Tuesday

Christian Numbers Wane, Many Americans Now Skipping Islamic Mass Instead

Predator Press

[LOBO]

While seldom hesitant to give a blistering, blustery rant on the Republican Party, I’m a little leery of going into the torture issue with too much venom.

See, what all the talking heads retrospectively criticizing the Bush Administration on this issue aren’t saying is really important: hindsight-addled commentary like “torture is wrong,” and “torture doesn’t always work” –while true- are disingenuous distortions of what really happened here.

I think at some level we all know torture is wrong –we, as a country, even signed treaties against it decades ago. But how would you have responded to that policy on September 12, 2001? I don’t know about you, but I was pretty upset … I’m not sure I would have cared about it’s “effectiveness” on any Al Qaeda we might have been able to get our hands on at the time.

So instead of calling it “torture,” I’m regarding it as a small measure of revenge for being part of the machine that brutally massacred almost 3,000 non-military Americans.

I’m actually more comfortable with that.


Saturday

The Astronaut Whisperer

Predator Press

[LOBO]

After being struck by a landing space shuttle, air traffic controller Dirk Elway’s life is completely transformed: sunken into the bleak menthol fog of Nyquil and Altoids addiction, even his goldfish have run away.

Similarly one of the surviving astronauts on board that very same space shuttle goes crazy, buys a box of Depends, and rides across the country –ultimately killing everyone in Twentynine Palms California with a rake.

On a hunch, Clint Eastwood –a world-renown Astronaut Whisperer- gambles that Dirk and The Astronaut’s macabre killing spree are somehow linked; armed with nothing but a 32 oz jar of Tang and a walkie-talkie Clint makes contact, culling the rogue Astronaut and reuniting him with ailing Dirk … but soon thereafter Dirk is mysteriously killed by an overdose of rake to the back of the skull.

Can Clint teach The Astronaut to laugh and love again? Will The Astronaut once again claim his coveted spot in the London Symphony Orchestra? And how can The Astonaut's lowly new job of testing 747 engines by tossing live seagulls into them let him rise once again to his once-lofty astronaut status? Only time and a ragtag group of Baptist church choir enthusiasts led by Whoopi Goldberg can tell.

We here at Predator Press give The Astronaut Whisperer, like, ten big thumbs up: this is the surprisingly engaging tale of an astronaut beset by tragedy and a love for gardening, and Clint's dogged and relentless efforts to repair his broken and battered spirit.

Scheduled for release this summer, it’s an uplifting, fun and romantic little film that’s a must-see for the whole family.

Nicolas Cage is not in this movie.

Thursday

There Was an Old Woman Who Lived in a Shoe

-as retold by Predator Press

[LOBO]

Humpty Dumpty knocked on the outside of the massive shoe.

No answer.

He knocked again. Louder.

"Who is it?" she cried from deep within.

"It’s the Humpster, baby" Humpty grinned into the peephole.

"Come on in. The door isn't locked."

He opens the door a few inches.

"You busy?" he calls into the seemingly-cavernous shoe.

"No," she grunts. "I’ll be there in a second."

"Damn girl," jokes Humpty. "You ain’t havin another baby, are you?"

There’s an awkward silence.

"Aw, congratulations!" says Humpty. He grabs some towels, and heads over to the kitchen to boil water.

Man this crazy ol lady sure does love to get her 'freak' on, he thinks smiling to himself. Shoe or no shoe, this girl knows what to do.

He fires the burner, and fills the pot with water smiling to himself, "Well, you know what they say about women with big hands and big feet."

"What?"

But Humpty, struggling for his asthma breather, didn’t hear her. The sight of the boiling pot of water had triggered a panic attack; all he could hear was the voice of his mother saying "That’s what happened to your father. One minute he was driving a forklift at a macaroni factory, and the next-" she pauses for effect, "Poached!"

"Hey are you alright?" asks the old woman. Now dressed in a sweatsuit, she alertly helps Humpty fumble his breather to his mouth. "What’s wrong?" she asks.

"Poached!" his mother echoed in his head.

"I’m sorry," he chokes, tears streaming. "Every time I see boiling water, I just want to grab a Bushmaster AR-15 and kill everyone I can find."

