The Spork of Damocles

Predator Press

[LOBO]

I must've stood in that WalMart entrance for a full ten minutes until the old bat showed up.

"It's about time," I says icily, tapping my foot.

"Excuse me?" says the elderly woman.

"I've been standing here for, like, an hour waiting to be greeted." I glower menacingly. "You are a 'Greeter,' are you not?"

"Well-"

"I was totally greetless!" I snap. "And as the person who specializes in it here, I hold you solely responsible for my wholly sub-par welcome."

"Sir," says the woman. "I was on break."

"On break?" I laugh. "From saying 'Welcome to Walmart'!? Oh that must be soooo exhausting. Maybe you should Unionize. You know, trim it down to 'Welcome.' Or maybe even just 'Hi.'"

Her jaw curls slightly as she eyes me.

-But I don't care. At this point, I'm pontificating fully.

"Maybe an abbreviation would make all this easier to endure." I spin around and throw my arms wide, framing the gigantic WalMart sign. "Or maybe you could just stand under this and point at it smiling!"

She taps my shoulder.

I turn.

"Welcome to Walmart sir," she says.

And then at that exact moment, she jams the front right wheel of her walker into my foot.

"Please don't," she growls softly, twisting her crushing full weight into my big toe. "break anything, or I'll cut you're fucking nuts off."

With superhuman will, I do not whimper aloud.

"Ask me what I'll cut off if you shoplift," she grins toothlessly.

A single tear starts welling in my eye.

I can't let this witch win, I thought. If I don't take a stand here, Al Queda will have finally won.

Thinking quickly, I throw an entire display of Snickers into her fat, wrinkly face. The weight suddenly comes off of my foot, and crying out, she staggers backwards covering her eyes.

Kicking the walker aside, I roll up my sleeves. "Don't mess with the bull, bitch. You'll get the ... eh ... the crap kicked out of you!"

"Please," she stammers, wobbling clumsily forward. "I'm an old woman."

Suddenly, 187 expertly-thrown 'smiley-face' pins impale my face, shoulders and chest. Reeling and screaming I seize at them desperately, but they are slippery with my own blood.

Her fist caught me square, flattened my nose, and bright bolts of light shot through my head.

I woke moments later, sprawled flat in shattered rack of inexpensively priced -yet completely viable- watches while she danced spryly back and forth with her fists up blocking her face.

"Anything else to say punk?"

Shadowboxing, I could hear her whipping fists snap the air.

"Yes," I says, holding my palm flat to her. Hefting myself up slowly using a nearby pressboard armoire, I spit a tooth. "You punch like a Dollar Store cashier!"

A look of sudden psychotic rage transformed her face, and she leapt recklessly forward. Prepared for this, I twist slightly left and she crashes full bore into a rack of Kung Fu Hustle toasters.

-Pressing my new advantage, I jam her throat against a nearby vertical support beam with my left elbow while delivering vicious blows to her abdomen and kidneys with my right.

"How do you like me now, you talentless hack?" I says between blows.  "How will the worms play Pinochle on that, bitch!?"

***   "Honey," says Terri as she nudges my shoulder. "Honey, wake up!"

I blink.

I'm in the passenger side of the car.

"We're here," she says smiling. "Did you fall asleep?"

I look around, and slowly recognize the familiar parking lot.

WalMart.

"Let's go get that barbecue grill," she says excitedly. "We've got a big weekend planned."

"And we can't go to Kmart?" I sob.

Exclusive: Wikipedia Search Casts Doubt on Bin Laden Assassination

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Q 1: How could a seal possibly have pulled the trigger?

Fact: Seals don’t have opposable thumbs. And perhaps more importantly, they don’t have shoulders. Am I supposed to believe a “navy” seal swam to Pakistan carrying an AK-47 in its flippers the whole way?

Those guns have straps for a reason.

Q 2: What the hell is a "navy" seal doing in the dessert anyway?

