Go, Fighty!

Predator Press

[LOBO]

It's a fact: people never give Predator Press any credit for the huge socio-economic and medical advances we have provided Humanity.

And how about the Science and Engineering?

Hm?

When we presented the alternative to 'Doggie Stairs' with our 160 horsepowered Doggie Centrifuge, did this fantastical technological advancement get mentioned in a Scientific American, Popular Mechanics, or maybe even a lousy Readers Digest?

No.

So now where is Sports Illustrated on our groundbreaking 'Mag-Cat' Research and Development? My theory that cats -cunning natural predators equipped with lightning-fast reflexes, guile, and grace- are ideally suited for intense Air Hockey competition is gonna make us millions.

Just kiss my ass, Forbes.


***

First and foremost, the Air Hockey table -pointedly designed for humans- would have to undergo some minor modifications to provide for a suitable and level playing field for serious Feline Competition. So at great expense to you, our own Predator Press Scienticians magnetically reversed an Air Hockey table surface.

Unfortunately, cats are naturally highly-resistant to magnetism, and tiny little magnetically-repellant boots needed to be developed to respond to the magnetic fields. This realistically replicates the 120-decibel gravity-free Air Hockey environment for cats exactly as it would occur in nature.

We should have a good “regulation” set of these boots available commercially by Christmas. And while coming in at a hefty $850, you must remember that there are four ... plus we throw in our patented "This Side Up" polarity collar and a Buell helmet totally for free. Further, we think $850 is a small price to pay for any serious Air Hockey or cat safety enthusiast: once augmented with the $800 fire extinguisher mandated by California State, your cat will be howling past you on the freeway.

Four of our cats can get to Madison Square Garden from here in eight minutes.

-Theoretically. They cannot read maps, and are complete suckers for every Stuckey's they see along the way.

But truthfully I do not consider an insatiable Pecan Roll dependency a side effect of our regimented and complex training: for several months now, one of Phil's kittens (due to her inexplicable and irritable disposition I call her "Fighty") has undergone 1,074 hours of observation actually wearing the boots, and she finally acclimated well to her vastly improved mobility -even with the chainsaw attachments.

And let me tell you buddy, she hates Pecan Rolls.

Fighty -already a Mag-Cat first season veteran- is ready for some healthy competition. And she's virtually undefeated! Her 27-1 record was most unfairly despoiled by Ethan rubbing her fur backwards during the Winter Halftime Show last February; this triggered a static discharge resulting in one hell of bang, four molten transformers, subsequent rolling blackouts, two crashed satellites, an irrepressible odor of burning hair permeating everything in the Lab, and me spilling my coffee.

Now, the fire department gets cats out of trees all the time, right? When's the last time you saw a cat skeleton in a tree? But you call those jerks and tell them about your smoldering and pissed steroid-jazzed chainsaw-wielding cat magnetically attached to the side of a water tower and see what happens.

I swear those fire department guys are totally worthless.

Nonetheless, lil' Fighty today is an Air Hockey Champion nose-to-tail; just show her that plastic puck or a Pecan Roll, and she yowls, spits and hisses ...

The Goose That Laid the Golden Eggs

-as retold by Predator Press


[LOBO]

Once upon a time, a man and his wife got a fantastical golden goose, and it laid a golden egg every day.

“This is terrible,” said the man. “We can’t eat gold!”

“Kill it,” said the woman. “It might breed with the other animals. The entire village could starve to death!”

“We will be remembered forever as heroes!” cried the man.



This Message Brought to You By:

Editorial: There Are Far Too Many Firemen

Predator Press

[LOBO]

People are always asking me, "LOBO, here on the precipice of fiscal disaster, how can America rekindle it's economy and simultaneously get out of staggering international debt?"

Well, I'm glad you asked me this.

See, the biggest problem America faces is money wasted fruitlessly by The Govenment due to sheer inertia.

Take the Fire Department, for instance. I mean Jesus, how many firemen do we really need?

Look around you. Do you see any fires?

We have to reexamine this from an efficiency standpoint: a perfect balance of fires and firemen means you should see one fire and one fireman fighting it -at all times. Anything more is poor planning, and anything less is flat out wasteful.

And to prove my theory, I started a few fires (in the glaring absence of any) and like fifty firemen showed up at every single one of them.

