Predator Press and the Piano of the Frog

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Navigation through the indigenous wildlife was slow at best.

Especially when my guide Statico keeps stopping for every little piece of trash.

“Doritos. Still fresh ... three days. They're following us I tell you.”

“If they knew we were here, they would have killed us already,” I says continuing on. “And put those down. Those are stale. You’ll get sick.”

I cock my head slightly, and hear the sound of mushy chewing. Spinning around with the speed of a cat, I knock the Doritos from his hand with a deadly accurate crack!

“Ouch, you bastard!” cries Statico. “Why are you carrying that extension cord anyway?”

“It’s probably dark in there,” I shrug.

“It’s Starbucks.”

“I don’t take chances.”

We advance to the counter, and I scowl at the overhead menu. “I would like a Double Mocha Mocha Cappa Grande el Pueblo Colorado.”

“Coming right up,” says the lady.

“Say, aren’t you Karen Allen?”

“Yes.”

“Karen, have you seen this piano?” I inquire, flipping a picture from my lapel on the counter.

Karen gasps. “It is the Piano of the Frog!”

“Ah-ha!” chuckles Statico while seizing the picture.

“Statico, no!” I warn.

But Statico does not listen; instead he bolts for the exit.

Thinking quickly, I leap behind the counter. “Excuse me miss,” I says tipping my foil fedora. Running into the back kitchen, I press the button to the elevator and descend into the basement where I trip the fuse box.

“Arggh!” cries Statico as the electric doors slide closed on him.

“Give up, Statico!” I demand.

“Give me the extension cord!” he howls painfully.

“No dice, Statico.”

“No time to argue, señor. You throw me the extension cord, I give you the picture.”

Reluctantly, I throw him the cord.

“Haha!” says Statico. “Fooled you! Now I have the picture and the extension cord!”

“Dammit!” I complain. “Why do I always fall for that?”

Grinning wildly, he fumbles to plug in the doors.

“Don’t do it, Statico!”

Suddenly the doors powered up and slammed shut, severing Statico clean in twain.

That’s the third guide I’ve lost this week like that.

“I know something that can help you,” says Karen Allen.

“If it’s Lithium-“

“No. It’s an ancient relic that will aide your quest.”

“Cool. Where is it?”

“It’s in the walk-in refrigerator.”


***

I pull open the large steel door, and sure enough, there it was.

I whistle. “Wow. That’s the Fugue of the Frogster.”

“Yes.”

“Well what am I supposed to do with that?”

“If you play the notes, it will open the gates on your quest.”

“You mean like in that movie The Goonies?”

“I was 34 when that movie came out.”

“You’re never too old for The Goonies. Now go get my damn Double Mocha Mocha Cappa Grande el Camino while I steal this here Foogie thing.”

“But you said you wanted a Double Mocha Mocha Cappa Grande el Pueblo Colorado.”

“Don’t argue with me. I’m a scientist or something.”

Wiggling my fingers, I crouch in front of the sheet music and ever so slowly prepare to snatch it.

Careful, I’m thinking. Easy does it ...

“Here’s your coffee,” says Karen.

“Jesus!” I shriek. “You scared the daylights out of me!”

“Sorry,” she says blandly. “But you don’t really want to take the music like that.”

“Why not?” I reply eyeing my coffee suspiciously.

“It is hooked up to a counterweight, and will trigger a deadly trap.”

“You know,” I says. “I’m not going to tip you when you skimp on the Mocha like this-“

“You need to replace the item with something that weighs about the same thing.”

“Like my gun?

"That'll work.

"Okay.”

“Why do you keep your gun in a little brown sack?”

“Look sister. If you want to spend eight hours in Photoshop doctoring pictures for this post, knock yourself out.”

“Be sure you replace the Fugue with the gun smoothly. If you jostle the podium even the slightest bit you will trigger the trap.”

“Yeah. Okay. Lemme finish my coffee first.”

Karen rolls her eyes. “You know, screw this. You’re going to get us killed. How about if I do it?”

