LOBO is a Mom (Day II)

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Well, my little darling hasn’t made an appearance today.  Which is probably good, because I had a nightmare last night that she was the first of an entire brood and, utterly famished, dissolved me to a skeleton before I could scream.

All new parents want to be lied to about this harsh, jagged reality.  But my case is a little different because ladybugs are considered good luck.

I would have had the luckiest skeleton on Earth.

But there wasn’t a swarm, so it is likely I only have one.  That’s why I went out and got some Creatine Supplements, bodybuilding milkshakes, and occasional random naked steroids.  For the beginnings of an evil army of minions, a two thousand pound balding ladybug with shrunken testicles and rage issues is delightfully ironic.

I've officially named her “Rommel.”

LOBO is a Mom

Predator Press

[LOBO]

As a cat owner –currently sans cat- a bug is kind of an event.

Particularly a flying one given the complexity of entering my lair.  The ladybug must have "hitched a ride" in or on my clothing.  And with good reason frankly; three weeks ago we had just settled down to our first good local deepfreeze.

But she -the ladybug- was fucked.  It was unsurvivable outside, and I didn’t have any plants for her to eat.  I didn’t even have any windows.

So I “googled” ladybugs, and found out that aside from aphids they are more or less omnivores.  There was generally water and an occasional dirty dish.  While I’m not hauling in foliage, I figure she had a better bet with me than the subzero temperatures.

But over the span of that week, she grew grayer and less colorful.  The last day she didn’t even bother to hide from me; she just hung on the ceiling.

And I was sad.  This tiny little thing had stabbed its way through a maelstrom of garbage inconveniently into my inner-circle of consciousness; she was certainly going to die one way or the other … maybe there was a greater dignity in having crushed her on sight in the first place.

I have vacuumed at least four times under the spot where the grey, unmoving carapace of the ladybug was last seen, and haven’t given it a thought since.

-But today I found the teeniest little ladybug drinking water from a drop in the bathroom sink.

I Promise I Will Not Donate Any of the Proceeds of This Miniseries to Worthwhile Charities

Predator Press

[LOBO]

hump-wrrrrrrrr!

Starboard.

Captain Jim “The Jury” Portre paced his deck pensively, and the sound was excruciating.  The seasoned Captain, missing his right leg below the knee, had a peg as pirates do.  But on his good foot, he had taken to wearing a rollerblade.

-Captain Jim “The Jury” Portre has been clocked at 35mph.

Thump-wrrrrrrrr!

Stern.

Stressed and sleepless, the sound was impossible to ignore.  Only Vetter, nestled comfortably in a nest of comically large-seeming rope, snoozed deeply.  Even Nuk and Futz clocked the Captain, Max, and Brighta warily.

The captain, staring into the brilliant nighttime horizon, gave deep sigh to the salty air.

Max, balancing a long dagger on his fingertip, never took his eyes off of Brighta as he addressed the Captain.

“The treasure is there,”  he assured.

Brighta, arrow knocked, eyed Max with cool regard.  Brighta could put three arrows in Brighta before he could close the distance between them.  The Captain, however, kept pacing between them, making this geometrically a white-knuckled triangle of potential combatants.  It occurred to Brighta that Max was probably clocking the Captain more than letting on too.

“I’m confident this is true,” replied the Captain with almost a sarcastic lack of conviction.

Thump-wrrrrrrrr!

Bow.

“We’re lost,” mumbled Portre softly to the masthead –a wooden mermaid, tail deep in foam, rising before the cloven sea.  Pivoting on his peg, he leaned back to watch his unwitting hostages -mostly to ensure they were not listening.

“I know,”she said without moving.  “I got the coordinates from the First Mate of the Sea Nile.”

Captain Portre pointed his rollerbladed toe and inspected it casually.  From the corner of his mouth he mumbled, “What kind of vessel was the Sea Nile?”

“It’s unclear,” replied the mermaid.

Portre guffawed and spat.  “I am weary of your ambiguity.”

“Ambiguity?  You've sailed seven with no food on a map a dog gave you.”

“You never told me First Mate Noodlecakes was a dog.”

“Yes I did,” replied the mermaid.  “When he told you ‘I’ll bite your balls off if you get near the treasure,’  I explained to you that he was a Yorkshire Terrier.”

“Well he’s not a British aristocracy.  He’s a dog.”

Critics

Predator Press

[LOBO]

“What if I planned it for months?” I ask. “And even got tattooed with the prison schematics?”

“Your readers would recognize it,” replies Terri. “As a central plot device on the television series Prison Break, sprinkled with random and improbable scratch-off lottery ticket winner stories.”

