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.”
Predator Press
[LOBO]
-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.
Predator Press
"There is no ‘Les’ in Les Miserables,” says Terri. “It's not a person. It means ‘The Miserable Ones.’”
“I don’t think that’s going to work” says Terri, reading over my shoulder.
Predator Press
Sure there’ll be a handful of you sanctimonious, whiny liberals, "But LOBO, a gun can be dangerous -especially when used by children!”
Millions and millions of Predator Press Voluntary Insiders (like CNN and Fox News) have, after a scant three months, uncovered incontrovertible, shocking evidence.
[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.
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.
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.
