[LOBO]
Well, being in jail is by no means fun; nonetheless, when I found out I was in jail with Richard Gere, I was thrilled.
Richard Gere, star of such brutal fight scenes such as the ones in 'An Officer and a Gentleman' and 'Pretty Woman', was right the fuck here sharing a holding cell with me!
I immediately start talking trash.
Dice, Tic Tock, and Shiv weren’t too impressed at first, but when I told ‘em all they was 'so ugly they hadda fake orgasms while masturbating', they had a huddle.
Dice: “Yo man, these are either the dumbest white men on Earth, or maybe they’re just crazy.”
Tic Tock: “Yeah, dude just said Tom Wopat was the Antichrist. Who the fuck is Tom Wopat?”
Shiv: “Wasn’t that one cracker that dude in Pretty Woman?”
“That’s right!” I exclaim. “And if I give the word, Richard will pull your tongues through your keysters!” I stare at them crazily.
“What you dogs doin time for?” says Tic Tock.
“Tell ‘im Richard!” I says, all twitchy-like.
“I was at Christmas Mass and this guy and a hooker showed up. During the footage, I was holding hands with my wife.” Richard wipes away a tear. “They got the whole thing on film.”
“You know Richard,” I says facing a 6’6” tall angry guy twice my width, “I was hoping --as an artist—you could do better than that.”
“Better than getting arrested for the proliferation of phony ‘Fat Burning' Twinkies?”
Dice: “These niggas are fucked up.”
Tic Tock: “Just be cool.”
Shiv: “I’m tellin you, that cat was in Armageddon or something.”
Suddenly, a voice calls, “LOBO, you’ve made bail. Please exit to your left.”
“Well wow,” I says, grabbing Richard’s hand and shaking it heartily. “Good luck my friend.” I pause. "Can I have your autograph?"
Saturday
Thursday
Viscosity
Predator Press
[Mr Insanity]
“You know,” I says, pushing my plate away. “I was a little disappointed with the fettuccini.”
“Really,” says Sapphire. “Am I supposed to think you are classy because you are pointing out flaws at something you invited me to?” she giggles. “I suppose you cook?”
“I’ll cut you a deal,” I says. “I’ll handle the macaroni and cheese. No matter what you decide to make, I’m doing the mac and cheese.”
“Oh thank God,” Sapphire laughs.
“Until we get married,” I add. “When we get married, you’ll be pretty fucked as far as pasta is concerned.”
"So then we'll eat, what, leaves and berries?"
"If you're lucky," I says frowning. "Look, I know your 'affiliation' with LOBO--"
"Well, it's funny that you mention that," she says. "Because LOBO needs to post Bail."
[Mr Insanity]
“You know,” I says, pushing my plate away. “I was a little disappointed with the fettuccini.”
“Really,” says Sapphire. “Am I supposed to think you are classy because you are pointing out flaws at something you invited me to?” she giggles. “I suppose you cook?”
“I’ll cut you a deal,” I says. “I’ll handle the macaroni and cheese. No matter what you decide to make, I’m doing the mac and cheese.”
“Oh thank God,” Sapphire laughs.
“Until we get married,” I add. “When we get married, you’ll be pretty fucked as far as pasta is concerned.”
"So then we'll eat, what, leaves and berries?"
"If you're lucky," I says frowning. "Look, I know your 'affiliation' with LOBO--"
"Well, it's funny that you mention that," she says. "Because LOBO needs to post Bail."
Tuesday
Perfectly Legal
Predator Press
[LOBO]
"I'm serious," I says. "I've got his contract right here!"
1) Don't be a Dick = 50%
Gilmore's Score: -50%
2) Never Say 'LOBO is Too Busy' for Free Meals = 21%
Gilmore's Score: 21%, + 6% bonus for timeliness
3) No Fat Chicks = 20%
Gilmore's Score: 20%
4) Never Kill Ethan = 9%
Gilmore's Score: -9%, + 6% bonus for timeliness
Net Total = Fuck Gilmore.
"It's all perfectly legal," I insist.
[LOBO]
"I'm serious," I says. "I've got his contract right here!"
1) Don't be a Dick = 50%
Gilmore's Score: -50%
2) Never Say 'LOBO is Too Busy' for Free Meals = 21%
Gilmore's Score: 21%, + 6% bonus for timeliness
3) No Fat Chicks = 20%
Gilmore's Score: 20%
4) Never Kill Ethan = 9%
Gilmore's Score: -9%, + 6% bonus for timeliness
Net Total = Fuck Gilmore.
Saturday
Scar Tissue
Predator Press
[Mr Insanity]
“Look,” says Gilmore, stuffing the bloody tissue against his nose. “I did the right thing. If, in fact, Babs has anything to do with this, somebody should have been ‘engaged’ in what is going on.”
“How do we know your loyalty isn’t with her?” says Sapphire.
Maybe it was the adrenaline of the fight -I don't know- but the next thing out of my mouth was, “What the fuck do you know about loyalty?”
Sapphire's eyes flashed dangerously. “Excuse me?” she blinked.
“What was that disappearing act over Winter Break all about? I thought we were getting pretty tight. Then boom. You didn’t even send me a Christmas Card.”
“You took a hooker to Christmas Mass from what I heard.”
“Don't blame me if there's no 'Saving' her."
[Mr Insanity]
“Look,” says Gilmore, stuffing the bloody tissue against his nose. “I did the right thing. If, in fact, Babs has anything to do with this, somebody should have been ‘engaged’ in what is going on.”
“How do we know your loyalty isn’t with her?” says Sapphire.
Maybe it was the adrenaline of the fight -I don't know- but the next thing out of my mouth was, “What the fuck do you know about loyalty?”
Sapphire's eyes flashed dangerously. “Excuse me?” she blinked.
“What was that disappearing act over Winter Break all about? I thought we were getting pretty tight. Then boom. You didn’t even send me a Christmas Card.”
“You took a hooker to Christmas Mass from what I heard.”
“Don't blame me if there's no 'Saving' her."
Friday
Black Flag
Predator Press
[LOBO]
Ethan disappearing isn’t really always that unusual; he’ll just up and go on a vacation or a business trip often without even packing.
But this is the first time he’s gone ten days without contacting anyone.
Making things worse is the glaring absence of Cobe; while that lazy fuck is off vacationing or whatever in the arctic, everything was beginning to fall apart without Ethan at the helm.
The sense of deterioration in the office was obvious and virtually palpable. Supplies were being ordered incorrectly –if in fact ordered at all. Bills were going unpaid. Deadlines were being missed. Things were so bad, when Babs asked me if I run the warehouse for a few days, I jumped at the chance.
The truth is I’m somewhat of a shipping and receiving prodigy. With a crew of 46 hard-scrabble industrial types, on a typical day we would receive about 26 semi trailers with materials and generally ship out about the same amount.
Now, under my radiant guidance, loads are brought into the north side of the building, processed, disseminated, recombined, and shipped out on trucks waiting on the south side just as usual. But now those trucks drive immediately back around to the north side, and the process is repeated.
But within only a few days, I have them doing triple the production. Hell, now I’m considering not letting the trucks stop here in the first place … just have the long line of semis circling the building clockwise. If they approve my on-site diesel refueling station, we’re talking nothing but round-the-clock efficiency.
***
Immediately after shuffling up the papers in Jimmy Orlando’s vacant office, I got the call instructing me –and all Predator Press executives—to meet at the banquet hall. My suspicions that it was a surprise party for me celebrating being named the Forbes Man of the Year were dispelled almost immediately upon arrival; already very late, I hurriedly snuck in and joined the table where Phoebe, Mr Insanity and Sapphire were already sitting even as Gilmore was addressing the podium.
“Good afternoon ladies and gentlemen. Thank you for attending with such short notice. You’ll note that Jimmy Orlando will not be joining us today; his house mysteriously burned down yesterday, and I would like to extend my personal sympathies.”
“That’s horrible,” I says.
“Indeed,” says Gilmore, a little annoyed by the interruption. “I would also like to congratulate you all for having the highest circulation we’ve ever had this year. At this rate, we would most certainly have eventually turned a profit.”
“Would have?” Sapphire whispers.
“And as you all know, according to the Charter, Babs is the defacto CEO in Ethan’s absence. And since it’s been well over a week since Ethan was kidnapped, my may have to face the possibility that he may never return.”
“Who said anything about kidnapping?” whispered Mr Insanity.
“I’ll bet it’s Babs’ highly-developed maternal instinct,” I says.
Mr Insanity looked at me strangely. “Babs doesn’t have any kids.”
“God doesn’t give a woman breasts like that if He doesn’t intend for her to be a fantastic mother.”
“Well, while I find your logic rather fascinating,” Mr I says, “God didn’t give her those breasts. Doctor Helmsly did.”
Gilmore continued. “And as the Acting CEO of Predator Press, Babs has been forced to conclude that this business cannot continue without him. She has decided to close the doors and liquidate all the assets immediately.”
“English please,” I says. “We’re not all calculatrons you know.”
“None of you work here anymore,” says Gilmore.
“Oh thank God,” I says. “I’m freaking exhausted from all this getting up at 10 in the morning three or four days a week. And can you just mail me my paychecks? It’s a kinda long drive--”
“Perhaps,” says Gilmore, “I’m not being very clear.”
“Hey,” I says. “I’m sure I’m speaking for everyone when I ask you if there is there going to be food at this thing. I’m famished. Plus I’m tired … I had a very late night. And do you have any idea how hard it is getting a gasoline smell out of a ninja outfit? Let me tell you, it’s a big pain in the ass--”
“Ladies and gentlemen,” says Gilmore clearly into the microphone. “As of today, you’re all fired.”
“Who said anything about fire?” I says.
Suddenly, Mr Insanity’s hands are around Gilmore’s throat.
“You DICK!” he screamed.
Gilmore tried to squirm free, only further infuriating his assailant; Mr Insanity delivered three or four bone-crushing punches to his unprotected head before Sapphire could pull him off.
“Stop that Mr Insanity!” she demanded. “You’ll kill him before I get my turn!”
“We’re not killing him,” says Phoebe.
“What?”
“We’re not killing him,” she repeated. “We need him to find Babs, and we need Babs to find Ethan.”
Reluctantly, Mr Insanity relaxed. “You’re a fucking scumbag,” he says to Gilmore. “If it comes out that you had anything to do with this, I’ll kill you. And then I’ll kill everyone you’ve ever met until there aren’t even memories of you anymore.”
“Yeah,” I agree. “You’re the second-worst 'Vice President of All Things LOBO' I’ve ever had!”
[LOBO]
Ethan disappearing isn’t really always that unusual; he’ll just up and go on a vacation or a business trip often without even packing.
But this is the first time he’s gone ten days without contacting anyone.
Making things worse is the glaring absence of Cobe; while that lazy fuck is off vacationing or whatever in the arctic, everything was beginning to fall apart without Ethan at the helm.
The sense of deterioration in the office was obvious and virtually palpable. Supplies were being ordered incorrectly –if in fact ordered at all. Bills were going unpaid. Deadlines were being missed. Things were so bad, when Babs asked me if I run the warehouse for a few days, I jumped at the chance.
The truth is I’m somewhat of a shipping and receiving prodigy. With a crew of 46 hard-scrabble industrial types, on a typical day we would receive about 26 semi trailers with materials and generally ship out about the same amount.
Now, under my radiant guidance, loads are brought into the north side of the building, processed, disseminated, recombined, and shipped out on trucks waiting on the south side just as usual. But now those trucks drive immediately back around to the north side, and the process is repeated.
But within only a few days, I have them doing triple the production. Hell, now I’m considering not letting the trucks stop here in the first place … just have the long line of semis circling the building clockwise. If they approve my on-site diesel refueling station, we’re talking nothing but round-the-clock efficiency.
Immediately after shuffling up the papers in Jimmy Orlando’s vacant office, I got the call instructing me –and all Predator Press executives—to meet at the banquet hall. My suspicions that it was a surprise party for me celebrating being named the Forbes Man of the Year were dispelled almost immediately upon arrival; already very late, I hurriedly snuck in and joined the table where Phoebe, Mr Insanity and Sapphire were already sitting even as Gilmore was addressing the podium.
“Good afternoon ladies and gentlemen. Thank you for attending with such short notice. You’ll note that Jimmy Orlando will not be joining us today; his house mysteriously burned down yesterday, and I would like to extend my personal sympathies.”
“That’s horrible,” I says.
“Indeed,” says Gilmore, a little annoyed by the interruption. “I would also like to congratulate you all for having the highest circulation we’ve ever had this year. At this rate, we would most certainly have eventually turned a profit.”
“Would have?” Sapphire whispers.
“And as you all know, according to the Charter, Babs is the defacto CEO in Ethan’s absence. And since it’s been well over a week since Ethan was kidnapped, my may have to face the possibility that he may never return.”
“Who said anything about kidnapping?” whispered Mr Insanity.
“I’ll bet it’s Babs’ highly-developed maternal instinct,” I says.
Mr Insanity looked at me strangely. “Babs doesn’t have any kids.”
“God doesn’t give a woman breasts like that if He doesn’t intend for her to be a fantastic mother.”
“Well, while I find your logic rather fascinating,” Mr I says, “God didn’t give her those breasts. Doctor Helmsly did.”
Gilmore continued. “And as the Acting CEO of Predator Press, Babs has been forced to conclude that this business cannot continue without him. She has decided to close the doors and liquidate all the assets immediately.”
“English please,” I says. “We’re not all calculatrons you know.”
“None of you work here anymore,” says Gilmore.
“Oh thank God,” I says. “I’m freaking exhausted from all this getting up at 10 in the morning three or four days a week. And can you just mail me my paychecks? It’s a kinda long drive--”
“Perhaps,” says Gilmore, “I’m not being very clear.”
“Hey,” I says. “I’m sure I’m speaking for everyone when I ask you if there is there going to be food at this thing. I’m famished. Plus I’m tired … I had a very late night. And do you have any idea how hard it is getting a gasoline smell out of a ninja outfit? Let me tell you, it’s a big pain in the ass--”
“Ladies and gentlemen,” says Gilmore clearly into the microphone. “As of today, you’re all fired.”
“Who said anything about fire?” I says.
Suddenly, Mr Insanity’s hands are around Gilmore’s throat.
“You DICK!” he screamed.
Gilmore tried to squirm free, only further infuriating his assailant; Mr Insanity delivered three or four bone-crushing punches to his unprotected head before Sapphire could pull him off.
“Stop that Mr Insanity!” she demanded. “You’ll kill him before I get my turn!”
“We’re not killing him,” says Phoebe.
“What?”
“We’re not killing him,” she repeated. “We need him to find Babs, and we need Babs to find Ethan.”
Reluctantly, Mr Insanity relaxed. “You’re a fucking scumbag,” he says to Gilmore. “If it comes out that you had anything to do with this, I’ll kill you. And then I’ll kill everyone you’ve ever met until there aren’t even memories of you anymore.”
“Yeah,” I agree. “You’re the second-worst 'Vice President of All Things LOBO' I’ve ever had!”
Wednesday
Day Six
Predator Press
[Mr Insanity]
Needless to say, tempers are wearing thin.
The strictly-distributed rations are low, and lack of hygiene is becoming painfully obvious to Phoebe and I. I have several days of 'scruff', and Phoebe's refusal to wear shorts during the hottest parts of the day suggests that she probably does too. We smell bad. Phoebe, without makeup and her usual vast assortment of beauty creams and oils seems to have aged ten years while simultaneously developing acne. Her cheeks are growing taut and sunken --as are mine probably.
Sapphire, an android, looks just as fresh and beautiful as she did a week ago; this I can understand. But as for LOBO, there is no explanation whatsoever; he's clean-shaven and smells faintly of Old Spice.
And he almost seems to have gained weight.
Is that what he was wearing when we got here?
"Good morning," says a distantly-familiar voice.
Surprised, we all turn to see Gilmore, dapper and smooth in a custom-fitted immaculate white suit.
"Where the hell did you come from?" I demand.
"That's not important," says Gilmore.
"Fuck you," says Phoebe. "Why don't you tell us what's important then? We've been stranded out here for a week!"
"Easy Phoebe," Sapphire chides lightly. "At least someone's here to get us out of here."
"Awe," says LOBO. "I was just starting to enjoy this-"
"I'm sorry," says Gilmore. "I'm under strict orders not to extract you from the exercise until Ethan gives the word."
"Well where is Ethan then?" I ask pointedly.
"We don't know," says Gilmore. "No one has seen him since he dropped you guys off."
"So you think you're going to just leave us here?" says Sapphire. "Because if that's the case-"
"Look, I'm very sorry," hedges Gilmore. "Ethan was very clear about this." He points southward. "I'm not to intervene until I see his signal flare fire from over behind that hill."
We all look. "What hill?" I says.
And Gilmore was gone.
"Oh God Damnit," cries Phoebe.
***
A brief search of the area turned up nothing.
Exhausted, we return to our camp.
"I can't believe he gave us the slip like that," says Phoebe.
"Maybe he wasn't even here," offers LOBO helpfully.
"What like he was a mirage or something?" growls Phoebe. "You're lucky I'm out of pepper spray."
"I'm thirsty," I says. Shaking the canteen, it makes a hollow sound. "Looks like this is the last of the water."
"Wonderful," says Phoebe.
As I pour her a few drops, the thought of a salt with pepper spray flashes through my mind, and stomach growls audibly.
"C'mon LOBO," I says.
"Why don't you guys go ahead. I'm not very thirsty."
"Well," says Sapphire suspiciously. "How very noble of you."
"I'm fine," he insists. "But I have to go to the bathroom. I'll see you guys in a little bit."
Watching him slip off into the woods, Sapphire nudges me. "I smell a rat."