“Look, I already put my gun in the sack. There’s no turning back now.”

“Maybe you could tie your extension cord to it, and pull the sheet music off from a distance.”

“Huh,” I says impressed. “That would be cool. We could get the music, and watch this place crumble to burning rubble. But Statico got my cord all knotted. Here. Hold this end while I untangle it.”

Moments later, we were helplessly bound back-to-back to a support beam.

“You dumbass! Karen shrieked.

“Hey, I warned you not to step into the clove hitch.”

“Now what do we do?”

“I say we just try and whistle the music. If LadyTerri catches me tied to Karen Allen in a Starbucks uniform, we’re both dead anyways. But in the meantime, I want you to have my sunglasses and fedora. She may be really far away and using a high-powered rifle.”

Sure enough, five notes into the song, there was a low rumbling sound. And suddenly the back wall of the walk-in refrigerator slid away, revealing the stage of a vast concert auditorium.

On that stage was a Grand piano.

And somehow, intuitively, knew it was the piano.

“Oh my god!” cried Karen. “The lid is open. Don’t look inside!”

“Too late!” I scream.


***

Thud!

“Ouch!”

Fully awake, I sit up rubbing my sore bicep confusedly.

LadyTerri is glowering.

“What was that for?” I pout.

“Maybe you should explain,” she asks in an acidic tone, “exactly what you were doing at a Starbucks without me.”

Predator Press Interviews: Bloggers of Note

Predator Press

[LOBO]

It grows increasingly difficult to write when my subconscious is beleaguered by strange disappearances around the 'Blogosphere' ... and as I arrived at my Angry Seafood Interview, it occurred to me that perhaps I was closer to solving the mystery than I initially thought.

Convinced I had stumbled upon what might be the key to unravel this puzzle, I employed the full might of my radiant braniosity:

Clue 1: Consider the name of the blog. "Angry" is the very first word, and followed closely by "Seafood", a food obtained from the sea -hence it's name.

Clue 2: People have disappeared at sea before. In fact, I'm almost certain of it. I read it in a book somewhere.

Could "Angry Seafood" be taunting us with the whereabouts of our wayward blog colleagues? And -infinitely more important- might I be walking right into a trap?

Clue 3: The vanishing of "The Frogster", who allegedly abandoned his brilliant and lucrative rockstar-type lifestyle of blogging in favor of playing piano. I never believed that for a second. Just try to imagine yourself laying on a pile of cash sandwiched between six or seven exhausted coeds and just deciding "You know, I think I want to give this all up to play the saxophone."

Oh no. That's just not rational.

Something was up, and I strongly suspected Angry Seafood was behind it.

I think the Frogster was trying to tell us something, and finding that piano might be crucial.

But throughout the course of the interview, I saw no piano.

... I brought my baseball bat for nothing.


***

The complete absence of any piano whatsoever did not surprise me; surely upon hearing of my visit, the entire Angry Seafood compound was cleared of any scrap of evidence.

I saw nothing suspicious at all: a clear indication that every last precaution had been taken, and that Angry Seafood was guilty as all hell.

Still, due to sheer size, the vast Angry Seafood lair had lapses in security. I found numerous opportunities to snoop unobserved.

While hoping to Find Boddie in one of the turrets, I found a leftover interview question by Don Lewis:

AS: Which politician would be the funniest drunk and why?

DL: Practically any of them. I mean, why would I want to watch those guys while I'm sober?

Oh...wait a minute... Did I misunderstand the question?

AS: And what should we do about stupid people?

DL: Continue sending them to Washington. At least that way they're not here trying to play footsy with me from the next stall. I'd prefer sending them abroad, but as we recently saw with Martha Stewart, the Brits are wising up.

The Angry Seafood Psychiatric Ward had only one occupant. He claimed to be the High Priest of the Cult of Qelqoth:

AS: Why can’t you drink the water in Mexico?

