[LOBO]
Yes, you read it here first at Predator Press: “Shocking Barack Obama Bootleg Porn” probably does not exist.Probably.
And would you really want it to?
Blech.
-You people are weird.
Saturday
Shocking Barack Obama Bootleg Porn!
Predator Press
[LOBO]
Yes, you read it here first at Predator Press: “Shocking Barack Obama Bootleg Porn” probably does not exist.
Probably.
And would you really want it to?
Blech.
-You people are weird.
[LOBO]
Yes, you read it here first at Predator Press: “Shocking Barack Obama Bootleg Porn” probably does not exist.Probably.
And would you really want it to?
Blech.
-You people are weird.
Friday
Nights of the Round Fable
Predator Press
[LOBO]
After the release of Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom, Indy’s faithful and adorable sidekick “Short Round” just seems to vanish from the face of the Earth.
"Well that's impossible," you say. "This could never happen."
Well it turns out that about 8% of Predator Press readers are right 22% of the time: this tragic and shocking true story has been kept under wraps for over 20 years -and it might never been known if not for the dogged and relentless investigative skill of yours truly.
While Indiana’s life -filled with hot chicks, explosions and danger- has thrilled and exhilarated movie audiences for decades, it was found to be ill-suited for raising children; before long Short Round was seized from Indy by Child Protective Custody and placed into foster care.
Heartbroken and psychologically damaged permanently by Indy’s cavalier and lax parenting, Short Round subsequently ran away and seemingly faded into a mysterious shroud of obscurity.
It was no small effort to track his whereabouts from that day forward. But during a chance examination of the MIT Archives we discovered ancient correspondence with Short Round: it seems that soon thereafter it was discovered that he was woefully poor at math, and due this hideous handicap even MIT rejected him.
His last and lowliest of hopes and dreams were horribly crushed against the jagged rapids of cruel Hollywood fate.
Out of options, he spent a few years with the Harlem Globetrotters to make ends meet ... but nothing seemed to sate his emotional void; during a Vicodin and PCP-fueled rage, he punched a cheerleader and called Curly Joe a “punk-ass bitch” –acts that led to his permanent expulsion from the league.
It might seem true that life hasn't been very kind to Short Round. But shortly after serving his jail time and rehab, he met his true love in a strip bar. Connecting instantly during a conversation about their mutual obsession with snakes, the 'sparks flew' so to speak: now Short and Sassy Round live happily in a Des Moines subdivision with their eight beautiful children.
-The oldest of which begins at MIT this August.
[LOBO]
After the release of Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom, Indy’s faithful and adorable sidekick “Short Round” just seems to vanish from the face of the Earth."Well that's impossible," you say. "This could never happen."
Well it turns out that about 8% of Predator Press readers are right 22% of the time: this tragic and shocking true story has been kept under wraps for over 20 years -and it might never been known if not for the dogged and relentless investigative skill of yours truly.
While Indiana’s life -filled with hot chicks, explosions and danger- has thrilled and exhilarated movie audiences for decades, it was found to be ill-suited for raising children; before long Short Round was seized from Indy by Child Protective Custody and placed into foster care.
Heartbroken and psychologically damaged permanently by Indy’s cavalier and lax parenting, Short Round subsequently ran away and seemingly faded into a mysterious shroud of obscurity.It was no small effort to track his whereabouts from that day forward. But during a chance examination of the MIT Archives we discovered ancient correspondence with Short Round: it seems that soon thereafter it was discovered that he was woefully poor at math, and due this hideous handicap even MIT rejected him.
His last and lowliest of hopes and dreams were horribly crushed against the jagged rapids of cruel Hollywood fate.
Out of options, he spent a few years with the Harlem Globetrotters to make ends meet ... but nothing seemed to sate his emotional void; during a Vicodin and PCP-fueled rage, he punched a cheerleader and called Curly Joe a “punk-ass bitch” –acts that led to his permanent expulsion from the league.It might seem true that life hasn't been very kind to Short Round. But shortly after serving his jail time and rehab, he met his true love in a strip bar. Connecting instantly during a conversation about their mutual obsession with snakes, the 'sparks flew' so to speak: now Short and Sassy Round live happily in a Des Moines subdivision with their eight beautiful children.
-The oldest of which begins at MIT this August.
Thursday
Signs of Life
Predator Press
[LOBO]
I could’ve driven I suppose, but I’ve had two beers. Literally. I would get pulled over, the cop would ask how many beers I had 'an pow -I’m getting tuned up like a baby sea lion wearing an Al Gore sandwich board.
I watch a lot of cop TV: 'two beers' is copspeak for “You pigs are dumb. Kiss my ass.”
And I can’t back it up, but I’ve always held the theory that if you get to the point of a sobriety test you’re pretty fucked anyway: the cops are gonna make you sing 'an dance all night long until you screw up. “Walk this line,” and you walk it. “Now do it backwards,” and you do it backwards. “Now do it without your feet,” and you wobble it out handstanding. “Now doing it singing the alphabet, but only using the letters that correspond with the prime numbers.”
-Eh, “B, C, E, G, eh, … J”
“Ten is a composite number, divisible by two and five!” he says, drawing his gun. “You have the right to remain silent …”
Whatever.
-Spare yourself the funny dashboard cam appearance on Fox News. They got you.
Waking up Terri because I suddenly realize I need cigarettes twenty-five minutes after the store closed isn’t an option either.
I’m not a big fan of ‘walking’ ... at least not in public anyway. Walking in public is something only poor people do: rich people pay a lot of money to walk in the privacy of a health club like God intended.
I could pretend to be more upscale and jog, but this is a neighborhood where that would probably get me mugged. Lots ‘n lots of potential mugger material out here too. Who knew so many people still prowled these streets this late? Shadowy, beady-eyed people with undiagnosed wet-looking black sores from hard drugs lurk everywhere -lean with the animal hunger for more drugs to make their eyes even beadier.
There’s a group ahead on bicycles and I’m in a quandary; I can hold my own against an individual but groups scare me. One guy? I can brass it out. But groups of guys can ratchet up a lot more aggression. Plus now there’s a lot more people witnessing me engaged in this primitive act of 'walking' ... Sure I can easily pooh-pooh a single account of me walking, but denying a group’s account is tougher: the next thing you know I’m bein’ interviewed by Jane Goodall and Mark Rayner.
With my street cred hanging in the balance, I do something of dubious wisdom and detour through a darkened and unfamiliar field. I can’t see the thick soil under my feet, but this stuff hasn’t seen any rain in six months; experience tells me it’s so dry it won’t even stick to my sneakers. On my teeny radio earbuds a commercial I had unconsciously tuned out ends, and I’m plodding through the inky blackness to a story about three Americans in Afghanistan that were supposedly captured in Iran for accidentally hiking over the border.
Jesus Christ I don’t want to be hiking here … what the hell would motivate someone to hike in Afghanistan?
“You know,” says one American. “I’m really sick of this sand those rocks. Let’s go see new sand and rocks!”
Pondering this, I breach the pale streetlights of the grocery store’s desolate parking lot.
-If I’m in Afghanistan, the only recreational hiking I’m doing is preceded by a shovel: I would be the Afghanistani equivalent of veal.
“Did you bring the straw?” I would demand before sliding the money under the door to the Afghanistani delivery guy. “I’m not tipping unless you brought the straw.”
The straw pokes out under the door and I grab it fearfully.
“Okay, now push the pizza through the keyhole!”
The teeny radio earbuds preclude me hearing the automatic doors, but the delicious rush of chill from the air conditioning inside cannot be ignored. Fwoosh! -only then do I realize I’ve made half the journey safely. Still, the sudden transition from subdued blue-black outdoor lighting to an assault of tactically-sprawled colorful packaging requires a split second of blinking reorientation, and I find myself spilled slightly into a small section of bakery goods. Terri, Screechy and Complainy all go ape batshit for chocolate chip cookies, and fatefully standing before a large display I grab a bag without thinking. Cigarettes are up by the cashier in a locked transparent plastic display, so I proceed to the checkout.
What’s up with locking the cigarettes in those displays? I’m thinking. Are cigarettes so dangerous to the public, they require a feux Fort Knox so G. I. Joe figures don’t try ‘an steal them? I’ve seen the locks up pretty close and I gotta tell you they don’t look like much of a deterrent ... sufficiently motivated, I’m sure I could bust into one with little effort. Those things probably couldn’t keep the cigarettes from breaking out.
