Sunday

The Fat Man Sang

Predator Press

[LOBO]

As a devout Conservative Republican, it is with heavy, heavy heart I say farewell to Rush Limbaugh.

In March of 2010, he announced [paraphrased -story linked here] “If the health care bill passes, I will leave the country.”

Due to my loyalty to “The Cause” -and because he is an avid Predator Press reader- I have linked the following sites for Rush's convenience:


Orbitz
Travelocity
Priceline

[*sniff*]

Wednesday

The Butterbean Kid is Dead

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Butterbean scoffs incredulously over my shoulder.

“You can’t really write that if it isn’t true.”

Exasperated, I stop writing.

“How many times do I have to tell you not to interrupt me while I’m filling out insurance papers?”

"Sorry," says Butterbean, looking away. “I just thought it might be, I dunno, illegal or something.”

Decedent Age: 13

“Yeah, well,” I says. "It's only one of the many sacrifices I make for the millions and millions of Predator Press readers."

Cause of Death:

I pause to look at him for a second, then return to my keyboard.

Cause of Death: Morbid Twinkie Saturation

Butterbean, visibly wounded, seems to deflate somewhat.

“My mother says I’m big-boned” he offers. Showing me his fleshy, flaccid bicep with the water-soluble tattoos we got in Switzerland, he continues. “Some girls like guys with some 'meat' on them.”

-And I don’t know what got into me. Maybe it was all those hot, big-haired 80’s chicks I failed to woo with my ‘64 Dodge Dart replete with imitation vinyl interior, pine tree air freshener, and AM radio.

But I felt sorry for him.

Cause of Death: Morbid Twinkie Saturation Complications of Menopause

“What’s ‘Menopause’?” asks Butterbean.

“It’s a really high level of World of Warcraft.”

“Cool,” he says. “I gotta go home and tell my parents I‘m still alive. And I get in trouble if I’m late for dinner.”

I strip the receipt tape from the 10-key.

“Well if you must,” I says, scowling at the tiny scroll. “But try not to be conspicuous.”

Friday

Dangling the God Participle

Predator Press

[LOBO]

“But it’s two in the morning,” says the Butterbean kid. “Besides, the CERN Hadron Colider is closed to the public.”

“I am not ‘The Public,’” I says, lowering the rope. “I‘ve had a personal black hole on backorder since 2008. I‘m a prospective buyer.”

Butterbean gives the rope a tug forlornly. “Why do I have to carry all the luggage?”

“It was a condition of getting through Customs” I explain down to him in excruciating, hushed tones. “When they asked you the nature of your visit, I told them it was to carry my luggage.”

“What was the nature of your visit?”

“To tell you where to put my luggage. Now be careful. That Fabergé egg was very expensive.”

“I still think it’s a painted Wiffle ball.”

“Why would that guy charge me so much for a painted Wiffle ball? Painted Wiffle balls are comparably worthless.”

“Why don’t you just come down and unlock the door?”

I sigh.

This fucking kid is the laziest Administrative Assistant I’ve ever had.

“Oh, all right” I says. “You probably would have banged up my television anyway.”

Bounding down the two flights of stairs, I make it a point to turn on the lights as I go ... all the way, keeping a sharp lookout for the Swiss equivalent of a shipping department: if my black hole is already there, I figure I’ll save myself a few bucks by circumventing the whole UPS thing.

The back door latch cracks loudly with the sound of well-imbedded steel, and I swing the heavy door wide.

“Thanks” says Butterbean, collecting my luggage.

"I shoulda made you climb that rope for your own good" I says, pointing to his considerable belly. “A little exercise wouldn’t kill you, you know.”

“Yuh,“ he grunts, heaving my luggage through the door.

Once inside, he looks around.

“There's nobody here.”

“I can’t believe I’ve flown all the way to Switzerland,” I agree glumly, “and these lazy scientists are off screwing around when they should be working on my black hole! I’m going to send them an angry email.” Turning on a nearby computer terminal, I am immediately greeted by a screen requesting a password.

“Damn!” I says. Thinking quickly, I type ‘CERN.’

The screen says ‘Password Fail.’

Meditating on this solemnly for a moment, I try again.

‘NREC.’

Suddenly, the complex in buzzing

-Buzzing with the steady throb of science.

Butterbean is incredulous. "The password was 'CERN' spelled backwards?"

"Yep," I guffaw. "I told you scientists are dumb."

And as the computer screen blinks to life, it reads the line ‘Activate Supercolider?'

“Where the hell is the email in this thing?” I says irritated into the computer screen. “No shipping records, no porn ... just tons of physics crap and Elf Bowling.” Frustrated, I click ‘Activate,’ and the room seems to shrink with the whine of turbines.

“Cool,” breathes Butterbean. Spotting an addled dry erase board on the wall, he squints to read the nigh-illegible chart.

“Hey, look at this” he says. “It‘s a project schedule.”

“Jesus Christ,” I complain. “These worthless bastards haven’t even found the Hogus-Bogus Particle yet!”

