T'was the Night Before Christmas

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Twas the night before Christmas
and I’m wide awake,
arraying the chimney
with beartraps and snakes;
the booby-trapped stockings
set with infinite care,
in hopes that fat bastard’ll
blow his hand off in there.

There arose such a clatter
up on my roof,
-and I’m sick of cleaning up
piles of froze reindeer poop!
I let loose a war cry
-a blood curdling scream-
and empty the contents
of my AR-15.

One two three four five
six seven eight nine
thumps from above tell me
I missed one this time.
“Oh Dasher, Oh Dancer”
cries a loud booming voice,
“LOBO this tears it.
You give me no choice!”

I empty a blast
at the source of the sound
-and another at a spot
I think he might bound
-but the fat man is spry
for all that it’s worth-
he evaded hot lead,
belying his girth.

Not a creature was stirring
as I reloaded my shells,
“I don’t want any trouble!”
I finally yells.
“Just leave all the toys,
and get the hell out
I don't want to send cops
on that long North Pole route!”

The back door exploded
in splinters and slag
and a blood-splattered Santa
in smoldering rags
was removing his coat
and rolling his sleeves
“This time,” says Santa,
“Only one of us leaves.”

We circle each other,
and I’m very alarmed.
I can’t believe
the size of his arms!
“Hey what gives?" I says stunned.
"You’ve been working out!
Where’s the ‘bowl full of jelly’
you trespassing lout?”

With a wink of an eye
and a twist of his head,
I know within moments
I will likely be dead.
Santa flicks his nose,
“You dumb blogging hack!
I’ve lost two hundred pounds
on my Nordic Track.”

"Old Mrs. Clause
must thing you're a riot"
I says, "and that Stetson cologne?
I'll bet she don't buy it."
"I wear nothing but Polo," he says.
"Don't even try it.
Now I'll pound you to pulp,
and then leave here real quiet.”

"If you think that's Polo,
age is taking it's toll,"
-that's when I did
a slick ninja-like roll,
and from under the sugar-plums
grab the control,
“Bring a knife to a gunfight?”
I says laughing. “How droll!”

Missile TOW missiles launched
from tubes placed discretely,
but Santa danced deftly
–they missed him completely.
One of them arched
so high and so true
It blew the poor neighbor’s place
clear out of view.

“LOBO let’s stop this.
You’ve blown up the Burkes!”
“To Hell with you Santa!
Those people were jerks!”
“I don’t understand
why this is unpleasant,”
Santa opens his arms.
“Especially since I brought you a present.”

“Really?” I says,
resisting suspicion.
I lower my bazooka.
“That was your mission?”
“Why sure!” says Santa.
“It’s from your mother.”
And when I looked in that hand,
he punched me with the other.

Electric pain flashes
all through my cap,
My nose must be broken,
completely smashed flat.
I stagger backwards.
“Santa, you’re dead!”
… But Rudolph, behind me,
clean kicked off my head.

It landed on a spike
three blocks away
and I could see where my body
dropped and lifelessly lay.
Up on the rooftop,
the reindeer all raised
to assume the mantle
of pulling The Sleigh.

As I lay dying
I heard Santa fly off
-and I spat blood and teeth
in my last final cough.
“On Dasher on Dancer,
and to Mrs. Clause praise!
-We need bulletproof vests
for the reindeer these days.”

Santa, still climbing,
resumed his long flight
-his sleigh silhouetted
against the cold lunar light-
and as it grew distant
and faded from sight,
I heard "Merry Christmas to all,
and to all a good ... "




... I dunno ... I couldn't make out the rest.

Ghost of Christmas Past CAUGHT ON FILM!

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Ghost of Christmas Past, sure maybe I’ve been a little scrooge-like this year.

-But you crossed a line with me buddy. And I’ve got film proving you broke in, knocked me out with my 31-pound stainless steel Franklin Mint Limited Edition Collector’s Replica #412 of the Millennium Falcon, chained me up, and made me listen to all of your horrible backwards Satanic songs!

Perplexed at how Diesel was preventing me from voting on Humor-Blogs, I devoted all efforts of my vast security network to catch him in the act.

-That’s right: I got a Nanny Cam. And this is just a sample of the 16 hours of horror I was subjected to:




I assure you Ghost of Christmas Past [GOCP] I've contacted all the proper Authorities and my lawyer is filing numerous torts and depositions even as we speak! And "Charles Dickens" ring a bell? Hm? That's not just the funniest sounding author ever anymore ... 'A Christmas Carol' is a blueprint for your whole operation!