The only cashier line open has his light on, but I half notice a shopping cart placed diagonally across the access path. It’s one of those bulky-looking plastic red 'an blue ones kids like to get pushed in. I lift up the handled side slightly to pivot it over, and I’m surprised at how light it is despite it’s appearance. Catching the cashier’s eye, I point at his light wordlessly. I’ve still got the earbuds in, but he gives me a “yes I’m still open” nod. I pluck out one of the buds while simultaneously wiggling past the obtrusive cart, and once past I give it a nice shove so it rolls back into a wider thoroughfare of the store out of the way.
I plop the bag of cookies on the counter. “Marlboro Lights in a box too, please,” I says.
After an odd look, he grabs the keys from his belt and kneels in a well-practiced move, and inserts one with a circular tip; the flimsy plastic wobbles slightly as he pulls it open.
I get that cigarettes are expensive, I surmise. But if these people are serious about locking up cigarettes, this plastic crap just doesn’t cut it. If you’re going to bother, you should at least seal them off like a gas station attendant in Los Angeles: bulletproof glass and the works.
“These?” the cashier shows me a red box.
“Lights, please,” I correct.
-And if you’re going to go with bulletproof glass, fuck, go the distance. Stop at nothing short of an acid moat spitting flames, teeming with angry, starving alligators and sharks. Vaguely, I’m aware of another customer getting behind me in the short line. Yeah, I’m thinking. If I saw bulletproof glass and acid ‘an flames ‘an a moatful of alligators fighting with sharks, mmmmm, I'd bet those must be some damn good cigarettes …
I absently glance back, and see the red cart once again, now within inches of my thigh.
An angry-looking lady is behind it.
Puzzled, I do a better visual skim of the situation. Under closer examination from this angle I realize there’s a handful of products in the cart.
And as it slowly dawns on me that the lady had left the cart to save her place in line to get a last minute-item, something moves below.
-A tiny baby in a pink jumpsuit is smiling and waving at me.
Alarmed, I look at the furious woman.
Then the baby.
Then the furious woman again.
“That’ll be $8.44,” the cashier interrupts.
“Well it’s a damn good thing I showed up when I did,” I says to the woman while fishing out my credit card. “This asshole was trying to sell her cigarettes.”
[LOBO]I could’ve driven I suppose, but I’ve had two beers. Literally. I would get pulled over, the cop would ask how many beers I had 'an pow -I’m getting tuned up like a baby sea lion wearing an Al Gore sandwich board.
I watch a lot of cop TV: 'two beers' is copspeak for “You pigs are dumb. Kiss my ass.”
And I can’t back it up, but I’ve always held the theory that if you get to the point of a sobriety test you’re pretty fucked anyway: the cops are gonna make you sing 'an dance all night long until you screw up. “Walk this line,” and you walk it. “Now do it backwards,” and you do it backwards. “Now do it without your feet,” and you wobble it out handstanding. “Now doing it singing the alphabet, but only using the letters that correspond with the prime numbers.”
-Eh, “B, C, E, G, eh, … J”
“Ten is a composite number, divisible by two and five!” he says, drawing his gun. “You have the right to remain silent …”
Whatever.-Spare yourself the funny dashboard cam appearance on Fox News. They got you.
Waking up Terri because I suddenly realize I need cigarettes twenty-five minutes after the store closed isn’t an option either.
I’m not a big fan of ‘walking’ ... at least not in public anyway. Walking in public is something only poor people do: rich people pay a lot of money to walk in the privacy of a health club like God intended.
I could pretend to be more upscale and jog, but this is a neighborhood where that would probably get me mugged. Lots ‘n lots of potential mugger material out here too. Who knew so many people still prowled these streets this late? Shadowy, beady-eyed people with undiagnosed wet-looking black sores from hard drugs lurk everywhere -lean with the animal hunger for more drugs to make their eyes even beadier.
There’s a group ahead on bicycles and I’m in a quandary; I can hold my own against an individual but groups scare me. One guy? I can brass it out. But groups of guys can ratchet up a lot more aggression. Plus now there’s a lot more people witnessing me engaged in this primitive act of 'walking' ... Sure I can easily pooh-pooh a single account of me walking, but denying a group’s account is tougher: the next thing you know I’m bein’ interviewed by Jane Goodall and Mark Rayner.With my street cred hanging in the balance, I do something of dubious wisdom and detour through a darkened and unfamiliar field. I can’t see the thick soil under my feet, but this stuff hasn’t seen any rain in six months; experience tells me it’s so dry it won’t even stick to my sneakers. On my teeny radio earbuds a commercial I had unconsciously tuned out ends, and I’m plodding through the inky blackness to a story about three Americans in Afghanistan that were supposedly captured in Iran for accidentally hiking over the border.
Jesus Christ I don’t want to be hiking here … what the hell would motivate someone to hike in Afghanistan?
“You know,” says one American. “I’m really sick of this sand those rocks. Let’s go see new sand and rocks!”Pondering this, I breach the pale streetlights of the grocery store’s desolate parking lot.
-If I’m in Afghanistan, the only recreational hiking I’m doing is preceded by a shovel: I would be the Afghanistani equivalent of veal.
“Did you bring the straw?” I would demand before sliding the money under the door to the Afghanistani delivery guy. “I’m not tipping unless you brought the straw.”
The straw pokes out under the door and I grab it fearfully.
“Okay, now push the pizza through the keyhole!”
The teeny radio earbuds preclude me hearing the automatic doors, but the delicious rush of chill from the air conditioning inside cannot be ignored. Fwoosh! -only then do I realize I’ve made half the journey safely. Still, the sudden transition from subdued blue-black outdoor lighting to an assault of tactically-sprawled colorful packaging requires a split second of blinking reorientation, and I find myself spilled slightly into a small section of bakery goods. Terri, Screechy and Complainy all go ape batshit for chocolate chip cookies, and fatefully standing before a large display I grab a bag without thinking. Cigarettes are up by the cashier in a locked transparent plastic display, so I proceed to the checkout.
What’s up with locking the cigarettes in those displays? I’m thinking. Are cigarettes so dangerous to the public, they require a feux Fort Knox so G. I. Joe figures don’t try ‘an steal them? I’ve seen the locks up pretty close and I gotta tell you they don’t look like much of a deterrent ... sufficiently motivated, I’m sure I could bust into one with little effort. Those things probably couldn’t keep the cigarettes from breaking out.The only cashier line open has his light on, but I half notice a shopping cart placed diagonally across the access path. It’s one of those bulky-looking plastic red 'an blue ones kids like to get pushed in. I lift up the handled side slightly to pivot it over, and I’m surprised at how light it is despite it’s appearance. Catching the cashier’s eye, I point at his light wordlessly. I’ve still got the earbuds in, but he gives me a “yes I’m still open” nod. I pluck out one of the buds while simultaneously wiggling past the obtrusive cart, and once past I give it a nice shove so it rolls back into a wider thoroughfare of the store out of the way.
I plop the bag of cookies on the counter. “Marlboro Lights in a box too, please,” I says.After an odd look, he grabs the keys from his belt and kneels in a well-practiced move, and inserts one with a circular tip; the flimsy plastic wobbles slightly as he pulls it open.
I get that cigarettes are expensive, I surmise. But if these people are serious about locking up cigarettes, this plastic crap just doesn’t cut it. If you’re going to bother, you should at least seal them off like a gas station attendant in Los Angeles: bulletproof glass and the works.
“These?” the cashier shows me a red box.
“Lights, please,” I correct.
-And if you’re going to go with bulletproof glass, fuck, go the distance. Stop at nothing short of an acid moat spitting flames, teeming with angry, starving alligators and sharks. Vaguely, I’m aware of another customer getting behind me in the short line. Yeah, I’m thinking. If I saw bulletproof glass and acid ‘an flames ‘an a moatful of alligators fighting with sharks, mmmmm, I'd bet those must be some damn good cigarettes …
I absently glance back, and see the red cart once again, now within inches of my thigh.
An angry-looking lady is behind it.
