Predator Press
[LOBO]
What?
-Why is everybody staring at me like that?
Tuesday
Wednesday
Tuesday
'Twas the Night Before Christmas
Predator Press
[LOBO]
Twas the night before Christmas
and I’m wide awake,
arraying the chimney
with bear traps and snakes;
the booby-trapped stockings
set with infinite care,
in hopes that the fat man’ll
blow his hand off in there.
There arose such a clatter
up on my roof,
-and I’m sick of cleaning up
piles of froze reindeer poop!
I let loose a war cry
-a blood curdling scream-
and empty the contents
of my AR-15.
One, two, three, four,
five six seven, eight nine
thumps from above tell me
I missed one this time.
“Oh Dasher, Oh Dancer”
cries a loud booming voice,
“LOBO this tears it.
You give me no choice!”
I empty a blast
at the source of the sound
-and another at a spot
I think he might bound
-but the fat man is spry
for all that it’s worth-
he evaded hot lead,
belying his girth.
Not a creature was stirring
as I reloaded my shells,
“I don’t want any trouble!”
I finally yells.
“Just leave all the toys,
and get the hell out
I don't want to send cops
on that long North Pole route!”
The back door exploded
in splinters and slag
and a blood-splattered Santa
in smoldering rags
was removing his coat
and rolling his sleeves
“This time,” says Santa,
“Only one of us leaves.”
We circle each other,
and I’m very alarmed.
I can’t believe
the size of his arms!
“Hey what gives?" I says stunned.
"You’ve been working out!
Where’s the ‘bowl full of jelly’
you trespassing lout?”
With a wink of an eye
and a twist of his head,
I know within moments
I will likely be dead.
Santa flicks his nose,
“You dumb blogging hack!
I’ve lost two hundred pounds
on my Nordic Track.”
"Old Mrs. Clause
must thing you're a riot"
I says, "and that Stetson cologne?
I'll bet she don't buy it."
"I wear nothing but Polo," he says.
"Don't even try it.
Now I'll pound you to pulp,
and then leave here real quiet.”
"If you think that's Polo,
age is taking it's toll,"
-that's when I did
a slick ninja-like roll,
and from under the sugar-plums
grab the control,
“Bring a knife to a gunfight?”
I says laughing. “How droll!”
Missile TOW missiles launched
from tubes placed discretely,
but Santa danced deftly
–they missed him completely!
One of them arched
so high and so true
It blew the poor neighbor’s place
clear out of view.
“LOBO let’s stop this.
You’ve blown up the Burkes!”
“To Hell with you Santa!
Those people were jerks!”
“I don’t understand
why this is unpleasant,”
Santa opens his arms.
“Especially since I brought you a present.”
“Really?” I says,
resisting suspicion.
I lower my bazooka.
“That was your mission?”
“Why sure!” says Santa.
“It’s from your mother.”
And when I looked in that hand,
he punched me with the other.
Electric pain flashes
all through my cap,
My nose must be broken,
completely smashed flat.
I stagger backwards.
“Santa, you’re dead!”
… But Rudolph, behind me,
clean kicked off my head.
It landed on a spike
three blocks away
and I could see where my body
dropped and lifelessly lay.
Up on the rooftop,
the reindeer all raised
to resume the mantle
of pulling The Sleigh.
As I lay dying
I heard Santa fly off
-and I spat blood and teeth
in my last final cough.
“On Dasher on Dancer,
and to Mrs. Clause praise!
-We need bulletproof vests
for the reindeer these days.”
Santa, still climbing,
resumed his long flight
-his sleigh silhouetted
against the cold lunar light-
and as it grew distant
and faded from sight,
I heard "Merry Christmas to all,
and to all a good ... "
[LOBO]
Twas the night before Christmasand I’m wide awake,
arraying the chimney
with bear traps and snakes;
the booby-trapped stockings
set with infinite care,
in hopes that the fat man’ll
blow his hand off in there.
There arose such a clatter
up on my roof,
-and I’m sick of cleaning up
piles of froze reindeer poop!
I let loose a war cry
-a blood curdling scream-
and empty the contents
of my AR-15.
One, two, three, four,five six seven, eight nine
thumps from above tell me
I missed one this time.
“Oh Dasher, Oh Dancer”
cries a loud booming voice,
“LOBO this tears it.
You give me no choice!”
