The Day the Music Cried

Predator Press

[LOBO]

It’s a little-known fact that Brent Diggs and I weren’t always the bitter enemies we are today.

For instance, I didn’t recognize Brent immediately at Juilliard Music School. In fact I thought he was just another flashy and callow wanna-be rock band frontman.

But one night after my tuba solo, he insisted on meeting me. He was so moved by my performance, as we shook hands a single tear rolled slowly down his cheek.

Now everyone knows the tuba is the backbone of any good band; once I graduated, I probably could have ‘written my own ticket’ so to speak. I was featured in Musician Magazine as the “57th best Tuba Player EVER”. Band members of both Metallica and Van Halen threatened to fracture off in order to work with me on solo projects.

And I was good too: in the recording studio, all women had to be escorted out so the soggy panties hitting the floor wouldn’t mess up the audio.

But there was something about Brent’s youthful exuberance and vitality that appealed to me, and soon we were playing together with other promising underground musical acts.

Then one day Brent comes to me and says, “LOBO, we gotta start our own band.”

To which I replied, “What the hell are you pointing at?”

"Just point at anything and watch what happens."

"Cool!"

“But I am serious,” he continues. “With my golden pipes and your saxophone thingy, there would be no stopping us!”

“I’ll only do it if we call it Danger Couch,” I says.

“Okay,” he says. “But only if we promise the band will never ever ever break up.”

“Deal,” I says.


***

In Brent’s defense, I was already well on my way to a substance abuse problem. I had been “experimenting” –recreationally- with Pop Rocks. Honestly, to this day I think it was the advertising aimed at my generation and colorful packaging.

I ate one packet of orange Pop Rocks during rehearsals. I ate two packets of grape while blistering live solos on my 'Tube'.

Soon by the end of any given day, I would have had consumed thirty-four packets.

When out of my 'supply', I shopped for them bulk online with trembling hands … and paying an extraordinary fee to have them Fed-Exed the next day because I couldn't pick them up at the warehouse that night.

Four months later, when I crashed the 1954 Bentley Type R, the cops found the floorboards covered in Pop Rocks packets.

"Son-" the cop started.

"What dead hooker?" I replied.


***

Brent, watching millions of dollars evaporate due to my rapidly accelerating habit, finally confronted me. And that night I swore I would never touch a single Pop Rock ever again. But at the very next show, through my microphone, everyone in the audience could here the distinct crackling joy.

In the dressing room, Brent found my stash: a thick, tight brick of Pop Rocks sealed in a waterproof ziplock bag floating in the upper toilet tank.

Truthfully, my music suffered. Stuff that was supposed to go "bum bum, bum bum" would come out "bum bum-bwah-bum": the surgical precision required to hit that note with just the right force seemed to escape me, and it was often either far too loud and buzzing or completely inaudible altogether. Worse of all, the sound engineers never seemed to figure out why everything recorded sounded like angry Rice Krispies in violent milk.

I started showing up late for performances, play like five notes, and then leave without explanation in pursuit of the nearest fix. Rather than counting out measures on sheets and sheets of blank sheet music for the notes on page 98, I would sleep through shows missing cues completely. Once I accidentally grabbed the violin sheet music and played the whole venue like it was a Danny Elfman soundtrack. This earned me a promising spot on a hip, irreverent episode of Hee Haw ... but my downward spiral was impossible to mask even from them, and I was fired for calling Tom Wopat an asshole on live television.

My hygiene suffered, and my flesh started to seethe and bubble visibly like a live thing under filthy, neglected clothing.

-The only thing that seemed to still like me was my dog.

Six months later, Brent tracked me down in a cheap motel room. Unemployed, I was pouring Pop Rocks into a spoon and tonguing the inside of the packet. Eyes darting and bulgy, I had a lighter and a syringe, prepared for the Mother-of-All Pop Rocks high.

"I think it's time you faced the fact that you have a problem," said Brent.

"Nonsense," I says through purple teeth, twisting the thick rubber band over my elbow. "I can quit anytime I want. I don't need some goddamned intervention!"

Then, blammo.

Distracted, I let the paparazzi too close; the highly-unstable Pop Rocks in the spoon detonated in the camera flash.

Brent and I survived by some incalculable miracle, having been thrown clear of the blast.

Thank God, I remember thinking.

-I was getting really sick and tired of hearing that ‘You’ve got a problem’ bullshit.


Happy Anniversary Brent and Camille!

Predator Press and the Tomb of the Velvet Ropes

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Saturday I decided I needed to take out all the cash from the “Feed LOBO” fundraising effort.

Despite coming from Don Lewis, a buck is a buck. And after the government does it’s ‘Where’s My Money?’ shell game, that’s about 67 cents.

That’s mac and cheese money, baby.

In fact that’s Kraft mac and cheese money.

According to my calculatrons, I’m only a few weeks away from the salt, butter and milk required to complete the recipe.

Maybe I'll just go crazy and hold out for Velveeta.