Puzzled, I do a better visual skim of the situation. Under closer examination from this angle I realize there’s a handful of products in the cart.And as it slowly dawns on me that the lady had left the cart to save her place in line to get a last minute-item, something moves below.
-A tiny baby in a pink jumpsuit is smiling and waving at me.
Alarmed, I look at the furious woman.
Then the baby.
Then the furious woman again.
“That’ll be $8.44,” the cashier interrupts.
“Well it’s a damn good thing I showed up when I did,” I says to the woman while fishing out my credit card. “This asshole was trying to sell her cigarettes.”
Tuesday
AutoChrist
Predator Press
[LOBO]
In a day and age where we can simultaneously download a bazillion gigabytes and get a cooked pizza in 30 minutes or less, I think we are alarmingly short-sighted.
See, we’ve recently enjoyed exponential advances in communication technology. With these advances, we slowly gather the wisdom and beliefs from all across the globe -the ancient wisdom of Buddhism, Zen and the Toa, for instance, have never been more accessible.
And as Americans, our steady and linear march to a global awareness, expanded world consciousness, and –perhaps most importantly- tolerance is quietly tempered in the patient steely Faith that any minute now Jesus will return and kick the living crap out of all those pagan infidels, and cast them into the Lake of Fire to suffer for the rest of Eternity.
I, for one, cannot wait to see those dumb jerks all boiling in agony as Satan rips off random pieces of flesh and bone while they howl in pain, doggie-paddling in the flaming lava of their own boiling misguided swill. “Get out now!” I’ll cry throwing them a life preserver -but I’ll have that life preserver on a super-thin string they can’t see: just like that twenty dollar bill trick we used to see in the movies, as they get tantalizingly close, yoink, I pull it out of their reach.
Haw!
Oh man it’ll be a million laughs. Over a big enough span of time, it would be a million million laughs: I could do that forever, pausing only briefly to high-five all the other angels.
But it’s been two thousand years now, and as evidenced by His failure to return my phone calls and emails I’m starting to suspect Jesus is pretty busy. And can we fault Him for that? No! Can you imagine what Jesus’ itinerary must be like? Oh sure it probably looks pretty simple … 8:00am: Smite Evil, 8:15am: Smite Evil, et cetera. But “Evil” has a tendency to do bad things with complete disregard to Jesus’ WhiteBerry™: Jesus might slip out to Starbucks for a café mocha grande and pow, Evil makes it’s move.
Until we can get it to play fair, Evil should be regarded as very very sneaky.
Well we can’t put all this pressure on Jesus alone, or Jesus might wig out one day and throw the fax machine through the stained glass windows. And we can’t fight Evil without Him either … while the spirit is willing, the flesh is pasty and watching American Idol.
-What I propose is that we take all these miraculous technological advances and build a RoboJesus.Now before all you religious people start thinking crazy, at least take a moment to consider my RoboJesus idea: we don’t worship RoboJesus of course … we just make a NASA-grade titanium bulletproof steel version to fill in on occasional "light" Evil jobs.
Programmed with both the Old and the New Testament, RoboJesus would wade through Al Qaeda camps spraying them with righteous lasers and napalm, all the while preaching Gospel, humming psalms, and otherwise forgiving the remaining skeletons with deadly pinpoint accuracy. And to ensure the skeletons don’t here the same sermon twice? RoboJesus has, like, iPod technology, and a memory bank chocked full of no less than thousands of hours of Peace and Love audio in any ass-backwards language besides English you could possibly think of.
Even British!
Monday
Because Reading is Such a Hassle
Predator Press
[LOBO]
I don’t often post YouTubes 'an Hulus or whatever, but this one made me cry. It’ll make you cry too –unless you’re a heartless bastard. Or a boneless bastard. And hell if you’re a heartless boneless bastard I wouldn’t know where your tear ducts would be anyway.
WTG Jon!
[LOBO]
I don’t often post YouTubes 'an Hulus or whatever, but this one made me cry. It’ll make you cry too –unless you’re a heartless bastard. Or a boneless bastard. And hell if you’re a heartless boneless bastard I wouldn’t know where your tear ducts would be anyway.
| The Daily Show With Jon Stewart | Mon - Thurs 11p / 10c | |||
| Chuck Grassley's Debt and Deficit Dragon | ||||
| ||||
Sunday
POP Schedule
Predator Press
[LOBO]
Week: 09/06/09-09/12/09
Featured Author: Mark
Blog: neOnbubble
Status: Published
Week: 08/30/09-09/05/09
Featured Author: Alex L
Blog: The Discreet Charm of the Middle Class
Status: Published
Week: 08/23/09-08/29/09
Featured Author: Mike McHugh
Blog: Road Kill Gumbo
Status: Published
Week: 08/16/09-08/22/09
Featured Author: Stephanie B.
Blog: Rocket Scientist, Ask Me Anything
Status: Published
This schedule is updated as needed, so check frequently.
[LOBO]
Week: 09/06/09-09/12/09
Featured Author: Mark
Blog: neOnbubble
Status: Published
Week: 08/30/09-09/05/09
Featured Author: Alex L
Blog: The Discreet Charm of the Middle Class
Status: Published
Week: 08/23/09-08/29/09
Featured Author: Mike McHugh
Blog: Road Kill Gumbo
Status: Published
Week: 08/16/09-08/22/09
Featured Author: Stephanie B.
Blog: Rocket Scientist, Ask Me Anything
Status: Published
This schedule is updated as needed, so check frequently.
Saturday
Predators on Patrol
Predator Press
[LOBO]
Okay. Most of this stuff is common sense and disclaimer blah blah -but since I put the relevant, juicy stuff like contact info (Section 7) waaaaay at the bottom, I get to incorrectly assume you bothered to read the whole damn thing.
But for those of you so bored you're not skipping down to Section 7, here are the rules ... all subject to change as I see fit:
1) I reserve the right to use or not use anything. And for no reason whatsoever. I will occasionally reject a post just because it feels itchy, or contains too many instances of the letter “T.”
2) Submissions must be uniquely written. If this thing sputters out due to lack of interest I may change my mind on this rule in the future, but as for now Predators on Patrol isn't a "Best Of" column ... it's a cross-promotional experiment to expose new readers and writers to new readers and writers. I'm sure those posts of yours are great, but if your fans have already read it, why would they come here to see it again?
Uh, submissions must also be in English. And not butcherin' our fine American language like the British do either.
-And oh holy crap don't submit somebody else's work and claim it's yours. Regarding submissions I will take you at your word, but subsequently busted plagiarists will be disqualified and then beaten to death with cinderblocks and pointy sticks.
3) Content: I use curse words and skirt some taste boundaries upon occasion, but I'm also happily married and have teenage kids and family that read this blog. While Predator Press is certainly not 'PG' in any respect, please use some discretion; nudity, overtly pornographic, racially charged and offensive material will not be accepted. Outright product promotions and ads are not in the spirit of "Predators on Patrol" and will be rejected as well.
[-not that I wouldn't love a good sponsor: separate space for that can be negotiated at the same email address outlined in Section 7.]
4) Submission Mechanics: You can use pictures, but I will only open text files. I will not upload photos under any circumstances. If Section 5 [Format Tips Tricks and Recommendations] is too much, please include the linking address to your desired photos with your submission in an email body. I will take care of the rest (assuming the linking info is accurate), but note the Section 5 opening-paragraph "disclaimer" and try to be available via email in case I have questions or recommendations.
5) Format (Tips, Tricks and Recommendations): Whenever I've guest posted, I've developed the post on my own blog without publishing it to get a "feel" for what it will look like via previews. If you don't know diddly about HTML formatting, skip to Section 7 below with the understanding I may need to fiddle with how the stuff will look. While not entirely precluding layout alterations, the following steps are recommended to ensure they are kept to a minimum:
a) Save your completed post as a draft on your site (most if not all the HTML should still work for me if you follow these steps).
b) switch to "Edit HTML" (or equivalent)
c) Copy the HTML to your clipboard and then paste it into a word processor. If you're new to this, it'll look like it's half symbols, numbers, and other gibberish. That's okay ... I speak Geek.
d) Save the pasted code as a text [.txt] file.
e) Email that text file to me as an attachment per Section 7, and thank you in advance: this way I can simply cut and paste it with a minimal amount of "tweaking." This further preserves my upload space, keeps my page fast, and also protects me from virus threats, malicious codes and blah blah (this is not to imply anyone would do that on purpose, but a lot of bad codes are transmitted by people that don’t know they are doing it.)
