[LOBO]My family is Christian, Catholic … I dunno, something.
Cremate, bury, priest, yes, no, blah blah ….
I want a dead chicken revolved over my grave for twenty years.
And a monster car rally.
-Exactly as Buddha would have wanted it.
Friday
In Loving Memory
Predator Press
[LOBO]
My family is Christian, Catholic … I dunno, something.
Cremate, bury, priest, yes, no, blah blah ….
I want a dead chicken revolved over my grave for twenty years.
And a monster car rally.
-Exactly as Buddha would have wanted it.
[LOBO]My family is Christian, Catholic … I dunno, something.
Cremate, bury, priest, yes, no, blah blah ….
I want a dead chicken revolved over my grave for twenty years.
And a monster car rally.
-Exactly as Buddha would have wanted it.
Thursday
Cynical Airline Denies "Pay It Forward" Frequent Flyer Miles, Haley Joel Osment Stranded at O'Hare
Predator Press
[LOBO]
At some point, one of the kids is going to inherit the LOBOnian Empire.
-And before you ask, no, I don’t intend on dying. But while the LOBOnian Empire is a vast and complex kingdom, it’s also often excruciatingly boring too: I wouldn’t have bothered having kids were it not for the need of someone to
Regarding the ability to run said empire, it’s too early to tell with the youngest, Screechy. He's seven. At this age, he has the attention span of a gnat -no, that’s too moderate: picture a hyper spaz gnat, suddenly paroled from a ten-year stint in prison, jazzed up on a half gallon of expresso, and then dropped off immediately at the gnat equivalent of the Playboy Mansion. Scatter empty juice boxes in the most improbable places you can think of, stir in an insatiable appetite for restless eight-second viewings of Spongebob Squarepants, and there you go: Screechy.
I’m forced to admit Screechy’s cousin, a year older, currently looks a bit more promising: she’s not only focused, but she’s a conniving, relentlessly talkative tattletail that -over a long enough timeline- drives everyone in earshot murderously insane.
-As a potential heir, she’s light years ahead of any of my immediate brood.
Her name is, eh, Freckles or something I think. And at the request of my mother in law, I’m taking her to school this morning. This is not a big deal as Screechy goes to the same one -but as a consequence of the unexpected detour, were running the risk of being late.
“I’m going to be Darth Vader,” Screechy says of Halloween, tiny feet beating the pavement hard to keep up with us. I can’t see his face under the hood of his jacket, but you can tell by his voice he’s beaming. “I got the cape and the and the mask 'an lightsaber and everything!”
“I’m going to be a princess,” Freckles challenges.
We’re at the crowded and narrow school gate, and this is where the whole ‘bonding with the kids’ thing pays off for me and I humiliate them mercilessly: the last time we were here it was “Crazy Sock Day,” and in front of a boy Freckles has a crush on I pointed at the sign and announced loudly, “See? I told you. Crazy Sock Day -there’s no such thing as Crazy Face Day!”
Freckles -having no appreciation for the laughter she inadvertently provided- turned beet red and smoldered with mixed rage and embarrassment instantly.
Well that was only a week ago. She shoulda known better than to set me up with this ‘princess’ thing. And as a potential heiress to the LOBOnian Empire, she's going to have to learn to anticipate these things.
“You can’t be a princess,” I explain, wading through chattering waist-high traffic. “You have to be nice to be a princess. I think you guys should trade costumes.”
Wobbling dangerously under the weight of his backpack, Screechy punches my thigh. Simultaneously, Freckles doubles the distance between us.
“You’re a princess!” she taunts.
“Nice comeback, Potsie,” I says
-Because nothing cripples the logic of an eight year old little girl like ‘Happy Days’ references.
“I’m calling you princess from now on, Ha ha,” she says in sing-song, skipping. “Prin-cess, prin-cess … “
Under dozens of tiny amused stares I lost a beat pondering this. How bad could it be? I’m thinking. Nice cars, a big castle, and a cadre of servants … I could lay around poolside drinking margaritas. You know … eye candy. And make people try to slay dragons and stuff.
