Let Me Never Be Complete

Predator Press

The Barbary Coast

Predator Press

[LOBO]

I’m not sure who Barbarossa’s “real” parole officer is, but once we get that sorted out I’ll bet he and Barbarossa will both be eternally grateful to me.

But until then -with no guarantee of financial compensation- I oversee his attempt at reformation almost exclusively when Barbarossa and I can both benefit from it.  And that is most often when I am in an evil, spiteful mood, and need to kick someone around for a few hours.

-The first fifteen minutes of which he has been sitting across the desk from me as I stare, arms folded, wordless and stern.

“So no job yet, hm?” I says, finally breaking the uncomfortable silence.

“Didn’t you just get a job a few days ago?” he replies.

“I’m not the one on parole, am I?”

Barbarossa fidgets anxiously.

“No sir.”

“Ah,” I says. Deliberately, I let my eyes fall to the giant Red Button on the desk between us. It’s not hooked up to anything and we never discuss it, but Barbarossa is terrified of it. Shaking my head, I shrug and sigh, and slowly lean forward to reach for it …

“Please!” pleads Barbarossa. “I have been applying for jobs like crazy!”

“How do I know you have been applying for jobs at all?”

“I have an application in my pocket.” Standing, he procures and frantically unfolds it. “Look.” Setting it before me (at a wide berth of the Red Button), he pats the document twice, flattening it. His nervous smile reveals all of maybe six teeth total.

“Red Lobster,” he beams.

Reading, I scowl into it. “You filled it out in gibberish.”

“That’s Spanish,” he explains.

I roll my eyes. "Oh Christ that’s even worse. Nobody is going to hire a Spaniard. You people are all pirates!"

A single bead of sweat rolls down his forehead.

“They wanted someone bilingual.”

Eyebrows furrowed, I bite my lower lip in thought. “Why would they want someone with an, eh, ‘alternative lifestyle’? What the hell are they doing to the lobsters? Jesus I don’t think I’m going to eat there anymore.”

“That would be a shame.”

“You didn’t circle ‘M,’” I point out.

“Excuse me?”

“Under sex. You didn’t circle ‘M’ for ‘Male.’ You wrote something in.”

“I wrote ‘raras veces.’ That is Spanish for ‘seldom,’” he explains. “I am married.”

Could Jesus Take Mike Tyson?

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Once again, at no small expense to you, we here at Predator Press have set out to settle an age-old question burning in everyone’s mind: Could Jesus take Mike Tyson?





Records:

“Iron” Mike Tyson: First heavyweight boxer to simultaneously hold (and only Heavyweight to individually unify) the WBA, WBC and IBF titles.





Jesus Christ: Messiah, King of Kings, Lamb of God.




Advantage: Jesus

Weight:

We’re going to make the assumption that both competitors are in their prime. This means that Tyson, a heavyweight at 220 pounds, might have an edge on our rock-ribbed Messiah who is oft depicted as being on the lighter end of the weight class spectrum and could walk on water. Minus definitive height information, we’re going to call JC a welterweight.

But larger size comes at the expense of energy and speed. JC’s leaner build makes him more efficient. If JC could avoid any serious blows in the first few rounds, Tyson would likely have expended himself physically fairly early on. Couple this strategy with JC consistently working the body, and over a long enough timeline Tyson’s condition would diminish, making him vulnerable in later rounds.

Advantage: Jesus


Speed:

There’s no real need to mince about on this one. Tyson won his first 19 fights by knockout, and 14 of those were knockouts in the first round. However according to the Bible, Jesus moonlights from his Messiah gig as a prophet; thus, no matter how fast Tyson is, JC is going to be way ahead, anticipating where and when to block, dodge, and counterpunch.

Advantage: Jesus

Intangibles:

While there’s technically nothing in official boxing rules regarding torrents of frogs and plagues of locusts, one must factor in potential supernatural activities including interference by JC’s Dad.  God, while often taking a “hands off” approach to parenting, has also historically demonstrated Himself to be ill-tempered [see Sodom, Gomorrah]. In fact if the fight is to occur in Las Vegas, we are simply going to watch it on Pay-Per-View.

Other troublesome considerations are JC’s pacifist nature and tendency to “turn the other cheek,” something Tyson would most certainly exploit. Countering this, however, is JC’s ability to heal: JC was often cited for curing disease, blindness, et cetera.  But it is unclear whether he could use this ability on himself.  Would boxing gloves create an insulation rendering the “Laying on Hands” impossible? Or worse, what if Tyson is being healed by every blow, or sheer or proximity?