6) Everybody who did not read everything up to this point probably has cooties.
7) Where and how to send your stuff. Put "Guest Post Submission" in the email header and send it to carpenoctum[at]hotmail.com. (Potential advertisers and/or sponsors should use this same email address but use "Predator Press Advertising" to initiate a dialog.)
Note: If you want me to notice an email containing your content or questions, do not, under any circumstances, use the words "Winner Notification" or "Enlarge Your Penis" 'cuz I'll never even see it: all that gets promptly escorted into electronic oblivion, your email address gets automatically banned, and God hates and punishes you for the rest of your pathetic, worthless, and revolting excuse of a disease-addled life. And beyond the grave. Probably.
-Follow up if you don't hear from me within a few days too as I might have missed it. (As you might've guessed, I get a lot of junk mail and ignore virtually everything I don't immediately recognize ... you might have accidentally been overlooked.)
8) Don't sweat it. Most of this overcomplicated-seeming blah blah is CMA [aka "Cover My Ass"]. Lock in a date and get your submissions in as early as possible, and we'll figure it all out from there. Have fun. I self and cross-promote wherever possible, so I hope this will be a mutually-beneficial project for everybody.
-And welcome to Predator Press!
[LOBO]
Okay. Most of this stuff is common sense and disclaimer blah blah -but since I put the relevant, juicy stuff like contact info (Section 7) waaaaay at the bottom, I get to incorrectly assume you bothered to read the whole damn thing.
But for those of you so bored you're not skipping down to Section 7, here are the rules ... all subject to change as I see fit:
1) I reserve the right to use or not use anything. And for no reason whatsoever. I will occasionally reject a post just because it feels itchy, or contains too many instances of the letter “T.”
2) Submissions must be uniquely written. If this thing sputters out due to lack of interest I may change my mind on this rule in the future, but as for now Predators on Patrol isn't a "Best Of" column ... it's a cross-promotional experiment to expose new readers and writers to new readers and writers. I'm sure those posts of yours are great, but if your fans have already read it, why would they come here to see it again?
Uh, submissions must also be in English. And not butcherin' our fine American language like the British do either.
-And oh holy crap don't submit somebody else's work and claim it's yours. Regarding submissions I will take you at your word, but subsequently busted plagiarists will be disqualified and then beaten to death with cinderblocks and pointy sticks.
3) Content: I use curse words and skirt some taste boundaries upon occasion, but I'm also happily married and have teenage kids and family that read this blog. While Predator Press is certainly not 'PG' in any respect, please use some discretion; nudity, overtly pornographic, racially charged and offensive material will not be accepted. Outright product promotions and ads are not in the spirit of "Predators on Patrol" and will be rejected as well.
[-not that I wouldn't love a good sponsor: separate space for that can be negotiated at the same email address outlined in Section 7.]
4) Submission Mechanics: You can use pictures, but I will only open text files. I will not upload photos under any circumstances. If Section 5 [Format Tips Tricks and Recommendations] is too much, please include the linking address to your desired photos with your submission in an email body. I will take care of the rest (assuming the linking info is accurate), but note the Section 5 opening-paragraph "disclaimer" and try to be available via email in case I have questions or recommendations.
5) Format (Tips, Tricks and Recommendations): Whenever I've guest posted, I've developed the post on my own blog without publishing it to get a "feel" for what it will look like via previews. If you don't know diddly about HTML formatting, skip to Section 7 below with the understanding I may need to fiddle with how the stuff will look. While not entirely precluding layout alterations, the following steps are recommended to ensure they are kept to a minimum:
a) Save your completed post as a draft on your site (most if not all the HTML should still work for me if you follow these steps).
b) switch to "Edit HTML" (or equivalent)
c) Copy the HTML to your clipboard and then paste it into a word processor. If you're new to this, it'll look like it's half symbols, numbers, and other gibberish. That's okay ... I speak Geek.
d) Save the pasted code as a text [.txt] file.
e) Email that text file to me as an attachment per Section 7, and thank you in advance: this way I can simply cut and paste it with a minimal amount of "tweaking." This further preserves my upload space, keeps my page fast, and also protects me from virus threats, malicious codes and blah blah (this is not to imply anyone would do that on purpose, but a lot of bad codes are transmitted by people that don’t know they are doing it.)
6) Everybody who did not read everything up to this point probably has cooties.
7) Where and how to send your stuff. Put "Guest Post Submission" in the email header and send it to carpenoctum[at]hotmail.com. (Potential advertisers and/or sponsors should use this same email address but use "Predator Press Advertising" to initiate a dialog.)
Note: If you want me to notice an email containing your content or questions, do not, under any circumstances, use the words "Winner Notification" or "Enlarge Your Penis" 'cuz I'll never even see it: all that gets promptly escorted into electronic oblivion, your email address gets automatically banned, and God hates and punishes you for the rest of your pathetic, worthless, and revolting excuse of a disease-addled life. And beyond the grave. Probably.
-Follow up if you don't hear from me within a few days too as I might have missed it. (As you might've guessed, I get a lot of junk mail and ignore virtually everything I don't immediately recognize ... you might have accidentally been overlooked.)
8) Don't sweat it. Most of this overcomplicated-seeming blah blah is CMA [aka "Cover My Ass"]. Lock in a date and get your submissions in as early as possible, and we'll figure it all out from there. Have fun. I self and cross-promote wherever possible, so I hope this will be a mutually-beneficial project for everybody.
-And welcome to Predator Press!
Friday
Less LOBOs
Predator Press
[LOBO]
Before you start immolating yourselves or jumping off of buildings –or worse, immolating yourselves and then jumping off of buildings- please read this post in it’s entirety.
I didn’t consciously take a week off; I sorta got myself tripped up over a bit of a quandary.
See I’ve had a “Facebook” account for a few years and have neglected it. And as it is still unfamiliar, I was puzzled by the handful of people that had already found the undeveloped page and added me as friends. Heck, half of those resourceful few didn’t remember who I was when I returned the favor.
Despite the nagging guilt, this disregard may have gone on indefinitely. But I read recently that facebook and LinkedIn –used properly- can be assets when on a job search.
-Unfortunately, “used properly” means divulging a whole lot of personal info that I tend to avoid.
So now I need to decide how or if these tools are suitable for my purposes. But I like the relative anonymity, and truth be told there is little spectacular to reveal in regard to my personal and professional life anyway ... and doesn’t putting all that information out there pose a lot of risk of misuse too?
It seems like a lopsided equation in favor of leaving well enough alone.
The reason this is now pivotal is because of a good idea Terri had: taking on guest authors on a non-formal semi-regular basis. Specifically, featuring a unique article by a different blogger or writer maybe once a week or so, and switching up the page philosophy to be more of a magazine-format gallery.
That said, is there even interest in guest participation here? As a former newspaper editor, I would probably skim the grammar and ensure the formatting matches my site -but wouldn’t foresee a lot of micromanaging the guest post content … if it’s interesting, it’s fine. And to mitigate my own irregular posting patterns (I’m not quitting, I’m augmenting), I would make a banner in the #1 sidebar spot for that week’s Guest Poster for easy navigation, and ensure the post would be replete with links back to the respective author’s site.
So there it all is. If you’re interested in guest posting here, leave a comment. Or regarding facebook and LinkedIn users, how have these services impacted your lives? And were I to develop them, should they be extensions of Predator Press humor, or should they be serious and “real,” with author info and so forth?
And if you think about it, you’re doing us all a favor here.
-I could write epic volumes on cat farts.
[LOBO]Before you start immolating yourselves or jumping off of buildings –or worse, immolating yourselves and then jumping off of buildings- please read this post in it’s entirety.
I didn’t consciously take a week off; I sorta got myself tripped up over a bit of a quandary.
See I’ve had a “Facebook” account for a few years and have neglected it. And as it is still unfamiliar, I was puzzled by the handful of people that had already found the undeveloped page and added me as friends. Heck, half of those resourceful few didn’t remember who I was when I returned the favor.
Despite the nagging guilt, this disregard may have gone on indefinitely. But I read recently that facebook and LinkedIn –used properly- can be assets when on a job search.
