erythromycin, Alka-Seltzer, Nyquil, Contac, and the blood of a homeless wretch I felt helplessly impelled to bite repeatedly ... and were all followed by a nice fat codeine chaser.
I stole the car, locked the doors, and made for my escape laughing in triumph while slamming through the garage door at six miles per hour.
"Left!" I cried. "Left! We are almost free. Left damn you!"
Alas, my victory was to be short-lived: while my neighbor's vast and well-manicured LAWN OF FREEDOM lie merely inches ahead, I was halted abruptly and soundly by a cleverly-placed insurmountable six-inch curb.The car's alarm went off.
And there was blackness.
The cop banged on the window with his flashlight.
"Sir," he said. "Please step out of the car."
"No!" I says, cracking the window slightly. I motion him closer to the door and put my lips to the gap whispering, "There's crazy people out there!"
"Sir," says the cop with vague disinterest. "If you don't come out, I'm going to have to break the window."
It was then I spotted his gun.
"WOW!" I says. "That's cool. Can I have one of those?"
"Well, probably yes thanks to the Republicans."
"What do I have to do?"
"Well first you have to get a FOID card."
"Do you have an extra one?"
"No. You have to apply for one."
"How long does that take?"
"About three days," he says. "Now-"
"And then I can shoot people?"
"No sir," he says.
"Well how long do I have to wait to do that?"
"Sir," he says exasperated. Winding back with the large flashlight, he prepares to break the window. "Please just open the door."
"Officer!" interrupts LadyTerri. "I have an extra key."
"Honey," I says. "I know it's hard to believe this right now, but I'm doing this for our own good. In fact, I'm doin' this for America. I'm doing this for Liberty. I'm doing this for Freedom!"I punch the gas on the car.
"Ma'am," says the cop. "I don't think he realizes the car isn't running."
Thinking quickly, LadyTerri pretends she's jogging next to the car. Driving furiously, I suddenly notice her pulling up beside me.
"Jesus you run fast!" I smile. "By any chance, can you steer left?"
"Baby," she says. "Don't leave me without giving me a goodbye kiss!"
I roll down the window, pucker up and lean over.
... The dart caught me right in the neck.
correctly spelling "The Cult of Qelqoth".
Saturday
Wide Open Spaces
Predator Press
[LOBO]
After returning the big sack of *plasma* television that never worked to Best Buy, the living room was in nightmarish disarray; I decided I needed to make it up to LadyTerri by replacing our woefully dated light switch panels.
... Now I'm considering adding on an extra bedroom.
The people that built our house were contracted by Lord Likely.
[LOBO]
After returning the big sack of *plasma* television that never worked to Best Buy, the living room was in nightmarish disarray; I decided I needed to make it up to LadyTerri by replacing our woefully dated light switch panels.... Now I'm considering adding on an extra bedroom.
Friday
Idle Hands
Predator Press
[LOBO]
While trying to install my new *plasma* television, I was pleased to find I own a tool.
A tool commonly referred to as a “screwdriver”.
This "tool" -which I had previously mistaken for one of mom's fancy cooking utensils- is a steel rod with a four-sided pointed tip used to drive screws ... hence it’s designation: a flathead screwdriver.
Used properly, this item can be held by the silvery thin part and used to bash the screws in with the wider end, also known as the handle.
But this television is a piece of crap.
The picture ain't so good, but
Station Atomica comes in crystal clear.
[LOBO]
While trying to install my new *plasma* television, I was pleased to find I own a tool.A tool commonly referred to as a “screwdriver”.
This "tool" -which I had previously mistaken for one of mom's fancy cooking utensils- is a steel rod with a four-sided pointed tip used to drive screws ... hence it’s designation: a flathead screwdriver.
Used properly, this item can be held by the silvery thin part and used to bash the screws in with the wider end, also known as the handle.
But this television is a piece of crap.
Station Atomica comes in crystal clear.
Thursday
Heavy Metal
Predator Press
[LOBO]
LOBOnian Rule of Law dictates that if mom cooks the dinner, someone else must wash the dishes.
And that’s all well and good, but “someone else”, upon occasion, ends up me.
Now how is this fair? When I cook, there’s two dishes: the macaroni and cheese pot, and the big spoon I use to launch “doses” at the kids. Sure there’s some paper towel follow-up on the wallpaper and linoleum ... but if you do it within 48 hours, all that comes off pretty easy.
But with her dishes, I’m scrubbing, arc welding, and calling in diesel-fueled construction and mining equipment ... scientists, physicists, geologists and chemists gotta get involved.
Jesus Christ woman, what the hell did you cook? I make cold cereal, and you are smelting battleships!?
It’s not fair.
Let's just buy new dishes.
My legal disputes are all handled by Julius Bloop.
[LOBO]LOBOnian Rule of Law dictates that if mom cooks the dinner, someone else must wash the dishes.
And that’s all well and good, but “someone else”, upon occasion, ends up me.
