[LOBO]
Report: Many U.S. Parents Outsourcing Child Care Overseas
Friday
What if our Alien Visitors are Delicious?
Predator Press
[LOBO]
Oh, come on ... you're all thinking it. I'm the only one that has the cajones to come right out and say it.
And I can already hear you bleeding heart liberals complaining, 'But LOBO, aliens capable of interstellar travel would be super-intelligent!' blah blah.
Oh please ... ridden a bus lately? What if these are celestial losers tryin to get a picture of themselves next to the intergalactic equivalent of the 'World's Biggest Ball of Yarn?"
Pthbttt!
The capability of travel doesn't impress me. In fact non-intelligent beings travel every day (see photo, right).
And frankly, these rude and unannounced tourists being 'intelligent' only makes the idea more attractive: what could be better than a meal that preheats the oven, sets the timer, lathers itself in a fine mornay sauce and is fully cooked to a succulent golden-brown before you even get home?
As far as I'm concerned, the only question is whether to serve them with a white wine or a red.
[LOBO]Oh, come on ... you're all thinking it. I'm the only one that has the cajones to come right out and say it.
And I can already hear you bleeding heart liberals complaining, 'But LOBO, aliens capable of interstellar travel would be super-intelligent!' blah blah.
Oh please ... ridden a bus lately? What if these are celestial losers tryin to get a picture of themselves next to the intergalactic equivalent of the 'World's Biggest Ball of Yarn?"
Pthbttt!
The capability of travel doesn't impress me. In fact non-intelligent beings travel every day (see photo, right).And frankly, these rude and unannounced tourists being 'intelligent' only makes the idea more attractive: what could be better than a meal that preheats the oven, sets the timer, lathers itself in a fine mornay sauce and is fully cooked to a succulent golden-brown before you even get home?
As far as I'm concerned, the only question is whether to serve them with a white wine or a red.
Wednesday
Tuesday
The Barbary Coast
Predator Press[LOBO]
I’m not sure who Barbarossa’s “real” parole officer is, but once we get that sorted out I’ll bet he and Barbarossa will both be eternally grateful to me.
But until then -with no guarantee of financial compensation- I oversee his attempt at reformation almost exclusively when Barbarossa and I can both benefit from it. And that is most often when I am in an evil, spiteful mood, and need to kick someone around for a few hours.
-The first fifteen minutes of which he has been sitting across the desk from me as I stare, arms folded, wordless and stern.
“So no job yet, hm?” I says, finally breaking the uncomfortable silence.
“Didn’t you just get a job a few days ago?” he replies.
“I’m not the one on parole, am I?”
Barbarossa fidgets anxiously.
“No sir.”
“Ah,” I says. Deliberately, I let my eyes fall to the giant Red Button on the desk between us. It’s not hooked up to anything and we never discuss it, but Barbarossa is terrified of it. Shaking my head, I shrug and sigh, and slowly lean forward to reach for it …“Please!” pleads Barbarossa. “I have been applying for jobs like crazy!”
“How do I know you have been applying for jobs at all?”
“I have an application in my pocket.” Standing, he procures and frantically unfolds it. “Look.” Setting it before me (at a wide berth of the Red Button), he pats the document twice, flattening it. His nervous smile reveals all of maybe six teeth total.
“Red Lobster,” he beams.
Reading, I scowl into it. “You filled it out in gibberish.”
“That’s Spanish,” he explains.
I roll my eyes. "Oh Christ that’s even worse. Nobody is going to hire a Spaniard. You people are all pirates!"
A single bead of sweat rolls down his forehead.
“They wanted someone bilingual.”
Eyebrows furrowed, I bite my lower lip in thought. “Why would they want someone with an, eh, ‘alternative lifestyle’? What the hell are they doing to the lobsters? Jesus I don’t think I’m going to eat there anymore.”“That would be a shame.”
“You didn’t circle ‘M,’” I point out.
“Excuse me?”
“Under sex. You didn’t circle ‘M’ for ‘Male.’ You wrote something in.”
“I wrote ‘raras veces.’ That is Spanish for ‘seldom,’” he explains. “I am married.”
Sunday
Could Jesus Take Mike Tyson?
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: Could Jesus take Mike Tyson?
Records:
“Iron” Mike Tyson: First heavyweight boxer to simultaneously hold (and only Heavyweight to individually unify) the WBA, WBC and IBF titles.
Jesus Christ: Messiah, King of Kings, Lamb of God.
Advantage: Jesus
We’re going to make the assumption that both competitors are in their prime. This means that Tyson, a heavyweight at 220 pounds, might have an edge on our rock-ribbed Messiah who is oft depicted as being on the lighter end of the weight class spectrum and could walk on water. Minus definitive height information, we’re going to call JC a welterweight.
But larger size comes at the expense of energy and speed. JC’s leaner build makes him more efficient. If JC could avoid any serious blows in the first few rounds, Tyson would likely have expended himself physically fairly early on. Couple this strategy with JC consistently working the body, and over a long enough timeline Tyson’s condition would diminish, making him vulnerable in later rounds.
Advantage: Jesus
Speed:
There’s no real need to mince about on this one. Tyson won his first 19 fights by knockout, and 14 of those were knockouts in the first round. However according to the Bible, Jesus moonlights from his Messiah gig as a prophet; thus, no matter how fast Tyson is, JC is going to be way ahead, anticipating where and when to block, dodge, and counterpunch.
Advantage: Jesus
While there’s technically nothing in official boxing rules regarding torrents of frogs and plagues of locusts, one must factor in potential supernatural activities including interference by JC’s Dad. God, while often taking a “hands off” approach to parenting, has also historically demonstrated Himself to be ill-tempered [see Sodom, Gomorrah]. In fact if the fight is to occur in Las Vegas, we are simply going to watch it on Pay-Per-View.
Other troublesome considerations are JC’s pacifist nature and tendency to “turn the other cheek,” something Tyson would most certainly exploit. Countering this, however, is JC’s ability to heal: JC was often cited for curing disease, blindness, et cetera. But it is unclear whether he could use this ability on himself. Would boxing gloves create an insulation rendering the “Laying on Hands” impossible? Or worse, what if Tyson is being healed by every blow, or sheer or proximity?
Advantage: Jesus
Saturday
I Live Today
Predator Press
[LOBO]
Millions and millions of you longtime readers may have noticed a few rerun postings on Predator Press, and the inevitable subsequent glaring absence of sanity, intelligence, wisdom and reason across the globe.
Stop immolating yourselves. Stop jumping from tall buildings. Stop immolating yourselves and then jumping from tall buildings: I’m going to level with you. It has been a tough year for your irascible-yet-lovable Chancellor of the vast LOBOnian nation.
And you have only yourselves to blame.
(Resume immolating and jumping now.)
I’m sure we can all agree a chiseled physical phenomena such as myself would and should be utterly devoid of mortal woe. But my body apparently wasn’t notified of these details, and after the epic clash of titans I endured in June –where Big Cereal's crimes against our mighty nation and Humanity required swift, lethal and benevolent payback (and a short jail term)- half of 2011 has been dedicated to recovery and rehabilitation.
I have no doubt that you all are working frantically on technologies that will make me even more immortal and indestructible. But as of yet I got diddly, and your utter failure in this regard is simply impossible to ignore: the LOBOnian Nation has no place for this level of incompetence. Don’t make me revoke your visas!
LOBOnian slackers will be de-meated, and their bones will be exiled!
Couple this ineptitude with my ongoing treatments for Tri Polar Disorder and Cryohydrotachophobia (the fear of rogue icebergs), a lot of travel, football season, various temporary restraining orders and lawsuits, a hangnail and a new job, and it should be clear why I haven’t been following up on this lack of progress with appropriate, eh, “motivation.”
The new job in particular is a pain in the ass. Every day I have to get up, go to it, clock in and stay there doing stuff for like fifty hours, and then clock out and do it all over again the next day. I don’t know how I got tricked into it frankly.The perpetrator of all this criminal exploitation is a book distributor. And I know what you’re thinking. “Books? Let’s see. There’s The Bible, Batman, Archie and Veronica, and Penthouse ... Ptthbt! How hard could that be?” Well it turns out there’s books on everything from computers to babies to photography to history, all stacked on pallets as far as the eye can see. Jesus Christ, there’s like a hundred of them!
Steinbeck, Camus, Hemingway ...
... Man you people read a lot of schlock.
Thursday
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.
Sunday
The Truth About Tornados
Predator Press
[LOBO]
Unlike the Discovery Channel, Predator Press doesn’t make you sit through an hour of excruciatingly boring “facts” and “proof”. We’re just going to come right out and say it in the opening paragraph: Tornados Do Not Exist.
There.
We said it.
End of story.
This myth –obviously perpetuated to maintain the billions of dollars America shovels into tornado "warnings," safety equipment and protective gear every year- spins finally to rest right here, right now. Just like Bigfoot and the female orgasm, it's all hype and hippity happity-horsecrap ... and no longer shall America be terrorized by legends designed to scare children to sleep!
“But LOBO,” you say. “While I respect your staggering intellect, I’ve seen pictures of towns destroyed by tornados!”