CQ: Unfortunately, I live in the United Kingdom and as such, I have limited access to Mexican water supplies. However, my friend Pedro often comes back from his holidays with Peyote cacti. To date, I've had no significant problems with either the water absorbed by this plant or the total mind fucks that occur as a result of eating it.

When I woke, my glow sticks were lifeless green shells -mere memories of what they once were; I could never find the Domestic Minx with them. But the The Offended Blogger graciously answered the next question on my list:

AS: Why can't you drink the water in Mexico?

OB: Because if I did, that would mean that I ran off with Jesus -my taco truck guy- down to Mexico again. And my husband already warned me that if that happened one more time he would cut off my allowance!!

The disappearance of the ditch digger in the Atrium produced a dialogue with Diesel:

AS: Someone makes the discovery that semen can be used as an alternative fuel source. Good or bad for the porn industry?

RK: I dunno, but it gives a whole new meaning to the term "gas guzzler."

AS: And what should we do about stupid people?

RK: Huh?

And while checking the Medical Center for signs of Dr. Toboggans, I found a rather enigmatic quotation from the Brent Diggs that gave me pause:

AS: If you could create your own court procedural drama what would it focus on?

BD: In the not-too-distant future, Earth is taken over by alien invaders. These large lobster-like conquerors bring a golden era of peace to ourworld as they ban war, pollution, and the seafood industry. The defunct American court system is overhauled, with legal decisions no longer being settled by lawyers and judges but by ceremonial alien arm-wrestlers. The show: Claw and Order


I'm not sure what this all adds up to.

-but I'm going to find that damned piano someday.


(All unposted interview "Q & A" are published in "comments")


-:¦:-•:*'""* -:¦:- THANK -:¦:- YOU -:¦:- *'""*:•.-:¦:-

:)

Sunday Bloody Sunday

Predator Press

[LOBO]

The two mighty titans circle each other, ever wary.

Cautious.

Graceful even.

Both await the tiniest slip from the other -a telltale twitch of a muscle; a miniscule flaw in the armor. A wrong step. A fatal zig instead of a devastating, punishing zag.

In Blue, the thundering powerhouse, harvester of countless empire-shattering defeats.

In Red, the promising newcomer, possessing brutal, blistering speed and the ruthless zeal of a young passionate heart.

The match had started sportingly enough; introductions were short but potent, and then the lockstep dance of death began. Red began with an explosive, crowd-charging battery of iron-fisted mayhem. But Blue, experienced and wiser, saw his opening and before long Red was pressed against the plastic ropes, hands covering his head from the thunderous blows. Red's face, the wholly unrealistic hard, warrior-like face manufactured by a cash-laden bloodthirsty audience, was crushed under the sheer weight of God's own Doomsday Weapon.

But just when it appeared to be the upset of the century, when all was thought lost, the impossible happened.

Red rushed up with a colossal roar. A battered, defeated, desperate roar. And he connected with Blue's chin with an uppercut that defied mortal explanation. The oxygen was ferociously sucked out of the room, and for one magnificent and terrible moment in time you could hear nothing but the audience wheezing for a breath.

Blue's head launched upwards, neck and vertebrae exposed -an instant kill-shot.

Morbidly, Blue does not fall; spinal column severed, his head now dangled dead over Red forever frozen in that dedicated, maniacal gaze as the soul departed that now vacant shell.

Well, I screamed like a little girl.

When I awoke in the hospital, the doctors tried to explain everything away the way doctors do: I had gone into shock, evidently from witnessing some terribly traumatic event.

Blah blah.

Listen you! You think rap music influences kids violently? Try Rock 'em Sock 'em Robots, a cutesy little toy put out by the evil non-lawsuit-settling empire Mattel.

My team of therapists all think I would "fit in" better if I told this story like I was really freaked out about the safety of the toy. You know, like it was over the little blue guy's head coming off and poking someone in the eye. But that's a good point too! Blue's head shoots off, stabbing little Little Sally right in the eye. Blinded, lil Sally stumbles into traffic, causing a bicyclist to spin out of control and crash into a truckload of chickens and burst into flames as he jackknifes it into a Kraft truck. Pandemonium and chicken parmesan everywhere, a giant, fiery morsel of cholesterol-laden death smashes into a highway support beam under a busload of girl scouts, dolphins and puppies.

