Thursday

Bob White


Predator Press

@SnarquisdeSade

The murmuring stops suddenly as I enter the cafeteria.

Sapphire, clearly distressed, stands as she notices my entrance. "I'm sorry I couldn't get a conference room Mister -"

"And I'm sorry to have called this on such short notice," I says reassuringly. "This will do just fine. I didn't hire you because I thought you could put together last-minute meetings. I hired you because your resume says you can read Braille with your nipples. You never know when that might come in handy."

"Thank you," she replies.

Scanning the group of motley losers assembled, I watch them squirm under my gaze for a moment.

"Ladies and gentlemen and Bob," I says finally, "I have uncovered a deadly threat -one that could destroy the company with inefficiency, property damage, and injury lawsuits."

Barbarossa raises his hand. "Is it me?"

"Not this time," I reply.  "Now let's imagine we have an inept and dangerous driver. I'll make up a name and spell it backwards for this hypothetical situation. Eh, Bob. Yes. Bob-"

Bob White, coincidentally an inept and dangerous driver that could destroy the company with inefficiency, property damage, and injury lawsuits, snaps his pencil.

"Fuck you," he replies.

"So this guy, uh, Bob," I point the PowerPoint remote at the microwave. "Has been at this for a long time as you can see ... "

"You can't do a PowerPoint presentation on a microwave, dumbass," Bob White guffaws.

Feigning confusion, I open the microwave -revealing dozens and dozens of Dunkin Donuts.

Barbarossa stands.

"Death to Bob!"

Wednesday

Internet Swag

Predator Press

Her Anxiety

William Butler Yeats

Earth in beauty dressed
Awaits returning spring.
All true love must die,
Alter at the best
Into some lesser thing.
Prove that I lie.

Such body lovers have,
Such exacting breath,
That they touch or sigh.
Every touch they give,
Love is nearer death.
Prove that I lie.

Thursday

Here. Have a Migraine.

Predator Press

@SnarquisdeSade

Just like all the other greatest minds of our time, I have pondered the enigma of "Dark Matter."  But unlike those other dumbasses, I figured it out during a rerun of "Happy Days."  It was during the episode where The Fonz entered a demolition derby, and Pinky Tuscadero was nearly killed.  (I'm not going to elaborate here on my research methods as the science would bore you to tears.  Suffice to say, fuck the Mallachi Brothers.)

If the universe is expanding at the speed of light, suppose one side (point "A") watches the opposite side (point "B") race away faster than the speed of light.

So if matter and time and energy are all interrelated, maybe we are watching ancient photons escape faster than it can be witnessed in a "linear" sense, and taking on the illusion of physical properties such as mass and time.

So kiss my ass Stephen Hawking.

-You pussy.

Sunday

The Savage Beast

Predator Press

@SnarquisdeSade

With my lawyer arriving at 2:00pm, it's with some reluctance I concede it's time to get up; even as the coffee pot gurgles, my mind struggles to find traction between the dreamworlds and reality. Good sleep is a casualty of years of hard living, and the leading edge of consciousness is always the worst.

The rarefied event of entertaining a guest has me self-conscious of the condition of my apartment; the toilet seat is up, and I correct this. Books, in widely different states of completion, are scattered about the floor, as if a small library received the full ire of an illiterate mortar team. Overnight, Phil II scattered a pile of documents -bills mostly. And were it not for the basket of neatly folded laundry, I would probably be doubting the existence of Washington Street entirely by now.

The Laundromat I went to yesterday wasn't on Google. I had learned about it from a friend, and it was considerably closer to home than the one I typically use. Shockingly blighted, the glass doors were cracked in vast spiderweb patterns. The signs were faded with age. Behind the old woman who seemed to be agelessly crocheting, the wall was covered with dusty and yellowed John Wayne memorabilia. A bulbous and antiquated tube television played seemingly endless black and white episodes of I Love Lucy. And on a bulletin board, in stark and bright white contrast, a crude brochure advertising the legal services of Thelonious Reebok Oswald Esq, PhD stood out, replete with tear-off vertical tabs at the bottom, like a skull missing teeth.

