Predator Press
[Mr Insanity]
LOBO is strangely absent on this fine day.
For a guy who is virtually unemployed, sleeps till 10 in the morning, et cetera, he sure doesn't have very much time for anything it seems; under Ethan’s instruction, I went to his house … but he didn't answer the door. On his doorknob was a "Sorry We Missed You" note from a plumbing company, and tiny handwritten scrawl at the bottom said something angry about a quarter.
His absence is doubly odd and distressing in that this is the day Predator Press debuts our new game “Killball” on a variety of obscure cable channels. Of the three of us as I recall, LOBO was the most excited; this marked his first time on television he didn't have to eat bugs or marry a millionaire.
Nonetheless, without our tie-breaking official, we continued flying the "missing man" formation. Assembled below us, suited up and ready to play, are all the members of the National Killball League: Max, Brighta and Vetter.
Currently, it’s a very small league.
“Now how do we play again?” Max yells up to Ethan.
“C’mon guys,” yells Ethan. Exasperated, he lowers his rifle. “It couldn’t be simpler! All you have to do is get across the mined playing field by leaping or swinging across all eight of the flaming, acid-filled pits of starving robot alligators in order to intercept the 'Skimmer'. The job of the defense is to keep the Skimmer,” Ethan points at a nervous-looking Vetter who is strapped into a giant slingshot-like device, “from breaking the plane of the End Zone, also referred to as that brick wall over there. If he breaks that plane, that will incur a penalty against the other team.”
“How do we score?”
“Score?”
Suddenly, Ethan’s cell rings.
“Really?” he says into the phone. “On Christmas? Wow that’s terrible. Okay.” He hangs up, and tugs my sleeve.
“Cobe called off. Says his house burned down.”
“Called off?” I says. “Wow. He is so fired.”
Ethan blows the whistle. "Play ball!" he yells.
"What ball?" yells Brighta.
I watch Ethan rub his temples. "Well, don't worry about Cobe, sir. What kind of an asshole works on Christmas anyway?"
Sunday
To the Wolves
Predator Press
[LOBO]
Okay, I’ll admit, rigging Cobe’s place wore me out. I was snoring so loudly, I never even heard the fat fuck sneak in.
Through the front door.
Atlas, I'm thinking, the best laid mice of men and plans.
“Hi Santa,” I says, rubbing my eyes. “Want a cookie?”
Santa eyes me, stroking his beard. “I was very surprised to have to come to you this year,” he says. “You did one lousy good deed.”
“Was it showing Mr. Insanity how to hide his porn bookmarks at work?”
“No, it was what you did for Sapphire,” says Santa. “It took real character to recognize that you were no good for her.”
“Do I get extra for showing Mr. Insanity how to hide his—?“
“Look, just shut up before I change my mind. While Ethan, Mr. Insanity, and Phoebe were all supposedly in Hollywood negotiating the sequel to the Ox Nuts trilogy, they were really working closely with RDO in order to develop your Christmas present.”
“So what did you get me?”
“God you’re an asshole,” Santa sighs. “I’m here to present you with Sapphire v3.0. This one is fusion powered, thus not requiring battery changes. And she’s twice as durable and deadly than the original.”
“Is she hot?”
“See for yourself,” chuckles Santa merrily. “She should be arriving on the roof any second.”
[LOBO]
Okay, I’ll admit, rigging Cobe’s place wore me out. I was snoring so loudly, I never even heard the fat fuck sneak in.
Through the front door.
Atlas, I'm thinking, the best laid mice of men and plans.
“Hi Santa,” I says, rubbing my eyes. “Want a cookie?”
Santa eyes me, stroking his beard. “I was very surprised to have to come to you this year,” he says. “You did one lousy good deed.”
“Was it showing Mr. Insanity how to hide his porn bookmarks at work?”
“No, it was what you did for Sapphire,” says Santa. “It took real character to recognize that you were no good for her.”
“Do I get extra for showing Mr. Insanity how to hide his—?“
“Look, just shut up before I change my mind. While Ethan, Mr. Insanity, and Phoebe were all supposedly in Hollywood negotiating the sequel to the Ox Nuts trilogy, they were really working closely with RDO in order to develop your Christmas present.”
“So what did you get me?”
“God you’re an asshole,” Santa sighs. “I’m here to present you with Sapphire v3.0. This one is fusion powered, thus not requiring battery changes. And she’s twice as durable and deadly than the original.”
“Is she hot?”
“See for yourself,” chuckles Santa merrily. “She should be arriving on the roof any second.”
Missile Tow
Predator Press
[LOBO]
It’s a good bet that Santa will once again be skipping over my humble abode, despite my absolutely angelic behavior. So this year, I’ve decided to pounce the fuck from Cobe’s place.
Cobe will be at work anyways.
