'Hoarders' Episode Scrubbed Due to 'American Pickers' Visit

Predator Press

[LOBO]

This is going to be an entry in a 607,004.3-part series of things I don't understand about the human race.

Along with being tri-polar, I've further been diagnosed with pyromania, hypocondria, claustrophobia, necrophobia, xylophobia, spectrophobia, bolshephobia, agateophobia, phthiriophobia, syngenesophobia, coimetrophobia, sophophobia, virginitiphobia, agrophobia, russophobia, spacephobia, myrmecophobia, and phasmophobia.

But what might finally tip my handicapped parking placcard in is that I'm the world's only sufferer of cryohydrotachophobia: the fear of rogue icebergs. thus, it has become my sworn and sacred duty to protect myself from you assholes at all costs; the second I lower my guard, I just know you'll be sailing one of those evil glaciers -just dripping malaise and polar bears- right up the fucking Mississippi.

So when Mike Wolfe, Frank Fritz, and a cadre of History Channel producers and cameramen circled my dumpster, I was immediately upset.

Mike Wolfe: Hello, I’m Mike Wolfe.

Frank Fritz: And I’m Frank Fritz.

Mike Wolfe: And we are …

Mike Wolfe and Frank Fritz in unison: American Pickers!

LOBO: You guys looking for aluminum cans or something?

Mike Wolfe: I see you have a Blackburn TPS-2

Frank Fritz: bicycle floor pump in your garbage.

LOBO: That’s actually not my garbage.

Mike Wolfe: First introduced in 2008, The Blackburn TPS-2 Bicycle Floor Pump is constructed with a burly steel barrel for maximum durability. This bicycle floor pump features a precision brass pressure gauge for reliability, as well as a new Presta/Schrader double-barrel head for added convenience. Blackburn's TPS-2 pump achieves a maximum pressure of 140psi, weighs 3.8 pounds, and comes with a limited lifetime warranty.

Frank Fritz: Would you consider selling it?

LOBO: That isn’t my garbage.

Mike Wolfe: I’ve gotta have it.

Frank Fritz: Would you take six dollars for it?

LOBO: But that isn’t my-

Mike Wolfe: Okay. How about eight dollars? It probably doesn’t even work.

LOBO: Sure. Whatever.

Mike Wolfe: Alright, eight dollars. [offers handshake]

LOBO: Eh, you guys were just digging through garbage.

Mike Wolfe: But it’s in garbage we find Americana such as this!

Frank Fritz: We’ll let you have it for $220.

LOBO: What? I don’t even own a bicycle.

[my cellophone rings]

LOBO: Hello?

Mike Wolfe: Hello LOBO? We just scored a farm-fresh Blackburn TPS-2 Bicycle Floor Pump, and knew you were, you know, into that sort of thing …

I Ate WHAT?

 Predator Press

[LOBO]

A ‘meat and potatoes’ guy myself, not a lot of foreign cuisine sneaks across my rather discriminating palette. But every once in a while there is a lapse in my security -otherwise airtight, I assure- and I feel I owe it to you O loyal reader, to complain about it in great, anguished, and excruciating detail.

While how we got the Grape Nuts cereal remains a mystery, I strongly suspect Terri: we’ve been married two years now, and I’m virtually positive it isn’t the first time poisoning me would have crossed her mind.

It has the texture you would guess human brains mixed with tiny bone fragments might feel like. And how do Grape Nuts taste?  For a toxic gash in the fabric of culinary history, it's surprisingly not very subtle or apologetic: imagine eating pulverized mulch, soil and tree bark dogs have peed on for years.  Mix that with a generous sprinkling of rabbit turds, and eating it out of a corrugated box with only a spade and a rake. Okay, are you picturing that?  Now imagine eating only the box.  Grape Nuts -utterly bereft of grapes or nuts, I should add- should be called ‘Rape Guts.’

Worse, it makes your poop unsinkable, unflushable battleship girders that circle around the whirlpool defiantly, bending the laws of physics and thermodynamics at will -some are so brazen, they swim against the Coreolis Effect! The larger ones exert a gravitational pull over the smaller ones, and they are drawn together -often into skirmishes for control of the tiny blue sea; the clanging and shrieking metal-on-metal sounds become extremely audible as armadas collide in angry, bobbing counter-orbits, and people are soon banging on the bathroom door. “LOBO are you okay?” and ”Where the hell are all those sparks coming from?”

-I would warn them to run for their lives, but I’m far too embarrassed.  In fact I'm sorry but if my weeds start growing out of my ass, we’re all going to die and that’s that.

Grape Nuts scores impressively, however, in practical secondary applications. It makes a great spackle for instance. The stucco patterns one can achieve are fantastic. Has a tree in your neighborhood recently been felled by a storm? A box of Grape Nuts, some water and fertilizer, and you can just stick that sucker right back on the stump.