I have one of those teeth in my pocket.

The two stage act of doing laundry, as we all know, takes about an hour and a half. And once the drying stage was underway, I found myself restless. With forty-five minutes to kill, I decided to explore Washington Street. It was quaint; general stores, shoe shops, things one might associate with a receding Americana. Music I only vaguely recognized, some kind of mix of blues and jazz, thumped from across the street, subdued by nondescript walls. I wandered over to find a small sports bar. It's at this moment, as I recall, my first suspicions seethe to the surface: the laundromat, the close-by bar, the cozy and oddly functional neighborhood … it all just seemed too familiar, too convenient. And -almost playing to my rising intuition- an apartment building with a “For Rent” sign was well within view once I looked for it.


Upon entry, the dark and smoky bar required my vision to adjust. The first things to come into focus were the large flatscreen televisions, all replaying flaming car crashes from the Daytona 500. Taking the stool closest from the door I ordered a Miller Lite, discretely observing the small yet talkative crowd, while simultaneously attempting to identify the strangely familiar music.

There were perhaps six other bar patrons.

-And they all reminded me of dead people I have known. Joe was there. Billy Taylor -aged twice what Fate allowed him- was there …

It was eerily like being among old friends.

A loud knock at the door interrupts my ponderings of yesterday. I open the door to find Thelonious Reebok Oswald, Esq, Phd, standing before me. He is a black man in dreadlocks, roughly five feet tall, and wearing reflective, round sunglasses. As I mentioned I don't have many guests, and quickly blurted the first thing that came to mind in order to make him feel welcome.

“Word up, Homie!” I said enthusiastically, extending my hand in what I expected to be a complicated handshake.

Theloious Reebok Oswald, Esq, PhD just just kind of froze for a beat, with a simple gaze galvanizing me as perhaps the whitest man on Earth.

“You Michael Wolfe?” he asked finally, grinning in gold.

“Yes,” I reply. “Please come in.”

He enters, looking around in mild distaste. “My name is Thelonious Reebok Oswald, Esquire. Widely renown in legal circles as 'TRO.' And it has come to my attention that you have had a recent issue with the pigs.”

“Indeed,” I reply. “But first let me thank you for making a house call. I tried to find your office, but ...”

“Yeah,” he dismisses me, raising his hand. “I used your retainer to get the van an oil change.”

“Good thinking. I love that suit by the way. Is that Armani?”

“It's FUBU,” he shakes his head. “Says so right on the hoodie. So who the fuck we gonna sue?”

I take a deep breath. “I paid for these streets. And I won't be told when and where I will cross them.”

“The problem is,” Thelonious replies, “You is guilty as Hell of First Degree Jaywalking. As your legal counsel, I recommend you just pay the thirty dollar fine.”

“Fuck that,” I growl. “I want this to go all the way up to the Supreme Court. Terri's credit cards are no object!”

Thelonious scratches his beard thoughtfully. “Well, my office could use new upholstery after the fire.”

“Fire?”

“Never mind,” he replies. “You should try intimidating the judge, like you'll kick his ass. Try and look menacing ...”

Wild-eyed, I bear my teeth.

“Meh,” he replies. “Just walk into the courtroom, tell him to fuck off, and then pee on the podium.”

“I love this strategy,” I confess. “Which law school did you go to?”

“I never went to law school. But I saw 'Flight' four times. And if Denzel Washington doesn't get an Oscar, I'm gonna stab me some whitey!”

“Me too!” I agree.

Saturday

Alive, Undisputed

Predator Press

[LOBO]

My best guess, when explaining the random fits of rage, would be a combination of lack of sleep and “Seasonal Affective Disorder” ... something I typically get in March. The extreme temperatures of the Midwest have made the outside extremely inhospitable and arguably deadly; the absence of warmth and sunshine coupled with the extended time trapped indoors has made for some frayed nerves -that the last few years have been fairly Hellish just pours gasoline over the whole condition.

