Predator Press
[LOBO]
Wednesday
Monday
Period
Predator Press
[LOBO]
I know you millions and millions of throngs of Predator Press throngs see this post off and on as "Internet Swag." But this band -this song in particular- deserves to exist on Predator Press somewhere in perpetuity.
Truth be told it's a sore spot that draws a lot of unwanted commentary, and that's why it keeps getting deleted. But it carried me through a lot last year, and LOBO is now entering the "Middle Ages."
[*sigh*]
Why is everything so dark?
It makes it really hard to see if any kids are on my lawn.
NO FOO FOR YOU!
[LOBO]
I know you millions and millions of throngs of Predator Press throngs see this post off and on as "Internet Swag." But this band -this song in particular- deserves to exist on Predator Press somewhere in perpetuity.
Truth be told it's a sore spot that draws a lot of unwanted commentary, and that's why it keeps getting deleted. But it carried me through a lot last year, and LOBO is now entering the "Middle Ages."
[*sigh*]
Why is everything so dark?
It makes it really hard to see if any kids are on my lawn.
Sunday
iwantone.exe
Predator Press
[LOBO]
Everyone laughed when I gave them the list of what I wanted for my Birthday back in February. "Sure we can get you a pony," they would scoff. "But the LOST smoke monster doesn't even exist."
Thank GOD for my friend Flandsa Ha’asasanba who happened to answer my Customer Service call to VISA.
Fuck VISA "Platinum" -for the paltry sum all of Terri's banking info, I got a Visa UNOBTANIUM card. And the pony arrives tomorrow.
-Jesus I hope the smoke monster eats ponies.
Wednesday
It's Official: EVERYTHING Pain in the Ass Now
Predator Press
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"Just because I took you off of Probation doesn't mean I don't still own 51% of Barbarossa Enterprises," I says, menacingly poking my finger into his birdcage chest. "And things like this could get you right back on Probation."
"Well I don't know if you're aware of this," Barbarossa retorts, "but congratulations J.R. Ewing. You are proud owner of 51% of all four seasons of Sealab 2021 on DVD and 100,000 pairs of socks."
"Ah-HA!" I says.
Wait.
-What?
"And don't ask about the sock thing," Barbarossa warns. "I have OCD as a consequence of childhood trauma. If I don't buy socks, I stab people."
Man those must be some pretty cool socks.
"Fine," I demand. "Then we'll start with the socks. I would like my 51% of them immediately. And don't think you're gonna to give me all the crappy socks either -I want all of the left-side ones, and 1,000 right-side of my choice."
[LOBO]
"Just because I took you off of Probation doesn't mean I don't still own 51% of Barbarossa Enterprises," I says, menacingly poking my finger into his birdcage chest. "And things like this could get you right back on Probation."
"Well I don't know if you're aware of this," Barbarossa retorts, "but congratulations J.R. Ewing. You are proud owner of 51% of all four seasons of Sealab 2021 on DVD and 100,000 pairs of socks."
"Ah-HA!" I says.
Wait.
-What?
"And don't ask about the sock thing," Barbarossa warns. "I have OCD as a consequence of childhood trauma. If I don't buy socks, I stab people."
Man those must be some pretty cool socks.
"Fine," I demand. "Then we'll start with the socks. I would like my 51% of them immediately. And don't think you're gonna to give me all the crappy socks either -I want all of the left-side ones, and 1,000 right-side of my choice."
Monday
Sunday
I Injured the Obliques!
Predator Press
[LOBO]
I, the Mighty LOBO, must wear glasses now.
-And all this time I thought the "Alphabits" were just talkin' trash.
Tuesday
Divided You Fall
Predator Press [LOBO]
Want a decent example of how fucked contemporary America is? Rush Limbaugh and I are in total agreement.
The single surviving facet not struck down by the Supreme Court in Arizona's attempt to get a handle on their "Immigration" issue was the one where, if lawfully stopped, the police were authorized to verify the citizenship status of the individual.
Let me start by saying I do not think the need to present an ID is a racist issue. Even I, the Mighty LOBO -Senior LOBOnian Diplomat and Liason to the United States- have to present identification several times a week.
So all ten people legally in Arizona said, "Hey, we have to pay for these untaxed people through social services funded by our legal residents. Federal law prohibits this type undocumented 'occupation,' but you Feds are not enforcing your own laws. And this is really screwing the four people in Arizona who are paying taxes."