You call that proof?
What if those people were just really messy?
FEMA: ”My god … This place is a sty. What happened?
Townsfolk: ”Um … tornado!”
FEMA: ”Really? Here is a million dollars!”Townsfolk: ”Thanks!”
I spent about two hours yesterday on my roof with a pair of binoculars. Know how many tornados I saw? None. And I for one am tired of subsidizing slovenly townfolk with my hard-earned tax dollars.
One has merely to examine the weird recommendations the government provides to unravel the fabled ‘tornado’:
True or False: The safest place to be during a tornado is underground, preferably in a storm cellar.
Correct Answer: False. This is where they want you to be, so those lazy slugs don’t have to go through much trouble burying you!
True or False: If you see a tornado, leave your car and get into a ditch.
Correct Answer: False. What are you stupid? Who is telling you this crap? That's is analogous to that whole 'Stop, Drop, and Roll' scam! Ditches are filthy. And what if some dude wants to steal your car?A big tornado -say an F9- will rip your shoes through your eye sockets and then beat you to death with them, ditch or no ditch. To avoid injury, a) Get out into a wide-open flat field, b) Quickly ascertain the direction the tornado is spinning, and then c) Run in circles in the same direction as fast as possible to cancel out the cyclonic effect.
True or False: Do not try to outrun a tornado.
Correct Answer: False, false, false. If you see a tornado, get the f—k away as quickly and recklessly as possible. Sabotaging fleeing others by tripping them and running them off the road is useful too, as the tornado will often pause to enjoy devouring their succulent juices -thereby gaining you what might be precious seconds.
If you ask me, America should be a lot less preoccupied with fictitious tooth fairies, boogeymen and funnel clouds, and concerned about more tangible threats like funnel cakes. I mean the unsanitary-seeming conditions of where they are cooked aside, what the hell are those things? Deep-fried sugar globs dipped in syrup and dusted in a redundant additional coating of powdered sugar?Why don't you just try to get your arteries to process cinderblocks and pointy sticks?
Blech!
Friday
Thursday
The Day the Music Cried
Predator Press
[LOBO]
It’s a little-known fact that Brent Diggs and I weren’t always the bitter enemies we are today.
For instance, I didn’t recognize Brent immediately at Juilliard Music School. In fact I thought he was just another flashy and callow wanna-be rock band frontman.
But one night after my tuba solo, he insisted on meeting me. He was so moved by my performance, as we shook hands a single tear rolled slowly down his cheek.
Now everyone knows the tuba is the backbone of any good band; once I graduated, I probably could have ‘written my own ticket’ so to speak. I was featured in Musician Magazine as the “57th best Tuba Player EVER.” Band members of both Metallica and Van Halen threatened to fracture off in order to work with me on solo projects.
And I was good too: in the recording studio, all women had to be escorted out so the soggy panties hitting the floor wouldn’t mess up the audio.
But there was something about Brent’s youthful exuberance and vitality that appealed to me, and soon we were playing together with other promising underground musical acts. And one day Brent comes to me and says, “LOBO, we gotta start our own band.”
To which I replied, “What the hell are you pointing at?”
"Just point at anything and watch what happens."
"Cool!"
“Seriously,” he continues. “With my golden pipes and your saxophone thingy, there would be no stopping us!”
“I’ll only do it if we call it Danger Couch,” I says.
“Okay,” he says. “But only if we promise the band will never ever ever break up.”
“Deal,” I says.
***
In Brent’s defense, I was already well on my way to a substance abuse problem. I had been “experimenting” –recreationally- with Pop Rocks. Honestly, to this day I think it was the advertising aimed at my generation and colorful packaging.
I ate one packet of orange Pop Rocks during rehearsals. I ate two packets of grape while blistering live solos on my 'Tube.' Soon I was up to thirty-four packets a day -just to feel "normal."
When out of my 'supply,' I shopped for them bulk online with trembling hands -often paying extraordinary fees to have them Fed-Exed the next day because I couldn't pick them up at the warehouse that night.
Four months later, when I crashed the 1954 Bentley Type R, the cops found the floorboards covered in Pop Rocks packets.
"Son-" the cop started.
"What dead hooker?" I replied.
***
Brent, watching millions of dollars evaporate due to my rapidly accelerating habit, finally confronted me. And that night I swore I would never touch a single Pop Rock ever again. But at the very next show, through my microphone, everyone in the audience could here the distinct crackling joy.
In the dressing room, Brent found my stash: a thick, tight brick of Pop Rocks sealed in a waterproof ziplock bag floating in the upper toilet tank.
Truthfully, my music suffered. Stuff that was supposed to go "bum bum, bum bum" would come out "bum bum-bwah-bum": the surgical precision required to hit that note with just the right force seemed to escape me, and it was often either far too loud or completely inaudible altogether. Worse of all, the sound engineers never seemed to figure out why everything recorded sounded like angry Rice Krispies in violent milk.
I started showing up late for performances, play like five notes, and then leave without explanation in pursuit of the nearest fix. Rather than counting out measures on 398 pages of sheet music, I would fall asleep on them for entire shows. Once I accidentally grabbed the violin sheet music and played the whole goddamn venue like it was a Danny Elfman soundtrack. This earned me a promising spot on a hip, irreverent episode of Hee Haw ... but my downward spiral was impossible to mask even from them, and I was fired for calling Tom Wopat an asshole on live television.
My hygiene suffered, and my flesh started to seethe and bubble visibly like a live thing under filthy, neglected clothing. The only thing that seemed to still like me was my dog, which I eventually sold to a Korean restaurant chef for six packs of grape, two packs of apple, and a pair of well-worn Crocs. The howling and smell of burning hair still haunts my dreams.
Six months later TMZ tracked me down in a cheap motel room, and Doctor Harrold Toboggans, Doctor Drew Pinsky, and a camera crew from MTV's Behind the Music descended upon me like a plague of locusts. Unemployed, I was pouring Pop Rocks into a spoon and tonguing the inside of the packet. Eyes darting and bulgy, I had a lighter and a syringe, prepared for the Mother-of-All Pop Rocks high.
"I think it's time you faced the fact that you have a problem," said Brent.
"Nonsense," I says through purple teeth, twisting the thick rubber band over my elbow. "I can quit anytime I want. I don't need some goddamned intervention!"
Then, blammo.
Distracted, I let the paparazzi too close; the highly-unstable Pop Rocks in the spoon detonated in the machine gun-like camera flash.
Doctor Harold Toboggans, Doctor Drew Pinsky, the camera crew from MTV's Behind the Music and I survived by some incalculable miracle, having been thrown clear of the blast.
Thank God, I remember thinking.
-I was getting really sick and tired of hearing that ‘I’ve got a problem’ bullshit.
[LOBO]
It’s a little-known fact that Brent Diggs and I weren’t always the bitter enemies we are today.
For instance, I didn’t recognize Brent immediately at Juilliard Music School. In fact I thought he was just another flashy and callow wanna-be rock band frontman.
But one night after my tuba solo, he insisted on meeting me. He was so moved by my performance, as we shook hands a single tear rolled slowly down his cheek.Now everyone knows the tuba is the backbone of any good band; once I graduated, I probably could have ‘written my own ticket’ so to speak. I was featured in Musician Magazine as the “57th best Tuba Player EVER.” Band members of both Metallica and Van Halen threatened to fracture off in order to work with me on solo projects.
And I was good too: in the recording studio, all women had to be escorted out so the soggy panties hitting the floor wouldn’t mess up the audio.
But there was something about Brent’s youthful exuberance and vitality that appealed to me, and soon we were playing together with other promising underground musical acts. And one day Brent comes to me and says, “LOBO, we gotta start our own band.”To which I replied, “What the hell are you pointing at?”
"Just point at anything and watch what happens."
"Cool!"
“Seriously,” he continues. “With my golden pipes and your saxophone thingy, there would be no stopping us!”
“I’ll only do it if we call it Danger Couch,” I says.
“Okay,” he says. “But only if we promise the band will never ever ever break up.”
“Deal,” I says.
In Brent’s defense, I was already well on my way to a substance abuse problem. I had been “experimenting” –recreationally- with Pop Rocks. Honestly, to this day I think it was the advertising aimed at my generation and colorful packaging.
I ate one packet of orange Pop Rocks during rehearsals. I ate two packets of grape while blistering live solos on my 'Tube.' Soon I was up to thirty-four packets a day -just to feel "normal."
When out of my 'supply,' I shopped for them bulk online with trembling hands -often paying extraordinary fees to have them Fed-Exed the next day because I couldn't pick them up at the warehouse that night.
Four months later, when I crashed the 1954 Bentley Type R, the cops found the floorboards covered in Pop Rocks packets.
"Son-" the cop started.
"What dead hooker?" I replied.
Brent, watching millions of dollars evaporate due to my rapidly accelerating habit, finally confronted me. And that night I swore I would never touch a single Pop Rock ever again. But at the very next show, through my microphone, everyone in the audience could here the distinct crackling joy.In the dressing room, Brent found my stash: a thick, tight brick of Pop Rocks sealed in a waterproof ziplock bag floating in the upper toilet tank.
