Predator Press
[Zombie Mr Insanity]
LOBO and I were making small talk while kicking the crap out of each other playing Worlds of Warcraft, and the phone rang.
Lo and behold, it’s Babs.
I put my rotting finger to my decomposing lip, and LOBO nodded he understood. Smirking, he puts her on speakerphone.
“Yes,” he gasps breathlessly in a feeble attempt to sound sexy.
“Hi handsome,” says the voice over the speaker. LOBO grabs his controller when he realizes I’m molecularizing his WOW character with my +6 Big Hammer.
“What the fuck, you ass!?!” says LOBO.
“Excuse me?” says Babs.
“Not you. Uh. Phil.” LOBO retorts in his usual lack-of-brilliance. He sneaks a peak at his watch. “What’s up Babs? It’s like seven-thirty. Shouldn’t you be sleeping with someone right now?"
I hold back a giggle.
“Well, it’s funny that you mention that,” she says.
Now, I look at LOBO directly, expecting some kind of humorous and silent exchange, but he doesn’t seem to clock this obvious flirtation.
“What do you want?” he asks distractedly, writhing with the controller.
“I want to sleep with you,” she says.
You can almost taste her sexuality through the phone speaker.
She’s good.
“Babs,” says LOBO. “I sleep on a futon, and you know that. It’s hard as a goddamn rock. What do you really want?”
“I want to do anything you want me to do.”
“Will you go get my refrigerator, washer and dryer?”
I would’ve been slack-jawed, had my jaw not fallen off at Taco Bell.
She pauses. “Now?”
“Wouldn’t you be more comfortable sleeping over if we had all those things here?”
“But I drive a Porsche,” she says.
“Bungee cords,” he replies. “Get like ten bucks worth. I’ll pay you back when you get here.”
He hangs up on her.
“You know,” I says. “She’s not coming over here to sleep.”
LOBO 'pauses' the game. “What?”
“I think she has an ulterior motive.”
His eyebrows furrow as he stares at the living room television screen. “Well, if it’s to watch TV, she’s going to have to do it in the bedroom. We have a good game going.”
I feel myself inwardly sigh. Here is LOBO, on the verge of what will most certainly be the most spectacular sex he’s ever had –primarily by virtue that I don’t think he’s ever had it before—and he doesn’t know it. I look at my own rotting hands and sigh.
“I wonder what my prospects are going to be,” I wonder aloud.
“You mean, what with being dead and all?”
“Yeah,” I says.
LOBO takes a long minute to size me up.
“Well,” he concludes, “there’s always fat chicks.”
Wednesday
Compromise of the Machines
Predator Press
[LOBO]
In a moment of sate and surfeit I haven't enjoyed in years, I find myself somewhat caught up on the bills and occasionally drifting over “home appliance” specials; I’ve been in dire need of a washer, dryer and refrigerator for some time now.
... but that stuff looks heavy.
[LOBO]
In a moment of sate and surfeit I haven't enjoyed in years, I find myself somewhat caught up on the bills and occasionally drifting over “home appliance” specials; I’ve been in dire need of a washer, dryer and refrigerator for some time now.
... but that stuff looks heavy.
Tuesday
Blindside
Predator Press
[Zombie Mr Insanity]
You didn’t think I would show up at the gun range, did you?
You’re forgetting I know LOBO. He was going to require something subtle. Something sneaky … like showing up at Wrigley Field to bash that little fucker’s brains in with this tire iron.
I didn’t foresee Babs making a "less-than hostile” bid at a Hawly Enterprises takeover.
This is a rather intriguing development.
[Zombie Mr Insanity]
You didn’t think I would show up at the gun range, did you?
You’re forgetting I know LOBO. He was going to require something subtle. Something sneaky … like showing up at Wrigley Field to bash that little fucker’s brains in with this tire iron.
I didn’t foresee Babs making a "less-than hostile” bid at a Hawly Enterprises takeover.
This is a rather intriguing development.
Monday
History Depletes Itself
Predator Press
[LOBO]
Back in the golden days of the Roman Empire, the woolly mammoth and 8-track tapes, Roman radiators fought to the death for the viewing pleasure of a bloodthirsty audience. “Going to a Bears game” meant that at the coliseum that week, gigantic and hungry bears were going to be set loose to publicly devour criminals, Christians, and other undesirables.
This, incidentally, made going to a Jets game really cool.
But nowadays, apparently, it’s different.
Babs and Mr Insanity carried me to the hospital, and after I got my ankle all bandaged up -- and jacked up high with Children's Morphine to stop my hysterical screaming-- we all headed back to face the throng of people at Wrigley Field. I was just wondering why Children’s Morphine tasted suspiciously like Tic Tacs, and then it dawned on me:
There was no game.
I don’t care what you think you saw on television. I was right there, loyal and enthusiastic, waving my giant Blackhawks foam finger at gametime, and there was nothing on that field except for tumbleweeds.
At first I thought maybe they were short of players; quite the physical specimen myself, I valiantly prepared to volunteer by drinking a whole 22 oz Gatorade. But the only other people at the field at all were those mean Japanese tourists that followed me because of my foam finger.
Just like Bigfoot, the Lunar Landing, and the female orgasm, football is a myth.