Advantage: Jesus

I Live Today

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Millions and millions of you longtime readers may have noticed a few rerun postings on Predator Press, and the inevitable subsequent glaring absence of sanity, intelligence, wisdom and reason across the globe.

Stop immolating yourselves. Stop jumping from tall buildings. Stop immolating yourselves and then jumping from tall buildings: I’m going to level with you. It has been a tough year for your irascible-yet-lovable Chancellor of the vast LOBOnian nation.

And you have only yourselves to blame.

(Resume immolating and jumping now.)

I’m sure we can all agree a chiseled physical phenomena such as myself would and should be utterly devoid of mortal woe. But my body apparently wasn’t notified of these details, and after the epic clash of titans I endured in June –where Big Cereal's crimes against our mighty nation and Humanity required swift, lethal and benevolent payback (and a short jail term)- half of 2011 has been dedicated to recovery and rehabilitation.

I have no doubt that you all are working frantically on technologies that will make me even more immortal and indestructible. But as of yet I got diddly, and your utter failure in this regard is simply impossible to ignore: the LOBOnian Nation has no place for this level of incompetence. Don’t make me revoke your visas!



LOBOnian slackers will be de-meated, and their bones will be exiled!

Couple this ineptitude with my ongoing treatments for Tri Polar Disorder and Cryohydrotachophobia (the fear of rogue icebergs), a lot of travel, football season, various temporary restraining orders and lawsuits, a hangnail and a new job, and it should be clear why I haven’t been following up on this lack of progress with appropriate, eh, “motivation.”

The new job in particular is a pain in the ass. Every day I have to get up, go to it, clock in and stay there doing stuff for like fifty hours, and then clock out and do it all over again the next day. I don’t know how I got tricked into it frankly.

The perpetrator of all this criminal exploitation is a book distributor. And I know what you’re thinking. “Books? Let’s see. There’s The Bible, Batman, Archie and Veronica, and Penthouse ... Ptthbt! How hard could that be?” Well it turns out there’s books on everything from computers to babies to photography to history, all stacked on pallets as far as the eye can see. Jesus Christ, there’s like a hundred of them!

Steinbeck, Camus, Hemingway ...

... Man you people read a lot of schlock.

Nights of the Round Fable

Predator Press

[LOBO]

After the release of Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom, Indy’s faithful and adorable sidekick “Short Round” just seems to vanish from the face of the Earth.

"Well that's impossible," you say. "This could never happen."

Well it turns out that about 8% of Predator Press readers are right 22% of the time: this tragic and shocking true story has been kept under wraps for over 20 years -and it might never been known if not for the dogged and relentless investigative skill of yours truly.

While Indiana’s life -filled with hot chicks, explosions and danger- has thrilled and exhilarated movie audiences for decades, it was found to be ill-suited for raising children; before long Short Round was seized from Indy by Child Protective Custody and placed into foster care.

Heartbroken and psychologically damaged permanently by Indy’s cavalier and lax parenting, Short Round subsequently ran away and seemingly faded into a mysterious shroud of obscurity.

It was no small effort to track his whereabouts from that day forward. But during a chance examination of the MIT Archives we discovered ancient correspondence with Short Round: it seems that soon thereafter it was discovered that he was woefully poor at math, and due this hideous handicap even MIT rejected him.

His last and lowliest of hopes and dreams were horribly crushed against the jagged rapids of cruel Hollywood fate.

Out of options, he spent a few years with the Harlem Globetrotters to make ends meet ... but nothing seemed to sate his emotional void; during a Vicodin and PCP-fueled rage, he punched a cheerleader and called Curly Joe a “punk-ass bitch” –acts that led to his permanent expulsion from the league.

It might seem true that life hasn't been very kind to Short Round. But shortly after serving his jail time and rehab, he met his true love in a strip bar. Connecting instantly during a conversation about their mutual obsession with snakes, the 'sparks flew' so to speak: now Short and Sassy Round live happily in a Des Moines subdivision with their eight beautiful children.

-The oldest of which begins at MIT this August.

The Truth About Tornados

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Unlike the Discovery Channel, Predator Press doesn’t make you sit through an hour of excruciatingly boring “facts” and “proof”. We’re just going to come right out and say it in the opening paragraph: Tornados Do Not Exist.

There.

We said it.

End of story.