I'm not sure how or if the poor sleep is connected, but it warrants consideration. My memory and ability to concentrate have notably suffered. This is probably how I lost my driver's license in the first place. While the identification card has since been located and recovered, I've been needled randomly while attempting purchases -most poignantly at a semi-local WalMart where I shopped weekly- where company policy was applied rather than common sense.

-I exploded in fury. And I would argue it was justifiable, thus I offer no apology and will never shop there again. Still, it's clear my general moodiness is obvious in all facets of my life. The few unwanted brushes with the general public seem to only exacerbate my angst; traffic and road construction triple the length of projects. People, somehow utterly oblivious to others, seem to obstruct my every move, and conversations seem disjointed, disconnected, analogous to a poorly-tuned radio. Quietly, I suspect that the intelligence of the population has dropped an average of fifty IQ points ...

Woman: What are teenage boys thinking when they look at me like that?

Me: They are plotting the shortest route to your ovaries.

Woman: Eeewe.  What do they think about when not looking at me?

Me: The shortest route to someone else's ovaries.


None of this is true of course. It's in my head.

A way to calm down and relax -as mentioned in a recent post- seems most imperative, lest another unlucky and unwitting individual face a massive supernova of my culminating, hair-trigger frustration.

Addressing the sleep issue seems the only approachable angle. I've spent the last week taking unwise amounts of time off of work, and indeed slept days away in my typical broken and haphazard fashion. My dreaming is wild and oddly exhausting: while not nightmares in the fearful sense, they are of wars, natural disasters, post-apocalyptic survival, almost borderlining into strangely rich and textured yet-unlikely adventures that would make little sense in “reality.” Colossal, impossible vessels -organic and bioluminescent in appearance- crash into crowded cities, killing untold tens of thousands as I watch in a helpless, macabre, and horrified awe. Abandoned houses I explore seem to change shape once inside, offering tunnels that could not fit in the architecture, precarious walkways, wide and dangerous chasms to jump, dungeons and underground waterfalls and streams, endless creatures to fight, puzzles to solve …

Admittedly, going insane isn't for everyone.




-But I'm digging it immensely.

Wednesday

The 2013 "Knock it Off!" Rebirth


Predator Press

[LOBO]

"I mean who really cares if we call it 'Christmas?' Now we call it 'Winter Holiday.' Or if the Ten Commandments are on display someplace in public?" A migraine almost certainly looming, I rub my temples. "At some point America lost the ability to call an asshole an asshole. And as a consequence, we lost the ability to tell assholes to knock it off."

"Man you think about this stuff too much," replies Barbarossa. "You need to relax more. Why don't you try golf?"

"I love golf," I point out. "I play it on X-Box all the time."

"No," he replies. "I mean for real. You meet a different breed of people. Last week I met a guy who is sooooo rich," he pauses for a second, "His name was Rich, and-"

"You met a rich guy named Rich?"

"Yeah. He's got a horse-"

"Is the horse's name 'horse?'"

Barbarossa ponders this for a moment, rubbing his beard. "I don't know. But he's got this wicked Corvette, too ..."

"What the hell would a horse do with a Corvette?"

"You're telling me to knock it off, aren't you?"

Friday

Com-Castrated

Predator Press


[LOBO]

One of the casualties of trying to pay for my car was my cable television.

-Between renting the equipment and blah blah services, I cut my bill by ninety dollars.

Still it was rough; pulling those cables out this morning was a very painful experience, analogous almost to euthanizing a pet. 

"So why are you working here?" I ask Barbarossa as we stand in the cafeteria chow line.  Friday chow has a Mexican food theme, and it's the only day of the week I may deign to eat there.

And the only lunchtime I see Barbarossa, now a non-smoker.

"My last boss was a racist," he replies.

The lady behind the counter 'wraps up' her last customer and turns to me.  "What can I get you?"