"Yeah," says Phoebe. "Every time he goes to the bathroom, he's gone for three or more hours."
"I agree," I says. "In fact, right before Gilmore showed up, I was trying to decide whether or not he had somehow changed clothes."
"Hm," says Phoebe.
"I say we follow him," says Sapphire.
"Let's go."
***
We didn't get 1000 feet before we could hear the river ... and Phoebe and I were so thirsty, we instantly burst into a run. LOBO didn't see us until we were overtaking him.
"Hey!" he complains. "That's my water! I got dibs. I spotted it first from up in the tree fair and square. Find your own!"
Sapphire, unaffected by thirst, chose instead to grab LOBO fiercely by the collar of his shirt. "You knew where there was water this whole time and you didn't tell us?"
"Hey, hey!" cried LOBO, squirming. "Where's your teambuilding spirit? Ethan might see you, and we'll be stuck out here even longer."
Scooping water into my mouth, something floating in the stream catches my eye. Wading in up to my knees, I pick it up and inspect it.
"I don't think we have to worry about Ethan seeing us," I says.
"Why?" says Phoebe between gulps.
I hold the soggy item up for them to see.
It's a battered and torn tan vacationer's hat.
"No," says Sapphire.
"Those hats are common. It might not be Ethan's at all," says Phoebe optimistically.
Turning it inside out, I show them the large initials inked into the liner.
E.H.
"Were going to have to travel upstream and try and figure out what happened to him."
"Well," concedes LOBO "I'm fine with you helping yourselves to my water I suppose, but stay the hell out of my 7-11!"
[Mr Insanity]
Needless to say, tempers are wearing thin.
The strictly-distributed rations are low, and lack of hygiene is becoming painfully obvious to Phoebe and I. I have several days of 'scruff', and Phoebe's refusal to wear shorts during the hottest parts of the day suggests that she probably does too. We smell bad. Phoebe, without makeup and her usual vast assortment of beauty creams and oils seems to have aged ten years while simultaneously developing acne. Her cheeks are growing taut and sunken --as are mine probably.
Sapphire, an android, looks just as fresh and beautiful as she did a week ago; this I can understand. But as for LOBO, there is no explanation whatsoever; he's clean-shaven and smells faintly of Old Spice.
And he almost seems to have gained weight.
Is that what he was wearing when we got here?
"Good morning," says a distantly-familiar voice.
Surprised, we all turn to see Gilmore, dapper and smooth in a custom-fitted immaculate white suit.
"Where the hell did you come from?" I demand.
"That's not important," says Gilmore.
"Fuck you," says Phoebe. "Why don't you tell us what's important then? We've been stranded out here for a week!"
"Easy Phoebe," Sapphire chides lightly. "At least someone's here to get us out of here."
"Awe," says LOBO. "I was just starting to enjoy this-"
"I'm sorry," says Gilmore. "I'm under strict orders not to extract you from the exercise until Ethan gives the word."
"Well where is Ethan then?" I ask pointedly.
"We don't know," says Gilmore. "No one has seen him since he dropped you guys off."
"So you think you're going to just leave us here?" says Sapphire. "Because if that's the case-"
"Look, I'm very sorry," hedges Gilmore. "Ethan was very clear about this." He points southward. "I'm not to intervene until I see his signal flare fire from over behind that hill."
We all look. "What hill?" I says.
And Gilmore was gone.
"Oh God Damnit," cries Phoebe.
A brief search of the area turned up nothing.
Exhausted, we return to our camp.
"I can't believe he gave us the slip like that," says Phoebe.
"Maybe he wasn't even here," offers LOBO helpfully.
"What like he was a mirage or something?" growls Phoebe. "You're lucky I'm out of pepper spray."
"I'm thirsty," I says. Shaking the canteen, it makes a hollow sound. "Looks like this is the last of the water."
"Wonderful," says Phoebe.
As I pour her a few drops, the thought of a salt with pepper spray flashes through my mind, and stomach growls audibly.
"C'mon LOBO," I says.
"Why don't you guys go ahead. I'm not very thirsty."
"Well," says Sapphire suspiciously. "How very noble of you."
"I'm fine," he insists. "But I have to go to the bathroom. I'll see you guys in a little bit."
Watching him slip off into the woods, Sapphire nudges me. "I smell a rat."
"Yeah," says Phoebe. "Every time he goes to the bathroom, he's gone for three or more hours."
"I agree," I says. "In fact, right before Gilmore showed up, I was trying to decide whether or not he had somehow changed clothes."
"Hm," says Phoebe.
"I say we follow him," says Sapphire.
"Let's go."
We didn't get 1000 feet before we could hear the river ... and Phoebe and I were so thirsty, we instantly burst into a run. LOBO didn't see us until we were overtaking him.
"Hey!" he complains. "That's my water! I got dibs. I spotted it first from up in the tree fair and square. Find your own!"
Sapphire, unaffected by thirst, chose instead to grab LOBO fiercely by the collar of his shirt. "You knew where there was water this whole time and you didn't tell us?"
"Hey, hey!" cried LOBO, squirming. "Where's your teambuilding spirit? Ethan might see you, and we'll be stuck out here even longer."
Scooping water into my mouth, something floating in the stream catches my eye. Wading in up to my knees, I pick it up and inspect it.
"I don't think we have to worry about Ethan seeing us," I says.
"Why?" says Phoebe between gulps.
I hold the soggy item up for them to see.
It's a battered and torn tan vacationer's hat.
"No," says Sapphire.
"Those hats are common. It might not be Ethan's at all," says Phoebe optimistically.
Turning it inside out, I show them the large initials inked into the liner.
"Were going to have to travel upstream and try and figure out what happened to him."
"Well," concedes LOBO "I'm fine with you helping yourselves to my water I suppose, but stay the hell out of my 7-11!"
Tuesday
Day Two
Predator Press
[Mr Insanity]
You know, it's been about 30 years since I've done anything similar to camping. And while not particularly exited about the idea at first, it soon became apparent that LOBO wasn't going to be hanging around; this leaves the rather attractive prospect of me alone with Sapphire and Phoebe for however long this "teambuilding" exercise will last.
LOBO -despite his claims to have been on a few of these activities before-seemed to rattle rather quickly. After a few hours of staring despondently into the woods where Ethan drove off sort of sulkily resigned himself to "roughing it".
This lasted around eight minutes.
Frustrated by his inability to find a way to plug in his canteen and mess kit, he was soon bored, hungry, and growing increasingly agitated by the sounds of the wildlife surrounding us in the darkening wood.
"What was that!?" he would demand abruptly.
"I think it was a sparrow," volunteers Sapphire.
"How dare Ethan leave me out here unarmed in a wilderness full of fierce, carnivorous sparrows?"
"LOBO," sighs Phoebe. "I'm sure Ethan is somewhere close by ... he's probably watching us right now. Now would you please come down out of that tree?"
"Yes," I add. "And you do realize that sparrows can fly, right?"
LOBO shrieked. "We can't just sit out here starving to death. Listen ... you can just hear those savage beasts waiting for us to become weak and emaciated, that they may feast upon our entrails!"
"Look," says Sapphire. "There's nothing we can do about any of this. What we need to do is set up a camp for the night and get a fire going."
"Don't let me stop you," he says from somewhere in the tree.
I find a nice, round rock about the size of a baseball and nudge Phoebe. Repeatedly pinching my fingers and thumb together by my mouth, I give her the universal sign language for 'keep him talking' as I quietly circle the tree.
"LOBO," Phoebe says coaxingly. "We need your help."
"Doing what?"
Sapphire, seeing me homing in on his voice, catches on. "We need your help to gather firewood."
"Firewood?" LOBO laughs. "Oh my god you must be joking. That stuff is filthy. And probably crawling with bugs and stuff."
"How else are we going to build a fire?" asks Sapphire.
"Silly girl," laughs LOBO condescendingly. "Don't you see that there is no better way of giving up our location to all the predatory creatures out here than to build a fire? Why don't you just smear yourself with barbeque sauce while holding up a gigantic neon sign that says 'EAT ME'-- ?"
The sound of the rock whipping through the air, leaves and branches was followed by a sharp distinct crack.
Silence.
"My god," whispers Sapphire. "That was 86 miles per hour!"
"I played AAA for a few years." I smile smugly.
"LOBO?" called Phoebe, slightly concerned.
Nothing.
"Three, two, one ... " I count aloud.
Suddenly, there's a rustling sound, subtle at first, then a series of sharp cracks, and finally the loud, dull thump of LOBO's inert body crashing into the ground. Startled, thirty or so alarmed sparrows take flight in random directions.
"Do that again!" Sapphire applauds.
[Mr Insanity]
You know, it's been about 30 years since I've done anything similar to camping. And while not particularly exited about the idea at first, it soon became apparent that LOBO wasn't going to be hanging around; this leaves the rather attractive prospect of me alone with Sapphire and Phoebe for however long this "teambuilding" exercise will last.
LOBO -despite his claims to have been on a few of these activities before-seemed to rattle rather quickly. After a few hours of staring despondently into the woods where Ethan drove off sort of sulkily resigned himself to "roughing it".
This lasted around eight minutes.
Frustrated by his inability to find a way to plug in his canteen and mess kit, he was soon bored, hungry, and growing increasingly agitated by the sounds of the wildlife surrounding us in the darkening wood.
"What was that!?" he would demand abruptly.
"I think it was a sparrow," volunteers Sapphire.
"How dare Ethan leave me out here unarmed in a wilderness full of fierce, carnivorous sparrows?"
"LOBO," sighs Phoebe. "I'm sure Ethan is somewhere close by ... he's probably watching us right now. Now would you please come down out of that tree?"
"Yes," I add. "And you do realize that sparrows can fly, right?"
LOBO shrieked. "We can't just sit out here starving to death. Listen ... you can just hear those savage beasts waiting for us to become weak and emaciated, that they may feast upon our entrails!"
"Look," says Sapphire. "There's nothing we can do about any of this. What we need to do is set up a camp for the night and get a fire going."
"Don't let me stop you," he says from somewhere in the tree.
I find a nice, round rock about the size of a baseball and nudge Phoebe. Repeatedly pinching my fingers and thumb together by my mouth, I give her the universal sign language for 'keep him talking' as I quietly circle the tree.
"LOBO," Phoebe says coaxingly. "We need your help."
"Doing what?"
Sapphire, seeing me homing in on his voice, catches on. "We need your help to gather firewood."
"Firewood?" LOBO laughs. "Oh my god you must be joking. That stuff is filthy. And probably crawling with bugs and stuff."
"How else are we going to build a fire?" asks Sapphire.
"Silly girl," laughs LOBO condescendingly. "Don't you see that there is no better way of giving up our location to all the predatory creatures out here than to build a fire? Why don't you just smear yourself with barbeque sauce while holding up a gigantic neon sign that says 'EAT ME'-- ?"
The sound of the rock whipping through the air, leaves and branches was followed by a sharp distinct crack.
Silence.
"My god," whispers Sapphire. "That was 86 miles per hour!"
"I played AAA for a few years." I smile smugly.
"LOBO?" called Phoebe, slightly concerned.
Nothing.
"Three, two, one ... " I count aloud.
Suddenly, there's a rustling sound, subtle at first, then a series of sharp cracks, and finally the loud, dull thump of LOBO's inert body crashing into the ground. Startled, thirty or so alarmed sparrows take flight in random directions.
"Do that again!" Sapphire applauds.
Sunday
Team Building
Predator Press
[LOBO]
“This will be good for you,” Ethan says to us in the mirror, tilting his faded tan vacationers hat.
“You see?” I says to Sapphire, “I told you this would suck. This is one of those ‘Character Building’ scams our parents used to play on us.”
Ethan pulls over in a thick green and brown wad of nothing.
Mr Insanity, Phoebe and Sapphire disembark.
Ethan puts an arm behind the passenger seat, twisting to see me. “You too, buddy.”
“But Ethan,” I protest.
“I’m going to be right here. We’re doing this together.”
“Okay,” I says. I get out, and Ethan peels out into the woods, spitting mud everywhere.
“Nice going dumbass,” says Mr. Insanity.
“What exactly did you write about me?” asks Sapphire.
“Does anyone else have any supplies?” asks Phoebe.
“I’ve got the survival kit that Ethan left,” says Mr. Insanity.
“And I’ve got an internal GPS,” says Sapphire.
Phoebe scowls, “Well, I’ve got an internal IUD.”
“Ladies, ladies,” I says, “I’ve got everything under control. This isn’t the first time I’ve gone through one of Ethan’s teambuilding exercises.”
Mr. Insanity balks. “Oh really genius? Whatcha got?”
I pick up a naked live wire with one hand, gingerly balancing my Cherry Coke Slurpee in the other. “I’ve got this. “
“What the fuck is that?” demands Phoebe as it cracks violently in the air.
“It’s an extension cord,” I says smugly. “I’ve been unrolling it since we met at that 7-11.”
“A broken extension cord,” sighs Mr. Insanity. “Well thank God we have one of those.”
“Maybe LOBO’s right for once,” says Phoebe. “At least we can find our way back to wherever that plug ripped out …”
[LOBO]
“This will be good for you,” Ethan says to us in the mirror, tilting his faded tan vacationers hat.
“You see?” I says to Sapphire, “I told you this would suck. This is one of those ‘Character Building’ scams our parents used to play on us.”
Ethan pulls over in a thick green and brown wad of nothing.
Mr Insanity, Phoebe and Sapphire disembark.
Ethan puts an arm behind the passenger seat, twisting to see me. “You too, buddy.”
“But Ethan,” I protest.
“I’m going to be right here. We’re doing this together.”
“Okay,” I says. I get out, and Ethan peels out into the woods, spitting mud everywhere.
“Nice going dumbass,” says Mr. Insanity.
“What exactly did you write about me?” asks Sapphire.
“Does anyone else have any supplies?” asks Phoebe.
“I’ve got the survival kit that Ethan left,” says Mr. Insanity.
“And I’ve got an internal GPS,” says Sapphire.
Phoebe scowls, “Well, I’ve got an internal IUD.”
“Ladies, ladies,” I says, “I’ve got everything under control. This isn’t the first time I’ve gone through one of Ethan’s teambuilding exercises.”
Mr. Insanity balks. “Oh really genius? Whatcha got?”
I pick up a naked live wire with one hand, gingerly balancing my Cherry Coke Slurpee in the other. “I’ve got this. “
“What the fuck is that?” demands Phoebe as it cracks violently in the air.
“It’s an extension cord,” I says smugly. “I’ve been unrolling it since we met at that 7-11.”
“A broken extension cord,” sighs Mr. Insanity. “Well thank God we have one of those.”
“Maybe LOBO’s right for once,” says Phoebe. “At least we can find our way back to wherever that plug ripped out …”
Thursday
Ten Years Gone
Predator Press
[LOBO]
Believe it or not, there was a time when the world didn't have Predator Press yet. And without Predator Press around to document an accurate and quantified objective world history, little is know about these dark times: they are shrouded in legends and mystery.
Oh, sure. There are "history" books chocked full of fanciful and unverifiable claims such as the Lunar Landing, Women's Suffrage, and the existence of Australia. But remember what history books cost? Compare that to the price of your Predator Press subscription. Hell, at $50 or more a pop, I would be tempted to tell you stuff like 'the world is round' and Steve Gutenberg invented the movable type as well. I mean who the hell would need that?
We have integrity.
The reason this comes up now is because Lady Pyrate has recently uncovered some pre-Predator Press documents written by me. Doing my duty as a citizen, I first emailed the Smithsonian notifying them of the staggering significance of this find. But they have not yet responded, and I can no longer be part of such an obvious covering-up of The Truth.
So what follows is all we know about the Earth before Predator Press ...
***
Sunday: An Odd Request
When an old friend of some 16-odd years, asked me to submit something to a literary column, I was a little stunned.
Me? Literature? I told her that I would have no idea what to write ... and frankly wouldn't know literature if it bit me on the ass.
She was persistent. She even recommended a way to overcome writer's block: to start with a daily log. I found this equally laughable; I am as insufferably boring as anything on Earth. NOTHING interesting ever happens to me. And to tell the truth, I like it that way: all this "having a personality" and "being interesting" -cripes, that's a lot of work! I'm as lazy as a rug on valiums. Oh, sure, one day your just flitting around your "interesting life", then BOOM! Suddenly you're walking past the 'City Limits' sign on I-65 South at 2:17 am carrying nothing other than a caged, pissed-off possum. Then, a gang of well-dressed Yakuza screeches up in a Hummer, then leaps out of the bushes --just for effect-- kicks your ass into dog food, and then leaps INTO the bushes, peels off in the Hummer. WITH the possum.
Screw THAT. I'll stick with "Insufferably Boring", thanks. In fact, is there such a thing as "Excruciatingly Boring"?
But there's no getting around this I guess. Starting tomorrow, my tedious existence –and all of it's gloriously lackluster minutia-- will be racing out at violent speeds all over the internet, searing itself deeply behind some poor unsuspecting souls' retinas.
Sorry.
Monday: The Fallen
My suffering was complete and total --such that demons, flittering from the hated light in darkened alleyways, chattily whispering dark rumors before slipping from the senses of man altogether. I was destroyed: depilated under the fickle whim of cruel destiny. I remember it all as if it were only a few hours ago. It seems like ages. Now ... gasping and bleeding, repentant, and most assuredly dead within moments, I desperately tell my woeful tale, that no other follows in my footsteps.
I was unlocking the case for that accused sword -a three thousand dollar steal, reputed to have been cursed for at least as many years. The UPS driver who had delivered it had accidentally left his delivery van in 'neutral', and I was saved only by dumb luck and my well-rehearsed "Throw the UPS Guy Under his Runaway Van To Change It's Deadly Trajectory" ninja moves. God Bless you, Sensei Hector Gurerez Montero Phillipe Guada Lupe Von Dotson. May you rest in peace. But there can be only one!