"Well I do loves a man with an eye for safety," she whispers. "I like Armalites ... don’t get me wrong. But they just don’t have the Viper range safety device that Bushmans do." She throws his arm over her shoulder. "Humpty, have you met my kids?"

Humpty leans away from the kitchen counter, testing his weak and wobbly legs. "Probably not all of them ma’am."

With her arms still around him, she helped him stand. Perhaps it was the proximity or the moment of utter vulnerability –maybe it was merely the smell of her perfume- but Humpty decided if ever there was a moment to tell her how he feels, this is it.

"Baby," he says, staggering to look into her eyes. "We’ve known each other for a long time. How come we never, eh, 'hooked up'?"

"Oh, Humpty," she blushes. "I’m very flattered, but you’re an egg. What would my friends say if I started dating an egg?"

Humpty, pride mortally wounded, looked away to hide the tears. Despite his aching heart, Humpty fought to reply. "You know," he sobbed. "We have our differences. But I have yearned for you for years now. I know your favorite band, favorite color, favorite flower … Damn it I love you."

The woman, shocked, stared in disbelief.

"And I don’t care that you’re an old woman that lives in a shoe," Humpty continued, grabbing her shoulders forcibly. "Can’t you see that discrimination is tearing us apart!?"

The woman’s pupils narrow.

"Get your filthy egg-hands off of me!" she screams.

"But baby-"

She dives for her cellphone, "How dare you!?"

"But I was only trying to-"

"Hello?" she barks into the phone. "Is this all the King’s men? A filthy egg is attacking me!”

Humpty lunges for her phone, and wrests it away from her. "God damn it woman, all the king's men will be trying to kill me now!"

Suddenly, Humpty realizes he has a .45 caliber pistol pointed into his temple.

The woman growls. "You make a sound before the cops get here, and I’ll blow your yolk all over the goddamned insole."

"Jezebel!" cries Humpty, lashing out.

Eyes bulging she chokes, "You damn ... dirty ... egg!" and falls limp in his arms moments later.

"Oh my god," cries Humpty as police sirens wail in the distance. "She’s dead!"

And even as the galloping sound of all the king’s horses become deafening, he calls out into into the sky, "Oh sweet Jesus! what have I done!?!"



Wednesday

Taking Up Space

Predator Press

[LOBO]

I can only describe it as analogous to being shot from a gun.

There is nothing, not even the sense of movement.

First the whites, then the blues. And at that point, as if only now drifting into ranges of the human ear, a high-pitched sound gradually increases in the distance. It lowers steadily. A dissonant roar, now a thousand voices.

Some are conversations.

Greens.

Reds.

I can gradually pick out comments, see glimpses of faces in the violent, spinning storm. I try to speak, but by the time I do they are long gone.

My perceptions fight to right themselves in the gale, but I am slammed hard.

It is the Earth.

From a vertical horizon a snaking aperture reaches me, and I vaguely realize it is my own arm. Using it I leverage myself on my back, thus allowing the Sun to sear mercilessly into my aching skull. Crying out soundlessly, palms now flat to the ground, I can make out the hot, rough concrete.

It burns.

I sit up in confusion, squinting at my lap, my torso. I am bloodied, and unmistakably smell perfume and what I assume to be my own drying vomit.

Comically large heads circle overhead, blotting out the sky.

“Jesus mister,” cries a towering boy. “Are you alright?”

I’m not sure he is real. And when I open my mouth to speak I realize I’m not breathing. Wobbling to and fro, I heave my chest in effort to force my lungs to work.

See what's left of all you've known
through tearful mists of blood and bone;
fearful, hear them beg for death
through broken teeth and borrowed breath-

My lungs explode to life as if I had been undersea for hours, and I agonizingly choke the scorching oxygen in. My own heartbeat -absence previously unnoticed- thundered rhythmic and mighty in my ears.

“I'm fine,” I wheeze almost laughing. "Why do you ask?"

Monday

The Misery Machine

-Rorschach

Predator Press

In a bathrobe and slippers, she rubbed her temples. Little House on the Prairie still seemed blaringly loud, and once again she thought of looking for the remote control for the television.

