The Heart of the Artichoke

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Finally having lost faith in the "Rule of Law", I have chosen to follow the path of the Supervillain.

LadyTerri found this rather laughable.

"Supervillain?" she scoffs. "You passed out when I told you there were artichoke hearts in your salad."

"I'm a vegetarian!"

"Artichokes are vegetables."

"Well, that explains the rather lackluster effect of me gaining the vitality and courage of the artichoke by eating it's heart," I concede.

"If you're a vegetarian, why do you always want me to make pork chops?"

"'That which does not bend breaks,'" I recite wisefully.

"Stop quoting fortune cookies," she demands.

"Look," I insist. "I need a certain number of pork chops a day. I'm hypoglycemic."

"So you're going to be the world's first hypoglycemic quasi-vegetarian Supervillain? You blubbered like a sissy when Bambi's mom got shot."

"Hypoglycemics are prone to counter-regulatory hormones triggered by the falling glucose, and the neuroglycopenic effects produced by the reduced brain sugar!" I protest.

"Stop quoting Wikipedia!"

"I already bought a cape!"



***

I take exception to LaryTerri's doubts. Since childhood I have wanted nothing more than to be a Supervillain.

Dammit, I thought. What does she know? I'm absolutely oozing with, um, Supervillainiousness.

In fact I question the credentials of virtually all other acknowledged Supervillains!

Take Lex Luthor, for instance. How long can you go on as a qualified 'Supervillain' when you've known your arch-rival Superman's greatest weakness for decades and have yet been unable to exploit it? Lex shoulda just used a surface-to-air heat seeking missile to affix Kryptonite to Superman's keyster in flight. Suddenly, Superman can't fly any better'n a garden-variety cinderblock. Plus he ain't the "Man of Steel" anymore. Splatto! End of story.

Getting your ass kicked once a month hardly qualifies.

They shoulda called that guy Lex Loser

Still, I can't expect to go from zero to Supervillain overnight.

I need a reputation.

So I decides to do some midnight skulking.

Unfortunately, midnight is pretty late. I need a good 16 or 17 hours of sleep a night or I can't function at all. Plus, if I came home after midnight LadyTerri would totally kick my ass. But it occurred to me that midnight skulking at around 8:30 would be really sneaky ... no one would expect that.

Man, that's positively evil.

Ominoiusly seizing the lunchbag she packed for me off of the counter, I made my way out to seek my evil destiny.

I started small. Once sufficiently dark, I tried kicking over the neighbor's garden gnomes. But the ground is frozen; all I did was painfully jam my toe. I figured I would have more luck with the trash cans, but their dog heard me and woke 'em up.

"Get the hell away from my trash LOBO!" Jeanie Anderson yelled.

"I'm not LOBO," I replied, eyebrow arched.

Hah! Already spinning my webs of deceit, I'm just crawling with evil now!


***

I wasn't really afraid when Stan Anderson loosed their dog Rommel on me.

That's not why I ran.

I ran because it's 6 degrees, and I'm wearing nothing but black rubber and spandex, a mask and cape.

-I'm freaking freezing.

Full-blown Supervillains seem to get way cooler uniforms. I'm not sure why ... maybe they get discounts for dry cleaning. This would be a good thing, because I keep forgetting I'm wearing the cape and dragging it outside the car door.

And that's how Rommel caught me. My cape, skirting the icy road outside the car door, was the perfect medium for Rommel to stop and drag my 1990 Plymouth Horizon off the road and into a nearby ditch.

Rommel then proceeded to dismember my car piece by piece. It was quite frightening; first it was small items like the door handles, mirrors and windshield wipers. Then those powerful paws appeared in my windshield; he clawed my rumpling hood for purchase while his enormous foam-dripping teeth shredded newly-exposed engine in enraged frustration.

Rommel paused to growl hideously at me through the glass, and I could see cuts and blood on his gums; rearing back as if in a sudden moment of inspiration, he began hurling himself against the windshield repeatedly, and web-like cracks began to race across with every impact.

