Predator Press Interviews: Mark A. Rayner

Predator Press

[LOBO]

My devious plot to kill all the good authors so I can get a book deal has suffered a temporary setback: Mark A. Rayner, author of Marvellous Hairy, has been anything but forthright in regards to his actual location.

-Mislead by some rather sophisticated and formidable call-tracing countermeasures, I'm forced to conduct this interview from a payphone in Wyoming.

And let me tell you pal, getting into a phone booth in a ghillie suit made of almond tree branches is no picnic.



LOBO: Mark, you've obviously chosen to try and make monkeys, you know, cool again -like back when "BJ and the Bear" inspired millions and millions of truckers to take them cross-country. But iguanas are cool, and kinda scary too. A book about superintelligent iguanas would be groundbreaking, and a rare victory for cold-blooded animals. Why monkeys? An iguana is an infinitely more practical pet for truckers if you think about it.

MAR: Actually, Marvellous Hairy is about a surrealistic novelist being turned into a monkey-like creature; they regress just some of his DNA back along the evolutionary tree to the point before we split from the chimps; but if you must know the truth, it's because I think we don't keep in touch with our monkey playfulness enough. (Present company excluded. I mean, obviously, with the ghillie suit and all. You know you can get those in Gor-Tex now, with collapsible almond branches?)

LOBO: Don't correct me on my own blog, Mark. What was that fancy thing you just did there?

MAR: What?

LOBO: That thing where you are using the "(" and the ")".

MAR: They are called parentheses. You -of all people- should probably learn how to use them.

LOBO: You think I don't know about parentheses? I once killed a man using parentheses.

MAR: Really?

LOBO: Absolutely. I hated that guy. Watch. "I want the garbage taken out (and everybody dead in five minutes)."

MAR: In five minutes? What did they do?

LOBO: They didn't know about your book!

MAR: Oh, well that's okay then.

LOBO: Is it that you're an atheist Mark? Hm? I mean you could have changed the guy into a praying mantis instead of a monkey. Is it a problem that the mantis thing is always praying? A praying mantis won't rip off your genitalia and throw it at you. I mean you just don't GET more pious than a praying mantis.

MAR: What about Capuchin Monkeys? Eh? They're named after monks. Or the sanctimonious Kneeling Baboons of Rogistan? (Not that I like them very much. Did you know I was once bitten by a radioactive baboon? It's how I got my super-powers.)

LOBO: See, there you go with the parent-things again.

MAR: Parentheses?

LOBO: Forget it. Was the Shute character in Marvellous Hairy based on David Letterman?

MAR: Largely, though I wouldn't want anyone to think that Denny the Lickspittle is based on Paul Shaeffer. No way. I would never disrespect the coolest man on TV. Paul is Canadian, did you know that? Oh, that's right, you don't believe in Canada.

Marvellous Hairy Excerpts
LOBO: Don't get me started on those old hokey legends of Canada. Do you think Canada exists?

MAR: Yes.

LOBO: But you're a teacher! Isn't that, well, kinda irresponsible?

MAR: Let' get back to the books.

LOBO: [exasperated sigh] One of my favorite elements of your writing is the meat of the stories hangs on a skeleton of philosophical poignence. Not to oversimplify, The Amadeus Net had the omnipotent and omniscient computer managing an idyllic utopia, and Marvellous Hairy had the specter of corporate power and greed gone to extreme. A common thread -humans struggling to morally catch up to their own rampant technological achievements- can often be spotted in your shorter works as published on The Skwib as well. Is this formulaic, or a happy byproduct of your writing style?

MAR: I wish I had a formula -- it would be so much easier. But to think that I struggle with each story, agonize over every character, groin myself every day to get the themes to flow with the plot and have it appear as formulaic . . . well, that just makes me want to slit my wrists. So, let's go with 'happy' byproduct.

LOBO: Having read both The Amadeus Net and Marvellous Hairy, they both have a vastly different "feel" from one another: The Amadeus Net seemed darkly serious while Marvellous Hairy seemed more playful. The fun you were having writing Marvellous Hairy was palpable. Would that be an accurate characterization? And if so, were there events between 2005 and 2008 that contributed to this shift?

MAR: Yes. That's quite accurate. Interestingly, you have to push the clock back about nine years for The Amadeus Net and seven years for Marvellous Hairy. I was primarily writing The Amadeus Net when I was an underemployed corporate drone in 1997, living in a small, yet charmingly feculent apartment, and working from notes that I had painted with a child's watercolour set the year I was being a Bohemian Gen-xer in Prague (1993). The first draft of Marvellous Hairy was written in three days in 2001, and was fueled almost entirely by scotch and raw existential anguish, and so, is hilarious.

Marvellous Hairy Podcasts
LOBO: The Amadeus Net juxtaposes a sexually-taut cast of characters in a clinical, computerized world. Cripes ... everybody is sleeping with everybody! Can you just leave out the computers next time? The computers create too much space between the sex scenes.

MAR: In my next book, the computers get in on it too.

LOBO: Have you repented to your clergy for all the sex in The Amadeus Net yet? I tried to get my penance reduced by ratting you out about it, but the church was skeptical: rather than take my word for it, they ordered a case of the books to be distributed among the congregation for review. Now they are all blind, and their palms smell like Gillette. All of this could have been avoided with the simple use of a praying mantis. Are you an atheist Mark?

MAR: If you mean, do I believe in a "Magic Sky Father", then yes. If you mean, do you believe in a "Cosmic Unconscious Fun Monkey," then the answer is: maybe.

LOBO: Yeah, well, I'll try to put in a good word for you with Jesus. But I've got a feelin I know where He stands on the whole "Cosmic Unconscious Fun Monkey" thing.

