Nosebleed

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Possessing the radiant braniosity of 1,000 men (or roughly six women) can be a lonely cross to bear.

See, people don’t always embrace genius. True, genius is often well-received ... but more often than not genius is dressed like Rihanna and in front of Chris Brown’s house, yelling disparaging comments about his penis size.

-But I carry on because I care.

Still, when I found out there was a scientific institute named The National Aeronautics and Space Administration (NASA) that I wasn’t a part of, I was furious.

Not only was I not invited to participate, but they didn’t even change the name -lifting it directly from my own institution: The National Aeronautics and Space Administration of LOBO (NASAL).

And how can you have an “aeronautic space administration” –national or otherwise- without the world’s foremost theoretical astrophysicizer?

Hm?

Spree

Predator Press

[LOBO]

“I fixed your hood ornament,” says the tech.

“Actually you broke it off,” I point out.

“Semantics,” he replies. “It kept poking me while I was under the hood so I got rid of it. You didn’t need it anyways. It’s more aerodynamic this way.”

“That’s not the point, is it?”

“Look,” says the guy. “I put a different one on. It’s just as good, and this one doesn’t poke me anymore. What are you afraid of? Somebody will mistake your stupid car for another stupid car? Frankly I’m sick of you people and your petty imaginary car competitions -all conducted the expense of my physical and emotional well-being!”

I have a headache now.

He pokes me in the shoulder.

"By the way, here's your antenna.”

How I Got Back on the Board of Education

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Being back in the Principle’s office, I believe, makes my edginess warranted.

My fifteen years of adolescent “education” were absolutely riddled with paddlings.

-They don’t do it anymore, but I still make the association.

For a few moments I fall behind the gentleman as we walk to Screechy’s classroom, and I find myself staring at the back of his head and thinking I could take this guy.

“This is the classroom,” he says, swinging the door wide.

What followed was an assault of color and information that reminded me of that mushroom pizza I had in Amsterdam: there wasn’t a square inch of that place that wasn’t both visually stuffed with information and somehow delicious in appearance like candy.

This room could make me insane.

“He’s a good student,” the Principle says. “He just-“

OMG they’ve got 'HOP on Pop‎.'

“-and upon occasion we’ve noticed-“

I LOVE 'HOP on Pop!'

“Sir?” says the Principle.

“I said this room is terrifying,” I repeat.

I think.

“How so?”

“Well,” I begin. “The alphabet pictures over the chalk board. They show pictures of animals. A-Aardvark, B-Brontosaurus, C-Cat, D-Dog…”

“And this is a problem?”

“S is a stethoscope. Until ‘S’, we have all animals.” I shake my head. “You people will be the first to ditch me when my son asks for a pet stethoscope. How could you be so heartless?”

“We’re trying to tell you,” Principle Estevez continues, “that your son is exhibiting narcissistic delusions of grandeur, aggression and slightly paranoid antisocial behaviors.”

“That comes from his mother,” I explain. “Are you guys serving donuts? You guys dragged me in here at 8:30 in the morning and don’t have coffee and donuts? Seriously?”

"Sir, we-"

"I should totally kick your ass."

Starter Gods

Predator Press

[LOBO]

I don’t imagine you would start out as The God. I think you would start small and work your way up. Like, for instance, you would begin as the God of the Star Wars Jawas –curing blindness by changing the AA batteries that make their eyes work, et cetera.

See the rules for gods are the same as in boating: the bigger gods get the “right of way” and the smaller ones have to yield. For you non-nautical types, think of it in terms of going to the buffet: if you and some kid that looks like Pauly Shore are making a play for the same pork chop, you stab Pauly with your fork to make your intentions clear and that’s it. But on the other hand if it’s the woman being recruited as a linebacker for the Saint Louis Rams –you know, with her fat, powerful toes spilling out over her flip flops and gripping the carpet like it might suddenly become the ceiling should gravity reverse itself- you might consider some Salisbury steak instead.

So where was I? Oh yeah. Jawas. Creepy little guys. They dress kinda like ghosts. Ever play Pac Man? When you eat the big flashing dot the ghosts turn blue, and you can eat them. Blue like R2D2! Coincidence? Or were the Jawas trying to protect their endangered brethren? Hmm?

Answer me, dammit!

I’m kidding, of course. As the Unofficial God of Jawas, I have it on good authority R2-D2 was mistaken for a Jawa in a mumu, and all efforts to get him to Mos Eisley where he was to catch his connecting Honolulu flight were all grossly overblown misunderstandings. Then one Jawa innocently peaked up R2’s torso to see where that third leg came from and whammo: lawsuit.

And what would Jawa porn be like? I mean you don’t see much of them except their glowing eyes what with the robe and all. Are their eyes the only -*ahem*- things that glow? Could we expect a strobe effect while on Jawa spanked the other screamin ”Who’s your daddy?”

So where was I?

Oh yeah.

To All You Poor Rich People: WELCOME!