Now this is why Supervillains have henchmen. I could've used a handful here. I could, for instance, make one get out and push. And then as the dog kills him, I make the next guy get out and push. -And continue on in that fashion until the beast's bloodlust was sated, or until I had been sufficiently pushed free.

Plunging finally through the windshield, I was surprised when Rommel passed right over my femoral artery and voraciously attacked the pork chops and salad LadyTerri packed for my dinner.

My God, I thought. This is the meanest Boston Terrier I've ever seen.

... and now he has eaten the heart of the artichoke too.

Making History

Predator Press

[LOBO]

First my apologies: I did not mean to mislead millions of you readers into thinking I was running for President in that last post.

Please get off of my lawn.

As you may remember -and as was well-documented by Mr Insanity in the vast Predator Press archives- I ran for President in 2006.

I spent $4.1 million on my campaign.

Nobody voted for me.

Not one person.

... These "elections" are totally rigged!

I learned something that awful and momentous day: Why make your own mistakes, when throughout history there have been hundreds of perfectly good dumb people, doing thousands of dumb things?

You should never, for instance, call King Henry the Eighth an impotent limp-dick. Or call George Bush Senior the 'wimp president'. Don't go to Mel Gibson's house to show off your new spiffy new dradle. Don't watch the last episode of Mash for a happy ending [*spoiler alert* Henry dies and Winchester doesn't. Oooooo I hate that snooty Winchester!]. And, above all, never ever ever send your navy after Japan during typhoon season, or whenever Godzilla is pissed off.

It's simple really: "He who forgets his past is doomed to repeat it". We must study stupid people, lest we become one!

But don't get me wrong ... we need smart people too. Remember Isaac Newtron? Forty or fifty years ago, this guy did some crazy math and it really improved our ability to do bank shots playing pool and shoot at each other. When asked about his nerdy and weird math stuff, he says "If I've seen further than others, it is because I've stood on the shoulders of giants".

See? Now that's a thinking man's thinking man. Let the fucking giants do all the work. Just chill out. Giants are pretty mellow overall, as long as they're not cyclopses.

Cyclopses are assholes.

Oh, It's ON. No, Wait ... It's Off Again.

Predator Press

[LOBO]

As I stare up at the roof of the ambulance, I suppose there were a lot of reasons not to except a challenge from Style Swags 8 year old yellow-belted daughter.

First of all, from the locker room to the cage in the center of Madison Square Garden was a really long walk. In retrospect, this was part of her strategy I'm sure: by the time she was gluing the broken glass shards and razorwire to her gloves I was already winded.

I don't really remember much after that ... just a lot of fuzzy images of her staring down at me going, "How do you like me now?" [foot to head] "How do you like me now?" [fist to appendix] and "Quit crying, you sissy!" [appendix to face] ... then there was a whole lot of screaming and begging, mercifully followed by confetti and Hannah Montana songs.

I hate sports.

The Eightfold Wrath

Predator Press

[LOBO]

I must admit, becoming an official honorary White Belt in karate has significantly affected my self-image.

When you are a trained killing machine -a living weapon- you walk a little taller.

With more confidence.

Command, if you will.

But karate is also a strict discipline. It is for self defense ... not jacking up some guy that looks at you weird at the gas station.

Violence is always the last resort.

So just so I ain't gotta rip the neck of of some smack-talkin' ne'er do well punk blissfully ignorant of my killing prowess, I wear my karate pajamas everywhere.

As a warning.

... and I gotta tell you, these are way more effective than my Batman pajamas ever were.

American Bad Ass

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Well, the Cardinal Fitness thing -my New Year's Resolution- hasn't really panned, so LadyTerri and I have been trying to get creative. She made me promise to spend three hours a week at the gym, and frankly I can't take that much tanning: I look like a disoriented lobster, and everyone complains the booth smells like bacon for hours afterwards.