Assuming there’s no homosexual component, the only downside of being a princess I could think of would be having a tennis instructor and a fitness trainer … but surely my dungeon could always hold a few more, right?
Heck, I would probably make a kickass princess.
“Fine,” I says, aloof and to no one in particular in a British-sounding falsetto voice. Holding up my hand daintily, I swish a bit as I walk to her and stick my foot out. “And my first act as a monarch is to command you to kiss Our Royal Pinkie Toe.”
“You’re a jerk,” she says.
“Princess,” I correct.
Wednesday
T Tauri
or "Woke Up on the Wrong Side of the Universe"
Predator Press
[LOBO]
One can only assume God, in His infinite wisdom, put me on this imperfect world in order to straighten some of this crap out.
So, bound by this sacred duty, I’m occasionally impelled to inform you of how things are going.
The current State of Affairs is “This Sucks.”
Now I know “This Sucks” is the same State of Affairs as the last time and the time before that-
-you know what? Now that I look, they all say “This Sucks.”
No, wait. Here’s one from when I was in college:
“****, This Sucks!”
Based on the steady decline of profanity in my notes, one can infer there has there has been some progress I suppose: “This Sucks” is clearly more subdued than “****, This Sucks!,” reflecting a small -yet undeniable- measure of suck reduction.
In fact if you think about it, Humanity is already reaping the fruit of my hard sacrifices and labor. There is no need to thank me -my humility suggests I would likely be too embarrassed anyway. Moreover I have deliberately made your doubtless gratitude for my contributions nigh impossible to express: you cannot, for instance, send me precious metals, high end electronics or luxury cars -heck, until my preemptive Temporary Restraining Order is lifted, you can't even call.
-But now that I think about it, a world without routes to ingratiate me seems a cruel and inhumane world too horrible to imagine. Fine. I will set up a PayPal account or something if you promise to stop sidetracking me with your incessant, woefully unrequited appreciation.
Anyway where was I? Oh yeah. The State of Affairs. This is probably the last one: I have decided to cancel all future 'State of Affairs' updates unless there is a change in the "This Sucks" status. Why? Because “This Sucks” appears to be the upper end of the spectrum for what even a gifted and impossibly handsome mortal man such as myself can accomplish, and I deem these reports redundant and needlessly depressing. The Earth sucks. There. I officially said it. And I know this will come as a rather unpleasant shock, but let not your heart be troubled: if necessary, cheer yourself up by beating the crap out of an environmentalist or something.
Worsening things the economy intrinsically bound to Earth sucks, and the hope for getting off of this planet and finding another one to complain about is unlikely in the near future: such exploration is often dicey and extremely expensive. Thusly forever imprisoned, we may find some solace in that the rest of the universe is a dump too -but isn’t this dubious comfort merely a further symptom of the colossal galactic scale of improbable and staggering suckitude that permeates all things known and unknown?
The mind reels ... with this irrefutable proof that my presence has made the Earth suck slightly less, how can we quantify the mind-bogglingly vast amounts of suck probably out there where I am not? You would have to invent, like, a whole new math. And math sucks, don't forget -this only deepens our situation further.
Everywhere else in the universe, clouds of hydrogen are collapsing upon themselves due the inescapable power of suck, igniting their cores to create mammoth fusion-powered suck machines that suck on each other to form globular clusters of suck that will one day explode their suckiness all over the rest of the infinitely vast and insatiable sucking void. We have that to look forward to. And that will really suck.
A famous smart guy once wrote something like “And with strange aeons, even sucking may suck.”
Man that guy was ahead of his time.
It was probably me. Or Einstein.
Predator Press
[LOBO]One can only assume God, in His infinite wisdom, put me on this imperfect world in order to straighten some of this crap out.
So, bound by this sacred duty, I’m occasionally impelled to inform you of how things are going.
The current State of Affairs is “This Sucks.”
Now I know “This Sucks” is the same State of Affairs as the last time and the time before that-
-you know what? Now that I look, they all say “This Sucks.”