My God man! Think of the puppies!

Rock 'em Sock 'em Robots is an abomination to humankind: an elaborate plan for corporate types to hawk plastic crack to our nation's youth while giving odds at off-track online betting facilities. Kids are losing their Crayolas while THE MAN eats veal and charred, blackened husks of girl scouts, dolphins and adolescent Golden Retrievers.

Those ghouls at Mattel dream of nothing except rendering our beautiful blue-green planet into a gray and lifeless shell drifting aimlessly into the godless void ... a soulless abyss where interest rates are somehow relevant and lil Sally cannot possibly get a scholarship anywhere.

Mattel, purveyor of wanton, savage violence, rake in all that Christmas cash while you can.

... because I'm watching you.

Mark A. Rayner Made Me Read Stuff

Predator Press

[LOBO]

This represents the first "meme" I've ever done.

The 123 Meme seemed pretty easy as I happened to be in the middle of The Poor Man's James Bond*.

From page 123, the 5th line is: "Pull the slide to the rear and release it, screw down the Selector Stud until the Secondary Sear is disengaged and the hammer falls, at this point the weapon is on AUTOMATIC."

... you have to read it sideways because of the diagram.

* Spoiler alert: It's a great read, but I'm starting to suspect James Bond neither wrote or appears in it.

So yeah, The Skwib is to blame for the following:


IF YOU ARE READING THIS, YOU ARE MEMED.

OR "MAMED".

WHATEVER.

The rules are as follows:

1) Take a picture of your bare left foot with your cellphone.

2) Send it to the 6th person in your contact list, and then immediately call and ask in a sultry, breathy voice "what they think".

3) Once the Restraining Order is received, add the number of letters in the full name of the judge that signed it and publish the corresponding sentence on your blog with a) the pic, b) the phone number of that #6 litigious prick that totally screwed you by making you a Registered Sex Offender, c) these rules, and d) a link back here.

The first person to successfully fulfill all the above criteria will win the highly-coveted original masterpiece I commissioned to scan in and use as my icon, in the most expensive frame I can find at the Dollar Store.




Good luck to all.

Catch

Predator Press

[LOBO]

One of the most fascinating and perplexing bonds one can ever have is the one with your children.

You love and nurture them, clothe and feed them, teach them everything you know … all in preparation for the day when they will rise up to slay you, and thus rightfully assume the mantle of your vast and mighty empire.

And on this Father's Day of 2008, I was virtually certain my number was up.

I had no regrets ... it is the natural order of things. One day I’ll hear “catch!”, and one of my progeny will hurl a rounded white plastic explosive stuffed with lethal wire and molten rubber for shrapnel –all stitched together with a det cord primer.

It might be a baseball, but I don’t take any chances.

-They are my brood after all.

But LadyTerri and the would-be heirs opted for a rather strange way to commence with the Father’s Day ceremonial rite of passage. None of my entrails were spilled to be danced upon. In fact, to my knowledge it was virtually patricide free.

Since there was no point in pensively waiting for my iPod Touch (as there is no mail delivery on Sunday) we took the really small and loud one to see “Kung Fu Panda” which was unexpectedly great.

Here’s where the teenager blew it: while I was riveted to what will undoubtedly be regarded as the most important motion picture ever made by humankind ever, he could have crept up on me unawares in the darkness and beat me to death with cinderblocks and pointy sticks.

Nothing.

Later that day I found a used copy of The Best of Phillip K. Dick for $8 on Amazon.com and ordered it. But do you think the credit card was coated with deadly neurotoxins?

Zip.

… At this point, I started to doubt my lazy worthless kids were even trying.

The evening culminated into grilled grub and brews while watching a rather exciting Lakers/Celtics Finals game, and the short, loud one has been shooting me evil looks since he can’t play Lego Star Wars while the game is on.