I tried once again to unlock the impressive and ancient wooden chest before me. The key ... the heavy metal skeleton key, overly large and heavy, was beautifully engraved, and had a gem-encrusted skull on it. Still, this key seemed not to budge the delicate, ancient mechanisms inside the lock. I tried to peer inside the lock to examine it, and I swear, if not for the whimpers of the UPS guy distracting me, that poisoned needle shooting out would have poked my eye out. It landed authoritatively in the shoulder of the UPS guy. Poor bastard. Soon, a NASA satellite crashed into my house, completely blocking the driveway. Then a train plowed through the ashes and rubble. Then the rock band Great White held a concert on the remains.
I began to suspect that something wasn't quite right.
The sword! Of course! My heart leapt. I raced over to the charred body of the UPS guy, and grabbed the shipment paperwork. I tore at the envelope urgently, even as the Venusian invading alien armada began firing their plasma rifles at the Cryps, who were scouting out new territory. Bullets and plasma bursts ripped past my head as I read the bill of sale:
CONGRATULATIONS
You have won 'One Ancient Cursed Sword EXCLAIMER'.
Guaranteed full refund if not completely satisfied.
(Warranty void if item is actually cursed.)
Thank you for shopping on Ebay
Those bastards! I'm going to leave absolutely venomous ‘Feedback’!
It was then that I was then that I struck down ... cut in the full of my robust, athletic prime ... for as I through the bill of sale in anguish and frustration, the edge of the paper cut deeply into the pad of my right thumb. At first I didn't even notice, distracted by The Mystery Machine as it screeched into a fatal rollover accident inches to my left. Thelma screamed as it exploded in a fiery maelstrom of twisted metal, cheesy upholstery and dog parts. Daphne shrieked, and quickly thinking, she pulled her pink scarf over her mouth and nose ... but this aided her little when the VW Van's transmission came back down.
It was then I noticed the mild and uncomfortable prick on my finger. Even as I looked, the horseshoe-shaped outline welled with the red rivulet my very life's blood.
And it was very bloody life's blood.
And red.
Tuesday: X-Box Rehab
That's the last thing I remember. Then the triage unit was shining lights into my pupils and whisking me off to the ambulance. In my agony, I didn't even notice the violent jarring as they wheeled my stretcher over the UPS guy's head.
Poor bastard.
But now I am a mere shell of a man, completely incapable of playing either X-Box or Playstation II. Perhaps I should envy the UPS man. I can't shoot at anything. I just stand there helplessly in the dungeons of Diablo II, vainly trying to hammer out peace accords with the zombies. And everybody knows that zombies are Goddamn deadbeats!
The people here in X-Box Rehab Clinic are very nice, but I can see it in their eyes, in the subtle gestures: they don't have much hope for me. Heavily sedated, it's all I can do to flirt with the nurses. It's hard to flirt in a nightgown that doesn't cover your ass, but necessity is the mother of desperation.
They noticed I was getting pretty quick on that wheelchair, so pretty soon, they were upping my dosage. They started bringing the needle, clearly marked "Rhino" in on a creaking surgical cart. I would think "Cool! They got a Rhino!", and would patiently wait to see such a magnificent creature enter my recovery room. But then somehow the needle ends up in my arm, shoulder -whatever they can happen to hit with that dart gun, and things get kinda fuzzy again.
Goddamn it, what's it take to get some Jello here!?
I managed to palm a few doses: some Lithium, Darvon and Morphine. Luckily, my hot nurse Melody was addicted to Lithium, Darvon and Morphine. When she was changing my bedpan, I offered them to her in exchange for releasing my giant one-eyed purple worm.
I was surprised when they even let me in with that caged beastie ... I think they thought that a pet would have speeded my recovery. But my one-eyed purple worm, once released, burst through the walls of the X-Box Rehab, and trampled most of the facilities before it was finally put down by Sheriff Cassidy with a miraculous shot to the beast's brain. Poor bastard.
But by then, Melody and I had already vanished into the smoke and confusion.
Wednesday: The Chase Ensues
It's exactly midnight, and Melody and I are crossing the City Limits on Interstate 65 South pushing a wheelbarrow full of Lithium, Darvon and Morphine. The Rhino meds are evidently wearing off, because I'm suddenly very self-conscious that:
1)my thumb is mortally wounded, and
B) the hospital gown doesn't cover my ass.
--The latter mitigated by the fact that we were walking against the oncoming traffic.
During small talk I find out that she's a big Great White fan, and was very impressed that they had played at my house. She claimed through full, pouty red lips that nightgowns with no backsides on guys drove her absolutely wild. Excitement mounting, she finally dragged me into the bushes, deciding to show me "just what a freak she really was”.
Soon, there we were in the bushes, her pulling her shoes off. And sure enough, she was a freak indeed.
She had six toes on each foot.
"Wow" I breathed.
I never even saw the red bead of Sheriff Cassidy's laser scope zero in on my ass. Bang! Suddenly Melody throws herself in front of the bullet. Dying, she looks deeply into my eyes and says "I'll always love you!". And then she makes this choking kinda sound, and the creepy six-toed bitch dies right there in my arms.
Yech! Sheriff Cassidy was muddling with the deputy on just exactly how you stuff and mount a six-toed girl when I stole his car. I found that if you touched the doughnuts in a certain order -coconut, double chocolate, long john-I could reprogram the police computer too. (It could also call down a Death Ray from new law enforcement satellite "Justice IV", but I didn't know where Sammy Hagar lived). I put myself down as "nun" and Sheriff Cassidy as "Child Molester at Large". It's a game that's fun for all ages.
So I'm blazing down the road in a police car at 1:30 am, contemplating moodily the strange events of the past few days.
Well, that and thinking how creepy it was to be sitting bare-assed on a seat cushion that Sheriff Cassidy had doubtless dispersed untold numbers of White Castles and Busch farts into. Surely he MUST have had a spare uniform in the car!
Looking around, that's when I spotted PEG.
The steel box had holes in the top, and chains over the hinged doors which were clearly marked "PEG". I recognized it instantly. This was a specially-trained new military experiment: attack possums. This just wasn't any average garden-variety bullshit possum either; she was the model 6800, fully equipped with a rocket launcher and a super-secret stealth pouch on her belly (which I heard was developed by the CIA). Beside PEG was a small baggie marked "UPS GUY REMAINS".
PEG was a sly one too. All through the trip, she moaned and grunted for me to let her out. She wagged her tail and tossed a stick playfully. She whined, and licked my hand. The little tramp even offered to drive. But it was just me, lost in thought, blowing down I-65, foot to the floor in a stolen police car. With no pants.
"Dammit," I thought. "I want my goddamn pants!" so I screeched into a U-turn, and blazed directly back at the giant one-eyed purple worm corpse, nestled peacefully amongst the wreckage of what was once the X-Box Rehabilitation Facilities, on the horizon.
I don't know why I developed such a curiosity over "Spike Strips" that night. I certainly never should have begun messing with them in the front seat while PEG was driving 124 miles an hour, but at least I was wearing my seat belt. I've never seen a car actually explode before. It was kinda anticlimactic. Feul, steel, chrome, plastic, White Castle and Busch farts all just kinda Fffffoomph!
But I got it on video.
Thursday: A Letter
Dear NASA,
Your satellite is blocking my driveway. Again. Please have it moved in 48 hours, or I'll have it towed and crushed into a cube. Either that, or sell it on Ebay.
Thank you,
LOBO
Friday: Obligatory Nude Scene [Screenplay Version]
As predicted, the presence of a NASA satellite in my driveway has made the Venusians very nervous. Silly really ... the Cryps left the thing on cinder blocks three days ago. Still, I've seen the movie "Signs", so I'm stowing up Super-Soakers (while the Cryps aren't exactly model houseguests, at least they leave their shoes on when they walk on the carpet. Those Venusians leave snail-trails on EVERYTHING).
The peace talks continue. G Q P Doll, the Cryps' fourth Chief Negotiator, wants them to deal only on streets not currently "occupied" by the Cryps; unfortunately, that rules out most of the Earth except Singapore, Uruguay, and ever-shrinking portions of Antarctica.
The Venusians, on the other hand, having no idea what "dealing" exactly is, seem content having eaten the Cryps' first three Chief Negotiators.
For now.
The Cryps, it turns out, have not wasted all those years of complete law enforcement autonomy ... they had invented some pretty cool technology. It turns out that The Bloods had infiltrated Area 51 in '99, but Sugar Juice's bitch-assed-ho ran to the Cryps' after getting dissed at a pool party by Biggie Smalls via an Olympic sized Oijia diving board. She had intra-dimensional technology, 60,000 plasma rifles, enormous breasts, and a half dozen Krispy Kremes back at the crib.
So by this time, the Cryps had a interstellar cruiser and two blockade runners that could do the Kessel Run in -oops, they're already done-and 120,000 shares in Krispy Kremes as to finance their Galactic Empire.
More after I get coffee.
Saturday: Cheap Styrofoam Cups
I don't MIND being the token white guy on the Earth Pimp IV, but I DO mind wearing the red uniform. Using my "Stuff the Senior Science Officer Out of a Handy Porthole Without Messing Up His Uniform" ninja moves, (Curse you, Sensei Hector Gurerez Montero Phillipe Guada Lupe Von Dotson. May you rot with the rest! There can be only one!) I gained access to the Bridge.
Then, using my elevated security clearance, I demanded that a kickass uniform be designed for me, while drinking a Krispy Kreme latte. You know, "multitasking". This uniform had to be somewhere between "Han Solo" and Sting in that Dune movie. But it had to have a black cape too. And give me X-Ray vision.
Suddenly, I distorted the shiny Flange Reactant Capacitor in such a way that the glowing blue nuclear Whim-Jam flipped on the spiffy Sub-Entropic Whatsit generator couplers. (Well that's what they told me spilling my latte all over the dashboard did.) The Goddamn drink was like six bucks, and this engineering punk bumped into me in a rush to fix some stupid thing clearly labeled 'massive oxygen leak' or something. I ordered the self-important little asshole executed on the spot.
Now the Goddamn Bridge stinks of barbequed engineer. My eyes burn, but I can't tell if it's the smoke or my X-Ray vision kicking in. Just as I demand somebody vacuum up all the floating dust, the Venusians broke our flank, targeted the Inertial Compensators, and BOOM! We're spinning helplessly into the Godless void of space ...
I fucking hate when this happens.
Sunday: A Letter
Dear NASA,
SOS
No, I don't know anything about a missing UPS guy. But do you have any idea how to get latte out of a Flange Reactant Capacitor? Or maybe how to get engineer dust out of an Inertial Compensator?
Mayday. Mayday.
... Uh, no ... that's 'Latte' ... "L-A-T-T-E" ... Fuck! What are you NASA people, BARBARIANS!?
Monday: The Last Time I Even Thought of This "Science" Stuff, I Had an Evil Kenevil Lunchbox
Our distress signal was ignored. NASA was too preoccupied with the insidious wedding J-Lo and Ben Affleck. People were starting to suspect I wasn't the Science Officer too.
I thought maybe a caped Spandex uniform without ass cheeks might not be conservative enough. But the real giveaway was at breakfast when I opened my milk carton from the wrong side. God how embarrassing.
Luckily, the ship had a public library ... I could check out space porn while people thought I was researching "physics", "math", or some silly other thing. I made up "The Callistaplastic Y-Ray Dymicrophoric Theory" so people would stop bugging me with science questions. I mean, first of all, you would have to pronounce it properly. Then finally, after days of prying, I might finally admit that "Being subjected to these 'Y' rays might make your parents retroactively prone to promiscuity, dysfunction, bad budgeting and tastelessness."
No one ever asks about the theory twice.
Tuesday: Boring.
Today was just as dull as ever. I wish I had something interesting to write about.
… Maybe tomorrow
Wednesday: So I Meet This Space Chick
It took like all of five seconds to start getting Space SPAM. But from the SPAM, I could tell that the rest of the known universe is also dominated by the female. It's fairly elementary ... I deduced that if SPAM requests to "Enlarge Your Penis Twice the Size!", it's female dominated. If it says "Shrink Her Vagina Now!", it's male. Case closed.
But then this hologram cuts in and this tall, beautiful woman in a tiny latex outfit exclaims "Help me!," she pleads, chin quivering. One of her tears drips onto her tanned chest. Rather than rolling down to hang tantalizingly from a latex-covered nipple like a drop of heroin from a hypo tip, it disappeared between her sweaty, heaving breasts with a faintly audible steamy hiss. A damsel in distress!, I thought. And a freakin HOT damsel, with sweaty, heaving space breasts. I'll go you one further: she's a rich, scantily-clad princess, and desperately in need of rescue from a handsome brave hero type guy! And did I mention the space breasts!?
Offhand I couldn't think of a handsome brave hero type guy I could hire. But this poor helpless woman, caught adrift in the raging wake of cruel Cosmic Destiny ... armed only with her fierce, feminine courage, savage determination, and sweating, heaving space breasts ... I knew it was destiny.
Thank God the rare "can-do" kind of guy like me showed up.
The crew tried to talk me out of it, too. They tried giving me an android pleasure servant named Tulsa v1.1 who was drop-dead gorgeous, kind, unassuming, faithful, intelligent, well-versed in Van Halen music, free-spirited and bisexual, a gymnast and contortionist, an excellent cook --and a while a formidable 10th degree black belt bodyguard at the same time was as gentle as a fragrant prairie breeze. And she would never gain weight, have a period, be insecure or jealous, or age a day. She even came with a 100-year warranty never to have a headache, ask if she looked fat, if I thought another woman was pretty, or about my 'feelings'.
She was great. I really regretted jettisoning her into space. But when I found out you had to change her battery every seventeen to twenty years, I wasn't sure I was up to the commitment. I mean she was just too needy for me. The princess, on the other hand, was aloof, unattainable, moody, rude, boorish, and didn't have enough mental voltage operating to jump start a mouse trap. I was crazy about her. But space communication is regulated in a strange, alien way; to get the coordinates to rescue her, I evidently had to have a VISA. Where am I supposed to steal a VISA out here? The even rejected my final offer: 1000 hours of America Online internet service.
I wish I knew all this before I vaporized that engineer.
Poor Bastard.
Thursday: The Spanish Fly Industrial Complex
Okay, great. Now everybody is pissed at me. ME! All I did was lift a VISA off of my Assistant Chief Science Officer.
Like it was my fault. Come on ... he was obviously leaving it out to tempt me; there it was, staring me in the face every second I was rifling through his wallet, which was tucked in a sock under his dresser in a secret storage unit that could only be accessed by a short spacewalk on the underside of the ship.
Now, as if that wasn't bad enough, the Editor of this web page is complaining about my BLOG via email. Evidently, she doesn't believe a word of my experience a the X-Box clinic, the UPS conspiracy for my murder, me being Chief Science Officer of Earth Pimp IV ... She's like trying to operate this serious art page about serious artist doing serious art. So I figure I owe that to her and the literary-type readers. So for you poetry fans, here's a Haiku I wrote:
I once killed a man right there in algebra class
He tried to combine two unlike exponents
And then adding radicals without the same index
What a moron
Okay. Anyway. So there we are hurdling through space, helplessly outnumbered, and demanding the surrender of the Princess …
[LOBO]
Believe it or not, there was a time when the world didn't have Predator Press yet. And without Predator Press around to document an accurate and quantified objective world history, little is know about these dark times: they are shrouded in legends and mystery.
Oh, sure. There are "history" books chocked full of fanciful and unverifiable claims such as the Lunar Landing, Women's Suffrage, and the existence of Australia. But remember what history books cost? Compare that to the price of your Predator Press subscription. Hell, at $50 or more a pop, I would be tempted to tell you stuff like 'the world is round' and Steve Gutenberg invented the movable type as well. I mean who the hell would need that?
We have integrity.
The reason this comes up now is because Lady Pyrate has recently uncovered some pre-Predator Press documents written by me. Doing my duty as a citizen, I first emailed the Smithsonian notifying them of the staggering significance of this find. But they have not yet responded, and I can no longer be part of such an obvious covering-up of The Truth.
So what follows is all we know about the Earth before Predator Press ...
When an old friend of some 16-odd years, asked me to submit something to a literary column, I was a little stunned.
Me? Literature? I told her that I would have no idea what to write ... and frankly wouldn't know literature if it bit me on the ass.
She was persistent. She even recommended a way to overcome writer's block: to start with a daily log. I found this equally laughable; I am as insufferably boring as anything on Earth. NOTHING interesting ever happens to me. And to tell the truth, I like it that way: all this "having a personality" and "being interesting" -cripes, that's a lot of work! I'm as lazy as a rug on valiums. Oh, sure, one day your just flitting around your "interesting life", then BOOM! Suddenly you're walking past the 'City Limits' sign on I-65 South at 2:17 am carrying nothing other than a caged, pissed-off possum. Then, a gang of well-dressed Yakuza screeches up in a Hummer, then leaps out of the bushes --just for effect-- kicks your ass into dog food, and then leaps INTO the bushes, peels off in the Hummer. WITH the possum.
Screw THAT. I'll stick with "Insufferably Boring", thanks. In fact, is there such a thing as "Excruciatingly Boring"?
But there's no getting around this I guess. Starting tomorrow, my tedious existence –and all of it's gloriously lackluster minutia-- will be racing out at violent speeds all over the internet, searing itself deeply behind some poor unsuspecting souls' retinas.
Sorry.
Monday: The Fallen
My suffering was complete and total --such that demons, flittering from the hated light in darkened alleyways, chattily whispering dark rumors before slipping from the senses of man altogether. I was destroyed: depilated under the fickle whim of cruel destiny. I remember it all as if it were only a few hours ago. It seems like ages. Now ... gasping and bleeding, repentant, and most assuredly dead within moments, I desperately tell my woeful tale, that no other follows in my footsteps.