No, wait. Here’s one from when I was in college:
“****, This Sucks!”
Based on the steady decline of profanity in my notes, one can infer there has there has been some progress I suppose: “This Sucks” is clearly more subdued than “****, This Sucks!,” reflecting a small -yet undeniable- measure of suck reduction.
In fact if you think about it, Humanity is already reaping the fruit of my hard sacrifices and labor. There is no need to thank me -my humility suggests I would likely be too embarrassed anyway. Moreover I have deliberately made your doubtless gratitude for my contributions nigh impossible to express: you cannot, for instance, send me precious metals, high end electronics or luxury cars -heck, until my preemptive Temporary Restraining Order is lifted, you can't even call.
-But now that I think about it, a world without routes to ingratiate me seems a cruel and inhumane world too horrible to imagine. Fine. I will set up a PayPal account or something if you promise to stop sidetracking me with your incessant, woefully unrequited appreciation.
Anyway where was I? Oh yeah. The State of Affairs. This is probably the last one: I have decided to cancel all future 'State of Affairs' updates unless there is a change in the "This Sucks" status. Why? Because “This Sucks” appears to be the upper end of the spectrum for what even a gifted and impossibly handsome mortal man such as myself can accomplish, and I deem these reports redundant and needlessly depressing. The Earth sucks. There. I officially said it. And I know this will come as a rather unpleasant shock, but let not your heart be troubled: if necessary, cheer yourself up by beating the crap out of an environmentalist or something.
Worsening things the economy intrinsically bound to Earth sucks, and the hope for getting off of this planet and finding another one to complain about is unlikely in the near future: such exploration is often dicey and extremely expensive. Thusly forever imprisoned, we may find some solace in that the rest of the universe is a dump too -but isn’t this dubious comfort merely a further symptom of the colossal galactic scale of improbable and staggering suckitude that permeates all things known and unknown?
The mind reels ... with this irrefutable proof that my presence has made the Earth suck slightly less, how can we quantify the mind-bogglingly vast amounts of suck probably out there where I am not? You would have to invent, like, a whole new math. And math sucks, don't forget -this only deepens our situation further.
Everywhere else in the universe, clouds of hydrogen are collapsing upon themselves due the inescapable power of suck, igniting their cores to create mammoth fusion-powered suck machines that suck on each other to form globular clusters of suck that will one day explode their suckiness all over the rest of the infinitely vast and insatiable sucking void. We have that to look forward to. And that will really suck. A famous smart guy once wrote something like “And with strange aeons, even sucking may suck.”
Man that guy was ahead of his time.
It was probably me. Or Einstein.
Tuesday
There Was an Old Woman Who Lived in a Shoe
-as retold by Predator Press
[LOBO]
Humpty Dumpty knocked on the outside of the massive shoe.
No answer.
He knocked again. Louder.
"Who is it?" she cried from deep within.
"It’s the Humpster, baby" Humpty grinned into the peephole.
"Come on in. The door isn't locked."
He opens the door a few inches.
"You busy?" he calls into the seemingly-cavernous shoe.
"No," she grunts. "I’ll be there in a second."
"Damn girl," jokes Humpty. "You ain’t havin another baby, are you?"
There’s an awkward silence.
"Aw, congratulations!" says Humpty. He grabs some towels, and heads over to the kitchen to boil water.
Man this crazy ol lady sure does love to get her 'freak' on, he thinks smiling to himself. Shoe or no shoe, this girl knows what to do.
He fires the burner, and fills the pot with water smiling to himself, "Well, you know what they say about women with big hands and big feet."
"What?"
But Humpty, struggling for his asthma breather, didn’t hear her. The sight of the boiling pot of water had triggered a panic attack; all he could hear was the voice of his mother saying "That’s what happened to your father. One minute he was driving a forklift at a macaroni factory, and the next-" she pauses for effect, "Poached!"
"Hey are you alright?" asks the old woman. Now dressed in a sweatsuit, she alertly helps Humpty fumble his breather to his mouth. "What’s wrong?" she asks.
