Chinks

Predator Press

[LOBO]

When I arrived, I was roughly thirty hours late.  But the itinerary was fairly arbitrary: I'm still several days ahead of the truck with my stuff, and I don't start work until next week.  The only thing I consider a "drawback" is that I'm supposed to meet the new boss today: no more Skype interviews in my dress shirt and underpants.  Today is the real deal.

But the property manager's office didn't open for another two hours, and I had no keys.

I woke under windshield-lasering sunlight, with Phil II sleeping on my chest.  She went back into her cage with mild protest, and once I stopped bleeding, I traversed the ankle-breaking cobblestone walkway.  Everything screams weather-beaten pastel at me.  With a few years of experience with ink, it seems ironic to me in that bright colors are the first to fade in sunlight ... and this place reputedly has relentless sunlight, only rudely interrupted by occasional nightfall.

For a place that the most attractive people in the world come to have their dreams ground into a fine paste, the property manager does not disappoint.  Mid thirties, petite, and in a loose fitting sundress.  Her "office" is a large desk in her living room.

"How many keys do you need?" she asks.  "Each additional key requires a fifty dollar deposit."

"Just one."

She stared into her computer screen, eyebrows furrowed.  "You don't want to get more keys for your family?"

"I'm divorced," I kinda lie.  My wife of seven years is currently in the "honeymoon phase" with her new beau, and inconveniently forgot about how polite an official divorce would be.  For a split second, I consider the weirdness that the happier they are, the closer we get to making it happen.  But either way, the marriage is moot.

The property manager looks directly at me, and I have this strange feeling it is the first time. There is some sort of weird and palpable change in the atmosphere, and about five minutes later, she is picking Phil II's cat fur from the sternum of my shirt.

Is she flirting with me? I thought.

Let's be fair: it has been a almost a decade since I have use these skills. My ability to detect flirting has been seriously eroded by "Happily Ever After" fantasies.

Eyes are bright, but kinda sad.  Prom queen, moved here to become an actress or a model ...

But that's just shooting fish in a barrel here.

No visible tattoos.  Great complexion -possibly vegan.  Botoxed lips, and breasts possibly fake ...

-Apparently I hate fish.

No wedding ring, but she has at least one kid -the glaring absence of kids screams, "I have kids!"

So she dated a bartender with an armload of screenplays, and they just fizzled out.  He was getting some success, and this did nothing but create tension between them.

So what happened to the screenwriter/bartender?

Then I spotted the house arrest ankle bracelet.

Bingo.

 

***

The property manager circled my apartment on the map, and it was only about a four block drive.  A page stapled behind it lists convenient shopping areas and restaurants.

I towed in Phil II's cage and my luggage only to find this place way to big.  Even when my furniture arrives, it will be sparse.   But that's a great point: I don't have my books, my game stations, cable -all I got is this cellphone wifi hotspot thingy Terri taught me to use.

Lars Arson shows up with a bottle of red wine, and the orientation packet.  He has wide shoulders and skinny legs.  His body type would be "Spongebob Squarepants."

"Wanna tour the plant?" he asks.

"Sure!" I says.

I am encouraged by the fact he drives a Tesla.

I am discouraged by the fact he only drives forty feet.

"Here we are," he explains.

I am skeptical.

"What can you film here?" I ask innocently.  "Is this just some sort of waystation for actors making movies?"

"Son," Lars replied. "We don't do those kinds of movies"

Behind the Scenes: Nyota Uhura

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Life began unspectacularly for Nyota Uhura. And after years of hard work, she was set to graduate top of her cosmetology class. But due to a typographical error, she was recruited to the starship Enterprise as Captain Kirk’s Communications Officer and Chief Exfoliator.

“Communications Officer,” however, would be a sad irony for Nyota as she was wildly dyslexic: during Romulan and Klingon attacks she would run up and down the ship screaming, “Trela Der! Trela Der!” This directly led to the destruction of Enterprises I, II, V, Va, theVIIb, and the much ballyhooed IX.2 -as well as numerous models of the Reliant, a school bus, and at least four poorly-documented bicycles.

Soon thereafter, her arrest at a Star Trek convention for the assault of George Lucas made the papers worldwide. She would subsequently tell police, “I kept punching [Lucas] until my knuckles could feel the inside of the back of his head.” Uhura nonetheless denied any motivation involving the hot Star Trek v Star Wars rivalry. “I just wanted [Lucas] to stop making shitty movies. Somebody should have done that in 1983.”