I was unlocking the case for that accused sword -a three thousand dollar steal, reputed to have been cursed for at least as many years. The UPS driver who had delivered it had accidentally left his delivery van in 'neutral', and I was saved only by dumb luck and my well-rehearsed "Throw the UPS Guy Under his Runaway Van To Change It's Deadly Trajectory" ninja moves. God Bless you, Sensei Hector Gurerez Montero Phillipe Guada Lupe Von Dotson. May you rest in peace. But there can be only one!
I tried once again to unlock the impressive and ancient wooden chest before me. The key ... the heavy metal skeleton key, overly large and heavy, was beautifully engraved, and had a gem-encrusted skull on it. Still, this key seemed not to budge the delicate, ancient mechanisms inside the lock. I tried to peer inside the lock to examine it, and I swear, if not for the whimpers of the UPS guy distracting me, that poisoned needle shooting out would have poked my eye out. It landed authoritatively in the shoulder of the UPS guy. Poor bastard. Soon, a NASA satellite crashed into my house, completely blocking the driveway. Then a train plowed through the ashes and rubble. Then the rock band Great White held a concert on the remains.
I began to suspect that something wasn't quite right.
The sword! Of course! My heart leapt. I raced over to the charred body of the UPS guy, and grabbed the shipment paperwork. I tore at the envelope urgently, even as the Venusian invading alien armada began firing their plasma rifles at the Cryps, who were scouting out new territory. Bullets and plasma bursts ripped past my head as I read the bill of sale:
You have won 'One Ancient Cursed Sword EXCLAIMER'.
Guaranteed full refund if not completely satisfied.
(Warranty void if item is actually cursed.)
Thank you for shopping on Ebay
It was then that I was then that I struck down ... cut in the full of my robust, athletic prime ... for as I through the bill of sale in anguish and frustration, the edge of the paper cut deeply into the pad of my right thumb. At first I didn't even notice, distracted by The Mystery Machine as it screeched into a fatal rollover accident inches to my left. Thelma screamed as it exploded in a fiery maelstrom of twisted metal, cheesy upholstery and dog parts. Daphne shrieked, and quickly thinking, she pulled her pink scarf over her mouth and nose ... but this aided her little when the VW Van's transmission came back down.
It was then I noticed the mild and uncomfortable prick on my finger. Even as I looked, the horseshoe-shaped outline welled with the red rivulet my very life's blood.
And it was very bloody life's blood.
And red.
Tuesday: X-Box Rehab
That's the last thing I remember. Then the triage unit was shining lights into my pupils and whisking me off to the ambulance. In my agony, I didn't even notice the violent jarring as they wheeled my stretcher over the UPS guy's head.
Poor bastard.
But now I am a mere shell of a man, completely incapable of playing either X-Box or Playstation II. Perhaps I should envy the UPS man. I can't shoot at anything. I just stand there helplessly in the dungeons of Diablo II, vainly trying to hammer out peace accords with the zombies. And everybody knows that zombies are Goddamn deadbeats!
The people here in X-Box Rehab Clinic are very nice, but I can see it in their eyes, in the subtle gestures: they don't have much hope for me. Heavily sedated, it's all I can do to flirt with the nurses. It's hard to flirt in a nightgown that doesn't cover your ass, but necessity is the mother of desperation.
They noticed I was getting pretty quick on that wheelchair, so pretty soon, they were upping my dosage. They started bringing the needle, clearly marked "Rhino" in on a creaking surgical cart. I would think "Cool! They got a Rhino!", and would patiently wait to see such a magnificent creature enter my recovery room. But then somehow the needle ends up in my arm, shoulder -whatever they can happen to hit with that dart gun, and things get kinda fuzzy again.
Goddamn it, what's it take to get some Jello here!?
I managed to palm a few doses: some Lithium, Darvon and Morphine. Luckily, my hot nurse Melody was addicted to Lithium, Darvon and Morphine. When she was changing my bedpan, I offered them to her in exchange for releasing my giant one-eyed purple worm.
I was surprised when they even let me in with that caged beastie ... I think they thought that a pet would have speeded my recovery. But my one-eyed purple worm, once released, burst through the walls of the X-Box Rehab, and trampled most of the facilities before it was finally put down by Sheriff Cassidy with a miraculous shot to the beast's brain. Poor bastard.
But by then, Melody and I had already vanished into the smoke and confusion.
Wednesday: The Chase Ensues
It's exactly midnight, and Melody and I are crossing the City Limits on Interstate 65 South pushing a wheelbarrow full of Lithium, Darvon and Morphine. The Rhino meds are evidently wearing off, because I'm suddenly very self-conscious that:
1)my thumb is mortally wounded, and
B) the hospital gown doesn't cover my ass.
--The latter mitigated by the fact that we were walking against the oncoming traffic.
During small talk I find out that she's a big Great White fan, and was very impressed that they had played at my house. She claimed through full, pouty red lips that nightgowns with no backsides on guys drove her absolutely wild. Excitement mounting, she finally dragged me into the bushes, deciding to show me "just what a freak she really was”.
Soon, there we were in the bushes, her pulling her shoes off. And sure enough, she was a freak indeed.
She had six toes on each foot.
"Wow" I breathed.
I never even saw the red bead of Sheriff Cassidy's laser scope zero in on my ass. Bang! Suddenly Melody throws herself in front of the bullet. Dying, she looks deeply into my eyes and says "I'll always love you!". And then she makes this choking kinda sound, and the creepy six-toed bitch dies right there in my arms.
Yech! Sheriff Cassidy was muddling with the deputy on just exactly how you stuff and mount a six-toed girl when I stole his car. I found that if you touched the doughnuts in a certain order -coconut, double chocolate, long john-I could reprogram the police computer too. (It could also call down a Death Ray from new law enforcement satellite "Justice IV", but I didn't know where Sammy Hagar lived). I put myself down as "nun" and Sheriff Cassidy as "Child Molester at Large". It's a game that's fun for all ages.
So I'm blazing down the road in a police car at 1:30 am, contemplating moodily the strange events of the past few days.
Well, that and thinking how creepy it was to be sitting bare-assed on a seat cushion that Sheriff Cassidy had doubtless dispersed untold numbers of White Castles and Busch farts into. Surely he MUST have had a spare uniform in the car!
Looking around, that's when I spotted PEG.
The steel box had holes in the top, and chains over the hinged doors which were clearly marked "PEG". I recognized it instantly. This was a specially-trained new military experiment: attack possums. This just wasn't any average garden-variety bullshit possum either; she was the model 6800, fully equipped with a rocket launcher and a super-secret stealth pouch on her belly (which I heard was developed by the CIA). Beside PEG was a small baggie marked "UPS GUY REMAINS".
PEG was a sly one too. All through the trip, she moaned and grunted for me to let her out. She wagged her tail and tossed a stick playfully. She whined, and licked my hand. The little tramp even offered to drive. But it was just me, lost in thought, blowing down I-65, foot to the floor in a stolen police car. With no pants.
"Dammit," I thought. "I want my goddamn pants!" so I screeched into a U-turn, and blazed directly back at the giant one-eyed purple worm corpse, nestled peacefully amongst the wreckage of what was once the X-Box Rehabilitation Facilities, on the horizon.
I don't know why I developed such a curiosity over "Spike Strips" that night. I certainly never should have begun messing with them in the front seat while PEG was driving 124 miles an hour, but at least I was wearing my seat belt. I've never seen a car actually explode before. It was kinda anticlimactic. Feul, steel, chrome, plastic, White Castle and Busch farts all just kinda Fffffoomph!
But I got it on video.
Thursday: A Letter
Dear NASA,
Your satellite is blocking my driveway. Again. Please have it moved in 48 hours, or I'll have it towed and crushed into a cube. Either that, or sell it on Ebay.
Thank you,
LOBO
Friday: Obligatory Nude Scene [Screenplay Version]
As predicted, the presence of a NASA satellite in my driveway has made the Venusians very nervous. Silly really ... the Cryps left the thing on cinder blocks three days ago. Still, I've seen the movie "Signs", so I'm stowing up Super-Soakers (while the Cryps aren't exactly model houseguests, at least they leave their shoes on when they walk on the carpet. Those Venusians leave snail-trails on EVERYTHING).
The peace talks continue. G Q P Doll, the Cryps' fourth Chief Negotiator, wants them to deal only on streets not currently "occupied" by the Cryps; unfortunately, that rules out most of the Earth except Singapore, Uruguay, and ever-shrinking portions of Antarctica.
The Venusians, on the other hand, having no idea what "dealing" exactly is, seem content having eaten the Cryps' first three Chief Negotiators.
For now.
The Cryps, it turns out, have not wasted all those years of complete law enforcement autonomy ... they had invented some pretty cool technology. It turns out that The Bloods had infiltrated Area 51 in '99, but Sugar Juice's bitch-assed-ho ran to the Cryps' after getting dissed at a pool party by Biggie Smalls via an Olympic sized Oijia diving board. She had intra-dimensional technology, 60,000 plasma rifles, enormous breasts, and a half dozen Krispy Kremes back at the crib.
So by this time, the Cryps had a interstellar cruiser and two blockade runners that could do the Kessel Run in -oops, they're already done-and 120,000 shares in Krispy Kremes as to finance their Galactic Empire.
More after I get coffee.
Saturday: Cheap Styrofoam Cups
I don't MIND being the token white guy on the Earth Pimp IV, but I DO mind wearing the red uniform. Using my "Stuff the Senior Science Officer Out of a Handy Porthole Without Messing Up His Uniform" ninja moves, (Curse you, Sensei Hector Gurerez Montero Phillipe Guada Lupe Von Dotson. May you rot with the rest! There can be only one!) I gained access to the Bridge.
Then, using my elevated security clearance, I demanded that a kickass uniform be designed for me, while drinking a Krispy Kreme latte. You know, "multitasking". This uniform had to be somewhere between "Han Solo" and Sting in that Dune movie. But it had to have a black cape too. And give me X-Ray vision.
Suddenly, I distorted the shiny Flange Reactant Capacitor in such a way that the glowing blue nuclear Whim-Jam flipped on the spiffy Sub-Entropic Whatsit generator couplers. (Well that's what they told me spilling my latte all over the dashboard did.) The Goddamn drink was like six bucks, and this engineering punk bumped into me in a rush to fix some stupid thing clearly labeled 'massive oxygen leak' or something. I ordered the self-important little asshole executed on the spot.
Now the Goddamn Bridge stinks of barbequed engineer. My eyes burn, but I can't tell if it's the smoke or my X-Ray vision kicking in. Just as I demand somebody vacuum up all the floating dust, the Venusians broke our flank, targeted the Inertial Compensators, and BOOM! We're spinning helplessly into the Godless void of space ...
I fucking hate when this happens.
Sunday: A Letter
Dear NASA,
SOS
No, I don't know anything about a missing UPS guy. But do you have any idea how to get latte out of a Flange Reactant Capacitor? Or maybe how to get engineer dust out of an Inertial Compensator?
Mayday. Mayday.
... Uh, no ... that's 'Latte' ... "L-A-T-T-E" ... Fuck! What are you NASA people, BARBARIANS!?
Monday: The Last Time I Even Thought of This "Science" Stuff, I Had an Evil Kenevil Lunchbox
Our distress signal was ignored. NASA was too preoccupied with the insidious wedding J-Lo and Ben Affleck. People were starting to suspect I wasn't the Science Officer too.
I thought maybe a caped Spandex uniform without ass cheeks might not be conservative enough. But the real giveaway was at breakfast when I opened my milk carton from the wrong side. God how embarrassing.
Luckily, the ship had a public library ... I could check out space porn while people thought I was researching "physics", "math", or some silly other thing. I made up "The Callistaplastic Y-Ray Dymicrophoric Theory" so people would stop bugging me with science questions. I mean, first of all, you would have to pronounce it properly. Then finally, after days of prying, I might finally admit that "Being subjected to these 'Y' rays might make your parents retroactively prone to promiscuity, dysfunction, bad budgeting and tastelessness."
No one ever asks about the theory twice.
Tuesday: Boring.
Today was just as dull as ever. I wish I had something interesting to write about.
… Maybe tomorrow
Wednesday: So I Meet This Space Chick
It took like all of five seconds to start getting Space SPAM. But from the SPAM, I could tell that the rest of the known universe is also dominated by the female. It's fairly elementary ... I deduced that if SPAM requests to "Enlarge Your Penis Twice the Size!", it's female dominated. If it says "Shrink Her Vagina Now!", it's male. Case closed.
But then this hologram cuts in and this tall, beautiful woman in a tiny latex outfit exclaims "Help me!," she pleads, chin quivering. One of her tears drips onto her tanned chest. Rather than rolling down to hang tantalizingly from a latex-covered nipple like a drop of heroin from a hypo tip, it disappeared between her sweaty, heaving breasts with a faintly audible steamy hiss. A damsel in distress!, I thought. And a freakin HOT damsel, with sweaty, heaving space breasts. I'll go you one further: she's a rich, scantily-clad princess, and desperately in need of rescue from a handsome brave hero type guy! And did I mention the space breasts!?
Offhand I couldn't think of a handsome brave hero type guy I could hire. But this poor helpless woman, caught adrift in the raging wake of cruel Cosmic Destiny ... armed only with her fierce, feminine courage, savage determination, and sweating, heaving space breasts ... I knew it was destiny.
Thank God the rare "can-do" kind of guy like me showed up.
The crew tried to talk me out of it, too. They tried giving me an android pleasure servant named Tulsa v1.1 who was drop-dead gorgeous, kind, unassuming, faithful, intelligent, well-versed in Van Halen music, free-spirited and bisexual, a gymnast and contortionist, an excellent cook --and a while a formidable 10th degree black belt bodyguard at the same time was as gentle as a fragrant prairie breeze. And she would never gain weight, have a period, be insecure or jealous, or age a day. She even came with a 100-year warranty never to have a headache, ask if she looked fat, if I thought another woman was pretty, or about my 'feelings'.
She was great. I really regretted jettisoning her into space. But when I found out you had to change her battery every seventeen to twenty years, I wasn't sure I was up to the commitment. I mean she was just too needy for me. The princess, on the other hand, was aloof, unattainable, moody, rude, boorish, and didn't have enough mental voltage operating to jump start a mouse trap. I was crazy about her. But space communication is regulated in a strange, alien way; to get the coordinates to rescue her, I evidently had to have a VISA. Where am I supposed to steal a VISA out here? The even rejected my final offer: 1000 hours of America Online internet service.
I wish I knew all this before I vaporized that engineer.
Poor Bastard.
Thursday: The Spanish Fly Industrial Complex
Okay, great. Now everybody is pissed at me. ME! All I did was lift a VISA off of my Assistant Chief Science Officer.
Like it was my fault. Come on ... he was obviously leaving it out to tempt me; there it was, staring me in the face every second I was rifling through his wallet, which was tucked in a sock under his dresser in a secret storage unit that could only be accessed by a short spacewalk on the underside of the ship.
Now, as if that wasn't bad enough, the Editor of this web page is complaining about my BLOG via email. Evidently, she doesn't believe a word of my experience a the X-Box clinic, the UPS conspiracy for my murder, me being Chief Science Officer of Earth Pimp IV ... She's like trying to operate this serious art page about serious artist doing serious art. So I figure I owe that to her and the literary-type readers. So for you poetry fans, here's a Haiku I wrote:
He tried to combine two unlike exponents
And then adding radicals without the same index
What a moron
Okay. Anyway. So there we are hurdling through space, helplessly outnumbered, and demanding the surrender of the Princess …
Mother Night
Predator Press
[LOBO]
Most afternoons are certainly dedicated to play once the work is done; mornings, conversely, are spent ramping up to be serious.
--for a few hours anyways.
At the prompt of the shrieking alarm clock, I flip on the news via the remote control while shuffling my way to the kitchen in my fuzzy-bunny slippers. Then I’ll spend about ten minutes with my coffee in the living room, blearily sorting out what you people have done while I was sleeping.
But today I woke a little late, and my beloved morning ritual was rudely disrupted; with no time for cozy commiseration, I could give the television but a momentary look as I headed for the shower.
In that single glance, I caught some familiar ticker tape phrases scrolling across the bottom of the screen; words like Slaughterhouse Five and Breakfast of Champions. And my first thought is that some school is trying to ban books again … or maybe some religious nut is cranking up the political atmosphere by cracking down on controversial writing.
Again.
Very boring.
Must shower.
Click
So it would be another full hour before I would learn that Kurt Vonnegut is dead.
As an amateur and pisspoor satirist, I’m not going to spend a whole lot of time trying to convince you that I’ve got feelings and that I’m actually feeling those feelings now; I wouldn’t insult your intelligence like that. But I will have said that I’ve been reading Kurt’s work –I can call him Kurt now ‘cuz he’s dead and can’t complain—since my early teens, and the dark and existential humor that authors like he and Joseph Heller gave us probably had more influence on me than even my own parents.
Through them I discovered “The Paperback”: tiny little innocuous-seeming rectangles that fit in your back pocket, sometimes cunningly containing wild and savage detonations of imagination, dripping with sharp wit, social commentary, and much-needed acerbic bite. So potent was their power, they could make you spontaneously laugh or cry unexpectedly, drawing awkward stares and looks.
The world of writing just got a lot lonelier somehow.
Thank you KV.
For everything.
[LOBO]
Most afternoons are certainly dedicated to play once the work is done; mornings, conversely, are spent ramping up to be serious.
--for a few hours anyways.
