Thursday

The Odyssey

-as retold by Predator Press.

[LOBO]

othing deepens bonds like a family vacation.

“Hey baby,” I says into the cellphone.

”Where are you?” Terri crackles over the tiny speaker.

“Wyoming, I think.” I look around for visual clues. While it’s definitely flat wide-open sprawl, there is an ever-diminishing hint of green, and a subtle rise in the highway. “Maybe Nebraska,” I concede, cutting the engine. "Are you guys bonding yet?"

"You wouldn't believe it," says Terri.

I open the car door, and the initial stretching is simultaneously painful and strangely gratifying -but all this is mitigated by a sudden cold burst of rainy wind I’m poorly dressed for.

“I’ll know more in a minute," I shivers. "Feel like helping me do some navigation?”

”Sure. Hang on. I’ll pull up Mapquest.”

The size of these truck stops never ceases to amaze me. Indeed I’ve been in smaller cities. Crossing the vast and icy parking lot under the soft pulse of pop music (Republica maybe?), I can feel the throb of a thousand idling diesel engines under my feet. Throwing the glass door wide, the delightful rush of heat overtakes me -and as an afterthought I look back at the distant car.

It looks as if it has been to war.

“Jesus Christ,” I mutter, still shivering. As someone with a lot of experience traveling, I’m typically a bit psycho about a given vehicle’s overall condition. But this trip was wholly unanticipated … and the car and I have just endured some of the worst weather I’ve ever encountered; lulled into a false sense of So-Cal weather, taking this trip in February was spectacularly, well, dumb.

”What?”

“Nothing baby,” I says.

“Okay,” she says distractedly. ”I’ve got the site up. What do you need?”

Turning to face the inside of the travel center, I squint as my sleep-deprived eyes are assaulted by the intense wash of a well-lit reception area and the screaming colors of a billion products. “Well, they’re saying I need chains once I get past Salt Lake City. This means those storms are even worse than when I came in. If I can avoid I-80, I think it would be a good idea.”

I should buy a map. There’s really no excuse not to have one really, but the route –up until this point- was pretty straightforward.

”You can drop down to I-25 to I-40 in Cheyenne,” Terri offers. ”But I don’t know how much better off you are on that route. Once past Las Vegas, you’ll have the Tehachapi Mountains.”

Absently, I walk up to a turnstile display of maps and spin through them. Anything near a highway –gas, food, whatever- is just simply rape in regard to price, and I’m not shocked to find that the good maps, the ones I could use, were around $20.

I'm skeptical. “Can the Tehachapi Mountains really be that much worse than Donner Summit?”

”Actually yes,” she replies. ”We go skiing there. Why don’t you give me a few minutes while I check the weather reports? I’ll call you right back.”

And I'm thinking maybe she’s right, you know? I mean who has ever heard of anything bad happening on Donner Pass?

“Okay,” I says. “Love you.”

”Love you too. Be careful.”

“Hey, it’s me,” I remind in my best Han Solo.

“I know,” she replies. “Be more careful than that.”

“I promise.”

Clicking the cellphone to my belt, I approach a group of largish, grubby looking guys I presume to be truck drivers.

“Hey! You! Where the fuck am I?” I ask diplomatically.

Eyes behind a deep beard blink at me quizzically.

“Excuse me?” the beard says.

“This dump,” I says, gesturing liberally around. “Where the hell is it?”

The beard, up above a mountainous figure of a man, peers at his friends curiously. Casually setting an item he was checking out –a power converter I think- down on the shelf, he guffaws. “You can’t be much of a driver if you doesn’t know where you is.”

It occurs to me that this guy is assuming –based on my unwashed, unshaven appearance- that I’m a truck driver too. And before I know it, I’m staring eye-level into his massive chest while his buddies flank my sides.

Suddenly, I feel like I’m standing in a human well.

“Well I’m good enough a driver to know,” I says, pointing at a small congregation of rolled boogers attached to his considerable sternum, “That you should probably go ahead and eat those if you’re too cheap to buy Kleenex.”

The sternum right laughs. “Aw man, Bandit. That’s gross!

The beard –‘Bandit’ apparently- glowers. “Shut the fuck up,” he says to his pal.

“Yeah buddy,” I says into Sternum Left. “Shut the fuck up. This is between me ‘an Bad-Knit here.”

“That's Bandit, driver. Where are you headed?”

“Southern California,” I says.

Bandit whistles. “Jesus Christ. You’re shitting me.”

“Nope,” I says to the heaving chest.

“Well you ain’t going today,” he says. “The weather station says all westbound travel is nothing but storms. We’re stuck too.”

“Yeah well you guys maybe,” I says, thinking of Terri and the kids. “But I gotta roll.”

“That’s fucking suicide,” says the Sternum Left.

“It’s important,” I reply

“What’re ya hauling?” asks Bandit.

“Eh,” I says, thinking fast. “Emergency supplies. For Haiti.”

“Fer who?” asks Sternum Right.

“Haiti, ya dumb fuck,” says Bandit. “They just had some major earthquake or somethin.”

“Exactly,” I says. "Now if you gentlemen would be so kind as to-"

“I thought you said you was goin to Southern California?” Sternum Left asks.

“I am,” I says with a resolved sigh. “Jesus Christmas. I would’ve thought truck drivers would know a little something about geography. I need to cross the border in So-Cal to Mexico, where my load gets airlifted to Haiti by the National guard.”

Bandit whistles. “So this is a government job?”

“It’s exactly a government job, Nitwit.”

“That’s ‘Bandit’.

My phone rings “Yeah whatever,” I says, unclipping the phone from my belt. “This is going to be my boss. Now are you guys going to give me some directions, or are you going to obstruct my load, and thusly cause an issue of National Security? ‘Cuz if it’s the latter, I wouldn’t want to be you. I mean everybody knows Obama hates white people … he’ll have you assholes stuffed into a wood chipper.” I click ‘Answer’ on my phone quickly.

“Hello?” I says into the phone.

”Hi baby,” says Terri.

“Yes sir.” I says.

"What?" she says.

“No sir,” I trail into the call. “I’ve just found some resistance. It seems some local truck drivers have a problem with our humanitarian efforts in Haiti-”

“Hey!” Bandit objects.

“What the fuck are you talking about?” demands Terri.

“Yes sir,” I says into the phone. Looking Bandit square in the beard, I put the phone to my chest to muffle it.

“Bandwidth.”

“Yes,” Bandit replies.

-the fact that he does not correct does not escape me.

I pause. “Have you ever seen someone thrown into a wood chipper?”

“I seen it once,” says Sternum Left.

Needless to say, we all turn to Sternum Left.

Sternum Left shrugs. “I used to work at a Starbucks.”