No one was more shocked than I. Doubting even myself, I went over my DVR copy of the game to look for inevitable inconsistencies. And sure enough, numerous times you can see the string attached to the football. Further, exactly 2 minutes into the second quarter if you look closely behind Rex Grossman, you can see Kenny, Stan, Cartman, and Kyle lining up for scrimmage. It happens right after the “Your DVR has run out of space,” techno-babble.
Luckily, I have noted journalist Oliver Stone on speed dial.
[LOBO]
Back in the golden days of the Roman Empire, the woolly mammoth and 8-track tapes, Roman radiators fought to the death for the viewing pleasure of a bloodthirsty audience. “Going to a Bears game” meant that at the coliseum that week, gigantic and hungry bears were going to be set loose to publicly devour criminals, Christians, and other undesirables.
This, incidentally, made going to a Jets game really cool.
But nowadays, apparently, it’s different.
Babs and Mr Insanity carried me to the hospital, and after I got my ankle all bandaged up -- and jacked up high with Children's Morphine to stop my hysterical screaming-- we all headed back to face the throng of people at Wrigley Field. I was just wondering why Children’s Morphine tasted suspiciously like Tic Tacs, and then it dawned on me:
There was no game.
I don’t care what you think you saw on television. I was right there, loyal and enthusiastic, waving my giant Blackhawks foam finger at gametime, and there was nothing on that field except for tumbleweeds.
At first I thought maybe they were short of players; quite the physical specimen myself, I valiantly prepared to volunteer by drinking a whole 22 oz Gatorade. But the only other people at the field at all were those mean Japanese tourists that followed me because of my foam finger.
Just like Bigfoot, the Lunar Landing, and the female orgasm, football is a myth.
No one was more shocked than I. Doubting even myself, I went over my DVR copy of the game to look for inevitable inconsistencies. And sure enough, numerous times you can see the string attached to the football. Further, exactly 2 minutes into the second quarter if you look closely behind Rex Grossman, you can see Kenny, Stan, Cartman, and Kyle lining up for scrimmage. It happens right after the “Your DVR has run out of space,” techno-babble.
Luckily, I have noted journalist Oliver Stone on speed dial.
Sunday
Huddle
Predator Press
[LOBO]
I see Babs climbing the bleachers, and I’m excited to see a familiar face in this lonely place.
She hands me a cup of hot chocolate, and I nearly cut myself on her sweater reaching for it; indeed, at eight degrees, her nipples were deadly and fascinating weapons. Cuddling close to me, she nuzzles them heavily in my arm, and I can smell the Safari wafting through the air.
We stare in silence and stark solitude at the flat, square place guys play sports on.
“Do you know what I’m thinking?” she whispers.
“That maybe I should put golf on my blog after all?”
“No,” she says, inching closer.
Suddenly, she screams “Zombie!” and Mr. Insanity lurches from out of the dugout.
Now, I tried to throw her out of the way so I could escape without trampling her, but my foot got caught in the seat; I toppled to the ground, bolts of pain shooting through my ankle.
“Don’t you even think about leaving me behind!” I scream at Babs, weeping openly. “I’ll throw my hot chocolate at you!”
[LOBO]
I see Babs climbing the bleachers, and I’m excited to see a familiar face in this lonely place.
She hands me a cup of hot chocolate, and I nearly cut myself on her sweater reaching for it; indeed, at eight degrees, her nipples were deadly and fascinating weapons. Cuddling close to me, she nuzzles them heavily in my arm, and I can smell the Safari wafting through the air.
We stare in silence and stark solitude at the flat, square place guys play sports on.
“Do you know what I’m thinking?” she whispers.
“That maybe I should put golf on my blog after all?”
“No,” she says, inching closer.
Suddenly, she screams “Zombie!” and Mr. Insanity lurches from out of the dugout.
Now, I tried to throw her out of the way so I could escape without trampling her, but my foot got caught in the seat; I toppled to the ground, bolts of pain shooting through my ankle.
“Don’t you even think about leaving me behind!” I scream at Babs, weeping openly. “I’ll throw my hot chocolate at you!”
Go Bears
Predator Press
[LOBO]
I decided to “get the drop” on the game day crowd, and camp out all night here at Wrigley Field.
These fucking seats are awesome.
[LOBO]
I decided to “get the drop” on the game day crowd, and camp out all night here at Wrigley Field.
These fucking seats are awesome.
Saturday
Brunch
Predator Press
[Zombie Mr Insanity]
I knock three times.
No answer.
I raise my arm to knock again, and I can hear sounds behind the door.
“What?” says a voice.
“LOBO?” I says.
“Maybe.”
“It’s me, Seth.”
“Who?
“You know, Mr Insanity?”
“I thought you were dead or something.”
“Oh heavens no!” I says chucking. “It was all a big prank. Now let me in so I can tell you all the details and eat your brains.”
“Well,” says LOBO. “I’m running late. I’m supposed to meet my brother at the gun range. Why don’t you meet us there?”
I scratch my chin, thinking, and a slab of flesh falls of. “I lost my car to probate. Can I ride with you guys?”
“Well that depends,” says LOBO. “Was that a chunk of rotting flesh I just heard hit the floor?”
Kicking the maggot-riddled swatch deftly away, I reply, “No. Of course not.”
“Was that the sound of you kicking away a chunk of rotting flesh and 131 maggots?” says LOBO.