So she says, "Why don't you try Karate?"

Well, I figured that 'Karate' was some kind of exotic takeout.

Maybe a cologne.

But it turns out it's like kickboxing and crap.

As the last Grand Master of the lost Peking Duck martial arts style, I figure fine: I can hide under or behind anything virtually instantly (Muay Thai legend says it can only be learned in a vision during intense meditation, but I posses this innate ability anytime I don't want my ass kicked at Denny's). How bad could this 'Karate' thing be then? It's just another martial art, right? We all put on our pajamas and go to the dojo and powernap for two hours? I'm down with that.

While initially pleased that my Peking Duck expertise had provided me an honorary status of 'White Belt', it soon became apparent that this was not a very high rank: I was being trained with a teeny-tiny squad of precocious little 5-year-olds.

And honestly? It got pretty boring after five or six weeks: I could kick the crap out of every single one those little chumps ... and I got trophys to prove it. I would waste them little bastards too: I once made the challenger watch me savagely amputate his own stuffed toy Barney tail before beating him severely with it while listening to Slayer on my headphones. I was like an evil Jackie Chan: there were little GI Joe parts 'an Pokemon cards flyin' everywhere.

But rather than finally promoting me a rank, Grand Master Futon called the cops.

I think he was afraid of my potential.

The Number You Have Dialed HAS A LIFE

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Teenagers spend a lot of time on the phone.

They are very busy and important people.

And I'm okay with that. Seriously. It's not fucking up my bandwidth all that much.

But they call a lot.

Nobody has called me since 2002, and I kinda liked it that way. But now, the same person will call four times in a row. And not just leave a message and move on, but just call and call.

And call.


***

I mean if you call once and you choose not to leave a message, I get that. You wanted to talk to the person live. Nothing particularly important.

The second call presupposes something like you were in the shower. While toweling suds out of your eyes, you make a heroic effort for the phone ... but just as you get there, the call switches to voicemail and the dripping water shorts out your Caller ID.

I can sympathize.

But the third call always makes me wonder what exactly this particular teenager is telling people about the size of our place. Okay: maybe you're in the pool. And while drying off the phone starts ringing again and you realize you've locked yourself out of the house ... and off in the distance you can hear Freddy Krueger start to churn through the outer perimeters of your hedge maze.

But a fourth call?

I'm totally bewildered.

Okay this scenario suggests that you've had your calls forwarded to the 7-11. And as you pour your Slurpee, a crashing meteor wipes out all mankind and accidentally creates flesh eating zombies: it's only then you realize you've locked yourself out of the church, and off in the distance you can hear Freddy Krueger; all civilization as we know it has come to an abrupt and bitter end, and one lone human being is crying out for help as the frail atmosphere is being sucked violently from Earth by a black hole.

Frankly, I still wouldn't answer: I would obviously have my own problems to deal with.

... and humanity's last Slurpee.

Eruption

Predator Press

[LOBO]

I can't argue against myself having taken sloth to an unprecedented indolent level never before witnessed by humankind.

As an example, before I started this post I made myself a glass of water. But I left it on the bookshelf -a scant and tantalizing eight inches from my current reach.

Now I'm thirsty, and I can't think of anyone I can email to help me here. I would call someone, but the phone is in the other room ... it would be easier just to get the damn water myself!

From deep in the recesses of my mind, sketchy biology class memories scream to frail and failing survival instincts: no animal can survive extended periods of time without water. It's one of our most basic and essential needs.

How long can we go?

Days?

Hours?


***

Normally the lovely LadyTerri would assist, but she just hasn't been the same since we hadda cancel our Hawaiian vacation. Who knew there was a spending cap on volcano insurance? To hell with Hawaii! Has this woman no conception that I might very well die here?