Here we go, I figured. He'll climb up on a small stack of phone books behind the recliner, wrap the controller cable around my neck and swing straight into Destiny ...

... But to my shock and disappointment he started coloring quietly at the kitchen table.

I even tried to make it easy for them by conspicuously removing my bulletproof vest numerous times.

Still the night wore on without a single shot fired.

I cannot fault them, I decide. Perhaps they are simply not yet ready to seize the reins of my sprawling rule. They require more preparation, and it is my sacred duty to provide that until they are.

It was at that exact moment that I was brought a huge bowl of one of my favorite foods: Jalapeno poppers.

So this is the plan, I thought. Slowly poisoning me with a huge heaping deep-fried pile of cholesterol-laden death so my little black heart grinds to a standstill!

Wolfing them down hungrily, I eye them with glowing pride as a single tear rolls down my cheek.

They grow up so fast.

[*sniff*]

Alltop Badge Contest

Predator Press

[LOBO]


After tooling around all day in the Predator Press corporate jet, I could tell there was something on Guy Kawasaki's mind ... but it wasn't until we touched down on a remote and dusty road in South Africa when he finally breached the subject.

"See?" I observed. "I told you they would have a Starbucks."

"LOBO," says Guy. "You should totally enter my Alltop Badge Contest. You could win an iPod Touch."

"But Guy," I says. "The last thing in the world I need is another device I couldn't possibly comprehend. Besides, all the other bloggers would just give up if they find out I'm entering. And then we both gotta field those boo-hoo emails, 'LOBO is too good,' and 'Phooey! No fair'. It's just depressing."

"Be careful," says guy. "Don't step on that pile of poisonous asps."

"Thanks!" I says. "Man I woulda walked right into that."

Guy signals the kid in the green apron, and he approaches the counter.

"I would like a Double Grande Mocha-Mocha-"

[I don't really know how to spell it, but Guy goes into a series of words that sound suspiciously like dolphin squeaks and clicks]

"Make that two," I says.

"Emails, shmemails," counters Guy. "Alltop is the 'Best of the Best'. I expect nothing more than the highest caliber of competition."

"Can I rip off one of Don Lewis' images?"

"Knock yourself out."

Hmmmmm ...

The Ark of the Convenient

Predator Press

[LOBO]

"LOBO," says God.

"What?"

"Have you had enough punishment yet?"

"Excuse me?"

"The flooding."

"You mean the flooding in Iowa? I don't live there."

"Well where do you live?"

"Illinois."

[muffled Holy Whispering]

"Which part?" God asks.

"Pianosa. Why?"

"Where the hell is Pianosa?"

"Chicago could throw rocks at us."

"So if, say, a natural disaster hit Chicago, odds are it would take you out too?"

"Probably."

"About how far east would that be from Grand Rapids?"

"I dunno," I shrug. "200 miles maybe."

"Ever built a boat before?"

"Nope. Why?"

[muffled Holy Giggling]

"Oh, uh, just checking."


***



LadyTerri was surprisingly incredulous.

"So God told you to build an ark?"

"No,” I says, carefully putting up my tools. “God specifically did not tell me to build an ark. But that's God's M.O.; the second he doesn't tell you to build an ark, the next thing you know you're a barnacle on Davy Jones’ butt.”

“Why would God flood the Earth again now?”

“I’m guessing maybe American Idol.”

“Where is it?”

“It’s right here,” I says. “Behold!”

I pull the sheets clear.

“I call her the Royal Magellan.”

“Honey,” says LadyTerri. “I don’t think that’s going to save us from a Biblical flood.”

“What do you mean?” I scowl. “I mean sure it might be off by a cubit or two. But there’s plenty of room for you, me and the cat.”

“What about the kids?”

“Why do you think I spent so much money on those swimming lessons?”

Predator Press Interviews: Ethan

Predator Press

[LOBO]

"Hey Ethan, do you want to be interviewed on Predator Press?"