Truthfully, my music suffered. Stuff that was supposed to go "bum bum, bum bum" would come out "bum bum-bwah-bum": the surgical precision required to hit that note with just the right force seemed to escape me, and it was often either far too loud or completely inaudible altogether. Worse of all, the sound engineers never seemed to figure out why everything recorded sounded like angry Rice Krispies in violent milk.
I started showing up late for performances, play like five notes, and then leave without explanation in pursuit of the nearest fix. Rather than counting out measures on 398 pages of sheet music, I would fall asleep on them for entire shows. Once I accidentally grabbed the violin sheet music and played the whole goddamn venue like it was a Danny Elfman soundtrack. This earned me a promising spot on a hip, irreverent episode of Hee Haw ... but my downward spiral was impossible to mask even from them, and I was fired for calling Tom Wopat an asshole on live television.
My hygiene suffered, and my flesh started to seethe and bubble visibly like a live thing under filthy, neglected clothing. The only thing that seemed to still like me was my dog, which I eventually sold to a Korean restaurant chef for six packs of grape, two packs of apple, and a pair of well-worn Crocs. The howling and smell of burning hair still haunts my dreams.Six months later TMZ tracked me down in a cheap motel room, and Doctor Harrold Toboggans, Doctor Drew Pinsky, and a camera crew from MTV's Behind the Music descended upon me like a plague of locusts. Unemployed, I was pouring Pop Rocks into a spoon and tonguing the inside of the packet. Eyes darting and bulgy, I had a lighter and a syringe, prepared for the Mother-of-All Pop Rocks high.
"I think it's time you faced the fact that you have a problem," said Brent.
"Nonsense," I says through purple teeth, twisting the thick rubber band over my elbow. "I can quit anytime I want. I don't need some goddamned intervention!"
Then, blammo.
Distracted, I let the paparazzi too close; the highly-unstable Pop Rocks in the spoon detonated in the machine gun-like camera flash.
Doctor Harold Toboggans, Doctor Drew Pinsky, the camera crew from MTV's Behind the Music and I survived by some incalculable miracle, having been thrown clear of the blast.
Thank God, I remember thinking.
-I was getting really sick and tired of hearing that ‘I’ve got a problem’ bullshit.
Monday
Origami as Self Defense
Predator Press [LOBO]
I know it’s hard to believe with a physique such as mine that I was once picked on by bullies.
-But believe me, no one knows the anguish of going to the beach and having a zombie kick sand in your face and steal your girl better!
I hate getting sand kicked in my face. And zombies! And since I've selflessly dedicated my life to helping people, I can't just ignore you pipsqueaks and puny wimps: that's why I came up with Origami: the Art of Self Defense.
Why let all those useless and boring Geometry classes go to waste? With this 56 DVD set I’ll teach you step-by-step how after MONTHS of being brutally terrorized, I folded my high school bully into a teeny swan and then torched the evil hostile with hair spray and some matches.
-Her wheelchair melted instanly.
It was awesome.
Friday
Ask LOBO
Predator Press
"Dear LOBO,
I'm growing increasingly concerned my husband doesn't find me attractive anymore, and I'm starting to catch his 'wandering eye' with greater and greater frequency.
Can you give me some advice that might spice up our romance?"
Kelly L. Bittencroft
865 Palm Palace
Tampa, Florida
33610
Kelly,
It's a widely-known fact that chicks pack on the pounds as a passive-aggressive hostile act toward their spouses, and nothing is more humiliating to a guy than a having a fat chick in tow. As an ironic consequence, however, this displaced anger exacerbates the cycling negative behaviors between you and your significant other; it leaves you a bitter old dried-up hippopotamus woman with drawn-on eyebrows, well-calloused bristling elbows, and gnarled toenails that snag in carpets and clicketty-clack on linoleum kitchen tiles when you walk barefoot.
First, set down the Chunky Monkey; it will only degrade your health and make you a further embarrassment to your friends, family and loved ones. Then, abandon the concept of 'spicing up your romance' entirely. Try fully embracing your mutual hatred instead.
Go shopping! Buy an entire case of Glade aerosol spray and a nice big fat insurance policy on your husband; the air freshener will be necessary to get the smell of molten flesh, hair, and Pabst Blue Ribbon out of the house when you throw the radio into his bathwater. Think of the flickering, failing lights as your fading once-youthful vibrant beauty -all of which you've squandered on this hairy, bloated, unemployed redneck. Take solace in the fact that over a long enough timeline he would have left you -an utterly spent and decaying husk, oozing the desiccated viscera of unanswered dreams and unrequited passion- for a snaggletoothed bartender with a teardrop tattoo and an obsession for Beanie Babies.
Sell the house and the Dale Earnhardt commemorative plates -especially the Dale Earnhardt commemorative plates- and combine it with the insurance money. This should be plenty to start your life over someplace in South America. Splurge for a well-muscled pool boy named Chavo, and indulge in what will now be a moderately-priced cocaine habit to melt those extra pounds away. And as far as repairing your mortally-wounded self-esteem, the only healthy way is in the hands of a professional physician trained in such delicate matters: with a good plastic surgeon, you'll make Mr. Potato head look like a ranked amateur hack in a matter of weeks. This will also aid in throwing the Authorities off of your trail.
Above all else Kelly, remember: relationships are a piece of cake, but you can't make anyone else happy if you're not happy yourself.
"Dear LOBO,I'm growing increasingly concerned my husband doesn't find me attractive anymore, and I'm starting to catch his 'wandering eye' with greater and greater frequency.
Can you give me some advice that might spice up our romance?"
Kelly L. Bittencroft
865 Palm Palace
Tampa, Florida
33610
Kelly,
It's a widely-known fact that chicks pack on the pounds as a passive-aggressive hostile act toward their spouses, and nothing is more humiliating to a guy than a having a fat chick in tow. As an ironic consequence, however, this displaced anger exacerbates the cycling negative behaviors between you and your significant other; it leaves you a bitter old dried-up hippopotamus woman with drawn-on eyebrows, well-calloused bristling elbows, and gnarled toenails that snag in carpets and clicketty-clack on linoleum kitchen tiles when you walk barefoot.
First, set down the Chunky Monkey; it will only degrade your health and make you a further embarrassment to your friends, family and loved ones. Then, abandon the concept of 'spicing up your romance' entirely. Try fully embracing your mutual hatred instead.
Go shopping! Buy an entire case of Glade aerosol spray and a nice big fat insurance policy on your husband; the air freshener will be necessary to get the smell of molten flesh, hair, and Pabst Blue Ribbon out of the house when you throw the radio into his bathwater. Think of the flickering, failing lights as your fading once-youthful vibrant beauty -all of which you've squandered on this hairy, bloated, unemployed redneck. Take solace in the fact that over a long enough timeline he would have left you -an utterly spent and decaying husk, oozing the desiccated viscera of unanswered dreams and unrequited passion- for a snaggletoothed bartender with a teardrop tattoo and an obsession for Beanie Babies.
Sell the house and the Dale Earnhardt commemorative plates -especially the Dale Earnhardt commemorative plates- and combine it with the insurance money. This should be plenty to start your life over someplace in South America. Splurge for a well-muscled pool boy named Chavo, and indulge in what will now be a moderately-priced cocaine habit to melt those extra pounds away. And as far as repairing your mortally-wounded self-esteem, the only healthy way is in the hands of a professional physician trained in such delicate matters: with a good plastic surgeon, you'll make Mr. Potato head look like a ranked amateur hack in a matter of weeks. This will also aid in throwing the Authorities off of your trail.Above all else Kelly, remember: relationships are a piece of cake, but you can't make anyone else happy if you're not happy yourself.
Wednesday
Torque
Predator Press [LOBO]
“I suppose,” I says, pacing back and forth across the room, “you’re all wondering why I’ve called you here.”
Complainy doesn’t miss a beat. “Because you haven’t found a job yet, and you’re slowly losing your mind?”
I stop and turn slowly to face my 16 year old daughter, but Screechy tugs on my leg. “Can I play Star Wars Legos?”
“No Star Wars Legos for anyone until I find out who did it,” I reply.
“Did what?” asks Terri.
“Something so vile and horrendous,” I says eyeing Shiftless warily, “the consequences will be dire.” I lean into a squirmy Shiftless and repeat in an ominous whisper, elongating two sylables slowly: “Die-re!”
“Mom he’s gone completely crazy,” says Complainy.“Crazy like a fox!” I exclaim. “A crime-solving fox with X-Ray vision so’s he can peer into the dark hearts of evildoers!”
“Honey,” says Terri. “Would you please at least shave? You look like Tom Hanks in Cast Away.”
I look down at my own chest. Without a mirror I can’t quite see the beard yet, but it occurs to me that I’m in rumpled pajamas, an untied bathrobe and slippers.
-In and of itself this isn’t so weird, but it’s two o’clock in the afternoon.
I turn to Terri suspiciously. “And you sure seem to want to change the subject a lot!” I snap.