"Poached!" his mother echoed in his head.
"I’m sorry," he chokes, tears streaming. "Every time I see boiling water, I just want to grab a Bushmaster AR-15 and kill everyone I can find."
"Well I do loves a man with an eye for safety," she whispers. "I like Armalites ... don’t get me wrong. But they just don’t have the Viper range safety device that Bushmans do." She throws his arm over her shoulder. "Humpty, have you met my kids?"
Humpty leans away from the kitchen counter, testing his weak and wobbly legs. "Probably not all of them ma’am."
With her arms still around him, she helped him stand. Perhaps it was the proximity or the moment of utter vulnerability –maybe it was merely the smell of her perfume- but Humpty decided if ever there was a moment to tell her how he feels, this is it.
"Baby," he says, staggering to look into her eyes. "We’ve known each other for a long time. How come we never, eh, 'hooked up'?"
"Oh, Humpty," she blushes. "I’m very flattered, but you’re an egg. What would my friends say if I started dating an egg?"
Humpty, pride mortally wounded, looked away to hide the tears. Despite his aching heart, Humpty fought to reply. "You know," he sobbed. "We have our differences. But I have yearned for you for years now. I know your favorite band, favorite color, favorite flower … Damn it I love you."
The woman, shocked, stared in disbelief.
"And I don’t care that you’re an old woman that lives in a shoe," Humpty continued, grabbing her shoulders forcibly. "Can’t you see that discrimination is tearing us apart!?"
The woman’s pupils narrow.
"Get your filthy egg-hands off of me!" she screams.
"But baby-"
She dives for her cellphone, "How dare you!?"
"But I was only trying to-"
"Hello?" she barks into the phone. "Is this all the King’s men? A filthy egg is attacking me!”
Humpty lunges for her phone, and wrests it away from her. "God damn it woman, all the king's men will be trying to kill me now!"
Suddenly, Humpty realizes he has a .45 caliber pistol pointed into his temple.
The woman growls. "You make a sound before the cops get here, and I’ll blow your yolk all over the goddamned insole."
"Jezebel!" cries Humpty, lashing out.
Eyes bulging she chokes, "You damn ... dirty ... egg!" and falls limp in his arms moments later.
"Oh my god," cries Humpty as police sirens wail in the distance. "She’s dead!"
And even as the galloping sound of all the king’s horses become deafening, he calls out into into the sky, "Oh sweet Jesus! what have I done!?!"
[LOBO]
Humpty Dumpty knocked on the outside of the massive shoe.No answer.
He knocked again. Louder.
"Who is it?" she cried from deep within.
"It’s the Humpster, baby" Humpty grinned into the peephole.
"Come on in. The door isn't locked."
He opens the door a few inches.
"You busy?" he calls into the seemingly-cavernous shoe.
"No," she grunts. "I’ll be there in a second."
"Damn girl," jokes Humpty. "You ain’t havin another baby, are you?"
There’s an awkward silence.
"Aw, congratulations!" says Humpty. He grabs some towels, and heads over to the kitchen to boil water.
Man this crazy ol lady sure does love to get her 'freak' on, he thinks smiling to himself. Shoe or no shoe, this girl knows what to do.
He fires the burner, and fills the pot with water smiling to himself, "Well, you know what they say about women with big hands and big feet."
"What?"
But Humpty, struggling for his asthma breather, didn’t hear her. The sight of the boiling pot of water had triggered a panic attack; all he could hear was the voice of his mother saying "That’s what happened to your father. One minute he was driving a forklift at a macaroni factory, and the next-" she pauses for effect, "Poached!"
"Hey are you alright?" asks the old woman. Now dressed in a sweatsuit, she alertly helps Humpty fumble his breather to his mouth. "What’s wrong?" she asks.
"Poached!" his mother echoed in his head.
