Predator Press
[LOBO]
Posting is going to get a little sketchy for a while; I’m getting ready for some company.
First of all, thanks to LadyTerri for not only plugging Predator Press yet once again, but for giving me a good laugh over what she used. It never ceases to amaze me the unexpected and screwball stuff that just gets seized upon from here, and sometimes I forget just how bizarre this page is myself. The furthered circulation of Best Squishes even made me blush.
Secondly, my unpopular decision to kill off “Mister Insanity” is final. And trust me, I mulled over it quite extensively.
The initial conception was to develop a character that represented each of the “Seven Deadly Sins”, and as a writing exercise, write for each independently. Eventually refined, we would have LOBO for Sloth, Phoebe for Vanity, Mr Insanity for Gluttony, et cetera.
But new readers just found this “multiple writer” format too confusing. Let’s not call it an outright artistic failure, but an opportunity for growth; perhaps, as my writing skill improves, I will achieve the talent necessary to pull off something that ambitious. At that point, I would certainly reassess my options.
But for now, Predator Press is slimming down to its original “fighting weight” of 162,457 metric tons.
(Cobe is a fat fuck.)
Monday
Saturday
Pissing Off the Gods
Predator Press
[LOBO]
I have a great job. It pays good, and the hours and people are fantastic.
But wow it can be stressful sometimes ... particularly when my boss calls off. On these days, millions of dollars annually in clients --representing accounts-- live or die by my ability to do what I do well.
I'm not exaggerating.
I came home and dragged some pillows and a blanket to the couch, gratefully collapsing in an exhausted heap; here it was barely six o'clock on a Friday night, and I was curling up with the television remote, whipped.
For those of us that didn't know this, please be warned: television sucks on a Friday night. Completely frazzled, somehow I mindlessly ended up sputtering out on some show on The Travel Channel about famous American haunted houses. And they do an amazingly bad fifteen-minute piece on sightings of Pelé, the Goddess of the Hawaiian Islands.
Why was it amazingly bad?
Because I've seen Her.
Personally.
I used to laugh at people who told ghost stories, chalking it up to vivid imaginations coupled with normal unexplained phenomena. That's how humans have dealt with stuff we don't understand for as long as we've been able to not understand stuff; we make it "magic".
But for summer vacation during my angelic High School years, my mother invited me to come out and visit Oahu for a month, and I would come back to the mainland United States forever changed.
***
After being there a week or so the magnificent splendor of the place just kind of petered out, and rampant teenage angst took over once more. With maybe twenty days or so left, I don't need a full-blown romance either: I need to get laid.
I ended up accepting an invitation to a club from a girl I didn't particularly find attractive. But she was witty, intelligent and sweet, and I was so horny I could've fucked a plate of sheet steel; if something "magical" didn't happen soon, we could've had another Pearl Harbor.
As male, my sexual gratification upon occasion is an issue of national security.
I considered myself as doing my patriotic duty.
So she's over twenty-one and stops to buy a six-pack of Budweiser, and we share them at the top of Mount Tantalus. And what is it about having sex under all those stars while looking out over city lights that makes it so erotic? I suspect it has something to do with the naked chick on the hood of her car with her legs wrapped around me, but I'm not 100% on that. Don't quote me.
Having "finished up", we were soon preparing to leave. I didn't want open beer cans in the car, so I'm perplexed as she gets genuinely pissed at me for throwing one of them over the cliff side. And believe it or not, she throws the cans in her otherwise immaculate car, and we drive down the mountain.
Now, to drive up and down Mount Tantalus is no small matter. The severely winding road limits you to very slow crawl, and if I remember correctly, it's about an hour each way. By the time we get to the bottom I have to pee, and ask her to pull over in a nearby parking lot. Figuring I would find a dumpster or something and get rid of the beer cans too, I grab them up and crush them, and slip off behind what appeared to be an abandoned warehouse or something.
But in back, it opens into a larger area behind it. In front of me is a cage of "monkey bars" and series of dilapidated swing sets, amazingly overgrown with weeds.
This is a school.
Well, I have to pee anyways. I'm not proud ... but judging from the lack of upkeep, I'm figuring the kids are on summer vacation too. I don't see trash receptacles of any kind, but I figure I've broken line of sight with the chick anyways; rationally, I discard the beer cans in the grass and unzip my fly in a dark corner of the building.
In the corner, there is a window on each side, and slightly behind me.
And from one, I start hearing murmurs in a language I don't understand.
A little louder, I hear another from the other window.
I think the thing that really freaked me out about it was the fact that they weren't talking to each other.
They were talking to me.
Stopping in mid-stream, I zipped up and fled in terror.
After picking up the beer cans.
***
Now Oahu isn't really that big. It's maybe fifty square miles, and you can cover it pretty thoroughly after a few years. So I'm staggered when "local" Hawaiians, having lived there all their lives, have never heard of the school.
It was as if the land had swallowed up every miniscule piece and memory of my tenuous evidence.
No one had ever heard of the place.
But what was really worse than that were the nightmares. My mother will verify this. For the first time in my life, I was suffering from what I would guess are considered "night terrors"; I would wake out sweating and out of breath, with no memory of the dream whatsoever. And after a week of shattered sleep, this was taking its toll. Ten days, and I'm edgy and worn out, and growing increasingly concerned that this was something that wasn't ever going to go away at all.
But I do remember the last dream.
I'm sitting in the center of a clearing in a thick jungle that recedes away only to return and close off the sky above me. And without a sound, a naked woman nimbly approaches. She stops, waist deep in thick woods, and stares at me in quiet serenity.
I remember feeling very sorry, and pleading for forgiveness. At some point I realize that below the obscuring foliage, she doesn't have human legs.
Without spectacle or fanfare, she leaves as quietly as she came.
And I slept like a baby.
***
The night before my flight home, my mom set up a big farewell shindig and invited all the friends I made over the past month. Laughing and joking, I end up relaying this story at my mom's request. And to her chagrin, I also added the previously undisclosed details of the dream.
Everyone at the next table gets noticeably quiet.
I look over, and it's a group of native Hawaiians just staring daggers at me.
"Fucking haole," one says finally, insulted. "You come here on vacation, and you see Pelé?"
But it was only a dream.
Right?
[LOBO]
I have a great job. It pays good, and the hours and people are fantastic.
But wow it can be stressful sometimes ... particularly when my boss calls off. On these days, millions of dollars annually in clients --representing accounts-- live or die by my ability to do what I do well.
I'm not exaggerating.