-Unfortunately, “used properly” means divulging a whole lot of personal info that I tend to avoid.
So now I need to decide how or if these tools are suitable for my purposes. But I like the relative anonymity, and truth be told there is little spectacular to reveal in regard to my personal and professional life anyway ... and doesn’t putting all that information out there pose a lot of risk of misuse too?
It seems like a lopsided equation in favor of leaving well enough alone.
The reason this is now pivotal is because of a good idea Terri had: taking on guest authors on a non-formal semi-regular basis. Specifically, featuring a unique article by a different blogger or writer maybe once a week or so, and switching up the page philosophy to be more of a magazine-format gallery.
That said, is there even interest in guest participation here? As a former newspaper editor, I would probably skim the grammar and ensure the formatting matches my site -but wouldn’t foresee a lot of micromanaging the guest post content … if it’s interesting, it’s fine. And to mitigate my own irregular posting patterns (I’m not quitting, I’m augmenting), I would make a banner in the #1 sidebar spot for that week’s Guest Poster for easy navigation, and ensure the post would be replete with links back to the respective author’s site.So there it all is. If you’re interested in guest posting here, leave a comment. Or regarding facebook and LinkedIn users, how have these services impacted your lives? And were I to develop them, should they be extensions of Predator Press humor, or should they be serious and “real,” with author info and so forth?
And if you think about it, you’re doing us all a favor here.
-I could write epic volumes on cat farts.
The Crap I Don't Give Impacted
Predator Press
[LOBO]
It was only in that moment of ridiculous terror I realized it was, well, ridiculous.
-First of all, what the hell would I be doing in a cave? I am a lazy, lazy individual; caves require, you know, getting to them and stuff.
And this is all predicated by the unlikely idea you could convince me to go into a cave as well. Think about what you are up against here: if you uttered something that could be even vaguely paraphrased into "Let's work hard to get into a place we can easily get killed in!" aloud in my house, I would immediately call 911 and secretly hope the cops beat you into paste once removed from the premises.
Who is going to miss a spelunker anyway? Somebody would go, "Where is Bill? I haven't seen him in a few days," and somebody else would reply "He's a spelunker." Then the first guy would say "Oh."
-And that would be that. They wouldn't even look for you for weeks.
If at all.
Now that I think about it, I hate spelunkers -spelunkers, and guys named "Travis." And if you're a spelunker named Travis? Please save us all a lot of time and trouble and kill youself as soon as possible. It's for the greater good. Into the zinc smelter you go, and then foom -that zinc smelter is launched into the sun.
It's that simple.
Anyway if I'm not really in this cave because I'm dreaming, it stands to reason this cable-thick webbing that is keeping me from running isn't real either. This is a good thing, because the spider the size of a 7/11 that just caught me just laid about fifty teeny weenie hungy-looking babies, each only the size of a compact car.
-They too probably aren't real.
Jesus Christ I hope my sheets are dry when I wake up.
This first problem obviously is coming up with a new dream. I don't like horror and worrying if the washing machine and dryer are empty, so no more nightmare -I wanna do, ah, smarmy science fiction. Yeah. With a zesty hint of Western and maybe a pinch of James Bond too.
-I don't remember any transition at all. It was more kinda like forgetting the cave and the spiders.
Now I'm looking down upon a magnificent futuristic city: my cape blows back in the breeze revealing two big and dangerous looking holstered guns -guns I presume I use on people that make fun of my cape.
Man I look good in Spandex.
"That was brilliant sir!" say a voice from behind.
I whirl with the reflexes of a cat, eyebrow raised and gun drawn.
A grandfatherly-seeming man with a high-tech looking darkened spectacle approached, and I could see the flaming remains of my X Wi -I mean X-Thing fighter. (Does George Lucas still sue?) "Congratulations, my boy! You have saved the world again."
"Really?" I asked. "What exactly did I do?"
Suddenly, a thick throng of people close around me in a single wave, drowning the old man out completely.
"That was a fantastic display of heroism, physical prowess and utter genius!" says one.
"Yes it was," I agree. "What was it again?"
Then the cheerleaders start a rhythmic chant, "Horay for LOBO! You saved the world again!"
"Yes I did I suppose," I acquiesce. Well why should I be a party-pooper? Heck, this dream skips right to the victorious end, minus all that exhausting, dangerous 'adventure' crap and tedious detail.
Now that I think about it, this is the best dream I've ever had.
There's only one problem really. See in every 70's or 80's movie you'll ever see, the bad guy always demands a million dollars.
One.
-By today's standards, that's, well, laughable. You could probably get a million dollars for Corey Feldman.
So this is like the Twentieth Century or something. Couldn't I have saved more than one lousy world in my own dream? That's pretty lame if you ask me.
Bodysurfing over the still-growing crowds, I sigh disappointedly under the spectacular fireworks displays spelling "LOBO" is the sky.
Then I notice something unusual.
"Put me down," I tell the crowds.
Once my feet were on terra firma, the fan I happened to be facing smacked my shoulders proudly.
"How did you do it?" he asked.
"Do what?" I replied, still watching the strange object in the sky.
It was a clearly approaching -a gigantic Independence Day-sized flying saucer.
Other people were now noticing it too.
The crowd scattered, and in moments I was in a huge clearing, directly under the central eye of the massive craft.
"LOBO" a mechanical voice boomed, shaking the ground. "We have come to destroy the universe."
"Like I care," I says. "It's a dump anyway. Just don't mess with any of my stuff."
"But," the voice continued. "We have changed our minds after witnessing your recent brilliant and heroic actions. Perhaps there is hope for your feebleminded race and ours to live in peace."
"And what did I do exactly?"
"You saved the universe."
The crowd cheers in the distance, and once again I am flooded by well-wishers.
But suddenly a stray LOBO firecracker bounced off of the goliath saucer's hull, and a million lasers unified on a single point -incinerating the unfortunate pyrotechnics engineer instantly.
And the guns began to take aim on possible threats in the sea of people.
"Oh my god," a woman screamed. "They killed Travis, the fireworks guy!"
As the smell of burnt hair wafted over the fearful spectators, a long uncomfortable silence ensued.
Finally seeming to notice, the saucer blurted "Long Live LOBO."
Whew, I thought.
-I'm pretty good at this 'hero' stuff actually.
[LOBO]
It was only in that moment of ridiculous terror I realized it was, well, ridiculous.
-First of all, what the hell would I be doing in a cave? I am a lazy, lazy individual; caves require, you know, getting to them and stuff.
And this is all predicated by the unlikely idea you could convince me to go into a cave as well. Think about what you are up against here: if you uttered something that could be even vaguely paraphrased into "Let's work hard to get into a place we can easily get killed in!" aloud in my house, I would immediately call 911 and secretly hope the cops beat you into paste once removed from the premises.
Who is going to miss a spelunker anyway? Somebody would go, "Where is Bill? I haven't seen him in a few days," and somebody else would reply "He's a spelunker." Then the first guy would say "Oh."
-And that would be that. They wouldn't even look for you for weeks.
If at all.
Now that I think about it, I hate spelunkers -spelunkers, and guys named "Travis." And if you're a spelunker named Travis? Please save us all a lot of time and trouble and kill youself as soon as possible. It's for the greater good. Into the zinc smelter you go, and then foom -that zinc smelter is launched into the sun.
It's that simple.
Anyway if I'm not really in this cave because I'm dreaming, it stands to reason this cable-thick webbing that is keeping me from running isn't real either. This is a good thing, because the spider the size of a 7/11 that just caught me just laid about fifty teeny weenie hungy-looking babies, each only the size of a compact car.
-They too probably aren't real.
Jesus Christ I hope my sheets are dry when I wake up.
This first problem obviously is coming up with a new dream. I don't like horror and worrying if the washing machine and dryer are empty, so no more nightmare -I wanna do, ah, smarmy science fiction. Yeah. With a zesty hint of Western and maybe a pinch of James Bond too.
-I don't remember any transition at all. It was more kinda like forgetting the cave and the spiders.
Now I'm looking down upon a magnificent futuristic city: my cape blows back in the breeze revealing two big and dangerous looking holstered guns -guns I presume I use on people that make fun of my cape.
Man I look good in Spandex.
"That was brilliant sir!" say a voice from behind.