"I’m sorry," he chokes, tears streaming. "Every time I see boiling water, I just want to grab a Bushmaster AR-15 and kill everyone I can find.""Well I do loves a man with an eye for safety," she whispers. "I like Armalites ... don’t get me wrong. But they just don’t have the Viper range safety device that Bushmans do." She throws his arm over her shoulder. "Humpty, have you met my kids?"
Humpty leans away from the kitchen counter, testing his weak and wobbly legs. "Probably not all of them ma’am."
With her arms still around him, she helped him stand. Perhaps it was the proximity or the moment of utter vulnerability –maybe it was merely the smell of her perfume- but Humpty decided if ever there was a moment to tell her how he feels, this is it.
"Baby," he says, staggering to look into her eyes. "We’ve known each other for a long time. How come we never, eh, 'hooked up'?""Oh, Humpty," she blushes. "I’m very flattered, but you’re an egg. What would my friends say if I started dating an egg?"
Humpty, pride mortally wounded, looked away to hide the tears. Despite his aching heart, Humpty fought to reply. "You know," he sobbed. "We have our differences. But I have yearned for you for years now. I know your favorite band, favorite color, favorite flower … Damn it I love you."
The woman, shocked, stared in disbelief.
"And I don’t care that you’re an old woman that lives in a shoe," Humpty continued, grabbing her shoulders forcibly. "Can’t you see that discrimination is tearing us apart!?"
The woman’s pupils narrow.
"Get your filthy egg-hands off of me!" she screams.
"But baby-"
She dives for her cellphone, "How dare you!?"
"But I was only trying to-"
"Hello?" she barks into the phone. "Is this all the King’s men? A filthy egg is attacking me!”
Humpty lunges for her phone, and wrests it away from her. "God damn it woman, all the king's men will be trying to kill me now!"
Suddenly, Humpty realizes he has a .45 caliber pistol pointed into his temple.
The woman growls. "You make a sound before the cops get here, and I’ll blow your yolk all over the goddamned insole."
"Jezebel!" cries Humpty, lashing out.Eyes bulging she chokes, "You damn ... dirty ... egg!" and falls limp in his arms moments later.
"Oh my god," cries Humpty as police sirens wail in the distance. "She’s dead!"
And even as the galloping sound of all the king’s horses become deafening, he calls out into into the sky, "Oh sweet Jesus! what have I done!?!"
Sunday
Harvester of Marrow
Predator Press
[LOBO]
This “blog,” while still somewhat of a pipsqueak, reaps some benefits Entrecard. Aside from an occasional random-seeming traffic burp, it averages 300-500 hits a day -roughly half of which are directly EC-related.
And I am what Entrecard users classify as a “Harvester.” Harvesters are the villainous and much-hated dastardly bastards that skim through sites at the highest velocity possible. The rate I “drop” versus the rate I read is hideous: when an Entrecarder blogs “I get a lot of new traffic, but they only stay for a fraction of a minute -clearly not reading,” they are complaining about me.
But let’s examine that for a second.
You got people to your site. Correct?
-And nobody reads your stuff?
So your conclusion is the failure to recognize your “brilliance” is because nobody recognizes your brilliance, right?
The fact is getting people to your blog is 95% of the battle; I assert that complaining they don’t stick around is essentially howling to potential new readers “My blog sucks, and it's your fault!” I'm concerned over zombie uprisings and the worrying speculation my burnt toast might’ve once had Jesus’ image on it: don't take it personally, but WTF could I possibly care about your coin collecting and Peruvian copper speculations? Gee, I’m sorry I wandered onto your site. Is there a quiz?
You’re an asshole for bitching that -despite the best possible opportunity- you have failed to grab people’s attention.
-You're probably a zombie too. And stay the fuck away from my toast!!!
I have found some great sites via EC. I've gained some great readers, too. Beyond that, I've clicked on a site 100 times before seeing something that interested me, and then started reading it regularly.
Plus, let's face it: we “Harvesters” are the best EC ads to buy. I’m not particularly disciplined, but I have enough regulars to break 100 or so a day daily –and with high-speed internet, I can do it in 20 minutes or so. Thus, if you’re advertised on my site, you’ll get the bulk of those hits reciprocated.