Now experimenting with drugs, Uhura's behavior only became increasingly erratic. According to Wikipedia, “Star Trek III: The Search for Spock sees Uhura take an assignment in the transporter room as part of a plot to steal the Enterprise. After locking a colleague in a closet, Uhura uses the transporter station to beam Kirk, Leonard McCoy and Hikaru Sulu to the Enterprise so they can use it to rescue Spock from the Genesis Planet.”

Uhura’s prosecutors found this defense preposterous. “She locked a guy in a closet?“ said District Attorney Jorge Sackwood. “Okay. Forget that the future doesn’t even have bathrooms … but there is a closet in the Transporter Room? Why? Is it full of red shirts? Or is it simply there for Sulu to come out of?”

Disillusioned with her military career -and now hopelessly addicted to Fuzzy Navels and a myriad of over-the-counter cold medications- Uhura’s downward spiral would lead to feelance work with Vivid Entertainment. 2011 would see the release of a poorly-produced sex tape with NFL star Bret Lockett, something Uhura’s agent disavows as her having been “heavily intoxicated and exploited.” The agent would continue on to say, “Were she fully in command of her faculties at the time it never would have happened. She thought she was making a tape with Hines Ward.”

After an embarrassing appearance on History Channel’s Pawn Stars in an attempt to sell her tricorder and phaser, Ohura finally caught a romantic break and started dating Corey "Big Hoss" Harrison. And because she never did a film with Nicolas Cage or Rob Schneider, this was the same year she was awarded two Predator Press Oscars, six Predator Press Emmys, and three Predator Press Nobel Peace Prizes.

Ohura and Harrison intend to wed this year.

-As soon as they resolve the ongoing Tribble situation.

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!

Predator Press Declares War on Australia!

Predator Press

[LOBO]

EVERYBODY knows how America got started: in 1776 a bunch of us hated soccer so much we loaded up the Nina, the Pinto, and the Santa Fe, and left the oppressive British monarchy forever. We’ve been freely oppressing ourselves ever since.

But what about Australia? Hm? Heck, we left Britain voluntarily … those people were kicked out!

The reason this comes up now is because it’s a matter of National Security: I recently caught Australia skulking up and down the West Coast. It wasn’t doing anything particularly suspicious -in fact at first I thought it was Kirstie Alley; it just rented a boogieboard and tooled about in the surf. But in retrospect I’m almost sure it knew I was "on" to it, and it was trying to look nonchalant.

Exactly why Australia has been sneaking around isn’t quite yet clear, but it has a long history of subtly messing with us with acts such as the “Coriolis Effect”; the Coriolis Effect -first proposed by famous mobster Don Coriolis- suggests that Australians often amuse themselves by flushing their toilets the same moment we do, thusly causing ours to back up.

But now the Aussies have become so brazen they are patrolling well inside our oceanic borders in broad daylight; if you listen closely and the wind is right, you can hear the war didgeridoos blowing in the distance. How long until Australia comes straight up the Mississippi and parks itself near St Louis? Inside agents such as Russell Crowe and Mel Gibson could just wave their arms wildly an yell “Hey! Over here! Lookit my new movie!” and pow, we got Yahoo Serious in the White House.

One only has to see a few photos of the well-decimated and uninhabitable Australian landscape to realize that St Louis, nay, America doesn't deserve a similar fate: an Australian invasion deeply offends my national sensibilities, and I won’t take the inevitable sneak attack lying down.

Unless of course it occurs during my nap.

-In which case I would hope they do it quietly.

Te Amo

Predator Press

[LOBO #64]

LOBO clone #32 arrived at the Pearly Gates bewildered.

He was dead?

Apparently.  And by now, there was a line of LOBO clones waiting to speak to Saint Peter.

"Hi LOBO clone #32!", says LOBO clone #71 and #16, waving enthusiastically. "Jesus Christ what a handsome clone."

"I was just about to say the same thing," grins LOBO clone #32. "You guys are downright gorgeous!"

"How did you die?" asks #71.

#32 shrugs. "High cholesterol maybe?"

"Wow," says #16.

"Yeah," says #32. "What about you handsome devils?"

#16 blushes. "You know I'm not sure. I was playing with plastic bags.  You know, putting them over my head, and trying to inflate them.  That's the last thing I remember."

"It was probably the mob," offers #71.

"That's a really brilliant insight," ponders #16. "I never thought of that. It could have been a really ugly, jealous mob. #71, you must be a genius."

"A really good looking, sexy genius," ads #32.

"What about you, #71?" asks #32.

#71 held up his right hand, inspecting his fingernails with arched eyebrows coolly. "I knocked up Sapphire."

"No way!" says #32.

"You're kidding!" says #16.