OMG!

I, for one, am sick to death of coddling this Liberal fraternity of do-nothings. These guys are so lazy, they have beds! Beds people! You read that correctly! When's the last time you saw an honest, hard-working truck driver with a bed where he works for instance? Or Emergency Room doctors? Hm? Does the guy making my French fries at Burger King pose for calendars and get naps while on the job?

No.

Why?

Because he's doing something important, god damn it!

Somewhere in this Great Nation, at this very moment, a fireman is snoozing away our future.

Clearly, there are far too many firemen milking on the teat of my hard-earned money, and this is just another Left Wing fiscal debacle. The time has come to face the readily available facts: we should get rid of the beds, cut our entire fire department staff down to a skeleton crew, and jazz up the lucky few left 24/7 with steroids and PCP instead.



This Message Brought to You By:

Rumors I Have An Evil Clone Prove Totally Bogus

Predator Press

[LOBO]

When rumors initially surfaced that I had been cloned, I was perplexed.

-I’m far too busy being unemployed to be cloned.

Luckily, Speedcat Hollydale supplied this photograph that explains everything.

Yeah, I can see some similarities: this dashing fellow is almost just as buff and devastatingly handsome as me.

But you can plainly see this guy also has a goatee.

Seriously, I fail to see how people could confuse us.



This Message Brought to You By:

I Need a Job

Predator Press

[LOBO]

A Good, Dead Hittite

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Just so there are no surprises -because it turns out I might actually need this Vice Presidential gig- while not attempting to defraud the Federal Government for Unemployment Benefits, I'm also a full-time vehement and unrepentant racist.

I'll bet you never would have guessed, but there it is.

I hate Hittites.

I hate them with a purple, venomous passion.

See, the Hittite kingdom is conventionally divided into three periods: the Old Hittite Kingdom (ca. 1750-1500 BC), the Middle Hittite Kingdom (ca. 1500-1430 BC) and the New Hittite Kingdom (the Hittite Empire proper, ca. 1430-1180 BC).

And I freakin hate all three of them.

I mean they are dead.

-How great can you all be if you're all dead?

Hm?

I can, say, go make a pot of coffee. Would you magnificent Hittites like a cup of coffee? No? Oh, you're all dead you say?

Well, HA HA.

More coffee for me.

We all know intuitively that red is bad, right? Well, just look at this satellite photo: see how bad these people are? I mean that is concentrated fucking evil.

I hope the Sumerians kick the crap out of them!

Indo-Hittites are pretty cool, but unfortunately everytime I see cuneiform, I just wanna puke 'cuz it reminds me of those lousy scumbag garden-variety Hittites. I'm nauseated I gotta breathe the same air they did!

I can still taste Hittite crawling in this lousy air.

Blech.

They oughta make anti-Hittite Febreze.

Author's Note: This blog does not represent the ideas nor beliefs of the author, nor does it endorse the ill-treatment of the noble Hittite or Hittite descendants.

No Hittites were harmed during the writing of this post.

Internal Combustion

Predator Press

[LOBO]

“Sir,” says the disinterested woman. “You quit your last job and have excellent references.”

"Yes," I agree.

She pulls her glasses down to the tip of her nose. “You should just consider getting a job. I have serious doubts applying for Unemployment will get you anywhere at all.”

“Yeah I know,” I explain. “It’s more of a tradition when I’m not working to look for free money. It's like getting popcorn at the movies. Or eating nothing but baked beans for the week before you take a trip on an airplane.”

“Excuse me?”

“Everybody eats popcorn at movies,” I explain.

“No,” says the woman. “I mean about the airplanes.”

“Ah god airline travel is horrible,” I says. “Do you realize that you’re enclosed in an airtight tube with a bunch of other people greedily suckin up all your oxygen with giant flarin hippopotamus nostrils? A week’s worth of baked beans can extend your life a full seventeen minutes.”

“Huh,” says the woman, now intrigued. “I’ll bet your flights arrive on time too.”

“If not early,” I agree. “Sure there’s a lot of complaining at the time. But in retrospect I’ll bet all those other passengers would thank me.”

“Couldn’t the release of, eh,” the woman pauses, “'noxious gasses' on an airplane be considered a terrorist act?”