I manage a smile, despite the fact that I don't have cable.  "I would like the mega nachos with everything -including jalapenos- but without beans."  Well rehearsed and recited, my thoughts never left my dearly departed cable TV.

-But I decided to be strong.

"A racist?" I asked Barbarossa.  "What happened?"

Barbarossa, next in line, stares at the menu, jaw agape.  "He found a half a joint in my F-16.  And then he had me take a piss test."

"Did you want jalapenos?" asked the lady behind the counter.

"Yes please,"  I nod politely.

"So," I pause, "where did the racism come in?"

Barbarossa, still reading a menu that said, "Nachos or MEGA Nachos," scratched his beard in thought.

"I think he was like ... Ukrainian  or something," he replied.

The lady making my nachos dips the big spoon into a big, blacked pot.

"You said extra beans, right?"

Sunday

Predator Press got a BETTER Sponsor. FUCK YOU, Nike

LOBO

Predator Press

Too slithy for anything but the mimsy of gyring toves, wabe bororoves and gamey bandersnatches every frumious brillig?

Do you find yourself always galumphing around the tulgey with uffish, manxome, whiffling thoughts of completely outgrabed mome raths?

Well, break out your vorpal sword under the Tumtum tree and chortle with frabjous, beamish joy as you gimble up some all-natural nutritious lowfat Snicker-Snacks ®! *



Eat Snicker-Snacks ®
by Jabberwocky

-Now chocked full of vitamin-fortified Jubjub!

* Warning: possible side effects may include drowsiness, dizziness, migraines, insomnia, temporary blindness, stomach cramps, hallucinations, aneurisms, nausea, cancer, democratic fundraisers, projectile vomiting, projectile diarrhea, projectile vomiting and projectile diarrhea, tsunamis, wormholes, lesions, Microsoft updates, Chelsea Handler, malignant tumors, and conspicuous erections in prison.

If consumed, please consult your physician immediately.

Saturday

Go Fighty!


Predator Press

[LOBO]

It's a fact: people never give Predator Press any credit for the huge socio-economic and medical advances we have provided Humanity.

And how about the Science and Engineering?

Hm?

When we presented the alternative to 'Doggie Stairs' with our 160 horsepowered Doggie Centrifuge, did this fantastical technological advancement get mentioned in a Scientific American, Popular Mechanics, or maybe even a lousy Readers Digest?

No. We got "-but the dogs land in random places at crazy speeds!" blah blah.

So now where is Sports Illustrated on our groundbreaking 'Mag-Cat' Research and Development? My theory that cats -cunning natural predators equipped with lightning-fast reflexes, guile, and grace- are ideally suited for intense Air Hockey competition is gonna make us millions.

Just kiss my ass, Forbes.


***


First and foremost, the Air Hockey table -pointedly designed for humans- would have to undergo some minor modifications to provide for a suitable and level playing field for serious Feline Competition. So at great expense to you, our own Predator Press Scienticians magnetically reversed an Air Hockey table surface.

Unfortunately, cats are naturally highly-resistant to magnetism, and tiny little magnetically-repellant boots needed to be developed to respond to the magnetic fields. This realistically replicates the 120-decibel gravity-free Air Hockey environment for cats exactly as it would occur in nature.

We should have a good “regulation” set of these boots available commercially by Christmas. And while coming in at a hefty $850, you must remember that there are four ... plus we throw in our patented "This Side Up" polarity collar and a Buell helmet totally for free. Further, we think $850 is a small price to pay for any serious Air Hockey or cat safety enthusiast: once augmented with the $800 fire extinguisher mandated by California State, your cat will be howling past you on the freeway.

Four of our cats can get to Madison Square Garden from here in eight minutes.

-Theoretically. They cannot read maps, and are complete suckers for every Stuckey's they see along the way.

But truthfully I do not consider an insatiable Pecan Roll dependency a side effect of our regimented and complex training: for several months now, one of Phil's kittens (due to her inexplicable and irritable disposition I call her "Fighty") has undergone 1,074 hours of observation actually wearing the boots, and she finally acclimated well to her vastly improved mobility -even with the chainsaw attachments.