If I were you, I would turn myself in immediately.

-Oh and BTW I've got a little "surprise" planned for the Ghost of Christmas Present:




(I sure hope he doesn't get Diesel instead.)

G.W.B.

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Less than a week after we watched in horror as journalist Muntazer al-Zaidi tried to wang American President George W. Bush upside the head with a leather pair of size 10s, Predator Press has uncovered evidence that he was not, in fact, working alone.

“The forensic evidence of at least one additional shoe-thrower is overwhelming,” says a smart-looking guy in a lab coat. Taking a pen from his pocket, he points at the toe. “This is a very expensive soft leather. Where are the inevitable scuffs? Are we to believe this was some kind of scuffless ‘magic shoe’? Pfft. As if! The odds of such a shoe being hurled and not scuffed are somewhere in the vicinity of, like, a jillion-to-one.”

He continues on to dispute the now well-known footage: “Now watch the shoe tosses themselves. Both are hurled with high degrees of backspin, thusly creating a significant amount of aerodynamic [he makes quote marks in the air with his fingers] 'torque'. This causes what golfers call [he makes quote marks again] 'hook'."

"As you can see in this AutoCAD recreation of the trajectories, both peel back and to the left. This forces Bush to duck toward the right. It's all very scientific.”

When asked what bearing this had on the ongoing $154M investigation he responded, “Absolutely none whatsoever ... I've just never been on TV before.”


He pauses and waves.

"Hi mom!"

Oh, and About This Whole "Christmas" Thing ...

Predator Press

[LOBO]


Fingers pinching the bridge of my nose, I wince into them –but this does nothing practical to ease the pain.

They just keep going.

I can’t take it.

And going.

Please stop.

Finally I crack like an eggshell.

“For God’s sake, please STOP!”

Within seconds, the packed auditorium dwindles to a quieted state: a handful of Mrs. Tanner’s first grade class –still lost in song apparently- were among the last few to drift into silence.

And barring the puzzled murmurs of some 300 other parents that attended the South California Middle School Christmas Celebration Ball, there is a glorious absence of sound entirely.

“Excuse me?” says Mrs. Tanner from the side of the stage.

The kids are starin at me slackjawed.

“Ma’am,” I says. “I love Christmas just as much as anyone else. But so help me God if you make those kids do whatever that was again, I will kill you.”

“That was The Twelve Days of Chrismas,” she defends.

“No,” I says. “That was somebody smashing a 40-ounce beer bottle and jamming the pieces into my Frontal lobe.”

A fat blonde kid in front raises his hand. "Mrs Tanner-"

“Shut up!” I says, pointing at him wild-eyed.

I stand and approach the stage. “You!” I indicate the boy. “What’s your name?”

“Joseph,” he says.

“Joseph, do you have any idea what happens when you have twenty-two pipers piping simultaneously?”

Joseph just stares.

“And don’t get me started on-“ I count out some fast and furious math on my fingers, “thirty five golden rings? Oh holy Christ!”

“It’s just a song mister,” says Joseph.

“And you know what you do when you sing that song a full half an octave flat Joseph?” I lean down into his pudgy little still-asymmetrical face. “You make Santa cry.”

A tear streamed down Joseph’s cheek.

“Sir," snaps Mrs. Tanner. “They’re only six!"

I seize the clipboard from her hand. “That’s why I’m holding you entirely accountable.” Skimming her list, I begin “Oh lookit. Jingle Bells. How original.” I pause and glance at her. “You call yourself a professional? You didn’t even bother to put the ugly kids in the back row!”

Joseph wails.

“Shut up!” I repeat, already back to Mrs Tanner’s songlist. “A Hippopotamus for Christmas?” I guffaw. “Well that’s not even plausible ... !”

“Have you no soul?” cries Mrs. Tanner.

I shrug. “I got a jar of mayonnaise for it in 2003.”

Bullets to Spare

Predator Press

[LOBO]

“Let’s say a complex unfixable issue in Section 36 will likely cause us all to die,” I says. “I would immediately say ’You know what Section 36? You guys are assholes!’”

I pause for a second, looking out the window for dramatic effect. “-and then Section 36 fixes the issue. Disaster is averted, and we all survive.”

There’s an uncomfortable silence.

Crap.

-I thought I was doing really well there.