This myth –obviously perpetuated to maintain the billions of dollars America shovels into tornado "warnings," safety equipment and protective gear every year- spins finally to rest right here, right now. Just like Bigfoot and the female orgasm, it's all hype and hippity happity-horsecrap ... and no longer shall America be terrorized by legends designed to scare children to sleep!

“But LOBO,” you say. “While I respect your staggering intellect, I’ve seen pictures of towns destroyed by tornados!”

You call that proof?

What if those people were just really messy?

FEMA: ”My god … This place is a sty. What happened?

Townsfolk: ”Um … tornado!”

FEMA: ”Really? Here is a million dollars!”

Townsfolk: ”Thanks!”

I spent about two hours yesterday on my roof with a pair of binoculars. Know how many tornados I saw? None. And I for one am tired of subsidizing slovenly townfolk with my hard-earned tax dollars.

One has merely to examine the weird recommendations the government provides to unravel the fabled ‘tornado’:

True or False: The safest place to be during a tornado is underground, preferably in a storm cellar.

Correct Answer: False. This is where they want you to be, so those lazy slugs don’t have to go through much trouble burying you!

True or False: If you see a tornado, leave your car and get into a ditch.

Correct Answer: False. What are you stupid? Who is telling you this crap? That's is analogous to that whole 'Stop, Drop, and Roll' scam! Ditches are filthy. And what if some dude wants to steal your car?

A big tornado -say an F9- will rip your shoes through your eye sockets and then beat you to death with them, ditch or no ditch. To avoid injury, a) Get out into a wide-open flat field, b) Quickly ascertain the direction the tornado is spinning, and then c) Run in circles in the same direction as fast as possible to cancel out the cyclonic effect.

True or False: Do not try to outrun a tornado.

Correct Answer: False, false, false. If you see a tornado, get the f—k away as quickly and recklessly as possible. Sabotaging fleeing others by tripping them and running them off the road is useful too, as the tornado will often pause to enjoy devouring their succulent juices -thereby gaining you what might be precious seconds.

If you ask me, America should be a lot less preoccupied with fictitious tooth fairies, boogeymen and funnel clouds, and concerned about more tangible threats like funnel cakes. I mean the unsanitary-seeming conditions of where they are cooked aside, what the hell are those things? Deep-fried sugar globs dipped in syrup and dusted in a redundant additional coating of powdered sugar?

Why don't you just try to get your arteries to process cinderblocks and pointy sticks?

Blech!

Internet Swag

Predator Press

[LOBO]

The Day the Music Cried

Predator Press

[LOBO]

It’s a little-known fact that Brent Diggs and I weren’t always the bitter enemies we are today.

For instance, I didn’t recognize Brent immediately at Juilliard Music School. In fact I thought he was just another flashy and callow wanna-be rock band frontman.

But one night after my tuba solo, he insisted on meeting me. He was so moved by my performance, as we shook hands a single tear rolled slowly down his cheek.

Now everyone knows the tuba is the backbone of any good band; once I graduated, I probably could have ‘written my own ticket’ so to speak. I was featured in Musician Magazine as the “57th best Tuba Player EVER.” Band members of both Metallica and Van Halen threatened to fracture off in order to work with me on solo projects.

And I was good too: in the recording studio, all women had to be escorted out so the soggy panties hitting the floor wouldn’t mess up the audio.

But there was something about Brent’s youthful exuberance and vitality that appealed to me, and soon we were playing together with other promising underground musical acts. And one day Brent comes to me and says, “LOBO, we gotta start our own band.”

To which I replied, “What the hell are you pointing at?”

"Just point at anything and watch what happens."

"Cool!"

“Seriously,” he continues. “With my golden pipes and your saxophone thingy, there would be no stopping us!”

“I’ll only do it if we call it Danger Couch,” I says.

“Okay,” he says. “But only if we promise the band will never ever ever break up.”

“Deal,” I says.

***
In Brent’s defense, I was already well on my way to a substance abuse problem. I had been “experimenting” –recreationally- with Pop Rocks. Honestly, to this day I think it was the advertising aimed at my generation and colorful packaging.

I ate one packet of orange Pop Rocks during rehearsals. I ate two packets of grape while blistering live solos on my 'Tube.' Soon I was up to thirty-four packets a day -just to feel "normal."

When out of my 'supply,' I shopped for them bulk online with trembling hands -often paying extraordinary fees to have them Fed-Exed the next day because I couldn't pick them up at the warehouse that night.