“Well you all should know,” I says. “That the Obama Administration only puts white people in the wood chipper feet-first.” Finding the slowly-whirling carosel of heated hot dogs (obligatory to any truck driver ‘travel center’), I stare thoughtfully. “That means you’re alive while your legs are ripped apart by rusted, dull, fast-moving steel. And when it gets to the balls, oh man. I hear even Obama admits it's hard to get those screams out of your head ... "

Sternum Right wobbles noisily against a Pringles display, and crashes noisily on the grimy bleached linoleum in a full-blown faint. During the spectacle, I lift the phone from my chest to see if Terri is still on the line.

"-so help me God I’ll-!"

Even as Sternum Right hits the floor, I replace the phone to my breast.

“So what’s it gonna be Rammit?” I inquire coolly.

“Hey, fuck off,” says Bandit. His raised hands, I observe, are the size of my head. Like bear paws. “I just needed a new converter. I didn’t have nothing to do with this Haiti shit!”

“I didn’t think so,” I says, watching Sternum Left -who has rushed to the aide of the now-horizontal Sternum Right. “I suggest you citizens carry on.”

As an alarmed truck stop cashier approaches, I put the phone back to my ear.

“Baby?”

”What the hell is going on?”

“Nothing baby,” I says, adding quickly. “Why do you ask?”

The alarmed cashier, an overweight, acne-riddled woman in her mid-forties, scowled at her toppled Pringles display.

“What the hell is going on?” she demanded.

“I can’t find the coffee,” I says.

Saturday

Daedalus

Predator Press

[LOBO]

I have learned that you can’t take a Republican’s gun because everyone has an inalienable right to one.

They will say, “Guns don’t kill people. People kill people! It’s a matter of individual Liberty!”

But ask a Republican about legalizing marijuana?

“Oh hell no. Just take this here gun and shut the fuck up. It’s fun.”

Okay, cool. I'm not really seeing a problem here.

-As long as the Republicans don't hassle my Dominos delivery guy.

Friday

At Least One Purple Reign Ends This Weekend

Predator Press

[LOBO]

I’m sorry. I’ve tested this on heroic amounts of
alcohol, and it still sounds like Prince is hard-boiling cats
slowly to the beat of drums from a Casio keyboard.


Any bets the Saints have this
already cued up at the Superdome?

Tuesday

icanhasflamethrower

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Every once in a while, I’ll make some flimsy attempt at cleansing my Karmic palette by putting forth something other than my usual schlock.

For example, if you text ‘HAITI’ to 90999 on your cellphone, you will make a $10 donation to the Red Cross. ‘UNICEF’ to 20222 will make a similar donation to Unicef. And if I find a number you can text to get ‘Pants on the Ground’ guy Larry 'The General' Platt back on American Idol for the rest of the season, I’ll publish that too: it seems the least I can do to punish Simon Cowell for crimes against humanity.

But with horrific disasters, national humiliation, and crimes against humanity already on the table, can you possibly segue into a discussion about Pat Robertson any smoother?

I smell Pulitzer.

”I’m not really sure what I should do, LOBO,” says Pat over the speakerphone.

“Well hiring me was your first step in the right direction,” I says reassuringly. “Out of curiosity, how did you hear of the Predator Press Public Relations Agency?”

”It’s the last one in the phone book,” says Pat. ”Zimmer and Zellwig recommended I bury myself up to my neck and let red ants eat my head off.”

“Zimmer and Zellwig are amateurs,” I scoff, surreptitiously crossing ‘RED ANTS’ off of my brainstorming list. “Still, blaming the Haitian disaster on a pact with the devil presented us with quite a challenge.”

”One can only assume that’s why your retainer is so high.”

“Yeah. Well, um,” I begin carefully. “In truth that money is already gone.”

”What?”

“Pat, you understand what you’re up against here, right?” I says, reclining in the chair, talking to the ceiling. “I mean I don’t know much about religion, but I thought you people were supposed to be compassionate and forgiving. If you want to keep fooling people into believing that, you’re going to have to accept some of the, eh, 'initiatives' we’ve taken on your behalf.”

”Initiatives?”

“Yes,” I says. “See, we figure you’re going to have to do something in Haiti that demonstrates that you sympathize with their plight –regardless of whatever Faith and culture divides you.”

”But they practice Voodoo!”

“That’s what made it so easy,” I says, looking at my watch. “We hired some cargo planes. Even as we speak, they are dumping one million live sacrificial chickens over the devastated nation on your behalf. I called it the 'Pat’s Preachin' Poultry Project' on the press release." Hands behind my head, I puff my cigar confidently. "America loves alliteration.”

“My congregation will never agree to fund sacrificial chickens.”

“I already thought of that,” I says. “That’s why tomorrow, we’re hitting them with mayonnaise and celery.”

Wednesday

The Nature Versus the Nurtured

Predator Press

[LOBO]

“No, I will not teach you to play guitar,” I says to the Butterbean kid flatly. “I don’t know where you got the idea I play guitar in the first place. These are crazy rumors, spread by an obviously deranged individual. Probably a meth freak.”

Butterbean unslings his guitar on the porch. “Miss Terri said you used to be real good at it.”

“Terri knows better than to get addicted to meth,” I argue. “Shit. TMZ doesn’t even know we exist yet.”

“My mom says she’ll give you ten bucks a lesson.”

“Is this the same woman that insists you are ‘big boned’? I have serious doubts about her mathematical prowess. Tell your mom I want fifty million.”

Butterbean seems strangely skeptical.

"Maybe fifteen?"

"Your mom is a shrewd woman," I reply thoughtfully. "Tell her forty nine million, nine hundred and ninety nine thousand, nine hundred and eighty five is my final offer. Anything less would be cutting into my overhead."

“I don’t think she would go that high really,” he says.

“Then how about we compromise and just tell your mom I’m giving you guitar lessons?" I counteroffer. "We'll split whatever we get.”

“Seriously,” says the boy. “I want to hear you play.”

“Of course you do,” I says. “That’s what a lad I once knew insisted –almost verbatim- many, many years ago. ‘I want to hear you play, I want to hear you play, I want to hear you play.’ Christ you couldn’t shut him up about it. And then he quit drugs, fired David Lee Roth, started playing keyboard, and married Valerie Bertinelli.” I eyed the Butterbean kid warily. “This kind of knowledge can destroy your mind. Is Eddie Van Halen’s a fate you would like to share?”

“Who is Eddie Von Helsing?”

See?” I stammer, almost speechless in frustration. “This is precisely what I mean. Eddie would go on to die broke and in utter obscurity. And worse than that, he died broke and in utter obscurity while having to listen to Valerie Bertinelli clipping her toenails … Crack! Crack! Crack! And have you seen Valerie Bertinelli’s toenails? Somebody is going to lose an eye with those things shooting all over the place.”