Another high-scoring secondary feature is how it elevates the art of farting: it’s analogous to going from mere garden-variety ma an pa sticks of dynamite to military shaped charges.  Terri had some friends over from work, and I didn’t even have to enter the room: from the top of the stairs, I cut a SBD that felt like I passed a hot light bulb.

As you can guess, hilarity ensues.  I think they heard the palpable thump as it detonated on the living room floor below ... and what followed was ten seconds of erie silence, four minutes or so of shrill mayhem (choking, weeping, and the opening of windows and doors and such), and then five minutes of watery-eyed fingerpointing.

The next time Terri makes me go to church, I’m gonna choke down a whole box of this crap.

***

There is some good news on the foreign food front. We ate at a place called “Panda Express” the other day. Who knew panda was so delicious?  Judging from the number of customers, I'll bet they were serving up four of five pandas a day!  This is Entrepreneurialism at it's finest. And what better way to raise awareness of the plight of the mighty panda, nearly extinct, than to remind Americans how mouth-wateringly good they are when nuggettized and in a honey glaze -just like you would get them in Nature?

And they're only extinct because they won't have sex, right?  How nappy must those panda bitches and hos be if a male panda -born in a zoo and never had no sex before- don't want to toss 'em good an proper on top of the plastic habitat that looks like a rock?  Maybe the male panda is looking for something a little more upscale and refined, sensitive to his needs -like a panda in a cheerleader outfit.  Would it kill her to wear a cheerleader outfit every once in a while?

Maybe he’s a gay panda.  Or what if he's got, like a racist sex-fetish and wants a grizzly -or a polar- bear?  Hm?  Are the female pandas, like, real fat, or otherwise stricken with infirmities? Try not reminding him of Oreo cookies or Loa Tzu; maybe this bear is just such a hard-core fucking nihilist, he’s trying to end the species. This planet is a dump if you think about it.

Anyway, I can’t say enough about Panda Express, nor their fine work and noble commitment to save the lazy and otherwise worthless panda.

-And maybe they have a card I can get stamped for a free panda in the future!

Ask LOBO: Parenting Teenagers

Predator Press

[LOBO]

“Is Complainy up for school?” asks Terri.

“Yes,” I says, breathlessly removing my helmet.

“We have to figure out what kind of tampons she wants.”

“Blech.”

“Seriously,” adds Terri.

“Well don’t let her do the thing with the hangy stringy-thingy.”

“Why?”

“It's a widely-known fact if it’s accidentally pulled during a routine exam, she’ll rapidly inflate.”

Randy Moss Arrives in Tennessee

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Cletis, perplexed, scratched his head with the sight on his revolver. This tipped his hat forward, giving him a thoughtful and determined look he figgered.

“Do ya see her, Paw?” cried Skeeter.

“No son,” says Cletis. “Miss Moss?” he called into the train car. “Miss Randi Moss?”

“I’m Randy Moss,” said the 6’4” wide receiver. Despite the staggering size and weight of his duffel bag, he leaned forward and down to shake the tiny sheriff’s hand.

“Jesus Christ!” Cletis shrieked. “You’re Randi Moss?”

“It’s ‘Randy,’” Moss explained. “With a ‘Y.’”

“Dammit,” says Cletis. “We thought you was a porn star.”

“Nope,” says Randy.

“Do ya see her, Paw?” called Skeeter.

“Uh,” said Cletis, scratching his head again. “Well sort of-“

Suddenly, the approaching sound of Skeeter’s hard shoes, running. “Did you invite her to the ceremony where we give here the Key to the City?” Skeeter skidded clumsily around the corner, and locked eyes on Randy.

“Paw, this man is black,” he breathed, drawing his gun.

“I know that,” said Cletis. “This here is Randy Moss. With a ‘Y’. Now Skeeter Rommel McCoy, put that gun away affer ya does somethin stupid.”

“No can do, Paw.” As he cocked the hammer, a bead of sweat ran down Skeeter's forehead. “I seen a black man once. This man is ten times blacker.” He circles Moss, "What say you, Randy with a 'Y?' 'Habla Espanol? Konichiwa?"

Cletis sighed. Returning his attention to Randy, he began to recite the words he prepared –although in a slightly rehearsed, inanimate manner. “We, on behalf of our fine city, welcome you Randy -with a ‘Y’- Moss, to our fair city of Tennessee-” He paused abruptly, whispering. “What is it you’re here to do again?”

“I’m joining the Titans,” Randy explained to blank stares. “You know, your football team?”

“Hot damn,” says Skeeter, holstering his weapon.

“We got us a football team?"

Testicles and the Argonauts

Predator Press

[LOBO]

t was almost certainly Aboxades.