MAR: Thanks.

LOBO: Why do my favorite characters always get killed in your stories? Are you doing that on purpose? And how do you know who my favorite characters are in the first place? Are you clairvoyant?

MAR: Yes. And by the way, don't get to attached to Suzie in my next book. Really, just save yourself the heartache. Oh, and you might want to get that mole checked.

LOBO: Thag is among my favorite of your characters. Was Thag based on someone or something in particular? And because I like him, how soon will you be killing him if you haven't already?

MAR: Thag is loosely based on the Gary Larson cartoon. Since then, he has become the proto-typical everyman. But he will not be taking the Big Dirt Nap anytime soon. Or will he? We will see how sales of Marvellous Hairy spike after this interview goes live to decide . . .

LOBO: While far from a professional author, I'll get something under my skin and scrawl it on the grocery receipt on my way home -more or less helpless against the urge. This annoys the other drivers, and their excessive use of the horn and graphic profanity makes it hard to concentrate. How does a Mark A. Rayner pour stories? Do you have a formal method -for example, a set time and space for writing?

MAR: I have a word count that I aim for every day. I usually miss it. This makes me feel bad. However, even if I am tortured by my under-achieving slacker Gen-X attitude towards work, the words eventually add up to something and then there is a manuscript that can be edited. This is how I have produced two novels in roughly seventeen years.

LOBO: There seem to be two methods of getting published. The first, self-publishing, requires around $30,000 and necessitates doing all your own promotion. The second is the 'traditional' method -the one where you essentially "get discovered" by a publisher. Because I'm short about $29,995 for the self-publication route, I endlessly submit manuscripts to publishers that are returned weeks later scribbled with profanity and smelling suspiciously of urine. Do you know of any particularly stupid publishers I should try? Like maybe one that buys a lot of scratch-off lottery tickets and extended warrantees?

MAR: I think you've described the entire publishing industry quite accurately. Enjoy.

LOBO: You claim to be a teacher in Canada. This has put me in the uncomfortable position of acknowledging that Canada possibly does exist, despite my numerous assertions to the contrary. Why would you jeopardize my credibility -right smack on my own blog- when you could have simply claimed to live in North Montana? Extremely North Dakota would also have been acceptable.

MAR: I always thought that Minnesota was pretty much like Canada. How about if I'm from Minnesota?

Marvellous Hairy Reviews
LOBO: How did you get out of playing hockey? Did they give you an academic waiver? I would have thought knocking out one of Mario Lemieux's teeth to be a Canadian rite of passage. Do other Canadians pick on you as a result?

MAR: I got out of it the old-fashioned way -- I broke my arm the first time I played. Crying like a little girl helped too. BTW, Mario Lemieux has almost all of his teeth. Nowadays the goal in hockey (ice hockey for all your British readers) is not to knock out a player's teeth, but to cause the rapid brain movement of a player's brain inside his (or her) skull. Much more civilized. (Especially now that women's hockey is so big.)

LOBO: There you go with those parentheses again. I'm starting to think I should consider them a form of attack.

MAR: (You would be a fool to think so.)

LOBO: In Marvellous Hairy, there was a thinly-veiled streak of dislike toward the college where the story is set. Was this a reflection of personal frustration with your own institution, or more an articulation of how people justifiably hate school in general?

MAR: It was more a reflection of how people can dislike something in general. And you'll note that all of the friends are quite fond of their undergraduate school (The Good University).

LOBO: Once again I'll remind you not to correct me on my own blog, Mark. So at what point did you realize you hated kids enough to be a teacher? And would you call it a vacuous rage against today's youth, or is it simple sadism?

MAR: Um, I teach at a university, so I only deal with adults.

Marvellous Hairy Freaky Adult Sex Stories
LOBO: C'mon Mark ... don't mince about. Those punks deserve nothing less than every ounce of your venom. And once all six of the people in Canada get their degrees from you, you'll be of no further use to the university either: they will force you to hastily pack your abacus, chalk, and all those Twisted Sister pins you confiscated. Then what? POW ... it's straight back to hockey. And how do you think Mario Lemieux is going to react when you come wandering in to practice after all these decades? Not too favorably I would guess. No sir ... not too favorably at all. Unless you think you've still got a Stanley Cup in you.

MAR: I don't have one in me. But I've been IN it, if you catch my drift.

LOBO: I would imagine there aren't a lot of monkeys in Canada. Wouldn't your life be simpler if you wrote about companies changing people into cocker spaniels?

MAR: Well, I'll tell you now the radioactive baboon that bit me was a resident of Elgin County, Province of Ontario, Dominion of Canada. (I know 'cause the cop showed me the Incident Report afterwards.) In fact, most of Southwestern Ontario is plagued by roaming bands of baboons -- and not just the red-assed, blue-nosed, Perfidia variety you're used to, no. There is the Souwesto Skint Baboon, always asking for spare change at the corner of major intersections, the White-Throated Hypocraboon, commonly found in churches and you really don't want to leave your children unattended with them. And don't get me started on the Ice Baboons.

LOBO: You know I've read the Travels of Marco Polo, and you know how many times Marco mentions Canada in it? Zero. Zilch. You know, I don't think I'm buying this Canada thing anymore. Fess up, Mark.

MAR: I don't think he mentions the United States of America either. Just sayin'.

LOBO: We probably just didn't want Polo takin the spotlight off of the Godless Yellow Hoard. In fact, we might have asked Polo not to talk about us, you know, until we could at least get some cool fast food and electronics. What can we be expecting next? I know it isn't going to the swimming pool -not the way you trash-talk Marco Polo. Are you working on another book? Tease us with some details. I'm warning you however: if it's a story about a busload of nymphomaniac cheerleaders exacting revenge on an evil corporation for turning a praying mantis into a cocker spaniel, we will all know you stole it from me.