EC whiners shouldn't feel bad. Human history is chocked full of unrecognized "brilliance."
They won’t be lonely.
[LOBO]
This “blog,” while still somewhat of a pipsqueak, reaps some benefits Entrecard. Aside from an occasional random-seeming traffic burp, it averages 300-500 hits a day -roughly half of which are directly EC-related.
And I am what Entrecard users classify as a “Harvester.” Harvesters are the villainous and much-hated dastardly bastards that skim through sites at the highest velocity possible. The rate I “drop” versus the rate I read is hideous: when an Entrecarder blogs “I get a lot of new traffic, but they only stay for a fraction of a minute -clearly not reading,” they are complaining about me.
But let’s examine that for a second.
You got people to your site. Correct?
-And nobody reads your stuff?
So your conclusion is the failure to recognize your “brilliance” is because nobody recognizes your brilliance, right?
The fact is getting people to your blog is 95% of the battle; I assert that complaining they don’t stick around is essentially howling to potential new readers “My blog sucks, and it's your fault!” I'm concerned over zombie uprisings and the worrying speculation my burnt toast might’ve once had Jesus’ image on it: don't take it personally, but WTF could I possibly care about your coin collecting and Peruvian copper speculations? Gee, I’m sorry I wandered onto your site. Is there a quiz?
You’re an asshole for bitching that -despite the best possible opportunity- you have failed to grab people’s attention.
-You're probably a zombie too. And stay the fuck away from my toast!!!
I have found some great sites via EC. I've gained some great readers, too. Beyond that, I've clicked on a site 100 times before seeing something that interested me, and then started reading it regularly.
Plus, let's face it: we “Harvesters” are the best EC ads to buy. I’m not particularly disciplined, but I have enough regulars to break 100 or so a day daily –and with high-speed internet, I can do it in 20 minutes or so. Thus, if you’re advertised on my site, you’ll get the bulk of those hits reciprocated.
EC whiners shouldn't feel bad. Human history is chocked full of unrecognized "brilliance."
They won’t be lonely.
Saturday
Shocking Evidence Suggests Someone May Have Slept With Nicole Richie
or "Simple Life"
Predator Press
[LOBO]
The global scientific community was rocked today by suggestions that someone may have indeed slept with Nicole Richie.
Doctor Winifred Shaw, Head Researcher for the Darwin Institute, took a moment from looting the burning laboratory of microscopes and Petri dishes to clarify.
"For a long time now, we have lived in a shadow of doubt regarding Darwin's Theory of Evolution. This, finally, is a clear refutation. And think about it for a second: if Darwin's theory is correct, why are there still ugly people all over the place?"
Hurling a fire extinguisher through a rack of cathode tubes, Doctor Shaw continues. "Barring the statistically improbable confluence of a blind and deaf recent parolee consuming heroic amounts of alcohol, we have no explanation for this whatsoever. Now if you will excuse me, I've had my eye on a supercollider downstairs for years."
Predator Press
[LOBO]The global scientific community was rocked today by suggestions that someone may have indeed slept with Nicole Richie.
Doctor Winifred Shaw, Head Researcher for the Darwin Institute, took a moment from looting the burning laboratory of microscopes and Petri dishes to clarify.
"For a long time now, we have lived in a shadow of doubt regarding Darwin's Theory of Evolution. This, finally, is a clear refutation. And think about it for a second: if Darwin's theory is correct, why are there still ugly people all over the place?"Hurling a fire extinguisher through a rack of cathode tubes, Doctor Shaw continues. "Barring the statistically improbable confluence of a blind and deaf recent parolee consuming heroic amounts of alcohol, we have no explanation for this whatsoever. Now if you will excuse me, I've had my eye on a supercollider downstairs for years."
Friday
The Final Exam
Predator Press
[LOBO]
I can’t find the story, so I have to paraphrase for now.
I heard a news blurb that doctors were suggesting the import of many routine cancer exams are exaggerated -and in fact might deceive people about their overall health, posing a risk.