“Oh all right,” I concede. “You got me.”
“I really don’t want all that crap falling off in my car.”
“So it’s 20 degrees, and you want me to walk eight miles,” I says, recapping.
“Hey, Fred or whatever,” says LOBO. “It’s a rental. I can’t even smoke in the fucking thing. Quit being such a pussy about it. It’s not like I’m asking you to pick up ammo and donuts something.”
“You’re an asshole.”
“I’m an asshole? You’ll be walking right by Kmart!”
"So?"
"Ammo and donuts make my brains tastier," he replies.
"Really?"
"And coffee makes them taste like hickory-smoked barbequed ribs."
[Zombie Mr Insanity]
I knock three times.
No answer.
I raise my arm to knock again, and I can hear sounds behind the door.
“What?” says a voice.
“LOBO?” I says.
“Maybe.”
“It’s me, Seth.”
“Who?
“You know, Mr Insanity?”
“I thought you were dead or something.”
“Oh heavens no!” I says chucking. “It was all a big prank. Now let me in so I can tell you all the details and eat your brains.”
“Well,” says LOBO. “I’m running late. I’m supposed to meet my brother at the gun range. Why don’t you meet us there?”
I scratch my chin, thinking, and a slab of flesh falls of. “I lost my car to probate. Can I ride with you guys?”
“Well that depends,” says LOBO. “Was that a chunk of rotting flesh I just heard hit the floor?”
Kicking the maggot-riddled swatch deftly away, I reply, “No. Of course not.”
“Was that the sound of you kicking away a chunk of rotting flesh and 131 maggots?” says LOBO.
“Oh all right,” I concede. “You got me.”
“I really don’t want all that crap falling off in my car.”
“So it’s 20 degrees, and you want me to walk eight miles,” I says, recapping.
“Hey, Fred or whatever,” says LOBO. “It’s a rental. I can’t even smoke in the fucking thing. Quit being such a pussy about it. It’s not like I’m asking you to pick up ammo and donuts something.”
“You’re an asshole.”
“I’m an asshole? You’ll be walking right by Kmart!”
"So?"
"Ammo and donuts make my brains tastier," he replies.
"Really?"
"And coffee makes them taste like hickory-smoked barbequed ribs."
Friday
Special Guest Appearance
Predator Press
[Zombie Mr Insanity]
Let me get this straight.
LOBO had my body dug up in order to promote Predator Press?
Wow. And here I am dripping maggots.
I‘m hungry.
[Zombie Mr Insanity]
Let me get this straight.
LOBO had my body dug up in order to promote Predator Press?
Wow. And here I am dripping maggots.
I‘m hungry.
Lake of Pants on Fire
Predator Press
[LOBO]
Please stop asking me why --despite this kickass physique-- I don’t play professional football.
Once and for all, it’s because of practical, ecological, humanitarian, and litigious considerations:
I don’t think I can quarterback without spilling my Latte Frappuccino all over those glaringly white tights during a “blitz” defense.
Yet.
[LOBO]
Please stop asking me why --despite this kickass physique-- I don’t play professional football.
Once and for all, it’s because of practical, ecological, humanitarian, and litigious considerations:
I don’t think I can quarterback without spilling my Latte Frappuccino all over those glaringly white tights during a “blitz” defense.
Yet.
Whore
Predator Press
[LOBO]
Well, let's see.
Sex: check.
Guns: check.
Violence: check.
Beastiality: check.
Necrophilia: pending. (I've got Max, Brighta and Vetter digging up Mr Insanity to see if there are any takers.)
Honestly, the only other thing I can think of perverse enough to trigger shit-tons of search engines is maybe golf, and that’s just going way too far even for me.
All set for the onslaught of Googlites, Yahoonians and maybe even a weathered Lycosian or two, I just found out that the site crawlers could take as long as six weeks to kick in.
Please try to remain interesting-looking in the meantime.
[LOBO]
Well, let's see.
Sex: check.
Guns: check.
Violence: check.
Beastiality: check.
Necrophilia: pending. (I've got Max, Brighta and Vetter digging up Mr Insanity to see if there are any takers.)
Honestly, the only other thing I can think of perverse enough to trigger shit-tons of search engines is maybe golf, and that’s just going way too far even for me.
All set for the onslaught of Googlites, Yahoonians and maybe even a weathered Lycosian or two, I just found out that the site crawlers could take as long as six weeks to kick in.
Please try to remain interesting-looking in the meantime.
Thursday
WE ARE GETTING "CRAWLED" BY GOOGLE
Predator Press
[LOBO]
We aren't getting enough web hits.
Look, I know I've been tawdry ... but how am I to warn the masses of, say, a zombie uprising? Or an alien invasion? It is my sacred duty as a self-appointed Defender of Humankind to increase readership. So your brains don't get eaten! Or you get rectal-probed or something!
***
Well wow, it's morning already ... the cock is crowing somewhere, and my pussy cat can sense it; she is stroking against my ankles after dreaming long and hard of a breast-pounding sweaty hunt of some tit mice in a bush. Or maybe a hole. (What am I, a fucking pet psychiatrist? Go back to licking your fur, beast!)
Well, I gotta blow on outta here. My lips are chapped ... they feel like leather. They would probably be pink if I were a member of an enormous cross dressing group and at a costume party where people wore lots of lipstick and hung out with lesbians.