“Nope.”

“We have to speed things up, or I’m never going to get a personal black hole.”

“What do you have in mind?”

Scratching my chin, I spot a steel huge porthole in the floor -about the size of a small car. "Lefty-loose-y" I mutter under my breath, spinning the lock.

“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” says Butterbean.

Blinding alarms and deafening sirens peal.

“Why?” I yell over the clamor.

“You’re opening the chamber of a 17-mile long supercolider” he shouts, a wild wind now blowing through his hair. “It’s just a hunch.”

“These so-called scientists will never get anywhere trying to smash teeny particles,” I explain.

So I started throwing small stuff in at first. Pens, clipboards, files … but that shit just whipped around noisily, missing each other entirely. Butterbean caught on soon enough, and went to the cafeteria and grabbed a handful of odds and ends out of the fridge; he soon returned with a half a Pepsi, some sporks, and tuna fish sandwich labeled 'BOB' in crude red capital letters.

But true science did not occur until pieces of the afore mentioned computer -on their third lap- cracked solidly into the afore mentioned dry erase board.

And there it was: a singularity -the main ingredient for my personal black hole- in all it‘s vacuous splendor.

And as the tuna fish sandwich spiraled in, Blackie -I have decided to call her Blackie- swelled slightly while devouring it.

"Bob is going to be pissed," Butterbean remarks.

“She’s hungry! Keep throwing stuff in!” I cry to Butterbean. “We have to get her to a size where she will stabilize!”

“How big is that?”

“About the size of the fruit basket Tiger Woods sent to Jesse James yesterday.”

Within an hour CERN was devoid of every stick of furniture and file cabinets, and exposed wires hung from holes in the wall.

“Don’t worry Blackie!” I cry down into the void. “I’ll think of something!”

“There’s nothing left except your luggage,” says Butterbean. “Hey! What are you doing?”

Trying vainly to scoop Butterbean in, I struggle against his mighty girth ... but I might as well have been trying to lift the Rock of Gibraltar.

“Damn,” I gasp. “I knew I shoulda made you climb that rope.”

The Viscosity of Toothpaste

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Since none of you cowards volunteered to kill my neighbors, I’ve had to take matters into my own hands.

“Look,” I says to the Butterbean kid. “You can’t go toe-to-toe with them. You’re too short. You need to use your weight against ‘em. Work up some inertia first. You know, hit ‘em like a 30 mile an hour walrus.”

“What if I don’t want to kill the neighbors?”

“Then why did you answer my ad on Monster-dot-com?”

“Because it said you wanted an administrative assistant.”

“Good administrative assistants kill people all the time.”

“Really?”

“Well, 'monster' is right in the name. And you gotta let monsters have some fun. If not, you have to pay them.”

“I’m not sure I want the job, actually.”

“You don’t want your secret identity as the deadly -feared and respected by all- Walrus Man? I think that would be a bad career move personally.”

“Why do you want the neighbors killed?”

“Because they’re evil.”

“How so?”

“They do stuff like mow the lawn while I’m trying to sleep.”

“My Dad mows the lawn here, Saturdays at two o'clock in the afternoon” says Butterbean. “I thought you meant the neighbors on the other side.”

“I do mean the neighbors on the other side. Killing your parents is merely a way to test your administrative assistant aptitude.” I pause. “How else am I to find out if you have, you know, the Eye of The Walrus?"

"How about if we ask my Dad to mow the lawn at some other time?"

"See this?" I says, showing my shaky hand. "And look how bloodshot my eyes are! I, author of Predator Press, am under enormous pressure. Millions and millions of readers will always be asking me every day, 'LOBO, why aren't your neighbors dead yet?' And if I don't get fifteen hours of completely random sleep a day, I'm likely to do something crazy -like not kill the neighbors. Do you want to be responsible for that?”

“You only have 150 RSS subscribers," he says skeptically. "And most of those are pre-med students looking for a psychiatric practicum."

“What happened to you?” I demand. “Did they get to you already? Fess up Walrus Man ... Despite a valorous career fighting crime, were you seduced by their massive payroll? Was it money? Was it women? Was it women made of money?"

“No.”

I gasp. “They gave you the Dale Earnhardt commemorative plates? Walrus Man, you are shrewd.”

“Stop calling me that.”

“But I already had it embroidered on your cape!”

Thursday

My Dead Neighbors

Predator Press

[LOBO]

What? No. I’m not dead.

But thanks for asking.

My neighbors unfortunately aren’t dead either. But you cannot fault me for the fact that Humanity has ground to a standstill by people that use a high-gloss hubcap as a candy dish.

I watch a lot of Forensic Files, and it turns out a) people that don’t live here think murder is bad, and 2) murder has become really difficult because of people that don't live here.

But “let not your hearts be troubled”: when my neighbors finally are dead, I’ll be the first to solve the murders, and Predator Press will have every nuance of the tedious, excruciatingly detailed exclusive story documented.

And while we're on this subject, Predator Press is currently hiring: we need a full-time Predator Press Blog Ink Inspector, which involves a lot of heavy lifting, and impromptu nighttime sub-duties.

