Editorial: There Are Far Too Many Firemen

Predator Press

[LOBO]

People are always asking me, "LOBO, with such a volatile housing market, how can America get out of economic stagnation and staggering international debt?"

Well, I'm glad you asked me this.

See, the biggest problem America faces is wasted money pissed away fruitlessly due to sheer bureaucratic governmental 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?

I, for one, am sick to death of watching my tax money frittered away on 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 get naps while on the job?

No.

Why?

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

Somewhere in this great nation, at this very moment, a fireman is snoozing away our very 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 the lucky few left up 24/7 with steroids and PCP instead.

And there you have it.

You read it here first.

[Note: to further publicize this idea, I'm one of the three Uber-Firemen pictured above. Guess which one is me!]

The Myth of the Female Orgasm

Predator Press

[LOBO]

“Huh,” says my oldest son. “Smells good. What is that?”

“Chicken noodle soup.”

Skeptically, he digs into the thick fluid with the wooden spoon. “What’s in it?”

“Chicken. And noodles.”

"Blech," he grimaces, spotting the carrots and celery.

"Sorry," I says. "I forgot about the 'soup' part."

“I’ll just get something later.”

“So what are you guys going to be doing?”

“I dunno,” he shrugs, sliding into his jacket. “Hanging out.”

“Yeah, okay,” I says incredulously. “Listen. When I was your age, my mom -your grandma- gave me some advice, and I still use it. She said, ‘Always remember, men are only after one thing.’”

“What does that mean?”

“That’s all she said,” I reply walking him to the door. “I took it as some kind of warning. What she has against sleep isn’t clear, but she’s the unhappiest woman I’ve ever known.”

Diamond Cutter

Predator Press

[LOBO]

“Maybe he was really busy,” Terri offers.

“Too busy to be a decent human being?” I says, staring at the monitor. “I don’t buy it. I’ve got plenty of time, and I’m a lousy human being.”

“That’s not what I said.”

“This was an attack,” I insist. “He planned the whole thing.”

“Okay. So you’re argument is the guy wrote two books just to screw with your blog.”

“Indeed,” I says. “He coulda had a crack team of insurgents write those books for him. You want books? I'll bet with right terrorist connections, you could get your hands on, like, three books. They have training camps for this sort of thing in Afghanistan."

“Wait. What-?”

"If you get ‘em young enough," I continue, "you can brainwash them into doing suicide ‘pie in the face’ gags. It’s diabolical, but it’s the same strategy we used when we invaded Pearl Harbor." I shake my head solemnly. "No wonder those bastards hate us.”

"Have you slept?"

“What? Need more proof you say? Look at this,” I says, pointing at the screen. “November 11. Like September 11. ‘Cept worse –nobody told me I ‘email like a girl’ on September 11.”

Using ALT and TAB, I flip to my email inbox. "'Email like a girl,'" I mutter. "That’s preposterous.”

“Look, why don’t you take a breather?”

“That is preposterous. Right?”

There’s an awkward silence.

"Ah crap," I scowl. “Would putting pornography in it help?”

There's No Saving This Daylight

Predator Press

[LOBO]

LOBO, I says in my head. The kids don’t go to school for another hour. You should get up, make some coffee, shower and shave.

“Feh!” I manage audibly, rolling over.

Shit.

-I think I sprained my lips.

The Emperor's New Hos

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Wha-? Almost a week since my last post?

Well as difficult as it must be to imagine, I upon occasion get bored with myself. Which is no excuse, I suppose; millions and millions of Predator Press readers are clearly not bored with myself, and I don’t want them showing up here on my my lawn, holding vigils and immolating themselves.

I am fine.

Just bored.

But as they say, “Bored hands are the Devil’s workshop"

-I need to snap out of it, lest I fall into the vile, slippery clutches of Lucifer!

-So when I found out that my buddy Chris over at Angry Seafood had a Death Star, I was all ears.

“Can I drive it?” I asked.

“Hell no you can’t drive my Death Star,” replied Chris. “You would probably scratch it or something,”

“You could take it out to some unoccupied part of the galaxy and teach me,” I whine. “I’ll be real careful.”