Lastly, an observation: The words "Penis" and "Vagina" both contain the letters "i" and "n".
Coincidence?
Hm?
Butt I digress.
[LOBO]
We aren't getting enough web hits.
Look, I know I've been tawdry ... but how am I to warn the masses of, say, a zombie uprising? Or an alien invasion? It is my sacred duty as a self-appointed Defender of Humankind to increase readership. So your brains don't get eaten! Or you get rectal-probed or something!
Well wow, it's morning already ... the cock is crowing somewhere, and my pussy cat can sense it; she is stroking against my ankles after dreaming long and hard of a breast-pounding sweaty hunt of some tit mice in a bush. Or maybe a hole. (What am I, a fucking pet psychiatrist? Go back to licking your fur, beast!)
Well, I gotta blow on outta here. My lips are chapped ... they feel like leather. They would probably be pink if I were a member of an enormous cross dressing group and at a costume party where people wore lots of lipstick and hung out with lesbians.
Lastly, an observation: The words "Penis" and "Vagina" both contain the letters "i" and "n".
Coincidence?
Hm?
Butt I digress.
Skeet
Predator Press
[LOBO]
Look, nobody told me my brother’s squeeze was in the Peace Corps.
I heard the cell phone ring and yelled “PULL!”
But instead of throwing it, he answered.
I'll bet the Emergency Room sees a lot more of this than they are willing to admit.
[LOBO]
Look, nobody told me my brother’s squeeze was in the Peace Corps.
I heard the cell phone ring and yelled “PULL!”
But instead of throwing it, he answered.
I'll bet the Emergency Room sees a lot more of this than they are willing to admit.
Shake a Leg
Predator Press
[LOBO]
This weekend is going to be huge.
I’m switching to nights for a few months at the job Monday, so I have to flip my sleep cycle. Predator Press will be getting the most posting I can manage, but in an effort to increase traffic, I also have to find four or five hours to add our tags to about 30 web-searching engines. Plus I need to shop for a car. And let’s not forget The Game, which will more or less wipe out all of Sunday.
In hopes of borrowing some deep-arctic gear, I paid a visit to my outdoorsy “little” brother. We didn’t grow up together, and tend to have long stretches with little or no contact. Still, it’s always good to see the handsome pup.
In the preliminary phone call, I got the sense that he was on the verge of landing a new femme fatale; so when I got to his place, I was a little distressed to see his house still a veritable shrine for the old one.
“Why are you keeping this crap?” I ask bluntly.
“I dunno,” he says, a little uncomfortable. “I guess it’s not mine and I don’t feel right about getting rid of it.”
“Dude, she played you for six months and then dumped you during a crisis. I’ll bet she didn’t even send a Christmas card. Why are you contorting over this at all? She doesn't care about this stuff; she just left it here like your house is her own personal trash can.”
“So I’m supposed to just throw it out?”
I start grabbing her pictures, baubles, and dainty crap into a plastic bag. They are easy to pick out, as they contrast heavily with the pressboard furniture and bikini posters. “Look,” I says, wincing at a shelf full of Anne Rice novels, “There comes a time in every healthy relationship when it must be terminated with extreme malice in order for the healing to begin.” After scooping the books into the bag with a single arc of my arm, I pause. “Do you still have your guns?”
“I’m not going to fucking kill her,” he snaps.
“No you’re not. You’re going to live a robust, healthy and successful life and hope she does the same, so she sees what she fucked up for a good long time. Every success, every conquest, every breath will be another joyous opportunity to stick it to her.” I continue gathering everything pink, frilly, or shiny. “What time does the gun range open on Saturday?”
“Eight in the morning.”
I hold up the heavy bag, smiling, “Now we know what to do with her stuff.”
He gets a sly smile I haven’t seen in awhile. “Even the stereo?”
“Especially the stereo.”
[LOBO]
This weekend is going to be huge.
I’m switching to nights for a few months at the job Monday, so I have to flip my sleep cycle. Predator Press will be getting the most posting I can manage, but in an effort to increase traffic, I also have to find four or five hours to add our tags to about 30 web-searching engines. Plus I need to shop for a car. And let’s not forget The Game, which will more or less wipe out all of Sunday.
In hopes of borrowing some deep-arctic gear, I paid a visit to my outdoorsy “little” brother. We didn’t grow up together, and tend to have long stretches with little or no contact. Still, it’s always good to see the handsome pup.
In the preliminary phone call, I got the sense that he was on the verge of landing a new femme fatale; so when I got to his place, I was a little distressed to see his house still a veritable shrine for the old one.
“Why are you keeping this crap?” I ask bluntly.
“I dunno,” he says, a little uncomfortable. “I guess it’s not mine and I don’t feel right about getting rid of it.”
“Dude, she played you for six months and then dumped you during a crisis. I’ll bet she didn’t even send a Christmas card. Why are you contorting over this at all? She doesn't care about this stuff; she just left it here like your house is her own personal trash can.”
“So I’m supposed to just throw it out?”
I start grabbing her pictures, baubles, and dainty crap into a plastic bag. They are easy to pick out, as they contrast heavily with the pressboard furniture and bikini posters. “Look,” I says, wincing at a shelf full of Anne Rice novels, “There comes a time in every healthy relationship when it must be terminated with extreme malice in order for the healing to begin.” After scooping the books into the bag with a single arc of my arm, I pause. “Do you still have your guns?”