Now this was heard at about five in the morning, and over my first bleary cup of coffee: if you have a routine cancer exam planned, don’t blow it off due to my potent journalistic ability and vast medical expertise ... please consult with your personal physician.
-This alone wouldn't have even been a blip on my radar, but the story continued on to say “probably the only exam we would exclude from this group would be the breast exam.”
Pow -my entire morning is preoccupied with imagining that AMA meeting. What I wouldn't give to be a fly on the wall for that discussion ... I've gotta at least see the transcript:
“-and we have decided,” says a guy at the podium, “to announce our findings the media in a press conference today. Any questions?”
Hands shoot up.
All of them.
“Yes Doctor Wilson,” indicates the speaker, almost plastic-seeming in the immaculate suit.
“All routine exams?”
“Yes,” confirms the speaker.
All the hands fall, save for one.
-a pony-tailed guy in a leisure suit with patches on the elbows.
“I don’t care for this plan,” he says. “And I'm sure I speak for everyone when I say you are doing the medical community a huge disservice, and really bumming us out.”
“A what? I’m sorry. Who are you again?” The speaker winces and covers his eyes. “And could you please put your necklaces behind your kerchief? The reflection is blinding.”
“I’m Doctor Love,” he says smiling, putting one dazzling high-heeled snakeskin boot on his chair with a dramatic flair.
“What is your objection, Doctor Love?”
“You can’t do this. I mean cripes, you gotta leave us breast exams or something. Hell, I don’t even think I would do doctorin anymore. It would be just too depressing.”
“What about the Hippocratic Oath?”
“Meh,” Doctor Love shrugs. “Kinda lost its luster now, hasn’t it?”
Murmurs skip and jump around the room like lighting bolts.
“Don’t quit, Doctor Love,” says a nearby man. “We need you. And what would you do for a living?”
“Becoming a podiatrist was one of the biggest mistakes I ever made really," scoffs Love. "School alone costed me, like, thousands of dollars -I’ve filed for bankruptcy twice. I only do it for the breast exams really. I suppose I would just get on with my cousin selling air conditioners. But that means every week that goes by, thousands of women will go without my breast exams -and are you people prepared to accept the responsibility if thousands of women get cancer every week?”Sensing he’s on to something, Love whirls and points to the podium. “How dare you mention the Hippocratic Oath to me sir?”
The room explodes as hundreds of doctors in the audience boo and toss objects at the speaker.
“You bastards!” the speaker cries, wounded by a well-aimed stethoscope. “Fine. We’ll explicitly exclude breast exams from today’s announcement.”
-And there was much rejoicing.
Thursday
Cactus Jack and the Beans Talk
or "Jack and the Beanstalk" aka "Jack the Giant Killer"
-as retold by Predator Press
[LOBO]
“You’ve got to be joking,” says Squatting Bull. “You actually believe the Vatican had the Taco Bell dog assassinated?"
“Jeez, man ... not so loud,” says Cactus Jack, peering from under his hat nervously. “I thought you people didn’t, you know, talk much.”
“There's nothing around us for fifty miles," gestures Squatting Bull to the vacant horizon. "And besides, that 'talking' thing is just another racial stereotype the white man thrust upon us.”
“Well you know what?” Jack replies, idly spinning the bullet chamber of his revolver. “Whitey did this. Whitey did that. Cripes I’m sick of it. At some point you have to assume some culpability here -and anyone that trusts a culture that digs Riverdance deserves exactly what they get.”
“How come you aren’t wearing the mask today?”
Jack stares down his gunsight at a distant tumbleweed, contemplative.
“I figure there’s no point in trying to hide my identity anymore,” he says finally.
“Huh,” says Squatting Bull. “I didn’t know it was to hide your identity. I thought it was, like, a public service or something.”
“Nope,” says Jack, oblivious of the subtle insult. “And for the record, I don't think masks made of cactus are a very good idea. The acne is a nightmare." Standing, he holsters his weapon. "Well, we better get movin. That Giant ain't defeating himself.”