“Do you know what would happen if you got busted driving a Death Star without a license?” Chris counters. “They would probably impound it.”

“Fine,” I concede, fishing in my pocket for my cigarettes. “I’ll get my license first. Then can I drive it? I want off of this dump of a planet in the worst way. And the option to blow it up? Oh man …”

“You want to blow up the Earth?”

“Do I ever" I says, excitement mounting. “That would be freakin awesome. I could do it on the Fourth of July. We could have a barbeque, and watch the whole thing on a giant plasma screen.”

“Wouldn’t you miss Earth?”

“Miss it? Shit. This dump? Don’t be silly. Nobody would miss this place.”

“What about the people that live here?”

“Well with the Swine Flu in full swing I have my doubts Humanity will even make it to 2012, and that's when all those Mayan Gods are coming back to kick the crap out of us,” I explain. “And hey, no revenge-seeking Mayan god in its right mind would pass up the opportunity to have a Death Star. I would be in a perfect position to destroy the rest of Humanity for them, thusly getting on the Mayan gods' good side.” I touch the lighter flame to the cigarette tip. “I think being the only surviving human could be a good career move for me,” I says, exhaling smoke. "And if nothing else, at least one of us is left," I shrug.

“You can’t smoke on my Death Star,” Chris points out, unrolling the blueprints. "It’s not finished yet. It’s still being painted, so there are crazy fumes everywhere."

“Huh,” I says disappointedly. “Hey, are you married to this whole ‘gun metal gray’ color scheme? It’s depressing.”

“It’s just a primer,” says Chris. “But I was thinking black. You know -so’s I can sneak up on stuff in space.”

“Ugh,” I says. “Every Death Star in space is black. I think you should, I dunno, pimp it out or something."

"Black enhances the intimidation factor," Chris points out.

"Look I almost got a 'C' in my college psychology class, so you should listen to me on this. Intimidation or no, if you don’t find a way to incorporate some -I dunno- cheerier pastels or something, your Stormtrooper Suicide Hotline is going to be on fire 24-7. And you’ll never attract tourists, except for maybe those creepy Goth people. And those creepy Goth people don’t spend much money playing Blackjack and stuff on vacations -all their money goes to raves an nose rings an crap. Goth is a euphemism for broke. And 'broke' is not intimidating, no matter how many nose rings it has.”

“Look-” says Chris.

"Do you know what you get when you cross a dead hippie with 30 years?"

"No."

"Goth."

“I’m not going with pastels," Chris argues. "It’s a Death Star.”

“And that’s another thing,” I add. “That is really depressing. I mean the word ‘death’ is right in the title. How about ‘Molecular Liberator’ or something? I would play Blackjack at a place called ‘Molecular Liberator,’” I sniff. “I’m just sayin.”

“There aren’t any casinos on my Death Star,” says Chris, patience worn. “It’s a weapon. We don’t have room for casinos.”

“No room?” I says incredulous. “Look at those huge unfinished spaces and gaps. You could fill those with millions of casinos.”

“Those are for the engines.”

“Engines? What the heck does this thing need engines for?”

“So it can go to the planets I want destroyed.”

“And have you seen the price of fuel lately?” I challenge. “Oh jeez Chris, you would just be pumping money into Al Qaeda. You’ve got this all backwards. You need the enemy to come to you. You know, offer card-carrying Rebellion members free rooms, extended credit lines and continental breakfasts. Then pow, you steal their credit card numbers, take their money and wreck up their credit ratings. Thusly bankrupted and impoverished you could make ‘em hookers, prostitutes, hookers and prostitutes, heroin mules, Starbucks employees, anything."

"I dunno," says Chris. "I rather like that whenever I want to blow up a planet, I can just hop in and go there."

“C'mon man. Killing people with cinderblocks and pointy sticks the good old fashioned way is far more cost-effective. We've been doing it that way for millions of years."

"You have a point," says Chris. "But my way seems less cruel and more tidy somehow."