"Nope," says #71. "Several years ago, before I met Terri, me an Sapphire had a, uh, 'thing'."

"You lucky bastard," says #32. "You handsome, brilliant, lucky bastard."

"Tell us how it happened," says #16.

"Yes, please do," says #32, bouncing and clapping his hands. "Give us details!"



***

LOBO hated going to Chicago. It was always a big pain in the ass.

As usual, he would ride straight up Interstate 94 until he hit the inevitable gridlock. Deciding that this was more parking than it was actually driving, he would then abandon his car wherever he was -right there in the sea of beeping and cursing- and walk the rest of the way.

It wasn't a perfect or particularly convenient system admittedly. But on occasion when he came back hours later, the car was still there surrounded by the same beeping and cursing people that were there when he left. And sometimes -when he was really lucky- it would have maybe fifteen or twenty feet of open road in front of it.

At least he didn't have to tote around change for a parking meter.

On this particular day, he got within eight miles of his destination before the "parking" started.

It was shaping up to be a fine day.

Shuffling northward, he was reading the used car classifieds as he walked. In no particular hurry, he arrived at Sapphire's posh apartment building three hours later.

Outside was a disheveled, smelly guy, holding out a tin cup.

LOBO took the cup and looked inside. It was full of nickels and quarters.

"No thanks," he says, handing it back to the bewildered guy. Tapping his temple with his index finger he replies, "I did the free parking thing."

But as he starts to walk away, he notices someone else walk by and drop some change in it.

"Wow," says LOBO. "That guy just gave you money? Just like that?"

The guy with the cup stared.

"Oh I gotta get in on this action," he says to no one in particular. "This city rocks!"



***

So LOBO returns from the nearby convenience store like twenty minutes later with a small bag.

Unwilling to soil himself, he also had a Diet Pepsi which he promptly poured in his lap.

Figuring an environment less hostile to the olfactory senses might be more lucrative, in the bag he had two dozen pine tree air fresheners which he proceeded to sneakily hang on all the other people on the block holding out cups.

With a black marker and cardboard, he countered the abundant "WILL WORK FOR FOOD" signs with "WE ACCEPT VISA AND MASTERCARD". Where one guy's pants hung too low, LOBO's hung lower. Where one's clothes were inside out, LOBO's were inside out and upside-down. When one drooled, LOBO gushed. When one sang tunelessly or cursed at people that weren't there, LOBO would affix a Bluetooth earpiece upon them: this would transform the shabby-looking transient instantly into a trendy Gen-X high powered executive.

"Oh come on!" LOBO complained when the guy in Army fatigues missing his legs scooted by on a skateboard. Frustrated, he beaned "Skateboard Guy" with his empty plastic cup.

Frothing unrepeatable obscenities, he skulked on up to Sapphire's apartment in defeat.



***

Three hours later, the phone seemed to ring forever.

Finally, the semi-familiar voice answers. "Yeah?"

"Is this Fat Louie?" asks LOBO.

"Who wants to know?" says the disembodied voice.

"This is LOBO."

"Who?"

"You know, LOBO. We met downstairs. You asked me if I needed anything. Like 'H' or dope or crack or women."

"Oh yeah. You're the guy that said you were bored and looking for a 'good time'."

"Yep," says LOBO. "That's me."

"Well what do you want?"

"When you sold me this, uh, Liquid G stuff, you said 'one drop in a girls drink, and I was guaranteed to have a good time'."

"What happened?"

"She fell asleep!"

"Ummm ... what did you think was going to happen?"

"I don't know. I figured maybe she would call up some friends and we could play Trivial Pursuit or Monopoly."

Pause

"Uh huh," says Fat Louie.

"Should I give her some more?"

"God no," says Louie. "Too much of that stuff could be dangerous. I would put it away. In something you know nobody will accidentally drink out of."

"Like a can of Tab? I'm way ahead of you." LOBO pauses. "How long is Sapphire going to be out? I think I need a ride home."

"About eight hours. She won't remember a thing, either."

"So I'll need to write out some directions?"

Another pause

"So what can I do for you?" asks Louie.

"Well, I'm bored. And I already watched all her Dawson Creek dvds." LOBO sighs. "So how's the wife and kids?"

"Look, 'LOBO'," says Fat Louie. "You got any condoms?"

"Yeah. I found some in her purse."

"Well use them, dumbass."

A click, and a dial tone.



***

Use the condoms? LOBO thought. What am I going to do? Make ribbed, glow-in-the-dark, 'lubricated for her pleasure' sausage?

He didn't get any ideas until he went in her bathroom. There, he found rows and rows and rows of Sapphire's bottled perfume.