“It could,” I agree. “But so could all the other passengers, depleting the oxygen and by virtue of respiration replacing it with carbon monoxide. Nobody breathes carbon monoxide except maybe plants and people from Detroit. And the Detroit Lions are 0-and-5.”

“0-and-5?” she replies. “Wow. That should make you want to suck some carbon monixide for sure.”

“Detroitians just scurry along quietly on to Vegas or Florida or whatever," I says wiggling my fingers in the air, "replacing all the oxygen in their wake, just like God intended.”

"The quality of air in Detroit must be fantastic," she observes. "You've been playing a lot of Spore, haven't you?"

"Yep," I nod. "And seventeen minutes is seventeen minutes."

“Well, says the woman, affixing a big red stamp on my file, "I can't give you Unemployment, but we can assist with job placement. Have you ever considered working for the Fox News Channel?”

“Meh,” I says. “I was hoping for a cruise gig managing an Applebee's or something.”

Face Forward

Predator Press

[LOBO]

The last jobs I’ve had segued so smoothly into each other, I can’t even remember the last time I needed to search for one.

I’m totally at a loss. I have no local work history or references -and mooching from relatives during a simultaneous apartment search, I don’t even technically have a fixed address. Half of our disorganized stuff is buried deeply in a tightly-packed storage unit; even mustering up a professional appearance has it’s difficulties.

Still, somehow I need to maintain a What's not to love? veneer over this to prospective employers.

I vaguely remember job-hunting tips from junior high school. The teacher was an exceedingly unhappy gentleman named Mister Brown. He wore a suit and tie to class every day, and was absolutely convinced that The Number One Rule for Getting a Job is having nice, immaculately polished shoes.

“That’s the first thing a smart employer will look at,” he explained. “It communicates your attention to detail.”

Mister Brown also had the dubious distinction of running the ‘Alternative Ed’ program, so I got a much larger dose of him than normally required. Alternative Ed was essentially a human repository for the “troublemakers”; presumably this was to remove us from the general population lest our ideas and general discontent permeate the larger more docile and compliant culled herds of cattle.

I had outgrown making overt scenes and fighting at school, and just stopped going altogether. To me the solution seemed pretty clear: You don’t want me here questioning your verbose theories on the wide-reaching impact of uncomfortable footwear, and I don’t want to be here listening to them.

Not very complicated, right?

But Chicago public schools got paid by the number of butts in the seats. So for what likely amounted to a few hundred bucks a year, my seat for eight hours a day –as was for typically ten to fifteen other ‘hooligans’- was a cracked plastic orange or green one in side-by-side three-walled four-by-four concrete cubicles.

Look I'm wearing out my hyphen key with this description: just picture a bathroom stall with a graffiti-addled ledge for a desk. Okay?

Also worthy of mention is that for Mister Brown rules not about getting a job were a bit more complex than merely appropriate shoes: Face the wall, toward your ledge. No standing. No talking and/or noise. Lunch is served at your cube. The two bathroom breaks a day are tightly regimented, and you take them separately from not only each other, but between class periods so you encounter no other students.

You can do schoolwork –doubtless of which you are hopelessly behind on without the class time- or nothing at all.

All day.

Cheers!

Breaking this excruciating silence upon occasion, Mister Brown’s precious shoes could be heard as he paced authoritatively back and forth behind us.

You know, ensuring compliance to the "Non-Job" Rules.

So utterly devoid of any stimulation whatsoever I would often muse Are those shoes I hear the very shoes that got Mister Brown this job?

At one point, trying to make the best of it, I tackled a book report for English class and cracked open a five-inch thick copy of Dune.

Mister Brown’s shoes soon screeched to a halt audibly behind me.

Book report or no, I could not read Dune in Alternative Ed.

So no book report?

Face forward.

To the crude drawings and phrases rendered on heavily-pored and peeling concrete paint instead?

No talking.

Oooh, look there in the corner! Don't those cracks look almost like those spiff, shiny fucking shoes of yours with your still-smoldering dismembered ankle stumps sticking out of them?

This is for your own good somehow.

Or a few hundred bucks.

-I can't remember anymore.

Getting "Discovered" is Tougher than I Thought

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Well, today marks one whole week since we’ve arrived in California and I have yet to appear in a single movie.