At the prompt of the shrieking alarm clock, I flip on the news via the remote control while shuffling my way to the kitchen in my fuzzy-bunny slippers. Then I’ll spend about ten minutes with my coffee in the living room, blearily sorting out what you people have done while I was sleeping.
But today I woke a little late, and my beloved morning ritual was rudely disrupted; with no time for cozy commiseration, I could give the television but a momentary look as I headed for the shower.
In that single glance, I caught some familiar ticker tape phrases scrolling across the bottom of the screen; words like Slaughterhouse Five and Breakfast of Champions. And my first thought is that some school is trying to ban books again … or maybe some religious nut is cranking up the political atmosphere by cracking down on controversial writing.
Again.
Very boring.
Must shower.
Click
So it would be another full hour before I would learn that Kurt Vonnegut is dead.
As an amateur and pisspoor satirist, I’m not going to spend a whole lot of time trying to convince you that I’ve got feelings and that I’m actually feeling those feelings now; I wouldn’t insult your intelligence like that. But I will have said that I’ve been reading Kurt’s work –I can call him Kurt now ‘cuz he’s dead and can’t complain—since my early teens, and the dark and existential humor that authors like he and Joseph Heller gave us probably had more influence on me than even my own parents.
Through them I discovered “The Paperback”: tiny little innocuous-seeming rectangles that fit in your back pocket, sometimes cunningly containing wild and savage detonations of imagination, dripping with sharp wit, social commentary, and much-needed acerbic bite. So potent was their power, they could make you spontaneously laugh or cry unexpectedly, drawing awkward stares and looks.
The world of writing just got a lot lonelier somehow.
Thank you KV.
For everything.
Friday
Flounder
Predator Press
[LOBO]
The problem with being such an attractive and desirable catch to the opposite sex is that chicks can, upon occasion, be overly aggressive. And the stocky ones wearing combat boots and flannel can be deceptively fast runners too!
Worse, the ingenious six-foot tall disguise that President Bush’s gardener provided me proved highly impractical when fleeing in terror of losing my obviously-endangered chastity; while running as hard and fast as I could, every time I turn, I see nothing but bared teeth framed by a spiky bamboo-addled mullet, pressed tight against scalp by virtue of sheer aerodynamic force.
She’s gaining on me.
Panting, sweating and trailing broken bamboo shoots and leaves, I slam the door to Ethan’s office, and press my back against it.
Sitting in front of Ethan’s desk were both Mr Insanity and Sapphire. And while fresh and rested-looking from their long Winter Break, they looked a little pissed about something.
“Hi guys!” I says excitedly, still out of breath.
Everybody just stares at me.
“Is there a problem?” I ask innocently.
Someone starts banging on the door behind me.
“I was just about to ask you the same thing,” says Mr Insanity.
Even as I press backward, I can feel the door starting to give. “No,” I says. “There’s no problem. What makes you think there’s a problem?”
“Well,” says Ethan smiling. “I was just telling Seth and Sapphire how you were filling in for them over the past few months.”
Desperately holding the door back, I manage a grin over a muffled cursing and a thunderous crash, followed by the sound of cracking oak. “Really, there’s no need to thank me right now.”
“Thank you?” says Mr. Insanity. “You told everyone I was dead!”
“Maybe,” I says. My planted feet are starting to slide over the carpet as the splintering door inches forward.
“Oh that’s nothing,” laughs Ethan. “Wait’ll you here about what he wrote about Sapphire.”
[LOBO]
The problem with being such an attractive and desirable catch to the opposite sex is that chicks can, upon occasion, be overly aggressive. And the stocky ones wearing combat boots and flannel can be deceptively fast runners too!
Worse, the ingenious six-foot tall disguise that President Bush’s gardener provided me proved highly impractical when fleeing in terror of losing my obviously-endangered chastity; while running as hard and fast as I could, every time I turn, I see nothing but bared teeth framed by a spiky bamboo-addled mullet, pressed tight against scalp by virtue of sheer aerodynamic force.
She’s gaining on me.
Panting, sweating and trailing broken bamboo shoots and leaves, I slam the door to Ethan’s office, and press my back against it.
Sitting in front of Ethan’s desk were both Mr Insanity and Sapphire. And while fresh and rested-looking from their long Winter Break, they looked a little pissed about something.
“Hi guys!” I says excitedly, still out of breath.
Everybody just stares at me.
“Is there a problem?” I ask innocently.
Someone starts banging on the door behind me.
“I was just about to ask you the same thing,” says Mr Insanity.
Even as I press backward, I can feel the door starting to give. “No,” I says. “There’s no problem. What makes you think there’s a problem?”
“Well,” says Ethan smiling. “I was just telling Seth and Sapphire how you were filling in for them over the past few months.”
Desperately holding the door back, I manage a grin over a muffled cursing and a thunderous crash, followed by the sound of cracking oak. “Really, there’s no need to thank me right now.”
“Thank you?” says Mr. Insanity. “You told everyone I was dead!”
“Maybe,” I says. My planted feet are starting to slide over the carpet as the splintering door inches forward.
“Oh that’s nothing,” laughs Ethan. “Wait’ll you here about what he wrote about Sapphire.”
Wednesday
Bamboo
Predator Press
[LOBO]
“Sir,” asks the lady behind the Democratic Headquarters desk, “May I help you?”
I say nothing.
“Sir,” she says in a more authoritative tone. “I’m going to call Security. Why exactly are you hiding in the corner dressed like a shrub?”
Thinking quickly, I says, “I’m a Bamboo.”
“I saw you getting off of the elevator.”
A pause.
I tilt the top of the tree forward, leaning into her confidingly, “I really doubt that.”
“I’m calling Security,” she says finally.
“On a Bamboo plant explicitly not trying to gain sensitive information for the Republican party?”
She looks at me sternly.
“That’s a very nice Mullet, by the way.”
“Pig!” she screams while blowing the air horn, punctuated occasionally by her silver whistle.
“No!” I scream reassuringly at the Godless whore. “Bamboo!”
[LOBO]
“Sir,” asks the lady behind the Democratic Headquarters desk, “May I help you?”
I say nothing.
“Sir,” she says in a more authoritative tone. “I’m going to call Security. Why exactly are you hiding in the corner dressed like a shrub?”
Thinking quickly, I says, “I’m a Bamboo.”
“I saw you getting off of the elevator.”
A pause.
I tilt the top of the tree forward, leaning into her confidingly, “I really doubt that.”
“I’m calling Security,” she says finally.
“On a Bamboo plant explicitly not trying to gain sensitive information for the Republican party?”
She looks at me sternly.
“That’s a very nice Mullet, by the way.”
“Pig!” she screams while blowing the air horn, punctuated occasionally by her silver whistle.
“No!” I scream reassuringly at the Godless whore. “Bamboo!”
Tuesday
Landscaping
Predator Press
Newt shuts the door. “Look, I can’t do this. It’s just too heartless.”
“An he’s cryin like a sissy,” says Bush, wincing. “I told you not to cancel his decoder ring yet!”
“Look,” says Newt. “Everyone makes mistakes. Both Clinton and Bush admitted to some rather nefarious ‘youthful indiscretions'. The media went nuts.“
“Ooo, I love stories!" says Bush. "Then what happened?”
“What we’re gonna do,” says Rush, “is ask him to be a spy Democrat.”
“We wouldn't even have to wait for Jesus to kill him," exclaims Bush. "That’s geniusness!”
“We could even make him report to somebody,” gloats Newt.
“I vote my gardener,” says Rush, raising his hand.
“Aw,” complains Bush. “Your gardener is already handling Social Security. It’s my turn to have a kewl gardener.”
Newt shuts the door. “Look, I can’t do this. It’s just too heartless.”
“An he’s cryin like a sissy,” says Bush, wincing. “I told you not to cancel his decoder ring yet!”
“Look,” says Newt. “Everyone makes mistakes. Both Clinton and Bush admitted to some rather nefarious ‘youthful indiscretions'. The media went nuts.“
“Ooo, I love stories!" says Bush. "Then what happened?”
“What we’re gonna do,” says Rush, “is ask him to be a spy Democrat.”
“We wouldn't even have to wait for Jesus to kill him," exclaims Bush. "That’s geniusness!”
“We could even make him report to somebody,” gloats Newt.
“I vote my gardener,” says Rush, raising his hand.
“Aw,” complains Bush. “Your gardener is already handling Social Security. It’s my turn to have a kewl gardener.”
Monday
Night in the Ruts
Predator Press
[LOBO]
The blindfold comes off, and I’m sitting in a small room.
Around me –left to right-- is Newt Gingrich, Rush Limbaugh, and President George Bush.
“Word up, homie!” I says to Bush, who artfully avoids my conspicuous 'High Five'.
“LOBO,” says Newt. “We have to talk. In your first week as a Republican, you’ve enraged senior citizens, published smutty innuendoes, and insulted maybe every religion on the face of the Earth.”
I look around, and I can read it in their eyes.
I’m being kicked out.
“Look,” says Rush, puffing a stogie. “Not everyone is cut out to be a Republican. We think you should join the Democratic Party." He taps his ash, "We've already cancelled your decoder ring."
[LOBO]
The blindfold comes off, and I’m sitting in a small room.
Around me –left to right-- is Newt Gingrich, Rush Limbaugh, and President George Bush.
“Word up, homie!” I says to Bush, who artfully avoids my conspicuous 'High Five'.
“LOBO,” says Newt. “We have to talk. In your first week as a Republican, you’ve enraged senior citizens, published smutty innuendoes, and insulted maybe every religion on the face of the Earth.”
I look around, and I can read it in their eyes.
I’m being kicked out.
“Look,” says Rush, puffing a stogie. “Not everyone is cut out to be a Republican. We think you should join the Democratic Party." He taps his ash, "We've already cancelled your decoder ring."
I'm Sorry
Predator Press
[LOBO]
All you cranky seniors sending me hate mail and downing me in the blog ratings because you were offended by that last post should probably "cool your jets" for a minute.
Firstly, this is an adult site. This sophomoric humor, while brilliant and intrinsically vital to Humankind as a whole, should under no circumstances ever be viewed by children or cranky old bastards like you.
But on a personal level – thereby infinitely more important-- anyone that reads this blog for any length of time knows that no one in it gets spoofed harder than me.
Period.
So what can I say to all that, other than I only hope your sorry, miserable mirthlessness will one day soon be extinguished in a swift and merciful way?
I, conversely, choose laughter.
[LOBO]
All you cranky seniors sending me hate mail and downing me in the blog ratings because you were offended by that last post should probably "cool your jets" for a minute.
Firstly, this is an adult site. This sophomoric humor, while brilliant and intrinsically vital to Humankind as a whole, should under no circumstances ever be viewed by children or cranky old bastards like you.
But on a personal level – thereby infinitely more important-- anyone that reads this blog for any length of time knows that no one in it gets spoofed harder than me.
Period.
So what can I say to all that, other than I only hope your sorry, miserable mirthlessness will one day soon be extinguished in a swift and merciful way?
I, conversely, choose laughter.
Saturday
Smitten
Predator Press
[LOBO]
I didn’t have my door locked, and Babs ‘an six big guys in matching jumpsuits just come right in.
The jumpsuited glandular freaks are carrying furniture.
What the fuck?
“Good,” she says. “I’m glad you’re here. I’ve decided I’m moving in.”
“Here?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“What do you mean why? You might’ve squirmed out of that marriage business for now, but you’re still my bitch.”
“But we were getting along so well not seeing or talking to each other,” I reason.
“Yes, well all that’s changing.”
“Ma’am?” says a mover. “There isn’t going to be room for the china hutch.”
“The hell there isn’t,” she scowls, circling the house. Decidedly, she stops and points. “Get rid of that.”
“My big screen television!?” I says. “Look here, sister. What in the hell makes you think you can just walk right in here and start throwing out my stuff?”
“I can bend parking meters with my thighs.”
“What kind of china is it?”
[LOBO]
I didn’t have my door locked, and Babs ‘an six big guys in matching jumpsuits just come right in.
The jumpsuited glandular freaks are carrying furniture.
What the fuck?
“Good,” she says. “I’m glad you’re here. I’ve decided I’m moving in.”
“Here?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“What do you mean why? You might’ve squirmed out of that marriage business for now, but you’re still my bitch.”
“But we were getting along so well not seeing or talking to each other,” I reason.
“Yes, well all that’s changing.”
“Ma’am?” says a mover. “There isn’t going to be room for the china hutch.”
“The hell there isn’t,” she scowls, circling the house. Decidedly, she stops and points. “Get rid of that.”
“My big screen television!?” I says. “Look here, sister. What in the hell makes you think you can just walk right in here and start throwing out my stuff?”
“I can bend parking meters with my thighs.”
“What kind of china is it?”
Friday
Sugar Rush
Predator Press
[LOBO]
Please stop emailing me and asking me to run for President again.
Despite my $516 "Vote for LOBO Cuz Those Other Guys Suck!" media blitz, I didn't make a dent in the 2006 Elections; frankly, I wasn't even on the damned ballot.
The fact of the matter is I've got what politicians refer to as "baggage".
I used to be a Jolly Rancher whore.
Before I found God, I might've had a hard time talking about my "problem" this openly. But back when I was single --and before rehab-- if you were a hot chick with Jolly Ranchers, I would do anything.
It started off innocently enough; a hot chick offers me an Apple STIX, and then I 'top off' with a Wild Berry Fruit --you know, just to be social and fun.
But before long, I was doing Double and Sourbolt Blasts --you know, the heavy stuff-- and "servicing" three or four hot chicks at a time.
All this has all changed since I've found God, the Republican Party, and a girlfriend that would cut my nuts off for ever eating any Jolly Ranchers again.
So please stop asking me to run for President.
[LOBO]
Please stop emailing me and asking me to run for President again.
Despite my $516 "Vote for LOBO Cuz Those Other Guys Suck!" media blitz, I didn't make a dent in the 2006 Elections; frankly, I wasn't even on the damned ballot.
The fact of the matter is I've got what politicians refer to as "baggage".
I used to be a Jolly Rancher whore.
Before I found God, I might've had a hard time talking about my "problem" this openly. But back when I was single --and before rehab-- if you were a hot chick with Jolly Ranchers, I would do anything.
It started off innocently enough; a hot chick offers me an Apple STIX, and then I 'top off' with a Wild Berry Fruit --you know, just to be social and fun.
But before long, I was doing Double and Sourbolt Blasts --you know, the heavy stuff-- and "servicing" three or four hot chicks at a time.
All this has all changed since I've found God, the Republican Party, and a girlfriend that would cut my nuts off for ever eating any Jolly Ranchers again.
So please stop asking me to run for President.
Thursday
Kyle Sampson is a Big Fat Lying Poo-Poo Head
Predator Press
[LOBO]
It’s jerks like that that completely ruin our ability to enjoy this Zenith of Republican Enlightenment. Look around you! There are no wars, taxes, or poverty. Everyone is free to worship Our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ as much as they choose, and the streets are safe because anyone able to hold a gun, does.
And the spinach will definitely not kill you.
All you alarmist liberal hippies and pinko-commies should put down your hookahs and catch a boat back to whatever other country kicked you out for treason.
Move along. There's nothing to see here America; go about your business.
Everything’s just fine.
[LOBO]
It’s jerks like that that completely ruin our ability to enjoy this Zenith of Republican Enlightenment. Look around you! There are no wars, taxes, or poverty. Everyone is free to worship Our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ as much as they choose, and the streets are safe because anyone able to hold a gun, does.
And the spinach will definitely not kill you.
All you alarmist liberal hippies and pinko-commies should put down your hookahs and catch a boat back to whatever other country kicked you out for treason.
Move along. There's nothing to see here America; go about your business.
Everything’s just fine.
Wednesday
Cured
Predator Press
[LOBO]
“You’re finished with your Penance already my son?” asks a skeptical Father Fritz.
“10,000 ‘Hail Marys’?” I says. “Not a chance.”
“Well then what are you doing here?”
“It’s a Miracle,” I says excitedly. “I’m no longer a pyromaniac, nymphomaniac, or hypocondriac. And my claustrophobia, necrophobia, xylophobia, spectrophobia, bolshephobia, agateophobia, phthiriophobia, syngenesophobia, coimetrophobia, sophophobia, virginitiphobia, agrophobia, russophobia, spacephobia, myrmecophobia, phasmophobia, and phobophobia? Gone. Gone! And best of all, my sinuses decompressed for the first time in weeks.”
“Really?”
“Yeah. Who would’ve thought chemically-treated pallets would smell so good.”
“Pallets?” says Fritz. “Where exactly were you saying those ‘Hail Marys’?”
“At the music studio.”
“You have pallets at a music studio?”
“No, no. I was at the warehouse.”
“I’m not following you.”
“Well, I did like ten or fifteen of them but it was getting really tedious. So I made a recording of saying it, and set it on a loop. According to my calculatrons, by this time next Wednesday I’ll have said like 50,000 of them!”
“I don’t think you understand the concept of Penance,” chided Fritz.
“Sure I do,” I says. “Even after I added drums and guitar, it’s totally mind-numbing after a while. You know, with billions of people doing that every day, I would bet God is ready to blow his brains out.”
“You’re supposed to suffer through it in a show of Faith and Discipline, in hopes that the Saints will prepare your way to Heaven!”
“Aw, but all those guys are dead! Can’t I just smite some pagans or something? I know tons of Protestants just begging to be smoted.”
“Penance isn’t supposed to be fun!”
“We have a gay guy at work. What if I go into Jimmy Orlando’s office once a day, and, like, shuffle all his papers up while he’s a lunch? Or maybe burn his house down?”
“Jimmy Orlando?” says Fritz. “How do you know Jimmy Orlando?”
“I dunno. We met him a year or so ago,” I says. “He claims to work part-time as a pool boy for some hotshot bigwig in Miami.”