“I’m not going to fucking kill her,” he snaps.
“No you’re not. You’re going to live a robust, healthy and successful life and hope she does the same, so she sees what she fucked up for a good long time. Every success, every conquest, every breath will be another joyous opportunity to stick it to her.” I continue gathering everything pink, frilly, or shiny. “What time does the gun range open on Saturday?”
“Eight in the morning.”
I hold up the heavy bag, smiling, “Now we know what to do with her stuff.”
He gets a sly smile I haven’t seen in awhile. “Even the stereo?”
“Especially the stereo.”
Tuesday
Slings and Arrows
Predator Press
[LOBO]
I was really having a great week at work.
First, my iPhone got approved, and then I got this nifty wireless transmitter with a range larger than the entire plant. Now I can yell at people or pretend I'm talking to Twiki from the bathroom, the parking lot, anywhere.
But things went south in a big way today.
For the past few weeks, the company has been buying 8 Chicago Bears tickets a game and raffling them off to us. And this week I won the stupid pool.
Well technically Louie won. But since he’s lucky enough to no longer be with us, Babs says now I’m the one that has to endure all that traffic both ways and sit in like 12 degrees for nine hours with ten billion of you drunk and rabid crazies.
Sunday, I’m going to my first live professional football game.
You know, say what you will about my anti-social tendencies, but I’m a basically happy guy when it all boils down. And I like football. But I passionately hate being in crowds; I would much rather catch the game at home. My first impulse was to sell the tix, or maybe even give them away.
But High Command has spoken: attendance is non-transferable and mandatory.
The memo concludes teasingly, “Wear something skimpy.”
Based on the weather report, I’m hoping gasoline and matches qualify.
[LOBO]
I was really having a great week at work.
First, my iPhone got approved, and then I got this nifty wireless transmitter with a range larger than the entire plant. Now I can yell at people or pretend I'm talking to Twiki from the bathroom, the parking lot, anywhere.
But things went south in a big way today.
For the past few weeks, the company has been buying 8 Chicago Bears tickets a game and raffling them off to us. And this week I won the stupid pool.
Well technically Louie won. But since he’s lucky enough to no longer be with us, Babs says now I’m the one that has to endure all that traffic both ways and sit in like 12 degrees for nine hours with ten billion of you drunk and rabid crazies.
Sunday, I’m going to my first live professional football game.
You know, say what you will about my anti-social tendencies, but I’m a basically happy guy when it all boils down. And I like football. But I passionately hate being in crowds; I would much rather catch the game at home. My first impulse was to sell the tix, or maybe even give them away.
But High Command has spoken: attendance is non-transferable and mandatory.
The memo concludes teasingly, “Wear something skimpy.”
Based on the weather report, I’m hoping gasoline and matches qualify.
Monday
Memento
Predator Press
[LOBO]
It struck me while visiting a friend this weekend how apparent one’s personal philosophy can be when looking for the clues. In stark contrast to my place, I observed walls peppered with pictures of loved ones. Family heirlooms abound. Antiques. Home entertainment systems and trendy furniture.
Souveniers.
Personal treasures.
And I remember something.
One day, on my way to work, a man on foot ran across the busy, speeding highway to retrieve his errant hubcap. Heavyset, tall, and about my age, I could see his dumbass sheepish smile.
But somehow, the truck behind me did not.
It swung around to pass me, and in my rearview, I saw it blow the foolish pedestrian into many unrecognizable pieces like a child’s doll. The truck jackknifed across the highway, and I would be among the last cars to pass for several hours.
It was amazingly horrible. I don’t know how I got the car over to the shoulder safely.
I do not keep objects of sentiment.
Especially fucking hubcaps.
[LOBO]
It struck me while visiting a friend this weekend how apparent one’s personal philosophy can be when looking for the clues. In stark contrast to my place, I observed walls peppered with pictures of loved ones. Family heirlooms abound. Antiques. Home entertainment systems and trendy furniture.
Souveniers.
Personal treasures.
And I remember something.
One day, on my way to work, a man on foot ran across the busy, speeding highway to retrieve his errant hubcap. Heavyset, tall, and about my age, I could see his dumbass sheepish smile.
But somehow, the truck behind me did not.
It swung around to pass me, and in my rearview, I saw it blow the foolish pedestrian into many unrecognizable pieces like a child’s doll. The truck jackknifed across the highway, and I would be among the last cars to pass for several hours.
It was amazingly horrible. I don’t know how I got the car over to the shoulder safely.
I do not keep objects of sentiment.
Especially fucking hubcaps.
Sunday
Catch 3.14
Predator Press
[LOBO]
Well, I’ve pretty much wasted the weekend.
I’m the worst IT customer you could want: the intermediate.
I need a basic template to get rolling, but I ultimately need to be able to access the raw HTML for custom work as well.
Every time I hire a host, I go in at look at their web tools. And within two hours, I’m leaving looking like I'm one on the writing staff of “The Brady Bunch” that last season. You know, when Mike Brady shows up to shoot in that big perm and silk shorts and rollerblades?
Maybe I should just be happy here at “Blogger”.
Maybe "never being complete" is the natural and healthy state ...