I empty a blast
at the source of the sound
-and another at a spot
I think he might bound
-but the fat man is spry
for all that it’s worth-
he evaded hot lead,
belying his girth.
Not a creature was stirringas I reloaded my shells,
“I don’t want any trouble!”
I finally yells.
“Just leave all the toys,
and get the hell out
I don't want to send cops
on that long North Pole route!”
The back door exploded
in splinters and slag
and a blood-splattered Santa
in smoldering rags
was removing his coat
and rolling his sleeves
“This time,” says Santa,
“Only one of us leaves.”
We circle each other,
and I’m very alarmed.
I can’t believe
the size of his arms!
“Hey what gives?" I says stunned.
"You’ve been working out!
Where’s the ‘bowl full of jelly’
you trespassing lout?”
With a wink of an eyeand a twist of his head,
I know within moments
I will likely be dead.
Santa flicks his nose,
“You dumb blogging hack!
I’ve lost two hundred pounds
on my Nordic Track.”
"Old Mrs. Clause
must thing you're a riot"
I says, "and that Stetson cologne?
I'll bet she don't buy it."
"I wear nothing but Polo," he says.
"Don't even try it.
Now I'll pound you to pulp,
and then leave here real quiet.”
"If you think that's Polo,
age is taking it's toll,"
-that's when I did
a slick ninja-like roll,
and from under the sugar-plums
grab the control,
“Bring a knife to a gunfight?”
I says laughing. “How droll!”
Missile TOW missiles launchedfrom tubes placed discretely,
but Santa danced deftly
–they missed him completely!
One of them arched
so high and so true
It blew the poor neighbor’s place
clear out of view.
“LOBO let’s stop this.
You’ve blown up the Burkes!”
“To Hell with you Santa!
Those people were jerks!”
“I don’t understand
why this is unpleasant,”
Santa opens his arms.
“Especially since I brought you a present.”
“Really?” I says,
resisting suspicion.
I lower my bazooka.
“That was your mission?”
“Why sure!” says Santa.
“It’s from your mother.”
And when I looked in that hand,
he punched me with the other.
Electric pain flashes
all through my cap,
My nose must be broken,
completely smashed flat.
I stagger backwards.
“Santa, you’re dead!”
… But Rudolph, behind me,
clean kicked off my head.
It landed on a spikethree blocks away
and I could see where my body
dropped and lifelessly lay.
Up on the rooftop,
the reindeer all raised
to resume the mantle
of pulling The Sleigh.
As I lay dying
I heard Santa fly off
-and I spat blood and teeth
in my last final cough.
“On Dasher on Dancer,
and to Mrs. Clause praise!
-We need bulletproof vests
for the reindeer these days.”
Santa, still climbing,
resumed his long flight
-his sleigh silhouetted
against the cold lunar light-
and as it grew distant
and faded from sight,
I heard "Merry Christmas to all,
and to all a good ... "
... I dunno ... I couldn't make out the rest.
Monday
Christmas? AGAIN!?!
Predator Press
[LOBO]
... Our lives would be so much easier if she just listened to me once in a while.
[LOBO]I told Terri we shouldn't take last year's Christmas tree down -and just like I predicted, pow, they're havin another one already.
[*sigh*]
Sunday
1001 Ways for Santa to DIE
Predator Press
[LOBO]
As I have already intimated on facebook, I think -to get over my holiday blues- I'm going to encourage you all to set Santa's beard on fire again.
1) There's nothing more funner than stealin all the Christmas crap by punching the frantic elves in the back of the head while they try and extinguish the fat bastard with egg nog.
The elves fall for it every time!
HAW!
B) Some places have really good smoke detectors: for mall Santas, while sitting in his lap, chain the 'Up' escalator to his belt buckle: hilarity ensues.
3) One time I superglued a laxative-laden White Castle hamburger to his greasy Pabst-smelling beard: the next day he had crapped himself completely inside-out.
-All they found was a skeleton on a toilet full of bloodied white beard tufts in an alternate universe.
N) This one is a bit elaborate: I call it the ‘Reversed Wolverine.’ Instead of adamantium, we replace Santa’s skeleton with glass.
Then we take him to the opera.
As I have already intimated on facebook, I think -to get over my holiday blues- I'm going to encourage you all to set Santa's beard on fire again.
1) There's nothing more funner than stealin all the Christmas crap by punching the frantic elves in the back of the head while they try and extinguish the fat bastard with egg nog.