The Supreme Court rejected virtually every element of Arizona's proposed laws -based ironically on the fact that "immigration" is an exclusively Federal issue- but retained Arizona's right to identify "illegals" to the Feds.
So cool, right? At least the Feds are still on board?
Within HOURS of this teeny "victory," Federal officials told Arizona "Yeah. You can find out if they are illegal or not. But don't call us about it." I swear to God that's exactly what happened: the 'United' States told Arizona "You're still on your own."So Arizona is handcuffed to whatever al qaeda fuck that wanders in without recourse because the Feds decided to be defunct and useless by selective enforcement of their own law? That's at least dereliction of duty if not outright treason, and Arizona is obliged to manage an unenforceable, porous, dangerous and expensive border as a consequence.
-Whoops ... can we really even call it a "border" at this point with a straight face?
I cite the United States in contempt of it's own hallowed "Constitution," and if I were Arizona, I would secede from this so-called "Union" entirely. LOBOnia backs Arizona 100%. Moreover, LOBOnia has plenty of room for Arizona, and invites Arizona to become an official LOBOnian territory -replete with a LOBOnian government and LOBOnian taxation.
C'mon Arizona. Think about it at least.
-LOBOnia has better weather too.
Sunday
It's On
Predator Press
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"Hello?"
"Hello."
"Who is this?"
"You damn well know who this is. This is Debbie."
"Okay," I sigh, leaning back on the couch.
Brief pause.
"Is this Jesse?" she asks.
"Is this Debbie?" I demand.
-Holy crap. I hope I have popcorn left.
Thursday
Saturday
Cat Crack on a Soap Salt Budget
[LOBO]
I found a half a pack of "Fuzzy Sticks" -kinda like really long pastel pipe cleaners.
For a full bag containing 100 the Walmart label says "$1.99." The product code suggests they can be found in the Crafts Department, and the fact that Walmart has a "Crafts Department" is probably most profound thing in this post altogether.
Still, it started with me bouncing a "Fuzzy Stick" playfully off of Phil II's noggin. Once I got her attention, she would try and catch the end. And as she inevitably caught it here and there, random kinks and elbows would form in the wire ... only serving to make the thing more wobbly and unpredictable.
Ultimately I set it down, and she continued to play with it relentlessly for two hours straight, hopping on one bent end only to have the other rise.
-Thoroughly exhausted, she is now sound asleep.
HELP ME
Thursday
Tuesday
Monday
Sunday
Sex Offender
Predator Press
[LOBO]
"How come you haven't been going to work?" asks Barbarossa. "Did you get fired already?"
"No." I reply. "The Spanish Fly Industrial Complex closed down. Everyone is dead. I would be too if I hadn't called off sick my first day."
"What happened?"
"Apparently they tried my suggestion of using ionized water. This created the unexpected result of Spanish Fly that actually worked. What ensued was the most fantastic HAZMAT situation in history, and within two hours everyone died from severe trauma to the pelvis."
Barbarossa stares.
"I still get a check in the mail every two weeks," I shrug.
"Cool!"
[LOBO]
"How come you haven't been going to work?" asks Barbarossa. "Did you get fired already?"
"No." I reply. "The Spanish Fly Industrial Complex closed down. Everyone is dead. I would be too if I hadn't called off sick my first day."
"What happened?"
"Apparently they tried my suggestion of using ionized water. This created the unexpected result of Spanish Fly that actually worked. What ensued was the most fantastic HAZMAT situation in history, and within two hours everyone died from severe trauma to the pelvis."
Barbarossa stares.
"I still get a check in the mail every two weeks," I shrug.
"Cool!"
Friday
Monday
Obama Told Me There'd Be Days Like This
Predator Press
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“For a guy that got the job,” says Barbarossa, “you sure don’t look very happy about it.”
“Nah I’m fine,” I says, checking my mirrors. “It‘s just weird. Nobody has passed that test in 30 years. Doctor Yakamoto died in 2006. So everybody has gotta pull on my hair to see if it’s a wig.”
“So it’s the Spanish Fly Industrial Complex, huh? What do they make?”
Watching the road, I didn’t realize he wasn’t kidding.
“Spanish Fly,” I say finally, migraine already creeping in.
“Wow,” says Barbarossa, staring vacantly into the rolling scenery. “Do the Japanese make American ones too? Or are those shipped to Japan? And who makes the flies for the Spaniards?”
Idiot.
“Spanish Fly is a drink that supposedly makes women, ah, amorous.”
“Will it work on Agatha?”
I stare. “No. You should stick to something traditional like Wild Turkey.”