Predator Press

[LOBO]

I heard Rush Limbaugh giving a speech today.

It’s safe to say it alarmed me a little. Not what he was actually saying … oh Christ no I’ve been tuning that guy out for years. But the fact that he is talking to people who are listening always gives me the heebie-jeebies.

The Obama camp is being besieged by a re-inspired Republican Party: the rationale is that Obama is supposedly leading us into a Socialist-type quagmire.

I’m not any political party.

And with that being said, I think the Republicans should shut the fuck up. You “Republicans” who rationalized George W. Bush –barely a mammal- for eight fucking years have the balls to wonder why the “Republican Party” leaves a bad taste in America’s mouth right now?

Seriously?

I suggest you guys reprioritize and go find yourself a candidate that can be, well, elected.

:)

All My Worldly Possessions

[LOBO]

Okay.

I’ve bought a chest from roughly the World War II era.

And for the last ten years I’ve filled it with random stuff like slabs of cuneiform, Aztec sundials, obscure navigational coordinates, and maps of unidentified-yet-historic European fortresses and cathedrals.

–All sprinkled lightly with tantalizing Latin and Arabic poetry and diagrams.

The lawyer reading my Last Will and Testament will bequeath this unexplained trove via Overnight Fed-Ex to my least favorite relative with the following note:


I was so close!

Predator Press: Wise Investing

Predator Press

[LOBO]

As a male, I have a preoccupation with the family’s “Investment Strategy.”

Terri is always “401k this,” and “stocks ‘n bonds that.”

All that Wall Street hocus-pocus never excited me much: I always thought we should simply buy a waterbed frame that I can just lie in and, fed by tubes, slowly fill up to exactly the size of my coffin.

Life insurance? O hell no. Just spray the lining with PAM and flip me into the cemetery!

See, I’m thinking of installing a garage door right in the bedroom. Terri –once she’s acquired the proper OSHA certifications- could theoretically drive a forklift right in. Modern forklifts –and I’m speaking of the ones with electric batteries- can run without issue for eight hour stretches. I would probably top out at about six hundred pounds -well below specifications.

From our location, we could make it to Alcatraz, Los Angeles, the San Andreas Fault and the Sequoia National Park with a good 50 hours of hard driving and intercepting charged batteries via strategic Fed-Ex locations.

-But I think Terri is just plain lazy.

Oasis

Predator Press

[LOBO]

“No, Shiftless,” I says to my teenage son with finality. “You can’t play Blood Armageddon IX while Screechy is around anymore. He’s six. I don’t want him evolving the idea that violence solves anything for anyone except myself.”

“What?”

“You heard me. If word gets around violence works for other people too, I could be in big trouble.”

Johnny Cash: Beyond Thunderdome

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Dear Mr. Steven Spielberg,

As your bodyguards have recently reminded me, I know this is in direct violation of my Temporary Restraining Order.

-But I cannot in good conscience let you miss out on this script!

Enclosed is the first three chapters of my script Johnny Cash: Beyond Thunderdome.

While one thousand six hundred and seven pages might seem a bit cumbersome, please remember that they are double-spaced for your reading convenience.

To summarize, Joaquin Phoenix reprises his role as Johnny Cash who has risen from the dead in a post-apocalyptic world due to bad Tina Turner music. Then he becomes a Rabbi and is forced to kick the shit out of Mad Max (portrayed by Mel Gibson).

Humiliated, Mad Max is forced underground and forges an uneasy alliance with Batman and the “A” Team: together they create a the Death Dradle which threatens to wipe out Thunderdome which -while redundant- meanaces however many extras we can pick up fast and “on the cheap.”

Alerted to the Death Dradle’s sinister purpose, the population of Thunderdome rally behind Johnny, and the six of them design and create a lethal countermeasure: The Aurora Menorah. This plan –essentially throwing sand and scorpions at anyone with a Mohawk hairstyle- is doomed to failure however: the Mohawk guys have invisible motorcycles and guns.

Johnny Cash -now known as "Snake"- is captured, and Thunderdome is immediately retaken by Max. But Johnny’s last wish before his execution is to play an invisible guitar, and he plays a song so bluesy and sad Batman –his guard- hangs himself with his own BatCables™ . Johnny, after administering mouth-to-mouth CPR on Batman and triggering numerous lawsuits from DC Comics, escapes with the aid of his newfound pet rat Ben and continues on with his plan to assassinate Hitler.

Fleeing into the desert, Johnny is beset by visions and memories of his past life, realizing he died fairly definitively in the movie Walk the Line.

-Indeed, Johnny must be the world’s first musical Jewish zombie!

And if anti-Semitic Mad Max was going to be defeated, Johnny has to learn to set aside his overpowering musical Jewish zombie craving for brains: this sets the stage for some fantastic Oscar-worthy performances:


DIALOGUE EXCERPT
“Ben,” says tormented Johnny. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“How the fuck could I know?” says the rat (voiced by Bruce Willis).