The elves fall for it every time!
HAW!
B) Some places have really good smoke detectors: for mall Santas, while sitting in his lap, chain the 'Up' escalator to his belt buckle: hilarity ensues.
3) One time I superglued a laxative-laden White Castle hamburger to his greasy Pabst-smelling beard: the next day he had crapped himself completely inside-out.
-All they found was a skeleton on a toilet full of bloodied white beard tufts in an alternate universe.
N) This one is a bit elaborate: I call it the ‘Reversed Wolverine.’ Instead of adamantium, we replace Santa’s skeleton with glass.
Then we take him to the opera.
Friday
Conspiracy Theory
Predator Press [LOBO]
I’ve been a fan of Jesse Ventura for as long as I can remember.
He broke ground in wrestling –it seems to me- by being a likable and flamboyant bad guy. The only thing better than seeing my friends’ wrestling heroes getting pounded to a pulp for their altruism was having it done by a guy wearing a feather boa and pink tights; I delighted in their horror at every opportunity.
But he was unlike most of your standard-issue wrestlers in other ways. In the late 1990s, America began its preoccupation with electing the cast of Predator. And during the traditional mud-slinging process it would come out that Jesse had an unexpected integrity throughout his dubious celebrity; rather than drinking drugging and whoring in his free time as was common amongst the hard-touring wrestling “athletes,” he would spend countless hours on the hotel phone with his wife. Uncharacteristically outspoken for politics, aided by a military background and a peculiar state of moral unassailability, Jesse would eventually be elected as the Governor of Minnesota.
Now I told you all this to set the stage for a commentary on Jesse’s new television series Conspiracy Theory -a show I’ve only seen once so far, but a show I regard as “must see.” And not because it’s good … to the contrary, you will spend every second of watching this show white-knuckled and thinking “This guy got how close to being president?”
Picture your grandfather. Okay? Now picture your grandfather at 6’4”, 270 lbs, wild-eyed and armed with a budget, SUVs, helicopters, the works ... and cameras following him 24/7, to capture every thought he deigns to utter aloud.
Jesse: What is this?
Tiny Guard: This is the HAARP facility.
Jesse: Let me see it.
Tiny Guard: This site is 'Classified.'
Jesse: What is the fence for?
Tiny Guard: To keep out unauthorized personnel.
Jesse: Well, a place with a fence around it suggests to me that you guys are doing stuff in there you don’t want the public to know about.
Tiny Guard: Hence the 'Classified' designation.
Jesse: Why is it 'Classified?'
Tiny Guard: Sir, you do understand the definition of the word ‘Classified.' Right?
Jesse: Hey buddy. I’ve been in the military and I’ve been Governor. I know all about ‘Classified’ stuff. It means you don't want people to know what is in there.
Tiny Guard: Good.
Jesse: So what’s in there?
Tiny Guard: Can't tell you. But it's very cool.
Jesse: Aw c'mon.
Tiny Guard: Do you have authorization?
Jesse: I certainly do. It's from the American public, pal. How do I know you are legit? Let me see some identification.
Tiny Guard: You don't need to see my identification.
Jesse: I don't need to see your identification.
Tiny Guard: This isn't the HAARP facility you're looking for.
Jesse: This isn't the HAARP facility we're looking for.
Tiny Guard: You can go about your business.
Jesse: Oh well then. I guess we better be going about our business.
Tiny Guard: Move along.
Jesse: Sorry we bothered you-
Tiny Guard: Nah. I'm kidding. This is the HAARP facility. I've just always wanted to try that. This job gets pretty boring.
Jesse: Dammit I hate when people do that to me! Are you stonewalling?
Tiny Guard: Yep.
Jesse: Why?
Tiny Guard: Can't tell you.
Jesse: Can't tell me why you are stonewalling?
Tiny Guard: Oh, that? I already told you. This job gets pretty boring. I'm a security guard at the remotest site in Alaska the government could find ... the highlight of my day is picking which tree I'm going to pee on. Sometimes I'll shoot the tree afterwards, you know, so there aren't any witnesses. Or sometimes I'll shoot the tree next to the tree I'm peeing on, and scream Don't make me shoot another one! Man the trees hate that. And then I gotta file paperwork at the office to report why I used all my ammunition on my shift again ... on paper! Isn't that ironic?