Now how is this fair? When I cook, there’s two dishes: the macaroni and cheese pot, and the big spoon I use to launch “doses” at the kids. Sure there’s some paper towel follow-up on the wallpaper and linoleum ... but if you do it within 48 hours, all that comes off pretty easy.
But with her dishes, I’m scrubbing, arc welding, and calling in diesel-fueled construction and mining equipment ... scientists, physicists, geologists and chemists gotta get involved.
Jesus Christ woman, what the hell did you cook? I make cold cereal, and you are smelting battleships!?
It’s not fair.
Let's just buy new dishes.
Wednesday
TV Dinners
Predator Press
[LOBO]
I don't watch "Survivorman", so I didn't immediately recognize Les Stroud and his Science Channel camera crew.
Unbathed and naked -save for makeshift shoes made from palm fronds and duct tape- he started a fire blindfolded with wet sticks one-handed to boil the leeches he caught. Then, he stuffed six big red hot rocks up his arse to prevent toxic fluid loss from bloody diarrhea.
I don't know how long they were actually waiting in the drive-thru, but I sure hope that McDonalds gets it's act together.
Tuesday
Wizard of Wor
Predator Press [LOBO]
I should probably preface this with the fact that I'm sick.
And before your mouse pointer goes soaring down to the "comments" thingy with your "I know!"s and "And how!"s, I don't mean that kind of sick. I mean like hay fever. 102 temperature. My skull feels like someone dropped a searing hot bowling ball in it, bolted it back shut, and then kicked it a few times to evenly swirl it all together.
I feel like crap. And not the good kind of crap -you know, the kind of crap that's all dolled up with crap sauce and a little sprig of crappy parsley? I mean crap crap. The Chinese food of crap: the crap that gets served in an unostentatious, blasé little cardboard box with sticks crap.
And on top of it all, Doctor Nyarlathotep took me out of service for the rest of the week.
I'm slightly irritable.
Remember when we were kids and the doctor took us out of school for a week? That meant an indefinite period of unlimited sleep, meals in bed, and unimaginable new high scores on Yar's Revenge and Galaga. Even the totally useless gesture of blowing into the cassette and jamming it roughly into the console to make it work provided a giddy sense of delightful anxiety.But even the most rudimental of my motor skills seem fried. While sitting upright, I'm barely able to loll my exceedingly-heavy and Alka-Seltzer muddled braincase in any particular direction whatsoever, let alone seek amusement of any complexity.
Crap.
So now that the Universe has failed to amuse me even at the simplest and most fundamental level, I've moodily escalated from merely "irritable" to full-scale, "I want everybody dead! Now!"
I'm exaggerating of course. I don't want LadyTerri and the kids dead. And certainly not you.
Just mostly everybody else.
Mostly.
But alas, I'm helplessly daydreaming about all the stuff at my job that isn't getting done. And while the house is certainly loaded with the kids' modern and clearly superior video games I've never even tried, I'm distantly surfing the news through glazed eyes only halfway grasping daily new tragedy.
I don't 'idle' well. I am utterly unable to 'shut down'; my addled mind works in fits and starts ... like something will go terribly wrong if my attention lapses. So inevitably, I drift back to my word processor with nothing in mind whatsoever.
And this post manifests.
Curious.
I remember seemingly ages and eons of 'writer's block' ... and now it seems even my my own polluted biology can't shut me up.
So what is this 'writer's block' thing all about? It absolutely cripples young authors.
And why do I seem now so impervious?
As I've mentioned, my college English teacher singled me out in front of the class and read one of my badly-butchered paragraphs aloud. She underlined with great conviction how much she "resented having to deal with remedial students here at the college level".
That was a gift ... for as fate would play out, it is exactly this adversity that drives my pen today. Her venom made writing a simultaneously sweet and violently savage, selfish release.
Admittedly, writing is now my addiction.
My justice.
My revenge.
I don't need to be considered a good writer, and I enjoy every letter I type thanks to her.
From Hell's heart, I stab at thee.
If you would further indulge me a piece of advice for the aspiring new writer suffering from this 'writer's block' bullshit, I would grab them by the ears and scream, "It's all in your head dammit! You have plenty to say, just maybe not for this jaggoff critic you are trying to please! Now you fucking tell me!"People like that "teacher" can be sadly conventional, stale, and frankly unforgivable murderers if you let them.
Sure, there's a lot to be said for the disciplines that formal training can give you. But you have to remember that there's a danger there: these people often want like-minded cookie cutter clones for "authors" ... an elite group of pompous asses whose opinions unilaterally agree on what is "art" and what is not.
I say screw that. Stop worrying about semicolons and proper deployment of your apostrophes. Find the 'voice' that communicates your thought; in time the rest will fall into place on it's own.
And speaking of 'thought', guard yours carefully. Test it frequently. Be open to potentially being wrong, and don't fault yourself too harshly when you are. I mean look at what you are up against for God's sake ... every news headline I've seen over the past few days isn't about the Myanmar disaster; it's about our irrelevant new election fodder -despite the fact that your local City Council Members and dog catchers have done more for your individual communities than these people ever could or would.