And then she will have to explain to millions and millions of heartbroken Predator Press fans all over the world how their beloved LOBO was turned to dehydrated and crumbling dust right at his PC. She alone will be responsible for the subsequent mass self-immolations and hoards of people leaping from tall buildings! Future generations will build colossal statues and effigies to commemorate my far-too-brief existence, but it will never slate their immeasurable grief; all that will remain of the Earth will be a cold and lonely, LOBOless sphere drifting aimlessly through the empty void.

And sure maybe some new guy will come along: indeed in the Cosmic Scheme there is always a miniscule, infinitesimal chance that a cheap replica that looks, acts, thinks and Enlightens you people as good me will happen. But what if this guy is a loser? What if ten people come over to get this guy his water, and suddenly they spot him scratching off lottery tickets with what used to be their 'Earned Income Credits'?


***

It's really Hawaii's fault if you think about it. I mean volcanoes? For a state with an economy based on tourism, what fucking genius thought volcanoes was a good idea? Do you see any volcanoes in Vegas, Disneyland or Paris? No. Know why? Because volcanoes can fucking kill you! Why don't we just vacation in a pile of dirty needles? If I went to a travel agent and saw a poster of a volcano and a pile of dirty needles on the wall, I would opt for the dirty needles -assuming they weren't anywhere close to a volcano, of course.

Don't get me wrong. I love vacations. I just hate going on them. I work hard to get my stuff, and like the leisure time to enjoy it. Why would I want to pay a lot of money to go somewhere where my stuff isn't?

And if I go on vacation, who will commission the construction of my much-needed blogging aqueduct?

Hm?

Bittersweet Symphony

Predator Press

[LOBO]

"So you fell down an elevator shaft," says Nurse Garrison.

"No," I correct. "I jumped down an elevator shaft. Lord Likely wanted to cut the elevator cable so the horses pulling it would be free and the townspeople could go summon help."

Glancing up from her clipboard, she sighs. "Your wife called. She's on her way."

"Thank you for notifying her," I says.

"She's very worried," Nurse Garrison shrugs. Inspecting a tiny scrap of paper through her glasses she adds, "Evidently your 'Driving Into a Lake or Volcano' insurance expired on the 4th."

"Dammit!" I complain. "There goes our Hawaiian vacation. She's going to kill me."

"I thought she was kidding," says the Nurse. Peering over her glasses, she appears strangely incredulous. "You still have a Driver's License?"

"I got better'n that," I says. Flipping open my wallet, I show her my polished badge.

Pushing her glasses back up her nose, Nurse Garrison reads it aloud:

LOBO
Head of Secret Zombie
and Boogeyman Prevention
for Liberty and Justice.

"This has the Presidential Seal," she comments.

"So it should. The SZBPFLJ -as the blissfully unaware public so likes to pronounce it- was commissioned in February of 2002 by President George Bush himself."

"This badge implies you are a Federal Agent. It's got to be a Federal Offense to present it."

"And I never understood that," I agree. "That would never stop zombies or the Boogeyman from trying to impersonate me. George can be very frustrating."

"It says 'Made in Taiwan'."

"Cut me some slack," I reply. "I'm lying as fast as I can."

Best Squishes

Predator Press

[LOBO]

I am always startled to hear a woman claim she doesn’t own a vibrator.

... I mean, what, are you nuts?

There really isn't any social stigma about it anymore, either. Let’s conduct an experiment: All you ladies who do not own a vibrator, please raise your hand.

Now look over the edge of your cubicle. Do you see any hands other than your own?

Ladies, ladies … this is, like, the Twenty-First Century or something; there are tiny, concealable, subtle technologies available that can bring you instant sexual gratification virtually anywhere!

I wish men were so lucky.

If that was true for us, we would carry them proudly displayed on leather tool belts -customized with a "quick draw" feature- and probably have an emergency holdout stashed in our boot.

We would have them in the file cabinets, and several would be rolling about the floorboard of the car.

One would be welded on the television remote, a half dozen would be forgotten between the mattresses and under pillows, and backups would arrive in the mail in virtual perpetuity (one by land, two by sea, et cetera).