And let me tell you buddy, she hates Pecan Rolls.

Fighty -already a Mag-Cat first season veteran- is ready for some healthy competition. And she's virtually undefeated! Her 27-1 record was most unfairly despoiled by Barbarossa rubbing her fur backwards during the Winter Halftime Show last February; this triggered a static discharge resulting in one hell of bang, four molten transformers, subsequent rolling blackouts, two crashed satellites, an irrepressible odor of burning hair permeating everything in the Lab, and me spilling my coffee.

Now, the fire department gets cats out of trees all the time, right? When's the last time you saw a cat skeleton in a tree? But you call those jerks and tell them about your smoldering and pissed steroid-jazzed chainsaw-wielding cat magnetically attached to the side of a water tower and see what happens.

I swear those fire department guys are totally worthless.

Nonetheless, lil' Fighty today is an Air Hockey Champion nose-to-tail; just show her that plastic puck or a Pecan Roll, and she yowls, spits and hisses ...

(I should probably get her spayed.)



Wednesday

Correction Fluid


Predator Press

[LOBO]

If you Google "Zorb Shoots Off Russian Mountain," you can watch a man die.

I'm not linking it directly because I saw it on the news at eight in the morning today; while not graphic (you don't see the actual "death"), I found it a little disturbing to watch.

At eight o'clock in the morning.

Examine the stolen supplied photo left to get the idea: two men in a big inflatable ball ride down a grooved path down a mountain.  The video will show the ball go wildly off course, and the men going over a cliff.

Based on this, I have concluded that the greatest danger to the white man is:

  • Too much time,
  • too much money, and
  • too many white friends.

You can have any two of these, but not all three.

-All three is certain death.

When is the last time a Mexican said to you, "Hey.  Let's deliberately drive up to where snow is on a whole bunch of jagged rocks and trees.  And then strap two sticks to our feet and slide down it?"  Or a black person ever said enthusiastically, "You know man?  We should be bungee jumping right now!"  Or an Asian ever went, "I need to unload my old shark cage so I can make my hang glider payment?"

-And can you even get a hang glider on payments, Whitey?

Hm?

Tuesday

How Would OJ Fare at Shark Boxing?

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Our hometown Pianosa now has an exit off of I-80, and is starting to take shape. It's the only town in Illinois that has both ski resorts and tropical beaches, and located smack between a Denny's and a Shell Station. It has further been statistically proven that on Saturday nights 14% of the people at the Shell station know the directions to Pianosa (the other 86% are only looking for directions to the Denny's).

I intend to change all this: I intend to make Pianosa the host of the first registered global exhibition match of a chum-soaked man in boxing gloves being pitted against a pissed-off 47' hungry Great White shark.

Shark Boxing promises to be the largest Man-Boxes-Shark Pay-Per-View event ever broadcast on network television.

We've named our Champion "Daisy."

And once again, Predator Press scienticians have stepped up: this time to answer that age-old burning question on everyone's mind, How would OJ Simpson fare at Shark Boxing?

At great expense to you, 'o Loyal Reader, we built a supercomputer that ran simulations of what would happen should OJ accept our challenge to take the $100 prize money.

See, because she weighs in at around 3 bone-crushing school busses, you immediately think the reigning champion Daisy has the advantage, right? Well, you forget that aside for being an all-around good guy, OJ Simpson is famous for only one thing: his athleticism. He's a Heisman Trophy winner. Sure that was a few years ago, but I'll bet he can still play basketball just as good.

Shockingly, after 17 kajillion separate identical simulations it turns out OJ wins the bout 98% of the time.

We showed Daisy the statistics, and she seemed unimpressed. In fact, one of our techs captured Daisy muttering something about OJ being a "stinky-faced poo-poo head."

I can't believe OJ is letting her get away with talking trash like that.