MAR: I'm working on two projects: One is the heartwarming story about how a cocker spaniel saves a busload of nymphomaniac cheerleaders from the predations of gigantic evil praying mantis, who happens to be the CEO of a major bio-tech corporation. The other is mostly about a busload of robots having sex with cheerleaders pretending to be cocker spaniels (The Furries, they're called in the book), though there is something in there about bloggers being executed for the capital crime of plagiarism.

Daisy the Curly Shark

Predator Press

[LOBO]


Last night, while Terri and I were going through our scrapbook, it occurred to me I’ve never blogged about how we came to adopt Daisy -our 47 foot Great White Shark.

I remember that stormy evening like it was yesterday. Answering a soft knock at the door, at first I didn’t think anyone was there ... but glancing down, there she was in a tiny little pink basket. Attached was a note that said “I can no longer care for my baby. Please help.”

Immediately our hearts melted.

We have treated her as our own ever since, and despite Terri’s stubborn refusal to breastfeed we built as normal a life for Daisy as we could provide. I was there for her first steps. We played Catch and Hide-N-Seek in the backyard. I built a huge elaborate treehouse where we would leisurely fritter away our summers eating marshmallows and reading comic books.

High school was tough for her. She always seemed to have trouble “fitting in,” and we had to encourage her to participate in school-related activities. Eventually her natural athletic abilities began to shine through, and she became the first female fullback on her football team and earned a full scholarship to NYU.

We never told Daisy she was adopted, and trust you to help us keep this dark secret.

-One only has to look into those beady little eyes to understand why we have spared her this painful revelation.



This was a spoof of Daisy the Curly Cat.

Now go!

Visit!

WTF Ever Happened to Quicksand?

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Once again, at no small expense to you, we here at Predator Press have set out to settle an age-old question burning in everyone’s mind: What ever happened to quicksand?

You remember ... one could barely get through a half an hour of television without some poor slob stumbling upon his buddy's pith helmet laying mysteriously on the ground. Then he or she goes to pick it up, and the horror ensues.

-It’s quicksand!

I remember being taught about quicksand by no less than three teachers during the brief debacle of my education. They all conflicted with each other too. “Don’t struggle,” one said. “Lay flat and roll out,” said another.

Clearly even then this enigmatic sedentary evil was barely understood. Of course this was the heart of Chicago, where they taught us to curl up in a hallway in case of aerial bombings and hide under our desks during nuclear blasts.  It's safe to say if graffiti didn't stick to it, we Chicagoans didn't know shit about it.

So after years of jumping over suspicious looking sidewalk squares it occurred that inner city quicksand may well have evolved a cracked appearance -perhaps even a Hopscotch pattern as camouflage! And tedious "research" revealed absolutely no cases of Chicago quicksand attacks, thus proving conclusively the deadly hunting prowess of this formidable and fearsome predator: no one had yet survived an encounter with it to tell the tale.

-I haven't slept in years.

Unfortunately, the Predator Press scienticians really let us all down this time. All they did was gorge Dominoes pizza, play World of Warcraft, and work on their Facebook profiles until SPAM beguiled them into downloading crippling computer viruses via porn.  Obviously the Great Mystery of Quicksand is beyond the feeble understanding of even the greatest minds of our time.

Still, we here at Predator Press remain hopeful that perhaps one day Humanity will learn to communicate with quicksand, the most misunderstood, secretive, and voracious of Nature’s killers.

But we recommend you all wear big, buoyant hats in the meantime.

Just in case.

The Legend of Testicles

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Sure we’ve all heard the fantastical adventures of Hercules. But Predator Press scienticians have unearthed archeological evidence that Hercules had an evil twin brother, Testicles.

Testicles wasn’t as quite as large as his legendary sibling Hercules –and frankly he wasn’t all that bright either. But in their youth, Testicles often ran the show.

Hercules and Testicles eventually became bitter rivals, and Hercules often beat Testicles severely. One fateful day Hercules beat Testicles so badly, Testicles shrank off into obscurity forever.

Larger than Life

Predator Press

[LOBO]

"What the hell is wrong with you?" demands my new boss, slamming the office door. "The whole damn building is complaining that you keep calling and paging."

"I'm having a little trouble dialing," I says.

"Well, get off your ass and go tell Maintenance to fix your phone!"

"I'm having trouble with the doorknob too," I says.

"Why are you sitting like that?"

"Like what?"

"Like you're hiding your hands."

Resigned, I sigh and set my hands on my desk. As I open them slowly, he gasps.

"Jesus Christ!" he says. "What happened?"

"Well, you know that new, eh, 'male enhancement' cream we sell?"

"Yeah."

"Well, it turns out it works."

"It made your hands freakishly large?"

"Well I hadda apply it somehow."

Spinning my phone around to face him, he presses the front desk button.

"Natalie?"

"Yes sir" she replies.

"Can you send Nurse Garrison to LOBO's office?"

"Um, she stammers. "Actually sir, that might be a bit of a problem. I'm having a little trouble dialing phones this morning."

"Natalie, why in the world would you use that cream?"

[muffled, soft sobs]

"No girl wants to be an A-cup forever sir."

How to Break Up With Gods

Predator Press

Dear Medusa,

I can't do this anymore.

It's not really about the obsession with sculpture, the bloody dandruff, or the thick scales stuck in the soap bar ... I just think we should start hissing and spitting at other people.

I will always remember the good times -like that time we tickled Sisyphus until he dropped his rock and he hadda start history all over. But we've grown in different directions, and I want my half of the direction our music collection has taken. And all my Dean Koontz paperbacks.