Four months later, when I crashed the 1954 Bentley Type R, the cops found the floorboards covered in Pop Rocks packets.

"Son-" the cop started.

"What dead hooker?" I replied.

***
Brent, watching millions of dollars evaporate due to my rapidly accelerating habit, finally confronted me. And that night I swore I would never touch a single Pop Rock ever again. But at the very next show, through my microphone, everyone in the audience could here the distinct crackling joy.

In the dressing room, Brent found my stash: a thick, tight brick of Pop Rocks sealed in a waterproof ziplock bag floating in the upper toilet tank.

Truthfully, my music suffered. Stuff that was supposed to go "bum bum, bum bum" would come out "bum bum-bwah-bum": the surgical precision required to hit that note with just the right force seemed to escape me, and it was often either far too loud or completely inaudible altogether. Worse of all, the sound engineers never seemed to figure out why everything recorded sounded like angry Rice Krispies in violent milk.

I started showing up late for performances, play like five notes, and then leave without explanation in pursuit of the nearest fix. Rather than counting out measures on 398 pages of sheet music, I would fall asleep on them for entire shows. Once I accidentally grabbed the violin sheet music and played the whole goddamn venue like it was a Danny Elfman soundtrack. This earned me a promising spot on a hip, irreverent episode of Hee Haw ... but my downward spiral was impossible to mask even from them, and I was fired for calling Tom Wopat an asshole on live television.

My hygiene suffered, and my flesh started to seethe and bubble visibly like a live thing under filthy, neglected clothing. The only thing that seemed to still like me was my dog, which I eventually sold to a Korean restaurant chef for six packs of grape, two packs of apple, and a pair of well-worn Crocs. The howling and smell of burning hair still haunts my dreams.

Six months later TMZ tracked me down in a cheap motel room, and Doctor Harrold Toboggans, Doctor Drew Pinsky, and a camera crew from MTV's Behind the Music descended upon me like a plague of locusts. Unemployed, I was pouring Pop Rocks into a spoon and tonguing the inside of the packet. Eyes darting and bulgy, I had a lighter and a syringe, prepared for the Mother-of-All Pop Rocks high.

"I think it's time you faced the fact that you have a problem," said Brent.

"Nonsense," I says through purple teeth, twisting the thick rubber band over my elbow. "I can quit anytime I want. I don't need some goddamned intervention!"

Then, blammo.

Distracted, I let the paparazzi too close; the highly-unstable Pop Rocks in the spoon detonated in the machine gun-like camera flash.

Doctor Harold Toboggans, Doctor Drew Pinsky, the camera crew from MTV's Behind the Music and I survived by some incalculable miracle, having been thrown clear of the blast.

Thank God, I remember thinking.

-I was getting really sick and tired of hearing that ‘I’ve got a problem’ bullshit.

Origami as Self Defense

Predator Press

[LOBO]

I know it’s hard to believe with a physique such as mine that I was once picked on by bullies.

-But believe me, no one knows the anguish of going to the beach and having a zombie kick sand in your face and steal your girl better!

I hate getting sand kicked in my face. And zombies! And since I've selflessly dedicated my life to helping people, I can't just ignore you pipsqueaks and puny wimps: that's why I came up with Origami: the Art of Self Defense.

Why let all those useless and boring Geometry classes go to waste? With this 56 DVD set I’ll teach you step-by-step how after MONTHS of being brutally terrorized, I folded my high school bully into a teeny swan and then torched the evil hostile with hair spray and some matches.

-Her wheelchair melted instanly.

It was awesome.

Ask LOBO

Predator Press

"Dear LOBO,

I'm growing increasingly concerned my husband doesn't find me attractive anymore, and I'm starting to catch his 'wandering eye' with greater and greater frequency.

Can you give me some advice that might spice up our romance?"

Kelly L. Bittencroft
865 Palm Palace
Tampa, Florida
33610

Kelly,

It's a widely-known fact that chicks pack on the pounds as a passive-aggressive hostile act toward their spouses, and nothing is more humiliating to a guy than a having a fat chick in tow. As an ironic consequence, however, this displaced anger exacerbates the cycling negative behaviors between you and your significant other; it leaves you a bitter old dried-up hippopotamus woman with drawn-on eyebrows, well-calloused bristling elbows, and gnarled toenails that snag in carpets and clicketty-clack on linoleum kitchen tiles when you walk barefoot.