Shiftless is clearly losing patience. “So what is this ‘horrendous act’ you had to wake me up for?”I grab the sheet and pause for a moment to build the drama. Then, in a quick, smooth motion I pull it away. Having revealed what was underneath, I point at it while facing them accusingly.
“What’s wrong with the television?” asks Terri.
My jaw almost falls open at her lack of observation.
I point again.
“Nobody messed with your crappy TV,” says Complainy.
“Can I play Star Wars Legos?” asks Screechy.
"There will be no fun in this household until justice is served!" Shaking with rage, I point a little closer to the upper left corner.
Terri squints. “What. Is it that fingerprint?”
Finally!
Rendered unable to speak by fury, I nod violently.“So somebody probably touched the screen while we were moving it,” says Shiftless. “Heck it might’ve been you.”
“Silence!” I demand. “If 97 back-to-back episodes of Forensic Files have taught me anything," I says flatly, "It's that when you find a fingerprint there's been a crime. The last time I saw this television, it was snuggly chained between six mattresses and those six mattresses were encased in carbonite!"
“Can I play Star Wars Legos?” asks Screechy.
"-And I have further proof it was not me, as you have so clearly implied.” I show Shiftless the non-matching pads of my finger through my magnifying glass. “If you still think that print is mine," I add, "I’ve prepared a PowerPoint presentation we can go through later that illustrates the differences. My fingerprint is an ‘arch’ while this is clearly a 'whorl.'”
“Look honey,” says Terri from behind me. “It comes right off with a paper tow-“
“Stop!” I scream. “You’re contaminating the DNA!”
Tuesday
Sunday
Saturday
Hire Me, You Prick!
Predator Press
[LOBO]
Thousands of applications, hundreds of interviews … [*sigh*] My enthusiasm gap is rivaled only by the vast and ever-growing job search radius. This morning –while mapping out want ads from Michigan(!)- a glance at the northern border inspired the thought that maybe I shouldn’t limit this search to my beloved United States.
America, you are quite possibly on the cusp of losing one of your greatest and most beloved National Treasures: ME.
Do you really want to be responsible for such a tragedy? I mean once I get that sweet sheepherding gig in Krasnoyarsk, you’re gonna have a hell of a time getting me back.
-And you’ll probably have to trade the Grand Canyon or something for it.
Thursday
How to Get More Football out of Life
Predator Press
[LOBO]
I was vaguely aware as my youngest son audibly mistyped his name, “J-O-O …”
But then I distinctly heard the G.I. Joe M.A.R.S. Laptop announce with finality, “'Joo' is incorrect. Access denied.”
I am going to have so much fun with that thing at Sunday Mass this week ...
Tuesday
Predator Press Interviews: Chris Wood
Predator Press
Already a fan of Chris Wood's Blog, I'm not suprised to find his books only further underline his remarkable writing talent.
Thus, the urgency of his, eh, "early retirement."
See, I can’t find a publisher for my stuff; everybody keeps saying things like, ‘I’ve never seen such bad spelling,’ and, ‘How did you get a typo in crayon?’
With all the serenity I can muster, I find myself repeatedly explaining how it’s a children’s book, and kids -inherently dumb by nature- would never know the goddamn difference. But those know-it-all fucktarded shit sticks at the Wall Street Journal wouldn‘t know a decent children's book writer's talent if it popped a zit on their dork.
I set all these fires for nothing.
So Chris Wood must die.
DIE!
I mean, who needs this kind of competition? And who put talented writers in charge of everything anyway? Hm? I'm just supposed to sit here while fancy-pants British author Chris Wood -just oozing talent- is hoggin’ up all that paper? It’s not like paper grows on trees you know.
This 'Chris Wood' probably counts his stacks of gold while saying 'pip pip' at random intervals, smoking a big curvy pipe in front of a fireplace. You call this a level playing field? Shit, anybody can get published with cheesy gimmicks like talent, a big curvy pipe and a fireplace! And where the hell do you even get a big curvy pipe and a fireplace here in the Twentieth Centurion?
I'm the victim here if you think about it.
Dyin's too good for him.
-He should die with extreme predjudice.
I‘ll choke that sonofabitch with his own monocle chain.
CW: Why are you in my house?
LOBO: I‘m not in your house pal. I‘m in Chris Wood‘s house. Have you seen him? He looks just like you, but he's British. You know, monocle, khaki shorts ... possibly a pith helmet.
CW: Chris Wood is my twin brother. There must be some kind of mix up here.
LOBO: Really? The cops told me he lives here.
CW: Cops?
LOBO: Yeah. I rode an international flight here in a ghillie suit made of almond tree branches. Despite the brilliant camouflage, some Air Marshalls came to my row insisting they could see me. I called them filthy liars, and, well, long story short, they kicked the crap out of me until I made bail.
CW: Well, it‘s a good thing they couldn‘t see you then, wasn‘t it?
LOBO: Yes. I hate filthy liars. Experiences like that is why I totally hate foreigners.
CW: Me too.
LOBO: My name is LOBO.
CW Hello LOBO. I‘m Chris Wood.
LOBO: You and your twin brother are both named Chris Wood? Isn‘t that confusing?
CW: I'm hassled by idiots over it constantly.
LOBO: It sounds like life will be simpler for both of us if he was dead.
CW: Indeed. He’s very evil. You know The Ingredients of a Good Thriller? I wrote that. And Sherlock Holmes and the Underpants of Death too! But he stole all the credit.
LOBO: That bastard. Listen, help me out with some surveillance-type questions. We can pool our information, put a homing beacon on his car, and track him via satellite. After a few weeks of that, we'll analyze the data and determine the best place to kill him with cinderblocks and pointy sticks.
CW: Pointy sticks are illegal here -and cinderblocks tend to be cost-prohibitive.
LOBO: Really? Man this place is weird. I mean we’re on the opposite side of the world from the US, yet gravity is not reversed. Unlike anarchists, Americans obey the laws of physics! The custom travel pants Predator Press scienticians designed for me -the ones with inverted pockets- have somehow malfunctioned, and I have lost my wallet and passport as a result. Can I sleep in your car for the duration? I see your steering wheel is on the wrong side. I can fix that.
The Ingredients of a Good Thriller Reviews
CW: My car does have a steering wheel, but it doesn’t work. My car’s direction is actually controlled by a rudder, which means ploughing through concrete every time I drive, but there you go.
Personally, I try to ignore the laws of physics. This does take some willpower, but stick with it. You just have to be strict with them, and then you can float about, let your molecules wander off, even turn kinetic energy into pizza – it’s fantastic.
LOBO: Judging from your music collection, your favorite music appears to be the blues. But that crap is depressing! Where the hell is the ABBA? Are you hiding it? I don’t see any copies of Max Payne in your DVD collection either.
CW: I don’t find the blues depressing, or at least not all of it. “I’m getting my dick sucked as I sing this” by Big Smile Chesterton, for example, is a happy tune. So is “I ran over the taxman (and I stole his wallet too)” by Goodforhim Lemonzest.
Also, anyone who doesn’t feel laid back while listening to BB King is a bollock faced imbecile. I have that on good authority.
LOBO: I disagree. That 'laid back' thing only ensures his show will never be as widely-enjoyed by the masses like the rampantly successful Predator Press juggernaut is.
-All King's interviews are chocked full of softball questions, and the resulting lack of journalistic 'edge' makes his show a real snoozer. Worse, you don't want to fall asleep around him ... once sufficiently lulled, he marries you.
CW: Well you can’t trust British culture either. It will break into your house and completely screw with your mind, by putting your CDs in the wrong cases and slightly adjusting the settings on your TV.
LOBO: The Beatles and The Rolling Stones Chris? That’s total Rock ‘N Roll overkill. Don’t you think farming out the Sex Pistols to France would have been at least, well, sporting?
CW: We tried, but the trouble was European Union legislation stating that all foreign rock bands had to be pasturised before entering France. Johnny Rotten and co weren’t fond of the idea of being boiled en route, so the whole thing fell through. I call it a lack of initiative.
Hey, have you been slightly adjusting the settings on my TV? I thought BB King was black. This guy looks like he swapped Frodo's ring for bulletproof eyewear. And does that shade of blue really occur in nature?
LOBO: You once wrote “English mustard is the envy of the civilized world. If you don't envy it, you aren't civilized.” If the Germans find out you dissed Heinz Ketchup like that, it could start World Wars III, IV and π. In the future, can you please refrain from this scathing and incendiary commentary on condiments for the sake of world peace? There’s only so many times we should be expected to rescue the French … and their mustard sucks.
CW: No, fuck world peace. I must have my say on condiments. If we all have to become little piles of radioactive soot just because I don’t like your choice of dressing, tough shit.
I agree French’s Mustard is tasteless, underspiced cack, but it does have one useful application. It can be put on roast beef to torture British men, should that be necessary. Much better than wiring their balls up to the mains, quite frankly, because while it naturally hurts like a bastard to ruin a good slice of roast cow, it’s better than frazzling somebody’s knadgers. Probably. I mean, less bad karma and all, which can’t be a bad thing.