Fact: Osama bin Laden [ObL] wasn’t holed out on some parfait floating in the ocean. That’s a dessert. A desert, it turns out, is a place like the beach except there is explicitly no ocean by definition. So where did the “navy” park all their boats an crap without somebody seeing them do it?

Remember this isn’t attacking a dessert -you can’t just throw sprinkles on your aircraft carrier and hope for the best ... Pakistan would have hit you broadside with a strawberry in a second.

Q 3: Why does President Obama’s Birth Certificate make no mention of the effort?

Fact: Obama’s Birth Certificate was created by ancients like fifteen or twenty years ago, and it could not have known about the events that transpired on 9/11.

-Or could it? Obama's Birth Certificate contains a wealth of knowledge about Obama such as where and when he was born, his parents' names, and the fact that he was once black.

The Birth Certificate, therefore, has demonstrated repeated culpability and motive in the entire presidency from infancy -maybe even from inception.

So how can we ever know that the afore-mentioned Birth Certificate itself didn’t hide Mother Obama’s birth control on that fateful, romantic night in Syria or Iran?

-Or that the fate of America‘s 2008 president wasn't SEALED [eh?] that night on a blue EPT stick by Hitler himself?

Hm?

Seven Years Bad Luck

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[LOBO]

Like any other red-blooded American, I cook my sushi. And I put cheese on it. And I make it out of beef.

So just like you, I’ve been waiting with bated breath on Jesse Ventura’s ‘take’ on the assassination of Osama bin Laden.

See, in the past Jesse has been critical of America’s forthrightness regarding a possible 9/11 conspiracy. But Osama has supposedly been assassinated by the Navy Seals.  And Jesse is a bona-fide former Navy Seal himself.

Don’t misunderstand me here: I love Jesse, and he is one of my favorite people: wearing a pink boa he became a world champion wrestler, and was eventually elected state governor.   Ha! -As far as I’m concerned Jesse is King of the Earth: the only way that could be topped is to have done all that simultaneously.

But you’ve seen Jesse on television, right?

I picture Jesse practicing the ‘Disappearing Quarter’ slight-of-hand trick in a mirror, and walking away confused, angry, and short $5.75.

Save Yourselves

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[LOBO]

One need only to glance at my bank balance to conclude that I have not given you people enough excuses to give me money.

So in the spiritual vacuum created by the death of Osama bin Laden, I have decided to pursue the time-tested lucrative field of religion. Frankly, most modern religions are about as good at making us decent human beings as Dane Cook is good at comedy anyway.

1) Do unto others as you would have them do unto yourself. Especially if you are hot.

2) This isn’t the easy road like those Catholic pussies got, and these aren’t mere lame-assed “Commandments” -these are Demandments! But virgins? Pthbbbt … my afterlife SuperBonus offers 72 filthy whores.

3) No fat chicks.

4) Don’t be a dick, asshole, slut, bitch or cunt (or respective sub-derivatives such as disshole, clitch or slunt).

5) Clip your toenails outside, a safe distance from others so as not to poke out someone’s eye with airborne shrapnel.

6) Don’t be rude: leave that damn toilet seat up, or stop complaining when I pee on it.

7) Mmmmmm …. pork chops. That’s not really a ‘Commandment’ I suppose, but …

8) When observing Lent, you must give up not deep-frying everything and not drinking beer.

9) We are not descendents of monkeys. We are descendents of rabbits -thus, Easter makes total sense. Besides, rabbits do not fling poo at you.  Only chocolate.

10) I think maybe we should address this whole “Killing” thing. I mean I know killing is “bad,” but on the other hand some people should just flat-out be dead, right?

In LOBOism, one can only kill another in bed. Yes, that’s right: if you hate someone so much they must die, you have to **** them to death.

And if you can’t produce the DNA-matched crushed pelvis to the proper authorities (trophy over fireplace with documentation is acceptable), you will be promptly thrown is a dungeon where you will doubtlessly be ****ed to death by a minotaur or something.