I came home and dragged some pillows and a blanket to the couch, gratefully collapsing in an exhausted heap; here it was barely six o'clock on a Friday night, and I was curling up with the television remote, whipped.
For those of us that didn't know this, please be warned: television sucks on a Friday night. Completely frazzled, somehow I mindlessly ended up sputtering out on some show on The Travel Channel about famous American haunted houses. And they do an amazingly bad fifteen-minute piece on sightings of Pelé, the Goddess of the Hawaiian Islands.
Why was it amazingly bad?
Because I've seen Her.
Personally.
I used to laugh at people who told ghost stories, chalking it up to vivid imaginations coupled with normal unexplained phenomena. That's how humans have dealt with stuff we don't understand for as long as we've been able to not understand stuff; we make it "magic".
But for summer vacation during my angelic High School years, my mother invited me to come out and visit Oahu for a month, and I would come back to the mainland United States forever changed.
After being there a week or so the magnificent splendor of the place just kind of petered out, and rampant teenage angst took over once more. With maybe twenty days or so left, I don't need a full-blown romance either: I need to get laid.
I ended up accepting an invitation to a club from a girl I didn't particularly find attractive. But she was witty, intelligent and sweet, and I was so horny I could've fucked a plate of sheet steel; if something "magical" didn't happen soon, we could've had another Pearl Harbor.
As male, my sexual gratification upon occasion is an issue of national security.
I considered myself as doing my patriotic duty.
So she's over twenty-one and stops to buy a six-pack of Budweiser, and we share them at the top of Mount Tantalus. And what is it about having sex under all those stars while looking out over city lights that makes it so erotic? I suspect it has something to do with the naked chick on the hood of her car with her legs wrapped around me, but I'm not 100% on that. Don't quote me.
Having "finished up", we were soon preparing to leave. I didn't want open beer cans in the car, so I'm perplexed as she gets genuinely pissed at me for throwing one of them over the cliff side. And believe it or not, she throws the cans in her otherwise immaculate car, and we drive down the mountain.
Now, to drive up and down Mount Tantalus is no small matter. The severely winding road limits you to very slow crawl, and if I remember correctly, it's about an hour each way. By the time we get to the bottom I have to pee, and ask her to pull over in a nearby parking lot. Figuring I would find a dumpster or something and get rid of the beer cans too, I grab them up and crush them, and slip off behind what appeared to be an abandoned warehouse or something.
But in back, it opens into a larger area behind it. In front of me is a cage of "monkey bars" and series of dilapidated swing sets, amazingly overgrown with weeds.
This is a school.
Well, I have to pee anyways. I'm not proud ... but judging from the lack of upkeep, I'm figuring the kids are on summer vacation too. I don't see trash receptacles of any kind, but I figure I've broken line of sight with the chick anyways; rationally, I discard the beer cans in the grass and unzip my fly in a dark corner of the building.
In the corner, there is a window on each side, and slightly behind me.
And from one, I start hearing murmurs in a language I don't understand.
A little louder, I hear another from the other window.
I think the thing that really freaked me out about it was the fact that they weren't talking to each other.
They were talking to me.
Stopping in mid-stream, I zipped up and fled in terror.
After picking up the beer cans.
Now Oahu isn't really that big. It's maybe fifty square miles, and you can cover it pretty thoroughly after a few years. So I'm staggered when "local" Hawaiians, having lived there all their lives, have never heard of the school.
It was as if the land had swallowed up every miniscule piece and memory of my tenuous evidence.
No one had ever heard of the place.
But what was really worse than that were the nightmares. My mother will verify this. For the first time in my life, I was suffering from what I would guess are considered "night terrors"; I would wake out sweating and out of breath, with no memory of the dream whatsoever. And after a week of shattered sleep, this was taking its toll. Ten days, and I'm edgy and worn out, and growing increasingly concerned that this was something that wasn't ever going to go away at all.
But I do remember the last dream.
I'm sitting in the center of a clearing in a thick jungle that recedes away only to return and close off the sky above me. And without a sound, a naked woman nimbly approaches. She stops, waist deep in thick woods, and stares at me in quiet serenity.
I remember feeling very sorry, and pleading for forgiveness. At some point I realize that below the obscuring foliage, she doesn't have human legs.
Without spectacle or fanfare, she leaves as quietly as she came.
And I slept like a baby.
The night before my flight home, my mom set up a big farewell shindig and invited all the friends I made over the past month. Laughing and joking, I end up relaying this story at my mom's request. And to her chagrin, I also added the previously undisclosed details of the dream.
Everyone at the next table gets noticeably quiet.
I look over, and it's a group of native Hawaiians just staring daggers at me.
"Fucking haole," one says finally, insulted. "You come here on vacation, and you see Pelé?"
But it was only a dream.
Right?
Friday
Gainfully Unemployed
Predator Press
[Ethan]
LOBO talks about his “job” like it’s shrouded in secrecy.
Not that he knows it, but in truth he doesn’t do anything at all. He owns one percent of Hawley Enterprises, and because Babs and I are split down the center for control of the company, his one percent happens to be a controlling interest.
Complicating matters, Babs is hot.
It’s ironic; before I hired him, you couldn’t keep him out of here. Now, faced with the option of an honest day’s work, he tries hard to be on the opposite side of the Earth.
I guess I keep him on the payroll so he can afford to be as far from here as possible.
[Ethan]
LOBO talks about his “job” like it’s shrouded in secrecy.
Not that he knows it, but in truth he doesn’t do anything at all. He owns one percent of Hawley Enterprises, and because Babs and I are split down the center for control of the company, his one percent happens to be a controlling interest.
Complicating matters, Babs is hot.
It’s ironic; before I hired him, you couldn’t keep him out of here. Now, faced with the option of an honest day’s work, he tries hard to be on the opposite side of the Earth.
I guess I keep him on the payroll so he can afford to be as far from here as possible.
Thursday
Monster
Predator Press
[LOBO]
Between the brief debacle of my slothful consciousness and full-time commitment to you o loyal reader, I suffer occasional interruptions.
I have to go to this really stuffy place several times a week and do stuff. But the coffee and bagels are free, and I get to run around the whole U.S. giving excruciatingly long PowerPoint speeches about essentially nothing whatsoever, stringing buzzwords like "corporate policy" and "opportunity" together in long sentences that meander aimlessly, only occasionally looping back together. Eventually, if I keep going, I'll stumble onto some random element that vaguely had something to do with what's on the screen and, appearing like it was on purpose, I'll look at my dazzled audience like I just pulled a rabbit out of my arse.
The longer I talk, the more I make.