“But that’s because you think Agatha is a guy. And if Agatha is a guy, I would be gay. And I’m not gay.”
“Have you had sex yet?”
“Not in the traditional sense,” he explains. “She’s saving herself for marriage.”
I scowl as all the car's cylinders rise willingly to the sudden burst of speed request at my toe. “Barbarossa, if you say one more goddamn thing I’ll jump the median and kill us both.”
He's like having a conversation with a rock that has learning disabilities. And true to form, he get a few miles before he forgets.
“They’re gonna miss you at the warehouse,” he says.
“Yeah,” I sigh happily, relaxing my toe. “And I wanted to talk about that. You’ll probably end up with my old job if you play your cards right.”
“I’ll have to if me and Agatha are going to raise a family.”
Picking my battles, I let that slide. Rubbing my chin, I choose words carefully. “A car, good job, steady,” I wince painfully. “-girlfriend," I blurt. “You’ve come a long way. “And I’m proud of you. Sort of. I’m taking you off of Probation.”
“Fucking awesome,” he beams. “Hey. Will you tell me what that big red button you threatened me with did?”
“It wasn’t hooked up to anything,” I confess nervously. “It didn’t need to be. Your imagination was infinitely worse than any nightmarish device I could devise.”
“I’ll say,” Barbarossa agrees, eyebrows arched high. “I started wetting the bed last September.” Still staring at the scenery, he adds, “How come we don’t put Spanish Fly in the water supply? We would probably get medals or something.”
“I’m way ahead of you,” I says, scowling. “It turns out Spanish Fly doesn’t work. All it probably does is give a guy some confidence.”
Barbarossa nods slowly. “But what if he’s an asshole?”
“Well, let’s face it,” I says, turning down Barbarossa’s street. “The guy who is going to slip this into someone’s drink for sex is a moral level of scumbag just inches from using roofies or whatever in the first place.”
“Do you get an employee discount?”
“Hell yeah,” I grin. “40 percent off!”
[LOBO]
“For a guy that got the job,” says Barbarossa, “you sure don’t look very happy about it.”
“Nah I’m fine,” I says, checking my mirrors. “It‘s just weird. Nobody has passed that test in 30 years. Doctor Yakamoto died in 2006. So everybody has gotta pull on my hair to see if it’s a wig.”
“So it’s the Spanish Fly Industrial Complex, huh? What do they make?”
Watching the road, I didn’t realize he wasn’t kidding.
“Spanish Fly,” I say finally, migraine already creeping in.
“Wow,” says Barbarossa, staring vacantly into the rolling scenery. “Do the Japanese make American ones too? Or are those shipped to Japan? And who makes the flies for the Spaniards?”
Idiot.
“Spanish Fly is a drink that supposedly makes women, ah, amorous.”
“Will it work on Agatha?”
I stare. “No. You should stick to something traditional like Wild Turkey.”
“But that’s because you think Agatha is a guy. And if Agatha is a guy, I would be gay. And I’m not gay.”“Have you had sex yet?”
“Not in the traditional sense,” he explains. “She’s saving herself for marriage.”
I scowl as all the car's cylinders rise willingly to the sudden burst of speed request at my toe. “Barbarossa, if you say one more goddamn thing I’ll jump the median and kill us both.”
He's like having a conversation with a rock that has learning disabilities. And true to form, he get a few miles before he forgets.
“They’re gonna miss you at the warehouse,” he says.
“Yeah,” I sigh happily, relaxing my toe. “And I wanted to talk about that. You’ll probably end up with my old job if you play your cards right.”
“I’ll have to if me and Agatha are going to raise a family.”
Picking my battles, I let that slide. Rubbing my chin, I choose words carefully. “A car, good job, steady,” I wince painfully. “-girlfriend," I blurt. “You’ve come a long way. “And I’m proud of you. Sort of. I’m taking you off of Probation.”
“Fucking awesome,” he beams. “Hey. Will you tell me what that big red button you threatened me with did?”
“It wasn’t hooked up to anything,” I confess nervously. “It didn’t need to be. Your imagination was infinitely worse than any nightmarish device I could devise.”
“I’ll say,” Barbarossa agrees, eyebrows arched high. “I started wetting the bed last September.” Still staring at the scenery, he adds, “How come we don’t put Spanish Fly in the water supply? We would probably get medals or something.”
“I’m way ahead of you,” I says, scowling. “It turns out Spanish Fly doesn’t work. All it probably does is give a guy some confidence.”