First, set down the Chunky Monkey; it will only degrade your health and make you a further embarrassment to your friends, family and loved ones. Then, abandon the concept of 'spicing up your romance' entirely. Try fully embracing your mutual hatred instead.

Go shopping! Buy an entire case of Glade aerosol spray and a nice big fat insurance policy on your husband; the air freshener will be necessary to get the smell of molten flesh, hair, and Pabst Blue Ribbon out of the house when you throw the radio into his bathwater. Think of the flickering, failing lights as your fading once-youthful vibrant beauty -all of which you've squandered on this hairy, bloated, unemployed redneck. Take solace in the fact that over a long enough timeline he would have left you -an utterly spent and decaying husk, oozing the desiccated viscera of unanswered dreams and unrequited passion- for a snaggletoothed bartender with a teardrop tattoo and an obsession for Beanie Babies.

Sell the house and the Dale Earnhardt commemorative plates -especially the Dale Earnhardt commemorative plates- and combine it with the insurance money. This should be plenty to start your life over someplace in South America. Splurge for a well-muscled pool boy named Chavo, and indulge in what will now be a moderately-priced cocaine habit to melt those extra pounds away. And as far as repairing your mortally-wounded self-esteem, the only healthy way is in the hands of a professional physician trained in such delicate matters: with a good plastic surgeon, you'll make Mr. Potato head look like a ranked amateur hack in a matter of weeks. This will also aid in throwing the Authorities off of your trail.

Above all else Kelly, remember: relationships are a piece of cake, but you can't make anyone else happy if you're not happy yourself.

Torque

Predator Press

[LOBO]

“I suppose,” I says, pacing back and forth across the room, “you’re all wondering why I’ve called you here.”

Complainy doesn’t miss a beat. “Because you haven’t found a job yet, and you’re slowly losing your mind?”

I stop and turn slowly to face my 16 year old daughter, but Screechy tugs on my leg. “Can I play Star Wars Legos?”

“No Star Wars Legos for anyone until I find out who did it,” I reply.

“Did what?” asks Terri.

“Something so vile and horrendous,” I says eyeing Shiftless warily, “the consequences will be dire.” I lean into a squirmy Shiftless and repeat in an ominous whisper, elongating two sylables slowly: “Die-re!”

“Mom he’s gone completely crazy,” says Complainy.

“Crazy like a fox!” I exclaim. “A crime-solving fox with X-Ray vision so’s he can peer into the dark hearts of evildoers!”

“Honey,” says Terri. “Would you please at least shave? You look like Tom Hanks in Cast Away.”

I look down at my own chest. Without a mirror I can’t quite see the beard yet, but it occurs to me that I’m in rumpled pajamas, an untied bathrobe and slippers.

-In and of itself this isn’t so weird, but it’s two o’clock in the afternoon.

I turn to Terri suspiciously. “And you sure seem to want to change the subject a lot!” I snap.

Shiftless is clearly losing patience. “So what is this ‘horrendous act’ you had to wake me up for?”

I grab the sheet and pause for a moment to build the drama. Then, in a quick, smooth motion I pull it away. Having revealed what was underneath, I point at it while facing them accusingly.

“What’s wrong with the television?” asks Terri.

My jaw almost falls open at her lack of observation.

I point again.

“Nobody messed with your crappy TV,” says Complainy.

“Can I play Star Wars Legos?” asks Screechy.

"There will be no fun in this household until justice is served!" Shaking with rage, I point a little closer to the upper left corner.

Terri squints. “What. Is it that fingerprint?”

Finally!

Rendered unable to speak by fury, I nod violently.

“So somebody probably touched the screen while we were moving it,” says Shiftless. “Heck it might’ve been you.”

“Silence!” I demand. “If 97 back-to-back episodes of Forensic Files have taught me anything," I says flatly, "It's that when you find a fingerprint there's been a crime. The last time I saw this television, it was snuggly chained between six mattresses and those six mattresses were encased in carbonite!"

“Can I play Star Wars Legos?” asks Screechy.

"-And I have further proof it was not me, as you have so clearly implied.” I show Shiftless the non-matching pads of my finger through my magnifying glass. “If you still think that print is mine," I add, "I’ve prepared a PowerPoint presentation we can go through later that illustrates the differences. My fingerprint is an ‘arch’ while this is clearly a 'whorl.'”

“Look honey,” says Terri from behind me. “It comes right off with a paper tow-“

“Stop!” I scream. “You’re contaminating the DNA!”