We're just too different. I think we should just be friends. It's not you, it's me. Plus I need time to focus on my new career rehabilitating blind mongooses. (Mongeese? Mongai? Mongaggles?) And I'm not good enough for you ... you need to find someone who will treat you like you deserve being treated by.

Your Pal,

LOBO

In the Beginning

Predator Press

[LOBO]

God made man in His image.

-But man was a slob. First he stopped shaving. Then he blew far past ‘love handles,' and went straight into full-fledged Wisconsin Goiter.

“Adam,” says God. “You look terrible!”

“Well gee thanks God,” replied Adam. “Be sure you sign me up for your self-esteem seminars.”

“Adam, I’m going to make you a woman.”

“But what will all my friends say?”

“No, idiot. I mean I’m going to create you a companion.”

Now Adam, indeed, wasn’t all that bright: he imagined animated conversations about football and endless ‘pull my finger’ jokes.

“Cool,” he says.

“Give me one of your ribs,” says God.

“Here you go,” says Adam.

“Ugh,” says God. “You’ve got barbeque sauce in your beard.”

Adam wiped his beard with a napkin. “Do you want some of this coleslaw? This coleslaw rocks.”

“No. Just the rib, thanks.”

And from Adam’s rib sprung Eve.

“What a dump!” Eve complained.

“Okay,” says God. “My work here is done. You kids have fun now.”

“Thanks God,” says Adam.

“It’s filthy,” says Eve.

“Oh yeah,” says God as He recedes into the clouds. “One more thing. Stay the hell away from My apples, or I’ll invent the tire iron and beat you to death with it.”

“Okay God!” says Adam, waving.

“Ugh,” says Eve. “Is that barbeque sauce?”


***

Within a month, Adam had lost 50 pounds.

-Because Eve had eaten everything in sight.

Eve had gained so much weight that he couldn’t fit on the bed anymore, and often slept on the floor.

He got up and stretched carefully.

-His back was now completely wrecked.

As he surveyed the devastated remains of The Garden, his stomach growled; the crops were gone, and a huge pile of animal bones by the fire pit were all that remained of the wildlife.

Scratching his head and wondering how Eve even got the leaves off of the top of the trees, he heard a subtle, rustling sound.

A squirrel.

“Oh thank heavens,” said Adam.

But the scrawny animal had no intention of becoming Adam and Eve’s breakfast so easily. It scampered, ran and bounded out of Adam’s reach, and finally up the Tree of Knowledge. And there were those glorious apples: round and firm, a deep crimson -so sweet and heavy, the branches arched painfully under their burgeoning weight.

“Come down from there squirrel,” Adam cajoled, “and I’ll make it quick and painless!”

But the squirrel wasn’t listening. It was sniffing an apple excitedly.

“I wouldn’t do that if-“

Crunch

Suddenly there was thunder and lightning, and God’s voice boomed from the sky. “What the hell,” He says, “did I tell you people about eating My damn apples!?”

Frightened, the squirrel dropped the apple, and Adam caught it.

Adam looked at the apple, and then at the squirrel. If God catches me with this, he thought, I’m screwed. And if I explain that the squirrel did it, I’ll have no breakfast.

Looking around and thinking quickly, he spotted Eve, still slumbering and snoring loudly.

“Who dared?” demanded God.

Thinking quickly, Adam lobbed the apple, and it fell to rest right next her.

“Eve!” yelled God.

“Wha-?“ she said, starting to wake.

“Eve, what happened?” demanded God.

“She really let herself go once you left,” said Adam.

“No, I mean why hast thou disobeyed my Word and eaten of the Forbidden Fruit?’

“But I didn’t!” insisted Eve.

Adam threw his hands up in a frustrated shrug. “I tried to stop her.”

“Begone from my garden!” said God.

And poof, Eve was gone.

Adam sighed, shaking his head. “You know, you give some people an inch ...”

“Yes,” said God disappointedly. “I guess so. Say Adam, when are you barbequing again?”

“You like squirrel?”

Riptide

Predator Press

"I like where I'm at: on my back, goin' down in my own riptide.

-The water is fine."

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.

I’m as “Progressive” and “Enlightened” as anybody regarding chicks doing men's work. And at 70% of the pay? Hey toots, 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!

Snuff Films and Meth

Predator Press

[LOBO]

“Ah,” says the guy. “I certainly don’t see those listed as hobbies very often.”

“Yeah, well I wanted my résumé to stand out.” I reply. “My pornographic Skittle mosaics never seem to get the traction I feel they deserve.”

“And your command of profanity is very impressive,” he observes, scanning my application.

“Thank you.”

Clearing his throat, he bumps the documents on the desk into a neat stack and sets them between us. Then, leaning back in his chair, he eyes me in a cool, calculating manner. “That was certainly a very interesting read,” he comments.

“I’ve done about five hundred of those things so far," I shrug. "The way I see it, at this phase of the interviewing process the only thing you should be worried about is whether or not I’ll fling poo at your clients.”

“Um, there’s no smoking in here.”

I put the cigarette out in his coffee.

“Sorry.”

He drums his fingers on the desk thoughtfully. “How exactly did you hear of this position with Planned Parenthood?”

“I’ve got my sources,” I says evasively. Glancing around to make sure we’re alone, I lean forward. “Hail Satan,” I whisper discretely.

“When can you start?”

“How soon can you stop asking me dumb questions and cut me a check? I could start setting those little sluts straight right away.”

“You have to fill out a W-2.”

“More paperwork?” Exasperated, I shake my head. “You know what? I don’t think I want to work here anymore.” I flip my briefcase closed. “Can I just go back to sleep in your lobby?”

A Fitting End

Predator Press

[LOBO]

“I’m not sure,” says the snooty salesman, “that I understand the problem, sir.”