[LOBO]
Well, I’ve pretty much wasted the weekend.
I’m the worst IT customer you could want: the intermediate.
I need a basic template to get rolling, but I ultimately need to be able to access the raw HTML for custom work as well.
Every time I hire a host, I go in at look at their web tools. And within two hours, I’m leaving looking like I'm one on the writing staff of “The Brady Bunch” that last season. You know, when Mike Brady shows up to shoot in that big perm and silk shorts and rollerblades?
Maybe I should just be happy here at “Blogger”.
Maybe "never being complete" is the natural and healthy state ...
Saturday
Dry Socket
Predator Press
[LOBO]
"Well sir, you're all set, " says the guy. "Shall I charge your credit card $7,043 for all your new upgrades now?"
"What?" I says. "I think I was napping."
"You now have higher bandwidth, 5,000,000 gigabytes of memory, and the coveted Dale Earnhardt set of commemorative plates."
"Will the site be in color?" I demand shrewdly.
"For another $50 it will be."
[LOBO]
"Well sir, you're all set, " says the guy. "Shall I charge your credit card $7,043 for all your new upgrades now?"
"What?" I says. "I think I was napping."
"You now have higher bandwidth, 5,000,000 gigabytes of memory, and the coveted Dale Earnhardt set of commemorative plates."
"Will the site be in color?" I demand shrewdly.
"For another $50 it will be."
Friday
Writer's Blockade
Predator Press
[LOBO]
I already quit “Writing.com”. It seems that some of my work is unfit for penetrating the innocent deer-like retinae of today’s youth, and I agree wholeheartedly: screw the kids.
But these people are pretty extreme. Yesterday they upped the rating on “Idiot Bag” to adult, because the word “idiot” is deemed offensive.
This is the worst kind of discrimination there is.
This is the kind against me.
Today, to make matters worse, they “adultrified” a watered-down version of “Because I Care” because in the dialogue, a spreadsheet is referred to as stupid.
They would have saved me a lot of trouble by banning adjectives altogether.
It’s time to go independent. “Blogger” has been getting a little sketchy lately anyways since this Beta release; if I’m lucky enough for it to be available at all, it sometimes takes 20 minutes just to upload text. Plus it doesn't save drafts correctly anymore.
At 25,000 hits, Predator Press is due for a tune up.
What this means to you might require a little work. I generally post almost every day. While www.predatorpress.com is ours, our “hosting” is mirrored to Blogger, hence the weird web address. But if we upgrade, you will continue to be forwarded to this site which --while hopefully, is bookmarked-- will no longer be getting the updated posting.
In a nutshell, if it gets quiet, be afraid. If suddenly you don’t see daily posting, it means we are officially moved. You will have to manually type “www.predatorpress.com” into your browser, and replace the old bookmark.
I’ll do my best to keep you informed when this occurs. And I know this seems a little complicated, but I sincerely hope you will go through the effort.
We’re worth it.
Promise.
[LOBO]
I already quit “Writing.com”. It seems that some of my work is unfit for penetrating the innocent deer-like retinae of today’s youth, and I agree wholeheartedly: screw the kids.
But these people are pretty extreme. Yesterday they upped the rating on “Idiot Bag” to adult, because the word “idiot” is deemed offensive.
This is the worst kind of discrimination there is.
This is the kind against me.
Today, to make matters worse, they “adultrified” a watered-down version of “Because I Care” because in the dialogue, a spreadsheet is referred to as stupid.
They would have saved me a lot of trouble by banning adjectives altogether.
It’s time to go independent. “Blogger” has been getting a little sketchy lately anyways since this Beta release; if I’m lucky enough for it to be available at all, it sometimes takes 20 minutes just to upload text. Plus it doesn't save drafts correctly anymore.
At 25,000 hits, Predator Press is due for a tune up.
What this means to you might require a little work. I generally post almost every day. While www.predatorpress.com is ours, our “hosting” is mirrored to Blogger, hence the weird web address. But if we upgrade, you will continue to be forwarded to this site which --while hopefully, is bookmarked-- will no longer be getting the updated posting.
In a nutshell, if it gets quiet, be afraid. If suddenly you don’t see daily posting, it means we are officially moved. You will have to manually type “www.predatorpress.com” into your browser, and replace the old bookmark.
I’ll do my best to keep you informed when this occurs. And I know this seems a little complicated, but I sincerely hope you will go through the effort.
We’re worth it.
Promise.
Thursday
Because I Care
Predator Press
[LOBO]
One of my duties at work is to make spreadsheets.
Nobody ever told me who or what the spreadsheets are for, but I crank them out left and right.
They are accurate, colorful, and endless; in fact, my last spreadsheet outlined in excruciating detail how the numbers of spreadsheets produced have increased exponentially since my date of hire.
Louie is a big guy, to say the least. He’s got to be approaching 400 lbs. His job is to take the numbers from my spreadsheets and input them into a computer so all the information can be verified.
Louie hates me.
I knock on his door, and hear a grunt. And as it opens, the sounds of his labored breathing fills the room. “You’re car is being cancelled,” he begins without a greeting. Enshrined by candy bar wrappers, empty nachos polystyrene and Diet Pepsi cans, he says distractedly, “You’ve had a month now.”