Jesse: I think it's ironic we're even still using paper. The environmentalists are right to point out what a waste that is ...we should breed animals to write on. That way, your grocery list actually follows you around so you can't lose it. And the skin grows back for new messages for free for as long as the animal lives.Tiny Guard: Huh. I could make a whole calendar for trees I want to pee on and shoot that would follow me around? That's a real timesaver. You know, environmentalism only makes good sense if you think about it.
Jesse [to camera]: I’ll tell you what is really strange about this place. Ever since we got here, I’ve felt the oddest sensation that I need to get something.
Camera Man: Really?
Jesse: Yeah. It’s like they are using some kind of mind control device to get us off this site.
Camera Man: What is it you feel the need to get?
Jesse: I need, ah [rubbing temples, concentrating] that thing you put in your mouth. And chew.
Camera Man: Ah ... food?
Jesse: That’s it! [to Tiny Guard] Can I get 'a food' here?
Tiny Guard: No.
Jesse: Did you point some diabolical mind control device at me, making me want 'a food' so I would leave?
Tiny Guard: No.
Jesse: [glowering] Then I guess you know, I gotta do what I gotta do.
Tiny Guard: Yep.
[Smash-cut to Jesse driving away in black SUV]
Jesse [narrative voiceover]: “While my investigation of the HAARP facility has been thwarted by an unexplainable and irresistible need to acquire and consume 'a food,' obvious proof of the deep government conspiracy to construct a weather-controlling weapon …”
[montage of Katrina devastation, tornados, tsunamis]
Jesse [voiceover continues]: ... I got an important clue from the gang of militant thugs I had to overpower at the gates ...
[Smash-cut to Tiny Guard, waving as he recedes in the distance]
Tiny Guard: Bye Jesse! Come back next month. We're having an Open House!
Jesse [voiceover continues]: “... so I’m not done with this investigation yet. These people clearly have no idea who they are dealing with.”
[Smash-cut to Jesse rolling down SUV window]
Squawky voice over radio box: Can I help you sir?
Jesse: I think you can. And I would appreciate a little cooperation for a change.
Squawky voice over radio box: I would be happy to assist.
Jesse: I would like, ah [scratching chin], a Big Mac, large fry, and a medium Coke.
Squawky voice over radio box: Your total is $6.74. Please pull up to the second window.
Jesse: Second window? You know what? That was a little too easy. First HAARP makes me need 'a food,' and lo and behold, you have 'a food.' What’s waiting at that second window? Government sleeper agents? Ninjas?
Squawky voice over radio box: No sir. We will have your food-
Jesse: Ah ha! So you admit to having 'a food' here, eh? What do you know about the HAARP project?
Squawky voice over radio box: Sir, this is a McDonalds.
Jesse: So you say. What’s going on in there really?
Squawky voice over radio box: Cooking, sir.
Jesse: I’m coming in!
Squawky voice over radio box: Customers aren’t allowed in the kitchen sir.
Jesse: Says who?
Squawky voice over radio box: Our corporate offices.
Jesse [peeling out of drive thru, voiceover]: Dammit! As I suspected, the government is in bed with the private sector on HAARP.
[montage of Vietnam, nuclear explosions]
Jesse [narrative voiceover]: "Guided by my instincts, I took my team from the HAARP site in Alaska 3,500 miles away to where the real conspiracy lies, right here on this opulent campus in Oak Brook, Illinois."
Secretary: Can I help you sir?
Jesse: Well for starters, you can tell me everything you know about the HAARP project.
Secretary: Sir, this is Hamburger University … training facility for McDonalds managers.
Jesse: A training camp for raiders on American liberty!
Secretary: No sir. Strictly food.
Jesse: Ah ha! Then how do you explain me going to HAARP and needing 'a food,' and when I went to get 'a food,' I was nearly assassinated by one of your sleeper agents with a radio purchased by you? [Jesse throws receipts onto the desk]. Betcha didn't know Radio Shack keeps good records.
Secretary: This is a receipt from Walgreens. One box of laxatives, and a bottle of Viagra.
Jesse: Don’t try your fancy corporate double-speak on me. What’s going on here really?
Secretary: Training for McDonalds managers.
Jesse: Okay fine, Lady McDeath. Then get me a Big Mac and a large fry-
Secretary: Sir, we don’t actually make food here …
Jesse: So you are admitting on camera that this whole McDonalds franchise is a sham, created to cover up the development of a weather-controlling weapon for the United States government?Secretary: Yeah sure. Whatever. Hey, am I going to be on television?