For somebody who just said ‘Fuck world peace,’ I should worry.
LOBO: The UK should feel indebted to the United States. If not for us, just think of how many nukes would be pointed at you instead. Jesus. What is the Defense Budget for soccer?
CW: Despite living in Manchester, I’m still leery of British culture. It once sold me an Oasis album which turned out to be full of rancid warbling and vague guitar scratching. It’s not all Benny Hill and James Bond, you know. That’s only the good stuff.
The worst thing about British culture is that it forced Benny Hill off the air. This was during the Thatcher years, when the only other thing to laugh at was people in government getting buggered by dwarves.
LOBO: Do you like documentaries? Researching British history on Wikipedia, I found out Margaret Thatcher and William Shakespeare were having a torrid affair, and David Bowie killed Shakespeare in a fit of jealous rage. Thatcher escaped by choking Tony Blair with her thong, and Sir Isaac Newtron rescued her on his hovercycle. Shit that’s AWESOME -all we Americans got is a guy with a lantern yelling “one if by land, two if by sea” from some freakin lighthouse.
CW: Yes, it’s true about Bowie and the Bard. I gather they argued about the royalties for Cat People. Christopher Marlowe met his end in the same way, although I heard that was about his royalties from the first Bat Out Of Hell album. Or so I’m told. Thatcher was actually having an affair with Samuel Johnson, who wrote the first dictionary. He was so fat he needed a crane to keep his gut out of the way while they were getting down to business.
Sir Isaac Newton never used a hovercycle, that’s just ridiculous. He did invent luminous toothpaste, though, so that night joggers could bare their pearly whites as a means of lighting the way ahead. It’s from this idea that headlamps grew from. True story.
Sherlock Holmes and the Underpants of Death Reviews
LOBO: Having just cracked my copy of Sherlock Holmes and the Underpants of Death, I must say I’m enjoying it immensely. I say we team up and write a new mystery series: “Sherlock ‘Iron Man’ Holmes.” It’s where Sherlock Holmes and Thomas Edison team up and build a suit that can fight crime. Morton Downey Jr is a shoe-in for the movie.
CW: That sounds like a great idea, but I must warn you of my exacting working style. I have to be completely in the zone, and this requires surrounding myself with naked women, who must cover at least 90% of my eyeline as I work. It’s better that way.
I also need several escape routes, at least four (4). This is in case the authorities come crashing through the door, trying to interfere. Of course, the authorities couldn’t care less what I’m up to, but it’s an essential part of my creative process, as are the former Special Forces bodyguards, fuelled motor bike and small inflatable chicken.
LOBO: Americans are extremely tolerant of foreigners no matter how crazy weird their culture is, and the British are no exception. But why do you people insist on butchering our fine American language with that strange accent?
CW: I know, it’s unforgiveable! We’ve even renamed it ‘English.’ Very bad of us. I love the fact that you Americans are tolerant of foreign cultures, especially showing interest in other country’s histories. Every American I’ve met (in the UK) takes the same approach. We English, though, prefer to assert ourselves overseas by loudly demanding egg and chips everywhere we go, even if it’s a church, the dentist or what have you. It’s a cultural thing, and a crap one.
LOBO: Watching Simon Cowell pitbull on American Idol contestants, I am often reminded of what you guys did to William Wallace at the end of Braveheart. Honestly, I kinda get the American Idol thing. But why were you people so mean to William Wallace?
CW: The British authorities of the day didn’t like Mel Gibson, I’m afraid. It’s a shame – I’m a fan, particularly of the first Lethal Weapon film, but there you are. Bloody red tape.
LOBO: The US and UK, are considered “Western Civilization,” The UK is pretty far east of the US. China is currently west of the United States. China should move back where it is on the Risk board, because this is just confusing.
CW: There were plans to position the UK north of the US, so that we could keep an eye on Canada for you and also fart on it. As far as I know, this has yet to happen. I did hear a rumour that the British Isles were actually mounted on a gigantic remote control roller skate, and that we could move about quite easily. The government has kept quiet on the issue, which is suspicious.
Chris Wood does not currently have leukemia. And if you buy
10 copies of his book, you may personally ensure he never does.
Please help Chris continue to fight leukemia!
LOBO: I noticed the taxi driving me here was driving on the wrong side of the road. But the British are so polite they all started driving in the exact same manner -and the cops didn’t bust them for it! In the US, they woulda clubbed us like baby sea lions for something like that. Suspecting a link, I'm thinking maybe cops without guns is a good idea. Do you know John Cleese?
CW: The entire British police force is admirably polite. If you commit a murder, just say, “I say, old chap, I’m terribly sorry,” and they doff their helmets and allow you to continue. Slitty McGraw of Ipswich clocked up over 400 corpses this way, all through good manners and homicidal instincts. It’s a great display of class, I always thought.
John Cleese and I go way back. I call him JC and he calls me the Woodster.
LOBO: I have always admired the UK for it’s role in the Seven Years War. But wouldn’t it have been smarter to have named it the Seven Minute War? It seems to me that would have made it a lot cheaper, and it’s really hard to kill a lot of people in seven minutes. Don't you have egg timers here?
CW: The Seven Years War should only have lasted five years, but they insisted on tea breaks and regular games of cricket. It’s bizarre, I know, but even amidst death and maiming the English love of cricket continues. It’s very bizarre.
LOBO: Cricket, Croquet, Polo … you people sure like blunt objects. Were these sports developed in bad neighborhoods or something?
CW: We do enjoy clubbing people with blunt instruments, true. It stems from our ancient culture of violent games, like face stamping and heading the shot.
LOBO: Again citing Wikipedia, the ancient British went through all the trouble of building the Roman Coliseum. Why isn’t Wimbledon held there? I gotta tell you, a squad of hungry lions would significantly increase the watchability of tennis.
CW: The Ancient Britons were basically travelling builders, and gave the Romans a good quote on the job, even throwing in a patio set for Caesar. Mind, I gather they overran on the job due to tea breaks and were eaten by the lions.
I just found out Chris wants
leukemia. For his collection.
You screwed up.
You mercilessly crushed his leukemia hopes and dreams.
And how dare you play God like that? To avoid suffering
any futureintense feelings of guilt swift and lethal karmic
payback, I suggest buying 10 copies of this book too.
Please help Chris get leukemia!
LOBO: Couldn’t the excitement of modern tennis be vastly improved by simply replacing the ball with small stray cats? That would be cheaper, too.
CW: Tennis is an incredibly dull game, and for a reason. It was invented to test the stamina of wannabe kings. If they could stay awake during a whole game, they got the crown. If not, they were fed to hungry badgers. We’re cost conscious in the UK and lions are expensive. Christians aren’t cheap, you know, and they don’t like Winalot.
LOBO: Wikipedia says Buckingham Palace is 108 meters by 120 meters, being 24 meters high and containing 77,000 square meters of floorspace. Predator Press scienticians studied this for months, and concluded this is, like, a million square feet in real measurements. Why is Buckingham Palace so big? Is this guy Buckingham, like, really fat or something?
CW: The Duke of Buckingham was reputed to have a massive cock, at least 114 feet long, and he claimed he needed a big palace so he could walk around with a boner without flopping it into the walls.
LOBO: Did he know any important people? Lord Likely perhaps?
CW: Well, he was only a duke after all.
LOBO: That's too bad. But isn't it weird that the Duke of Buckingham ultimately became the Duke of Buckingham? It's kinda eerie if you think about it. Was his mom psychic?
CW: The Duke of Buckingham was destined to be a great leader, perhaps the one man who kept unified all Europe at the time. Unfortunately, listening to him speak was like hearing a muppet fart, so his career as an orator was limited.
He did have one dubious claim to fame, however, which did not make him popular with his servants. He used to insist on them kneeling down in front of the gentry and opening their mouths, thus inventing the first urinal. History has been overly kind to him by forgetting this foul deed.
LOBO: So we have him to thank for American beer?
CW: Precisely.
Seriously. Buy this book!
LOBO: The British still stubbornly refer to Saint Paul’s Cathedral as Saint Paul’s, despite the fact that -according to Wikipedia- Saint Francis of Assisi orchestrated a successful hostile takeover bid in 1996. England has historically been lockstep with Catholics, and -not generally known for rebellious acts against the church- you guys are uncharacteristically risking pissing off the Pope.
Is it problem with Saint Francis of Assisi? Whatever Saint Francis of Assisi has done, consider the alternative ... the Pope sending Jesus to pound a bunch of pagans into a thick chalky paste, and pouring what remains over Satan's hibachi for all Eternity. Personally? I think you should reconsider.
Besides, I’ve seen the new St. Francis Cathedral sign he wants to erect and it’s got all sparkly neon letters!
CW: It’s actually St Filbert’s. St Paul won it in a card game (Deuteronomy 12:12,903,218,407).
LOBO: But I thought St. Francis of Assisi quit gambling and had to go to those meetings and stuff. Wait. Am I thinking of Bob Wilson of Galilee? ... No, Bob Wilson of Galilee is the guy that can do that cool trick where he pulls his thumb off and put it back on.
-Ah! You mean Joe Francis of Assisi, right?