I whirl with the reflexes of a cat, eyebrow raised and gun drawn.
A grandfatherly-seeming man with a high-tech looking darkened spectacle approached, and I could see the flaming remains of my X Wi -I mean X-Thing fighter. (Does George Lucas still sue?) "Congratulations, my boy! You have saved the world again."
"Really?" I asked. "What exactly did I do?"
Suddenly, a thick throng of people close around me in a single wave, drowning the old man out completely.
"That was a fantastic display of heroism, physical prowess and utter genius!" says one.
"Yes it was," I agree. "What was it again?"
Then the cheerleaders start a rhythmic chant, "Horay for LOBO! You saved the world again!"
"Yes I did I suppose," I acquiesce. Well why should I be a party-pooper? Heck, this dream skips right to the victorious end, minus all that exhausting, dangerous 'adventure' crap and tedious detail.
Now that I think about it, this is the best dream I've ever had.
There's only one problem really. See in every 70's or 80's movie you'll ever see, the bad guy always demands a million dollars.
One.
-By today's standards, that's, well, laughable. You could probably get a million dollars for Corey Feldman.
So this is like the Twentieth Century or something. Couldn't I have saved more than one lousy world in my own dream? That's pretty lame if you ask me.
Bodysurfing over the still-growing crowds, I sigh disappointedly under the spectacular fireworks displays spelling "LOBO" is the sky.
Then I notice something unusual.
"Put me down," I tell the crowds.
Once my feet were on terra firma, the fan I happened to be facing smacked my shoulders proudly.
"How did you do it?" he asked.
"Do what?" I replied, still watching the strange object in the sky.
It was a clearly approaching -a gigantic Independence Day-sized flying saucer.
Other people were now noticing it too.
The crowd scattered, and in moments I was in a huge clearing, directly under the central eye of the massive craft.
"LOBO" a mechanical voice boomed, shaking the ground. "We have come to destroy the universe."
"Like I care," I says. "It's a dump anyway. Just don't mess with any of my stuff."
"But," the voice continued. "We have changed our minds after witnessing your recent brilliant and heroic actions. Perhaps there is hope for your feebleminded race and ours to live in peace."
"And what did I do exactly?"
"You saved the universe."
The crowd cheers in the distance, and once again I am flooded by well-wishers.
But suddenly a stray LOBO firecracker bounced off of the goliath saucer's hull, and a million lasers unified on a single point -incinerating the unfortunate pyrotechnics engineer instantly.
And the guns began to take aim on possible threats in the sea of people.
"Oh my god," a woman screamed. "They killed Travis, the fireworks guy!"
As the smell of burnt hair wafted over the fearful spectators, a long uncomfortable silence ensued.
Finally seeming to notice, the saucer blurted "Long Live LOBO."
Whew, I thought.
-I'm pretty good at this 'hero' stuff actually.
Thursday
Massachusetts Cops: A Lighter Shade of FAIL
Predator Press
[LOBO]
I used to think of Massachusetts as sophisticated and enlightened.
-But it appears if you part that lovely ivy just a smidge, gawsh-golly there’s a rootin’ tootin knee-slappin rebel flag-flyin hoedown just a-bellerin’ ta beat the band!
Betwixt whittlin, law enforcement, and just electrifiyin’ squaredance jug-blowin, Boston Po-lice Officer Justin Barrett done used this here lighty-box to tele-e-graph a mass email hollerin how Harvard professor Henry Louis Gates Jr. is a "banana-eating jungle monkey.”
Now before all you –uh- 'darkies' git ta yer angry break dancin an thowin’ yer fried chicken, y’all should know he has done assured America on CNN he is definitely not -by inny stretch of that thar imagination- a racist.
-In fact, some of his best friends knows people that are Negroes.
[LOBO]I used to think of Massachusetts as sophisticated and enlightened.
-But it appears if you part that lovely ivy just a smidge, gawsh-golly there’s a rootin’ tootin knee-slappin rebel flag-flyin hoedown just a-bellerin’ ta beat the band!
Betwixt whittlin, law enforcement, and just electrifiyin’ squaredance jug-blowin, Boston Po-lice Officer Justin Barrett done used this here lighty-box to tele-e-graph a mass email hollerin how Harvard professor Henry Louis Gates Jr. is a "banana-eating jungle monkey.”
Now before all you –uh- 'darkies' git ta yer angry break dancin an thowin’ yer fried chicken, y’all should know he has done assured America on CNN he is definitely not -by inny stretch of that thar imagination- a racist.
-In fact, some of his best friends knows people that are Negroes.
Wednesday
The Battlefield Known
Predator Press
[LOBO]
In the last post, an anonymous commenter asked if I had thought of writing a book and -ego stoked- I caught myself giving a big, longwinded answer as if I had any idea what I was talking about.
Now I don’t generally let my lack of knowledge about any particular subject get in my way, so that’s nothing special. But I did make myself laugh at my own apparent willingness to wax on and on over the topic of becoming a professional author; in truth I think if it were to be it would have happened already ... now a combination of age, lifestyle, and a total lack of connections and resources pretty much renders the whole thing moot. Worse of all, I lack the single quality most authors rely on to overcome these obstacles: talent.
-But then I started to think about that. Why should these “talented” people get all the breaks? Were the playing field leveled, who knows? I could be the next Hemmingway!
What would be required for my success would be sort of a “neutron bomb” for talent. Picture it: a blinding mushroom cloud, and a shock wave encircles the Earth; instantaneously “talented” authors like Chuck Palahniuk, Steven King and William Gibson –and all their works- are completely vaporized in a hellish, agonizing firestorm, and I am left to misuse semicolons and hyphens and otherwise butcher the English language with utter impunity.(I said picture it, dammit!)
Tuesday
The Center Divide
Predator Press
[LOBO]
It was only vaguely sunny, but comfortable. The guy that works on his kit cars was working an Aston Martin, and, as per usual, the promising husk was blocking about a third of the two lane subdivision’s road.
I never really minded swinging by him. In fact to the contrary, I had a quiet admiration for his work. A few months ago -weather permitting- he was building a fucking hot Boss 429 Mustang. But having not come down this road for some time, I never really saw the project anywhere near completion.
Still, the Aston Martin looks pretty cool already.
The fact this obtrusive hobbyist was blind wasn’t much of a secret; it was obvious by his seemingly cavalier attitude toward roadside traffic. Even now, his legs, surrounded by tools, stuck out from the skeletal underside as autumn leaves swirled in skittish somersaults across the faded concrete -a scant five feet from the center divide.
If constructing cars wasn’t enough, it was rumored Hal worked for NASA. I swear to god. Not working on rockets and such, but something to do with the concession machines; he got in on some kind of handicap program. Single and without children, his income provided an enviable house, and an even more enviable hobby.
Little of this registers to me consciously as I swing by wide in the light traffic.
The security key would doubtlessly be changed by the second shift, and the locks would be reconfigured.
While not particularly rushed, it would be of no value in a matter of hours.
A serious thief would feel more pressed for time; I regard myself as more of a passing opportunist.
An explorer if you will.
Malls, most people don’t know, have separate entrances for their employees; concrete catacombs providing unrestricted access –I learned this from my first job, hawking smoothies at one. Sure they’re monitored by video cameras, but I look a lot like my brother, and I’m wearing his uniform. He’ll be mad if he finds out, but if he finds out I’m fucked anyway –I’m using his car.
And fuck his car, I’ve got his badge and his gun too.
But the plan is only to “explore.” A short pop in and out, copping my brother’s look if you’ll pardon the pun -acting like this unwieldy utility belt is second nature
Like I’m doing something boring yet somehow relevant.
Should a bicycle or a pair of sneakers appear in my car, well, what can I do? It’s not like I could return them. Those people would then prosecute, and the need to go through prosecuting people is a big pain in the ass.
Nobody wants that. I’ll just keep them.
My mildly amused grin goes away fast when I realize the key isn’t working. And even as my mind locks into the unexpected issue, I hear the interface pop.
“Stay there Mallory,” squawked the durable-looking gray cube. ”We’re coming out.”
Fuck, I thought.
I started sweating immediately –probably even before I began the brisk trot to the car. My hand seemed to instinctively hold the pistol grip despite the unfamiliarity as I ran, and from what seemed a million miles away I wondered optimistically if they would think my brother was suddenly dispatched on a call.