“See,” I continue -hoping to recapture my previous inertia and maybe rescue the effort. “That’s the kind of job I need: a 'sexy, take chargy, top-secrety, lot's of cashy company jetty'-type job. And that’s why I think I am perfect for your company.”

“Sir,” he says blandly. “We make baby bottles here.”

“Seriously?”

If You Can't Beat Them ... Well ... THEN What?

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Complainy, already a hard-core 16 year-old ‘texter,’ has probably already lost all ability to see anything further than eighteen inches from her face at this point.

-And glasses ain’t cheap.

“Would you just call those damned people already?” I demand. “You’ve been 'tiny-typing' them for hours!”

“You work on your blog for hours,” she says absently. “Why don’t you just call them?"

“Well I … ,” I begin. “Uhn, … "

“Actually talking to people is so passé,” she says, blue screenlight reflecting in her fixed brown eyes.

“People are not a mixture of minced meat and fat in the form of spreadable paste, generally made from a finely ground or chunky mixture of meats and liver and often generally enjoyed on crackers,” I remind her.

"That's pâté," she corrects.

“Nobody likes a smart ass," I retort. "And you can’t hold me responsible for that whole 'Arkansas' thing forever: I lost my wallet, and I certainly wasn’t going to catch a deer with two cans of 'Old Style.'”

-I pause for a second, rewinding the incident in my head.

“And that jerk was wearing A1 sauce,” I recall pounding my fist into the table. “He was askin’ for it!”

Complainy blinks at her phone. “Were you saying something dad?”

“Man what is wrong with you kids today?” I demand. “Back in my day, AC/DC was cool, Ozzy was evil, and Red Hot Chili Peppers was seasoning!”

“Really,” she says disinterested. “Wow.”

“And we respected our … !"

Uh-oh.

“Ah screw it,” I concede. “Just try to stay out of jail, okay?”

Generations

Predator Press

[LOBO]

There’s a moment in every father’s life when his son’s accomplishments and talents will eclipse his own.

Contemplating this solemnly, I open the small gray panel on the wall. Screechy, the six year old, is surrounded by animated friends and family and playing Centipede furiously in the living room.

-And he is poised to break my all-time high score.

Locating the black switch scrawled “Living Room” in marker, I toggle it to “off,” and then back to “on.”

A disbelieving shriek emanates throughout the house, but I’m already rappelling down the back of the house and into my waiting car.

Throwing the ski mask into the back seat, I punch the gas to the floor. The tires scream hot on the concrete for traction.

"Not today ya little bastard," I says.

Obama Cabinet Appointments Raise Eyebrows, Concerns

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Being unemployed has it’s upside: you have time to do things other people don’t, such as recapture your old high score on Centipede or Defender.

But I’m a journalist dammit: millions and millions of readers every day come to Predator Press as their sole source of news, and I owe it to them to steal Barack Obama’s briefcase if you think about it -the injuries I sustained busting the lock off are all part ‘an parcel to the gig.

There’s no need to thank me until Pulitzer time rolls around.

-I'll be playing Missile Command by then.


***

Anton 'Ice Cream' Wellingsdale the Second will be the "brains" of the operation as Secretary of State. Ice Cream is most well-known for his controversial book I Hate Whitey and the sequel Whitey Kiss My Ass -both of which are currently runaway bestsellers, and the first books ever to go double platinum.

Kimbo Slice will be filling the slot of Attorney General. I don’t really know what the Attorney General actually does, but whatever it is I’ll bet this former MMA fighter will be doin a lot of it: simulations testing Kimbo's diplomatic aptitude almost universally concluded with him wrapping the cord around Mao Zedong's neck and beating him upside the head with the red phone.

Secretary of War Rendell 'The Mix' Warren is a Harvard Graduate and a former Black Panther. You may best remember him from The Electric Slide Made Me Do It defense put forth by his lawyers, culminating into a “not guilty” verdict for the murder of an barload of drunk chicks using a dog-eared copy of Ice Cream’s Whitey Kiss My Ass.

In The Mix's downtime, he enjoys working with his Saddam Hussein tribute band, drinking "40s," theoretical astrophysics, classical art from the 1800s and baking.

There’s more information on some of these guys than others: the data on our new Secretary of the Treasury is sketchy at best –all I got was this picture and some "You Gonna Get Raped" letterhead.

The one on top is scrawled "Draft legislation outlawing Nascar, the Country Music Awards and square dancing."