‘Ol Saint Nick' will never see this coming. Cobe’s place is already an incredible array of flashing electric Christmas crap, making it a buzzing sensory overload; it’s the perfect place for an ambush.
The roof is peppered with a deadly array of mines, spotlights, surface-to-air missiles, grenade launchers, motion detectors, you name it. And as a personal touch, I even put a remote laser in the nose of one of Cobe’s stuffed reindeer ... you know, the one with the nose already conveniently deformed?
Cobe’s place is a fortress bristling with more firepower than Faluja and Los Angeles combined.
And should the fat man somehow survive the roof, the inside is twice as lethal: The chimney is lined with poisoned spikes, the stockings are trapped, the cookies and milk are a specialized, exotic set of chemicals that will detonate when combined. And a small assortment of Hawley Enterprises' armored cars –cleverly disguised as “Meals on Wheels” vans-- are parked around back, to aid in carrying off all that Christmas loot.
You know, I had almost forgot what a joyous occasion the Holidays can be.
[LOBO]
It’s a good bet that Santa will once again be skipping over my humble abode, despite my absolutely angelic behavior. So this year, I’ve decided to pounce the fuck from Cobe’s place.
Cobe will be at work anyways.
‘Ol Saint Nick' will never see this coming. Cobe’s place is already an incredible array of flashing electric Christmas crap, making it a buzzing sensory overload; it’s the perfect place for an ambush.
The roof is peppered with a deadly array of mines, spotlights, surface-to-air missiles, grenade launchers, motion detectors, you name it. And as a personal touch, I even put a remote laser in the nose of one of Cobe’s stuffed reindeer ... you know, the one with the nose already conveniently deformed?
Cobe’s place is a fortress bristling with more firepower than Faluja and Los Angeles combined.
And should the fat man somehow survive the roof, the inside is twice as lethal: The chimney is lined with poisoned spikes, the stockings are trapped, the cookies and milk are a specialized, exotic set of chemicals that will detonate when combined. And a small assortment of Hawley Enterprises' armored cars –cleverly disguised as “Meals on Wheels” vans-- are parked around back, to aid in carrying off all that Christmas loot.
You know, I had almost forgot what a joyous occasion the Holidays can be.
Friday
A Slicing Device
Predator Press
[LOBO]
Well, one good thing about this little publication is it’s conspicuous avoidance of anything seriously 'Christmassy' altogether. To say “it’s been hard to get in The Spirit this year” is perhaps the most monumental understatement I’ve ever heard.
It won’t end on the 25th, either; after Christmas is over, I’ll once again be standing behind big crowded lines of you people returning the stuff you've already inconvenienced me buying. And you're twice as cranky this time because your futile and unrealistic New Years Resolution to quit smoking, lose weight, ad nauseam --has made you all complete homicidal maniacs.
Still, some form of formal acknowledgement of the season seems in order. Christmas is, after all, the one time of the year when all nations and religions cast aside their differences to celebrate the birth of our Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ.
Isn't it enough to just say “Merry Christmas”?
[*sigh*]
***
So at like 3:00 am this ghost comes bustin into my bedroom.
“LOOOBOOO!" he says. "I am the Ghost of Christmas Future! Boo!”
“Who?”
“The Ghoooost of Christmas Fuuuture …”
“Why are you talking like that?”
“Because I’m a ghost, you dumbass. You know, like in that book by Charles Dickens?”
Hah! He said ‘dickens’.
“It’s 3am you jerk,” I says.
“Yeah, I know,” he says. “I wanted to catch up with you earlier, but I’m way behind schedule.”
“What happened to those other two dead guys, ‘Christmas Past’ and ‘Christmas Plus’ or whatever?”
“They got downsized in July.”
“Well, they were probably pretty lazy then.”
“I’m here to show you what future Christmases hold unless you change your ways.”
“Now? Look, I need at least eight hours of sleep a night. And maybe four or five during the day--”
“Let’s go,” he persists. “I’m on a tight schedule, as I have mentioned. By the way, where do you find footie pajamas in your size?”
***
“Where are we?” I ask.
“We’re at your place a year from now.”
“My god it’s huge!”
The ghost flips through some papers on his clipboard, puzzled. “This is definitely the right address. Maybe you rent an apartment or sleep in the alley.“
“Wow!” I says, noticing an opulent marble statue of myself in the fountain peeing randomly all over an icing courtyard. “That’s really cool.”
Over the massive, solid oak doors, ‘CASA DE LOBO’ is inscribed.
The ghost scratches his head, “Well this is unexpected. I guess we should go in.”
“What, are you crazy? Knowing me, this place is crawling with giant motion-detecting robot guard dogs with machine guns!”
“We’re invisible. Nobody can see us.”
“Cool,” I concede glumly.
Mental Note: Give robot watchdogs invisibility detectors.
And rabies.