-The sarcasm behind that ‘sir’ shoots through me like a lightning bolt.

Asshole.

Sensing a confrontation, I take a deep, calming breath. “The label on these bedsheets claim a 1,500 thread count.”

The clerk tilts his head back to eye the merchandise through the rimless glasses on the tip of his nose.

“Indeed,” he agrees.

“Well, there’s at least eight centimeters that barely added up to 1,470. One only had 1,431!”

Puzzled, the skinny man stroked his short beard in thought. “So you want to exchange them?”

“Damn right I do. And don’t bring me any of this shoddy Egyptian cotton crap either. Bring me something of American quality.”

“The same thread count?”

“Do you have anything in 10 to 25? It’s been really hard to get to sleep at a decent hour.”

299

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Alas! For perhaps the first time in history, circumstances have placed severe limitations on my ability to keep up with Predator Press.

But fear not, o loyal reader! It is all geared to improve everything in the long run. In an hour, I have a pitch meeting for my new screenplay “299.”

It’s the untold story of 299 Greeks that quit the army, got “real” jobs, and died of a vast myriad of STDs decades later.

Editorial: There Are Far Too Many Firemen

Predator Press

[LOBO]

People are always asking me, "LOBO, here on the precipice of fiscal disaster, how can America rekindle it's economy and simultaneously get out of staggering international debt?"

Well, I'm glad you asked me this.

See, the biggest problem America faces is money wasted fruitlessly by The Govenment due to sheer inertia.

Take the Fire Department, for instance. I mean Jesus, how many firemen do we really need?

Look around you. Do you see any fires?

We have to reexamine this from an efficiency standpoint: a perfect balance of fires and firemen means you should see one fire and one fireman fighting it at all times. Anything more is poor planning and flat out wasteful.

And to prove my theory, I started a few fires (in the glaring absence of any) and like fifty firemen showed up at every single one of them.

OMG!

I, for one, am sick to death of coddling this Liberal fraternity of do-nothings. These guys are so lazy, they have beds! Beds people! You read that correctly! When's the last time you saw an honest, hard-working truck driver with a bed where he works for instance? Or Emergency Room doctors? Hm? Does the guy making my French fries at Burger King pose for calendars and get naps while on the job?

No.

Why?

Because he's doing something important, god damn it!

Somewhere in this Great Nation, at this very moment, a fireman is snoozing away our future.

Clearly, there are far too many firemen milking on the teat of my hard-earned money, and this is just another Left Wing fiscal debacle. The time has come to face the readily available facts: we should get rid of the beds, cut our entire fire department staff down to a skeleton crew, and jazz up the lucky few left 24/7 with steroids and PCP instead.

What Stayed in Vegas

Predator Press

According to his ticket, it is September 14.

Everything about Vegas hurts. The garish lights, the animated people, the relentless overloading spectacle rivaled only by the competing relentless overloading spectacle next door ... it's somehow simultaneously exhilarating and exhausting. But a Greyhound station is not a happy place anywhere, and a Greyhound station in Las Vegas is a singular gallery replete with only the most bitterly unfortunate and miserably disenfranchised.

His hand, swollen and agonizing, somehow doesn’t drown it all out. In another universe it was to be drained earlier that day in the clinical safety of a doctor’s office.

Houston, we have a problem.

He didn’t know what “drained” meant when the surgeon scheduled it.

Come in, this is Houston. And you think you have problems ...

He knows now. It was lucky, considering the inflammation, that they did the surgery at all. A subsequent infection was no surprise to anyone.

He had lost most of what he cherished in The War. And the two bags carrying what little was left, the things rescued by simple virtue that no one else wanted them, are as heavy as they are currently useless. Packed months ago –before any of the surgeries- as a precaution. In case of emergency. The contents –aside from the autographed books he regarded as sentimentally irreplaceable- were carefully thought out at the time, but the location of anything else in the jumbled randomness was anyone’s guess at this point. It took an hour, for instance, to find the disposable razor he so desperately needed now. Discretely removing the blade from the blue plastic handle was another thing altogether. It seemed an odd and irrational undertaking as he had a nice and very sharp pocketknife, but, again a sentimental gift, something distantly Samurai forbade him for letting the first blood it ever tasted to be his own.

A Greyhound bus station bathroom is far from ideal, but the draining has to happen now: he had just taken his last two Vicodins.

500 milligrams.

-Laughable.

Further, this would be the only scheduled layover with a reasonable amount of time. The station is sparsely occupied, and the bathroom –actually fairly clean compared to most- is fortunately empty. Cutting away the splint with the makeshift blade, he hurriedly soaps and rinses the newly-exposed, tingling flesh without interruption. The bulbous, colorful swelling strains at the stitching, and even with cursory inspection it's easy to tell where the incision will be required.

Luggage already waiting for him in a selected stall, he entered and locked the door. Carefully extracting the blade from his shirt pocket, he sterilized the tip with the flame from his lighter and tipped the toilet lid back with the toe of his shoe. He was acting quickly, as if to fool the higher functions of his brain which -if engaged- would sanely question his resolve to avoid another emergency room visit.

Even in the most neutral of positioning, the throbbing ache from his hand was unbearable. And this might explain why the cutting was surprisingly painless. Texturally, it was how he imagined slicing into a jellyfish might be. The discharge, a curious mix of clear yellow and blood, oozed instantly at the touch of the blade's tip, and he drew a short line parallel to the stitches. But it wasn’t as much as he hoped, and a larger cut would only require more stitching -thus defeating his purposes entirely.

Even as the thick fluids dripped audibly into the toilet, he set the razor on the gray plastic toilet paper dispenser, grappling with the grim situation … he was going to have to squeeze it out.