CW: No. That’s a common mistake … Joe Francis is the patron saint of something that almost rhymes with Assisi. As to Saint Francis, he is one of the few saints I know of to be mobbed up. He used to be called Frankie of the Birds, or Frank the Holy. He and his crew used to chill there in the small hours, smoking cigars and saying “Fuck you” a lot. I went to St Paul’s last year. Nothing’s changed.
In the old days, the Popes were super-pissy, and if they didn’t like anything, they’d send round a couple of cardinals to smash all your windows and insult your drapes. The English are super-sensitive to things like that, and its dread power kept us in thrall for quite some time.
LOBO: I see the British Museum is here in Britain. A museum that features British stuff right smack in Britain seems redundant -I mean you didn’t put Scotland Yard in Scotland. And that would have been smart, because then the Scots would had to mow it! I would have gone with an ABBA Museum. Or a casino.
CW: The British Museum is in Britain, which flies in the face of our fine tradition of making no fucking sense at all. (Have you seen our spelling?)
The location of Scotland Yard – London - is intended to confuse criminals. It’s a sneaky move but a successful one, and has been a triumph for over one hundred years. We have really thick criminals over here. Mind, you should see our police.
Oh come on! If you use your VISA, Amazon will practically
mail Sherlock Homes and the Underpants of Death to you!
You barely have to get off the couch for God's sake. Think
your snooty librarian will mail you books? Those people are lazy!
LOBO: You claimed to have written The Ingredients of a Good Thriller in the span of a few months. I don’t think I could manage a dozen heartbeats over that short a span of time. Were you on steroids or something?
CW: No, I wasn’t on steroids, although I did have a constant supply of merest whims being brought to me by my especially compliant Personal Needs Department. These trained experts are so dedicated, they make the SAS look like half-arsed delinquents.
It was also necessary to neglect a great many personal matters for this period, so for six and a half months I did without food, sleep, and going to the toilet. I began in late December, and I can tell you, I had one hell of a messy June.
Totally worth it, even if I did have to move house afterwards and am still being sued for the effects of subsidence caused by my rocket-like flow of piss.
LOBO: I think I'm 'connecting the dots' here. America's Founding fathers replaced all those prototype British cities with newer versions that are closer for Americans to visit. But once we got lots of guns to shoot each other with, we forgot we were having wars with you guys and started working on domestic issues.
Eventually we forgot what the Founding Fathers found in the first place, which subsequently resulted in the Founding Fathers' unjust demotion to mere Finding Fathers. And just try to pay a Founding Father's Child Support on a Finding Father's pay. It's impossible.
CW: So I assume you shot them?
LOBO: Probably. But no one knows with 100% certainty. With no Founding Fathers to get the deadbeat Finding Fathers found, we soon ran out of ideas and bought televisions.
-But let's get back to why you guys kept those old, worn-out cities like Hampshire, York, Jersey when ours were perfectly new? Is this part of a sinister British plan to hog all the history?
CW: I like the fact that America has used a lot of our place names. There’s a Manchester in Texas, for example, which is great because when I ask for directions home, I can end up in a different continent. Not very convenient, but it adds a certain spice to life.
To be honest, I think the American Manchester might be in Washington. I’ve no idea. Your country is too big. Make it smaller, please. Can’t you throw a few of the crappy states out of the union? Just keep the good stuff, like where they make Fender guitars and gangster films, and get shut of the knuckle draggers that just pull down your national average.
LOBO: Ooooh I’m with you there! There’s like fifteen or twenty states that are totally worthless.
CW: Yes. I mean, would you really miss some places? I keep saying we should throw Yorkshire out of England, and the whole of the UK is only 27 square inches. Surely you have surplus crap you can do without? It would make it easier on the place names, and frankly, more cash and leisure time for the rest of you. Do you really need a North and South Carolina?
LOBO: Hell no! Those lazy slobs didn’t even bother to come up with separate names! Cripes … now that I think about it, we could get down to six or seven states. Tops. I say we just create a whole new continism -like 'Englerica' or 'Ameringland.'
CW: Think of all the postage we would save. And who wants to have to remember all these area and zip codes?
LOBO: So what happens with all those old, passé city names then?
CW: Joe Francis is naming cities?
LOBO: No. I said ‘passé.’
CW: Oh. We were planning to sell them off in a big yard sale, but I think we just grew attached to them. There are plans to update parts of England - Chichester now has electricity, for example (although I doubt it’ll catch on).
LOBO: Chickchester? Did British feminists found that place in response to Man-chester? Jesus, this whole ‘let’s pretend women are as important as men’ thing is getting out of hand.
Well, I wouldn’t force the feminists to get electricity … if they want to operate ovens barefoot and pregnant via Gilligan’s Island pedal-power, who are we to argue? I have a strict ‘hands off’ policy when it comes to wanton abominations against science and nature like that.
CW: Personally, I enjoy the old fashioned and quaint. I was burnt at the stake yesterday, for example, and I’ve never felt better.
Limited Time Offer!
Buy The Ingredients of a Good Thriller
now, and we will make this post shorter!
LOBO: I got this picture from your blogger profile. Don't you think you are losing too much weight?
CW: Yes. I’m one salad away from not reflecting light at all, I’m that thin. It’s one of those things. It’s the curse of size zero, I reckon.
LOBO: So want to give a heads up on what you’re working on next?
CW: I have two books in the pipeline. One is a sequel, called Sherlock Holmes and the Flying Zombie Death Monkeys, which is a poignant biography of Duke Ellington. The other is a political novel called Judas Cow, which I began in 2004 and so far has seen me just about lose my marbles.
The Holmes / Ellington book should be out later this year. Judas Cow may never be ready, as it’s one of those serious (ish) novel type novels which make the author dress up as Napoleon and mutter darkly about his plans for Russia. Not to worry. Luckily I’m a teacher, and a certain measure of insanity is considered a positive bonus.
Did we mention the free porn?
Already a fan of Chris Wood's Blog, I'm not suprised to find his books only further underline his remarkable writing talent.Thus, the urgency of his, eh, "early retirement."
See, I can’t find a publisher for my stuff; everybody keeps saying things like, ‘I’ve never seen such bad spelling,’ and, ‘How did you get a typo in crayon?’
With all the serenity I can muster, I find myself repeatedly explaining how it’s a children’s book, and kids -inherently dumb by nature- would never know the goddamn difference. But those know-it-all fucktarded shit sticks at the Wall Street Journal wouldn‘t know a decent children's book writer's talent if it popped a zit on their dork.
I set all these fires for nothing.
So Chris Wood must die.
DIE!
I mean, who needs this kind of competition? And who put talented writers in charge of everything anyway? Hm? I'm just supposed to sit here while fancy-pants British author Chris Wood -just oozing talent- is hoggin’ up all that paper? It’s not like paper grows on trees you know.
This 'Chris Wood' probably counts his stacks of gold while saying 'pip pip' at random intervals, smoking a big curvy pipe in front of a fireplace. You call this a level playing field? Shit, anybody can get published with cheesy gimmicks like talent, a big curvy pipe and a fireplace! And where the hell do you even get a big curvy pipe and a fireplace here in the Twentieth Centurion?I'm the victim here if you think about it.
Dyin's too good for him.
-He should die with extreme predjudice.
I‘ll choke that sonofabitch with his own monocle chain.
CW: Why are you in my house?
LOBO: I‘m not in your house pal. I‘m in Chris Wood‘s house. Have you seen him? He looks just like you, but he's British. You know, monocle, khaki shorts ... possibly a pith helmet.
CW: Chris Wood is my twin brother. There must be some kind of mix up here.
LOBO: Really? The cops told me he lives here.
CW: Cops?
LOBO: Yeah. I rode an international flight here in a ghillie suit made of almond tree branches. Despite the brilliant camouflage, some Air Marshalls came to my row insisting they could see me. I called them filthy liars, and, well, long story short, they kicked the crap out of me until I made bail.
CW: Well, it‘s a good thing they couldn‘t see you then, wasn‘t it?
LOBO: Yes. I hate filthy liars. Experiences like that is why I totally hate foreigners.
CW: Me too.
LOBO: My name is LOBO.
CW Hello LOBO. I‘m Chris Wood.
LOBO: You and your twin brother are both named Chris Wood? Isn‘t that confusing?
CW: I'm hassled by idiots over it constantly.
LOBO: It sounds like life will be simpler for both of us if he was dead.
CW: Indeed. He’s very evil. You know The Ingredients of a Good Thriller? I wrote that. And Sherlock Holmes and the Underpants of Death too! But he stole all the credit.LOBO: That bastard. Listen, help me out with some surveillance-type questions. We can pool our information, put a homing beacon on his car, and track him via satellite. After a few weeks of that, we'll analyze the data and determine the best place to kill him with cinderblocks and pointy sticks.
CW: Pointy sticks are illegal here -and cinderblocks tend to be cost-prohibitive.