-And once again, the thought was drowned out in the thick fog of her fever.

A nasty cold would be bad enough. But if this was her dreaded shellfish allergy too, she was going to be here for several more days waiting for the swelling to subside regardless. An accidental glance in the mirror earlier certainly seemed to make this case, and reduced her to tears; she looked bug-eyed and simultaneously pasty and pink. Her hands, bloated and almost useless, felt like overly-large mitts with no tactile sense whatsoever. So when the phone rang, despite being within her immediate grasp, she was almost unable to answer until the fourth ring -a fraction of a second more, and it would have gone to voicemail.

“Hello?” she snuffled. Somewhat rattled back to reality, she began collecting the numerous scattered crumpled tissues surrounding her into an organized pile.

“Doctor Alex Smith?”

She puzzled at the somewhat familiar voice.

“Yes.”

“The Doctor Smith that graduated from Stanford in 2004 with a doctorate in psychology? And currently works at Bertram Asylum?”

She paused. Something in the furthest reaches of her mind was sounding an alarm, but the efficacy was lost in the wake of muddled malaise.

“Yes,” she replied, almost on autopilot. A sense of dread seemed to fill her almost instantly.

“Hi!” said the enthusiastic voice over the phone. “It‘s LOBO.”

“Lobo-”

“LOBO,” the disembodied voice corrects.

“LOBO, how did you get this number?”

“I‘m sorry but it‘s very important. I got your number off of your Facebook profile.”

Doctor Smith bit at the inside of her lip, but her teeth could get no purchase against the smooth, swollen surface. “I haven’t had a Facebook profile in years,” she denied flatly.

“I‘m looking right at it,” countered LOBO. “Your last update was in 2001. You were complaining about being overwhelmed with schoolwork.”

“How did you find it? There must be thousands of ‘Alex Smiths’ on Facebook.”

“There‘s 409,204,” LOBO points out with some pride. “But remember roughly half of those are males. After that, about a third are black. With some deduction I got it down to around 60,000-”

“You said it was an emergency.”

“I said it was important,” LOBO clarifies.

“What do you want?”

“I was wondering if you would give me a blurb for my book jacket. A doctor would give me some cred.”

Her head throbbed. “But I’m your therapist.”

“Well you‘re still a doctor, right? I don‘t think it matters.”

Doubling over forward in cramp, phone still absently pressed to her ear, Doctor Smith’s eyes slowly came to focus on what she soon realized was the television remote control: it was half-hidden under her chair on the floor, obviously knocked there by her gargantuan, bloated feet. Fumbling, she clicked the ’Off’ button for the television and somehow sank even further into the easy chair, lost in swirling thought. Where did, despite her typically vigilant precautions, she ingest shellfish? A carelessly washed dish at a restaurant?

“Hello?”

“Uh,” she began, sort of rebooting the conversation. Insightfully she decided not to discourage LOBO’s new project. What harm could he do hammering away at a book for a few years?

“What’s the book about?” she croaked.

“It‘s an exposé on the sordid, secret life of Paul Revere.”

“Really.”

“Yeah. Remember recently how Sarah Palin made those weird remarks about Revere at the Old North Church?”

“No.”

“I‘ve got the quote right here,” LOBO explains, audibly shuffling through some papers. “And I quote: ‘He ... warned the British that they weren’t going to be taking away our arms by ringing those bells and making sure -as he’s riding his horse through town- to send those warning shots and bells that we were going to be secure and we were going to be free ...’”

“Yeah, okay. I remember now.”

“Well on the face it sounded like nonsense and babble. But then I got to thinking maybe, as a Governor, she is privy to information we aren‘t. Like maybe there was more to this story than anyone was letting on to the, you know, the plebs.”

“The plebs?”

“Yeah. The, eh, plebeians. You know, you people. What I found out was nothing short of stunning.”

“About Paul Revere.”

“Yes. See most people don't know lighthouse duty was a punishment, and Paul Revere wasn't supposed to be on it that night. Julio -the married owner of an underpants factory- got it for giving his wife the crabs he caught while fornicating with a high-maintenance coke whore named Romiette. And witchcraft.”

“Uh huh,” Doctor Smith snuffled absently.