“Haw!” exclaimed the overly-audible voice -a voice you can hear easily over the din of the Market- from behind. “There’s his puny brother!”

Some approaching heavy footsteps –three men total, perhaps.

-Aboxades has himself an entourage today.

To the back of Testicles’ head, Aboxades guffawed. “Have you come, perhaps, to compete against him?”

Laughter.

Testicles sighed. He had indeed come to witness The Competition, and had a quiet comfortable spot under a shady tree with a spectacular view of The Games, the Argo –run ashore- as a backdrop.

But now he had hecklers.

“Fuck off, Aboxades,” Testicles replied without looking up, almost on mindless autopilot; living in the shadow of the mighty Hercules, his older brother, had made him hardened to such teasing. “My brother ain’t nothin special,” he breathed coolly.

“Oh and you are?” said Aboxades. With an armored man flanking each side, the Aboxades party was now fully blocking The Competition from view. “Your brother is going on a quest for the Golden Fleece.”

“Yeah, well if he wins.” Testicles chuckled at the irony. It was coincidentally Hercules' turn, and all fell silent as he casually flung a shield.

Several miles.

Striking a distant rock on the horizon.

“He won,” one of the guards observed.

“Meh,” shrugged Testicles. “I’ve seen better.”

Aboxades was aghast. “Better than that?”

Clearly both offended and wounded, Testicles noted Aboxades’ hero-worship. Rising to his feet, Testicles resolved himself to the improbability the men would simply leave.

“Well the way I see it,” said one of the guards, “while you fritter away under a shady tree, your brother is trying to save the kingdom.”

“My brother just won himself several months on a boat with no women and like fifty half-naked Greek guys. Fuck that. Call me crazy."  Gathering an apple, and orange and a banana, Testicles began to juggle his ill-fated lunch casually.

Suddenly, he had an idea.  "Are you noble men of the wagering sort?” Still juggling, Testicles nodded at a flock of wild sheep. “I’ll bet you fifty greenbacks I can lay three sheep in that herd before they bolt in alarm.”

“That’s impossible,” said Aboxades. “And I don’t want a bunch of angry letters from PETA.”

“You’re on!” said a guard.

“I’m in for a hundred!” said the other, already fishing through his armor for his coinpurse.

Aboxades scowled. “All right. I’m in too.”

Testicles unzipped his loincloth -still juggling- and the men all looked away in discomfort.

“What are you doing?” cried Aboxades.

“Winning our bet,” Testicles explained.  “Look, I understand that Hercules is a Hero and all. But Jesus … the guy is like nine feet tall. Most people run from my brother. I’m an Achilles man myself … “

Suddenly, in the distance, a sheep brayed.

“That’s amazing,” said Aboxades, forcing himself to look from between the fat, disarmingly-nimble fingers he used to shield his face.

"Well I can usually  juggle up to four pieces of fruit with no problem," Testicles explained. "But five is extremely difficult-"

"No, I mean the sheep thing."

"Oh, that." Testicles shrugged.  “Indeed Zeus has been very good to us.  But I don't think you fully apprciate the complexity of juggling five pieces of fruit simultaneously-”

"Hey!" cried a voice in the distance, from the middle of the herd.

“Whoops!” said, Testicles, flinching slightly. “Sorry Odysseus!”

Suddenly another faraway sheep brayed, and one of Aboxades' guards fainted dead away.

“Haha!” laughed Aboxades. “Do the black one!”

Predator Press Movie-Middle Reviews: Avatar

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Everything probably would have been fine if not for the Nader guy.

All through the line at the box office, that guy just went on and on about Ralph Nader. ‘Ralph Nader supports this,’ and ‘Ralph Nader opposes that.’

-And from the way his date feigned enthusiasm, I’m pretty sure she was ready to smack him too. She kept kissing the guy just to shut him up.

“Oh please,” I muttered as my ticket is bein torn. “Ralph Nader is a fucking populist. Voting for him is just throwin your vote away.”

We crossed the heavy double-doors into the darkened theater in the same small group. And as the ambient sounds diminished -as the room is designed to do- I distinctly heard the Nader guy whisper, “That guy is an asshole.”

“You’re an asshole,” I rasp quietly. “And a naïve asshole. America is a two-party system. Period. Now go fritter away the attention of some other country with your Lawn Party or whatever.”

“Fuck you hippie.”

“Nader tot!” I shrieked.

-The ‘shhhhhh!’s came from multiple directions, and almost on instict we scatter for seats.

Some previews started … but I got distracted tryin to figure out with more precision where Nader guy was sitting. He was about six rows up, and slightly to my left. Oh man, I’m thinking. Just let your stupid cellephone ring or something, and I’ll haul your stupid Communist ass right out of this stupid fucking movie and-

By the time Avatar started, I had completely lost my 3-D glasses.