“What if I promise to stay away from Valerie Bertinelli?”

“It’s more than just Valerie Bertinelli's deadly aerodynamic toenails and shocking capacity for evil,” I says coolly. “Playing guitar is a strict discipline. A lifestyle. Yes. A lifestyle of long hours, bloody fingertips, and skinny guys named ‘Kirk’ and big-haired chicks named ‘Amber.’ A lifestyle of being woken at three in the morning by colliding trash can lids, and stringing your guitar in under eight minutes. A lifestyle of forcing people to listen to you play ‘Smoke on the Water,’ like, ninety jillion times.”

Punctuating the discussion, I scoop up the welding mask from the counter and strap it to my forehead. Pausing for a moment before flipping down the mask I ask, "I'm making lunch. Do you want a grilled cheese?"

"That's not really grilling them technically," Butterbean points out, eyebrows furrowed.

"Well, I’ve always considered the term 'grilled cheese' more of a guideline than a recipe. After all, there's no reference to the bread or the butter either." Flipping my mask, I crack the arc to life. "You know, say what you will about plasma. But nothing really brings out the flavor like a good old fashioned carbon electrode."

Butterbean cupped his hands to boost his voice over the noise. "Should you be doing that in a Snuggie?"

"It's hard finding footie pajamas in my size," I call.

"No. I mean isn't that thing flammable?"

"I can't wear the gear," I explain loudly. "That stuff chafes, and I have very sensitive nipples." Pulling my torch to the side, I flip my mask back and inspect the soapstone surface. "Man I hope Terri managed to find a company that will give us another fire insurance policy. Grilled cheese is hell on these countertops."

"You think they will cover making arc-welded cheese sandwiches?"

"Well if they have a better way to cook, I'd like to hear it." I look around thoughtfully. "You know, you're right ... I should torch the whole place just in case. I'm getting a little tired of this furniture anyway. Good idea."

"You can do that?"

"That's the whole point of having insurance. Why go through the whole hassle of moving when you can just get new stuff?" I switch off the torch. "They deliver and install it too. Just watch your spelling."

"Spelling?"

"Our last insurance guy got really pissed when I misspelled 'bathtub' as 'H-E-A-T-E-D-I-N-D-O-O-R-P-O-O-L' on the claim. But it was an honest mistake. My spelling acuity is a direct result of the American public education system. I'm the victim here if you think about it."

"So you can get in trouble for it?"

"Well … yes. It turns out some people are really, really touchy about arson. But this was your idea, remember?" I rub my chin, trying to remember if there is any gasoline in the garage. "And frankly I'm shocked you thought of that. If I ever went on trial for arson and insurance fraud, you better hope I never have to testify 'cuz I'm singing like a canary."

"I don't think it's a good idea then."

"I think it's a great idea!" I says. "We could make it look like an innocent arc welded cheese sandwich making accident. But I would need to make a video all the stuff in our house first. Know where any friendly rich people live? I want another Ming vase to put our umbrellas in."

"You've got a Ming vase? Really?"

"Four of them. We use them as trash cans. See?"

“These say ‘Made in China.’”

“Yeah. Ming, China probably."

"There is no such place as Ming, China."

"Look, it says ‘Ming’ right there,” I point. “Next to the picture of the guy fighting Flash Gordon. How can you possibly doubt its authenticity?”

“I think 'Ming' is supposed to reference an ancient dynasty.”

“Well I would hope these aren't crappy old ones, ” I says, inspecting the container closely. "Over the past century, China has come a long way in an effort to improve the quality of their products."

“Hey, look at this,” says Butterbean, peeling at the label. “The back of this ‘Made in China’ sticker says ‘Made in Korea.’"

“Maybe Ming has a factory there in Korea. You know … outsourcing. China is very busy crafting high end vases like these. Vases, and making pandas boink. Maybe China just doesn’t have time for labels anymore.” Reflecting on this, I add, “I’ve heard of some odd fetishes before. But pandas? That’s just plain weird.”

“Actually,” corrects Mister Smarty-Pants, “they are trying to breed the few remaining pandas to save the species.”

“Yeah, whatever,” I scoff. “Another common misconception. How do you explain all those freaky websites?”

“Websites?”

“Yeah. I’ve downloaded about fifteen hours of panda porn. You’re too young to see it. But I assure you with possible exception of the Kanji, this stuff has no artistic merit whatsoever. It's pure filth.”

“Wait,” says Butterbean. “You downloaded fifteen hours of panda porn?”

“It was strictly for educational purposes,” I says. “If you want to study a culture, there’s only so much one can learn from a couple of vases.”

“But if this is all true," Butterbean speculates shrewdly, "then pandas wouldn’t be an endangered species.”

“Pandas are too busy having sex to make babies.”

Butterbean stares.

“Oh no,” I says, rolling my eyes slightly. “Don’t tell me. Somebody gave you that whole speech on how you make babies having sex, didn’t they?”

“Well, yeah,” says Butterbean. "Mom and Dad said that-"

"Silence!" I command, dangerously close to a lot of unwanted mental imagery of Butterbean's parents rolling around and grunting like sweaty, greasy hippopotami with a background narration by Lorne Greene. 'Mutual of Omaha presents ...' Shivering slightly I persist, trying to come up with an example. "Look. Have you ever watched 'Forensic Files'?"

"That television show about when the police solve those murders?"

"Yes. You watch the half hour program, and by the end the solve the crime."

Butterbean nods expectantly. "Okay."

"Well there's another show called 'Missing Persons Unit.' Similar, but this show is a little less predictable because sometimes they find the missing person alive."

"Go on."

"My point is with 'Forensic Files,' they catch the killer. With 'Missing Persons Unit,' it's almost the same thing ... you watch them interviewing suspects, canvassing the area, dredging the river, interviewing more suspects, blah blah blah. But then after fifty-five minutes of watching all that time, energy, money and manpower wasted, they find the kid waiting tables in Hollywood hoping to blow Steven Spielberg to get their screenplay read or whatever."

"I'm not following you."

"Think about it. We walk away hating the kid that survived. For putting us through all that."

Butterbean nods, but I can tell he's not 'getting it.'

"If you're going to lie and make people think you are dead," I elaborate, "and you aren't dead, don't you think it should be incumbent upon all concerned parties to provide some closure? We can set a dollar amount for it. Let's say when the search costs more than $250,000 and the kid has been alive and safe the whole time, somebody has to die. For $250,000, I want a body. And it should go up from there. For $500,000, I want two bodies. And so on."

"But what does this have to do with sex?"

"We're not there yet. We're still talking about lying. And you have to preface a conversation about sex with a conversation about lying. Any honest adult male will tell you well-woven and elaborate lying is an intrinsic component of having sex ... unless he's lying because he's trying to have sex with you. But we'll get to 'Courtship' soon enough. Stop interrupting me."