Oh sure … I’ve had offers. But at the moment I need to focus on my political career.

-And Civilization IV.

Still, a job might help. It’s pretty tense right now: I’m essentially about one Google search from Terri finding out there’s actually no such thing as Arecacephobia -the morbid fear of palm trees- and without health insurance, the stitches from a blow from a frying pan could totally ruin us.

I need to think of something quick.

Today, taking a page out of Lana Turner’s playbook, I hung out at the drug store all damn day.

“Hey,” says the soda jerk, “Aren’t you-?”

Ah thank god. A Predator Press fan.

“-going to order something?” he continues. “You can’t sit there unless you order something.”

"You're not fooling anybody, damonkappas!" I says. "I'm on to you!"


***

So 6 32-ounce Mountain Dews later, still no employment.

Now I have to pee like a Russian racehorse, and my laptop battery is nearly dead because I’ve written six Broadway musicals and a rather lengthy sequel to Les Misérables.

I was just wrapping up the part where Cosette finds out Marius Pontmercy is actually a zombie space alien and crushes him against his own flying saucer in her Escalade when the drug store closed and I got kicked out.

Honestly with a work ethic like that, I don’t know how anything gets done out here at all.

BLORE

Predator Press

[LOBO]

I'm looking for a word I can't find.

So's I call Merriam Webster.

"Merriam," I says. "I need a word for blogging whore."

"I don't think there is one LOBO," says Merriam.

"Well that's pretty shoddy work on your part," I says. "You people need to get with us here in the Twentieth Centurion. We got computers nowadays, and people are whoring their blogs on them."

"I suppose you're right," concedes Merriam. "Any ideas?"

"Well, I'm kinda partial to blore."

"Huh. I like it. It's a noun and a verb."

"Can it have a picture of me in the definition?"

"Do you think you qualify?"

"Do I ever! Humor Bloggers, Alltop, Entrecard ... you name it, I'm bloring on it."

"You're on Humor-Blogs too, right?"

"Oh man it should be illegal how much bloring I do on Humor-Blogs. 'Cept Diesel keeps busting it. He calls it 'upgrading'."

"Should I send him a copy of my book?"

"Nah. Between conquering the internet, writing, his job, building a house, kids, wife, et cetera he'd never read it. He's one of those, ah ... Hey, what's a word for 'somebody that's always doin stuff'?"

"Busy?"

"Yeah. He's like really, really busy. Which is probably why he made the site faster."

"I thought you said he busted it."

"I said upgraded. Jeez Merriam ... those two words don't mean anything like each other. I thought you wrote them big thick books with all the alphabetized words and definitions."

"You mean Dictionaries?"

"I dunno. I have a dresser with a broken leg and the corner it props up covers the title almost entirely. You're probably right. It ends with a 'Y', but I don't think there's a book that indexes words by their last letter yet. Hey ... isn't that discrimination against people with dyslexia?"

"Before we get too far off-track, is there anything else you can tell me about blores such as yourself?" asks Merriam. "I'm taking notes here so don't go too fast."

"Well," I says, thinking. "We don't take criticism very well."

"Really."

"Yeah. Like about my last post, this dude damonkappas said 'That's too much to read. Your post wanders all over the highway like a 76 ford pickup with a broken axle. Focus man, focus!'"

"How did that make you feel?"

"I don't know really. I found a quarter after that. And then while watching television I got hungry so I drove to Wal-Mart and bought some pants."

"You got hungry so you bought pants at Wal-Mart?"

"Well I needed something with pockets to put the quarter in."

"How is your election coming along?"

"Eh, I dunno." I shrug. "I don't really follow politics. I figure John Nobody will let me know one way or another."

"What will you do if you two win?"

"You mean besides have the Secret Service wax damonkappas?"

"Yes."

"And rubbing it good and merciless in Don Lewis' face until the end of time?"

"Yes."

"Never thought about it."

"Really?"

"Well the President isn't the guy that puts up a stop sign so's playing kids don't get hit by cars. Or get your street's potholes fixed. Or opens an art museum in your neighborhood. All the real important stuff in people's day-to-day lives is handled at a far more local level; I'll bet you a dollar 4/5ths of the people voting on Election Day couldn't name three people on their own City Council."