“Oh!" says the spook decidedly, lowering the clipboard, relieved. "We’re not going inside anyway. We have to go around to the back. To the shipping docks.”
“But we're invisible! How about we just find a really hot chick, and follow her around until she takes a shower?”
“I don’t think so.”
“You know, for a guy who is already dead, you’re pretty inhibited.”
“Maybe.”
***
It’s a little known fact that trucks, in extreme cold, are vulnerable to brake line freezing.
Which means they can’t move.
I can see the back-and-forth skid marks the Hawley Enterprises truck left as it tried to break them free. There are footprints in the snow going from the driver’s side door --which is oddly ajar, with snow piling into the cab.
We follow the footprints, and they lead to the truck’s rear tandems. There is on object sticking out of the snow, and I bend to pick it up. It’s a largish rubber mallet, sometimes used to pound frozen brakes directly in an effort to get them to release the tires.
And that’s when I spot the immobile, pale blue figure.
It’s Cobe.
“Is he--?” I ask the specter.
“Dead? My yes," he replies, matter-of-factly. "On Christmas day, you and Ethan made him deliver your new hot tub to the penthouse. The truck froze up, and he died trying to get it moving again.”
“A hot tub, eh?”
“Yes.”
“Did he get it delivered?”
“Yes. And he installed it.”
I shake my head, “Well, I’ve got to tell you. I’m not seeing a downside here.”
“You’re an asshole,” says the ghost.
“I’m an asshole?” I says. “You’re the one wrecking up my sleep with all this ‘goodwill’ and 'peace on Earth' crap.”
“You didn’t buy a single Christmas present this year.”
“So?”
“So where’s your Christmas Spirit? What’s with you?” He hesitates for a second. “Is it Sapphire?”
I don’t say anything.
“But LOBO,” he says. “Sapphire is happy now.”
“I know!” I says. “Can you believe that bitch?”
“Why didn’t you go to her when you had the chance?”
“Because I figured Edward wasn’t likely to smash into her with spaceships and drop IHOPs on her! Don’t go lording your store-bought presents and crap over me," I brush back a tear. "What I did was hard.”
The ghost, stunned, sits quietly for a moment. “I know,” he says finally, putting his arm over my slumped shoulders.
“Hey watch it!” I recoil. “Don’t go getting zombie death juice all over my cool pajamas—“
[LOBO]
Well, one good thing about this little publication is it’s conspicuous avoidance of anything seriously 'Christmassy' altogether. To say “it’s been hard to get in The Spirit this year” is perhaps the most monumental understatement I’ve ever heard.
It won’t end on the 25th, either; after Christmas is over, I’ll once again be standing behind big crowded lines of you people returning the stuff you've already inconvenienced me buying. And you're twice as cranky this time because your futile and unrealistic New Years Resolution to quit smoking, lose weight, ad nauseam --has made you all complete homicidal maniacs.
Still, some form of formal acknowledgement of the season seems in order. Christmas is, after all, the one time of the year when all nations and religions cast aside their differences to celebrate the birth of our Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ.
Isn't it enough to just say “Merry Christmas”?
[*sigh*]
So at like 3:00 am this ghost comes bustin into my bedroom.
“LOOOBOOO!" he says. "I am the Ghost of Christmas Future! Boo!”
“Who?”
“The Ghoooost of Christmas Fuuuture …”
“Why are you talking like that?”
“Because I’m a ghost, you dumbass. You know, like in that book by Charles Dickens?”
Hah! He said ‘dickens’.
“It’s 3am you jerk,” I says.
“Yeah, I know,” he says. “I wanted to catch up with you earlier, but I’m way behind schedule.”
“What happened to those other two dead guys, ‘Christmas Past’ and ‘Christmas Plus’ or whatever?”
“They got downsized in July.”
“Well, they were probably pretty lazy then.”
“I’m here to show you what future Christmases hold unless you change your ways.”
“Now? Look, I need at least eight hours of sleep a night. And maybe four or five during the day--”
“Let’s go,” he persists. “I’m on a tight schedule, as I have mentioned. By the way, where do you find footie pajamas in your size?”
“Where are we?” I ask.
“We’re at your place a year from now.”
“My god it’s huge!”
The ghost flips through some papers on his clipboard, puzzled. “This is definitely the right address. Maybe you rent an apartment or sleep in the alley.“
“Wow!” I says, noticing an opulent marble statue of myself in the fountain peeing randomly all over an icing courtyard. “That’s really cool.”
Over the massive, solid oak doors, ‘CASA DE LOBO’ is inscribed.
The ghost scratches his head, “Well this is unexpected. I guess we should go in.”
“What, are you crazy? Knowing me, this place is crawling with giant motion-detecting robot guard dogs with machine guns!”
“We’re invisible. Nobody can see us.”
“Cool,” I concede glumly.
Mental Note: Give robot watchdogs invisibility detectors.