That, conversely, was unbearable. Tears seemed to well instantly as he choked down a scream, and as the blinding pain threatened his consciousness he found himself leaning against the graffiti covered plastic stall wall in a vain attempt to remain standing. As a man that has dedicated his life largely to make others laugh, it is in this strange, pure moment he allows himself to feel rage, to want revenge. To stick his knife into the neck of the black man on the bus that keeps yelling, “I’m bringing sexy back!” at random intervals. To hurl the loudmouth woman in the seat behind him -debating who ate her cheeseburger two weeks ago with some other idiot on her cellphone for five hundred nighttime miles- into oncoming traffic by the hair. (I bet that fucking bus would arrive on time.) To personally inflict some micron of merciless suffering back upon this ambivalent and unjust world for a change. Sensing his knees failing, in a deeply-recessed, strangely lucid reflex he lowered the toilet seat and collapsed into a sitting position where he guided the thick, grizzly discharge past the crotch of his jeans.

An unclear amount of time passed. And the mind is odd; even as he fought to catch his breath and slow his thundering heart, he was preoccupied with an extremely overdue book review. The opening line could go something like, ”Over the span of reading this book, I had four broken bones, three surgeries, initiated what will likely amount to a divorce, and had a shitty fantasy football draft. Without a doubt, this book is the best thing in my life.” While not sure how many units that would move, it would certainly fit nicely on the jacket.

The gory flow seeming to have stopped, and he noted the persistent silence. The bathroom, it would seem, is still empty, and the wound would need to be cleaned again before being redressed. He took to that promptly, before his dubious luck changed. Even well-watered down the soap was searing ... but he had forgotten the hydrogen peroxide, and this was likely his next best bet.

Returning to the stall with his luggage, he withdrew his last roll of gauze and some medical tape –among the most recent additions to his gear, they were thankfully right at the top. Once re-splinted, he folded the razor blade and wrapped it generously with excess medical tape so no one changing out the trash might cut themselves. While not the best field surgeon, he was a courteous one -and as this was an uncharacteristically clean public restroom, protecting those responsible for its ardent sanitation seemed the least he could do.

Somewhat relieved the triage was over -cleansed even- the desire for a cigarette was overwhelming. Trying to quit, he hadn't had one in a day or so –and he only had seven dollars to his name anyway. But today was the culmination of several months of horror -quite literally a sanity-cracker. He didn't put much stock in that inner-child pop-psych bullshit, but at that moment he could almost hear the plaintive plea, “No more! Please! No more!”

Once more to the mirror -checking for undetected squirty bloodstains, overall appearance, et cetera. Do I look like a guy that has been hacking myself up in a bathroom? he thinks. Can I pass for 'Normal?' But the mirror was brutally honest, and he seemed to have aged five years instantaneously. There was a drawn, gaunt look he hadn’t noticed before, as if he lost too much weight too fast and his body hadn't yet had time to proportion it out. Twice before putting him under, the surgeon asked if he had any loose teeth. This must be why -the rapid and unexplained weight loss.

There was far too much bad mileage. Period. And decimation thinly veiled already, the damage weathered structurally was now eating at an increasingly unstable core. The universe doesn’t give a shit how many people you made laugh: clown or killer, you’re fodder to time either way. He tried a smile for the reflection, but it seemed disingenuous –even suspicious- for subtle reasons he couldn't seem to quite pinpoint-

Suddenly the bathroom door bursts open, and a stocky Mexican in a purple Lakers shirt walks past at a purposeful gait, conspicuously avoiding eye contact. And for a second, the ailing wanderer is concerned the Mexican is going to lock himself in the stall where his gear still lie, but the Mexican notices the bags and moves on to a stall further down. Still, when traveling, one's bags being out-of-sight is bad policy: it’s not that Mexicans, as a race, can’t be trusted -it’s that Lakers fans can’t be trusted. Or, to put yet a finer point on it, people that wear Lakers tee shirts. Lakers, Yankees, Cowboys ... who doesn't like these teams? It’s borderline cliché, and analogous to wearing something that brags you breathe oxygen.

-“NOT a Lakers fan.” Now that would be a bold statement in apparel.

The larger of the two luggage bags has wheels and a retractable handle. So with the smaller one –the one with toiletries and medical supplies- set on top, once they are tipped back they are somewhat easily moved. Even with one hand. And getting out of there now seems imperative: he could just imagine the Mexican pointing him out to his traveling companions and describing his encounter with the smiling bathroom mirror weirdo. But minus vanity, why care about something so superfluous? For better or worse, perhaps the healing has already begun.

Based on the past,to make claims on a future now seems arrogant and foolhardy.

-But it is definitely time for a cigarette … and with luck, perhaps a cup of coffee too.

Wheeling out of the station entirely, he is greeted by the screaming lights and some familiar music from the left. Golden Gate, the walkway with the overhead lightshow, is featuring The Doors; the eerily-appropriate Break on Through is pulsing through the concrete. And it occurs to the traveler that no matter how hard he runs, no matter where he hides, he will still be there. There is nothing new anywhere -there is nothing different anywhere. What must be escaped is him.

"Arms that chain us, eyes that lie ..."

Instead of cigarettes, perhaps he should walk right into the Golden Gate, under that gigantic flashing effigy of the mighty poet Morrison, and put that last seven dollars on black.

This is Vegas, after all.

Predator Press Declares War on Australia!

Predator Press

[LOBO]

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

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

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

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

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

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

Unless of course it occurs during my nap.

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

FREE

NASA photo, or L.A. taxi windshield?
Either way, the universe is a dump.