“Yes, but I’m not in prison,” I remind her.

Do Sharks Fart?

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Due to the holidays, I wasn’t going to post for a while. But science waits for no blog -not even Predator Press, dammit!

And you may remember that Predator Press is one of the few blogs that actually has a 47’ Great White Shark in captivity. And if Predator Press was going to keep this as an “exclusive” we needed to act fast.

What if Kathy Frederick at The Junk Drawer tried to 'scoop' me on this?

Hm?

So at great expense to you, Predator Press scienticans have been dragged out of various pubs and meth labs to answer the burning question on everyone's mind: Do sharks fart?

But good Predator Press-like science is a harsh mistress, and these experiments were beset with difficulties from the outset: immediately selecting 10,000 Taco Bell Fresco Bean Burritos as our explosive gas-inspiring catalyst, no matter how hard we tried, we couldn’t get Daisy to eat them.

This was perplexing. I have personally witnessed Daisy, our monstrous oceanic hunter, eat everything from Taylor Swift albums to pimply gangsta teenagers that piss me off in a swirling bloody chainsaw-like fashion. But guacamole? Wouldn’t touch it with a ten-foot pole no matter what we did. So I figured we feed them to one of the Predator Press Scienticians, and then feed him to the shark, right? Well it turned out that Predator Press Scienticians were too lazy and worthless for this historic opportunity.

After an unsuccessful ad I took out in Victoria's Secret, I was frustrated; the odds of a waify supermodel finding out there were 10,000 free Taco Bell Fresco Bean Burritos laying around and us catching her before she threw them up couldn’t possibly be improved upon.

This was going to take all my cunning.

-And frankly having them delivered to a Weight Watchers meeting was sheer genius.

Daisy broke wind at precisely 3:51 this afternoon.

So What is a Caucus?

Predator Press

[LOBO]

A caucus is a meeting held by Caucasians –hence why most are held in Iowa.

Caucasians are a group of light skinned people who, like the Jews, have faced decades of oppression. For instance in early American history, the North American Indians started firing arrows at them almost upon sight.

The "Anne Coulter" was a
popular Caucasoid model
in the late 19th Century.

The peaceful Caucasians -armed only with firearms, cannons, a naval armada and organized militia- were soundly conquered on the battlefield of Indianapolis, Indiana. Even to this day, Caucasians are subjugated by horrifying casino odds, and Caucasian children are issued agonizing "Indian burns" on the playground.

Later in early American history, plantations and farming became big business.  But while darker-skinned people were allowed to have jobs, Caucasians were forced to stay home and perform vastly less dignified duties such as accounting and planning cotillions.

Widespread violence and cruelty often forces Caucasians to deploy decoy robots of themselves. These are called Caucasoids.

Modern Caucasians, while not attending caucuses, are often found watching NASCAR, playing in the NBA [citation needed], attending square dances, and buying Toby Keith records.

'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 imploded
in splinters and slag
and a blood-splattered Santa
in smoldering rags
was removing his coat
and rolling his sleeves
“This time,” snarls 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 think 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 ... "

... I dunno ... I couldn't make out the rest.

But is it Artery?

Predator Press

[LOBO]

“Oh my God. I knew it,” remarks Barbarossa, pointing in horror at a visible wire hanging below my shirt. “You’ve been assimilated into the Borg.”

“Don’t be silly,” I says. “It’s a portable EKG.” I pull up the shirt to show the tangled nest of wires and nipple-like stickers affixed to my torso -all running to a box on my belt, not dissimilar in size and shape to a walkman.

Barbarossa, visibly alarmed, stares in jaw-agape silence.

“It’s alright,” I laugh. “It turns out my heart beats faster than normal –and even stops on occasion. Doctor Nyarlathotep obviously wants to study my hyperactive, ultra efficient heart -a superheart if you will- for the medical benefit of mankind. Just like when he has all those psychiatrists study my brain. ”

“It kinda looks like you have a bomb strapped to your chest.”

“Really?” I ponder this, slightly disappointed. “Even with the string of Christmas tree lights I ran through it?”

“Yeah,” Barbarossa nods. “You better hope they don’t say anything at work. And won’t it trip the security scanners at the door?”

I shrug.

“I hate to mention it,” he adds, “but my dad had to wear one of those the year he had a heart attack.”

“Not to question your medical credentials Doctor,” I guffaw dripping sarcasm, thumping my chest. “But this little black thing isn’t attacking anyone.” Pausing a moment, I add a thoughtful disclaimer. “But I wouldn’t put it to the test, either. It’s perfectly capable of ripping your face off if so inclined.”