***

A bank being open during Predator Press Month should have been my first sign of trouble. But I equate going to the bank with Purgatory: a sea of disinterested, dismantled vacant faces waiting in twisty and random excruciatingly slow roped queues.

They'll be open.

True, you might see one or two upon occasion that are still somehow faintly hopeful this is the line that leads to a thick, turbulent swill of soul-harvesting interest rates and mortgage loans. Not even dignifying them with full annunciation, we call them the 'Unngghhh' and nudge each other quietly when we spot them. And once awareness has been sufficiently raised, we taunt them with subtle mercilessness until they either 'join the ranks' or flip out, screaming in macabre frustration.

It’s this ‘screaming’ phase you don’t want. An un-culled Unnngh sobbing and screaming in line can make the hair on the back of your neck stand up. If the screaming phase takes too long, accelerate the process of permanently breaking their Will by tripping them frequently. Sneak a few kicks in if you can.

Every so often -if an unobserved opportunity presents itself- I’ll rearrange the ropes. I mean you never know, right? And if I can’t solve the maze in this manner, I’ll make them into a loop for the people behind me to wander through for all Eternity.

If, on the other hand, I solve the maze, I'll arrange the ropes so they’ll spill out at The Gap or something. The water bill remains unpaid, but they leave with their souls intact and a nice new cardigan.

Unless there's an Unghh behind me.

I hate those lousy Unngghs.


***

In this case, I solved the maze in an hour and twenty minutes. A record for me. Nervously peering over my shoulder, I discreetly slide the signed check and my driver’s license across to the teller.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “There appears to be a lien against any ‘Feed LOBO’ funds raised.”

I owe the Loyal Reader a sidebar explanation here: due to the money I blew for the 'Feed LOBO' telethon on entertainers, costumes, advertising, caterers and pyrotechnics, the first 4-5 million is supposed to come right off the top as overhead; I, conversely, contend that hideous and catastrophic fiscal debacle is not my fault, and should be blamed on lousy entertainers, costumes, advertising, caterers and pyrotechnics.

Various collection agencies apparently disagree.

“How dare you,” I demand. “Do you have any idea how much money I have in this bank?”

“It says here $6.87,” he says. “And apparently there’s a lien on that too.”

“Well I’m not going to keep my liquid cash here. It’s not safe!”

“Our impregnable vault was secretly designed and constructed from the outside in by two mysterious German engineers. Upon completion, it could only be opened from the inside –and those engineers are long since presumed dead.”

“How do you get the money in and out?”

“We don’t. We keep it in a mason jar on the fridge in the break room.”

"You can't do this," I explain calmly. "It's Predator Press Month for God's sake. What will the kids say?"

"You have kids? What are their names?"

"Shiftless and, eh, Screechy I think. In fact, that $6.87 is Shiftless' college fund."

"I'm sorry sir."

“Can I still play with that cool toy with the beads?”

"Only if you give all the pens back."

Nights of the Round Fable

Predator Press

[LOBO]

With the Raiders of the Lost Crusader Meme coming to a close, I would like to take this moment to bring up something serious.

After the release of Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom, Indy’s faithful and adorable sidekick “Short Round” just seems to vanish from the face of the Earth.

"Well that's impossible," you say. "This could never happen."

Well it turns out that about 8% of Predator Press readers are right 22% of the time: this tragic and shocking true story has been kept under wraps for over 20 years. And it might never been known if not for the dogged and relentless investigative skill of yours truly.

While Indiana’s life -filled with hot chicks, explosions and danger- has thrilled and exhilarated movie audiences for decades, it was found to be ill-suited for raising children; before long Short Round was seized from Indy by Child Protective Custody and placed into foster care.

Heartbroken and psychologically damaged permanently by Indy’s cavalier and lax parenting, Short Round subsequently ran away and seemingly faded into a mysterious shroud of obscurity.

It was no small effort to track his whereabouts from that day forward. But during a chance examination of the MIT Archives, we discovered ancient correspondence with Short Round: it seems that soon thereafter it was discovered that he was woefully poor at math, and due this hideous handicap even MIT rejected him.

His last and lowliest of hopes and dreams were horribly crushed against the Rapids of Cruel Hollywood Fate.

Out of options, he spent a few years with the Harlem Globetrotters to make ends meet ... but nothing seemed to sate his emotional void; during a Vicodin and PCP-fueled rage, he punched a cheerleader and called Curly Joe a “punk-ass bitch” –acts that led to his permanent expulsion from the league.

It might seem true that life hasn't been very kind to Short Round. But shortly after rehab and serving his jail time, he met his true love in a strip bar. Connecting instantly during a conversation about their mutual obsession with snakes, the 'sparks flew' so to speak: now Short and Sassy Round live happily in a Des Moines subdivision with their eight beautiful children.

-The oldest of which begins at MIT this August.