As the smarter ones inevitably start to nod off, I snap my pointy stick enthusiastically on the part of the pie chart with the longest looking words on it, exclaiming, "--And by scaling back our labor cost four percent, we can cut the this out entirely!"
Pie charts are not entirely exciting unto themselves. Sometimes I’ll replace the projections with films of football games, drawing little "x"es and "o"s on the screen while some guy gets crushed trying to get a home run. One time I spun enthusiastic overtures for three hours for the fiscal unit of IBM using footage from “The Little Engine That Could”.
When there are no seminars, I send out unnecessary faxes with irrational demands to be forwarded to yet another fax machine, which forwards the data back to me. Armed with a small but effective battalion of hot secretaries, they stamp it “REJECTED”, and send it backwards through the cycle again where it is promptly copied, stamped, scanned, emailed, printed, copied again, and whatever can’t be faxed again is promptly filed away.
All this paperwork makes me look so busy, co-workers often comment on my industriousness … and then I deride them for their own personal lack of initiative and dedication, which has been the hallmark of my amazing and patriotic successes.
I had almost forgotten how much I love my job.
It’s good to be back.
[LOBO]
Between the brief debacle of my slothful consciousness and full-time commitment to you o loyal reader, I suffer occasional interruptions.
I have to go to this really stuffy place several times a week and do stuff. But the coffee and bagels are free, and I get to run around the whole U.S. giving excruciatingly long PowerPoint speeches about essentially nothing whatsoever, stringing buzzwords like "corporate policy" and "opportunity" together in long sentences that meander aimlessly, only occasionally looping back together. Eventually, if I keep going, I'll stumble onto some random element that vaguely had something to do with what's on the screen and, appearing like it was on purpose, I'll look at my dazzled audience like I just pulled a rabbit out of my arse.
The longer I talk, the more I make.
As the smarter ones inevitably start to nod off, I snap my pointy stick enthusiastically on the part of the pie chart with the longest looking words on it, exclaiming, "--And by scaling back our labor cost four percent, we can cut the this out entirely!"
Pie charts are not entirely exciting unto themselves. Sometimes I’ll replace the projections with films of football games, drawing little "x"es and "o"s on the screen while some guy gets crushed trying to get a home run. One time I spun enthusiastic overtures for three hours for the fiscal unit of IBM using footage from “The Little Engine That Could”.
When there are no seminars, I send out unnecessary faxes with irrational demands to be forwarded to yet another fax machine, which forwards the data back to me. Armed with a small but effective battalion of hot secretaries, they stamp it “REJECTED”, and send it backwards through the cycle again where it is promptly copied, stamped, scanned, emailed, printed, copied again, and whatever can’t be faxed again is promptly filed away.
All this paperwork makes me look so busy, co-workers often comment on my industriousness … and then I deride them for their own personal lack of initiative and dedication, which has been the hallmark of my amazing and patriotic successes.
I had almost forgotten how much I love my job.
It’s good to be back.
Wednesday
99.99% Crap
Predator Press
[LOBO]
So much for taking a break.
This morning, I cheated on Predator Press.
I cut and pasted three stories from this blog (“A Fairy Tale”, “Silent Night Holy Crap”, and “Love is a Funny Thing”) at www.writing.com.
I feel like such a filthy whore.
But I got four and a half stars out of a possible five in my first review. So screw it.
Now, I know you’re thinking ”Oh jeez, now his ego is gonna be unbearable.”
Hell yeah you’re freakin right it is! Woo-HOO! Egomaniacs are looking at me and going “Jesus Christ, I wish I had his ego right now!”
Hey, this writing stuff takes a lot of time, and it’s virtually thankless. So I’m having a self high-five today.
Okay, I'm done.
Still, those are older pieces; my favorite stories are the newer ones with people that are flamboyantly flawed and infinitely more interesting. Which is sad in a way ... should I go back to the older stuff?
For instance, “A Slicing Device” --my adaptation of “A Christmas Carol” (God, that’s funny now that I think about it)-- is a much better piece in my opinion. But it doesn’t make much sense without the backstory of the cast: you can't submit stuff like that to anybody at all.
I think this means I’m writing an exponential amount of unappreciable, non-profit crap.
Well, the world needs crap too.
What else would we do with all those toilets?
[LOBO]
So much for taking a break.
This morning, I cheated on Predator Press.
I cut and pasted three stories from this blog (“A Fairy Tale”, “Silent Night Holy Crap”, and “Love is a Funny Thing”) at www.writing.com.
I feel like such a filthy whore.
But I got four and a half stars out of a possible five in my first review. So screw it.
Now, I know you’re thinking ”Oh jeez, now his ego is gonna be unbearable.”
Hell yeah you’re freakin right it is! Woo-HOO! Egomaniacs are looking at me and going “Jesus Christ, I wish I had his ego right now!”
Hey, this writing stuff takes a lot of time, and it’s virtually thankless. So I’m having a self high-five today.
Okay, I'm done.
Still, those are older pieces; my favorite stories are the newer ones with people that are flamboyantly flawed and infinitely more interesting. Which is sad in a way ... should I go back to the older stuff?
For instance, “A Slicing Device” --my adaptation of “A Christmas Carol” (God, that’s funny now that I think about it)-- is a much better piece in my opinion. But it doesn’t make much sense without the backstory of the cast: you can't submit stuff like that to anybody at all.
I think this means I’m writing an exponential amount of unappreciable, non-profit crap.
Well, the world needs crap too.
What else would we do with all those toilets?
Tuesday
Chutes and Chutes
Predator Press
[LOBO]
Spitefully, the sun does rise.
Ethan hangs up the phone, removes his glasses and rubs the bridge of his nose. “We've lost another staff member.”
“Was it Cobe?”
“No,” Ethan sighs. “Seth is gone.”
“Who?”
“Mister Insanity.”
“No shit. That guy?”
“They found his body in a cheap motel in St. Paul, Minnesota.” He shakes his head. “The ‘official’,” Ethan makes quote marks in the air with his fingers, “cause of death was a heart attack. But the investigation is suggesting suicide.” Setting his glasses on his desk, he wonders aloud. “Who knew you could actually drink yourself to death on Fuzzy Navels? They said the room was just covered in orange peels.”
“Well if there were such a thing as 'death by cheerleaders', working those hotlines would certainly be a lot more fun.” I turn the page of the newspaper I’m pretending to read. “Hey, he only made it eight months,” I reflect. “How did he get a week of vacation already?”