"You have to stop taking pity on these people with this 'instant planetary vaporization' crap. It’s not your fault those jerks are rebelling against you and need to be exterminated, is it? And if they are trying to kill you, why should you pick up all that added expense?"

I put out my cigarette in the ashtray, blowing the final drag sideways.

"Instant planetary vaporization should be an exclusive premium only worlds we like can enjoy."

"Minus the mobility," argues Chris. "Why not just stick to luring our enemies to Earth then?"

Glancing cautiously in all directions, I lean in close and whisper.

“WalMart!”*

* In advance, I don’t know what "Evil" the good people at WalMart and/or their fine products have wrought upon mankind to promt this story. In fact, I don’t know what Evil has wrought upon mankind in the first place -I mean aside from this whole WalMart thing, Evil has done nothing to me personally. Further, I think with some counseling and therapy me an Evil can work this thing out if Evil stops bein such a dumbass.

See ya at WalMart, bee-yatch.

Madonna Stage Collapse Kills McMahon, Fawcett, Jackson, Mayes, McNair, Cronkite, Billings Couple

Predator Press

[LOBO]



Would you people stop dying for like five minutes
so I can get organized for Christ’s sake!?

Swine Flu Update: Are You All Still Dead Yet?

Predator Press

[LOBO]

So update me.

Yeah, I know a handful of creditors that haven’t stopped calling -and that crack team of pizza delivery guys is on full swing.

But how are the rest of you holding up?

-And do you know of anyone still alive that delivers Chinese? Or know of any Chinese restaurants woefully unarmed and stockpiled with food maybe?

What most of these intensive pricks don't realize is that I find the Apocalypse really, really depressing.

So I tried to cheer myself up, right? By creating something 'permanent' aliens would find among all of our scattered, well-gnawed bones, preserved for Eternal Cosmic Wisdom? But those snobs at the Louvre called my pornographic 30-foot mosaic of Da Vinci's Mona Lisa made of Skittles "Laughably Pedestrian." NASA called it "Frankly Uninspired."

I don't have to take any crap from those NASA rubes, and I half-blame whoever this uninspired 'Frank' guy is anyway. I hope he regards this as a "wake-up call": Predator Press is no easy mistress ... one more slip up like this and -Armageddon or no Armageddon- Frank will never work in this town ever again.

So despite Frank's sub-par "uninspired" Post-Apocalyptic artistic debut and his lackluster impact at NASA, I started cutting rap records for posterity and "bling" instead. But yesterday I got a tear in my rubber suit on the armoire, and was suddenly reminded both Frank was a smudge on my facemask and I was actually woefully Caucasian! Upon review I discovered that whole 250 hours of soulful, mournful crooning I wrote in Humanity’s memory sounds like ABBA boiling cats. And Frank -wearing 3-D glasses- was using brown Skittles instead of blue ones on the mattress pattern all day, making Mona Lisa's nipples leap out like King David is hurling rocks at the viewer personally. WTG Frank: while storyboarding, Nancy Pelosi's stiletto heels and g-string matched Glenn Beck's loincloth ... but now everything is is totally screwed up.

Dumbass.

-So as of today Frank is fired, I'm having a fire sale on brown Skittles, Nancy Pelosi won't return my calls, Glenn Beck won't stop calling, and I hope I never get beaten by the police like that again ... in fact, as far as all these jerks are concerned, I'm officially glad it's The Apocalypse!

Yesterday was worse -but yeesh don't get me started on yesterday.

Look, if you're already dead, please be patient; I'm tryin to get Richie Sambora to spice up a few of my "Humanity, We Hardly Knew Yee" tracks so they have a more, well, urban feel. But if any of you are still alive, don't you want this digitally-mastered Purell-soaked, dignity-filled 250 hours of "Humanity, We Hardly Knew Yee -by LOBO and featuring Richie Sambora" for $39.95? Each and every digitized copy is Blessed for safety by a guy that once conducted a legal marriage on a boat at high sea, and ate so much lime jello he puked a green sludge into the punchbowl two hours later.

Coolest. Prom. Ever.