And rabies.
“Oh!" says the spook decidedly, lowering the clipboard, relieved. "We’re not going inside anyway. We have to go around to the back. To the shipping docks.”
“But we're invisible! How about we just find a really hot chick, and follow her around until she takes a shower?”
“I don’t think so.”
“You know, for a guy who is already dead, you’re pretty inhibited.”
“Maybe.”
It’s a little known fact that trucks, in extreme cold, are vulnerable to brake line freezing.
Which means they can’t move.
I can see the back-and-forth skid marks the Hawley Enterprises truck left as it tried to break them free. There are footprints in the snow going from the driver’s side door --which is oddly ajar, with snow piling into the cab.
We follow the footprints, and they lead to the truck’s rear tandems. There is on object sticking out of the snow, and I bend to pick it up. It’s a largish rubber mallet, sometimes used to pound frozen brakes directly in an effort to get them to release the tires.
And that’s when I spot the immobile, pale blue figure.
It’s Cobe.
“Is he--?” I ask the specter.
“Dead? My yes," he replies, matter-of-factly. "On Christmas day, you and Ethan made him deliver your new hot tub to the penthouse. The truck froze up, and he died trying to get it moving again.”
“A hot tub, eh?”
“Yes.”
“Did he get it delivered?”
“Yes. And he installed it.”
I shake my head, “Well, I’ve got to tell you. I’m not seeing a downside here.”
“You’re an asshole,” says the ghost.
“I’m an asshole?” I says. “You’re the one wrecking up my sleep with all this ‘goodwill’ and 'peace on Earth' crap.”
“You didn’t buy a single Christmas present this year.”
“So?”
“So where’s your Christmas Spirit? What’s with you?” He hesitates for a second. “Is it Sapphire?”
I don’t say anything.
“But LOBO,” he says. “Sapphire is happy now.”
“I know!” I says. “Can you believe that bitch?”
“Why didn’t you go to her when you had the chance?”
“Because I figured Edward wasn’t likely to smash into her with spaceships and drop IHOPs on her! Don’t go lording your store-bought presents and crap over me," I brush back a tear. "What I did was hard.”
The ghost, stunned, sits quietly for a moment. “I know,” he says finally, putting his arm over my slumped shoulders.
“Hey watch it!” I recoil. “Don’t go getting zombie death juice all over my cool pajamas—“
Thursday
Right You Are, Ken ...
Predator Press
[LOBO]
Planning for the complete destruction of time, matter and space during the holiday season seems like it might be in poor taste. Can’t you tactless people do this “Christmas” thing some other time?
Oh, and Cobe --what kind of crap was that!? ‘Ox Nuts’ gets nominated for an Oscar in the ‘Best Choreography in a Musical’ category, and suddenly everyone on Predator Press is Sylvia Platt?
Well, I find it offensive. Cobe, you sicken me with your squishy “emotions” or whatever; if Ethan wasn’t concerned about his PR during this DVD release, I’ll bet he would have you filleted! You just blew your chance to be Ground Control for the Predator Press Rescue Space Station.
... Which is coming along splendidly, I might add.
The cup holders came in today.
[LOBO]
Planning for the complete destruction of time, matter and space during the holiday season seems like it might be in poor taste. Can’t you tactless people do this “Christmas” thing some other time?
Oh, and Cobe --what kind of crap was that!? ‘Ox Nuts’ gets nominated for an Oscar in the ‘Best Choreography in a Musical’ category, and suddenly everyone on Predator Press is Sylvia Platt?
Well, I find it offensive. Cobe, you sicken me with your squishy “emotions” or whatever; if Ethan wasn’t concerned about his PR during this DVD release, I’ll bet he would have you filleted! You just blew your chance to be Ground Control for the Predator Press Rescue Space Station.
... Which is coming along splendidly, I might add.
The cup holders came in today.
Fuel
Predator Press
[COBE]
The riders chose to separate;
one for love, the other hate.
Wrested from the tranquil morn,
the two will part in mortal scorn.
The lover lived to be adored,
the latter galloped off to war
--to cut down mountains, boil the seas
and purge the earth of memory.
[COBE]
The riders chose to separate;
one for love, the other hate.
Wrested from the tranquil morn,
the two will part in mortal scorn.
The lover lived to be adored,
the latter galloped off to war
--to cut down mountains, boil the seas
and purge the earth of memory.
Wednesday
Here To Stay
Predator Press
[LOBO]
This has been one hell of a tumultuous revolution around the sun.
And yet, in some ways, it gave us a lot of room to adapt and flourish. What choice do we have but to embrace change?
Nothing is permanent except change itself.
This is not new. This is not “special”. There is nothing unique or noble about this at all; strife and flux are the 'Natural Order'. In ten billion years, who will be there lamenting the great and epic 'tragedy' that was endured in our self-indulgent, painfully unremarkable individual lives?