“When someone asks to take a week off to go spend it in St. Paul, Minnesota, I don’t ask too many questions. They’re pretty fucked up.” Ethan swivels in his chair to look out the window. “Still, eight months is somewhat of an improvement,” Ethan admits.
“Aren't you getting these people pre-hire physicals?”
Ethan sighs. "Don't you ever get sick of this?"
"This what?"
"This," he says, gesturing around him. "Predator Press."
"Every day," I says. "What are you saying?"
"I think it's time for a breather."
"You mean quit posting for a while? Maybe going out and getting a life? Getting the sun on me? Maybe getting laid?"
"Yeah."
"Who needs that crap?"
"Fuck, lately I'm within inches of just deleting the whole goddamned thing."
"Ethan, I'm almost certain I've repeatedly pointed out how lazy I am. The real world is no place for the likes of me." I put down the newspaper. "I went to the grocery store one time and let me tell you, it was a fucking nightmare. People kept waking me up bumping shopping carts into me --that place was full of jerks.
"I think it's over. At least for a while."
"Well," I sigh. "At least we left on a high note."
[LOBO]
Spitefully, the sun does rise.
Ethan hangs up the phone, removes his glasses and rubs the bridge of his nose. “We've lost another staff member.”
“Was it Cobe?”
“No,” Ethan sighs. “Seth is gone.”
“Who?”
“Mister Insanity.”
“No shit. That guy?”
“They found his body in a cheap motel in St. Paul, Minnesota.” He shakes his head. “The ‘official’,” Ethan makes quote marks in the air with his fingers, “cause of death was a heart attack. But the investigation is suggesting suicide.” Setting his glasses on his desk, he wonders aloud. “Who knew you could actually drink yourself to death on Fuzzy Navels? They said the room was just covered in orange peels.”
“Well if there were such a thing as 'death by cheerleaders', working those hotlines would certainly be a lot more fun.” I turn the page of the newspaper I’m pretending to read. “Hey, he only made it eight months,” I reflect. “How did he get a week of vacation already?”
“When someone asks to take a week off to go spend it in St. Paul, Minnesota, I don’t ask too many questions. They’re pretty fucked up.” Ethan swivels in his chair to look out the window. “Still, eight months is somewhat of an improvement,” Ethan admits.
“Aren't you getting these people pre-hire physicals?”
Ethan sighs. "Don't you ever get sick of this?"
"This what?"
"This," he says, gesturing around him. "Predator Press."
"Every day," I says. "What are you saying?"
"I think it's time for a breather."
"You mean quit posting for a while? Maybe going out and getting a life? Getting the sun on me? Maybe getting laid?"
"Yeah."
"Who needs that crap?"
"Fuck, lately I'm within inches of just deleting the whole goddamned thing."
"Ethan, I'm almost certain I've repeatedly pointed out how lazy I am. The real world is no place for the likes of me." I put down the newspaper. "I went to the grocery store one time and let me tell you, it was a fucking nightmare. People kept waking me up bumping shopping carts into me --that place was full of jerks.
"I think it's over. At least for a while."
"Well," I sigh. "At least we left on a high note."
Monday
Dead Ahead
Predator Press
[Mr Insanity]
As a kid, I once witnessed a barfight.
I remember seeing blood on the pool table soaking into the green velvet --and it was the "blackest" black you could imagine.
Maybe it was the lighting.
Today, I'm a living testament that there is nothing that can't be outdone.
It’s noon on New Years Day, and I’ve already screwed up all five of my “Resolutions”. And as soon as this artsy Bohemian chick wakes up, I’m breaking number four a few more times. Hopefully she will simply leave without incident afterward, not arrogantly hoping to toy with my little black heart like an amateur surgeon binging on whiskey and PCP.
I’ve had my fill of that, thanks. Don’t let the door hit you in the ass.
Admittedly, this is not the product of “social” drinking; this is the result of balls-out wanton and savage revenge drinking. I remember watching "Leaving Las Vegas" on Christmas Eve –a great feelgood romance comedy that’s fun for the whole family, I might add-- trying to muster strength from a vacuum to continue wrestling these demons. "The Fisher King" carried me for a little while. But not a violent man, I have no recourse but to turn unmanaged rage inward. So why deny it? I have catching up to do.
Well, there’s always today. Death by inches, while cowardly, can be very worthwhile with some creative effort. With a little hard work, luck, perseverance, and a lot of accelerants, it won’t take much time at all to be completely destroyed altogether. This coupled with some advance planning and an optimistic ‘can-do’ attitude can even make being slowly murdered fun; just lather, rinse, repeat. The details will take care of themselves.
Bungled and botched, I’ve woken up on the wrong side of the Millennium.
And I've learned to accept it.
[Mr Insanity]
As a kid, I once witnessed a barfight.
I remember seeing blood on the pool table soaking into the green velvet --and it was the "blackest" black you could imagine.
Maybe it was the lighting.
Today, I'm a living testament that there is nothing that can't be outdone.
It’s noon on New Years Day, and I’ve already screwed up all five of my “Resolutions”. And as soon as this artsy Bohemian chick wakes up, I’m breaking number four a few more times. Hopefully she will simply leave without incident afterward, not arrogantly hoping to toy with my little black heart like an amateur surgeon binging on whiskey and PCP.
I’ve had my fill of that, thanks. Don’t let the door hit you in the ass.
Admittedly, this is not the product of “social” drinking; this is the result of balls-out wanton and savage revenge drinking. I remember watching "Leaving Las Vegas" on Christmas Eve –a great feelgood romance comedy that’s fun for the whole family, I might add-- trying to muster strength from a vacuum to continue wrestling these demons. "The Fisher King" carried me for a little while. But not a violent man, I have no recourse but to turn unmanaged rage inward. So why deny it? I have catching up to do.
Well, there’s always today. Death by inches, while cowardly, can be very worthwhile with some creative effort. With a little hard work, luck, perseverance, and a lot of accelerants, it won’t take much time at all to be completely destroyed altogether. This coupled with some advance planning and an optimistic ‘can-do’ attitude can even make being slowly murdered fun; just lather, rinse, repeat. The details will take care of themselves.
Bungled and botched, I’ve woken up on the wrong side of the Millennium.
And I've learned to accept it.
Sunday
Violated
Predator Press
[LOBO]
I’m dreaming.
Rush Limbaugh is playing golf, and I’m hiding behind a nearby tree --surrounded by water balloons.
I must be careful which balloon I select; this is the opportunity of a lifetime. It must be full enough to make a good splash at this distance, but not so firm as it would burst during the hurl …
“Mr. Curr!” exclaims Nurse Garrison.