My mind raced as I started the roaring engine, while simultaneously slamming the door.
Should I have bluffed it out and stayed?
Thinking ahead, I had tactically parked for a fast exit: the tires screamed into the pavement hard, and I fishtailed slightly in the unexpected thrust.
When I saw the flashing lights in the rearview, and all hope of my brother not finding out melted. I was, for lack of a better word, fucked in Fuckville at fuck o’clock.
Still, maybe if I got the car back on our property they wouldn’t tow impound it.
Maybe if I tell him “I’m sorry,” my brother will forgive me sooner.
-And panic stricken, I forgot about poor ol Hal.
[LOBO]
It was only vaguely sunny, but comfortable. The guy that works on his kit cars was working an Aston Martin, and, as per usual, the promising husk was blocking about a third of the two lane subdivision’s road.
I never really minded swinging by him. In fact to the contrary, I had a quiet admiration for his work. A few months ago -weather permitting- he was building a fucking hot Boss 429 Mustang. But having not come down this road for some time, I never really saw the project anywhere near completion.
Still, the Aston Martin looks pretty cool already.
The fact this obtrusive hobbyist was blind wasn’t much of a secret; it was obvious by his seemingly cavalier attitude toward roadside traffic. Even now, his legs, surrounded by tools, stuck out from the skeletal underside as autumn leaves swirled in skittish somersaults across the faded concrete -a scant five feet from the center divide.
If constructing cars wasn’t enough, it was rumored Hal worked for NASA. I swear to god. Not working on rockets and such, but something to do with the concession machines; he got in on some kind of handicap program. Single and without children, his income provided an enviable house, and an even more enviable hobby.
Little of this registers to me consciously as I swing by wide in the light traffic.
The security key would doubtlessly be changed by the second shift, and the locks would be reconfigured.
While not particularly rushed, it would be of no value in a matter of hours.
A serious thief would feel more pressed for time; I regard myself as more of a passing opportunist.
An explorer if you will.
Malls, most people don’t know, have separate entrances for their employees; concrete catacombs providing unrestricted access –I learned this from my first job, hawking smoothies at one. Sure they’re monitored by video cameras, but I look a lot like my brother, and I’m wearing his uniform. He’ll be mad if he finds out, but if he finds out I’m fucked anyway –I’m using his car.
And fuck his car, I’ve got his badge and his gun too.
But the plan is only to “explore.” A short pop in and out, copping my brother’s look if you’ll pardon the pun -acting like this unwieldy utility belt is second nature
Like I’m doing something boring yet somehow relevant.
Should a bicycle or a pair of sneakers appear in my car, well, what can I do? It’s not like I could return them. Those people would then prosecute, and the need to go through prosecuting people is a big pain in the ass.
Nobody wants that. I’ll just keep them.
My mildly amused grin goes away fast when I realize the key isn’t working. And even as my mind locks into the unexpected issue, I hear the interface pop.
“Stay there Mallory,” squawked the durable-looking gray cube. ”We’re coming out.”
Fuck, I thought.
I started sweating immediately –probably even before I began the brisk trot to the car. My hand seemed to instinctively hold the pistol grip despite the unfamiliarity as I ran, and from what seemed a million miles away I wondered optimistically if they would think my brother was suddenly dispatched on a call.
My mind raced as I started the roaring engine, while simultaneously slamming the door.
Should I have bluffed it out and stayed?
Thinking ahead, I had tactically parked for a fast exit: the tires screamed into the pavement hard, and I fishtailed slightly in the unexpected thrust.
When I saw the flashing lights in the rearview, and all hope of my brother not finding out melted. I was, for lack of a better word, fucked in Fuckville at fuck o’clock.
Still, maybe if I got the car back on our property they wouldn’t tow impound it.
Maybe if I tell him “I’m sorry,” my brother will forgive me sooner.
-And panic stricken, I forgot about poor ol Hal.
Friday
A Gift Certificate From 'Best Buy' Could Probably Fix This
Predator Press
[LOBO]
“Dad,” whines Screechy. “They wont let me watch Dora!”
On the one hand, the teenagers are quietly watching television.
-But on the other, being unemployed and bored has made me an increasingly dark and deeply-conflicted individual: the five-year old and both teenagers are available for my potential amusement.
“What!?” I’ll say, feigning shock. “Well, you tell them I said ‘hoop-boobli-flip flang!’”
-And dutifully, Screechy runs down the stairs, back into the living room, and announces with distant-yet-undeniable authority, “Dad said … !”
I have to hide my laughter as the rapid footsteps return.
“They didn’t listen!” he complains. “They just, well, stared at me!”
I scowl menacingly. “Oh really? Well you tell them I said, “Quit spoinking and flizz-flazzle!” But just as he begins to run back, I grab his shoulder and look him in the eye real serious-like. “Don’t forget to tell them ‘pttttthbt’ first.” Holding my thumb to my nose, I wiggle my fingers and wince crossed eyes for effect. “Remember. Pttthbt! -or it won’t work!”
He practices the hand motion. "Spoinking the flizz-flazzle!"
“Perfect,” I smile parentally.
-This is followed by running footsteps down the stairs, muffled cursing teenagers (possibly throwing objects), and then running footsteps up the stairs.
"It's not working," he points out, breathing heavily. "You have to put on Dora."
"Did you remember the 'pttthbt' thing?"
"Yes."
"-And the fingers?"
He demonstrates. "Uh huh!"
"You did it wrong. You have to use your other hand ..."
[LOBO]“Dad,” whines Screechy. “They wont let me watch Dora!”
On the one hand, the teenagers are quietly watching television.
-But on the other, being unemployed and bored has made me an increasingly dark and deeply-conflicted individual: the five-year old and both teenagers are available for my potential amusement.
“What!?” I’ll say, feigning shock. “Well, you tell them I said ‘hoop-boobli-flip flang!’”
-And dutifully, Screechy runs down the stairs, back into the living room, and announces with distant-yet-undeniable authority, “Dad said … !”
I have to hide my laughter as the rapid footsteps return.
“They didn’t listen!” he complains. “They just, well, stared at me!”
I scowl menacingly. “Oh really? Well you tell them I said, “Quit spoinking and flizz-flazzle!” But just as he begins to run back, I grab his shoulder and look him in the eye real serious-like. “Don’t forget to tell them ‘pttttthbt’ first.” Holding my thumb to my nose, I wiggle my fingers and wince crossed eyes for effect. “Remember. Pttthbt! -or it won’t work!”
He practices the hand motion. "Spoinking the flizz-flazzle!"
“Perfect,” I smile parentally.
-This is followed by running footsteps down the stairs, muffled cursing teenagers (possibly throwing objects), and then running footsteps up the stairs.
"It's not working," he points out, breathing heavily. "You have to put on Dora.""Did you remember the 'pttthbt' thing?"
"Yes."
"-And the fingers?"
He demonstrates. "Uh huh!"
"You did it wrong. You have to use your other hand ..."
Thursday
How to Handle Cambridge Cops
Predator Press
[LOBO]
Now I wasn’t there, so let me have said up front I don’t know the facts surrounding the arrest of Henry Louis Gates Jr. But I do know firsthand that cops –on occasion- lie.
Still, I’m not here to judge -I’m simply weighing in with some helpful tips so we can avoid these circumstances in the future.
#1) Don’t Be Black and in Cambridge: I’m not saying you can’t be black or in Cambridge ... I’m just saying you shouldn’t be both at the same time.
#2) If You Can’t Avoid Being Simultaneously Black and in Cambridge, Work a Career-Oriented Lie: You know, like tell the cops you’re really a white chimney sweep on your way home from work. (An Asian chimney sweep is also acceptable, but be prepared to answer a lot of rapid-fire algebra questions.)
#3) Convince the Police You Are Not in Cambridge At All: Quickly erect a scale replica of the Eiffel Tower or the Sphinx, and start taking snapshots.-With sensitivity, a heightened awareness and a little planning, we can continue in the racial harmony we've grown accustomed to over the past several hundred years.
Tuesday
In a Nutshell
Predator Press [LOBO]
Being a smoldering highly-desired ripped physical specimen such as myself has drawbacks, and people tend to assume I’m, you know, all brawn and no brains.