We will.
We have commissioned the construction of the Predator Press Rescue Space Station.
It is a scientific vessel --housing numerous really smart bikini models-- that will orbit the black hole occupying the space where our galaxy was.
And as massive supernovae wipe out every trace of matter in the universe and collapse into a dense singularity only to erupt once again into the splendor of time and space, that gigantic Helvetica Predator Press logo will endeavor boldly onward, armed only with round-the-clock tanning beds and Pena Coladas.
We will all miss you, of course ...
[LOBO]
This has been one hell of a tumultuous revolution around the sun.
And yet, in some ways, it gave us a lot of room to adapt and flourish. What choice do we have but to embrace change?
Nothing is permanent except change itself.
This is not new. This is not “special”. There is nothing unique or noble about this at all; strife and flux are the 'Natural Order'. In ten billion years, who will be there lamenting the great and epic 'tragedy' that was endured in our self-indulgent, painfully unremarkable individual lives?
We will.
We have commissioned the construction of the Predator Press Rescue Space Station.
It is a scientific vessel --housing numerous really smart bikini models-- that will orbit the black hole occupying the space where our galaxy was.
And as massive supernovae wipe out every trace of matter in the universe and collapse into a dense singularity only to erupt once again into the splendor of time and space, that gigantic Helvetica Predator Press logo will endeavor boldly onward, armed only with round-the-clock tanning beds and Pena Coladas.
We will all miss you, of course ...
Tuesday
The Day the Chick Manget Died
Predator Press
[LOBO]
She was a great car. And that 1990 Plymouth Horizon with Corinthian leather interior and a Porsche 911 engine probably had better owners.
But she leaked oil.
It’s hard to be a great car leaking oil when Jessica Simpson leaps on your hood and Jennifer Lopez clings to your roof and you have twenty-six cinderblocks in your hatch.
Anna Kournikova was so stubborn, I hadda threaten her Predator Press subscription …
[LOBO]
She was a great car. And that 1990 Plymouth Horizon with Corinthian leather interior and a Porsche 911 engine probably had better owners.
But she leaked oil.
It’s hard to be a great car leaking oil when Jessica Simpson leaps on your hood and Jennifer Lopez clings to your roof and you have twenty-six cinderblocks in your hatch.
Anna Kournikova was so stubborn, I hadda threaten her Predator Press subscription …
Hard-Core Troubadour
Predator Press
[LOBO]
What really sucks is the inability to sleep. I’m fried on weeks of short spurts of light dozing, punctuated rudely by fits of coughing. I don’t even have the concentration to watch TV or play video games.
And under this thick glaze of disease --and almost certain pending death, I'm sure-- I guess I’m bored. Hell, the house is clean, the laundry is done ... thus I don’t really have the option of trying to divert my attention on any household tasks, were I to muster any strength. Honestly, the only thing the got me out of bed at all was the opportunity to spread lethal germs all over Mr. Insanity’s PC; everyone else is gone, currently embroiled in the pre-production of 'Ox Nuts: The Motion Picture'.
Casting begins today.
I wanted to play 'Ox' myself, but it turns out I'm slightly, eh, "underqualified".
Slightly.
[LOBO]
What really sucks is the inability to sleep. I’m fried on weeks of short spurts of light dozing, punctuated rudely by fits of coughing. I don’t even have the concentration to watch TV or play video games.
And under this thick glaze of disease --and almost certain pending death, I'm sure-- I guess I’m bored. Hell, the house is clean, the laundry is done ... thus I don’t really have the option of trying to divert my attention on any household tasks, were I to muster any strength. Honestly, the only thing the got me out of bed at all was the opportunity to spread lethal germs all over Mr. Insanity’s PC; everyone else is gone, currently embroiled in the pre-production of 'Ox Nuts: The Motion Picture'.
Casting begins today.
I wanted to play 'Ox' myself, but it turns out I'm slightly, eh, "underqualified".
Slightly.
They Can't All Be Gems
Predator Press
[LOBO]
Sorry gang ... home sick today.
Death is at my bedside, slicing onions and carrots into a big pot ... awful nice of the guy to go out of his way and cook and all ...
I can't do this "doctor" crap again ... I hate being sick only slightly more than I hate being well.
[*pout*]
Phoebe, will you please come over and say nice things again?
God is mad at me.
[LOBO]
Sorry gang ... home sick today.
Death is at my bedside, slicing onions and carrots into a big pot ... awful nice of the guy to go out of his way and cook and all ...
I can't do this "doctor" crap again ... I hate being sick only slightly more than I hate being well.
[*pout*]
Phoebe, will you please come over and say nice things again?
God is mad at me.
Fear of Flying
Predator Press
[LOBO]
I’m dreaming.
I’m standing in and endless snowy field.