Desire to be featured in an future exclusives is a plus.

-No criminal background check or drug test is required.

Thursday

Everything Must Go

Predator Press

[LOBO]

"There is no ‘Les’ in Les Miserables,” says Terri. “It's not a person. It means ‘The Miserable Ones.’”

“Ah crap," I says. “You mean to tell me I’m 100 pages into a book written by a guy that can’t even spell?"

Terri sighs. “Apparently.”

“Well I’m going to re-write it,” I boast.

“Really.”

Yes. Check this out. “Doctor Les Miserables was a rapper -like Doctor Dre- who loved two things: his bling, and performing abortions.”

“I don’t think that’s going to work” says Terri, reading over my shoulder.

I continue typing. “Unfortunately, he wasn’t very good at abortions, and had to run an orphanage as a consequence … ”

“You’re missing the point-”

“Before you go stompin on my work, would you at least let me get to the alien invasion?

Tuesday

Jackson Tweens Caught With Stun Gun, DCFS Conducting Investigation

Predator Press

[LOBO]

According to TMZ -because one of the children had somehow acquired a stun gun- the Department of Children and Family Services is conducting an investigation of the Jackson family.

So what’s the big deal? If I was 13 and lived in the Jackson home, I would want a stun gun too. They got giraffes 'an crap!

Look. I’m a staunch NRA supporter. And when I last checked, our Nation’s children were protected by a little thing called The Constitution. I for one love my stun gun. How else is one expected to deal with unwanted visits from Jehovah’s Witnesses and Census Takers? Kids getting a firearm should be a prerequisite for graduating kindergarten, thus beginning early the long road of preparation for the firefight formerly known as college.

Sure there’ll be a handful of you sanctimonious, whiny liberals, "But LOBO, a gun can be dangerous -especially when used by children!”

Pthbbbt! Where do you people come up with these ideas? And I didn't say give 'em, like, grenades or something: one measly stun gun is great fun for the whole family!

Don‘t believe me? This morning the Butterbean kid got sent over to borrow a cup of sugar, and I‘ve been stunning him ever since. I even recharged it twice. He’s fine. In the process, I even uncovered some false advertising: the box my stun gun came in says explicitly, “Will incapacitate virtually any assailant instantly.” But this little prick keeps twitching!

And this further illustrates my point, doesn‘t it?

If this little bastard had a gun, none of this would have ever happened.

Monday

Exclusive: Brittany Murphy is Dead

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Millions and millions of Predator Press Voluntary Insiders (like CNN and Fox News) have, after a scant three months, uncovered incontrovertible, shocking evidence.

-Brittany Murphy is dead.

I know! WTF!?

I would imagine refunds will be issued for the rest of the Circus tour, which has been unwittingly performed posthumously.

-Millions and millions of the Predator Press Voluntary Zombie Patrol are on Full Alert.

Thursday

Please Stop Sending Me SeaWorld Tickets

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Look, it’s very generous. But I’m very, very busy being unemployed -a trip to Orlando is just out of the question at this time.

Plus it seems a little mean-spirited, as it is widely known that I suffer from Cryohydrotachophobia -the morbid fear of rogue icebergs.

This prohibits me from getting near large bodies of water, and any beverage larger than 32 ounces.

Tuesday

Caligula

Predator Press

[LOBO]

s a few of you might have realized, my computer recently went kablooey … I’m woefully behind on comments, and have even re-issued a handful of posts. I’ve kajiggered a system of using my email to get that done, but it’s time consuming.

The upside is there is stuff I‘ve been working on that‘ll be pretty interesting. For instance, I have an interview with one of my favorite blogger-slash-authors Chris Wood on the table; sure he‘s from the UK and insists on butchering our fine American language and is probably indirectly responsible for soccer ... Nonetheless he’s brilliant, hilarious and talented [Chris, stop reading here] and deeply psychotic -to the point where my finder's fee commission from Doctor Toboggans should be astronomical [Chris, okay to continue reading from here].

And I was initially thinking my book -"This Book Kicks the Crap Out of All Those Other Books"- would be a cookbook, but it turns out a chalk outkine of a lobster at the bottom of the pot ruins virtually any bisque, no matter how much garlic you add.

Instead, I rewrote it by replacing the word 'deep fry' with 'death ray' and 'lobster' with 'alien,' thusly creating an adventure-fiction saga: it's sort of an experiment to see if can hold interest over longer stories ... in effect, sampling myself for the possibility of writing my own book.

It'll be crap, I assure you. But it'll be my crap, so buy it! People pay lots of money for crap nowadays, so it's kinda fashionable if you think about it: there's this media whore named 'Shakespeare' who is totally unreadable -and he‘s got, like, four books published!

But this post isn’t about how all Predator Press readers agree Shakespeare is a limelight-mooching talentless hack: this post is about a very kind and unsolicited write-up I got from FamousWhy Terri found.

Take that, Shakespeare.

-Asshole.