Waking slowly, I realize I am holding her breasts.
Mortified, I smacked her.
[LOBO] I’m dreaming.
Rush Limbaugh is playing golf, and I’m hiding behind a nearby tree --surrounded by water balloons.
I must be careful which balloon I select; this is the opportunity of a lifetime. It must be full enough to make a good splash at this distance, but not so firm as it would burst during the hurl …
“Mr. Curr!” exclaims Nurse Garrison.
Waking slowly, I realize I am holding her breasts.
Mortified, I smacked her.
Frostbyte
Predator Press
[Mr Insanity]
“If it wasn’t Ethan’s request,” Captain Reinhardt yelled over the deafening semi-steady throb of the helicopter, “I would never fly in these circumstances”.
Diminutive, Cobe sat bundled up in his huge arctic gear looking more like a kid on the school bus. He said nothing due mostly to nausea; at this point, even exhaling might bring an uncontrollable fit of vomiting all over the cockpit.
He tried closing his eyes for a bit, but that didn’t help. "Motion sickness," LOBO once explained while Cobe barfed over the side of Ethan’s yacht, "has something to do with losing track of the horizon. The magnets in your head get all scrambled up or something."
Cobe forced his eyes open, and stared into a plain white sky. It was snowing so hard, you couldn’t see the edge of the rotors.
“So what,” laughed Reinhardt, trying to lighten the mood. “You tell Ethan you wanted to get away for a while or something?” The pitch of the engine changed as he fought the buffeting winds with the stick. “I just hope this little gizmo doesn’t start freezing up like it did last time.”
Something dark loomed into Cobe’s vision.
Cobe pointed.
Reinhardt looked up from the stick, and saw it too.
A mountain.
“Whoa!” laughed Reinhardt, throwing the tiny chopper into a gut-wrenching starboard dive. “That could’ve gone badly.” Arching within meters around the cliff face, he exhales in relief. “It’s right here somewhere,” he says. He presses a button on his helmet, and Cobe can hear him over the radio. ”Chuck, this is Jerry, do you copy?”
Static.
“See anything?”
White.
Wait.
Cobe points to two faint glowing rods, swinging like pendulums in the distance.
“There he is,” says Reinhardt, shrugging. “Communications must be out again.”
[Mr Insanity]
“If it wasn’t Ethan’s request,” Captain Reinhardt yelled over the deafening semi-steady throb of the helicopter, “I would never fly in these circumstances”.
Diminutive, Cobe sat bundled up in his huge arctic gear looking more like a kid on the school bus. He said nothing due mostly to nausea; at this point, even exhaling might bring an uncontrollable fit of vomiting all over the cockpit.
He tried closing his eyes for a bit, but that didn’t help. "Motion sickness," LOBO once explained while Cobe barfed over the side of Ethan’s yacht, "has something to do with losing track of the horizon. The magnets in your head get all scrambled up or something."
Cobe forced his eyes open, and stared into a plain white sky. It was snowing so hard, you couldn’t see the edge of the rotors.
“So what,” laughed Reinhardt, trying to lighten the mood. “You tell Ethan you wanted to get away for a while or something?” The pitch of the engine changed as he fought the buffeting winds with the stick. “I just hope this little gizmo doesn’t start freezing up like it did last time.”
Something dark loomed into Cobe’s vision.
Cobe pointed.
Reinhardt looked up from the stick, and saw it too.
A mountain.
“Whoa!” laughed Reinhardt, throwing the tiny chopper into a gut-wrenching starboard dive. “That could’ve gone badly.” Arching within meters around the cliff face, he exhales in relief. “It’s right here somewhere,” he says. He presses a button on his helmet, and Cobe can hear him over the radio. ”Chuck, this is Jerry, do you copy?”
Static.
“See anything?”
White.
Wait.
Cobe points to two faint glowing rods, swinging like pendulums in the distance.
“There he is,” says Reinhardt, shrugging. “Communications must be out again.”
Saturday
Paper Machete
Predator Press
[Mr Insanity]
I didn’t want to watch Saddam Hussein die.
Which is not to say I don’t think he deserved to die; I just didn’t really want to see it replayed over and over on my television.
If this makes me a hypocrite and a coward, I’m okay with that. I plead guilty.
Hell, Bush slept through it.
This blog doesn’t really deal with topical matters, history, cultural issues, personal problems, et cetera. It’s a comic strip of sorts; a cartoon generally wrapped around tragically flawed people behaving badly, superimposed upon events in normal everyday life. And rather than endorse such behavior, I would like to think it handles the Karmic payback in a rather elegant --and occasionally funny-- manner.
The overall dynamics aren’t really that different than your garden-variety sitcom: Ethan, the fatherly figure. Cobe --the guy that everyone vehemently hates despite the fact that he makes everything “tick”-- is a mom of sorts. LOBO represents the 5-year old “id” that lies in every man, and I guess that leaves me, the cruel older stepsister that is always trying to make the pest stick a fork in the light socket.
Everything is fairly formulaic as such. Aside from this poorly-lit, flimsy paper mache diorama –and horse fucking, or advice on how to safely apply Rain-X to your webcam-- there isn’t anything really unique about it at all; people have been writing like this for thousands of years. All the relationships run in triangles. Character “a” has a relationship with character “b”, but character “c”….
Despite this deceptive simplicity, on occasion you get the easy part; sometimes I hit the “Publish” button to send out a post about a twisted galactic odyssey of hedonistic horseshit so someone can maybe get a laugh or two, only to face a real world which is infinitely more complex, non-sensical, and sadistically ruthless.
Maybe, in some weird way, it does have a certain dignity.
It’s safer in here.
We have a sense of humor.
[Mr Insanity]
I didn’t want to watch Saddam Hussein die.
Which is not to say I don’t think he deserved to die; I just didn’t really want to see it replayed over and over on my television.
If this makes me a hypocrite and a coward, I’m okay with that. I plead guilty.
Hell, Bush slept through it.
This blog doesn’t really deal with topical matters, history, cultural issues, personal problems, et cetera. It’s a comic strip of sorts; a cartoon generally wrapped around tragically flawed people behaving badly, superimposed upon events in normal everyday life. And rather than endorse such behavior, I would like to think it handles the Karmic payback in a rather elegant --and occasionally funny-- manner.
The overall dynamics aren’t really that different than your garden-variety sitcom: Ethan, the fatherly figure. Cobe --the guy that everyone vehemently hates despite the fact that he makes everything “tick”-- is a mom of sorts. LOBO represents the 5-year old “id” that lies in every man, and I guess that leaves me, the cruel older stepsister that is always trying to make the pest stick a fork in the light socket.