Fuck.


***

Twenty minutes in, I had a splitting headache. So rather than watch the excruciating blurry images, I began to stare at the back of Nader guy’s stupid fucking head. He was an older guy, with well-manicured and gelled stupid hair, shaved just above his stupid collar. Pastel shirt -a stupid Polo shirt if I remember correctly.

After about an hour and a half, I began to relax a little and watch the movie.

Man the Smurfs in Avatar are fucking huge. Didn’t the guy who wrote this tripe do any research at all? I happen to know Smurfs are roughly three apples tall. Apples are, like, four inches or so right? These fucking things were at least five or six feet tall. Well that’s just plain lazy.

Lookit that stupid asshole with his stupid Nader hair warmin his stupid Nader thoughts.

I’m guessing the main Smurf in this story is Jokey Smurf, because everything is constantly blowing up. Jokey and Smurfette have some bizarre obsession over letting this poor crippled guy sleep, yadda yadda, more stuff blows up. They are probably alien Smurfs if you think about it.  You know, made gigantic by bein exposed to gamma rays and stuff.  Still, advanced civilization or no, Smurfette is the only female of all the Smurfs if I remember correctly … and it’s depressing me that she has all this free time. Maybe she’s a lesbian.  Now that I think of it, I don't think these guys even have any genetalia.  Nope.  I don’t remember seeing any ‘Predators,’ either, but Sigourney Weaver goes on and on and on about how to be nice to the aliens.  The humans -having finally found a long-sought alien species to have wars with- will have none of that 'peace' and 'love' hippie shit, and it's on bitches!  The humans finally shoot Sigourney to get her to shut the fuck up. Ironic.

How dare that Nader prick call me a hippie? I find myself thinking, starin at the back of Nader guy's stupid evil noggin in the pale bluish flashing lights.

All the Smurfs apparently live in this giant tree. Maybe that’s where the abnormally-large apples come in -like a crazy behemoth tree planted by Johnny Mnemonic-Appleseed or something. I don’t know for sure, because it was right about then I slammed my $15 tanker truck-sized Coca-Cola right into the back of the Nader guy’s fat, stupid, ugly head. It was spectacular.

“Nader is an Environmentalist!” I cried in exhilaration. “Save the environment?  The environment is trying to kill us all the time! Is he stupid?”

If you factor in the ticket, food, parking, and bail, I spent about $500 that night. You would think I would be left to enjoy the movie, right? But immediately after the Coca-Cola thing, there was ushers and lights, an ambulance and cops -virtually anything you could dream up that would make it impossible to follow a movie plot.

Still, Avatar‘s movie-middle garnered a healthy eighteen thumbs up. Despite the wanton Smurf inaccuracy -borderlining on outright historical butchery- when that Coke smacked the back of Nader guy’s head that shit exploded everywhere. People all over the theater were taking off their 3-D glasses and freaking out for a second.

Some applauded.

See that Ralph Nader?

Fuck you.

Spectacle

Predator Press

[LOBO]

On the subject of protests at funerals, I think there’s a bastardization of the First Amendment afoot.

So here’s a lil First Amendment quiz:

1) True or False: Anointed with Constitutional “Freedom of Speech,” I am entitled to push the college lecturer aside to elaborate on my own beliefs to the classroom.
 

2) True or False: The First Amendment ensures that I can interrupt a crowded movie premier; the theater lights should come on immediately at my request that I may offer an impassioned speech reflecting social woes.

If you answered "True" to either scenario, you’re either delusional, a complete asshole, or a health mix of both.

-But if you feel reasonable outrage at the idea of someone intruding on something you paid for, why should a funeral be exempt?

The 2010 Case Against Darwin

Predator Press

Bishop Eddie Long: 25,000 parish members of “New Birth” can’t be wrong, can they?

Jimi Heselden: This was either a murder, or Heselden is the nerd’s answer to James Dean.

All the crime scene investigators found near the melting custom Segway -all chrome and painted with skulls and bones- was a half-empty pitcher of rapidly-melting daiquiri, an empty sleeve of temporary tattoos, a smoldering WWI helmet with an iron cross on top, and a pair of scorched New Balance tennis shoes.

-I wonder how the Hoveround guy is gonna top that.

John Doe: This story is only a few paragraphs long -too short to preface- but far and away my favorite. This poor bastard is such a loser, even God couldn’t put him out of his misery.

Intelligent Life on Earth Found

"Don't get too excited" scientists warn, citing statistical improbability of finding more.

Predator Press

I'm Going to Need a Lot of Apples, Stat

Predator Press

[LOBO]

“Now class,” says the teacher. “Can anyone answer the question on the board?”

After an awkward silence, only I raised my hand.

“No,” I replied.

Internet Swag

Predator Press

[Found by Terri]