“What is Jimmy doing working as a pool boy?”
“I dunno," I shrug. "We checked it out. This guy ain’t got no pool."
[LOBO]
“You’re finished with your Penance already my son?” asks a skeptical Father Fritz.
“10,000 ‘Hail Marys’?” I says. “Not a chance.”
“Well then what are you doing here?”
“It’s a Miracle,” I says excitedly. “I’m no longer a pyromaniac, nymphomaniac, or hypocondriac. And my claustrophobia, necrophobia, xylophobia, spectrophobia, bolshephobia, agateophobia, phthiriophobia, syngenesophobia, coimetrophobia, sophophobia, virginitiphobia, agrophobia, russophobia, spacephobia, myrmecophobia, phasmophobia, and phobophobia? Gone. Gone! And best of all, my sinuses decompressed for the first time in weeks.”
“Really?”
“Yeah. Who would’ve thought chemically-treated pallets would smell so good.”
“Pallets?” says Fritz. “Where exactly were you saying those ‘Hail Marys’?”
“At the music studio.”
“You have pallets at a music studio?”
“No, no. I was at the warehouse.”
“I’m not following you.”
“Well, I did like ten or fifteen of them but it was getting really tedious. So I made a recording of saying it, and set it on a loop. According to my calculatrons, by this time next Wednesday I’ll have said like 50,000 of them!”
“I don’t think you understand the concept of Penance,” chided Fritz.
“Sure I do,” I says. “Even after I added drums and guitar, it’s totally mind-numbing after a while. You know, with billions of people doing that every day, I would bet God is ready to blow his brains out.”
“You’re supposed to suffer through it in a show of Faith and Discipline, in hopes that the Saints will prepare your way to Heaven!”
“Aw, but all those guys are dead! Can’t I just smite some pagans or something? I know tons of Protestants just begging to be smoted.”
“Penance isn’t supposed to be fun!”
“We have a gay guy at work. What if I go into Jimmy Orlando’s office once a day, and, like, shuffle all his papers up while he’s a lunch? Or maybe burn his house down?”
“Jimmy Orlando?” says Fritz. “How do you know Jimmy Orlando?”
“I dunno. We met him a year or so ago,” I says. “He claims to work part-time as a pool boy for some hotshot bigwig in Miami.”
“What is Jimmy doing working as a pool boy?”
“I dunno," I shrug. "We checked it out. This guy ain’t got no pool."
Tuesday
Salsa
Predator Press
[LOBO]
I'm looking down through the trees, and there she is.
And I'm wanting to wave, but I realize she is undressing quickly, and not aware that I can see her undressing; she slides her shorts down over her curvy hips, and in moments she's not even wearing a thong. And then the shirt; a brief and tantalizing silhouette of those magnificent breasts--
"Look," says Father Fritz. "Fine, you're a Republican now. But this isn't therapy, it's Confession --"
"But then she starts rubbing down with this tanning lotion... "
Father Fritz scowls, "Now you're just bragging."
[LOBO]
I'm looking down through the trees, and there she is.
And I'm wanting to wave, but I realize she is undressing quickly, and not aware that I can see her undressing; she slides her shorts down over her curvy hips, and in moments she's not even wearing a thong. And then the shirt; a brief and tantalizing silhouette of those magnificent breasts--
"Look," says Father Fritz. "Fine, you're a Republican now. But this isn't therapy, it's Confession --"
"But then she starts rubbing down with this tanning lotion... "
Father Fritz scowls, "Now you're just bragging."
Bittersweet
Predator Press
[LOBO]
I don't tell you this often, so when I say explicitly "this is a true story," this is a True Story. My mom, given the opportunity, will confirm it.
And neither one of us recall me as a toddler being a particularly fussy eater.
But when introduced to Brussels's sprouts, it was on.
I still hate those innocuous-looking vile little hellspawned biological perversions.
Oh, sure mom issued the S.O.P. 'Miranda Rights' for a kid: "No desert 'til you clean your plate!" --generally this heralded "GAME OVER"; it was a matter of time before I would capitulate.
Except this time; even after a cascading portfolio of ice cream and Popsicles, I would not budge.
Dad said "Fine," and put me in the high chair. "No desert at all then. Yell for us when you're done."
And then they left for the living room.
They turned the lights off, and the television on.
... My god, these people aren't bluffing.
***
Around 9:30, I was kaput.
And I had no ideas.
I made an audible sound, acknowledging tiredly 'I give up!'. The living room stirred to life in that flickering pale blue light of the television amongst giggles like, "Well, I was starting to think he was never going to cave in."
It was at that exact moment, as they so smugly gloated, that I stuffed those vile green horrible objects into my cheeks.
And I waited.
***
6:30 the next morning was routine: I get deposited in the bathroom momentarily while mom gathers the diaper change and my daily threads.
But just starting to scuttle and crawl, I've got some surprising mobility, and right at that Single Perfect Moment I drag myself of the side of the toilet bowl, and spit those hateful sprouts from last night directly in the toilet.
It was the perfect crime.
Except I didn't know how to flush yet.
[LOBO]
I don't tell you this often, so when I say explicitly "this is a true story," this is a True Story. My mom, given the opportunity, will confirm it.
And neither one of us recall me as a toddler being a particularly fussy eater.
But when introduced to Brussels's sprouts, it was on.
I still hate those innocuous-looking vile little hellspawned biological perversions.
Oh, sure mom issued the S.O.P. 'Miranda Rights' for a kid: "No desert 'til you clean your plate!" --generally this heralded "GAME OVER"; it was a matter of time before I would capitulate.
Except this time; even after a cascading portfolio of ice cream and Popsicles, I would not budge.
Dad said "Fine," and put me in the high chair. "No desert at all then. Yell for us when you're done."
And then they left for the living room.
They turned the lights off, and the television on.
... My god, these people aren't bluffing.
Around 9:30, I was kaput.
And I had no ideas.
I made an audible sound, acknowledging tiredly 'I give up!'. The living room stirred to life in that flickering pale blue light of the television amongst giggles like, "Well, I was starting to think he was never going to cave in."
It was at that exact moment, as they so smugly gloated, that I stuffed those vile green horrible objects into my cheeks.
And I waited.
6:30 the next morning was routine: I get deposited in the bathroom momentarily while mom gathers the diaper change and my daily threads.
But just starting to scuttle and crawl, I've got some surprising mobility, and right at that Single Perfect Moment I drag myself of the side of the toilet bowl, and spit those hateful sprouts from last night directly in the toilet.
It was the perfect crime.
Except I didn't know how to flush yet.
"Beta" Blogger
Predator Press
[LOBO]
I swear to God, I can't tell you how much I hate what they've done to Blogger ... On a tight schedule, I just lost two hours worth of work because of their defective "Word Verication" software --I even backed the page up both times to see if the mistake was mine!
I would so love to freeze every last one of them in liquid nitrogen, and slowly chip little pieces off until I was knee deep in gory slush ...
[LOBO]
I swear to God, I can't tell you how much I hate what they've done to Blogger ... On a tight schedule, I just lost two hours worth of work because of their defective "Word Verication" software --I even backed the page up both times to see if the mistake was mine!
I would so love to freeze every last one of them in liquid nitrogen, and slowly chip little pieces off until I was knee deep in gory slush ...
Monday
The Truth About Goats
Predator Press
[LOBO]
I use really stringent email filters.
So every once in a while I have to check the “junk” mailbox, just in case any of you rabid and screaming fans are leaving more steamy love letters and/or death threats.
“Spammers”, as they are called by you techno-geeks, are getting more clever all the time, weaving their schemes in a ‘hot stock tip’, or ‘Flandsa Ha’asasanba needs your help to smuggle $80 billion dollars out of Wangswaba’ or ‘enlarge you penis’ ads.
You know, news you can use.
Today, I was shocked to find one that said, “Give Poor Farmers a Fighting Chance.”
Farmers?
Fuck the farmers!
Look, I don’t know about you, but I get my food straight from the grocery store. What Liberal conspiracy is even keeping these guys around anymore? I know for a fact by watching lots of television that farmers don’t do shit except for breed 'goats' (frankly, the ugliest and least-domesticatable strain of dog I've ever seen), obstruct much-needed superhighways and airports over greedily-oversized real estate claims, and occasionally provide a vehicle for another critically acclaimed Pauly Shore movie.
You know, if those hippies stopped soliciting hand-outs via these emails all blitzed on hemp and got a real job, I’ll bet their luck would change real fast. How about getting off of your lazy asses and maybe helping out poor Flandsa Ha’asasanba, you selfish jerks?
This country is completely going to shit.
[LOBO]
I use really stringent email filters.
So every once in a while I have to check the “junk” mailbox, just in case any of you rabid and screaming fans are leaving more steamy love letters and/or death threats.
“Spammers”, as they are called by you techno-geeks, are getting more clever all the time, weaving their schemes in a ‘hot stock tip’, or ‘Flandsa Ha’asasanba needs your help to smuggle $80 billion dollars out of Wangswaba’ or ‘enlarge you penis’ ads.
You know, news you can use.
Today, I was shocked to find one that said, “Give Poor Farmers a Fighting Chance.”
Farmers?
Fuck the farmers!
Look, I don’t know about you, but I get my food straight from the grocery store. What Liberal conspiracy is even keeping these guys around anymore? I know for a fact by watching lots of television that farmers don’t do shit except for breed 'goats' (frankly, the ugliest and least-domesticatable strain of dog I've ever seen), obstruct much-needed superhighways and airports over greedily-oversized real estate claims, and occasionally provide a vehicle for another critically acclaimed Pauly Shore movie.
You know, if those hippies stopped soliciting hand-outs via these emails all blitzed on hemp and got a real job, I’ll bet their luck would change real fast. How about getting off of your lazy asses and maybe helping out poor Flandsa Ha’asasanba, you selfish jerks?
This country is completely going to shit.
Sunday
PEACE ACCORD ACHIEVED
Predator Press
[LOBO]
Well, thanks to extensive LOBOnian Diplomacy, over the span of a single weekend the long-sought-after Peace between the volatile Fort Waynians and the warlike Sanduskanites has been achieved.
God, to look at them you never think the potentially-Apocalyptic conflict even occurred!
As Prime Minister of LOBOnia, I would just like to say no thanks or Nobel Peace Prizes are necessary; we only wanted to intervene before more needless bloodshed.
… but didn't Yasser Arafat get, like, 9 billion dollars for this sort of thing?
[LOBO]
Well, thanks to extensive LOBOnian Diplomacy, over the span of a single weekend the long-sought-after Peace between the volatile Fort Waynians and the warlike Sanduskanites has been achieved.
God, to look at them you never think the potentially-Apocalyptic conflict even occurred!
As Prime Minister of LOBOnia, I would just like to say no thanks or Nobel Peace Prizes are necessary; we only wanted to intervene before more needless bloodshed.
… but didn't Yasser Arafat get, like, 9 billion dollars for this sort of thing?
See Ethan? We Can Do Politics Too!
Predator Press
[LOBO]
Alas, fair Fort Wayne, Indiana; there is treachery afoot!
Even as you sleep, Sansduky, Ohio is spreading disinformation about you and beloved LOBOnia in a vain effort to divide our peoples by eroding our long-standing diplomatic ties for an inevitable attack.
I trust, by your name, that you indeed have a "fort", and hopefully it is of the good sturdy treehouse variety; we have intercepted 'chatter' sent to us that contains invasion plans, as well as a string of malicious obscenities about your mommas so vile I dare not print them here.
As you ready your war machines to avenge this slander, you may take solace in that all peace efforts have already been exhausted without heed: the Sanduskians, a warlike and expansionist community just seething with cooties, would have no part in any of the numerous LOBOnian efforts to achieve a diplomatic resolution.
The hearts, minds and prayers of the LOBOnain people go with you into the doubtlessly bloody carnage that they have wrought upon us all.
Woe to thee, o Sandusky! Why have you demanded the righteous, indignant wrath of two staunchly unified and powerful allies upon yourselves?
(God, this is fun. I feel just like Ronald Reagan!)
[LOBO]
Alas, fair Fort Wayne, Indiana; there is treachery afoot!
Even as you sleep, Sansduky, Ohio is spreading disinformation about you and beloved LOBOnia in a vain effort to divide our peoples by eroding our long-standing diplomatic ties for an inevitable attack.
I trust, by your name, that you indeed have a "fort", and hopefully it is of the good sturdy treehouse variety; we have intercepted 'chatter' sent to us that contains invasion plans, as well as a string of malicious obscenities about your mommas so vile I dare not print them here.
As you ready your war machines to avenge this slander, you may take solace in that all peace efforts have already been exhausted without heed: the Sanduskians, a warlike and expansionist community just seething with cooties, would have no part in any of the numerous LOBOnian efforts to achieve a diplomatic resolution.
The hearts, minds and prayers of the LOBOnain people go with you into the doubtlessly bloody carnage that they have wrought upon us all.
Woe to thee, o Sandusky! Why have you demanded the righteous, indignant wrath of two staunchly unified and powerful allies upon yourselves?
(God, this is fun. I feel just like Ronald Reagan!)
Saturday
Armada
Predator Press
[LOBO]
Oh, noble Sandusky, Ohio, I too was shocked at the news that you had been maligned, and maligned under the guise of LOBOnian Diplomacy!
But as you can see via satellite photos, we have not even air support; our entire Naval Armada lies dry and askew scattered across my bathtub! Surely we could not have wanted to provoke a conflict with a power as great, merciful, and as capable of enjoying some good-natured ribbing such as yours.
Our Intel suggests the true source of those slanderous allegations to be Fort Wayne, Indiana. Those jerks have been talking shit about you for years, and their Japanese cohorts are making fun of your penis size!
Once I fill the bathtub with that "Safety Fluid", the LOBOnian Navy will be reactivated and fully operational again, ready to deliver swift and lethal payback to Fort Wayne, Indiana --thusly thwarting the evil Japanese plot for autocracy. I'll even throw in six 'GI Joes', a shark, and a giant rubber duck!
Don't laugh at the duck, dude. He may have a cute smile, but he's got 4 settings:
1) LOW,
2) MEDIUM,
3) NAPALM, FILLET, AND DESTROY WITH NUCLEAR AND BIOLOGICAL PREJUDICE WHEN NECESSARY, and
4) HIGH.
Nodody fucks with The Duck, pal.
[LOBO]
Oh, noble Sandusky, Ohio, I too was shocked at the news that you had been maligned, and maligned under the guise of LOBOnian Diplomacy!
But as you can see via satellite photos, we have not even air support; our entire Naval Armada lies dry and askew scattered across my bathtub! Surely we could not have wanted to provoke a conflict with a power as great, merciful, and as capable of enjoying some good-natured ribbing such as yours.
Our Intel suggests the true source of those slanderous allegations to be Fort Wayne, Indiana. Those jerks have been talking shit about you for years, and their Japanese cohorts are making fun of your penis size!
Once I fill the bathtub with that "Safety Fluid", the LOBOnian Navy will be reactivated and fully operational again, ready to deliver swift and lethal payback to Fort Wayne, Indiana --thusly thwarting the evil Japanese plot for autocracy. I'll even throw in six 'GI Joes', a shark, and a giant rubber duck!
Don't laugh at the duck, dude. He may have a cute smile, but he's got 4 settings:
1) LOW,
2) MEDIUM,
3) NAPALM, FILLET, AND DESTROY WITH NUCLEAR AND BIOLOGICAL PREJUDICE WHEN NECESSARY, and
4) HIGH.
Nodody fucks with The Duck, pal.
WWID
Predator Press
[LOBO]
While torching this hideous PC seemed rather innocuous and necessary at first, I failed to recognize the intrinsic flammable properties that an office full of paper airplanes might indeed possess; in the moments before the sprinkler kicked on, I witnessed the horror of the entire LOBOnian Air Force rendered to ineffective ash.
It was like Pearl Harbor all over again ... 'cept worse, because this happened to me.
Lousy Slants!
Of the entire elite cadre of my finest and deadliest engineering marvels, the only craft that survived was the badly charred T-14 Super-Sonic Stealth Death Bomber Plus II. And during the preliminary test flight to assess the damage, she arched straight to the ground with a soggy and ungraceful splat; her ruptured frame failed to keep the munitions from detonating, and she too joined the ranks of the staggering, catastrophic loss.
On this historic day, March 24, 2007 --even as Sandusky, Ohio is receiving a noterized LOBOnian Declaration of War that states flatly that their entire city has cooties, and lays out in detail my brazen demand for it's unconditional surrender-- the LOBOnian air defenses have been wholly and utterly wiped out.
Military might decimated, we are forced to recruit.
We're looking for a few good men.
... and a lot of really bad girls.
[LOBO]
While torching this hideous PC seemed rather innocuous and necessary at first, I failed to recognize the intrinsic flammable properties that an office full of paper airplanes might indeed possess; in the moments before the sprinkler kicked on, I witnessed the horror of the entire LOBOnian Air Force rendered to ineffective ash.
It was like Pearl Harbor all over again ... 'cept worse, because this happened to me.
Lousy Slants!
Of the entire elite cadre of my finest and deadliest engineering marvels, the only craft that survived was the badly charred T-14 Super-Sonic Stealth Death Bomber Plus II. And during the preliminary test flight to assess the damage, she arched straight to the ground with a soggy and ungraceful splat; her ruptured frame failed to keep the munitions from detonating, and she too joined the ranks of the staggering, catastrophic loss.
On this historic day, March 24, 2007 --even as Sandusky, Ohio is receiving a noterized LOBOnian Declaration of War that states flatly that their entire city has cooties, and lays out in detail my brazen demand for it's unconditional surrender-- the LOBOnian air defenses have been wholly and utterly wiped out.
Military might decimated, we are forced to recruit.