“That’s too bad,” I says. I can tell by his voice he’s not done. “Why are you sweating?”
“Your stupid spreadsheets,” he says. The chair creaks under his girth as he leans back, and holds up the two fingers he uses to type. They look lean and muscular in stark contrast to the rest of his body. “The least you could do is do them in numeric order. The way you do them now, I have to delete and type the whole thing.”
“You mean you want me to put them in order so you can just delete the last digit and type in the new one?”
He nods, skull pivoting gracefully over rolls and rolls of neck.
“Sure Louie,” I says, already planning a spreadsheet outlining how many broken chairs come out of this department. “But why don’t you just cut and paste them?”
The impossibly fat eyebrows arch. “Huh,” he says. “That’s a pretty good idea. Between that and you doing them in numerical order, my life will be a hell of a lot easier.”
“Always happy to be of help, Louie,” I says cheerfully, excusing myself.
So for a month, I made spreadsheets using the letter “O” instead of zeroes, “Z” for “2”s, and even brazenly threw in “E” instead of “3” on special occasion.
It’s more than a little ironic that I was asked to deliver Louie's eulogy …
[LOBO]
One of my duties at work is to make spreadsheets.
Nobody ever told me who or what the spreadsheets are for, but I crank them out left and right.
They are accurate, colorful, and endless; in fact, my last spreadsheet outlined in excruciating detail how the numbers of spreadsheets produced have increased exponentially since my date of hire.
Louie is a big guy, to say the least. He’s got to be approaching 400 lbs. His job is to take the numbers from my spreadsheets and input them into a computer so all the information can be verified.
Louie hates me.
I knock on his door, and hear a grunt. And as it opens, the sounds of his labored breathing fills the room. “You’re car is being cancelled,” he begins without a greeting. Enshrined by candy bar wrappers, empty nachos polystyrene and Diet Pepsi cans, he says distractedly, “You’ve had a month now.”
“That’s too bad,” I says. I can tell by his voice he’s not done. “Why are you sweating?”
“Your stupid spreadsheets,” he says. The chair creaks under his girth as he leans back, and holds up the two fingers he uses to type. They look lean and muscular in stark contrast to the rest of his body. “The least you could do is do them in numeric order. The way you do them now, I have to delete and type the whole thing.”
“You mean you want me to put them in order so you can just delete the last digit and type in the new one?”
He nods, skull pivoting gracefully over rolls and rolls of neck.
“Sure Louie,” I says, already planning a spreadsheet outlining how many broken chairs come out of this department. “But why don’t you just cut and paste them?”
The impossibly fat eyebrows arch. “Huh,” he says. “That’s a pretty good idea. Between that and you doing them in numerical order, my life will be a hell of a lot easier.”
“Always happy to be of help, Louie,” I says cheerfully, excusing myself.
So for a month, I made spreadsheets using the letter “O” instead of zeroes, “Z” for “2”s, and even brazenly threw in “E” instead of “3” on special occasion.
It’s more than a little ironic that I was asked to deliver Louie's eulogy …
Wednesday
Hack
Predator Press
[LOBO]
I’ve been compiling a “best of” collection over at writing.com. I don’t think the pieces are really as good as the originals, as I’ve had to make them self-contained short story “adaptations” for readers who have never been to this site before. Still, the immediate feedback is good, and I like the specific “hit-by-post” breakdowns. While I can’t tell who is reading, I can tell what is being read; it’s like a cheap demographic study.
Well, you had better be sitting down. What I found out could just give you an aneurysm.
The internet is full of perverts.
It turns out that my fairly soft-core porn draws three times more hits than anything else. This lame porn is followed roughly equally by drug references and curse words.
I don’t know what I expected to find, but I’m pretty pleased with the demographic anyway.
Thanks for reading!
I love living in this day and age, and how inventive it all is. The Internet has once again given us instant satisfaction and gratification rather than that crappy other kind of satisfaction and gratification. As a kid, what did I have to play with? Basically it was either GI Joes or Stretch Armstrong. “Kung Fu Grip” gets old fast, and stabbing Stretch with a pencil will get you yelled at a lot, but subsequent new carpeting.
As a grown-up, maybe I'm still a little conflicted on the whole “Stretch Armstrong” thing, but I’m not on technology.
Bring on the toys, and please bring them on fast.
As a quasi, low-grade tech support goob where I work, I’m getting a crash course in a variety of tech toys lately, and I still need to pick my “weapon of choice” as far as mobile communication.
My cellphone.
I told them I think I want an iPhone.
I know I do more than my share ragging on Mac products, but while I prefer PC, I’m perfectly comfortable using a Mac as well; the bulk of computers at my college were Macs. The bulk of my hamburgers have been Macs. Those people are definitely onto something periodically, so I keep my eye out. Even a broken clock is right twice a day, after all.
That iPod phone looks slick. I even sold the idea to the purchasing department. In fact, I had them already ready to order them for themselves too until they saw the $500 sticker price. Then the tightwads started to backpedal. “Maybe when the price comes down,” or “Let’s let the technology prove itself first,” blah blah. How dare you become “reasonable” and “responsible” at a time like this? Just what are you calculatrons hiding?
Immediately, I’m suspicious.
After some convincing, I got Ethan to fire them all for conspiracy to embezzle iPhones. But now, corporate iPhone “approved”, there’s nobody in the office to help me with the paperwork to buy one.