A lot of my songs will sound like Black Sabbath's Iron Man, the intro to Led Zepplin's Stairway to Heaven, and Foghat's Smoke on the Water ... and that's because they are those songs, but with better, more topical lyrics, and a synthesized drum set -exactly as God intended the end of the world. And track 312 has never-before heard audio of me trying to talk Richie Sambora into to kicking the crap out of Frank -audio so explicit you can't put on public radio because of the FCC, the Jaycees, the FBI and the 4H Club. And those 4H pricks called us "jerks" afterward, too! It turned out Frank was the Spokesman.

Well if swift and lethal payback on the 4H Club doesn't motivate you to buy dozens of copies of "Humanity, We Hardly Knew Yee -by LOBO and featuring Richie Sambora" as Christmas gifts to leave on the tombstones of all your friends and loved ones, I don't know what will.

But this rubber suit is getting really stinky and has a hole in it.

I need a new one.

Pound of Flesh

Predator Press

[LOBO]

I listen to a lot of news on the radio, and it’s not uncommon to catch an accidental three or four minutes of Rush Limbaugh or Sean Hannity from time to time.

-I don't avoid them because I'm 'Liberal.' I avoid them because, well, I'm not a mushhead.

"Mushheads" aren't necessarily stupid, they are just too busy to do their own thinking. But my wife will tell you I do a lot more thinking than doing ... thus, apparently, mushheads doing the stuff I'm thinking about are an essential part of our overall ecology.

Were it not for all those hard-working mushheads, I'll daresay I would probably have to cancel one of my naps. As a consequence, Predator Press, a very mushhead-friendly website, will tolerate exactly zero "mushhead-bashing" in the future. Nadda. Zilch. And when you’re standing there alone and with no mushheads of your own -doin your own laundry or whatever- don’t come cryin’ to me: you’re gonna hafta get your own mushheads just like everybody else.

Anyway. Today Hannity opened his show with the proclamation he was against celebrating Halloween.

Need to read that again?

Today Hannity opened his show with the proclamation [*cough*] he was against celebrating Halloween.

-To paraphrase, he thought it taught little kids to be door-to-door beggars.

Well thank God after almost a year of Obama oppression, the Republicans may have finally found a platform from which to attack -and a platform of exponential potential! Little kids might’ve joyously loved this 'Halloween' thing not being politicized for decades were it not for this bold stance, and Hannity "stuck it" to generations of dangerous, egg-throwin masked little Liberal pricks good 'n proper.

While somewhat perplexed at this recruitment strategy, I for one am glad Hannity put the kibosh on this ‘Halloween’ nonsense once and for all: in the eyes of God, we're far better off with this 'Harvest Festival' thing -where history celebrates the bloody massacre of livestock- than all this Satanic mumbo-jumbo anyway. One can only hope these pagan Halloween bastards'll one day grow up and thank Sean for such acute “finger on the pulse” social insights. Where would we be without them? Don't fool yourself: you weren't 'Bobbing for Apples' -you were bobbing for souls.

Frankly I don't think Sean has gone far enough: we should introduce legislation so he can allowed to just kick the crap out of children with impunity. You know, if he sees one of 'em getting out of line, pow, a backhand upside the head -that'll teach those 2-8 year old little moochers juiced on Pixie Sticks and unrealistic expectations what the spirit of Halloween is all about.

Nobody smites evil like Sean: legend has it his belt has been blessed by the Vatican. Like a samurai sword, it has been folded, like, a jillion times, and once procured it must taste backside. And once Sean gets to smiting, look out! -he is known to have smoted an entire Miley Cyrus concert: in one evening, he blistered thousands of those lil pagan keysters all the way back into Jesus' flock where they would be safe from evil.

Maybe Sean and Sarah Palin can team up, and hunt down trick or treaters with her helicopter! Oh man, that would be awesome -stubby lil ghost and goblin arms and legs flailing everywhere as they swoop in from nowhere blarin' Wagner's Ride of the Valkyries, darkening the sky with the righteous fire of religious pamphlets and darts laced with Ritalin.

Bravo, Sean. Bravo.

What's next? Christmas maybe?

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.

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 dump bestow it upon.

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.

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.