"Maybe you should change all that," says Merriam.

"You mean become, like, The Pothole Party?"

"Eh ... "

"Waaay too much work. Plus pot is illegal ... all I would get is a very smooth drive to the state pen and maybe a case of "the munchies." No, at this level people don't want anything effectual at all. Effects tend to have consequences. John and I have far too much at stake to risk having any consequences whatsoever."

"Why bother then?" asks Merriam.

"Because the risk of Don Lewis winning is far too horrifying. Rather than talking to the people in meaningless and endless reassuring circles, Don Lewis would doubtlessly see some important issue and impudently do something about it. Then, BOOM! Consequences. John Nobody and I are twice as ineffectual as Don Lewis. There will be no consequences while we are in Office."

"I see."

"So does my new word go in the dictionary?"

"Based on your logic, wouldn't having an effect on the American lexicon jeopardize your election?"

"Damn, you're right!" I pause for a second. "What if we said it was Don Lewis' idea?"

Hey This Shinola Smells Like Crap

Predator Press

[LOBO]


I don't know what I'm more excited about -the move to California or the nod as John Nobody's Vice Presidential running mate.

At first I figured I should prioritize the up-and-coming election. You know, start making up the policies and so forth I would be pretending to stick to?

But then I found out Don Lewis went to Oregon.

On purpose.

-Man, this election is going to be a piece of cake.


***

So about the trip. This post -like the last one- is kinda hastily slapped together. Before we left, Comcast was kind enough to turn our services off a day early. Rendered wholly unable to use the phone and pay off the bill with my VISA due to this, I considered the remaining balance as a 'going away present' and spent the entire $200 frivolously on postcards and snowglobes from obscure locations across continental LOBOnia.

Thanks Comcast! I would send you this snowglobe of Twentynine Palms, but you would probably break that too.

Now safely on the "other side," we find ourselves hanging by a tenuous fingernail with internet connectivity once again. We are staying with Terri's relatives, and Terri's relatives are Mac users.

But do not judge Terri's woefully uniformed Mac-using relatives too harshly! Remember we are mooching heavily from these people; this is no time to point out their laughable choice of a clearly inferior so-called "operating" system.

Nay, this is a time where patient understanding and tolerance of their quaint eccentricities and dumb misguided boobery must be respected and embraced as our own.

For today, Terri and I shall be respectful of this pagan foolishness. But once we figure out these weird and counter-intuitive Mac network configurations, we will surely inform them of their colossal technological blunders and mournful misgivings: !!!Whammo!!! -The mighty oak tree of TRUTH will come a-callin', right upside the head.


***

As far as the contiguous parts of our great nation of LOBOnia, let me first point out I had no idea how big it is. It's too big. I mean it took like fifty gallons of gas to get accross it!

I'm going to level with you: I don't need this much space.

Plus I need some quick cash.

Does anyone know if any countries might be interested in shelling out a few hundred bucks for the east side of it? I'm not there anymore, and therefore there can't be a while lot going on. It does hold some sentimental value, but still I seriously doubt it would be missed.

The best current offer is from a fun-loving scrubby-looking group of guys called "The Taliban": on the table is four cows, six virgins and 500 free hours on AOL.

While this appeared to be a tempting offer at first, it turns out that four of the six virgins were actually the cows anyway, and the remaining two virgins were hippopotamus women with unkempt toenails that extended waaay beyond their sandals.

All damn day I heard nothing but clackitty-clicketty-clack against the linoleum, and the occasional mournful wail when one periodically snagged in the shag carpet.

Ultimately I'll probably turn "The Taliban" down.

How could I possibly allow beloved Pianosa I's shag carpet be reduced to bloodied tufts as such?

Besides, their music sucks.


***

Anyways, I do miss Pianosa I. The full weight of emotions didn't fully hit until the morning we arrived here at Pianos II -my tiny black heart collapsed into a singularity and exploded.

-Well, it kinda coughed for a second. If you look closely, there's a stress fracture in the left ventricle. I'm almost sure it's permanent too.

But Terri did this for me a year and a half ago. She sold and gave away everything, told her family goodbye, and "followed her heart" with only me to rely on.

Would you cross a woman that crazy?