“But one night during a drill, Julio accidentally lit three lanterns and freaked everyone out -three either meant land and sea, or British invasion by means of a quasi-dimensional wormhole. Long story short, Julio made a fortune selling underpants the next morning. So he got a good lawyer, and bought so much cocaine that he, Romiette, and the crabs lived happily ever after.”

Wondering if she had any Tylenol, out of simple polite reflex Doctor Smith found herself saying the exact opposite of what she was thinking.

“Go on.”

“Next in line for lighthouse duty was Paul Revere, who was booked on a public urination charge. Revere -with little else to do in the lighthouse- would go on to make history despite wishing to Christ he was Julio instead: he invented a much-needed exotic line of chamber pots the lighthouse guards could hose out and sell for contraband, with the intention of seducing a coke whore of his own.”

“I see.”

“But Revere was freakishly hideous -so ugly, even when masturbating he had to fake orgasms. No matter how much coke he could get, the coke whores would have nothing to do with him -and the mere handful of skanky meth freaks he acquired only fueled his jealousy and stole his Brillo pads. Worse, the enterprising guards had invested all the venture capital from his chamber pots, quit their jobs, and became overnight millionaires by founding a toilet company that endures to this day. And once every year, they thoughtfully sent Revere and the new lighthouse guards a thank you note, accompanied by a thick stack of pictures of their coke whores in bikinis posing over foreign cars and lounging on tropical beaches. This biography explores Revere's deep, irrational hatred for people that had essentially done nothing to him at all. I call it ‘Romiette and Julio.’”

“And I suppose you already have a publisher?” Doctor Smith asked facetiously.

“Jack Jones," said LOBO, perceptibly smug.

The Jack Jones?” The doctor was floored. “Jack Jones of Vanguard Publishing? ”

“Yep.”

Incredulous. “You know Jack Jones.”

“Well I will if he's on Facebook.”

Thursday

The Sound of Silence

-Simon and Garfunkel


Hello darkness, my old friend,
I've come to talk with you again,
Because a vision softly creeping,
Left its seeds while I was sleeping,
And the vision that was planted in my brain
Still remains
Within the sound of silence.

In restless dreams I walked alone
Narrow streets of cobblestone,
'Neath the halo of a street lamp,
I turned my collar to the cold and damp
When my eyes were stabbed by the flash of a neon light
That split the night
And touched the sound of silence.

And in the naked light I saw
Ten thousand people, maybe more.
People talking without speaking,
People hearing without listening,
People writing songs that voices never share
And no one dared
Disturb the sound of silence.

"Fools" said I, "You do not know
Silence like a cancer grows.
Hear my words that I might teach you,
Take my arms that I might reach you."
But my words like silent raindrops fell,
And echoed
In the wells of silence.

And the people bowed and prayed
To the neon god they made.
And the sign flashed out its warning,
In the words that it was forming.
And the sign said, "The words of the prophets are written on the subway walls
And tenement halls.
And whisper'd in the sounds of silence."





Surviving the Ameripocalypse

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Despite me warning you people a whole week ago, America’s credit rating has been dropped for the first time in history. And as a consequence it lost, like, ten jillion points on the Dow Jones.

I’ve never played the Dow Jones, but I can tell from tedious “research” that Dow Jones is no Halo: all I saw was bottomless Excel spreadsheets and pie charts. It's worse than FarmVille! Whoever lost 10 jillion points playing that stale piece of crap deserves swift and lethal payback. Did they at least get us to a new savepoint?

Worse, America doesn’t handle bad news like this well.

Sometimes I wish we were more classy, smooth and polished.

-You know, like the British.


Wednesday

Quack Attack

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Staring at the doc staring at my bare foot, it occurred to me how seldom it is I'm not wearing shoes, socks -something- on my feet in public.

-The last time I remember trying that was two months ago, hobbling around on crutches in a splint for a short walk: all that came of it was learning my Early Warning System's calculation of how much broken glass lay about was a woefully underinflated quantity.

Maybe I contracted hepatitis.

The doc twists my aching ankle at impossible angles, and I try not to squirm. C’mon LOBO, I’m thinking. This is minor. Be a man. It’s not like you’re Joe Theismann-

The doctor, momentarily satisfied with the knot tying on my lower leg, sits back on his heel and adopts a thoughtful expression.