It was all cheap crap, too. No Safari.

Remembering the hobos in the street, he started making pleasant-smelling water balloons. It took about five or six burst ones to determine the maximum density of a water-slash-perfume filled condom, and he disposed of the unusable ones in the toilet.

"Bombs away!" he cried over Sapphire's 35th story balcony, scoring a direct hit on Skateboard Guy.

Finally out of ammunition, he returned to the kitchen, thirsty. Finding an unfinished can of Tab, he chugged the whole thing as he wandered in to see if Sapphire had woken yet.

... And passed out right next to her.



***

Sapphire woke to find LOBO snoring loudly.

That's strange, she thought.

Having been unconscious for quite some time, she headed immediately for the bathroom, where she found an empty vial labeled "Liquid G", and a half-dozen burst condoms floating in the toilet.

She screamed.



***

"What happened then?" asks LOBO clone #16.

"She was trying to wake me up, but I couldn't understand a word she was saying; for some reason she was really upset and had one of those Early Pregnancy Test slides in her mouth. Evidently, I might have gotten her pregnant somehow-"

"Maybe you're so virile that just being near her was enough. Did you go near any cabbage patches?" asked #32.

"No."

"Or leave a half dollar under her pillow?" asked #16.

"Nope," replies #71, shaking his head.

"I'll bet that sneaky Skateboard Guy had a half dollar to sneak under her pillow," reflected #32.

#71 points to his nose, and continues. "I calmly explained that she shouldn't be ashamed of succumbing to her natural sexual desires for me, what with me screaming out all these incredibly manly testosterates everywhere. She's only human for God's sake: it's biology. And even though it was more likely Skateboard Guy's baby, I would raise it with her like it was my own, and we should get hitched so's the kid ain't no bastard."

"So ..."

"I don't know what happened next. Something crashed into my head. I turned to look, and it was the sidewalk."

"Hah!" says Saint Peter. "See Gabriel? You owe me fifty bucks!"

Internet Swag

Predator Press

[LOBO]

The Rabbit Hole

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Since we're doing "flashbacks," I thought I would tell you about my great, great, great, great grandfather: King LOBO the First.

In an effort to conquer both the Crips and the Bloods, King LOBO found himself and his army lost in a desert.  This was due to a clerical error ... they were all seeking a Dairy Queen for dessert, and way back in those days Predator Press mapticians were terrible spellers.

"We shall send scouts!" he proclaimed.  "One to the north, one to the south, one to the east, and one to the west.  And they will tell us which way will provide us with safe passage and much-needed parfaits!"

The next day Bob's horse returned, Bob's severed head in the saddle bag.

"Shit!" proclaimed King LOBO.  "Does anybody remember which direction we sent Bob?"

The War Room

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Why he has an enormous map of such an obscure location in Nevada is fairly mind-blowing.  But within moments he retrieves it, and sprawls it over the large table.

"First let me say that if there is even one percent truth in what you are telling me," he barks, "you would be the last soldier on Earth I would trust on an important mission like this.  You are ill-equipped, untrained, inept, and virtually worthless."

"Thanks dad," I reply.

"Have you considered just hiring a mover?"

"That sectional couch came from Ikea.  Only the most brilliant minds on Earth and Koreans can reassemble it."

He ignores my answer, poring over the map with a fingertip.  "Her signal is coming from ... "

... his finger thumps the map.  "Here."

"There's nothing there," I note.

"See?" he replies.  "Worthless.  Coordinate those last two brain cells!  The only reason you think there's nothing there is because the government wants you to think there's nothing there."

"Eh ..."

"There's nothing on Google Maps either, which proves it," he says.  Sighing deeply, he rises, pushing his helmet up an inch with his finger.  "Son, what we have here is a full-blown conspiracy."

"Obviously."

"So what the hell happened to your eyebrows?"

Ultra-Violent Light

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Once I decided I needed to rescue Sapphire from an alien race -who might possibly be planning an invasion- because I needed her help moving some furniture, a week ago I visited my dad for the first time in years.

"Are you on drugs, son?"

"No," I says, forgetting the Chantix.

"You would be a lot easier to explain to people if you started doing drugs."

"I'll try."

It gets quiet for a minute, and -after all the driving- I'm basking in the gaps of his enthusiasm to see me. 

My dad is an ex Chicago cop, that, at some point, said "fuck everyone."  He bought 100 acres of property on an obscure, undeveloped mountainside patch of land in Arkansas.  My mental image of him is often rocking on the porch with a six pack and a shotgun, serenely hoping "The Revenuer" shows up.