-It's underlined twice.

Glop (or “How to Save Yourself $50,000”)

Predator Press

[LOBO]

“Okay,” says Terri. “We have three kids, no silverware, a crock pot and $26 with which to eat on for three days. What did you come up with?”

“Well," I says, "Since none of you mincing pansies are brave enough for the candy corn, I hadda go with glop."

-See, this is why Terri wisely chose me as a mate: I have an innate unwavering natural gift for making her kids shut up happy.

We shall eat glop, and the glop shall be Good.

-So sayith the Board.

“What the heck is glop?” asks Shiftless.

Complainy sighs, “Tonight we dine in Hell.”

“Glop,” I says, “Is what I ate through college. It stands for Get Lots On Plate. You go to a grocery store and just wing it. Rice, chicken, a can of corn ... maybe peas. Add some soy sauce and poof. Glop.”

“Mine has splinters in it,” says Terri.

“That’s because I didn’t have a knife,” I explain. “I hadda cut it with the edge of a two-by-four. But it’s tenderized and fully-cooked. Perfectly sanitary.”

Shiftless pulls the spoon from the pot, and it looks like a turkey leg of sticky rice with peas stuck all over it.

With a despondent scowl, he bangs the fork loudly against the pot’s edge in vain effort to break the surprisingly impact-resistant glop free.

“Man," he says. "Fuck college.”

Dissonance and Dattonance

Predator Press

[LOBO]

I have an ongoing love/hate relationship with Entrecard.

Sure you wander into a few truly original gems ... Entrecard is how I found Neon Bubble, Daisy the Curly Cat and Crotchety Old Man Yells at Cars.

But ultimately for every gem there's like 652 tons of schlock to sift through, and when it all boils down I think I like the Humor-Blogs environment better. That's where talent like the Acorn King, Taunt Vortex Unfinished Rambler and Riding with Rickey reside and reign supreme. Call me a cynic, but when your blog's opening line is "I'm a happily married woman ..." I feel like screaming "Oh really?"

Slut!

First of all -assuming that's true- who cares? I don't want to be cruel here, but who wants to read about your lousy happiness and egregious contentedness? That's just bragging. And bragging is mind-numbingly boring.

Your pointed denial, brownie recipe and ugly kids do not interest me. I wanna read a blog about a guy that thinks he's a parking meter and fights crime when the red "Time Expired" flag comes up -but is deathly allergic to crawfish. Or maybe a lawyer that reunites the ghosts of roadkill cats with the drivers that killed them for some old-school payback.

Mulling over your pedestrain blasé bliss is not how I want to spend an afternoon: I suggest when your spouse comes home from the accounting firm or whatever, answer the door wearing nothing but Saran Wrap and a thin coat of Vaseline ... and then jack 'em up with a tire iron.

Aside from that, bank robberies are always a good bet. Too much planning? How about good ‘ol fashioned arson?

C’mon people! Use your imagination here!

Just For the Smell of It

Predator Press

[LOBO]

I struggled for days with the "Smelly" meme-slash-tag from the delightful and original Nooter the Dog, "Name 5 Smells You Like and Dislike."

I did two or three drafts and didn't like any of them.

But the harder it was, the more it intrigued me. The difficulty, I finally concluded, was mostly attributable to the nature of the question: I don't really have five "likes" and "dislikes" in this particular category.

Smell for me is like how I regard the weather: the best weather is weather I can't feel. There's good weather, and then there's too hot weather, too cold weather, too rainy weather, blah blah.

Similarly, with smell there's good smell, and then there's serin gas, burning living room, freshly-baked bread probably laced with anthrax, et cetera.

-The role of smell for me has pretty much been reduced to that of an Early Warning System.

Based on this logic, I did finally come up with my one best candidate for "most disliked smell": the smell of burning nostril hair. But burning nostril hair also appears at the top of my "Most Liked" smell chart, as this smell would trigger my brain to fire all the necessary synapses required to pull my head out of the deep fryer (should that embarrassing circumstance ever occur again -melting flesh doesn't smell too good either, but it wouldn't make my top 5).

Ultimately I decided when I sat down to give the theme my own "twist": I would give my #1 topmost "dislikes" and "likes" for all the senses.


Top Sensory Likes:
This one is easy.

-They are all my wife, Terri.


Top Sensory Dislikes:
#1 Sight Dislike: Suffering

Be it human or animal, physical injuries and dead stuff give me the willies ... there's apparently a strong visual component to my level of empathy.