Barbarossa nods slowly. “But what if he’s an asshole?”
“Well, let’s face it,” I says, turning down Barbarossa’s street. “The guy who is going to slip this into someone’s drink for sex is a moral level of scumbag just inches from using roofies or whatever in the first place.”
“Do you get an employee discount?”
“Hell yeah,” I grin. “40 percent off!”
Sunday
How I Got the Job
Predator Press
[LOBO]
Why Fate wrought such war upon me over the last few years isn’t clear, but I sense She grows weary of our struggle.
Little by little, the black tide abates.
Pondering this vaguely, I punch in the supplied keycode by the glass doors of the Spanish Fly Industrial Complex. Exactly on time, I am surprised to find a clean, sparse room. Interestingly, the door I came in is the only entrance or exit.
There is no access to the rest of the building from here.
A fake entrance?
As for signs of human occupation –or even utility- there is little. No telephone. All there is is a combination VCR and television sitting on a collapsible card table. “PRESS PLAY” is printed neatly in likely the black marker on a well-aged index card, and taped by the VCR controls. Three small vials of differently colored fluids, a clear, a white, and a blue, numbered 1-3 in black marker, are standing in a wire display frame.
My name -printed in the similar blocky black Sharpie fashion- on a large new yellow envelope squarely in front of the chair. An ”old school” computer –replete with a green hued fishbowl monitor and a "c-prompt"- hums audibly, and the cursor flashes with infinite and eerie patience.
A vacuum with a hose attachment in the corner grants me a bonus observations; while most horizontal surfaces in the room have a thin layer of dust, the desk and surrounding area is meticulously clean.
Perhaps glaring in the room’s utter sparseness, a subtle camera is fixed in the upper southeast corner.
It, too, is dustless.
The manila envelope contains only a folder bearing my name.
But it’s empty.
Sitting, I reach to the “Play” button, hesitating. There is something about this moment that makes me a sense that, for better or for worse, there is no returning back from this moment. Maybe good ‘ole Fate is easing Her wrath finally.
-Or maybe She’s been playing a ‘Rope-a-Dope’ strategy on my this whole time, and this will be a nice kidney shot just to remind me She’s been thinking about me quite a bit.
The button on the hopelessly antiquated machine clunks under my finger, and the screen flickers as it whines to life. A grainy black and white SFIC company logo is accompanied by a sickening, tinny music that seems to oscillate at wrong speeds, and odd light and dark shapes dance and disappear like ghosts across the screen.
A man in a white lab coat enters the frame and bows stiffly.
“Welcome to the Spanish Fry Induslial Comprex Perspective Employee. I am Doctor Kim Yakamoto, and I will be conducting this intervliew.”
-The words ‘perspective employee’ were dubbed in by another voice. Perfect English. Corporate efficiency, or did the good Doctor Yamamoto just butcher the language too much?
”Thank you for your intelest in the Chemical Taster position. Preese enter the keycode number you were suppried with into the computer.”
I enter the six digits at the prompt. As, eh 'prompted.' The computer’s fan whirs to life, and after an exaggerated pause, a screen with my name on it.
“Preese anaryze-“ Doctor Yamamoto continues is a static addled, warbling voice, “chemicals one, two and thlee, and enter your commentary into the computer. Leave this tape lunning, and I rill tell you when to stop. The test will automaticary save at this point. Begin.”
Vial 1 is clear.
“Vial 1 is tap water,” I enter. “De-ionized water is better for industrial use. The ph level you’re using with this filtrated city water could contaminate your results.”
Vail 2, white, on the other hand, is far less subtle.
“Vail 2 is obviously milk that expired in the middle of last month, and sour. Blech.”
Vial 3, blue, poses somewhat more of a mystery. Standing, I view it through the overhead lights. Thicker than the others, almost like watery dishwashing liquid. The visual inspection yields little else. And suddenly facing the prospect that I need to open it, I’m unsure.
What am I opening here?
“Fuck that,” I says, thinking aloud. For all I know this could be Sarin gas or something. There must be some other way to ...
My eyes fall to the vacuum cleaner.I draw a line in the dust on top of the computer, and examine my fingertip.
-And ever so gingerly, I return the blue vial to it’s cradle. And sitting back down, I type in simply:
"Is Vial 3 the stuff that makes your hair fall out?"
The screen goes blank.
”Time is up,” says Doctor Yamamoto.”Once again, thank you for your interest in the Chemical Taster position. We will review your results and contact you with our decision within 24 hours.”
Saturday
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