"Okay."

"Now where was I? Oh yeah. I'm not saying wax the kid right there on the Spago salad bar ... this all has to be treated on a case-by-case basis. What if maybe the kid was running away from abusive parents, and they should be killed? See? By lying we've transformed the whole situation. People deserve -if not demand- being lied to, and it's in their best interest really. I'm happy, you're happy, and Steven Spielberg is really happy. We all walk away slaked in the confidence and comfort of cosmic justice well-served, and with vastly improved television as a byproduct."

"I gotta tell you, this is way different than the speech my parents gave me," says Butterbean. "Are there birds and bees in this one somewhere?"

“No," I says flatly. "You’re too grown up for those fairy tales. But the truth about babies is actually more horrifying than you could possibly imagine -maybe worse even than being raped by a pack of wild pandas! That's why your parents are distorting the truth,” I assert. "They are trying to protect you."

Pensive and rapt, the boy hung on my every word.

“If sex resulted in babies,” I began, “we would have stopped doing it a long time ago. The first caveman to find a melted Jolly Rancher in his pelt would have been the end of the whole damn human race.”

“Then where did I come from?”

“I doubt anyone really knows with one hundred percent certainty," I confess. "But it definitely was not from sex. I mean put yourself in everyone else's shoes. Would you have sex knowing there was a risk of having you? And I’ve seen your parents. Trust me. Those people aren’t having sex ... especially with each other. Blech.”

“Maybe there are spores? Like mushrooms?”

“Well that seems plausible," I concede. "But it seems far more logical for people to contract babies. Like syphilis or rabies.”

“So the pandas are immune to babies?”

“No. I’ll bet pandas are as susceptible as anything. If there’s a scarcity of baby pandas, it’s more likely due to them being delicious.”

Butterbean’s inquisitive look transformed instantly to horror. “You mean we are eating the baby pandas?”

“There's a Panda Express two blocks from here,” I shrug. “And have you ever eaten baby panda? It’s fantastic. It tastes like chicken.”

Suddenly, I realize that this conversation –if furthered pursued- might actually make Butterbean vomit, cry, or vomit while crying simultaneously. But no matter how desirous these potential outcomes might be, I would prefer none of these events to take place in my kitchen.

“You look a little pale,” I comment. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” says Butterbean unconvincingly. He seemed a bit wobbly, and it occurred to me he might faint. Fainting trumps vomiting, crying, and vomiting while crying simultaneously in my kitchen, but he could hurt himself -and I wouldn’t be a very responsible adult if this were to occur when it was completely avoidable, would I?

“Would you like to try some baby panda?” I says, grabbing the almost novelty-large, craziest, jagged-looking knife I can find out of the wooden block. “I’ve got some in the freezer. It’ll take me five minutes if I arc weld it. You can have the ears. They're kinda small, but that's the part Hostess uses to make Ho-Hos-"

WHAM!

It was a clean fall, square in the center of the kitchen ... afterward the sight of which could only be described as a small whale having beached itself on the linoleum. I probably could have caught him, but I would have missed the comedy entirely and therefore couldn't. Plus I was thinking about my new invention: the Sea Skateboard.

See, what we do is we make a really big skateboard without wheels. But here's the kicker: the Sea Skateboard floats on water. You could paddle around on it and ride waves or whatever. (I probably shouldn't have blogged this idea now that I think about it. People have a bad habit about stealing my ideas ... especially those shifty goddamn Hawaiians.)

Anyway. Once more concerned for the still-inert boy's safety, I poke him with the grilled cheese spatula until I'm convinced his vital signs are stable.

-And by the time he fully 'comes to,' I’m already on the phone with his mom.

“I think twenty bucks an hour is more fair," I explain, hardballing Butterbean’s mom over a Luluble, static-addled connection. “This lazy kid was uncooperative and fell right to sleep during the lesson. If I'm going to take millions and millions of dollars in my time away from developing the Sea Skateboard, I deserve some kind of equitable compensation."

Butterbean groans. "Is that my mom?"

I put my finger to my lips to shush him quietly, and then cover the ear opposite the phone to hear better over the crackling background noise. "It's a really big skateboard without wheels that floats on water," I explain to her. "You could paddle around on it and ride waves or whatever. Shit ... you're not Hawaiian, are you ma'am?"

"What happened?" he asks, blinking blearily at the ceiling.

"Look," I says into the phone, trying to ignore him. "I'll only charge you ten bucks for this first guitar lesson, but look what I have to work with here ... this is the musical equivalent of smoking a cigar, drinking coffee and eating a box of Oreos in the dentist's waiting room. Your son would be better off doing something for which he was more genetically suitable. Like ..." Thinking quickly, I turn and look at the boy, still on the kitchen floor, for ideas. "Like, I dunno, becoming a perfume or something.”

Absently twirling the phone cord in my fingers, I see Butterbean sit up.

"Those poor pandas," the boy whimpered weakly.

"Shhh!" I says to him irritated, covering the phone mouthpiece. "I'm negotiating." Turning my back to him in order to concentrate, my attention returns completely to Butterbean's mom.

"So we have a deal then?" I ask. "Good. Now how much will you give me not to teach him ‘Smoke on the Water’?"

Sunday

If You Are Listening, This Message Is Secret

Predator Press

[LOBO]




What shall we use to fill the empty spaces?

Where waves of hunger roar?

Shall we set out across this sea of faces?

In search of more and more applause?

Shall we buy a new guitar?

Shall we drive a more powerful car?

Shall we work straight thought the night?

Shall we get into fights, leave the lights on, drop bombs?

Do tours of the East?

Contract diseases?

Bury bones? Break up homes? Send flowers by phone? Take to drink? Go to shrinks? Give up meat –rarely sleep? Keep people as pets? Train dogs? Race rats? Fill the attic with cash? Bury treasure, store up leisure ...

... but never relax at all?

Thursday

Roller Coaster

Predator Press

[LOBO]

I don't even wear glasses.

And why I would spend $300 on a pair is totally beyond me.

But dammit, If I'm gonna spend 300 bones on glasses, I am going to wear them.

Normally when you get your eyes dilated for a vision test, they will make you wait around for a little while until your vision returns. But the gnarly-toed hippopotamus woman who gave me the exam seemed strangely anxious to see me go.

There's only so long I can sit around and comment on her lack of shaving prowess anyway.

I'm a busy guy.

With the case and receipts in a little plastic bag, I step out of the LensCrafters and navigate through the crowded mall sort of leering at people. What good are $300 glasses if you can't leer at people?

See these glasses buddy?

$300.

I didn't even take the tags off.