Everything is fairly formulaic as such. Aside from this poorly-lit, flimsy paper mache diorama –and horse fucking, or advice on how to safely apply Rain-X to your webcam-- there isn’t anything really unique about it at all; people have been writing like this for thousands of years. All the relationships run in triangles. Character “a” has a relationship with character “b”, but character “c”….
Despite this deceptive simplicity, on occasion you get the easy part; sometimes I hit the “Publish” button to send out a post about a twisted galactic odyssey of hedonistic horseshit so someone can maybe get a laugh or two, only to face a real world which is infinitely more complex, non-sensical, and sadistically ruthless.
Maybe, in some weird way, it does have a certain dignity.
It’s safer in here.
We have a sense of humor.
Win, Place, Blow
Predator Press
[Cobe]
It turns out the story of the “real” Mister Insanity reads like a Shakespearian tragedy.
Born to a small rural community in Kentucky, Mister Insanity –or “Knickers” as he was known then—had a rather unspectacular childhood. He wasn’t particularly good in school, probably due to the long hours on the farm.
But could he ever run.
It didn’t take long for friends and colleagues to take notice of his blossoming talent; despite mediocre grades and poor attendance, Knickers was granted a scholarship to Notre Dame.
It was there that Knickers would earn his now-famous moniker “Mister Insanity”, due mostly to his adolescent fondness for campus streaking, avocado dip, and Fuzzy Navels. But now a star on the rise, the inertia of his career was superceding even the lightest of disciplines; endorsement deals soon followed, clouding his adolescent judgment ... among the most notably controversial of which, the 2.2 million dollar “Crazy Glue” commercials.
After graduating with honors, Mister Insanity married track star Gertrude Stewart, his high school sweetheart. Gertrude was an athletic, pretty, and reclusive girl from Louisville that was anxious to start a family. Friends would often comment that these were the happiest days of her life, and she was rarely seen without an effusive, sloppy grin on her face.
But despite the outward appearances, all was not well for our beloved Knickers; the road and stardom were taking their toll. Soon he was going to parties with the likes of Paris Hilton and Winona Ryder, and snorting heroic amounts of cocaine both on and off the field. At the recommendation of his coach, Knickers was ushered secretly away to the Betty Ford clinic, where the long and arduous recovery process had begun. There, Knickers spent months shuffling around in pajamas, shooting pool and playing pinball between therapy sessions.
Hard work paying off, all appeared to finally working out for Knickers, and a year later he was back in the gymnasium preparing for a comeback. It was then that misfortune struck yet once again: during the course of a routine physical, it was discovered that so much damage was done to his knees over the course of his young career he would never run professionally again. Only deepening his situation, multiple knee surgeries in the vain hope of restoring his damaged tissue left him virtually hobbled; vulnerable to medical con-artists and quack science, he soon invested his image and entire life savings on a product called Knee-Grow Medical Ointment that was ill-received by the public in general.
Always the fighter, he made efforts to reinvent himself … but he was wholly unprepared emotionally for the disappointment of flunking out of astronaut training school; Knickers entered another downward spiral. His hygiene suffered, and his diet consisted solely of fistfuls of sugar cubes for weeks on end. This triggered diabetic seizures, and simultaneous rampant gonorrhea. Two days later, an alert cop, suspicious of the Fuzzy Navel smell on the car interior, gave Knickers his first DUI.
While never directly implicated in the Sweet'N Low shootings, Knickers had dropped from the public eye completely; little is known up until his recent indictment for Tax Fraud and Money Laundering. Always a fan of art, he now sits in Federal Prison, riddled with hepatitis and syphilis, tattooing his fellow inmates while awaiting his inevitable execution.
Gertrude since left him for a successful and svelte young greyhound racer, and they now live in Twenty-Nine Palms, California.
Understandably, she doesn’t have that big, sloppy grin anymore.
But she’s comfortable.
[Cobe]
It turns out the story of the “real” Mister Insanity reads like a Shakespearian tragedy.
Born to a small rural community in Kentucky, Mister Insanity –or “Knickers” as he was known then—had a rather unspectacular childhood. He wasn’t particularly good in school, probably due to the long hours on the farm.
But could he ever run.
It didn’t take long for friends and colleagues to take notice of his blossoming talent; despite mediocre grades and poor attendance, Knickers was granted a scholarship to Notre Dame.
It was there that Knickers would earn his now-famous moniker “Mister Insanity”, due mostly to his adolescent fondness for campus streaking, avocado dip, and Fuzzy Navels. But now a star on the rise, the inertia of his career was superceding even the lightest of disciplines; endorsement deals soon followed, clouding his adolescent judgment ... among the most notably controversial of which, the 2.2 million dollar “Crazy Glue” commercials.
After graduating with honors, Mister Insanity married track star Gertrude Stewart, his high school sweetheart. Gertrude was an athletic, pretty, and reclusive girl from Louisville that was anxious to start a family. Friends would often comment that these were the happiest days of her life, and she was rarely seen without an effusive, sloppy grin on her face.
But despite the outward appearances, all was not well for our beloved Knickers; the road and stardom were taking their toll. Soon he was going to parties with the likes of Paris Hilton and Winona Ryder, and snorting heroic amounts of cocaine both on and off the field. At the recommendation of his coach, Knickers was ushered secretly away to the Betty Ford clinic, where the long and arduous recovery process had begun. There, Knickers spent months shuffling around in pajamas, shooting pool and playing pinball between therapy sessions.
Hard work paying off, all appeared to finally working out for Knickers, and a year later he was back in the gymnasium preparing for a comeback. It was then that misfortune struck yet once again: during the course of a routine physical, it was discovered that so much damage was done to his knees over the course of his young career he would never run professionally again. Only deepening his situation, multiple knee surgeries in the vain hope of restoring his damaged tissue left him virtually hobbled; vulnerable to medical con-artists and quack science, he soon invested his image and entire life savings on a product called Knee-Grow Medical Ointment that was ill-received by the public in general.
Always the fighter, he made efforts to reinvent himself … but he was wholly unprepared emotionally for the disappointment of flunking out of astronaut training school; Knickers entered another downward spiral. His hygiene suffered, and his diet consisted solely of fistfuls of sugar cubes for weeks on end. This triggered diabetic seizures, and simultaneous rampant gonorrhea. Two days later, an alert cop, suspicious of the Fuzzy Navel smell on the car interior, gave Knickers his first DUI.