We're looking for a few good men.
... and a lot of really bad girls.
Friday
Errata
Predator Press
[LOBO]
Ethan,
I'm due for a computer upgrade.
I hate this "off-white" CPU color ... it clashes badly with the interior of my office. Don't they make 'Dells' with maybe an imported walnut finish? Corinthian leather keyboards? Cup holders?
You don't want important corporate visitors thinking we're unsophisticated barbarians back here, do you?
Cripes, now this thing reeks of gasoline too!
In any case, we should take this one back to Microsoft and demand a full refund, as well as a personal apology from Bill Gates.
And a car.
[LOBO]
Ethan,
I'm due for a computer upgrade.
I hate this "off-white" CPU color ... it clashes badly with the interior of my office. Don't they make 'Dells' with maybe an imported walnut finish? Corinthian leather keyboards? Cup holders?
You don't want important corporate visitors thinking we're unsophisticated barbarians back here, do you?
Cripes, now this thing reeks of gasoline too!
In any case, we should take this one back to Microsoft and demand a full refund, as well as a personal apology from Bill Gates.
And a car.
Thursday
A Body Apolitique
Predator Press
[LOBO]
In a world of politically polarized blogs, my lack of "affiliation" drives Ethan totally bats.
The truth is, I've known some pretty fine people -and some rather spectacular train wrecks-- from both ends of the spectrum; my personal experience has taught me that a person's political and religious beliefs are rarely a reliable moral barometer. In fact, I find extreme levels of involvement bear out to the contrary; it often seems the more a person talks about what they believe, the less they behave in the manner of their chosen endorsement.
I've tried "staying on top" via various media, but the political charge always seems to bring out the worst in people; everybody is so busy distilling the information and calling everyone else liars, provocateurs and thieves, I couldn't tell you a good, reliable and objective news source were there a gun pointed at my head.
–besides Predator Press, of course.
Look, it's not complicated; either you want to defend, elevate and improve your own circumstances, or you want to improve, elevate or defend the environment of the circumstances and the collective whole, uh, thereby indirectly improving your own circumstances.
Hm.
Well, far be it from me to get in your ardent and virtuous way; hell, you screwballs are already so choked of fantastic conspiracy theories, finger-pointing and wild accusations, there isn't enough room for Predator Press to contribute!
Ultimately, this results in more leisure time for me; I'll step aside and let you make the comedy. Give kids 9mms in schools in an effort to understand the Metric System, and then automatic weapons while guarding the home in case of massive and well-coordinated quail or deer uprisings. Change the word "Prison" in the dictionary to "Low-Income Housing", "Starving" to "Sheik and Slender", and "Homeless" to "Independent Dwelling". Wreck the planet --and pay an oil man $3 a gallon of gas to do it! Bomb people frequently, and then pay "think tanks" to try and figure out why those people are are so irrationaly pissed off. Follow divisive religious tenants, and by all means kill people in Righteous Indignation. "Liberate" faraway communities of people of people you've never even heard of by either employing them or exterminating them --better yet, letting them exterminate each other once there services are no longer required! Fail not to look with adoring eyes and wallets (and various other body parts) upon the staggering contributions to humanity by such towering intellects as Anna-Nicole, Dick Cheney and Paris Hilton.
Promise me eons of Enrons, ages of atrocity, and volumes of vanity!
Because that's funny.
[LOBO]
In a world of politically polarized blogs, my lack of "affiliation" drives Ethan totally bats.
The truth is, I've known some pretty fine people -and some rather spectacular train wrecks-- from both ends of the spectrum; my personal experience has taught me that a person's political and religious beliefs are rarely a reliable moral barometer. In fact, I find extreme levels of involvement bear out to the contrary; it often seems the more a person talks about what they believe, the less they behave in the manner of their chosen endorsement.
I've tried "staying on top" via various media, but the political charge always seems to bring out the worst in people; everybody is so busy distilling the information and calling everyone else liars, provocateurs and thieves, I couldn't tell you a good, reliable and objective news source were there a gun pointed at my head.
–besides Predator Press, of course.
Look, it's not complicated; either you want to defend, elevate and improve your own circumstances, or you want to improve, elevate or defend the environment of the circumstances and the collective whole, uh, thereby indirectly improving your own circumstances.
Hm.
Well, far be it from me to get in your ardent and virtuous way; hell, you screwballs are already so choked of fantastic conspiracy theories, finger-pointing and wild accusations, there isn't enough room for Predator Press to contribute!
Ultimately, this results in more leisure time for me; I'll step aside and let you make the comedy. Give kids 9mms in schools in an effort to understand the Metric System, and then automatic weapons while guarding the home in case of massive and well-coordinated quail or deer uprisings. Change the word "Prison" in the dictionary to "Low-Income Housing", "Starving" to "Sheik and Slender", and "Homeless" to "Independent Dwelling". Wreck the planet --and pay an oil man $3 a gallon of gas to do it! Bomb people frequently, and then pay "think tanks" to try and figure out why those people are are so irrationaly pissed off. Follow divisive religious tenants, and by all means kill people in Righteous Indignation. "Liberate" faraway communities of people of people you've never even heard of by either employing them or exterminating them --better yet, letting them exterminate each other once there services are no longer required! Fail not to look with adoring eyes and wallets (and various other body parts) upon the staggering contributions to humanity by such towering intellects as Anna-Nicole, Dick Cheney and Paris Hilton.
Promise me eons of Enrons, ages of atrocity, and volumes of vanity!
Because that's funny.
Tuesday
Samsara
Predator Press
[LOBO]
Didja ever notice how rare it is when everything seems to be "in tune"?
Like maybe your job is great, the bills are paid, and you're surrounded by friends and loved ones ... but then your best friend and your old lady accidentally knock a scented candle over while having sex, and burn the house and all your worldly possessions to the ground? Or you win the lottery, and while jumping around in jubilant celebration you snag a testicle on a protruding rusty nail? Remember the first time when --beguiled by the rather grandiose name-- you found out a urinal cake was not the fluffy confection you were led to believe it was?
Well, that's how life works. It's a box of chocolates where you often find nothing but coconut creams.
After weeks, I got the blog "spider friendly" again and we're already back up to number 2 --I anticipate overtaking those wildlife jerks in the number 1 spot again anytime now. But I've got a nasty cold again and I'm so stuffy I can't think of anything 'spiff' to write; while usually slowed down scrawling notes on Post Its against my steering wheel at 94 MPH, I'm way early for work today. Staggering around in a Nyquil-induced fog, drinking coffee that tastes like a roast boot, I'm spinning the unappetizing food in the vending machine in an apparent effort to make spraypainted soybean products dizzy.
This colorless and blasé "Wheel of Suffering" has nothing new to hold my interest today. It cares not for the lost souls it sustains, nor how it tastes to the wreched fools who dare the inevitably fatal rectal trauma; joylessly shorting you 85 cents change, it shares its bountiful array of microwavable cheeseburgers that were never cheese or beef, chicken fajitas that are tortillas stuffed with lettuce and green peppers idly mulling rumors that chicken was involved in the process somewhere ...
And, staring absently into that smudgy glass, I don't particularly care.
We're number 2?
To Environmentalists?
I find this highly offensive.
For those of you that have known me awhile, you may remember that I'm twice the survivor of pneumonia. And I don't use the word 'survivor' loosely, either; the last time I was in the ICU for three weeks. The doctor told me a third 'bout' would likely be the last. So we have to take 2nd place to a bunch of jerks trying to protect an environment that's unabashedly been trying to kill me for years? Hell, if anything, the 'environment' should get it's ass kicked; for years now, it's presented me with nothing more than a constant assault of inclement weather and deadly microscopic flesh-eating bacteria, in a world infested by clever and fast-moving hungry carnivores and axe-wielding Heisman Trophy winners.
The fact is that 'The Environment' kills dozens of people every day, and there are various scientists that can prove it: "Mother Nature" would like nothing more than to dance in the splendor of my tasty and nutritious slippery entrails!
I've had just about enough of this 'environment' crap, thank you. I say we all take this moment in history to show this bitch "Mother Nature" exactly who's in charge around here ...
[LOBO]
Didja ever notice how rare it is when everything seems to be "in tune"?
Like maybe your job is great, the bills are paid, and you're surrounded by friends and loved ones ... but then your best friend and your old lady accidentally knock a scented candle over while having sex, and burn the house and all your worldly possessions to the ground? Or you win the lottery, and while jumping around in jubilant celebration you snag a testicle on a protruding rusty nail? Remember the first time when --beguiled by the rather grandiose name-- you found out a urinal cake was not the fluffy confection you were led to believe it was?
Well, that's how life works. It's a box of chocolates where you often find nothing but coconut creams.
After weeks, I got the blog "spider friendly" again and we're already back up to number 2 --I anticipate overtaking those wildlife jerks in the number 1 spot again anytime now. But I've got a nasty cold again and I'm so stuffy I can't think of anything 'spiff' to write; while usually slowed down scrawling notes on Post Its against my steering wheel at 94 MPH, I'm way early for work today. Staggering around in a Nyquil-induced fog, drinking coffee that tastes like a roast boot, I'm spinning the unappetizing food in the vending machine in an apparent effort to make spraypainted soybean products dizzy.
This colorless and blasé "Wheel of Suffering" has nothing new to hold my interest today. It cares not for the lost souls it sustains, nor how it tastes to the wreched fools who dare the inevitably fatal rectal trauma; joylessly shorting you 85 cents change, it shares its bountiful array of microwavable cheeseburgers that were never cheese or beef, chicken fajitas that are tortillas stuffed with lettuce and green peppers idly mulling rumors that chicken was involved in the process somewhere ...
And, staring absently into that smudgy glass, I don't particularly care.
We're number 2?
To Environmentalists?
I find this highly offensive.
For those of you that have known me awhile, you may remember that I'm twice the survivor of pneumonia. And I don't use the word 'survivor' loosely, either; the last time I was in the ICU for three weeks. The doctor told me a third 'bout' would likely be the last. So we have to take 2nd place to a bunch of jerks trying to protect an environment that's unabashedly been trying to kill me for years? Hell, if anything, the 'environment' should get it's ass kicked; for years now, it's presented me with nothing more than a constant assault of inclement weather and deadly microscopic flesh-eating bacteria, in a world infested by clever and fast-moving hungry carnivores and axe-wielding Heisman Trophy winners.
The fact is that 'The Environment' kills dozens of people every day, and there are various scientists that can prove it: "Mother Nature" would like nothing more than to dance in the splendor of my tasty and nutritious slippery entrails!
I've had just about enough of this 'environment' crap, thank you. I say we all take this moment in history to show this bitch "Mother Nature" exactly who's in charge around here ...
Sunday
Hawk
Predator Press
[LOBO]
“So you’re a Republican now?” says Ethan.
“Yes I am,” says me. “Someone has to look out for the AARP.”
“So you’re going to help the elderly get decent medical and drug coverage?”
“No,” I says. “I’m going to 'level the playing field', and make everyone under 30 drive blindfolded and on Valiums.”
[LOBO]
“So you’re a Republican now?” says Ethan.
“Yes I am,” says me. “Someone has to look out for the AARP.”
“So you’re going to help the elderly get decent medical and drug coverage?”
“No,” I says. “I’m going to 'level the playing field', and make everyone under 30 drive blindfolded and on Valiums.”
Predator Press Interviews: Barney
Predator Press
LOBO: “So you’re Barney? Can I call you Barney?”
[‘Barney’ pulls off his massive head, and extends his 'paw']
BARNEY: “I’m Doug. Doug Anderson. A guy that wears the ‘Barney’ suit”
LOBO: “So, ‘Doug Anderson’ –if indeed that is your real name-- you are, in fact, Barney?"
BARNEY: “Uh, no.”
LOBO: "--Or a paid representative of the omnipresent Barney Empire?”
BARNEY: “I guess. I do kid shows for $18 an hour or so. Hadda take a class, and make sure I could sing the songs—“
LOBO: ”Yes yes, I’m familiar with your musical contributions. But tell me, are you aware of how much drugging it takes for an average adult to exploit your momentary distraction of the kids? Ever try to 'torpedo Das Booty' while Wheels on the Bus is seeping through the walls?”
BARNEY: “Excuse me?”
LOBO: “Oh come on. I mean, I don't doubt you're an invaluable resource to juvenile delinquency and neglect and worth every penny. But the tunes need work. Think about it: have you ever ONCE been blown by a rabid, crying groupie off of ‘Sharing is Caring’?”
BARNEY: ”I think you would be amazed.”
LOBO: “Really?”
BARNEY: “Lonely single moms, a big puple tail. You do the math.”
LOBO: “Wow. Well, I still think you should consider updating your image a little. Have you ever considered doing, maybe, Tool? And then a finale getting slain by a large-breasted chick in a Viking helmet?”
BARNEY: "I’m sure that would have to come down from Corporate.”
LOBO: “So you’re Barney? Can I call you Barney?”
[‘Barney’ pulls off his massive head, and extends his 'paw']
BARNEY: “I’m Doug. Doug Anderson. A guy that wears the ‘Barney’ suit”
LOBO: “So, ‘Doug Anderson’ –if indeed that is your real name-- you are, in fact, Barney?"
BARNEY: “Uh, no.”
LOBO: "--Or a paid representative of the omnipresent Barney Empire?”
BARNEY: “I guess. I do kid shows for $18 an hour or so. Hadda take a class, and make sure I could sing the songs—“
LOBO: ”Yes yes, I’m familiar with your musical contributions. But tell me, are you aware of how much drugging it takes for an average adult to exploit your momentary distraction of the kids? Ever try to 'torpedo Das Booty' while Wheels on the Bus is seeping through the walls?”
BARNEY: “Excuse me?”
LOBO: “Oh come on. I mean, I don't doubt you're an invaluable resource to juvenile delinquency and neglect and worth every penny. But the tunes need work. Think about it: have you ever ONCE been blown by a rabid, crying groupie off of ‘Sharing is Caring’?”
BARNEY: ”I think you would be amazed.”
LOBO: “Really?”
BARNEY: “Lonely single moms, a big puple tail. You do the math.”
LOBO: “Wow. Well, I still think you should consider updating your image a little. Have you ever considered doing, maybe, Tool? And then a finale getting slain by a large-breasted chick in a Viking helmet?”
BARNEY: "I’m sure that would have to come down from Corporate.”
Saturday
Blame it on San Andreas
Predator Press
[LOBO]
Well, I have harshly criticized Blogger “The Butcher” Beta, so’s I guess I should mention a rather cool feature I’ve found. No one was more surprised than I; usually when I activate one of these mysterious unknown features, vipers pour out of my cd-rom drive, or huge spinning drills fly out of my monitor and drive themselves past my retinas and deeply into my brain.
You may have noticed lately that I have been “labeling”; these are those little eyesore tags under every post that I can’t seem to hide. But these little tags have enabled me to begin an alphabetize a navigation tool in the Site Guide of past historic and brilliant Predator Press posts related to the subject in question.
It's going slow, and I'm working backwards; with hundreds of posts, it will likely take months. But this will be an amazing aid to people new to the blog --as well as an academic researching organizer in the future, when scientists and archeologists are studying my heroic efforts to keep you people from freaking out and becoming mindslaves to such evils as Rush Limbaugh, Fran Tarkenton, and Ashley Olsen.
Mary-Kate is cool, but Ashley?
Pure Evil.
[LOBO]
Well, I have harshly criticized Blogger “The Butcher” Beta, so’s I guess I should mention a rather cool feature I’ve found. No one was more surprised than I; usually when I activate one of these mysterious unknown features, vipers pour out of my cd-rom drive, or huge spinning drills fly out of my monitor and drive themselves past my retinas and deeply into my brain.
You may have noticed lately that I have been “labeling”; these are those little eyesore tags under every post that I can’t seem to hide. But these little tags have enabled me to begin an alphabetize a navigation tool in the Site Guide of past historic and brilliant Predator Press posts related to the subject in question.
It's going slow, and I'm working backwards; with hundreds of posts, it will likely take months. But this will be an amazing aid to people new to the blog --as well as an academic researching organizer in the future, when scientists and archeologists are studying my heroic efforts to keep you people from freaking out and becoming mindslaves to such evils as Rush Limbaugh, Fran Tarkenton, and Ashley Olsen.
Mary-Kate is cool, but Ashley?
Pure Evil.
Thursday
A Patriot Act
Predator Press
[LOBO]
"I really appreciate you coming out Mister President," I says, climbing into the limousine.
"What?" calls Bush in the distance. "I can't hear you."
"Where are you sir?" I call into the palatial interior.
"By the pinball machines!"
Homing in on his voice, I find him excitedly contorting over a game of Super Faulken Ball.
"One more Island, and I'll control Argentina and Czechoslovakia -the gateway country to Australia!"
"Wow," I says. "That's really cool. And educational."
Just then, the game let out a low falling tone and all the lights went out --except for a bright flashing 'PAPAL SANCTIONS' marquee.
"Damn!" Bush growls. "I 'tilted' it."
"When did you put in the pool?"
Bush brightens. "There's a pool?"
"Yeah. Right next to the pizza oven."
"Wow. That's really cool."
"This thing must be hell on gas."
Bush winks, and puts a finger to his lips. "Hydrogen. Had it since 1989. Want a gelato?"
"No thanks."
Bush sighs and steps back to size me up. "You look terrible."
"So when you wrap up this whole 'Presidential' thing, I take it you'll be giving self-esteem seminars?"
"Sorry buddy," he guffaws. "When I was told you were feeling a little down, I flew directly in. Those meetings with Krin Kan Chung or whoever are all redunderances anyway." He presses a button on the wall. "Kristanna?"
"Yes sir?" says a sultry voice.
"Could you bring me a gelato?"
I nudge him sheepishly, holding up two fingers.