But no one really seemed to care. Everyone was in this big line to get on the escalator. The announcement board to the left at first revealed only stick figures fornicating. But with a little squinting -and $300 glasses- I see it says:


Now Appearing
One Night Only

GEORGE LUCAS

George Lucas? I'm thinking. I love that guy!

I shoulda bought a pair of these years ago.


***

Numerous thrown elbows saves me a lot of time, and soon I'm in the restaurant. It's a classy place: the aroma of French food and soft plinketty-plink music fills the air. The roof is angled panes of immaculately clear glass, and offers a view of the full moon and thousands of stars.

Were I able to see it, it would have been breathtaking.

And all around are other celebrities. In fact -as I was by myself- I couldn't have my own table: the waiter made me sit with Chevy Chase and Beverly D'Angelo. Even the guy bussing the tables was famous. I couldn't think of his name, but he had been in countless martial arts movies. You know, the guy with the Fu Manchu mustache?

I wasn't very hungry, but the waiter wouldn't let me stay if I didn't order. So I ordered baked Alaska, country fried steak, four pork chops, lobster tails, chicken fingers, waffles with extra powdered sugar and a diet Coke. And when the food came, I eyed Beverly warily as I set my $300 glasses precariously on the far edge of the table.

I had barely started my second pork chop before I realized that George Lucas was sitting right next to us.

"George!" I exclaim, running over. "I loved 'The Empire Strikes Back'!"

"¿Qué?" he smiles politely.

"Oh, it was great," I says. "That movie had everything. Giant metal dogs 'an spaceships." I point my fingers like guns at him, "Pew! Pew-Pew! How did you get away with filming a brother 'an sister making out without the Catholics comin down on you?"

"Perdón; Con permiso -"

"I never knew you were Hispanic."

Suddenly, out of the corner of my eye, I see Fu Manchu bussing my table. "Hey!" I says. "I'm not done!"

Fu glares. "Sir, there are other customers waiting. We need this seat."

"I'm not done!" I repeat.

Fu bows slightly, and I return my attention to George. "You know, you should lay off with the whole 'Star Wars' thing for a while. The new stuff is crap. You're totally wrecking it for the rest of us."

"Señor-"

"Yes. In fact, I've got just the project for you." Flipping a script out of my jacket pocket, I flop it right on his Crepes Suzette. And making inverted twin "L"s with my fingers, I stare upwardly through them. "It's called 'LOBO: The Motion Picture'. Hey, why are you sitting by yourself? Can I join you?"

"¿Comprende usted?," he says.

I hear the sound of glass and silverwear, and realize Fu is scooping my food into a grey plastic tub!

I return to my table, furious. "Goddamnit Beverly! Why didn't you say something?"

"Hey buddy," demands Chevy. "I think it's time for you to go." Standing abruptly, he bumps the table and my $300 glasses fall to the floor.

Without missing a beat, Fu's heel lands squarely on them with a sickening crunch.

"You BASTARD!" I wail. "Those were $300!"

"Please come again," says Fu, disinterestedly heading for the bar.

"I want to talk to the manager!" I command. Glancing at the next table, I see Jim Carrey.

"Jim!" I says. "Did you see that?"

"What?" says Jim, confused.

"That dude just trashed my glasses!" I scoop the pieces off of the floor. "These damn things were $300!"

"I'm sorry," says Jim, squirming slightly.

"Do you know who runs this place?"

Jim points cautiously at a blond guy at the bar.

"Thanks," I says, grabbing my plastic bag. "By the way, you were freakin' awesome in The Shawshank Redemption."

Jim just kind of gives me a weird smile.

Man, what the hell is wrong with these people?

I go over to the bar, and the blonde guy is Nick Nolte.

I love Nick Nolte!

"Nick!" I says excited. "'48 Hours' was the best movie I've ever seen!"

Nick shakes my hand nervously. "Well, I liked 48 Hours too. But I'm-"

"Man, your hands are soft," I observe. "What was it like working with Eddie Murphy?" But there's something else odd about Nick. Examining his sunburned forehead, I see the top half is a pasty fish white. "Is that a toupee?"

"No. I fell asleep in the beach with a cap on."

"Oh c'mon. What are you now, like, 60? Nobody's got long blonde hair when they're 60."

"Can I help you?"

Fu, washing glasses in the sink, nods at me indifferently. "This man say I broke his glasses."

"You totally did break my glasses, you jerk!"

Nick just kind of blinks at me.

Reaching into my Lenscrafters bag, I pull out the receipt. "I just got them today. They were $300!"

Nick blinks again.

"One or both of you should pay for them," I implore. "Plus maybe something extra for psychological trauma ... like maybe I eat here for free for life or something."

Nick stares at me for a long moment. "Well," he says finally. "If you didn't have your glasses on, how do you know he broke them?"

"Damn you and your infallible logic!" I scream. Then, seizing Nick's toupee, I dive through the crowd for the fire escape.


***

I sat up, sweaty and out of breath.

"What's the matter baby?" says Terri sleepily.

"I just had the craziest nightmare!"

"That's strange," she says, hugging me. "So did I. I dreamed we were riding on a roller coaster, and a tornado was tearing up the place."

"Wow," I concede. "That is weird."

Monday

2012: The Truth about the Mayans

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Steve moored his boat carefully, and crossed the creaking docks to the shore.

“Greetings from the Mayan Empire,” grinned Steve amiably.

“Welcome to Easter Island,” droned an uninspired official with a clipboard. Stepping gingerly over a sleeping man, he approached. “Are you here on business or pleasure?”

“Business,” replies Steve.

“And the nature of the business?”

“I’m here on behalf of the Mayan Empire, in search of legendary sculpture -sculpture for which your people are renown the world over.”

“Huh” says the man, presumably the Port Authority. “Then you’ll want to speak to my brother. He does all the major sculpturing around here.”

“Very well then,” says Steve.

“Would you like to settle your docking fee now?”

“Docking fee?”

“Yes. There is a non-refundable $20 docking fee.”

“I can’t get a discount based on our mutual commercial interests?”

“I’m sorry. No exceptions.”

“Fine. Here you go.”

“And then there will be the fees associated with tying up our Master Sculptor. Meeting with him will be an additional non-refundable $50 an hour.”

“What?”

“Look buddy. Don’t be difficult. I don’t make the rules.”

“Okay fine. Here.”

“And there’s a $15 fee for locating our Master Sculptor. This fee is also non-refundable.”

“I thought you said he was your brother,” replies Steve.

“Oh yeah. Sorry. That fee is a non-refundable $25. I hate that prick.”

“This is outrageous. I’m being fleeced and I haven’t even left the dock yet!”

“Please feel free to file any complaints with the Port Authority.”

“That’s you.”

“Yeah. Formal complaints filed with the Port Authority are a non-refundable $10 apiece. But I recommend you file them after your meeting with the Master Sculptor. You’re already down to 55 minutes.”