He has a garden, tomatoes, peas ... despite the austere doublewide trailer, everything seems kind of subdued and unremarkable. 

"How's your mom?" he asks good naturedly.  I can't really clock his eyes through his goggle-like Hubble telescope glasses, but I can see by his smile he is sincere.  "Fourth husband work out?"

"Fifth husband is treating her well."

"Fifth?  What.  Are you two in some kind of competition?"

"Very funny, dad," I says, a bit stunned by the raw observation.  "So what gives?  This place looks so ... normal.  Where is all the artillery?  We've never lived anyplace without at least one anti-aircraft battery within 100 yards."

"I keep most of that in the basement."

The basement of a doublewide trailer.

-Ah shit. Time for the crazy old coot to go into a home.  Well, he had a good run ...

Suddenly the lights dim to a flashing blood red, and an alarm blares.

"Quick!" He cries.  "To the wardrobe!"

***

The "wardrobe," it turns out, is a super-fast elevator to some kind of safe room.

The doublewide has three floors I notice.

As the door opens, dad storms into a very high-tech room with gun racks everywhere, replete with an operating desk and large, widescreen images of various parts of what I presume are his property.  I can't do any better than that, because I was barfing from the wardrobe ride ... I could tell you more about the carpet.

"It's a fucking rabbit," he says, selecting the screen depicting the area that triggered the alarms.  Pressing a button, large, unseen turrets slide up from the ground into the camera view.  "These guys are eating my tomatoes.  Wanna see something cool?"

The monitors lock into glowing, red crosshairs on the rabbit's head.

"Not really."

"But they are eating my tomatoes!"

Dust

Predator Press

[LOBO]

"Where are you?"

"I have no idea," I reply.  "About 200 miles outside of Las Vegas."  Glumly, I stare at the signs ROAD CLOSED and PRIVATE PROPERTY.  "And I'm out of road."

Lars Arson pauses.  "Are you going to Vegas?"

I associate Vegas with gambling, live shows, strippers and whorehouses. A colossal amount of effort and energy for which I have no interest.  Rubbing my sore eyes, I am rewarded by some scratchy eyebrow stubble.

"I gotta rescue Sapphire," I says into the speakerphone, ignoring the question.  "Do you know you long it takes for eyebrows to grow back?"

"You decided to rescue Sapphire?  Really?"

"Yeah.  My lease is running out, and I need help moving the sectional couch."

"You are rescuing Sapphire from an invading alien armada because you need help moving furniture?"

"Well you ain't gonna help move a sectional couch."

"True, dat."

Is Chantix Designed to Drive You Insane?

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Now to be fair, I had a similar experience with Zyban several years ago.  But thinking this was a different smoking cessation drug altogether, I wasn't expecting the same result: a gradual and subtle loss of sanity.

This time, however, my life was full of other explanations.  Currently a Receiving Lead for a media distributor, I occasionally have to be "spiky."  And I work six ten hour days every week with random days off: a lot of things such as irritability and errors could be explained by general fatigue. 

But sometime around my second week (I was in my fifth as of yesterday), I would experience odd things like insomnia, and, infinitely worse, dreaming my alarm clock went off.  Last Saturday, for instance, I made coffee, showered, and fiddle-fucked with my fantasy baseball team only to realize it was just after midnight.

My work-related error rates increased exponentially.  And with only four days left at this job, I would still like to secure a good reference ... but my judgment was getting really odd and inaccurate. And while I've never been late a single time in three years, I was late twice last week.

I stopped taking Chantix yesterday, but I feel like I owe a lot of apologies.  I did a lot of dumb and mean and inexplicable shit.  The biggest of which was at my soon-to-be ex wife Terri Sellay and her new squeeze, and it was EPIC douchebaggery on my part: imagine the worst, and multiply that by Wes Craven.  What was I thinking?  Until a few days ago, I was holding out some hope that the marriage could somehow be worked out, only to find out she's moved on to a new guy who is superior to me in virtually every way (except the hair.  I have great hair, to the point that it's not fair to compare me with other mortals).

Still, FUCK.  She's happy?

-Well, you can guess the rest.  It was a perfect storm of fuzzy Chantix-laced logic and crippling heartache.   I embarrassed myself, and only after being a total dick realized I have no business trying to stomp on their happiness.

Well shit.  I'm moving and starting a new job, and dropping Chantix like a hot rock.  And I promised to never contact my ex again -a promise very difficult to keep because I am so sorry for the way I behaved.

But I hope someday she randomly googles her name and finds this post, my apology to them both, and my hopes they stay this happy forever.