He grins. "Make that two gelati."
"Thank God for you selfless and caring Republicans," I sigh. "This whole world would go straight to hell without the deeply-seeded compassionate nature of your party as a whole."
"Anytime. So what's bothering you?"
"Did you know that other people are blogging now?"
"I have seen some Intel that suggests that. You want 'em killed or something?"
I think for a moment. "Nah." Eyebrows furrowed, I scratch my chin for a second. "Well--," I start ... but then I shake my head. "Nah," I repeat emphatically. "It's mostly people that drive SUVs bitching about gas prices, American Idol prattle, and stuff about Iraq."
"God. People are still talking about that?" Bush rolls his eyes. "Let it go already."
"I found like five or six web sites that made virtually no mention of me whatsoever."
"Really?" says Bush. "I wish I had your problems."
"No you don't," I says. "The entire concept of the blog has been tainted with the idea that people are to foist their own self-indulgent crap upon the world ... the very essence of blogging is at stake here!"
"I'm sure you are exaggerating. Five or six already? How many web pages are there altogether?"
"Lots," I says. "Three, four hundred. Maybe more. In fact, it turns out that new web pages not about me could be getting made every day."
"It's a goddamn bastardization," says Bush.
"Tell me about it," I cry. "Now, good media is getting drowned out by MSN, CNN, or any other weirdo nut job with a PC!"
"You could become a Republican and fix that problem," says Bush flatly.
"Really?" I says, brushing away a tear. "I'm really sick of being treated like a crackpot by mainstream media while I'm trying to warn them of the activities of the Zombie Aliens. I want to stand back while the Zombie Aliens eat the brains of people reading the Wall Street Journal so I can point and laugh at them for a change," I says. "Just like Moses did. Then those jerks would be sorry."
"How would you like Predator Press to be the only web page on the internets?"
"Imagine the porn!" I says.
"No. See, the Religious Right would take issue with that."
"Screw them," I says.
"The Religious Right are Republicans."
"So get rid of them. If you get rid of them, I'm in."
"Republicans and Democrats are composed of groups of individuals affiliated for greater voting power, dumbass." He pauses for effect. "This is a Democracy."
Suddenly, we're rolling on the ground, laughing.
"Oh man," I says, trying to stop. "I'm so glad you came along to cheer me up."
"It's the very least I can do," says Bush. "The very fate of the nation hangs on the state of your emotional well-being."
"Yeah, I know," I says apologetically.
"Look," says Bush. "Just stay the course. Always tell people the truth, no matter how much you have to endure. And I'll bet for a while they will hate you for it. But they will come back to you in the end."
"Your gelatos gentlemen," says a stunningly hot, naked woman with a serving tray.
"Is that Kristanna Loken?" I says astonished.
"Heh, oh heck no," laughs Bush. "The real Kristanna Loken is a sweet girl, but she can't make a gelato for shit."
[LOBO]
"I really appreciate you coming out Mister President," I says, climbing into the limousine.
"What?" calls Bush in the distance. "I can't hear you."
"Where are you sir?" I call into the palatial interior.
"By the pinball machines!"
Homing in on his voice, I find him excitedly contorting over a game of Super Faulken Ball.
"One more Island, and I'll control Argentina and Czechoslovakia -the gateway country to Australia!"
"Wow," I says. "That's really cool. And educational."
Just then, the game let out a low falling tone and all the lights went out --except for a bright flashing 'PAPAL SANCTIONS' marquee.
"Damn!" Bush growls. "I 'tilted' it."
"When did you put in the pool?"
Bush brightens. "There's a pool?"
"Yeah. Right next to the pizza oven."
"Wow. That's really cool."
"This thing must be hell on gas."
Bush winks, and puts a finger to his lips. "Hydrogen. Had it since 1989. Want a gelato?"
"No thanks."
Bush sighs and steps back to size me up. "You look terrible."
"So when you wrap up this whole 'Presidential' thing, I take it you'll be giving self-esteem seminars?"
"Sorry buddy," he guffaws. "When I was told you were feeling a little down, I flew directly in. Those meetings with Krin Kan Chung or whoever are all redunderances anyway." He presses a button on the wall. "Kristanna?"
"Yes sir?" says a sultry voice.
"Could you bring me a gelato?"
I nudge him sheepishly, holding up two fingers.
He grins. "Make that two gelati."
"Thank God for you selfless and caring Republicans," I sigh. "This whole world would go straight to hell without the deeply-seeded compassionate nature of your party as a whole."
"Anytime. So what's bothering you?"
"Did you know that other people are blogging now?"
"I have seen some Intel that suggests that. You want 'em killed or something?"
I think for a moment. "Nah." Eyebrows furrowed, I scratch my chin for a second. "Well--," I start ... but then I shake my head. "Nah," I repeat emphatically. "It's mostly people that drive SUVs bitching about gas prices, American Idol prattle, and stuff about Iraq."
"God. People are still talking about that?" Bush rolls his eyes. "Let it go already."
"I found like five or six web sites that made virtually no mention of me whatsoever."
"Really?" says Bush. "I wish I had your problems."
"No you don't," I says. "The entire concept of the blog has been tainted with the idea that people are to foist their own self-indulgent crap upon the world ... the very essence of blogging is at stake here!"
"I'm sure you are exaggerating. Five or six already? How many web pages are there altogether?"
"Lots," I says. "Three, four hundred. Maybe more. In fact, it turns out that new web pages not about me could be getting made every day."
"It's a goddamn bastardization," says Bush.
"Tell me about it," I cry. "Now, good media is getting drowned out by MSN, CNN, or any other weirdo nut job with a PC!"
"You could become a Republican and fix that problem," says Bush flatly.
"Really?" I says, brushing away a tear. "I'm really sick of being treated like a crackpot by mainstream media while I'm trying to warn them of the activities of the Zombie Aliens. I want to stand back while the Zombie Aliens eat the brains of people reading the Wall Street Journal so I can point and laugh at them for a change," I says. "Just like Moses did. Then those jerks would be sorry."
"How would you like Predator Press to be the only web page on the internets?"
"Imagine the porn!" I says.
"No. See, the Religious Right would take issue with that."
"Screw them," I says.
"The Religious Right are Republicans."
"So get rid of them. If you get rid of them, I'm in."
"Republicans and Democrats are composed of groups of individuals affiliated for greater voting power, dumbass." He pauses for effect. "This is a Democracy."
Suddenly, we're rolling on the ground, laughing.
"Oh man," I says, trying to stop. "I'm so glad you came along to cheer me up."
"It's the very least I can do," says Bush. "The very fate of the nation hangs on the state of your emotional well-being."
"Yeah, I know," I says apologetically.
"Look," says Bush. "Just stay the course. Always tell people the truth, no matter how much you have to endure. And I'll bet for a while they will hate you for it. But they will come back to you in the end."
"Your gelatos gentlemen," says a stunningly hot, naked woman with a serving tray.
"Is that Kristanna Loken?" I says astonished.
"Heh, oh heck no," laughs Bush. "The real Kristanna Loken is a sweet girl, but she can't make a gelato for shit."
Van Roth
Predator Press
[LOBO]
Honestly?
I think they all suck now except Michael Anthony and Sammy Hagar.
You couldn't get together once for your fans?
Or even history?
I'll let my wallet do my talking. ("What's that little Wallety? Van Roth should fuck off you say?")
[LOBO]
Honestly?
I think they all suck now except Michael Anthony and Sammy Hagar.
You couldn't get together once for your fans?
Or even history?
I'll let my wallet do my talking. ("What's that little Wallety? Van Roth should fuck off you say?")
Tuesday
Show Me Where it Hurts
Predator Press
[LOBO]
Going to work today was rather surreal; rather than facing biting cold and gunmetal gray skies, I was awash in a light 70-degree breeze and sunshine.
Sunshine.
Now, I’ve gone three months without “Cabin Fever” or “Seasonal Effective Disorder” or whatever –and for a guy riddled with weird phobias and neuroses, that’s pretty damn good—but today I was a little overwhelmed by it all.
I was suddenly made aware of how sick I am of winter.
The fact that I did not put the words ’this year’ anywhere in that sentence is not an accident.
A great deal of the day was spent sort of playfully daydreaming about the logistics of just 'packing it in' and going West. In fact, my helplessness against this strange preoccupation only further distressed me; this isn’t really about the weather at all, is it? I’ve been here for seven of winters in a row, and this one was certainly among the milder.
What is impelling me to consider leaving someplace I’ve been pretty damn happy for so long? What soured this earth? Is it something innate telling me it’s merely time once again for a change in landscape? A ‘sense of adventure’? I love this place, this job, the people; these have been the best years I've ever had.
But everything just seemed so colorless, barren and flat in that sunny, warm luster ...
[LOBO]
Going to work today was rather surreal; rather than facing biting cold and gunmetal gray skies, I was awash in a light 70-degree breeze and sunshine.
Sunshine.
Now, I’ve gone three months without “Cabin Fever” or “Seasonal Effective Disorder” or whatever –and for a guy riddled with weird phobias and neuroses, that’s pretty damn good—but today I was a little overwhelmed by it all.
I was suddenly made aware of how sick I am of winter.
The fact that I did not put the words ’this year’ anywhere in that sentence is not an accident.
A great deal of the day was spent sort of playfully daydreaming about the logistics of just 'packing it in' and going West. In fact, my helplessness against this strange preoccupation only further distressed me; this isn’t really about the weather at all, is it? I’ve been here for seven of winters in a row, and this one was certainly among the milder.
What is impelling me to consider leaving someplace I’ve been pretty damn happy for so long? What soured this earth? Is it something innate telling me it’s merely time once again for a change in landscape? A ‘sense of adventure’? I love this place, this job, the people; these have been the best years I've ever had.
But everything just seemed so colorless, barren and flat in that sunny, warm luster ...
Sunday
POPPER SEIZES ORANGE COUNTY
Predator Press
RAMPANT WILDFIRES PROMPT JOHN POPPER TO MAKE HIS MOVE ON METROPOLITAN LOS ANGELES
Paulie, Mikey and Vinnie reported safe
Friday
When Dreams Come Through
Predator Press
[LOBO]
The title of this post was originally supposed to be “LOBO FOUND DEAD, PELVIS CRUSHED BY ROGUE SQUAD OF HORNY VICTORIA'S SECRET MODELS; WEDDING TO BABS POSTPONED” –but it wouldn’t fit.
Plus, I don't think she would fall for it.
Look, Babs is hot and all, and I’ll bet she’s probably got a redeeming personality too. But the fact of the matter is that Babs has slept with everyone I know, and probably a few people I don’t know as well … maybe even French Canadians!
If you stand close to her, you can virtually hear the virulent space herpes crawling around that thong.
While getting violently “consummated” on over and over might sound like fun, I would inevitably contract The Virus which would cause my Hippocampus to ignite, thusly making me a mindless sex slave to the Space Herpe Queen.
--Which probably implies I gotta do stuff, right? I mean right in the middle of smashing a galaxy into a fiery hell-storm of molten slag, the bitch wants to “talk about our relationship”, or redecorate the kitchen. And I’ll bet the Space Herpe Queen has some fucked up relatives ...
… God I’m getting tired just thinking about this!
[LOBO]
The title of this post was originally supposed to be “LOBO FOUND DEAD, PELVIS CRUSHED BY ROGUE SQUAD OF HORNY VICTORIA'S SECRET MODELS; WEDDING TO BABS POSTPONED” –but it wouldn’t fit.
Plus, I don't think she would fall for it.
Look, Babs is hot and all, and I’ll bet she’s probably got a redeeming personality too. But the fact of the matter is that Babs has slept with everyone I know, and probably a few people I don’t know as well … maybe even French Canadians!
If you stand close to her, you can virtually hear the virulent space herpes crawling around that thong.
While getting violently “consummated” on over and over might sound like fun, I would inevitably contract The Virus which would cause my Hippocampus to ignite, thusly making me a mindless sex slave to the Space Herpe Queen.
--Which probably implies I gotta do stuff, right? I mean right in the middle of smashing a galaxy into a fiery hell-storm of molten slag, the bitch wants to “talk about our relationship”, or redecorate the kitchen. And I’ll bet the Space Herpe Queen has some fucked up relatives ...
… God I’m getting tired just thinking about this!
No One Ever Thanked Porn :(
Predator Press
[LOBO]
When I got stranded here 8 years ago, I dropped almost all the cash I had --about $2,500- within the first few days of being aware there was “a crisis”.
--Not on food or rent or a car, but on a CPU tower with a modem, and a dedicated telephone line.
The people here thought I was out of my mind, and that this whole "internet" thing was at best a fad. Why in the world would we want to have a high-priced calculator that can eerily commune instantly with people from faraway places like Indiana?
Now here it is, 8 years later, and both of my neighbors have wireless connections that screw mine up.
It’s amazing. What other creature on Earth can communicate, virtually instantaneously across the world, sophisticated information? In a strictly biological sense, I would argue that this rivals telepathy as an “Evolutionary Step” for a species.
I, eight years ago, needed the Internet; I had come from Honolulu where they had “Internet Cafés” on every corner, and moved to a place where the nearest store sold tools to neuter a horse (and I swear to God that’s the truth). I had friends all over the world, and we didn’t have "digital phone" back then; were it not for Al Gore, my long distance bills would still be $500 or more a month.
Plus I needed porn.
This all begs some questions. Like, "How did we all get the Internet virtually overnight, when it took decades to get other technological innovations such as railroads and electricity?", and "What explains this rapid and expensive saturation?"
Is this whole town now suddenly riddled with people using 'Quicken', and needing immediate downloads and uploads in fear of a mass IRS audit? Are they all physicists tweaking an equation that provides cold fusion? Is 'The Government' desperately trying to cure cancer before 5 more people die untaxed?
No. The answer, my friends, is blowin’ in the simms.
If there were naked chicks on Mars, we would’ve been there in 1984.
[LOBO]
When I got stranded here 8 years ago, I dropped almost all the cash I had --about $2,500- within the first few days of being aware there was “a crisis”.
--Not on food or rent or a car, but on a CPU tower with a modem, and a dedicated telephone line.
The people here thought I was out of my mind, and that this whole "internet" thing was at best a fad. Why in the world would we want to have a high-priced calculator that can eerily commune instantly with people from faraway places like Indiana?
Now here it is, 8 years later, and both of my neighbors have wireless connections that screw mine up.
It’s amazing. What other creature on Earth can communicate, virtually instantaneously across the world, sophisticated information? In a strictly biological sense, I would argue that this rivals telepathy as an “Evolutionary Step” for a species.
I, eight years ago, needed the Internet; I had come from Honolulu where they had “Internet Cafés” on every corner, and moved to a place where the nearest store sold tools to neuter a horse (and I swear to God that’s the truth). I had friends all over the world, and we didn’t have "digital phone" back then; were it not for Al Gore, my long distance bills would still be $500 or more a month.
Plus I needed porn.
This all begs some questions. Like, "How did we all get the Internet virtually overnight, when it took decades to get other technological innovations such as railroads and electricity?", and "What explains this rapid and expensive saturation?"
Is this whole town now suddenly riddled with people using 'Quicken', and needing immediate downloads and uploads in fear of a mass IRS audit? Are they all physicists tweaking an equation that provides cold fusion? Is 'The Government' desperately trying to cure cancer before 5 more people die untaxed?
No. The answer, my friends, is blowin’ in the simms.
If there were naked chicks on Mars, we would’ve been there in 1984.
Thursday
PREDATOR PRESS BREAKS NEWS AGAIN
Predator Press
[LOBO]
I was stunned too. But I kept thinking How did Popper know we were onto him?
Well, it turns out it had nothing to do with us whatsoever, and that's exactly what we want George Lindsey to think right now.
You see, if you play "Run-Around" backwards, you can here Popper clearly discussing his intentions:
VOICE: “[inaudible] … your bottled water sir. The truck … and the canned goods [inaudible] all gone … “
Popper: “I’ve had it with those D-O-T cocksuckers fucking up my ‘Master Plan’!"
VOICE: “Your instructions, Lord Popper?”
Popper: ”There is nothing we can do, unless there’s a tidal wave or an earthquake. Or maybe an eclipse.”
VOICE: "Y-yes, sir."
Popper: "I'm very disappointed, Number Two."
VOICE: "I know sir."
Popper: "This failure is unacceptable. What if there was a tsunami or a forest fire today? We would be completely unprepared."
VOICE: "Yes my Lord."
Popper: "Number Three, are you there?"
NEW VOICE: "Yes, Lord Popper."
Popper: "You are my new Number Two. Now show that maggot how Lord Popper deals with failures."
[gunshot, then chorus]
[LOBO]
I was stunned too. But I kept thinking How did Popper know we were onto him?
Well, it turns out it had nothing to do with us whatsoever, and that's exactly what we want George Lindsey to think right now.
You see, if you play "Run-Around" backwards, you can here Popper clearly discussing his intentions:
VOICE: “[inaudible] … your bottled water sir. The truck … and the canned goods [inaudible] all gone … “
Popper: “I’ve had it with those D-O-T cocksuckers fucking up my ‘Master Plan’!"
VOICE: “Your instructions, Lord Popper?”
Popper: ”There is nothing we can do, unless there’s a tidal wave or an earthquake. Or maybe an eclipse.”
VOICE: "Y-yes, sir."
Popper: "I'm very disappointed, Number Two."
VOICE: "I know sir."
Popper: "This failure is unacceptable. What if there was a tsunami or a forest fire today? We would be completely unprepared."
VOICE: "Yes my Lord."
Popper: "Number Three, are you there?"
NEW VOICE: "Yes, Lord Popper."
Popper: "You are my new Number Two. Now show that maggot how Lord Popper deals with failures."
[gunshot, then chorus]
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