“Fine. Please fetch me this artisan immediately, before you shake me upside down for change!”

The Port Authority, while simultaneously counting his cash, turned and kicked the man sleeping by his foot.

“Frank,” he says to the prone man. “You have a customer. He wants to buy your sculptures.”

“Now?” the man groans. “I am busy. Tell him to come back tomorrow.”

The Port Authority returns his attention to Steve. “Frank says he is busy. Please come back tomorrow.”

“He is sleeping!”

“Well artists -particularly gifted ones such as my brother Frank- tend to be eccentric and fickle. I’m sure you understand. I'll tell you what. Come back tomorrow, and I'll give you a discount on your docking fee.”

“The only thing I understand is that I rowed 2000 miles to get here. Tell him to get up.”

“I’m up,” scowls Frank irritably. “I don’t know how anyone could sleep around here with all this racket anyway.”

“Hello Frank,” said Steve. “It is truly an honor to meet you. I am a huge fan of your work.”

Frank stretches. “Really?” he half-yawns.

“Yes. It is highly regarded by my people. I personally own several pieces.”

“Bah!” Frank guffaws. “Tell that to those prudes at the Louvre. ‘No Frank, we can’t put pornographic macaroni art in our displays.’ What a bunch of stodgy, pompous asses. How dare they call my work 'pedantic adolescent swill'?" Frank spits. "Swill? Really? Matisse draws some crap in Crayolas and fingerpaints -oh, that's art. But my stuff is swill?

“I didn't mean to upset you,” says Steve. “As I said, we are very fond of it actually.”

“Nah. I'm sorry. I forget my manners sometimes. Me 'an my brother are the last two left, and we don't get a lot of visitors."

"You're the only two left?" asked Steve, puzzled. "What happened?"

"Um," says Steve. "A tidal wave. Yeah. A big tidal wave. Swept away all the skeletons and evidence. You didn't come through that huge storm on your way here? Oh man you dodged a bullet."

"Wait. The tidal wave swept away skeletons?"

"Figure of speech. I mean skeletons, skin, organs ... everything of course. Everyone else on Easter Island was washed away -wholly intact and untenderized- to a watery grave. Their screams 'please save me from this tidal wave' will haunt my dreams forever. I tried to save those poor bastards too. But I ... uh ... couldn't. It was horrible."

"Yet all your buildings and structures remain intact," observes Steve.

"That's good old Easter Island craftsmanship," Frank brags smoothly. "So what do you want exactly?”

"What religion are you Frank?"

"Well I was Christian, but I converted to Islam. Now I skip Muslim mass instead."

“Are you aware that my people are working on our 2012 calendar?”

“2012?” notes Frank skeptically. “What year is this ... 6? 7? And you’re working on 2012?" Frank whistles. "Are you people that bored?"

“2012 is special,” explains Steve. “In 2012 all world problems are solved, and humanity will live evermore in an enlightened utopia.”

“Huh,” says Frank. “So where do I come in?”

“We want some statues to commemorate the grand occasion. You know. Something big. Something festive.”

“Then I’ve got just the thing,” replies Frank. “Please step this way.”

After a short walk, they went inside a warehouse Steve surmised Frank was using as a workshop.

“You’re gonna love this” says Frank confidently, approaching a tall edifice covered by a sheet. Grabbing a corner, he pulls the sheet away with a smooth and well-practiced flourish. ”Behold!”

Steve stares.

“Awesome, isn’t it?” continues Frank. “It just kind of, you know, pops.”

“Hmmmm,” says Steve. “I don’t know. It doesn’t really seem to capture the spirit of what we were going for.”

“Really?’ says Frank, wounded.

“Yes,” says Steve with finality. “This doesn’t say 'All the world’s famine, disease and poverty are gone forever' to me. This says something more like 'If I had arms, I would trim my eyebrows.'”

“Huh,” says Frank. “I guess I see what you’re saying. Luckily I have more.” Frank moves to the next sheet. “This one is more in line with your expectations I’m sure. I call it Festive Revelry.”

The sheet falls away, revealing another massive sculpture.

"Eh? Eh?" says Frank proudly. "I don't usually do celebrities, but I was really pleased with how this one came out just the same."

"The resemblance is uncanny," Steve acknowledges.

"She's suing me."

“Indeed this one is slightly better” Steve nods, circling Frank’s alternative creation. Hands on hips, he stops in front of Frank. Eyes still on the statue, he shakes his head to the negative. “But I don’t know.”

“Oh come on,” says Frank. “This one screams festivity. Even mom said so, right before she died in the fire pit slathered in barbecue sauce.”

"I thought you said everyone died in a tidal wave."

"Mother could be very stubborn."

“Let me see another one.”

“How about this one?”

“Well, this one looks just like the first one, doesn’t it?” And it has a crack in the nose!”

“Those ‘cracks,’ as you call them, are purposefully added to give the statue a distressed look,” explains Frank. “It’s very trendy. And they buff right out with a little Bondo. When it dries, you just sand it down and paint-“

“Do you have anything different?”

Frank sighs. “Not really.”

There’s a loud knock at the door.

“How many of these heads do you have?” asks Steve.

“887 or so. It’s a very popular model -this year's best seller in fact. And we deliver anywhere on Easter Island for free with cash purchase.”

Another knock. Louder. Frank, irritated, goes to answer it.

“But I don’t live on Easter Island,” calls Steve after him.

“A shame,” replies Frank. “But you wouldn’t fit in here without one anyway. These statues are considered very sheik -a symbol of status.”

Frank opens his rickety door to find his brother glaring.

“Frank," he growled. "When are you going to remove that ugly piece of shit head off of my lawn?”

“Next week,” whispers Frank. “I promise. Now if you will excuse me, I am talking to the contractor even as we speak.”

"Bullshit. There's no one else on this island except that Mayan guy you want to unload your crap on. I'm not Port Authority for nothing, asshole."

“One of these would never fit on my boat,” Steve points out loudly from the distant display.

“That’s not a problem,” calls Frank, slamming the door. “We have a full assortment of miniature souvenirs. Toys, pencil erasers, USB drives, mouse pads ... you name it.”

“I have a court order!” Frank's brother yells audibly from outside.

Frank rolls his eyes. “Steve -May I call you Steve? Please ignore my brother. Our statues are backlogged deeply, and he can’t wait to receive his. And he already has one! He is just crazy about them.”

“So all you have are heads, huh?" Steve hesitates. "I don’t know if I can make a big giant head work honestly. Even the colors are all wrong. We're thinking a teel and hot pink theme.”

“Well I would hate to see you come all this way and leave empty handed,” offers Frank. “Tell me more about this ‘2012’ thing. You say mankind will eliminate poverty, war, hunger, and crime -and thus live happily ever after?”