I can hardly fault them: an Adonis-like physique such as mine might suggest I spend far more time in the gym than “cracking the books.” This misconception has plagued me my entire life, and all throughout the 80's and 90’s I’ve had to beat up Billy Zabka, like, fifty times.
Well I’m tired of beating up Billy Zabka. And at this point I’m unable to guarantee Bily Zabka’s safety the next time he screws with me in the locker room -or tries to mess up my wife Terri’s mind with his twisted macho crap. (Do you hear me Billy Zabka? If I hear one more cheap knockoff of Kenny Loggins' “Danger Zone,” you’re a dead man.)
So I need some intellectual “credentials” to prove I’m not just Terri’s hot, chiseled boy-toy dripping with manliness -and that’s why I’ve just enrolled for my online triple degree in Criminal Justice, Pulmonary Surgery and Psychiatry.“Honey,” I argued. “It’s for us.”
“Us?” she demanded.
“Well excuse me. I think $1,100 of your hard-earned money is well worth our continued marital bliss.”
“But these things are rip offs!” she screamed.
“This one isn’t. I specifically asked the woman on the phone if it was a rip off. She said it wasn't."
As her eyes roll, I snort.
"Jesus Christ, I didn't order a Nordic Track."
Monday
Sunday
Coming Up for Air
Predator Press
[LOBO]
CNN is ablaze with stories regarding the Nomura Jellyfish, a 450 pound six foot long creature poised to invade the Sea of Japan.
And what made the Japanese -the ferocious Kamikaze crazies- become so fearful they wont even stick a big toe in their own ocean?
I, speaking for all of us, blame the Republicans.
The Republicans are always getting in the way of scientific progress. “We shouldn’t clone,” they whimper and sob into their cognac sifters. “Cloning is the equivalent of playing God.”
Well why shouldn't poor people be able to play God too? I would love to play God (as long as I can be the racecar, and don’t have to be the Banker).With slight little tweaks of DNA, we could counter the onslaught of Nomura Jellyfish with wave after wave of Peanut Butterfish and tenacious Whitebread Octopi. Get some already-existing Swordfish to cut the diagonal, and pow we're done: like WWII, America has once again rescued Japan from certain destruction.
-We could even develop an arthropod that takes the crusts off!
Saturday
Revolting
Predator Press
[LOBO]
In May of 2007, Paris Hilton was sentenced to 45 days in jail only to be released after serving 50 hours. After much public outcry and drama, she was returned –ultimately serving a total of 23 days.
And admittedly I’d already been a Paris hater for years. It started with “The Simple Life” -a FOX Network reality show starring her and some other similarly vapid frosted flake I can’t remember, explicitly engineered to ridicule and humiliate the American working class.
That said, let’s skip ahead to a week ago. I had to renew my expiring driver’s license –including a CDL which cost me a month of intensive training and roughly $4,500.
While relieved it wasn’t the four hour ordeal I’ve grown to expect from the DMV it was all for nothing anyway: despite having no criminal record at all, my still-valid license, birth certificate copy, SS card, apartment lease, car title, marriage license -and my legally-verifyable wife Terri standing right beside me- the California DMV "could not help."
-My Birth Certificate wasn’t certified. Born in Chicago, my certified Birth Certificate would have to be attained via Illinois ... Even if I spent a fortune it would take a week.
I was told “tough luck,” and subsequently have no legal identification or driver's license –and that $4,500 CDL potential source of income? Bye-bye. I have to take written tests, driving tests -everything all over again.
Well I apparently went to the wrong DMV altogether: according to TMV [story linked here], in Santa Monica it was prearranged for Paris Hilton -criminal record and Probation in tow- not to wait in any lines at all, take five photos, and all employees were ordered to turn their cellphones off so no other photos got leaked. All this was done during regular business hours, and right in front of clearly less-important people such as ourselves.
As far as DMVs go, Santa Monica appears so uncharacteristically accommodating I think maybe I’ll provide a few links to the relevant agencies. What a fine example! They should be contacted so their unique Customer Service insights be shared, and we can enjoy the same treatment at all DMVs across this Great Nation:
The Santa Monica Department of Motor Vehicles
2235 Colorado Avenue
Santa Monica, 90404
(800)777-0133
Governor Arnold Schwarzenegger
California State Capitol Building
Sacramento, CA 95814
Phone: 916-445-2841
Fax: 916-445-4633
email
[LOBO]In May of 2007, Paris Hilton was sentenced to 45 days in jail only to be released after serving 50 hours. After much public outcry and drama, she was returned –ultimately serving a total of 23 days.
And admittedly I’d already been a Paris hater for years. It started with “The Simple Life” -a FOX Network reality show starring her and some other similarly vapid frosted flake I can’t remember, explicitly engineered to ridicule and humiliate the American working class.
That said, let’s skip ahead to a week ago. I had to renew my expiring driver’s license –including a CDL which cost me a month of intensive training and roughly $4,500.
While relieved it wasn’t the four hour ordeal I’ve grown to expect from the DMV it was all for nothing anyway: despite having no criminal record at all, my still-valid license, birth certificate copy, SS card, apartment lease, car title, marriage license -and my legally-verifyable wife Terri standing right beside me- the California DMV "could not help."
-My Birth Certificate wasn’t certified. Born in Chicago, my certified Birth Certificate would have to be attained via Illinois ... Even if I spent a fortune it would take a week.
I was told “tough luck,” and subsequently have no legal identification or driver's license –and that $4,500 CDL potential source of income? Bye-bye. I have to take written tests, driving tests -everything all over again.
Well I apparently went to the wrong DMV altogether: according to TMV [story linked here], in Santa Monica it was prearranged for Paris Hilton -criminal record and Probation in tow- not to wait in any lines at all, take five photos, and all employees were ordered to turn their cellphones off so no other photos got leaked. All this was done during regular business hours, and right in front of clearly less-important people such as ourselves.As far as DMVs go, Santa Monica appears so uncharacteristically accommodating I think maybe I’ll provide a few links to the relevant agencies. What a fine example! They should be contacted so their unique Customer Service insights be shared, and we can enjoy the same treatment at all DMVs across this Great Nation:
2235 Colorado Avenue
Santa Monica, 90404
(800)777-0133
Governor Arnold Schwarzenegger
California State Capitol Building
Sacramento, CA 95814
Phone: 916-445-2841
Fax: 916-445-4633
Friday
Madonna Stage Collapse Kills McMahon, Fawcett, Jackson, Mayes, McNair, Cronkite, Billings Couple
Predator Press
[LOBO]
Would you people stop dying for like five minutes
so I can get organized for Christ’s sake!?
[LOBO]
so I can get organized for Christ’s sake!?
Thursday
Sonia Sotomayor, Put Down the Chunky Monkey and Step Away from the Refrigerator
Predator Press
[LOBO]
Oh come on -you're all thinking it.
Picture: the Bailiff calls “All rise,” and here she comes in flip flops -the usual schlop schlop schlop sounds drowned out in the clicketty-clackitty of hippopotamus toenails spilling over to grip the marble floor (in case gravity spontaneously reversed itself).
Approaching “The Bench,” she pushes yesterday’s cellophane wrappers and donut boxes off of her desk -in a single swipe- at the bailiff.
"File those, asshole" she demands, and punches in an eight digit combination on her government-issued briefcase to procure the sole item enclosed: a George Foreman Grill.
Belching contentedly, she then skims a jelly-stained copy of a Row v. Wade deposition while picking her teeth with a still-smoking rib from yesterday's losing prosecuting attorney -a Pfizer rep that smelled vaguely of Old Spice and barbeque sauce.
Look, I’m sure whatever the Supreme Court does is very, very important from time-to-time: I don’t want to turn on C-SPAN only to see out-of-fuel helicopters crashing due to misjudged close-up shot distances.And I’m as “Progressive” and “Enlightened” as anybody regarding chicks wanting do a dude's work: as long as you only make 70% of the pay, hey, knock yourself out.
-But unlike American Idol, this isn't based on weight: the Senate isn't doing her any favors by mincing about the seemingly-taboo issue of her immense, galactic-scale girth. What if, for instance, she’s in Tokyo and innocuously wants to go to the beach?
Those panic-prone Japanese might call Mothra!
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