“Hurry, Kimosabe," says Squatting Bull in a mock Indian drawl. "Me want see him tear paleface off, and shove it up own pasty butt." He arcs has hand overhead. "Me laugh many moons."
"Very funny."
Eyebrows furrowed, Squatting Bull folds his arms. "So what's your plan?”
“Were gonna use these magic beans I bought,” says Jack. Picking one from his shirt pocket, he places it in the dirt.
-And within moments, a 1973 Ford Pinto sprung up out of the ground.
“They didn’t have any Porsche beans,” Jack explains. “And it was either this or a bunch of GMs.”
“Eh,” Squatting Bull shrugged, checking the interior. “Then what?”
Jack scratches his neck thoughtfully.
“Then we trick him into driving it and rear-end him.”
-as retold by Predator Press
[LOBO]“You’ve got to be joking,” says Squatting Bull. “You actually believe the Vatican had the Taco Bell dog assassinated?"
“Jeez, man ... not so loud,” says Cactus Jack, peering from under his hat nervously. “I thought you people didn’t, you know, talk much.”
“There's nothing around us for fifty miles," gestures Squatting Bull to the vacant horizon. "And besides, that 'talking' thing is just another racial stereotype the white man thrust upon us.”
“Well you know what?” Jack replies, idly spinning the bullet chamber of his revolver. “Whitey did this. Whitey did that. Cripes I’m sick of it. At some point you have to assume some culpability here -and anyone that trusts a culture that digs Riverdance deserves exactly what they get.”
“How come you aren’t wearing the mask today?”
Jack stares down his gunsight at a distant tumbleweed, contemplative.
“I figure there’s no point in trying to hide my identity anymore,” he says finally.
“Huh,” says Squatting Bull. “I didn’t know it was to hide your identity. I thought it was, like, a public service or something.”
“Nope,” says Jack, oblivious of the subtle insult. “And for the record, I don't think masks made of cactus are a very good idea. The acne is a nightmare." Standing, he holsters his weapon. "Well, we better get movin. That Giant ain't defeating himself.”
“Hurry, Kimosabe," says Squatting Bull in a mock Indian drawl. "Me want see him tear paleface off, and shove it up own pasty butt." He arcs has hand overhead. "Me laugh many moons.""Very funny."
Eyebrows furrowed, Squatting Bull folds his arms. "So what's your plan?”
“Were gonna use these magic beans I bought,” says Jack. Picking one from his shirt pocket, he places it in the dirt.
-And within moments, a 1973 Ford Pinto sprung up out of the ground.
“They didn’t have any Porsche beans,” Jack explains. “And it was either this or a bunch of GMs.”“Eh,” Squatting Bull shrugged, checking the interior. “Then what?”
Jack scratches his neck thoughtfully.
“Then we trick him into driving it and rear-end him.”
Wednesday
Muling Heroin
Predator Press
[LOBO]
What?
Dawn Quixote was a dude?
-Well this post is totally ****ed now.
Thanks.
Ah screw it. Maybe my readers won’t notice.
Tuesday
Am I the Only One that thinks Twitter is Crap?
Predator Press
[LOBO]
In the “What are you doing?” box, I put “typing” about 6,005,004 times until I learned that I could cut and paste stuff with hotkeys.
-Now I can put “Cutting and pasting ‘typing’ with hotkeys” 10 times faster than I ever could type “typing.”
But, but despite this markedly increased efficiency, I don’t get it.
Doctor Toboggans, you should stop "following" me now ... I won't be doing anymore updates.
I’m over this.
[LOBO]
In the “What are you doing?” box, I put “typing” about 6,005,004 times until I learned that I could cut and paste stuff with hotkeys.-Now I can put “Cutting and pasting ‘typing’ with hotkeys” 10 times faster than I ever could type “typing.”
But, but despite this markedly increased efficiency, I don’t get it.
Doctor Toboggans, you should stop "following" me now ... I won't be doing anymore updates.
I’m over this.
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