Barbarossa ponders this gravely, remembering his father -in those final months- taking prescription pills labeled ‘Nitro Glycerine.’

“You better get in soon,” I says, irritated with Barbarossa’s visible squirming over concern for my health. “I don’t want you late on your first day. You going to finish those mozzarella sticks, onion rings and French fries?”

“Nah,” says Barbarossa, pushing them to me as he stands. “But it’s probably not a good idea for you to eat that stuff.”

“Pthbbt,” I says. “I doubt my digestive system would even know what to do with a vegetable. Besides, I’m drinking a diet Coke. Remember?”

“Blech,” Barbarossa winces in acknowledgment. “Well, I’m going to go in early to make a good impression. Thanks for getting me the job.”

“Nrrp prrbllm,” I says, chewing. “Now go bust your ass so I don’t look like a fucktard for it.”

“Okay.”

I watch Barbarossa enter the building, and ten minutes later the shift bell sounds. At that point I get up and slowly meander into the building, finishing my cigarette.

-Unlike Barbarossa, I’ve already been working here for two weeks; I’m almost expected to be late every day.

It’s called a “Power Move.”

I’m sending a message to The Suits.

I slide my card at the door, enter, and hang my jacket in the in the antechamber.

My thoughts drift the afore mentioned security scanner. It is two slender black pillars -immediately between where I must clock in and the rest of the warehouse- that must be walked through.

This EKG thing won’t set those off, will it? I’m thinking. Just play it cool. Proceed like nothing is fucked whatsoever.

And I pass through without incident.

That dumbass Barbarossa doesn’t know shit, I smile to myself, picking up pace to get to my station.

Unfortunately –regarding “Power Moves”- my company doesn’t know shit either. Because apparently they just had a brief meeting alerting everyone else that they were testing the fire alarms this morning …

Sickbag

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Just yesterday I felt like this:

Artist's rendering of LOBO clinging to life by a fingernail

But now I'm totally back to normal:

Driver's license photo taken at noon

As you can see, I had the typical DMV experience.  But I'm in too good a mood to complain about it.  This Erythromycin stuff is amazing.

Yes, it makes your poop into something akin to railroad spikes ... but if you avoid using the bathroom at night (so the clanging and sparks don't wake everyone up), everything else is peachy.

Where Do Babies Come From?

Predator Press

-By LOBO

(My first children’s book. Illustrator needed)

So you have been wondering where babies come from, and you’re not buying the whole “stork” thing anymore?

Fret not.

-I'm gonna give you the straightforward birdless, beeless science.

See when mommies and daddies are in love, they take their pants off and share a ‘Special Hug.’ And if the hug is done right, they shoot Deoxyribonucleic Acid [DNA] all over each other.  This acid sometimes makes babies.

But one day mommy found daddy with his pants off, shooting Deoxyribonucleic Acid all over the Realtor lady.

Mommy should have almost certainly gotten therapy -she still has that weird tic in her face. But instead she got an AR15 from the gun rack downstairs, and unloaded the clip on daddy and the Realtor lady while they were in the shower.

The lawyers tied up the entire estate in probate, and the whole thing was gone even before the blood, bone and hair had swirled down the shower drain. And they were unable to get mommy a manslaughter plea deal: she was sentenced to six years, and subsequently jumped the $250,000 bail. That’s why you and mommy live out of a car in rural Montana, drink boiled rainwater and eat slightly al dente squirrels six times a week, and poop into a coffee cans for squirrel cooking fuel.

Probably.

But now that you’re older and have read the newspaper articles, have you ever wondered why you, daddy, and the Realtor lady all had the same last name and mommy doesn't? Or noticed that you look more like the Realtor lady than you do your so-called "mommy?"

Babies come from a horrible, horrible place.

Now go to sleep, ya lil bastard.

Forever is Our Today

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Forced into doing a job where I have to deal with the “Unboiled Masses,” I have caught a cold.

“Fornicorn” = A four-horned unicorn

-Many Predator Press readers immolated themselves. Many Predator Press readers jumped from tall buildings. Many Predator Press readers immolated themselves and then jumped from tall buildings.

And I kinda “get” the ones that immolated themselves. They effectively sterilized themselves instantaneously. But seriously what am I supposed to do with the “jumped from tall buildings” crowd?

Newt Gingrich "Seeing-Eye Orphan" Proposal Meets Cross-Platform Opposition

Hm?

So yeah I’m sick. And I’ve been babysitting Facebook and Twitter all day. To my surprise, a lot of people I’m fond of showed up.

"Books" = The Internet for Poor People

-And Unfinished Person did too!