“Yes.”

“Will we be able to drink beer from women’s boobs?”

“I, uh, doubt it.”

Frank shrugs. “Well if you ask me, it doesn’t sound like much of a utopia then. In fact, that's the lousiest 'happily ever after' I've ever heard.”

“I’m not following you.”

“With a little tweak to your idea, these statues are perfect,” says Frank. “Just look at the expression on this one. It says 'Gee. All world problems are solved, and humanity will live evermore in an enlightened utopia … but we still haven’t figured out how to drink beer from women’s boobs. Even at its intellectual and spiritual apex, Humanity is an utter failure -a futile, failed gesture by god and/or the gods. And that warrants wholesale and horrific fiery extermination from any vengeful deity you might be worshiping, not worshiping, or otherwise enraging! The seas will run red with your blood in the slaughter of unholy wrath ... '" Frank pauses and looks up, admiring his own work. "Cripes, man. Are all you Mayans this unimaginative? The possibilities are endless!"

“No we're not 'unimaginative' thank you. I'm wearing a purple feather headdress for goodness sake."

"I know! And it's ornate, meticulous, full of subtle complexity ... your Empire must be excruciatingly boring to have that kind of time."

"The Mayan Empire is the furthest thing from boring."

"Well you don't have to tell me, brother. When it comes to those calendars, you're totally fearsome. Now let's get back to you insulting my art."

"I didn't insult your art," counters Steve, looking upon the big giant head statue with fresh, new possibility. Involuntarily chewing his lip in deep thought and nervous anxiety, his teeth seemed to glow purple.

"Remember I only have 887 of them left," Frank points out. "That's it, too ... I'm not making any more. It's an automatic collector's item now. Would you like yours numbered? I can number them." Sensing Steve is teetering on the sale, Frank leans in and whispers. "I'll number them all '1' if you want. The resale value will be incredible."

“But wouldn’t predicting the end of the Earth be kind of, you know, a downer?" says Steve. "My people are back home expecting something a little more uplifting. Less ominous -you know, something thought-provoking but not scary. We already got balloons and cake and stuff.”

“That’s the beauty of it,” Frank clarifies. “If everyone believes the world will be a utopia in 2012, everyone will slack off waiting for it to happen. But conversely, if they think it will end in 2012, they will go about their lives in a full-on ardent appreciation of the present instead.” Frank punches Steve's shoulder. "Imagine the party you'll have then."

“I like it,” concludes Steve. “Dreading oblivion, humanity will doubtlessly make the best of the years up to 2012.”

“Yep," Frank replied, not missing a beat. "No wars, famine, poverty ... faced with a bigger problem, the world will doubtlessly unite and make the best of the years that remain.”

“But what happens when the world doesn’t end in 2012?”

“Hello? Enlightened utopia instead of galactic obliteration? Who is going to complain? They will thank you. Besides, we’ll all be dead by then.”

“And revered throughout history as the wise, forward-thinking heroes of our age,” Steve nods excitedly. “I’ll take 10,000 statues!”

“Good,” says Frank. “Just sign this invoice, and I’ll get started on them right after lunch." Frank pauses. "Say, how much do you weigh? 180 or so?"

"Yes. Why?"

Frank preheated his pottery oven to 350° and smiled strangely.

"Just curious."

Friday

I Have Decided to Join a Secret Society

Predator Press

[LOBO]

I know! Isn’t that cool? Now when people see me, they will whisper stuff like:

”Psst ... isn’t that LOBO?”

”That really handsome dude wrestling the grizzly bear?”

“Yes. I heard he is a member of a secret society!”


Man, I am jazzed about joining too. Ever since George Bush Junior got his big break from ‘Skull and Bones,’ all the other cool people are doing it: Kipling had the ‘Freemasons,’ Doctor Tundra has ‘The Cult of the Claw,’ and Charles Watson had the Manson Family -ah the list just goes on and on.

Which one should I join? I don’t know yet. In fact, the afore mentioned list pretty much sums up all the secret societies I’m aware of -and by virtue of me being aware of them, these particular societies don't seem very good at keeping themselves secret. And what kind of business model is that?

What I need is a secret society where the members themselves don’t know I’m in it. Even better, so secret even I don’t know if I’m in it ... kinda like the one I have going with actor Michael Dorn and whoever the current guitarist for the Red Hot Chili Peppers is. Whenever Michael Dorn, the current guitarist for the Red Hot Chili Peppers and I cross paths we exchange a series of knowing looks. Mind you, I have no idea what Michael Dorn and the current guitarist for the Red Hot Chili Peppers might be up to at the time, but I’m with them 100% whatever it is.

So technically, I suppose, I’m already a member of a secret society; I’ll have to ensure my new one doesn’t have a conflict of interest –or worse, a redundancy- of my first. Secret society juggling can be a tricky endeavor when you don’t know what either secret society is doing ... probably my best bet is to lure the current guitarist for the Red Hot Chili Peppers into a secret society of our own, within the other secret society.

-I don’t know about you, but Michael Dorn plays a Klingon a little too good.

Know what I mean?

Tuesday

Through a Fog of Fever, an Antihistamine Transfusion, and a Nice Thick Glaze of Nyquil

Predator Press

[LOBO]

The annual tradition of facing a New Year with a list of self-improvement goals, or “resolutions,” is the result of events that can be traced back many, many years. So many years, in fact, most of them happened before I was even born, and therefore are considered inconsequential by numerous historians and scholars.

But one cannot trivialize history; indeed, “he who forgets history is doomed to repeat it.”

Like that “doomed to be repeat it” thing? I just made it up -I made it up to clearly underline the inherent dangers associated with repeating stuff! Due to a “lather, rinse, repeat” typo on a shampoo bottle, within two weeks my buddy Barbarossa lost all his hair and eyebrows, and polished top of his skull eggshell-thin. But despite this, the vast and sinister Paul Mitchell empire stubbornly fights the legislation to correct the phrase to “lather, rinse, STOP!” in a conspiracy to avoid an embarrassing and expensive worldwide shampoo recall. Mark my words: one day Paul Mitchell will pay for what his crimes, and pay dearly. But, like in any good democracy, there is a lot of paperwork to fill out before you can go and kill people. It's for our own protection supposedly.

But rather than bore you with "The Historic Origins of the New Year’s Resolution" blah blah, I've decided to bore you guys some good ideas for your own list of potential resolutions … resolutions that would make the world a better place, and possibly reduce my complaining about it:

Resolution Suggestion #1: Stop taking your babies on airplanes.

C’mon you self-centered pricks -this should be a no-brainer! The health and welfare of your spawn do not outweigh my right to travel in comfort. You can’t part with that thing for five minutes? Heck, you haven’t even had it that long!