Santa and his full compliment of reindeer slide to a deliberate, graceful halt beside me, and Santa dismounts his sleigh. He's smiling.
I never see the uppercut coming.
Or the jab. Or the next uppercut ...
Tossing me up on his big bag of toys, he commands the reindeer to take to the sky once more.
***
“Ho ho ho,” he cries. “Come now LOBO, let me show you the True Meaning of Christmas!”
Waking slowly I sit up, and a thin blood icicle snaps off my nose.
Ahead, I can see powerful beasts galloping mightily to pull us into the sky, their breath streaming behind them as they arc across the full moon. Peering down over Santa’s shoulder through my swelling eyes, I can see the tiny sparkling lights of Gary, Indiana beneath us. Overwhelmed by the sensation of flight, I stretch out my arms.
And that’s when I strangle that fat fuck …
[LOBO]
I’m dreaming.
I’m standing in and endless snowy field.
Santa and his full compliment of reindeer slide to a deliberate, graceful halt beside me, and Santa dismounts his sleigh. He's smiling.
I never see the uppercut coming.
Or the jab. Or the next uppercut ...
Tossing me up on his big bag of toys, he commands the reindeer to take to the sky once more.
“Ho ho ho,” he cries. “Come now LOBO, let me show you the True Meaning of Christmas!”
Waking slowly I sit up, and a thin blood icicle snaps off my nose.
Ahead, I can see powerful beasts galloping mightily to pull us into the sky, their breath streaming behind them as they arc across the full moon. Peering down over Santa’s shoulder through my swelling eyes, I can see the tiny sparkling lights of Gary, Indiana beneath us. Overwhelmed by the sensation of flight, I stretch out my arms.
And that’s when I strangle that fat fuck …
Monday
Swag
Predator Press
[LOBO]
Here we go again.
Every year, the Predator Press mailroom is ground to a standstill by the brutal onslaught of X-mas presents from you people.
Well, it’s pissing me off.
I’ve already got tons of Cheetos, stuffed cats, cashiers checks, Pacific islands, and loan applications. --And frankly, the Prozac isn’t funny anymore.
Plus, you’re making me feel guilty that we didn’t get you anything. Have you any idea how far behind you are collectively on Predator Press subscriptions, fees and dues? Goddamn it, Ethan is so broke he’s eating fish eggs! (Ethan seems pretty cool with this and all, but Phil hates that crap.)
And this year marked the final, final death of my beloved Chick Magnet.
I’m already upset, and here you go screwing up our mailroom again.
Well thanks a lot. You should be ashamed of yourselves. Why don't you go pick on some other glorious Empire with your savage and selfish "generosity" and "goodwill" this year? How about, for example, sticking it to the March of Dimes for a change?
That'll show those jerks ...
[LOBO]
Here we go again.
Every year, the Predator Press mailroom is ground to a standstill by the brutal onslaught of X-mas presents from you people.
Well, it’s pissing me off.
I’ve already got tons of Cheetos, stuffed cats, cashiers checks, Pacific islands, and loan applications. --And frankly, the Prozac isn’t funny anymore.
Plus, you’re making me feel guilty that we didn’t get you anything. Have you any idea how far behind you are collectively on Predator Press subscriptions, fees and dues? Goddamn it, Ethan is so broke he’s eating fish eggs! (Ethan seems pretty cool with this and all, but Phil hates that crap.)
And this year marked the final, final death of my beloved Chick Magnet.
I’m already upset, and here you go screwing up our mailroom again.
Well thanks a lot. You should be ashamed of yourselves. Why don't you go pick on some other glorious Empire with your savage and selfish "generosity" and "goodwill" this year? How about, for example, sticking it to the March of Dimes for a change?
That'll show those jerks ...
Sunday
Plasma
Predator Press
[LOBO]
I forgot my mom reads this blog.
The whole ‘Ox Nuts’ debacle alone was bad enough … but when she found out that her 150 pound bundle of joy watches porn … wow.
Now I’m grounded from TV for life.
I hate everybody.
[LOBO]
I forgot my mom reads this blog.
The whole ‘Ox Nuts’ debacle alone was bad enough … but when she found out that her 150 pound bundle of joy watches porn … wow.
Now I’m grounded from TV for life.
I hate everybody.
Free
Predator Press
[LOBO]
Taking Phoebe's advice and going out wasn't such a bad idea after all.
And let me have said, once and for all, that going to bars and not drinking is the slickest predatory move ever devised. Sure it’s a long drive and like eight bucks for a Pepsi, but the with your head clear and eyes open, chasing tail is like shooting blind, drunken, promiscuous fish in a barrel of terrible music ... with a Howitzer. I can’t believe I’ve never thought of it before! In the space of a few hours, this chick I never met before leaves her panties in the car, pounces me in a cheap motel, and now wonders why I have "irrational insecurities over our relationship prospects".