Jesse [narrative voiceover as credits roll]: "And there you have it -another conspiracy confirmed. Next week we’ll uncover explore the John F. Kennedy assassination, and how Britney Spears stood to make mountains of cash as a result of his death. I'm Jesse Ventura, and thank you for watching this week’s edition of Conspiracy Theory. Jesus Christ this theme music it too loud. And it’s cold in here. And do we really need all these lights on? Who pays this electric bill … ?"
FREE
Predator Press
[LOBO]
Hundreds of years ago -back before many of our parents were even born- clouds of hydrogen succumbed to the intrinsic gravitational forces they exerted on each other, drifted together, combined, and eventually collapsed. This increased the core temperatures.
Some of these clouds would become so hot and dense they would ignite and become stars. These stars would burn all the available hydrogen, and thus transform what was left into more complex elements in the process.
Hydrogen, in essence, is the first and simplest step toward everything we know in the physical universe. Earthquakes? Hydrogen. Asparagus? Hydrogen. Colon Cancer? Hydrogen. Matthew McConaughey’s acting chops? Hydrogen.
-Hydrogen has been trying to kill us since the beginning of fucking time.
So why has Nature afflicted us with this hydrogen scourge? And more importantly, why has Nature afflicted me with this hydrogen scourge? If you want to know the truth, Nature doesn’t give two shits and a fart about us. Remember that environmentalist guy who was on the high seas trying to protect some dolphins, and a bear jumped out of his closet and killed him? That’s how much Nature ‘cares’ about us. And do you know how much hydrogen it takes to make a bear that will stowaway onboard a ship in a closet to kill a man? This was no accident, Sherlock … this was a Homicide by Natural Causes.
Doubtlessly by virtue of this dialog I have incurred Nature’s wrath: even as we speak, She is vengefully destroying some unpronounceable place on the other side of the Earth, bathing a hapless indigenous people in the full fury of Her terrible lightning, insatiable fires, crippling diseases, howling cold winds, and decades of subsequent famine and strife. Ooooo. I’m so scared! You know what Nature? Is that all you got? Fuck you! Take this craptastic maggot farm and shove it up your ass! I am so sick to death of taking your ill-tempered bullshit, I'm making up profanity -words like 'clitch' and 'slunt!' It’s high time we showed you once and for all who is in charge, bitch!
As most of you already know, I, like Mother Theresa, have dedicated my life to easing the suffering of others by marketing a line of products guaranteed to improve otherwise decimated lives. Luckily, seeking out said otherwise decimated lives turned out to be easy.
The Greyhound station was perfect for many other reasons as well. First, it’s a small audience … perhaps thirty people at a time, and all thirty “attendants’ would essentially have recycled themselves on an hourly basis. That means every hour, my message of salvation would race across the country in fleet brick-shaped economic cans of Truth and Justice, stuffed with people spreading The Word of a Hydrogenless Utopia at an exponential rate.
Alas, Nature had beaten me there. I swear every other passenger was carrying a bottle of water –every last one just oozing in hydronic pestilence! These people were unwittingly spreading Nature’s evil like a disease, and if I didn’t do something fast, hydrogen would be all over the United States within, like, eighty-seven days.
All I really remember is smacking an Aquafina out of someone’s lips so hard, it cracked against the wall audibly. ”Don’t be Nature’s whore!” I demanded. “Is that what you want? To be Nature’s filthy slut?” Stunned, the little girl started crying –it would appear being nature’s whore and slut can be a little overwhelming to children. But I didn’t have much time to ponder this, as before the teddy bear she dropped even hit the floor a couple of largish guys started circling me.
Deducing I had already lost the crowd somehow, I dove at a public water fountain against the wall. “Don’t come any closer!” I growled, fingering the fountain lever menacingly. “I’ll fucking do it!”
“My god man!” gasped a security guard. "Don't!" he begged.
Then, I don’t know -somebody flinched. Turning the faucet on, I stared into the stream as it worked its way past pieces of gum in the drain ... and an instant later I was tasting the ice-cold spearmint-flavored death. A woman screamed, and a tough-looking ex military type guy rolled his eyes and just fainted dead away. I hear the closing footsteps and whirl, revealing my cheeks bulging with Greyhound public fountain water, a trickle of hydrogen-laden venom seeping from the corner of one lip.