I have it on good authority humans are a robust, hearty breed: civilization has been around for hundreds and hundreds of years without you givin’ it bottles and changing diapers and so forth, so a few weeks away is really no big deal. Babies are a lot like cats scientifically. Smelly, noisy cats. Yes. If you feed them once, they never leave ... and every few days you'll only have to do the whole food thing all over again to shut them up. And you gotta buy babies stuff a lot, whereas cats are aloof and unattached. Come to think of it, if you put a baby and a cat in the wild, the baby would adopt the cat. But you know what cats would do? Cats would eat the baby!

Alright ... forget I said anything about cats. But babies, like cats, need character, and you getting away for some well-deserved 'R & R' is a great way to build some. For the duration of most holiday trips, well-fed and watered babies in a fenced in backyard will do nicely if weather permits. And if you don’t have a fenced in backyard, perhaps you should use the money from your trip on one instead -thereby sparing me being trapped with the bundle of happiness you have wrought upon the Earth anyway.

But I suspect if you couldn't afford to get a fenced in backyard and travel, you probably weren’t able to afford having babies in the first place ... your New Year's Resolution list should probably include something about promiscuity too. Try something like "This year, instead of waving them around in the air like I'm trying to guide an airplane, I'm going to keep my legs sitting in the back seat of the convertible."

Whore.

Resolution Suggestion #2: Please start smoking again.

I’m sick of you sanctimonious non-smoking pricks kicking me out of restaurants and bars, et cetera.

You know what? I’m going to make a place where smoking is mandatory. It’ll have all kinds of cool stuff in it -like rides and junk- and we won’t let you in. Hah! One day you’ll be all like “Hey, where are those cool people that used to hang around our building entrance?”

But we will be long gone.

Years later, repressed, destitute, and alone, once you've realized that binge-eating tumbleweeds and soy beans will never fill that empty void inside, you’ll search us out.

“Let us in!” you will sob. But a guy on a megaphone in a tower will be all like “Sorry. Can’t. Today is the Superbowl. And if I gotta make an exception for you, I would have to make an exception for everybody." And as you glance down at your extremely healthy chest and realize it is dotted with little wavering red lights, he'll go on to say "Now unless you precious little daisies of Nature are going to fire up a cigarette or something, please step back a few hundred miles from the facilities. Move along.”

I imagine, to satisfy an innate human curiosity, our utopic self-exile won’t go on forever; future generations of us smokers will go on educational safaris to see you in submarine-like vehicles with wheels, pointing out your still-exposed skeletons in the sand dunes to our children through a thick porthole. “See kids?" we'll say. "That’s what happens when you don’t smoke.” And there will always be some smartypants fat kid in the back raising his hand, “Those poor people. How come we didn’t eat them?” And we adults will respond in hushed, low tones sure to inspire nightmares: “Because all the exercise and lowfat diets rendered them flavorless, soulless husks!

In the fat kid's defense, I'm sure we would have become bored of eating veal and baby sea lions, and at some point would have made some attempts at preparing a decent meal of you health freaks ... you know, with a fine Mornay sauce and a red wine or perhaps deep fried on a stick with a zesty Ranch dip. But all your sucking up to Mother Nature would probably pay off with some kind of defense mechanism such as smelling like boiled cabbage or something. Blech. I hate that smell! And it probably takes days to get your house smelling back to normal once you've cooked a health nut ... I mean Febreze or no Febreze, it just lingers and cloys in your couches, drapes and clothing for what seems like forever.

Screw it. We'll just hunt you for sport.

Anyway I’m bored with making my list now.

But most importantly, I have completed my own personal New Year’s resolution: to write a post including Barbarossa.

Isn’t ‘Barbarossa’ a cool name? When I met him he introduced himself incessantly, almost bragging through his big, pearly-white grin.

“Hello, my name is Barbarossa.”

“No it isn’t,” says Barbarossa’s doctor. “That’s half the reason he is here.”

“His name isn’t Barbarossa?” I ask.

“No. Actually, no one knows his real name.”

"Then how do you know it isn't Barbarossa?"

"Because he's in a straight jacket."

“Well this isn’t very convenient,” I says. “As author and narrator of this post, I can’t exactly call you ‘Barbarossa’s doctor’ if he isn’t ‘Barbarossa.’”

“Well, you’re pretty screwed then,” says the guy who isn’t Barbarossa’s doctor.

“Hello, my name is Barbarossa,” beams the guy who isn’t Barbarossa.

“No it isn’t,” said the guy that isn’t Barbarossa’s doctor.

“This is pissing me off,” I says flatly. “Have you tried giving him Napoleon pastries?”

“Ah,” says the guy that isn’t Barbarossa’s doctor with mild interest. “The old 'You are what you eat' trick, eh? He eats one, and then becomes Napoleon?”

“Yes.”

“That’s crazy.”

“I’m fine with calling him Napoleon,” I argue.

The guy that isn’t Barbarossa’s doctor rolls his eyes. “Oh man please tell me you’re kidding,” he pleads. “Jesus, you can’t throw a rock in here without hitting a Napoleon. I thought it was kind of refreshing to have a Barbarossa for a change.”

“Hello, my name is Barbarossa,” beams the guy that isn’t Barbarossa.

“No it isn’t,” said the guy that isn’t Barbarossa’s doctor.

“I’m calling him Barbarossa,” I says with finality.

“Please to meet you,” says the guy that is once again Barbarossa.

“Alright,” the doctor shrugs, sighing in resolve. “I hope you know what you’re doing.”

“Why is he in here -besides the Barbarossa thing?” I ask Barbarossa’s doctor.

“Because he is in a straight jacket,” he replies.

“Why is he in a straight jacket?”

“Because he is in here.”

“Huh. That’s good science, and pretty efficient," I conclude. "Doctor, I salute you. If not for your hard work and dedication, Paul Mitchell would have completely destroyed this poor man.”

“Hello, my name-”

“Uh, ‘Barbarossa.’ Got that.” I says.

“Pleased to meet you,” says Barbarossa.

"Well it wasn't easy," says Barbarosa's doctor. "It took six weeks to get him where he didn't smell like coconuts."

“Is he dangerous?” I ask Barbarossa’s doctor curiously.

“Only if you’re in our Acrophobia treatment. He likes to push the patients down the stairs during the therapy.”

“Does that cure them?”

“I don’t know,” shrugs the doc. “We don’t go down there anymore. Too much screaming. It’s hell on the nerves.”

Sunday

Deck the Halls with Busted Balls


Predator Press

[LOBO]

I was vaguely aware as my youngest son audibly mistyped his name, “J-O-O …”

But then I distinctly heard the G.I. Joe M.A.R.S. Laptop announce with finality, “'Joo' is incorrect. Access denied.”

I am going to have so much fun with that thing at Sunday Mass this week ...