LOBO: Really? Man this place is weird. I mean we’re on the opposite side of the world from the US, yet gravity is not reversed. Unlike anarchists, Americans obey the laws of physics! The custom travel pants Predator Press scienticians designed for me -the ones with inverted pockets- have somehow malfunctioned, and I have lost my wallet and passport as a result. Can I sleep in your car for the duration? I see your steering wheel is on the wrong side. I can fix that.
CW: My car does have a steering wheel, but it doesn’t work. My car’s direction is actually controlled by a rudder, which means ploughing through concrete every time I drive, but there you go.Personally, I try to ignore the laws of physics. This does take some willpower, but stick with it. You just have to be strict with them, and then you can float about, let your molecules wander off, even turn kinetic energy into pizza – it’s fantastic.
LOBO: Judging from your music collection, your favorite music appears to be the blues. But that crap is depressing! Where the hell is the ABBA? Are you hiding it? I don’t see any copies of Max Payne in your DVD collection either.
CW: I don’t find the blues depressing, or at least not all of it. “I’m getting my dick sucked as I sing this” by Big Smile Chesterton, for example, is a happy tune. So is “I ran over the taxman (and I stole his wallet too)” by Goodforhim Lemonzest.
Also, anyone who doesn’t feel laid back while listening to BB King is a bollock faced imbecile. I have that on good authority.
LOBO: I disagree. That 'laid back' thing only ensures his show will never be as widely-enjoyed by the masses like the rampantly successful Predator Press juggernaut is.-All King's interviews are chocked full of softball questions, and the resulting lack of journalistic 'edge' makes his show a real snoozer. Worse, you don't want to fall asleep around him ... once sufficiently lulled, he marries you.
CW: Well you can’t trust British culture either. It will break into your house and completely screw with your mind, by putting your CDs in the wrong cases and slightly adjusting the settings on your TV.
LOBO: The Beatles and The Rolling Stones Chris? That’s total Rock ‘N Roll overkill. Don’t you think farming out the Sex Pistols to France would have been at least, well, sporting?
CW: We tried, but the trouble was European Union legislation stating that all foreign rock bands had to be pasturised before entering France. Johnny Rotten and co weren’t fond of the idea of being boiled en route, so the whole thing fell through. I call it a lack of initiative.
Hey, have you been slightly adjusting the settings on my TV? I thought BB King was black. This guy looks like he swapped Frodo's ring for bulletproof eyewear. And does that shade of blue really occur in nature?
LOBO: You once wrote “English mustard is the envy of the civilized world. If you don't envy it, you aren't civilized.” If the Germans find out you dissed Heinz Ketchup like that, it could start World Wars III, IV and π. In the future, can you please refrain from this scathing and incendiary commentary on condiments for the sake of world peace? There’s only so many times we should be expected to rescue the French … and their mustard sucks.
CW: No, fuck world peace. I must have my say on condiments. If we all have to become little piles of radioactive soot just because I don’t like your choice of dressing, tough shit.I agree French’s Mustard is tasteless, underspiced cack, but it does have one useful application. It can be put on roast beef to torture British men, should that be necessary. Much better than wiring their balls up to the mains, quite frankly, because while it naturally hurts like a bastard to ruin a good slice of roast cow, it’s better than frazzling somebody’s knadgers. Probably. I mean, less bad karma and all, which can’t be a bad thing.
For somebody who just said ‘Fuck world peace,’ I should worry.
LOBO: The UK should feel indebted to the United States. If not for us, just think of how many nukes would be pointed at you instead. Jesus. What is the Defense Budget for soccer?
CW: Despite living in Manchester, I’m still leery of British culture. It once sold me an Oasis album which turned out to be full of rancid warbling and vague guitar scratching. It’s not all Benny Hill and James Bond, you know. That’s only the good stuff.
The worst thing about British culture is that it forced Benny Hill off the air. This was during the Thatcher years, when the only other thing to laugh at was people in government getting buggered by dwarves.
LOBO: Do you like documentaries? Researching British history on Wikipedia, I found out Margaret Thatcher and William Shakespeare were having a torrid affair, and David Bowie killed Shakespeare in a fit of jealous rage. Thatcher escaped by choking Tony Blair with her thong, and Sir Isaac Newtron rescued her on his hovercycle. Shit that’s AWESOME -all we Americans got is a guy with a lantern yelling “one if by land, two if by sea” from some freakin lighthouse.
CW: Yes, it’s true about Bowie and the Bard. I gather they argued about the royalties for Cat People. Christopher Marlowe met his end in the same way, although I heard that was about his royalties from the first Bat Out Of Hell album. Or so I’m told. Thatcher was actually having an affair with Samuel Johnson, who wrote the first dictionary. He was so fat he needed a crane to keep his gut out of the way while they were getting down to business.
Sir Isaac Newton never used a hovercycle, that’s just ridiculous. He did invent luminous toothpaste, though, so that night joggers could bare their pearly whites as a means of lighting the way ahead. It’s from this idea that headlamps grew from. True story.
LOBO: Having just cracked my copy of Sherlock Holmes and the Underpants of Death, I must say I’m enjoying it immensely. I say we team up and write a new mystery series: “Sherlock ‘Iron Man’ Holmes.” It’s where Sherlock Holmes and Thomas Edison team up and build a suit that can fight crime. Morton Downey Jr is a shoe-in for the movie.CW: That sounds like a great idea, but I must warn you of my exacting working style. I have to be completely in the zone, and this requires surrounding myself with naked women, who must cover at least 90% of my eyeline as I work. It’s better that way.
I also need several escape routes, at least four (4). This is in case the authorities come crashing through the door, trying to interfere. Of course, the authorities couldn’t care less what I’m up to, but it’s an essential part of my creative process, as are the former Special Forces bodyguards, fuelled motor bike and small inflatable chicken.
LOBO: Americans are extremely tolerant of foreigners no matter how crazy weird their culture is, and the British are no exception. But why do you people insist on butchering our fine American language with that strange accent?
CW: I know, it’s unforgiveable! We’ve even renamed it ‘English.’ Very bad of us. I love the fact that you Americans are tolerant of foreign cultures, especially showing interest in other country’s histories. Every American I’ve met (in the UK) takes the same approach. We English, though, prefer to assert ourselves overseas by loudly demanding egg and chips everywhere we go, even if it’s a church, the dentist or what have you. It’s a cultural thing, and a crap one.
LOBO: Watching Simon Cowell pitbull on American Idol contestants, I am often reminded of what you guys did to William Wallace at the end of Braveheart. Honestly, I kinda get the American Idol thing. But why were you people so mean to William Wallace?CW: The British authorities of the day didn’t like Mel Gibson, I’m afraid. It’s a shame – I’m a fan, particularly of the first Lethal Weapon film, but there you are. Bloody red tape.
LOBO: The US and UK, are considered “Western Civilization,” The UK is pretty far east of the US. China is currently west of the United States. China should move back where it is on the Risk board, because this is just confusing.
CW: There were plans to position the UK north of the US, so that we could keep an eye on Canada for you and also fart on it. As far as I know, this has yet to happen. I did hear a rumour that the British Isles were actually mounted on a gigantic remote control roller skate, and that we could move about quite easily. The government has kept quiet on the issue, which is suspicious.
10 copies of his book, you may personally ensure he never does.
Please help Chris continue to fight leukemia!
LOBO: I noticed the taxi driving me here was driving on the wrong side of the road. But the British are so polite they all started driving in the exact same manner -and the cops didn’t bust them for it! In the US, they woulda clubbed us like baby sea lions for something like that. Suspecting a link, I'm thinking maybe cops without guns is a good idea. Do you know John Cleese?
CW: The entire British police force is admirably polite. If you commit a murder, just say, “I say, old chap, I’m terribly sorry,” and they doff their helmets and allow you to continue. Slitty McGraw of Ipswich clocked up over 400 corpses this way, all through good manners and homicidal instincts. It’s a great display of class, I always thought.
John Cleese and I go way back. I call him JC and he calls me the Woodster.
LOBO: I have always admired the UK for it’s role in the Seven Years War. But wouldn’t it have been smarter to have named it the Seven Minute War? It seems to me that would have made it a lot cheaper, and it’s really hard to kill a lot of people in seven minutes. Don't you have egg timers here?
CW: The Seven Years War should only have lasted five years, but they insisted on tea breaks and regular games of cricket. It’s bizarre, I know, but even amidst death and maiming the English love of cricket continues. It’s very bizarre.LOBO: Cricket, Croquet, Polo … you people sure like blunt objects. Were these sports developed in bad neighborhoods or something?
CW: We do enjoy clubbing people with blunt instruments, true. It stems from our ancient culture of violent games, like face stamping and heading the shot.
LOBO: Again citing Wikipedia, the ancient British went through all the trouble of building the Roman Coliseum. Why isn’t Wimbledon held there? I gotta tell you, a squad of hungry lions would significantly increase the watchability of tennis.
CW: The Ancient Britons were basically travelling builders, and gave the Romans a good quote on the job, even throwing in a patio set for Caesar. Mind, I gather they overran on the job due to tea breaks and were eaten by the lions.
leukemia. For his collection.
You screwed up.
You mercilessly crushed his leukemia hopes and dreams.