"Are you still jealous that Don Lewis got interviewed on Angry Seafood?"

"I am definitely not jealous," I point out. "I'm merely suffering from the perception that attention or appreciation I deserve has been diverted to someone else."

"Like Don Lewis."

"Why would I care if Don Lewis got interviewed? Don Lewis is a great blogger."

"Then why is your eye twitching?"

"It's not twitching. It's exercising. Look, we do lots of interviews. It's a perfectly viable medium for getting to know interesting people and celebrities. And I'll bet all Predator Press readers want to know more about the 'real' Ethan. Do want to be interviewed or not?"

"Well okay. Fire away."

"Cool," I says, sitting across from him with my clipboard. "The first question is 'How long have you known LOBO?'"

"Wait a minute," he says. "Are all these questions about you?"

"Of course not."

He snatches the clipboard from my grasp.

"Don't read those!" I protest. "It will ruin the spontaneity and candid nature of the entire piece!"

"Uh huh," he says reading down the list. "'Is LOBO really as handsome as is reputed?'"

"The people have a right to know."

"'Describe how I landed the brilliant employee in the world.'"

"I love that story."

"'How do you keep yourselves 'down-to-Earth' when constantly surrounded by his outrageous successes?'"

"Okay, I admit that on some of these I'm curious myself."

"'What would you consider to be LOBO's most outrageously successful quality? His' -oh my god- 'well-muscled physique or his radiant brainiosity?'"

"We have to hurry up," I insist. "I need to post this and quickly suit up for the Lakers game. And they have to configure all the CGI equipment so Kobe Bryant's head is superimposed over mine."

"What's the picture of the firemen for?"

"That's for casting LOBO: The Motion Picture; it's kind of a cinematic 'visual aid' of me being portrayed by two gifted actors, swimming in gritty heroism. Now can we please get this over with? If I'm late, we'll lose the game. And they won't let me back in the NFL because I throw the football too hard."

"Using your 'radiant braniosity', guess what I'm going to do with this clipboard."

"Should I go ahead and call the ambulance now?"

Plan X

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Finally persuaded that coaching the Lakers for Game 3 myself was going to be the best course of action, I figured I had better do it disguised as Phil Jackson as not to send the wrong message to the Celtics, Lakers and fans.

The team was already warming up when I arrived. And taking a page from Bobby Knight’s playbook, I took my giant yellow ‘Lakers are #1’ foam hand and hurled it violently against the wall.

The players stopped and stared at me, bewildered.

But even before the unattended ball stopped bouncing off the court, my unrequited rage had impelled me to yet another act of wanton destruction: with a short running start, I kicked an empty Gatorade bottle three or four yards.

Masking my cry from the sudden pain in my toe with that of a furious scream, I bared my teeth at them, hissing and spitting.

“Are you okay coach?” asked one player.

“Weren’t you taller yesterday?” asked another.

“Shut up!” I bellowed, grabbing a gym towel at the ends with my fists.

While unsuccessfully trying to tear it in half for a few seconds, the entire team has assembled in a semicircle. I finally toss the intact towel to a largish guy in a Lakers uniform who promptly tears the towel in half.

Pacing, I glower wild-eyed up at their kneecaps.

“I don’t know what’s more disgusting,” I begin. “That pisspoor excuse for basketball I saw Sunday, or how alarmingly few of you are wearing underwear right now!"

“But coach,” says a Laker. “We came back 30 points in ten minutes, and almost-“

“Almost what?” I demand.

The players head fell forward, silenced.

“That’s what I thought," I says.

Standing on a chair, I arch an accusing finger up at all of them. "And that whole time five or six of of you were out on the court, dozens of you lazy jerks were lounging on the bench with towels around your necks!”

“Were only allowed this many on the floor coach,” says my new towel-tearer, holding up five fingers.

“Say’s who?”

“The referees.”

My eyebrow arches high. “And which side is the referee on?”

The players look at each other.

“Well it ain’t yours!”