What the fuck is happening to this country?
Well, I wasn’t particularly excited about getting a cellphone in the first place, and I’ve just created another six-month excuse to wait to get one.
I am the uncontested World Champion of Procrastination.
Don’t think so?
Just wait.
[LOBO]
I’ve been compiling a “best of” collection over at writing.com. I don’t think the pieces are really as good as the originals, as I’ve had to make them self-contained short story “adaptations” for readers who have never been to this site before. Still, the immediate feedback is good, and I like the specific “hit-by-post” breakdowns. While I can’t tell who is reading, I can tell what is being read; it’s like a cheap demographic study.
Well, you had better be sitting down. What I found out could just give you an aneurysm.
The internet is full of perverts.
It turns out that my fairly soft-core porn draws three times more hits than anything else. This lame porn is followed roughly equally by drug references and curse words.
I don’t know what I expected to find, but I’m pretty pleased with the demographic anyway.
Thanks for reading!
I love living in this day and age, and how inventive it all is. The Internet has once again given us instant satisfaction and gratification rather than that crappy other kind of satisfaction and gratification. As a kid, what did I have to play with? Basically it was either GI Joes or Stretch Armstrong. “Kung Fu Grip” gets old fast, and stabbing Stretch with a pencil will get you yelled at a lot, but subsequent new carpeting.
As a grown-up, maybe I'm still a little conflicted on the whole “Stretch Armstrong” thing, but I’m not on technology.
Bring on the toys, and please bring them on fast.
As a quasi, low-grade tech support goob where I work, I’m getting a crash course in a variety of tech toys lately, and I still need to pick my “weapon of choice” as far as mobile communication.
My cellphone.
I told them I think I want an iPhone.
I know I do more than my share ragging on Mac products, but while I prefer PC, I’m perfectly comfortable using a Mac as well; the bulk of computers at my college were Macs. The bulk of my hamburgers have been Macs. Those people are definitely onto something periodically, so I keep my eye out. Even a broken clock is right twice a day, after all.
That iPod phone looks slick. I even sold the idea to the purchasing department. In fact, I had them already ready to order them for themselves too until they saw the $500 sticker price. Then the tightwads started to backpedal. “Maybe when the price comes down,” or “Let’s let the technology prove itself first,” blah blah. How dare you become “reasonable” and “responsible” at a time like this? Just what are you calculatrons hiding?
Immediately, I’m suspicious.
After some convincing, I got Ethan to fire them all for conspiracy to embezzle iPhones. But now, corporate iPhone “approved”, there’s nobody in the office to help me with the paperwork to buy one.
What the fuck is happening to this country?
Well, I wasn’t particularly excited about getting a cellphone in the first place, and I’ve just created another six-month excuse to wait to get one.
I am the uncontested World Champion of Procrastination.
Don’t think so?
Just wait.
Tuesday
Catwalk
Predator Press
[LOBO]
Mounting pressure from work to “dress for success” has forced me to do some shopping.
Evidently, they want me in disguise as somebody ‘respectable’.
This is no small feat for a guy who has procrastinated buying shoes for six months; for years, I have blown into Wal-Mart and bought 32X32 “loose fit” Levis and three-packs of T-shirts, finishing my annual clothes shopping –without even trying anything on—in maybe four minutes and for about eight bucks. I don’t know anything about clothes and colors and whatever, and now I gotta learn how to dress like a grown-up virtually overnight.
It was clear I needed help.
A small squad of concerned friends enlisted, and I got dragged to the mall.
I got khakis, ties, cardigans, shoes, belts, aftershave, and dark socks. And of course I hadda “polarize”; we continued on to spiff coats, gloves, scarf, boots and so on.
And after $1,100, wanna know what I’m wearing to work tomorrow?
Wal-Mart and bought 32X32 “loose fit” Levis and a T-shirt.
Well, at least I got my fucking shoes.
[LOBO]
Mounting pressure from work to “dress for success” has forced me to do some shopping.
Evidently, they want me in disguise as somebody ‘respectable’.
This is no small feat for a guy who has procrastinated buying shoes for six months; for years, I have blown into Wal-Mart and bought 32X32 “loose fit” Levis and three-packs of T-shirts, finishing my annual clothes shopping –without even trying anything on—in maybe four minutes and for about eight bucks. I don’t know anything about clothes and colors and whatever, and now I gotta learn how to dress like a grown-up virtually overnight.
It was clear I needed help.
A small squad of concerned friends enlisted, and I got dragged to the mall.
I got khakis, ties, cardigans, shoes, belts, aftershave, and dark socks. And of course I hadda “polarize”; we continued on to spiff coats, gloves, scarf, boots and so on.
And after $1,100, wanna know what I’m wearing to work tomorrow?
Wal-Mart and bought 32X32 “loose fit” Levis and a T-shirt.
Well, at least I got my fucking shoes.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
-
Predator Press [LOBO] Yes it's totally true. There is now, in fact, a $14.95 Bionic Ear . And I'm not even going to g... -
LOBO - Predator Press "I can't believe the woman giving the MRI was flirting with you right in front of me ," Wendy growled.... -
LOBO - Predator Press "What is wrong with my eye?" I ask. "Is it cancer?" "I think you got soap in it" W...