Everyone in the station threw themselves to the floor and put their hands behind their heads.
"We don't want any trouble son," soothed the security guard into the well-scuffed, toxic-looking linoleum. "Now calm down-"
***
Long story short, without that helicopter they never would have caught me. And they don’t let me into the Greyhound station anymore. But I did learn a lot from it all. First, maybe selfless and charitable works aren’t my “thing,” right? I mean don’t remember anybody tazering Mother Theresa. I think I will have to market a line of products guaranteed to improve their otherwise decimated lives for profit from here on out. Burn cream isn't cheap, you know?
Second, I learned environmentalists are dumb. See, I’ve been working on a few other things to save the planet from the hydrogen scourge: one is a diet bottled water -I call it "FREE"- that is one hundred-percent hydrogen free. But I’m having a little trouble finding a packaging method: environmentalists are already upset about my proposal to make the bottles out of half inch thick steel.
True it’s a few pounds heavier than a full bottle of hydrogen-contaminated water … but there would be a huge uptick in these jobs, and thus a much-needed boost to the American economy. What the hell do these hippies have against America? And think about it: isn’t the best environment one completely devoid of Nature? We spend a lot of money separating ourselves from Nature. Do you environmentalists live in a tent or something? If so, do you know what a tent is for? It’s to keep out Nature, dumbass!
Come on. Is opening a closet without fear of being mauled by a bear in the sanctity of my own home too much to ask?
Hm?
 |
| NASA photo, or L.A. taxi windshield? Either way, the universe is a dump. |
Hundreds of years ago -back before many of our parents were even born- clouds of hydrogen succumbed to the intrinsic gravitational forces they exerted on each other, drifted together, combined, and eventually collapsed. This increased the core temperatures.
Some of these clouds would become so hot and dense they would ignite and become stars. These stars would burn all the available hydrogen, and thus transform what was left into more complex elements in the process.
Hydrogen, in essence, is the first and simplest step toward everything we know in the physical universe. Earthquakes? Hydrogen. Asparagus? Hydrogen. Colon Cancer? Hydrogen. Matthew McConaughey’s acting chops? Hydrogen.
-Hydrogen has been trying to kill us since the beginning of fucking time.
 |
| I dunno what this movie was about, but I'm sure it was chocked full of Oscar-worthy performances |
Doubtlessly by virtue of this dialog I have incurred Nature’s wrath: even as we speak, She is vengefully destroying some unpronounceable place on the other side of the Earth, bathing a hapless indigenous people in the full fury of Her terrible lightning, insatiable fires, crippling diseases, howling cold winds, and decades of subsequent famine and strife. Ooooo. I’m so scared! You know what Nature? Is that all you got? Fuck you! Take this craptastic maggot farm and shove it up your ass! I am so sick to death of taking your ill-tempered bullshit, I'm making up profanity -words like 'clitch' and 'slunt!' It’s high time we showed you once and for all who is in charge, bitch!
 |
| Another sandstorm. Really. [*yawn*] How original. |
The Greyhound station was perfect for many other reasons as well. First, it’s a small audience … perhaps thirty people at a time, and all thirty “attendants’ would essentially have recycled themselves on an hourly basis. That means every hour, my message of salvation would race across the country in fleet brick-shaped economic cans of Truth and Justice, stuffed with people spreading The Word of a Hydrogenless Utopia at an exponential rate.
Alas, Nature had beaten me there. I swear every other passenger was carrying a bottle of water –every last one just oozing in hydronic pestilence! These people were unwittingly spreading Nature’s evil like a disease, and if I didn’t do something fast, hydrogen would be all over the United States within, like, eighty-seven days.
 |
| See? This proves it. With science. |
Deducing I had already lost the crowd somehow, I dove at a public water fountain against the wall. “Don’t come any closer!” I growled, fingering the fountain lever menacingly. “I’ll fucking do it!”
“My god man!” gasped a security guard. "Don't!" he begged.