-This list is subject to updates as desired or necessary.

Being President Seems Like a Pretty Cool Job. Is there an Application Process or Something?

Predator Press

[LOBO]

After almost ten years of not-so-patiently awaiting news of Osama bin Laden's [ObL's] death, I am puzzled at the lack of joyous fulfillment I imagined this moment to be. Justice? Revenge? I find it hard to be happy for anything other than the end of ObL’s murder spree.

So now what?  Having long forgotten a world without him already, I am perhaps even a little disconcerted with the idea he is gone. Will there be post-Osama support groups?  Against what shall we guage if we are mistreating ourselves at airports enough? 

Should we simply be looking for a new boogieman already?  Finding another one can’t be difficult after all; as Americans we are a culture of subtle nuance.  For instance nudity is considered art or science until somebody desires to see it.  If someone actually wants to see it, we call it pornography.  See?  Subtle nuance.

Admittedly, a sliver of amusement comes in here and there -like having embarrassed Pakistan. I never trusted those fuckers in the first place, and we've been giving $2 billion [with a "b"] a year to Pakistan even after Asif Ali Zadari sold me that crappy timeshare.  Yeah, it was 'technically' on the beach ... but the beach smelled like dead jellyfish and pelican farts the whole season I had it.

But with ObL slain I thought Surely this will resolve some concerns about our president.  Obama got Osama!  O Holy Christ thank GOD I am so freaking sick of hearing about that damn birth certificate-"

And then I found out Obama made the military secretly dump ObL’s body in the ocean.

!!!

I have decided that we are being fucked with. Hard.  Not that I don’t believe ObL is dead, not that we didn’t land on the Moon, not that Lincoln, Kennedy, King, ad nauseam, were assassinated by the implied parties … but I’m thinking there is a wing of the White House just dreaming up stuff to make us doubt everything we know -perhaps in effort to promote an omniscient, omnipotent secret US agenda.

And I get why.  Because if I were sworn in as president, the FIRST thing I would do is recede from the public eye entirely. Having assembled a think tank of the greatest opposing minds in the world as my cabinet, I would periodically be consulted by them vis-à-vis Charlie from Charlie’s Angels -via voice box from a secret location such as Maui, Key West, or New Orleans. (In fact, I think I would be annoyed if I had to talk to them at all; nothing ruins a good buzz like the greatest opposing minds in the world.)

And I said "recede" and not "vanish" for a reason: every once in a while you would see a Photoshop of me in the New York Times getting a ‘All-Seeing Eye’ Masonic tattoo. Or in the Chicago Tribune, me and Marilyn Monroe hauling the Ark of the Covenant out of a forgotten Nazi warehouse.  The LA Times will show me tearing off a Skynet t-shirt, almost revealing the superfluous nipple I glue to random spots on my torso.

And as President, I promise to get absolutely nothing done personally ... but man will those crazies be busy.

-Just imagine what you could accomplish with them preoccupied.

Pakistani Mrs Kravitz Criticized, Ridiculed for Embarrassing Bin Laden Oversight

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[LOBO]

Excuses, Excuses

Predator Press

[LOBO]

“Has it ever occurred to you,” she says, clacking her pen open, “that selfless acts -acts of charity and serving Humanity- are among the best ways to overcome many of your phobias and neurosi?”

Clack

“Even my Cryohydrotachophobia?” I am somewhat enthused. "And by the way, it is neuroses."

"What?"

"Neuroses is plural for Neurosis."

"It's not neurosi?"

“No."

"But this illustrates another issue,” she counters.  I hear a notebook gently flap against the floor, and the crackling, new lamination optimistically removed from another. “You have a tendency to hide behind some of your phobias at the expense of treatment.”

Clack

Sulkily, I try and relax into the couch some more. “I fail to see what any of this is worth if you cannot even cure me of Chryohydrotachophobia.”

