Predator Press
[LOBO]
“Federation or
Borg?” the Butterbean kid demands. He’s standing on a chair, looking through the peephole of my front door.
“Excuse me?” asks a muffled voice from outside.
Sensing the kid’s alarm, I approach. “Who is it?”
“You gotta see this,” he replies, face pressed against the door. “It’s either Jean-Luc Pickard or Locutus.”
“Jesus,” I breathe. “What the hell is
he selling?”
The kid steps down and moves the chair. “I don’t know yet.”
I open the door. “Can I help you?”
“Hello,” says the well-dressed man. “My name is James Carville.”
Butterbean and I stare.
“The lead strategist for the Clinton presidential campaign?” he adds helpfully.
I scowl. “You’ve got the wrong house. There’s nobody here named ‘Clinton.’ And do you have any idea what
time it is?”
He looks at his watch. “10:30 in the morning?”
“I better get some free ice cream for dragging me out of bed like this,” I says.
He smiles. “I believe you’re confusing me with Carvel
ice cream. I’m just visiting random registered democrats to get their feelings on the 18 billion in bailout money earmarked for executive bonuses.”
“No Fudgie the Whale, no
dice,” I insist. “Besides, you should probably know I’m a registered republican, populist, libertarian, and anarchist too. I like being on the winning team.”
Butterbean whistles. “You can screw everything up and get 18 billion in bonuses?” He looks at me. “You’re in the wrong business.”
“Shut up,” I says.
“Look,” says Carville. “We’re on the precipice of major change. A few years ago, America elected it’s first African-American president, and-“
“We have a black president?” I says. “Is it Tupoc?”
There’s and uncomfortable silence.
“No,” Carville says finally.
“Can you teach me the Vulcan Nerve Pinch?” asks Butterbean.
“You’re thinking of Leonard Nimoy,” replies Carville.
“Don’t confuse this guy with Leonard Nimoy,” I says to Butterbean. “Leonard Nimoy is a class act.” I eye Carville. “Leonard Nimoy would’ve brought us ice cream.”
“Uh-huh,” Butterbean agrees. “Plus he would’ve stayed out of those tanning beds.”
“Seriously!” I says. “Carville you look fifty years older since
The Lord of the Rings. You know there’s spray-on stuff now that doesn’t turn your skin into melted leather.”
“Will you shoot an arrow off of my head?” asks Butterbean.
“No I will
not shoot an arrow off of your head,” replies Carville. “You’re thinking of Orlando Bloom.”
“Yeah
dumbass,” I says to Butterbean. “This is the guy that burned the picture of the Pope.”
“That’s Sinead O'Connor,” corrects Carville.
“Pulp Fiction?” I offer.
“Bruce Willis,” says Carville.
"The Transporter?" asks Butterbean.
"Grant Latham," replies Carville.
"Triple 'X'?" I venture.
"That's Vin Diesel," says Carville. “Are you guys just going to bark out a bunch of random bald celebrities now in an effort to figure out who I am rather than discussing government policy?”
“Probably," I says. "Why?"
Predator Press 
“Federation or Borg?” the Butterbean kid demands. He’s standing on a chair, looking through the peephole of my front door.
He smiles. “I believe you’re confusing me with Carvel ice cream. I’m just visiting random registered democrats to get their feelings on the 18 billion in bailout money earmarked for executive bonuses.”
“Don’t confuse this guy with Leonard Nimoy,” I says to Butterbean. “Leonard Nimoy is a class act.” I eye Carville. “Leonard Nimoy would’ve brought us ice cream.”
“Yeah dumbass,” I says to Butterbean. “This is the guy that burned the picture of the Pope.”
"Triple 'X'?" I venture.
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.)
"Dear LOBO,
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.