Then, I don’t know -somebody flinched. Turning the faucet on, I stared into the stream as it worked its way past pieces of gum in the drain ... and an instant later I was tasting the ice-cold spearmint-flavored death. A woman screamed, and a tough-looking ex military type guy rolled his eyes and just fainted dead away. I hear the closing footsteps and whirl, revealing my cheeks bulging with Greyhound public fountain water, a trickle of hydrogen-laden venom seeping from the corner of one lip.
 |
| "We're peeing with you, not at you." |
"We don't want any trouble son," soothed the security guard into the well-scuffed, toxic-looking linoleum. "Now calm down-"
Long story short, without that helicopter they never would have caught me. And they don’t let me into the Greyhound station anymore. But I did learn a lot from it all. First, maybe selfless and charitable works aren’t my “thing,” right? I mean don’t remember anybody tazering Mother Theresa. I think I will have to market a line of products guaranteed to improve their otherwise decimated lives for profit from here on out. Burn cream isn't cheap, you know?
 |
| Every case of FREE comes with a cart -I mean what is more environmentally-friendly than that? |
True it’s a few pounds heavier than a full bottle of hydrogen-contaminated water … but there would be a huge uptick in these jobs, and thus a much-needed boost to the American economy. What the hell do these hippies have against America? And think about it: isn’t the best environment one completely devoid of Nature? We spend a lot of money separating ourselves from Nature. Do you environmentalists live in a tent or something? If so, do you know what a tent is for? It’s to keep out Nature, dumbass!
Come on. Is opening a closet without fear of being mauled by a bear in the sanctity of my own home too much to ask?
Hm?
Saturday
Bindsay Bohan: the Motion Picture
[LOBO]
“LOBO Productions,” I says coolly into the phone.The line is a bit loud with white noise, and the connection is terrible.
”Hello,” a female voice replies politely. “I’m calling to inquire about a film you have in production. It’s called “Linday Lohan: Fighting the Fears.”
“Ah yes,” I reply. “It’s kind of a biography of Lindsay Lohan.”
”Can I speak to whoever is in charge of that film?”
“You’re speaking to him” I says, twirling the telephone cord in my finger. Shiftless, my son, enters the kitchen, and I immediately put my finger to my lips, giving him the universal ‘Shhhhh!’ kata.
“LOBO Productions has their receptionist working on films?”
“Hey,” says Shiftless, annoyed.
-Shhh!
“Thank you Mister Spielberg,” I says at Shiftless dismissively. From the drawer, I withdraw some napkins with notes scribbled on them. “Linday Lohan: Fighting the Fears. Yes. I have the script right here.”
”Well I’m Lindsay Lohan.”
“Who?” I says absently, trying to decipher the napkin scrawl.
“Lindsay Lohan. I never heard anything from my agent about this project. Am I expected to be in it?”
“We would love to have you in this movie,” I says truthfully. “How soon can you audition?”
[a brief pause]
”You want me to audition? For the role portraying myself?"
“I’m sorry if I mislead you Miss, eh-"
"Lohan."
”Who did you get?”
“Chris Tucker.”
”Who is she?”
“I do have a cocktail waitress roll I think you would be perfect for,” I offer.
”You want me to be in a movie about me, where someone else plays me-“
“Not just anybody plays you, Miss Lohan. Chris Tucker plays you.”
”Wait. Is this that ‘LOBO’ guy that I have all those Temporary Restraining Orders against?”
“No it’s not,” I says. “But while we’re on the subject, is the TRO in Tulsa really necessary? You never go there unless it’s a flight connection.”
“If you go through with this movie, I’ll sue you down to the contents of your colon before I have you killed.”
”Good,” she says with finality.
Click!
“How did it go?” asks Shiftless, pulling his sandwich plate to the table.
“Pretty good,” I says. On the napkin I change ‘Lindsay Lohan: Fighting the Fears’ title to ‘Bindsay Bohan: Biting the Bears.’
Putting the notes back in the junk drawer, I shrug. “We got a lot of boring legalese out of the way.”
Wednesday
The Showtunes Must Go On
[LOBO]
Slightly bleary, President Barack Obama pads to the breakfast table in his bathrobe, a series of newspapers -with stories already highlighted for his attention- crooked under his arm. The rest of the family out of town, the large empty table only seems to underline the eerie quiet.
Obama presses a discrete button built into his chair, an aide allows himself in.
“Good morning sir,” says the aide.
“I guess that depends on what you have to say,” Obama smiles, eyes still skimming his newspapers. “What’s on my agenda today?”
Obama presses a discrete button built into his chair, an aide allows himself in.
“Good morning sir,” says the aide.
“I guess that depends on what you have to say,” Obama smiles, eyes still skimming his newspapers. “What’s on my agenda today?”