While never directly implicated in the Sweet'N Low shootings, Knickers had dropped from the public eye completely; little is known up until his recent indictment for Tax Fraud and Money Laundering. Always a fan of art, he now sits in Federal Prison, riddled with hepatitis and syphilis, tattooing his fellow inmates while awaiting his inevitable execution.
Gertrude since left him for a successful and svelte young greyhound racer, and they now live in Twenty-Nine Palms, California.
Understandably, she doesn’t have that big, sloppy grin anymore.
But she’s comfortable.
Friday
BREAKING MORE NEWS
Predator Press
BI-POLAR RACEHORSE INDICTED FOR
TAX EVASION, MONEY LAUNDERING
Hah! Let’s see your hoity-toity 'Wall Street Journal' top that.
TAX EVASION, MONEY LAUNDERING
Hah! Let’s see your hoity-toity 'Wall Street Journal' top that.
Complicating Matters
Predator Press
[LOBO]
Contrary to popular belief, faking paralysis for sponge baths is fraught with peril.
They stop giving you anesthetics for one. And before long they are doing agonizing and cruel, inhumane things to your supposedly sensory-free flesh.
You wouldn’t believe how much starch they put in these sheets.
Body Up
Predator Press
[Mr Insanity]
Ethan, in an ill-fitting Letterman jacket, waved the VT pennant I gave him with little animation or interest.
“Is this so you can work on that new line of children’s books you’ve been talking about?” he asks.
“No,” I says, cleaning off my desk. There really isn’t all that much to pack ... I was hoping if I was quick enough, I could avoid this exact confrontation.
“But why Canada?” he moped.
“We’re having accreditation issues locally,” I reply.
“You couldn’t have picked a worse time,” Ethan complained. “With LOBO missing, I might even have to call Cobe back.”
“You should really rethink that sir,” I says, choosing my words carefully. “I mean face it, when the going got tough, the ‘tough’ were long gone.”
“So what are you saying?”
“I think you should pick your companions more carefully,” I shrug.
“Yeah, well … I hired you, and you’re going too.”
“Yes, but Ethan, I’m tired,” I says. “Give me some credit. For months, my life has been doing nothing but revolve around this--“ I look around the barren office, and I’m unable to capture anything tangible. I give up and shrug, “I just can’t be the only grown-up anymore.”
“Don't do this," sighs Ethan. "Not now. We just lost Gerald Ford --and soon Saddam Hussein-- two of our most influential and ardent fans. Mr. Insanity, this one of our darkest days.”
Sliding the heavy banker box off of the desk, I pause. “Seth,” I says.
“What?”
“My name is Seth.”
“How have you been cashing your paychecks?”
“I opened a checking account for the horse.”
[Mr Insanity]
Ethan, in an ill-fitting Letterman jacket, waved the VT pennant I gave him with little animation or interest.
“Is this so you can work on that new line of children’s books you’ve been talking about?” he asks.
“No,” I says, cleaning off my desk. There really isn’t all that much to pack ... I was hoping if I was quick enough, I could avoid this exact confrontation.
“But why Canada?” he moped.
“We’re having accreditation issues locally,” I reply.
“You couldn’t have picked a worse time,” Ethan complained. “With LOBO missing, I might even have to call Cobe back.”
“You should really rethink that sir,” I says, choosing my words carefully. “I mean face it, when the going got tough, the ‘tough’ were long gone.”
“So what are you saying?”
“I think you should pick your companions more carefully,” I shrug.
“Yeah, well … I hired you, and you’re going too.”
“Yes, but Ethan, I’m tired,” I says. “Give me some credit. For months, my life has been doing nothing but revolve around this--“ I look around the barren office, and I’m unable to capture anything tangible. I give up and shrug, “I just can’t be the only grown-up anymore.”
“Don't do this," sighs Ethan. "Not now. We just lost Gerald Ford --and soon Saddam Hussein-- two of our most influential and ardent fans. Mr. Insanity, this one of our darkest days.”
Sliding the heavy banker box off of the desk, I pause. “Seth,” I says.
“What?”
“My name is Seth.”
“How have you been cashing your paychecks?”
“I opened a checking account for the horse.”
Thursday
The Ballad of Mr Insanity
Predator Press
[Cobe]
Last April, a thirsty Ethan and LOBO pulled into an Off Track Betting facility.
“So what are we gonna do with Captain Burlap in the trunk?” LOBO says, unfolding his menu.
“Ask him about the odds on the 5th race.”
“Look, he’s not a calculatron,” says LOBO. “He’s a guy that was hanging out in front of a drug store near Oxford University with a broken shoelace.”
“Which obviously makes him a 187 pound mathematical savant.”
“I’m not arguing about his mathematic prowess,” LOBO repeats. “I’m just saying he’s been in our trunk for 16 hours. He’s probably hungry.”
“So get him some French fries.”
“I’m not buying fries for someone that has been trapped in my trunk for 16 hours.”
“Just look at that horse,” says a distracted Ethan, pointing at one of 452 closely-joined monitors. In the bottom right corner, ESPN identified a singular steed as “Mister Insanity” that was smashing the crap out of everything in sight.
Within moments, that horse drove off the gate, kicked the head off his own jockey, crushed the race’s announcer in the skybox, and finally screeched to a halt across the finish line.
Then the race started.
LOBO lost $100.
[Cobe]
Last April, a thirsty Ethan and LOBO pulled into an Off Track Betting facility.
“So what are we gonna do with Captain Burlap in the trunk?” LOBO says, unfolding his menu.
“Ask him about the odds on the 5th race.”
“Look, he’s not a calculatron,” says LOBO. “He’s a guy that was hanging out in front of a drug store near Oxford University with a broken shoelace.”
“Which obviously makes him a 187 pound mathematical savant.”
“I’m not arguing about his mathematic prowess,” LOBO repeats. “I’m just saying he’s been in our trunk for 16 hours. He’s probably hungry.”
“So get him some French fries.”
“I’m not buying fries for someone that has been trapped in my trunk for 16 hours.”
“Just look at that horse,” says a distracted Ethan, pointing at one of 452 closely-joined monitors. In the bottom right corner, ESPN identified a singular steed as “Mister Insanity” that was smashing the crap out of everything in sight.
Within moments, that horse drove off the gate, kicked the head off his own jockey, crushed the race’s announcer in the skybox, and finally screeched to a halt across the finish line.
Then the race started.
LOBO lost $100.