Want something "significant"?
Skip to page six.
Sunday
Corn Hole
Predator Press
[LOBO]
The long and winding hitchhike home from Hollywood to beloved Pianosa has really inhibited my ability to blog.
For instance, last week a famous Disney entertainer created huge controversy when risqué, sexually charge photographs of her were released in spite of her widely-adolescent target audience.
I only caught the tail end of the story on the radio, but I immediately knew who the story was about ... and all I can say is it's about time that filthy whore was exposed for the tramp she really is.
I'm staring out the window, slackjawed at Kansas.
Utterly revolted.
What is with all these farms?
For the woeful few of you that haven't been reading Predator Press since inception, you should know that I regard the 'American Farmer' as the most lazy, worthless, ignoble and unpatriotic occupation known to humankind: all they do is hog immense amounts of land, obstruct much-needed superhighways and airports, provide an occasional vehicle for Pauly Shore movies, and grow the most gruesome looking flowers I've ever seen.
One merely has to glance at a "farm" in America to witness hideous evil and atrocity. I mean how much inbreeding has to take place before you get a dog that looks like this monstrosity?
Unspeakable perverted acts are being committed on millions of cows by farmers even as I write this.
Unlike It's a Funny Thing's author Don Lewis, I regard farming as an abomination: I buy my food straight from the grocery store exactly as God intended.
Crops grow better after a healthy dose of PULSAR FUSION.
[LOBO]
The long and winding hitchhike home from Hollywood to beloved Pianosa has really inhibited my ability to blog.For instance, last week a famous Disney entertainer created huge controversy when risqué, sexually charge photographs of her were released in spite of her widely-adolescent target audience.
I only caught the tail end of the story on the radio, but I immediately knew who the story was about ... and all I can say is it's about time that filthy whore was exposed for the tramp she really is.I'm staring out the window, slackjawed at Kansas.
Utterly revolted.
What is with all these farms?
For the woeful few of you that haven't been reading Predator Press since inception, you should know that I regard the 'American Farmer' as the most lazy, worthless, ignoble and unpatriotic occupation known to humankind: all they do is hog immense amounts of land, obstruct much-needed superhighways and airports, provide an occasional vehicle for Pauly Shore movies, and grow the most gruesome looking flowers I've ever seen.
One merely has to glance at a "farm" in America to witness hideous evil and atrocity. I mean how much inbreeding has to take place before you get a dog that looks like this monstrosity?Unspeakable perverted acts are being committed on millions of cows by farmers even as I write this.
Unlike It's a Funny Thing's author Don Lewis, I regard farming as an abomination: I buy my food straight from the grocery store exactly as God intended.
Next Year in Review
Predator Press
[LOBO]
In 2010, Flowbee will introduce three new
settings: Lesbian, Butch, and Semper Fi.
You can never have a bad hair day at the Redneck Bar and Grill.
[LOBO]
settings: Lesbian, Butch, and Semper Fi.
Thursday
Shenanigans
Predator Press
[LOBO]
It can't be true.
It just can't.
... It's been almost two weeks since I've tried to infuriate It's a Funny Thing's brilliant author Don Lewis!
Long ago, I concluded that the internet is utterly useless aside from infuriating Don Lewis.
I've sought high and low for some decent SEOs so my search engines are optimized.
And how I yearn for the remotest hope of penis enlargement.
Please don't get me started on the futility of finding porn.
Will no one reveal to me the secrets of Internet Marketing or Making Money Online?
Doesn't anyone accept VISA Platinum anymore?
[*sigh*]
All there is is Don.
Don Lewis.
Even as I type this, the sole recipient of the Predator Press Temporary Lifetime Achievement Award is probably all tucked in, sleeping soundly, and thinking of genuinely funny and unique crap ... crap that will doubtlessly distract countless blog readers from the wholesome Wisdom, Purity, Hope and Truth which Predator Press strives only to promote.Well, I won't stand for it.
Not for a second.
Not even for a nanosecond.
In a fit of jealousy, I'm stripping Don of his monopoly on the coveted and highly sought-after honor that I will one day actually create: the Predator Press Lifetime Achievement Award.
Today, the subtle and unobtrusive Predator Press Temporary Lifetime Achievement Award -currently recognized as the Good Housekeeping Seal of Approval- is being bestowed upon the following blogs as well:
.45 Caliber Headspace
Angry Seafood
Average Dudes
Bee's Musings
Blogs We Luv
DEAD ROOSTER
ettarose-edgeofsanity
From the Roads
LadyTerri
Lord Likely
My Interesting Files
neOnbubble
OMYWORD!
Speedcat Hollydale
The Cult of Qelqoth
The Offended Blogger
The Ominous Comma
The Skwib
When Things Get Dark
-:¦:-•:*'""* -:¦:- NICE -:¦:- WORK -:¦:- *'""*:•.-:¦:-
Now "Don Lewis" -if in fact that is your real name- every time you surf the funniest sites on the internet, you will see your own award prominently displayed smack on every one of them!
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