Obama groans. “Jesus. You people might as well have those pre-printed on your stationary.”
“There has been some movement in the Middle East Peace Process.”
“Yeah," Obama guffaws. "Whatever.”
“Kim Jong Il is here requesting an audience.”
“I don’t understand a word that guy says. He’s, like, French or something.” Obama yawns deeply. “What would you do?”
“As President?”
“Yes.”
“With my wife and kids out of town? I would probably just surf porn I suppose.”
“Can’t,” says Obama. “My wife found the line item in the budget I pay for it out of.”
"Ouch,” the aide winces.“Let’s back up. What about that ‘gays in the military’ thing?
“People of,” the aide coughs, “’alternate lifestyles’ are feeling persecuted out of serving in the armed forces.”
“Wait. These people want to enlist? They’re aware of the dress code, right?”
“Yes.”
“Well what’s the problem? Don’t we have enemies that need a good smacking around?"
“Not really.”
“How about one that should be patronized condescendingly during an ambush makeover?
“Kim Jong Il maybe?”
“Word," laughs Obama. Fist-bumping ensues. "He wouldn’t understand a damn thing they said. It would be hilarious. But in all seriousness, we can’t, under any circumstances, allow homosexuals to get killed in war.”
“Why is that, sir?”
“Too valuable. You know what happens to an America without gays?”
“No.”
“Pittsburgh.”
“Really?”
“I’m serious. We had a whole Top Secret study done. We would have full saturation in six months if we're lucky. And anyone alive a year later better damn well like Coors Light, playing pool, and NASCAR.”
“No, homosexuals can’t be allowed to get in the military, period. They're a national resource.” Obama scratched his chin, pondering aloud. “And we can’t ask them about their sexuality directly anymore-"
“Wait. Can I ask you some questions about that ‘Pittsburgh’ thing-?"
Obama snaps his fingers. “I got it,” he says with authority. “During boot camp, there’s a mandatory twenty-four hour David Hasselhoff marathon. And all the recruits get nothing but water and Cheetos."
“I’m not following you,” the aide squirmed.
“Then discharge everyone with glowing orange genitals.”
“Ah. Medical reasons.”
"So to keep gays out of the military, you want to make up a disease -'Penile Bioluminescent-Affected Mammallian Disorder'-"
"Uh-huh. 'BLAMD.' Perfect."
"That has no other symptoms or cure?"
"Uh-huh. 'BLAMD.' Perfect."
"That has no other symptoms or cure?"
"Excellent."
"-To save America from becoming Pittsburg."
"It's genius," Obama smiled. “Now get me Rick Astley on the phone! Stat.”
Tuesday
Zeus
Predator Press [LOBO]
“Of course you don’t feel clean and fresh down there sometimes,” I remark.
The way Terri and Complainy -my wife and teenage daughter respectively- are sitting, holding hands across the table, I immediately have the sense I’m interrupting.
Moving quickly for the fridge, I try to make my ‘snack attack’ quick and precise: the sooner I let them continue in privacy, the better.
“And who could feel clean and fresh down there?” I offer hopefully. “Jesus I doubt that place has been cleaned in ten years. I wouldn’t be surprised if there was bat fecal matter all over the place. Plus must and mildew, mold, and other unidentifiable horrible smells … cobwebs maybe.” I shudder visibly as I select a carrot and shut the refrigerator door. “Oh my god … can you imagine the spiders?”
I turn to see Complainy shriek as she flees for the door, and Terri, elbows still on the table, rest her own shaking head in her hands.
“What?” I says, munching. “Why is she so freaked out about the basement all of the sudden?”
"Baby,” says Terri, exasperated. “Can’t you try and be a little more sensitive when it comes to our children?”“We tried that,” I says. I spin Complainy's former chair, already askew, backwards to sit. “Remember? It just reminds me how much I don’t like them.”
Suddenly –in mid-chew- I freeze. “Oh my God,” I says, dropping the carrot and grabbing Terri’s hands forcefully.
“Honey,” I whisper, looking around fearfully. “Is the basement haunted?”
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
-
LOBO - Predator Press "I can't believe the woman giving the MRI was flirting with you right in front of me ," Wendy growled.... -
Predator Press [LOBO] Yes it's totally true. There is now, in fact, a $14.95 Bionic Ear . And I'm not even going to g...