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Hundreds of years ago -back before many of our parents were even born- clouds of hydrogen succumbed to the intrinsic gravitational forces they exerted on each other, drifted together, combined, and eventually collapsed.  This increased the core temperatures.

Some of these clouds would become so hot and dense they would ignite and become stars. These stars would burn all the available hydrogen, and thus transform what was left into more complex elements in the process.

Hydrogen, in essence, is the first and simplest step toward everything we know in the physical universe. Earthquakes? Hydrogen. Asparagus? Hydrogen. Colon Cancer? Hydrogen. Matthew McConaughey’s acting chops? Hydrogen.

-Hydrogen has been trying to kill us since the beginning of fucking time.

I dunno what this movie was about, but I'm sure it
was chocked full of Oscar-worthy performances

So why has Nature afflicted us with this hydrogen scourge? And more importantly, why has Nature afflicted me with this hydrogen scourge? If you want to know the truth, Nature doesn’t give two shits and a fart about us. Remember that environmentalist guy who was on the high seas trying to protect some dolphins, and a bear jumped out of his closet and killed him? That’s how much Nature ‘cares’ about us. And do you know how much hydrogen it takes to make a bear that will stowaway onboard a ship in a closet to kill a man? This was no accident, Sherlock … this was a Homicide by Natural Causes.

Doubtlessly by virtue of this dialog I have incurred Nature’s wrath: even as we speak, She is vengefully destroying some unpronounceable place on the other side of the Earth, bathing a hapless indigenous people in the full fury of Her terrible lightning, insatiable fires, crippling diseases, howling cold winds, and decades of subsequent famine and strife. Ooooo. I’m so scared! You know what Nature? Is that all you got? Fuck you! Take this craptastic maggot farm and shove it up your ass! I am so sick to death of taking your ill-tempered bullshit, I'm making up profanity -words like 'clitch' and 'slunt!'  It’s high time we showed you once and for all who is in charge, bitch!

Another sandstorm.  Really.  [*yawn*]  How original.

As most of you already know, I, like Mother Theresa, have dedicated my life to easing the suffering of others by marketing a line of products guaranteed to improve otherwise decimated lives. Luckily, seeking out said otherwise decimated lives turned out to be easy.

The Greyhound station was perfect for many other reasons as well. First, it’s a small audience … perhaps thirty people at a time, and all thirty “attendants’ would essentially have recycled themselves on an hourly basis. That means every hour, my message of salvation would race across the country in fleet brick-shaped economic cans of Truth and Justice, stuffed with people spreading The Word of a Hydrogenless Utopia at an exponential rate.

Alas, Nature had beaten me there. I swear every other passenger was carrying a bottle of water –every last one just oozing in hydronic pestilence!  These people were unwittingly spreading Nature’s evil like a disease, and if I didn’t do something fast, hydrogen would be all over the United States within, like, eighty-seven days.

See? This proves it. With science.

All I really remember is smacking an Aquafina out of someone’s lips so hard, it cracked against the wall audibly. ”Don’t be Nature’s whore!” I demanded. “Is that what you want? To be Nature’s filthy slut?” Stunned, the little girl started crying –it would appear being nature’s whore and slut can be a little overwhelming to children. But I didn’t have much time to ponder this, as before the teddy bear she dropped even hit the floor a couple of largish guys started circling me.

Deducing I had already lost the crowd somehow, I dove at a public water fountain against the wall. “Don’t come any closer!” I growled, fingering the fountain lever menacingly. “I’ll fucking do it!”

“My god man!” gasped a security guard. "Don't!" he begged.

Then, I don’t know -somebody flinched. Turning the faucet on, I stared into the stream as it worked its way past pieces of gum in the drain ... and an instant later I was tasting the ice-cold spearmint-flavored death. A woman screamed, and a tough-looking ex military type guy rolled his eyes and just fainted dead away. I hear the closing footsteps and whirl, revealing my cheeks bulging with Greyhound public fountain water, a trickle of hydrogen-laden venom seeping from the corner of one lip.

"We're peeing with you, not at you."

Everyone in the station threw themselves to the floor and put their hands behind their heads.

"We don't want any trouble son," soothed the security guard into the well-scuffed, toxic-looking linoleum.  "Now calm down-"


***
Long story short, without that helicopter they never would have caught me. And they don’t let me into the Greyhound station anymore. But I did learn a lot from it all.  First, maybe selfless and charitable works aren’t my “thing,” right? I mean don’t remember anybody tazering Mother Theresa. I think I will have to market a line of products guaranteed to improve their otherwise decimated lives for profit from here on out.  Burn cream isn't cheap, you know?

Every case of FREE comes with a cart -I mean
what is more environmentally-friendly than that?

Second, I learned environmentalists are dumb. See, I’ve been working on a few other things to save the planet from the hydrogen scourge: one is a diet bottled water -I call it "FREE"- that is one hundred-percent hydrogen free.  But I’m having a little trouble finding a packaging method: environmentalists are already upset about my proposal to make the bottles out of half inch thick steel.

True it’s a few pounds heavier than a full bottle of hydrogen-contaminated water … but there would be a huge uptick in these jobs, and thus a much-needed boost to the American economy.  What the hell do these hippies have against America?  And think about it: isn’t the best environment one completely devoid of Nature? We spend a lot of money separating ourselves from Nature. Do you environmentalists live in a tent or something? If so, do you know what a tent is for? It’s to keep out Nature, dumbass!

Come on.  Is opening a closet without fear of being mauled by a bear in the sanctity of my own home too much to ask?

Hm?

Going the Distance

Predator Press

[LOBO]

One can only assume God, in His infinite wisdom, put me on this imperfect world in order to straighten some of this crap out.

And thusly bound in His sacred charge, I’m occasionally impelled to inform you of how things are going.