And how dare you play God like that? To avoid suffering
any future
payback, I suggest buying 10 copies of this book too.
Please help Chris get leukemia!
LOBO: Couldn’t the excitement of modern tennis be vastly improved by simply replacing the ball with small stray cats? That would be cheaper, too.
CW: Tennis is an incredibly dull game, and for a reason. It was invented to test the stamina of wannabe kings. If they could stay awake during a whole game, they got the crown. If not, they were fed to hungry badgers. We’re cost conscious in the UK and lions are expensive. Christians aren’t cheap, you know, and they don’t like Winalot.LOBO: Wikipedia says Buckingham Palace is 108 meters by 120 meters, being 24 meters high and containing 77,000 square meters of floorspace. Predator Press scienticians studied this for months, and concluded this is, like, a million square feet in real measurements. Why is Buckingham Palace so big? Is this guy Buckingham, like, really fat or something?
CW: The Duke of Buckingham was reputed to have a massive cock, at least 114 feet long, and he claimed he needed a big palace so he could walk around with a boner without flopping it into the walls.
LOBO: Did he know any important people? Lord Likely perhaps?
CW: Well, he was only a duke after all.
LOBO: That's too bad. But isn't it weird that the Duke of Buckingham ultimately became the Duke of Buckingham? It's kinda eerie if you think about it. Was his mom psychic?
CW: The Duke of Buckingham was destined to be a great leader, perhaps the one man who kept unified all Europe at the time. Unfortunately, listening to him speak was like hearing a muppet fart, so his career as an orator was limited.
He did have one dubious claim to fame, however, which did not make him popular with his servants. He used to insist on them kneeling down in front of the gentry and opening their mouths, thus inventing the first urinal. History has been overly kind to him by forgetting this foul deed.
LOBO: So we have him to thank for American beer?
CW: Precisely.
LOBO: The British still stubbornly refer to Saint Paul’s Cathedral as Saint Paul’s, despite the fact that -according to Wikipedia- Saint Francis of Assisi orchestrated a successful hostile takeover bid in 1996. England has historically been lockstep with Catholics, and -not generally known for rebellious acts against the church- you guys are uncharacteristically risking pissing off the Pope.
Is it problem with Saint Francis of Assisi? Whatever Saint Francis of Assisi has done, consider the alternative ... the Pope sending Jesus to pound a bunch of pagans into a thick chalky paste, and pouring what remains over Satan's hibachi for all Eternity. Personally? I think you should reconsider.
Besides, I’ve seen the new St. Francis Cathedral sign he wants to erect and it’s got all sparkly neon letters!
CW: It’s actually St Filbert’s. St Paul won it in a card game (Deuteronomy 12:12,903,218,407).
LOBO: But I thought St. Francis of Assisi quit gambling and had to go to those meetings and stuff. Wait. Am I thinking of Bob Wilson of Galilee? ... No, Bob Wilson of Galilee is the guy that can do that cool trick where he pulls his thumb off and put it back on.
-Ah! You mean Joe Francis of Assisi, right?
CW: No. That’s a common mistake … Joe Francis is the patron saint of something that almost rhymes with Assisi. As to Saint Francis, he is one of the few saints I know of to be mobbed up. He used to be called Frankie of the Birds, or Frank the Holy. He and his crew used to chill there in the small hours, smoking cigars and saying “Fuck you” a lot. I went to St Paul’s last year. Nothing’s changed.In the old days, the Popes were super-pissy, and if they didn’t like anything, they’d send round a couple of cardinals to smash all your windows and insult your drapes. The English are super-sensitive to things like that, and its dread power kept us in thrall for quite some time.
LOBO: I see the British Museum is here in Britain. A museum that features British stuff right smack in Britain seems redundant -I mean you didn’t put Scotland Yard in Scotland. And that would have been smart, because then the Scots would had to mow it! I would have gone with an ABBA Museum. Or a casino.
CW: The British Museum is in Britain, which flies in the face of our fine tradition of making no fucking sense at all. (Have you seen our spelling?)
The location of Scotland Yard – London - is intended to confuse criminals. It’s a sneaky move but a successful one, and has been a triumph for over one hundred years. We have really thick criminals over here. Mind, you should see our police.
mail Sherlock Homes and the Underpants of Death to you!
You barely have to get off the couch for God's sake. Think
your snooty librarian will mail you books? Those people are lazy!
LOBO: You claimed to have written The Ingredients of a Good Thriller in the span of a few months. I don’t think I could manage a dozen heartbeats over that short a span of time. Were you on steroids or something?
CW: No, I wasn’t on steroids, although I did have a constant supply of merest whims being brought to me by my especially compliant Personal Needs Department. These trained experts are so dedicated, they make the SAS look like half-arsed delinquents.It was also necessary to neglect a great many personal matters for this period, so for six and a half months I did without food, sleep, and going to the toilet. I began in late December, and I can tell you, I had one hell of a messy June.
Totally worth it, even if I did have to move house afterwards and am still being sued for the effects of subsidence caused by my rocket-like flow of piss.
LOBO: I think I'm 'connecting the dots' here. America's Founding fathers replaced all those prototype British cities with newer versions that are closer for Americans to visit. But once we got lots of guns to shoot each other with, we forgot we were having wars with you guys and started working on domestic issues.
Eventually we forgot what the Founding Fathers found in the first place, which subsequently resulted in the Founding Fathers' unjust demotion to mere Finding Fathers. And just try to pay a Founding Father's Child Support on a Finding Father's pay. It's impossible.
CW: So I assume you shot them?
LOBO: Probably. But no one knows with 100% certainty. With no Founding Fathers to get the deadbeat Finding Fathers found, we soon ran out of ideas and bought televisions.
-But let's get back to why you guys kept those old, worn-out cities like Hampshire, York, Jersey when ours were perfectly new? Is this part of a sinister British plan to hog all the history?
CW: I like the fact that America has used a lot of our place names. There’s a Manchester in Texas, for example, which is great because when I ask for directions home, I can end up in a different continent. Not very convenient, but it adds a certain spice to life.
To be honest, I think the American Manchester might be in Washington. I’ve no idea. Your country is too big. Make it smaller, please. Can’t you throw a few of the crappy states out of the union? Just keep the good stuff, like where they make Fender guitars and gangster films, and get shut of the knuckle draggers that just pull down your national average.
LOBO: Ooooh I’m with you there! There’s like fifteen or twenty states that are totally worthless.
CW: Yes. I mean, would you really miss some places? I keep saying we should throw Yorkshire out of England, and the whole of the UK is only 27 square inches. Surely you have surplus crap you can do without? It would make it easier on the place names, and frankly, more cash and leisure time for the rest of you. Do you really need a North and South Carolina?
LOBO: Hell no! Those lazy slobs didn’t even bother to come up with separate names! Cripes … now that I think about it, we could get down to six or seven states. Tops. I say we just create a whole new continism -like 'Englerica' or 'Ameringland.'
CW: Think of all the postage we would save. And who wants to have to remember all these area and zip codes?LOBO: So what happens with all those old, passé city names then?
CW: Joe Francis is naming cities?
LOBO: No. I said ‘passé.’
CW: Oh. We were planning to sell them off in a big yard sale, but I think we just grew attached to them. There are plans to update parts of England - Chichester now has electricity, for example (although I doubt it’ll catch on).
LOBO: Chickchester? Did British feminists found that place in response to Man-chester? Jesus, this whole ‘let’s pretend women are as important as men’ thing is getting out of hand.
Well, I wouldn’t force the feminists to get electricity … if they want to operate ovens barefoot and pregnant via Gilligan’s Island pedal-power, who are we to argue? I have a strict ‘hands off’ policy when it comes to wanton abominations against science and nature like that.
CW: Personally, I enjoy the old fashioned and quaint. I was burnt at the stake yesterday, for example, and I’ve never felt better.
Buy The Ingredients of a Good Thriller
now, and we will make this post shorter!
LOBO: I got this picture from your blogger profile. Don't you think you are losing too much weight?CW: Yes. I’m one salad away from not reflecting light at all, I’m that thin. It’s one of those things. It’s the curse of size zero, I reckon.
LOBO: So want to give a heads up on what you’re working on next?
CW: I have two books in the pipeline. One is a sequel, called Sherlock Holmes and the Flying Zombie Death Monkeys, which is a poignant biography of Duke Ellington. The other is a political novel called Judas Cow, which I began in 2004 and so far has seen me just about lose my marbles.
The Holmes / Ellington book should be out later this year. Judas Cow may never be ready, as it’s one of those serious (ish) novel type novels which make the author dress up as Napoleon and mutter darkly about his plans for Russia. Not to worry. Luckily I’m a teacher, and a certain measure of insanity is considered a positive bonus.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
-
Predator Press [LOBO] Yes it's totally true. There is now, in fact, a $14.95 Bionic Ear . And I'm not even going to g... -
LOBO - Predator Press "I can't believe the woman giving the MRI was flirting with you right in front of me ," Wendy growled.... -
LOBO - Predator Press "What is wrong with my eye?" I ask. "Is it cancer?" "I think you got soap in it" W...