“Can’t I have just a little bit of brains?”

“No,” says Ben. “It’s a strict discipline.”

“But I caught you eating my bicep yesterday! Can I at least lick the brain spoon after you put the chocolate chips and sprinkles in it?”

“Let me have the bicep and I’ll think it over.”

“Done. Here.”

“No,” says Ben between chews. "Now load your invisible gun and get on your invisible motorcycle. Tina Turner just issued a press release calling you Bigfoot's Manifesto."


END DIALOGUE EXCERPT
Steven, I have no doubt you -the premier visionary Director of the Twentieth Centurion- see immediately in the genius of this script. Please call me to begin negotiations at 555-999-5150.

And hurry up.

-It’s a payphone.

I Miss George W. Bush

Predator Press

[LOBO]

I think –in pursuit of shaking this slump- I need to listen to less news.

What happened to that doddering white guy in cowboy boots everybody hated tellin’ us how great everything was a few months ago? I slept better knowing he was out there pickin fights ‘an declaring victory on random stuff. But now every morning it’s a black guy goin’ ”Holy freakin crap people, we’re screwed!”

I think the white guy should maybe fill in on weekends and vacation days: Saturday mornings I could tune into CNN and be pleasantly surprised with an upbeat newscast like Middle East Makes Up, Orgy Ensues or Chili Con Carne Recipe Cures Cancer, Genital Warts.

Would that be so bad?

Seriously?

Funk

Predator Press

[LOBO]

A handful of psychotherapists have indicated some concern over my moodiness lately.

Indeed, I’ve been in an orbit around ‘ah screw it’ for maybe three weeks now.

“Try to do something charitable,” says one. “There’s nothing more satisfying than being in service to others.”

So’s my mom has got a doctor appointment today, right? I figure here’s my chance: taking the old bat to her appointment might be a big step in breaking the sulk, and thusly keep my psychotherapists too busy to dawdle on dumb ideas.

But as this morning rolled around it dawned on me I didn’t know what kind of appointment it was. Hey if it’s an eye doctor or something, fine. But what if it’s, like, a –ahem- feminine doctor? That would be a waiting room experience even the Creepy Meter couldn’t quantify.

”Oh relax,” she laughs over my cellphone speaker. ”It’s just my in-network orthopedic surgeon.”

Calling her on my way to pick her up is dumb on a lot of levels. First of all, I’m committed at this point. There’s no “oops I overslept” option anymore: you’re stuck with faking an aneurysm or swerving into the other lane of traffic.

But second is my admitted inability to drive and talk on the cell in the first place. The driving side is fine, but the conversation suffers: you’re almost more apt to get a tuna casserole recipe out of me than anything useful.

I glance balefully at the phone, which is wedged cleverly in my emergency brake handle.

“Your in-network or torpedic surgeon?” I repeat. “What the hell is a ‘torpedic surgeon’?”

“It’s a bone doctor,” she explains.

“Once you get down to bones, isn’t it a little late?”

”Oh no. They have wonderful new technologies.”

“Sure,” I says. “They can scan you in a second and suck out what’s wrong with a glowing crazy straw made of lasers. But I’ll bet you a dollar nobody has figured out how to keep us out of the waiting room for anything less than an hour.”

“Doctor Quan has a very interesting collection of ceremonial masks on display.”

Ceremonial masks?

“Mom, what kind of doctor is this again?”

“In network.”

“Don’t we have American doctors anymore?” I complain. “You remember. An American doctor stumbles in off of the golf course drinking a glass of bourbon, puts his cigarette out on the floor, and punches you in the stomach. If you get up, you’re fine.” I grab my coffee out of the caddy. “You mean to say there wasn’t a single ‘Doctor Cooter’ in the whole damn phone book?”

”That would be a funny name for a gynecologist,” she points out.

-I blacked out actually hearing my mother utter the ‘G’ word by swinging into my exit lane. I’m pretty adept with my ‘mom’ filters: I don’t think I’ve heard a full sentence she’s said since I was six years old. “Doctor Cooter could do it all,” I says. “The receptionist says ‘next,’ and one by one the patients go in -never to be seen again.

”That sounds kinda creepy.”

“No. Because he cures them. Doctor Cooter doesn’t make you drive thirty miles to a specialist for X-rays before you see him next month. Doctor Cooter doesn’t need lousy X-rays. Doctor Cooter has instinct.”

”And an aptitude for body blows,” she adds.

“Exactly. And it’s not just one hour in the waiting room for Doctor Cooter. No. He calls everyone in at eight o’clock sharp so we could all watch each other slowly thin out. Six minutes later the lights are dimming in synch with an oscillating sound that suspiciously resembles a chainsaw. ReaaaahhhngggingingingAWWWW!”

”That’s awful.”

“-and glowing blue sparks shoot out from the crack under the door!” I kill the car engine in her driveway. “Hey I’m here.”

”I don’t think I want to go anymore,” says mom. ”Can I just tell them you overslept?”

“By all means.”