The current State of Affairs is, “This Sucks.”

Now I know “This Sucks” is the same State of Affairs as the last time and the time before that-

-you know what? Now that I look, they all say “This Sucks.”

No, wait. Here’s one from when I was in college:

“Fuck, This Sucks!”

Based on the steady decline of profanity in my notes, one can infer there has there has been some progress I suppose: “This Sucks” is clearly more subdued than “Fuck, This Sucks,” reflecting a small -yet undeniable- measure of suck reduction.

If you think about it, Humanity is already reaping the fruit of my hard sacrifices and labor. There is no need to thank me -my humility suggests I would likely be too embarrassed anyway. Moreover I have deliberately made your doubtless gratitude for my contributions nigh impossible to express: you cannot, for instance, send me precious metals, high end electronics or luxury cars -heck, until my preemptive Temporary Restraining Order is lifted, you can't even call.

So this is probably the last 'State of Affairs' update ... I have decided to cancel all future updates unless there is a change in the "This Sucks" status. Why?  Because they are expensive.  “This Sucks” appears to be the upper end of the spectrum for what even a gifted and impossibly handsome mortal man such as myself can accomplish, and I personally deem these reports redundant and needlessly depressing. The Earth sucks. There. I officially said it.

Worsening things, the economy intrinsically bound to Earth sucks, and the hope for getting off of this dump planet and finding another one to complain about is unlikely in the near future: such exploration is often dicey and extremely cost-prohibitive. Thusly forever imprisoned, we may find some solace in that the rest of the universe sucks too -but isn’t this dubious comfort merely a further symptom of the colossal galactic scale of improbable and staggering suckitude that permeates all things known and unknown?

The mind reels ... with this irrefutable proof that my presence has made the Earth suck slightly less, how can we quantify the mind-bogglingly vast amounts of suck probably out there where I am not? You would have to invent, like, a whole new math. And math sucks, don't forget -this only deepens our situation.

Everywhere else in the universe, clouds of hydrogen are collapsing upon themselves due the inescapable power of suck, igniting their cores to create mammoth fusion-powered suck machines that suck on each other to form globular clusters of suck that will one day explode their suckiness all over the rest of the infinitely vast and insatiable sucking void. We have that to look forward to. And that will really suck.

A famous smart guy once wrote something like “And with strange aeons, even sucking may suck.”

Man that guy was ahead of his time.

It was probably me. Or Einstein.

All That Glitters

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Estelle Getty
-Died 2008

Bea Arthur
-Died 2009

Rue McClanahan
-Died 2010

Betty White
-Planning best fucking
New Year party ever.

Why Does Speaker John Boehner Always Look Like He's Sharpening Pencils With His Keyster?

Predator Press

[LOBO]

I don't think I've ever seen someone who might
actually need a drinking problem before.

The Barnside of Abroad

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Apparently I’m not enough of an Obama-hater to be “hip.”

In my defense, I’m pretty ambivalent as far as presidents go. I can’t think of any, for instance, I just fawn over. Presidents are like those lame-assed books from the rack in jail: sure, maybe you’ll find a halfway decent one … but rest assured, some asshole stuck a big green booger in it somewhere.

Still I like that Obama staunchly refused to reschedule today's speech to avoid conflicting with the republican debate, but later promised it wouldn't be so long as to interrupt the NFL season opener.

See? This man’s not unreasonable.

And what are the republicans debating anyway?

Republican 1: I hate Obama more than any of you.

Republican 2: No you don’t. I hate Obama more.

Republican 3: My hate for Obama is so huge, NASA will have to be funded again so we can land on it and explore.

Republican 1: You’re a closet Obama lover, and I’ve got pictures to prove it.

Republican 2: I'll bet you’ve got pictures, you Obasexual.

Mediator: Gentlemen, this is all very confusing. Can we please have a show of hands of all republican candidates who don't like Obama again? Just to be clear ...

Republicans have been around for several years now, and they still haven't figured out who hates Obama more.  So what assurances do we have they will ever figure it out?  Rush Limbaugh, Sean Hannity, Mark Levin, and Glenn Beck are some dedicated motherfuckers in pursuit of this title: never a late pizza, never a surprise birthday party, never a stubbed toe, never getting a puppy, never sleeping in, never a great meal, never stood up by a cable guy, never stuck in traffic, never new ideas, never something fresh, never anything but 24/7 Obama, Obama, Obama, Obama.  Frankly, the republican competition for Obama Loathing Champion of the World only seems more intense than ever.  And at some point, shouldn't these guys owe Obama some royalties?

Politically unaffiliated, I occasionally like to hear a conservative opinion -but "I hate Obama" has run it's course, and teeters on the brink of cliché. Now -just as a republican gets rolling- I'll interrupt suddenly and ask, "But do you like Obama?" This forces them to 'shoot their wad,' and reduces an hour of pontification to, "Well, no."

Economic woes are ideal distractions from the research
and development of my fantasy football secret weapon.

Done. You might think Republican's would thank me for accommodating such brevity, but what follows is usually a lot of frustrated stuttering and furious, monosyllabic profanity.

Conversely, what the hell is Obama giving a speech for? Nobody likes giving speeches. You mean to tell me the United States' freakin president can't get out of giving speeches? Then what is the point of getting to be president?

There's always the possibility it'll be important I suppose. I mean maybe Obama will be sitting there drinking beer in boxer shorts and an untied bathrobe, articulating an ardent case of why the Green Bay Packers are probably going to the Finals again, and that the New Orleans Saints are just an overblown 2009 fluke. Or maybe he's a Saints fan, and points out Green Bay averaged only 3.5 yards per carry in four preseason games, tying the team for fifth-lowest in the league.

Presidential decisions are tough.