Predator Press and the Quest for the Empty Skull

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Having seen all four “Raiders” movies now, I feel more than qualified to follow in the footsteps of the great Doctor Jones and enter the fast-paced and lucrative sexy field of Archeology.

But no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t seem to circumvent the lack of academic accolades with prospective employers. I think they had their doubts I could kick the crap out of six guys while hopping back and forth between vehicles speeding through a dense jungle -even after seeing the Honorary White Belt Grand Master Futon gave me.

Despite the lofty credentials, much-lauded Harvard University immediately balked at the opportunity to even tenure me: being tenured at Harvard University, it turns out, is a potential subsequent function of me actually teaching at Harvard University.

Blah, blah.

“I’ll have no part of dealing with screaming brats,” I inform the interviewer. “Dammit, I’m a scientist."

“How about an online class?” says the guy looking down his nose into a thick book. “We're starting a course in Private Investigation this August.”

“Great,” I says. “I’ll take it. How long until my tenure starts?”

“Sir, I have serious doubts you have any knowledge of this field whatsoever.”

“Sure I do,” I insist.

“You are prepared to instruct people to conduct criminal investigations via intercooperation between various law enforcement agencies?”

“The world should be wiped clean of criminal scourge.”

“-while occasionally working underground with criminals to collect information?”

“I totally hate cops.”

He leans back in his chair. “So what exactly do you know about private investigation?”

“Licensed private investigators get to carry guns. And that’s always cool. You can use guns to shoot people.”

“And you want to shoot people?”

“Oh God no,” I says. “I just want to fit in when I go to Denny’s.”

“I seriously doubt you possess the guile to work in undercover operations.”

“Well, I fooled you with that resume,” I point out. “Hell that thing is chocked full of lies.”

“Like what?”

“Like what isn’t?”

“So your name isn’t Indiana Einstein?”

“Not even close,” I says smuggly.

“Well what is it then? We would need to put something on the checks.”

Now I had a plan for if the interview was going poorly: I was going to say my name was Don Lewis. But my intuition told me I had this hoity-toity Harvard University geek wrapped around my finger.

Attempting to avoid the obvious trap, I start looking around the spacious office for ideas. I see a framed Michelangelo Fresco, a Thomas Wolfe book … absolutely nothing useful.

Finally my eyes fell on his coffee cup.

“Joe,” I blurt. “Joe, eh, Joseph.”

The interviewer’s eyebrows furrow. “Huh,” he says. “We have an opening in Mayan Hieroglyphic Writing. That would be a little closer to your desired field than private investigation. You can read Mayan hieroglyphics, correct?”

"Pre or Postclassic?"

"Late Preclassic."

“I love Preclassic Mayan hieroglyphics. Some nights I can’t put ‘em down at all ... see these dark circles under my eyes? I just finished a version of War and Peace written in Preclassic Mayan hieroglyphics.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. I thought it was a bit wordy and pedantic. But the part where the giant turtle bites the heads off of those snowmen makes me cry every time.”

You Are the Wind Beneath My Shorts

Predator Press

[LOBO]

I don’t know why I made that "movie". I just woke up Sunday and decided I hadda skrag what was left of my weekend on my first uTube effort.

Like everything else here, it was hastily slapped together and recklessly posted without fear. That's how I roll, baby: I pride myself in high-volume, low quality, and -as always- passing the savings on to the reader.

And speaking of ‘passing’, I equate the virgin video-making experience to passing gas: no matter how many orifices you clench, it’s coming out someplace ... it's just a matter of where and when. And the longer you make it wait, the more virulent and horrible it will be.

See, most blogs will treat you like it’s the first date: they wait until you leave. But even as they are smiling and waving “bye bye” to you though the window, the room is filling with the most horrendous and eye-watering green fog you can possibly imagine.

Don't believe me? If you stand there and wave back long enough, their lungs will just cave in involuntarily and the stimuli will slam into the frontal lobe with the equivalent force of six Rosie O'Donnells on the Ponderosa salad bar; ultimately, the limbic system then collapses entirely and they pass out.

This blog, conversely, treats you with the dignity and respect of someone we've been dating so long even the dog doesn’t bark at you anymore. You've got keys. And while I won’t do it right in front of you, I get it out of the way as you’re pulling into the driveway.

And then I'll blame that worthless dog.

To Mock a Killing Bird

Predator Press

[LOBO]

It appears I’ve just been shanghaied recruited for meme over at It’s a Funny Thing.

I would have resisted except for two things:

First, it’s got a reversed meme-hunter twist to it that I find appealing: we will trace the memes backwards across the Blogosphere to the very first memer, and have a brief and constructive talk with this person immediately before killing him or her with cinderblocks and pointy sticks.

The second reason is that if Don goes without me, I won’t be able to easily steal his ideas ... and I regard coming up with my own ideas as a hideous expenditure of time and energy. As for myself, I’m morally opposed to waste in any shape or form: the afore mentioned time and energy would be much better spent in pursuit of my own athletic endeavors such as extreme napping and porn surfing.

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*]