Pleased with having driven my point home with such dramatic flair, I relax a little. “How many of these games do we have left?”

“At least four, coach.”

“Four!? Ah crap. And we have to win them all?”

“If we lose two more, that’s the end of the season.”

"Wait. We can lose one?"

"Yes."

“That’s a relief,” I says exhaling. “Alright. We’re going to go with Plan X.”

“Plan X?”

“For this first game, we’re only going to use white guys that aren’t Hungarian or Ukrainian, and names that amount to 66 points or less on an official Scrabble board. You other guys lay low and rest up for the last four games."

“How are we going to win this game?”

“We're not … And it’ll lull them into a false sense of security. Then bam, we win the next four games in a row.”

Towel-tearer raises his hand, and I acknowledge him.

"What if," he asks timidly, "we can get our usual run in the fourth quarter?"

"Fourth quarter? Jesus how long are these games? I'm going to miss L.A Law!"

Sports with Balls

Predator Press

[LOBO]

It was about 8:30 pm when the phone rang.

“LOBO?”

“What?”

“LOBO, it’s Phil Jackson.”

“Phil!” I says. “How have you been?”

“I’ve been better. We’re down by 30 points.” Phil sighs audibly. “We need you to suit up.”

“Phil, I haven’t seen my Bulls uniform since the 3-Peat.”

“I’m with the Lakers now.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. We’re in Game 2 of the Finals against the Celtics.”

“The Celtics? Wow. So Larry Bird is really handing it to you, huh?”

“Larry Bird is retired.”

“Well then Magic Johnson should totally cream them!”

“We need you LOBO.”

“But Phil, I’ve only got 29 free days left on AOL. Then those jerks are going to start chargin me.” I rub my temples thoughtfully. “Did you try good ‘ole number 23?”

“Beckham plays soccer.”

“I mean Michael Jordan.”

“Well, no. That's a good idea though. But we were really hoping you would come through.”

“Phil, you know I hate doing that. All the other players do is complain, ‘wah, LOBO jumps too high’ and ‘boo-hoo coach, I never get the ball now’. I mean it just wears on me, you know?”

“If you give Kobe the ball once or twice during the game, I’m sure he’ll be cool with it.”

“Artificially inflating another player’s stats is the equivalent of lying Phil. Why should I jeopardize my reputation of integrity by participating in something dishonest?”

“Well telling everyone I use the Triangle Offense when I actually use a rectangle was your idea.”

“Geometry doesn’t count Phil. You know that.”

[brief silence]

“There’s nothing I can do to change your mind?”

“I don’t think so Phil.”

[*muffled sobbing*]

“Phil. You’re going to be fine. Before you know it people will be throwin octopuses and batteries at you too. But you can’t do it with a negative attitude.”

”[*sniff*] Okay LOBO. I’ll try.”

“Atta boy Phil. Now get out there and sink some touchdowns!”

Going Topless

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Nestled just south of Angry Seafood and west of Musings of a Barefoot Foodie, Alltop just got it’s newest resident.

-I didn’t want to do it, but Guy Kawasaki was just relentless.

“LOBO,” he says. “Alltop’s motto is ‘We’ve got humor covered’. If Predator Press isn’t on it, I’ll be sued!”

“I just can’t Guy,” I reply. “And just what kind of name is 'Kawasaki'? Is that Swedish?"

"No."

"First of all," I says, "This isn’t a humorous-type blog. It’s more like the Wall Street Journal -‘cept with pictures and interesting content. If I allow this critical and historical document’s philosophy to be corrupted, the very fabric of our Great Nation will unravel. Do you Swedes want the terrorists to win? Do you? Hm?”

“But you’ll get more traffic,” he persists.

“I can’t handle anymore traffic! I got like four comments on my last post. Four! I defy you to show me any other blog with four comments. My server is completely ground to a standstill, and I simply can’t afford any more fruit baskets.”

“I can get you 30 days free on AOL.”

“Deal.”


Thanks Guy!