Remember that movie where the entire town was bustling about waiting for a giant great white shark to eat them, but then the writers used a word processor to replace the words "great white shark" with "volcano" and "Sheriff Brody" with "Pierce Brosnan" in the script -and then renamed the movie Dante's Peak? Pierce Brosnan gets a compound fracture in that movie, and it totally freaked me out. That's how utterly and helplessly squeamish I am: Pierce Brosnan getting banged up at the end of ninety minutes of full-blown big-budget Hollywood cowchip shoulda made me cheer.

To this day, if you showed me a picture of myself in that theater suffering through Dante's Peak I would totally pass out.

But speaking of cowchips ...

#1 Smell Dislike: Dairy Farms

We drove by a dairy farm twice a few weeks ago on the way to and from Morro Bay. See that I underlined 'drove by'? I did that on purpose. I wanted to point out that we were not stopping there: we were going 65 miles per hour. I also wanted to differentiate between that and a 'drive by,' which would imply Terri and I were gunning the cows down in the street while flashing Hereford gang signs.

So now that that's cleared up, on the way up to Morro Bay it was pretty bad, but not particularly bad enough to make this list.

But driving back that night it was horrendous. Seriously. Remember that scene in Total Recall when Arnold Schwarzenegger and Rachel Ticotin tumble out onto the surface of Mars without an atmosphere and their eyes get all weird and freaky? That was me 'an Terri. That thick air hit us like a wall -even with the windows rolled up- and it was all I could do not to light a match and blow us -cows and all- straight to Hell.

We should make these cheap farmers just buy their damned milk at the store just like everyone else.

#1 Touch Dislike: Velvet and Cotton

Call it a phobia or something. I'm fine with snakes, spiders, whatever ... but if there's a cotton ball in my aspirin and I can't find assistance, I'm totally screwed: something about that intemperate soft dryness makes my skin crawl.

Eweee!

#1 Sound Dislike: Terri's Ringtone

I love Terri with all my heart, but I'm not alone on this: everybody hates it. It's some chick singing "I hope you know, I hope you know that this has nothing to do with you." The song in itself isn't bad, but Terri -a person who's cell goes off constantly- has had it for a year now. Plus she's a 'Gal on the Go' and I am the exact opposite -a 'Guy On The Couch': I associate that ringtone with needing to throw some ring into Mount Doom, or visiting yet another relative that doesn't watch football.

#1 Taste Dislike: Cigarette Lit at Wrong End

Yes you Health Nazis, I smoke. In fact I compile spreadsheets of where you people live, and at night sneak into your house to smoke cigars under your newborn baby's cribs!

Ah just kidding. I just made up the part about the spreadsheets. But cigarette smokers know what I mean here. There are four stages to inhaling the wrong end of a filtered cigarette:

1) Denial: At this stage, the smoke in your lungs "feels" kinda funny. You look at your hand and confirm your worst fear: the filter is indeed lit, and the wrong end is between your fingers. "That doesn't mean anything" you tell yourself. "It's all circumstantial!" But inevitably you arrive at

2) Acceptance: For what is likely less than a second, you seemingly have an eternity of anticipating the horrible taste of whatever they make those things out of. "What is that awful taste, anyway?" you'll be thinking. "Is it fiberglass with a dash of pulverized fish bones?" Seriously. "I remember last time it tasted like a dehydrated peanut putter and sardine sandwich melting in my mouth-"

3) Bargaining: This usually takes the form of a thought like, "Maybe if I stuck a pencil through my eye, the pain would drown out the taste of it-"

4) Fruition: Boom! The taste hits, and all your friends laugh as your entire face collapses into a singularity of utter disgust. In fact, that's how they spot your dumbass backwards-lit cigarette: before you're even tasting "normal" again, you're the butt (pardon my pun) of about twelve minutes of public amusement and shaming.
In Conclusion (or "Swift and Lethal Meme-Slash-Tag Payback")
Here's the part where I'm supposed to "hand off" the tag to five other people. But for the various reasons I explained, this post took me more time than any other post this year.

With that in mind, I've decided to make this more egalitarian and fair. So consider my 'comments' a sort of a 'Do Not Call' list like the government has for telemarketers ... except it's a 'Do Not Tag' list.

-Anyone who doesn't comment remains eligible.

(Sneaky 'lil bastard, ain't I? heehee)