[*sigh*]
My plan to quit smoking hasn't really made much headway, however. This one last vice will undoubtedly be the most difficult of all. Everything I do makes associations with it: driving, working, writing ... I'm thinking about spending some time out of town over the holidays and tackling it then.
But for now, I'm more worried about the bills. It's not that I can't afford to pay them, it's the fact that I'm sick and stuffy; the voice-activated services in place are getting thrown off by my sniffing, sneezing and coughing. It took an hour to do the gas bill ... and now I'm debating whether to even try Comcast ...
Can’t somebody cure this? My cold is fucking up commerce now ...
[LOBO]
Taking Phoebe's advice and going out wasn't such a bad idea after all.
And let me have said, once and for all, that going to bars and not drinking is the slickest predatory move ever devised. Sure it’s a long drive and like eight bucks for a Pepsi, but the with your head clear and eyes open, chasing tail is like shooting blind, drunken, promiscuous fish in a barrel of terrible music ... with a Howitzer. I can’t believe I’ve never thought of it before! In the space of a few hours, this chick I never met before leaves her panties in the car, pounces me in a cheap motel, and now wonders why I have "irrational insecurities over our relationship prospects".
[*sigh*]
My plan to quit smoking hasn't really made much headway, however. This one last vice will undoubtedly be the most difficult of all. Everything I do makes associations with it: driving, working, writing ... I'm thinking about spending some time out of town over the holidays and tackling it then.
But for now, I'm more worried about the bills. It's not that I can't afford to pay them, it's the fact that I'm sick and stuffy; the voice-activated services in place are getting thrown off by my sniffing, sneezing and coughing. It took an hour to do the gas bill ... and now I'm debating whether to even try Comcast ...
Can’t somebody cure this? My cold is fucking up commerce now ...
Resplendent
Predator Press
[LOBO]
Phoebe knocked for like two hours before she figured out that the door was unlocked. And there I was, in all my slothful, indolent glory.
“You have to get up,” she says flatly.
“Why?” I says.
Then there’s this big awkward pause.
“Because it’s not healthy,” she says finally. “You’re wasting away.”
“Wasting away with Hi-Def,” I says. “Now would you please go away? You’re blocking the screen.”
“What are you watching?”
“’Nympho Space Accountants From Sector 6’. It’s a sequel to the timeless classic ‘Horny Babe Outlaws From Sector 5’.” I turn it down with the remote, sighing, “but this one is just riddled with plot holes.”
Moving my bag of Cheetos, she sits at the corner of the bed. “LOBO, we’ve know each other a long time. Fess up. Did Sapphire break your heart?”
“My what?”
"Did Sapphire and Edward, you know, break your heart? It's hard seeing you like this."
I happen to glance at her, and suddenly realize she being sincere.
I press pause on the television. "Look", I says, trying to be comforting. "They do heart transplants all the time. It's like getting stitches now. And I like this one. This little thing has carried me a long way already--"
It was at that moment, in a moment of macho bravado, I thumped my chest.
But instead of the solid resonant thud we expected, there was a soft, sharp crack.
"Fuck!" I says, scowling.
"What was that?" asks Phoebe.
"Well, I'm hoping I just broke my breastbone."
[LOBO]
Phoebe knocked for like two hours before she figured out that the door was unlocked. And there I was, in all my slothful, indolent glory.
“You have to get up,” she says flatly.
“Why?” I says.
Then there’s this big awkward pause.
“Because it’s not healthy,” she says finally. “You’re wasting away.”
“Wasting away with Hi-Def,” I says. “Now would you please go away? You’re blocking the screen.”
“What are you watching?”
“’Nympho Space Accountants From Sector 6’. It’s a sequel to the timeless classic ‘Horny Babe Outlaws From Sector 5’.” I turn it down with the remote, sighing, “but this one is just riddled with plot holes.”
Moving my bag of Cheetos, she sits at the corner of the bed. “LOBO, we’ve know each other a long time. Fess up. Did Sapphire break your heart?”
“My what?”
"Did Sapphire and Edward, you know, break your heart? It's hard seeing you like this."
I happen to glance at her, and suddenly realize she being sincere.
I press pause on the television. "Look", I says, trying to be comforting. "They do heart transplants all the time. It's like getting stitches now. And I like this one. This little thing has carried me a long way already--"
It was at that moment, in a moment of macho bravado, I thumped my chest.
But instead of the solid resonant thud we expected, there was a soft, sharp crack.
"Fuck!" I says, scowling.
"What was that?" asks Phoebe.
"Well, I'm hoping I just broke my breastbone."
Saturday
What’s This?
Predator Press
[LOBO]
While trying to install the television, I was pleased to find I own a tool.
A tool commonly referred to as a “screwdriver”.