Yeah, Thanks For That Whole "Gravity" Thing
Predator Press
[LOBO]
Thanks to Isaac Newtron inventing gravity, my daring plan to escape the hospital by jumping out of the eleventh story window hurt like hell. Next thing I know, I hear an ambulance engine start, the sirens go off, the thing drives sixteen feet and then screeches to a halt next to me.
And then a bunch of assholes drag me right back into the hospital.
This is going to be tougher than I thought.
Fuck you, Isaac Newtron.
Wednesday
The Cathouse Mouse
Predator Press
[LOBO]
I’m really disappointed in the lack of public outcry on this blog as of late; according to ‘Spellcheck’, that last post brazenly said “breast” at least twice.
I, a devout religious follower, am deeply offended for some reason.
I would’ve at least sent an angry email to us assholes were I not forgotten in the ICU due to Santa’s treachery, blinking my post in Morse code (like mom taught me) to a registered nurse.
You all should be ashamed of yourselves.
Tuesday
It Could Happen
Predator Press
[Mr Insanity]
I brought Bertha.
There wasn’t really anything "special" behind this decision; she was just another stripper-slash-college student that seems to come standard issue with a Platinum card.
Still, she was magnetically attractive, unpredictably sweet, and my current favorite.
She liked to show off her legs, and the dress she wore did not disappoint; the slit in the side stopped just under her muscular hips. I must say, she was the showstopping eye-candy of the entire night. Further, Bertha seemed to require less drinking to tolerate listening to -for a stripper-slash-college student her age.
And I wasn’t the only one that noticed.
Phoebe -sitting with us by virtue of a seating fluke- and I slam Wild Turkey for hours, while the charming Bertha nursed whiskey sours.
I like how they taste on her breath.
I slow down a little when it dawns on me how well Phoebe and Bertha are getting along. Lingering stares, affectionate giggles ... I’m almost surprised when they don’t go together when Bertha excuses herself for the bathroom.
But Phoebe was clocking me.
“Wow, Mr I,” says Phoebe, with a strange, electrically charged look on her face. “I’m really impressed!”
“We’re not,” I smile, “competing over the same girl, are we?”
Phoebe pauses, calculating. “Of course not,” she says. “But she’s fucking hot.”
***
“Look,” I says abruptly, shutting the door to my office. I grab the entire bottle of bourbon from the bar. “It’s very hot watching you two flirt. But our colleagues are at this party.” I focus on Phoebe, “That whole dance floor scene—“
[Mr Insanity]
I brought Bertha.
There wasn’t really anything "special" behind this decision; she was just another stripper-slash-college student that seems to come standard issue with a Platinum card.
Still, she was magnetically attractive, unpredictably sweet, and my current favorite.
She liked to show off her legs, and the dress she wore did not disappoint; the slit in the side stopped just under her muscular hips. I must say, she was the showstopping eye-candy of the entire night. Further, Bertha seemed to require less drinking to tolerate listening to -for a stripper-slash-college student her age.
And I wasn’t the only one that noticed.
Phoebe -sitting with us by virtue of a seating fluke- and I slam Wild Turkey for hours, while the charming Bertha nursed whiskey sours.
I like how they taste on her breath.
I slow down a little when it dawns on me how well Phoebe and Bertha are getting along. Lingering stares, affectionate giggles ... I’m almost surprised when they don’t go together when Bertha excuses herself for the bathroom.
But Phoebe was clocking me.
“Wow, Mr I,” says Phoebe, with a strange, electrically charged look on her face. “I’m really impressed!”
“We’re not,” I smile, “competing over the same girl, are we?”
Phoebe pauses, calculating. “Of course not,” she says. “But she’s fucking hot.”
“Look,” I says abruptly, shutting the door to my office. I grab the entire bottle of bourbon from the bar. “It’s very hot watching you two flirt. But our colleagues are at this party.” I focus on Phoebe, “That whole dance floor scene—“
Tat
Predator Press
[Cobe]
If a man’s character can be judged by inexplicable acts of compassion, Ethan is indeed a great man.
To say my house burned down is somewhat understated; where my house was is now a smoldering crater extending four city blocks. A city bus lies in the charred concrete hole that was my basement.
Rather than going to work on Christmas, I rescued all 41 of the passengers.
This, understandably, resulted in my prompt termination.
It’s bad enough being homeless, jobless, and starving during the holidays … but I’ve spent the last six months neglecting friends and family too. That was inexcusable. Still, they were all very gracious, sending burlap bags and only slightly-soiled sheets so I can make myself warm clothing.
As I boiled my ornately-wrapped Christmas bonus from Predator Press --collapsible cardboard banker boxes-- for dinner, Ethan had an apparent "change of heart". He says I can still work here, but I will have to accept a pay cut and transfer to one of the arctic listening posts monitoring our battered planetary defenses.
Mmmm … battered defenses.
[Cobe]
If a man’s character can be judged by inexplicable acts of compassion, Ethan is indeed a great man.
To say my house burned down is somewhat understated; where my house was is now a smoldering crater extending four city blocks. A city bus lies in the charred concrete hole that was my basement.
Rather than going to work on Christmas, I rescued all 41 of the passengers.
This, understandably, resulted in my prompt termination.
It’s bad enough being homeless, jobless, and starving during the holidays … but I’ve spent the last six months neglecting friends and family too. That was inexcusable. Still, they were all very gracious, sending burlap bags and only slightly-soiled sheets so I can make myself warm clothing.
As I boiled my ornately-wrapped Christmas bonus from Predator Press --collapsible cardboard banker boxes-- for dinner, Ethan had an apparent "change of heart". He says I can still work here, but I will have to accept a pay cut and transfer to one of the arctic listening posts monitoring our battered planetary defenses.
Mmmm … battered defenses.
Catlike Reflexes
Predator Press
[LOBO]
Okay, I’ve escaped the hospital to give you the football picks.
Plus, if I don’t show up for work between now and the 31st, my insurance will run out. I don’t know if you’ve ever been thrown into a dumpster full of biological waste and used hypodermics before, but let me tell you: it’s not pleasant.
The Bears are playing the Packers tonight, and I’m leaning toward the Packers.
Don’t get me wrong; I’m not rooting for the Packers. But Brett is a retiring and jazzed veteran seasoned on playing against the Bears; he’s gonna rip into any sloppy playing he sees.
Maybe my Morse code is a little rusty though. I thought I had blinked all this fairly rationaly up on the eleventh floor, but Nurse Garrison seemed to feel like I was rooting for the Soviets. I heard that rubber glove snap, and reflexively leapt out the nearest window.
I hope this doesn't bust my laptop.
Monday
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