During an awkward pause, I can hear the psychiatrist taking a deep breath.

“You are the only diagnosed case of Cryohydrotachophobia,” she explains.  “And I can’t imagine the ‘Paralyzing Fear of Rogue Icebergs’ is very inhibiting this close to the Equator.”

“Yeah well says you,” I snort.  “If it was up to you people, there would be icebergs rollin up everywhere. Probably crawlin’ with polar bears too. Hungry polar bears!”

Clack

“So you think an iceberg -infested with polar bears- could come crashing in any moment now? Meaning, right through the office walls? Even as we speak?  In Los Angeles?”

“No,” I reply, absently picking at a fingernail. “Your thermostat is set at what, seventy six?"

“Exactly seventy-six. That was very good. How did you know?”

“I have very sensitive nipples.”

Internet Swag

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[LOBO]



It's a little slow to download, but ...

Punch-Drunk Drunk

Predator Press

[LOBO]

ADAM Sandler will doubtlessly be suing me after this post.

No, I’m serious. I spent all of Saturday and Sunday poring over dizzyingly-long subpoenas, and it turns out he is among the proud and few not suing me yet. And I can't counter-sue until Adam Sandler sues me first.

What does this all mean? This means Adam Sandler has completely lazy and worthless lawyers: they are overpaid and pasty gelatinous SLOBS swishin’ around in lil skirts.  Soon we will hear grizzly shrapnel as half-full Chinese take-out boxes, chicken bones, and small unfortunate animals tumble through air pockets trapped in mountainous, groaning layers of Adam Sandler lawyer flab in effort to roll over one last cheerleader before the fire department hoists their STD-riddled, flea-infested fat asses out of pricey condominiums via numerous helicopters and cranes as rotting dead hookers flop lifeless out from under ample bedsore-covered acres of greasy cellulite and acne once-rumored to be human Adam Sandler lawyer flesh.

The universe has no place for idle, dawdling Adam Sandler Lawyers, and I'll bet Adam Sandler himself would agree!

See, I am losing huge in all my countersuits on average too … and I figure Adam Sandler is easily worth $1,000,000 in fat countersuit greenbacks: that is exactly what it will cost to burn the memory of Eight Crazy Nights out of my brain.

But what do Sylvester Stallone, Hillary Swank, Mark Wahlburg, and Adam Carolla have on the mighty Adam Sandler?

Hm?

Boxing movies.

I want Mister Sandler -Adam, if I may be so bold- to read my script Punch-Drunk Drunk. It’s a sequel to Punch-Drunk Love -a stoic follow-up that finds Barry Egan succumbing to his seven evil sisters, thus being forced to eek out a meager existence boxing grizzly bears.

But boxing grizzly bears is a terrible way to eek out a meager existence, especially when you just got promoted to astronaut!  In the final match, the Emperor Grizzly Bear cheats and punctures Barry's pressure suit in the third round and is disqualitied.  (I think Rob Schneider is a shoe-in for ‘Best Supporting Actor,’ particularly because he doesn’t appear in this movie.)

So Barry is now Boxing Champion of the World and Emperor of the Grizzly Bears.  But the controversy surrounding the victory yields only mockery and taunting from sports fans of virtually every species. Tormented, Barry gets hooked on 5-Hour Energy Drinks. He doesn't know what he needs energy for -let alone 5 hours worth- but suddenly he’s a quarterback in the NFL too. Eventually Sarah Palin shoots the evil Former Bear Emperor, and -thusly befriended- the grizzly bears team up with Barry, and together they go and defeat the vampires.

(I still have to write Acts II and III.)

Chemically "Enhanced"

Predator Press

[LOBO]

“Look,” says Terri. “I think it’s time we had a talk about your drinking.”

“What about it?”

“You wrote the bartender at the wedding a letter of recommendation.”

“Well he clearly deserved it,” I counter, scratching my chin. “Who got married?”

Internet Swag

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