“Nyarlathotep?” he asks.

I scowl. “What team does he play for?”

“No,” he corrects. “I mean Doctor Nyarlathotep gave you the referral to see me?”

“Oh,” I says. “Yes. Sorry. I was thinking about sports medicine, football-”

He smiles as he stands, and peers deeply into backlit x-rays of my Adonis-like ankle. “You’re a football fan too, eh?”

“Yeah,” I says blandly, experimentally wiggling my toes. “I used to live around the corner from the Chicago Bears’ training camp.”

“Well you have a lot of ligament damage,” he says. Clicking his pen, he grabs my chart and scrawls some notes. “But I can correct that with a very simple outpatient surgery.”

“Huh,” I says. “So doc, who is your team?”

Don’t say Packers. Don’t say Packers …

“The Rams.”

I don’t remember anything after that.

-But I’m pretty sure I screamed.


Saturday

Eating dis Order

Predator Press

[LOBO]

“I think you should add some rice,” I say, staring into the bubbling red soup boiling in the monstrous crock pot. “It looks kinda watery for chili.”

Mother still towered over me, and I was about eye-level with her apron tie. “Your father doesn’t like rice,” she replied, stirring. Blowing on a dripping wooden spoon, she brought me down a taste. “What do you think?”

Pinto beans in hot water.

“How about jalapenos?” I suggest.

She pours a bowl. “Your brothers and sisters hate jalapenos.”

“Salt?”

“Nobody eats salt,” she says, bringing the bowl to the table. “Sodium is bad for your health. Now stop complaining and eat. I want this all gone when we get back.”

“Where are you guys going?”

She folds her apron and grabs her car keys.

“We’re going to McDonald’s.”

Thursday

Mexican Blues

Predator Press

[LOBO]

It turns out a large part of this beloved nation’s crippling debt is due to Social Security.

Social Security, it turns out, is money we have to pay people once they get old. You know, like 30 or so.

So all we need to do is get rid of the old people.

There. We're all thinking it, and I finally said it: we need to get rid of old people, and the sooner the better.

You know how all those Mexicans are sneaking into Arizona? We should just funnel the old people out the same way, and at the same rate -you know, like a señor citizen exchange program. Those truck trailers goin back empty is a total waste of precious fuel anyway.

And what if we raised a few bucks via Pay-Per-View by capitalizing on old people’s apparently universal inability to drive?

-Just enter gramma in a demolition derby, and tell her it’s a Walmart parking lot.


Wednesday

Whereas LOBO Must Once Again Rescue America

-Hello Washington? Are you listening? Hello?

Predator Press

[LOBO]

People are always asking me, “LOBO, as one of the most widely-respected thinkers of the Twentieth Centurion, can you please weigh in on what America must do to salvage itself in these dark economic times?”

Well I’m glad you asked me that. See while not yet heralded for my accomplishments in the field of economics, I’m cool with that because those guys are a bunch of dumbass morons anyways.

As a staunch fan of space exploration and scientifical development, I think the gradual fade of our NASA funding may have been a clarion call things have been in economic decline for some time.

We have no one to blame but yourselves. And decades of unspectacular clarion players.

Am I bitter you people waited so long to consult me? Hell yes. Still it is incumbent upon all endowed with the radiant brainiosity such as mine -however uncommon- to protect all of Humankind under my iron fists of galvanized wisdom:

Warfare: We can’t pay Pakistan two billion dollars a year to fight terrorism. I’ll be kind and suggest Pakistan is merely incapable of reciprocating the intended value of that money, as demonstrated by the recently-found hideout of Osama bin Laden [ObL].

We look at the situation like cancer: if we don’t encourage or enable governments to resist the infiltration of extremists, in ten years the respective “host” will be so addled they will be impossible to diplomatically relate to.

-But the problem is our cancer patient doesn’t want to get the necessary chemotherapy.

I think this is self-correcting. Like cancer, the host dies and takes the disease with it. Remember ObL was once our ally, and to some degree 9/11 is the result of the United States “playing ball” with him: the landscape of that war abruptly changed, and the sudden withdrawal of US support left ObL feeling betrayed ... Jihad was declared, and the rest is history.