This tool, which I had previously mistaken as a fancy cooking utensil, is a steel rod with a four-sided pointed tip used to drive screws. Hence it’s designation: a flathead screwdriver.
Used properly, this item can be held by the silvery thin part and used to bash the screws in with the wider end, also known as the handle.
... but this television sucks ...
[LOBO]
While trying to install the television, I was pleased to find I own a tool.
A tool commonly referred to as a “screwdriver”.
This tool, which I had previously mistaken as a fancy cooking utensil, is a steel rod with a four-sided pointed tip used to drive screws. Hence it’s designation: a flathead screwdriver.
Used properly, this item can be held by the silvery thin part and used to bash the screws in with the wider end, also known as the handle.
... but this television sucks ...
Friday
Bedsore
Predator Press
[LOBO]
I finally got a kickass little plasma flatscreen for my bedroom.
I originally bought it as an X-mas present for a friend, but then I decided I liked it, and that he was probably an asshole anyway. That's how I scored these really cool Lawn Jarts!
Now I can watch the Playboy channel and browse porn simultaneously.
I need to go buy somebody an X-mas helicopter.
[LOBO]
I finally got a kickass little plasma flatscreen for my bedroom.
I originally bought it as an X-mas present for a friend, but then I decided I liked it, and that he was probably an asshole anyway. That's how I scored these really cool Lawn Jarts!
Now I can watch the Playboy channel and browse porn simultaneously.
I need to go buy somebody an X-mas helicopter.
Thursday
Enema of the State
Predator Press
[LOBO]
I’ve decided to marry Sapphire.
This marriage counselor I know is hot ... and I could drag an actual marriage on for years.
Maybe then she'll notice me.
But Sapphire, it turns out, is far too self-absorbed to marry me so I can win the love of our marriage counselor. This conversation did, however, prompt an appearance from the baby’s father:
My Presidential running mate, Edward Harrows.
“Oh my God,” I says. “You’re banging Sapphire?.”
“Yes.”
“Better’n me?”
Edward hesitates, “Sapphire says all you ever did was run around the room with your fingers in your ears, going ‘la la la la’.”
“Better’n me?” I repeat.
“Yes,” he admits. “I have no idea why she likes that so much, but I’m a Baritone.”
“Have you any idea how much this is going to effect our polls?”
“Vaguely.”
“Well, she can have all her Enya CDs back," I says. "But I’m keeping the Häagen-Dazs."
“Like hell you are.”
[LOBO]
I’ve decided to marry Sapphire.
This marriage counselor I know is hot ... and I could drag an actual marriage on for years.
Maybe then she'll notice me.
But Sapphire, it turns out, is far too self-absorbed to marry me so I can win the love of our marriage counselor. This conversation did, however, prompt an appearance from the baby’s father:
My Presidential running mate, Edward Harrows.
“Oh my God,” I says. “You’re banging Sapphire?.”
“Yes.”
“Better’n me?”
Edward hesitates, “Sapphire says all you ever did was run around the room with your fingers in your ears, going ‘la la la la’.”
“Better’n me?” I repeat.
“Yes,” he admits. “I have no idea why she likes that so much, but I’m a Baritone.”
“Have you any idea how much this is going to effect our polls?”
“Vaguely.”
“Well, she can have all her Enya CDs back," I says. "But I’m keeping the Häagen-Dazs."
“Like hell you are.”
Wednesday
Measured Results
Predator Press
[LOBO]
“Dude,” I says. “That was amazing. I mean, ‘Ox Nuts’ is going to be a major bestseller. It’s genius. I don’t think I’ve ‘punched the clown’ while crying this much since, like, September ... Who knew you could write like that?”
“I post on the blog almost every week or so,” says Mr. I.
“Yeah, but who reads that tripe? 'Ox Nuts' is big. Can you put in some explosions and helicopter chases? I don’t want to infringe on your art, but a scene where Ox fights a giant bug or something might help get some of your boring soppy romance edited out.”
“It’s supposed to be a love story, moron.”
“Well how about some buxom Nordic chicks in Viking helmets, wielding electric battle-axe guitars that go 'bla-WANGGGGGG--'?”
“Maybe.”
[LOBO]
“Dude,” I says. “That was amazing. I mean, ‘Ox Nuts’ is going to be a major bestseller. It’s genius. I don’t think I’ve ‘punched the clown’ while crying this much since, like, September ... Who knew you could write like that?”
“I post on the blog almost every week or so,” says Mr. I.
“Yeah, but who reads that tripe? 'Ox Nuts' is big. Can you put in some explosions and helicopter chases? I don’t want to infringe on your art, but a scene where Ox fights a giant bug or something might help get some of your boring soppy romance edited out.”
“It’s supposed to be a love story, moron.”
“Well how about some buxom Nordic chicks in Viking helmets, wielding electric battle-axe guitars that go 'bla-WANGGGGGG--'?”
“Maybe.”
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