Groups such as these are not necessarily under a social contract. Nor have they unified methods -in fact they often operate completely independently of each other, thus even attempts to appease them will draw unpredictable results. But if Pakistan -much more accessible to middle-eastern “payback” both geographically and fiscally- wishes to handle this on their own, I feel we cannot and should not attempt to force it upon them.

They’ll figure it out eventually. Probably too late … But hey, we tried, right?

Eugenics: Sterilize everybody. The temporary antidote is $1,000 cash, which you get back in the form of paying the emergency room bill and/or baby formula and diapers. Does this mean only people with money can have babies? Yes it does.

Firstly, $1,000 is not exactly a princely sum. But it is enough for you to need a job (and presumably a car and a home) to have it.

I don’t really care if the money comes from relatives either. Grandparents desperate for grandkids? If they are that enamored with the concept they will fork out a grand, I’m fine with that. This money shows a level of commitment where it’s unlikely the child will end up a tool for a welfare dole, in an orphanage, or roving the streets in gangs to supplement the emotional void of apathetic and broken families.

Can’t raise $1,000? Can’t raise a baby. Period. I have it on good authority raising babies can be $1,500 -and sometimes even more.

Consider: This game would be a lot easier
if we 
got it down to one fucking button.
Economic Diversity: I have always felt a service-based economy is lunacy. If you buy an American product or service from an American, you have added nothing to the cash pool -you have merely changed where the money is locally. When -inevitably- you buy a foreign product or service, you have removed that money from the pool. Thus if we sell nothing, our pool slowly shrinks. Like it or not, we are dependent on commerce from other countries to make our pool larger. In terms of labor we can’t compete with a lot of the world: if it costs half as much to create or service outside of the United States, guess what? That industry -and money- is going elsewhere.

But wasn’t this always true? From the 50s through the 70s -arguably an American ’heyday’ of sorts- we would compete on a global scale in terms of quality. Everything we made was simply better.

I was watching a classic sitcom the other day, and two men were bonding while repairing a toaster. I thought repair? How quaint! Now it’s almost more practical to simply buy a new toaster … one that is just as likely to break down in a year as well. But wouldn’t you pay a little more for a toaster knowing it was likely to be the last toaster you ever need buy? Screw male bonding. Let’s get back to monosyllabic grunts between football plays.

I’ll go a little further on this and suggest it’s a good idea for this to be a migration-friendly country, especially with regard to foreign businesses and real estate. Both bring in more cash, making our pool bigger. Further, as an ancillary benefit, it gives other countries a vested interest in our overall well-being.

Marijuana: I would have done tedious “research” to bring out some specific dollar amounts, but every figure I came up with varied wildly from source to source. And all seemed shamelessly modified by the motives of the respective organization.

But when you imagine the cost of the misplaced law enforcement (and tools like helicopters, cars, et cetera), violator incarceration, attorneys, trials, facilitation of probation, ad nauseam, doesn’t it seem like a hefty pile of cash to spend busting a guy who only wants to watch cartoons and order Dominos’ Pizza?

And what the hell do these people have against Domino’s Pizza?

Defense Spending: I’m not going to make sweeping reformation suggestions here, because nobody knows better than me that our safety relies on having the best state-of-the-art board with the highest-tech nail in it.

But shrewdness is the watchword here. Would it kill us to occasionally buy scratch ‘n dent Apache helicopters? We all know an Apache helicopter decreases in value the second it leaves the showroom -so why aren’t we buying up the ones the Saudis only put a few thousand miles on before they became bored with it?

    Boeing: Isn’t she a beauty? Formerly flown only ever-so-gently by a little old lady from Ethiopia.

    America: What is the odometer reading?

    Boeing: Fifty-six Bulgarians. Then she washed, waxed, and mothballed it. I doubt it has even needed an oil change yet.

    America: [whistles] We’ll take it.

And while we’re on the subject, doesn’t Lockheed Martin issue coupons and customer loyalty discounts? We would get a lot more bang for our buck [literally] if we shopped for warheads and submarines on Double Coupon Day …