***

It is long overdue for women to cast off these iron chains of sexual repression, and raise those little colorful plastic bastards in the air to be counted! Use them defiantly on busses, trains, and airplanes. Use them on the subway and in the library. And make that statement all across the world: hold massive “Buzz-Ins” at City Hall to be broadcast on CNN and the BBC until power plants fail and the city lights flicker and dim.

Civilization as we know it will grind to a standstill before
the might of your vast and squirty moaning numbers.
And as God as my Witness, I will start a vibrator repair shop -no, a college; I'll call it "Vibrator Tech University", and involve myself heavily in funding Research and Development. Plans for the first fusion-powered triple-headed "back massager" have already been drafted.

Well obviously the time has come, ladies. The only thing you have to fear is fear itself.

And maybe not having anything to put in the flashlights during the subsequent blackouts.

East Coast Versus West Coast Bloggerz

Predator Press

[LOBO]

No one was more shocked than I when Debbie Dolphin -author of the normally tasteful New England Lighthouse Treasures- issued a vitriolic statement proclaiming all bloggers from the West Coast "Punk Ass Bitches".

-but she's been talkin' trash ever since her record went triple-platinum.

The Exciting Electrical Elevator Endeavor

Predator Press

[LOBO]

"Doctor I. M. Nyarlathotep?" I wheeze weakly into the phone.

"LOBO? How did you get this number?"

"I peeked over Nurse Garrison's shoulder when she was filling out my chart."

The doctor sighed. Setting down his golf clubs, he eased back into the driver's seat of the cart. "She told me you have a sinus infection.”

"Then why do I feel like my brains have expanded, ripped through my skull and seeped out while a gnarly-toed bigfoot splashed around on them?"

"Because you have a sinus infection."

"I blame the boy," I says flatly.

"It's entirely possible. You did mention he was sick last week. You could have picked up what he had."

"Well this was most ill-conceived. He is by far the most expendable of us. I mean he can't get a job or drive a car ... and those tiny soft hands are poorly-suited for building even the most woefully small of colossal effigies of myself!"

The sky darkened suddenly, and the doctor looked up to see black clouds moving in. Thunder rolled in the distance, and the warm smell of rain filled the atmosphere.

“What the hell was that?" I says into the phone. "Where are you?”

“It’s a storm coming in,” replied the doctor. “I’m at the 17th hole of the Cancun Open.”

“What’s your handicap?”

"At the moment, you are. Get some Tylenol," suggested the doctor.

"I can't. I'm still stuck in the elevator."

"I thought you were rescued."

"Well, the elevator started working again. But just as I called the police, the CIA, the FBI, FEMA and Interpol to tell them everything was cool, Lord Likely got on and beat the control panel into slag with his cane.”

“They don’t make these confounded contraptions like they used to,” explained Likely. “And who is this Mandy person?”

“LOBO, I can’t help you from here. Would you please just call the fire department back?”

“They won’t answer,” I says sulkily.

“Tell this medical practitioner to fear not,” says Likely. “I’ve had Botter lay down at the bottom of the shaft and cushion our descent.”

“Will that work?” I ask Likely.

“I don’t know,” says Likely. “That’s why you have to go first. Botter is chocked full of spiky bones and so forth; he will need to be tenderized thoroughly before my Lordliness can attempt such a feat.”

“I’m ready Milord!” cries Botter from far below.

“Doc,” I says into the phone. “What if I jump, and then right before I smack into the ground, I swerve to avoid it?”

Doctor Nyarlathotep rolled his eyes just as the heavy rain began to fall. “It’s worth a try. But wouldn’t you just veer of into the side of the concrete elevator shaft?”

“Yeah. You’re right.” Resigned, I yell down, “Okay Botter, are you ready?”

“Yes Sir.”

To Likely, “And you’re sure he won’t move?”

“Dare he move a muscle, I shall beat him severely about the legs,” says Likely with command.

I take a deep breath. “Okay. Here goes.”

After a brief moment, I step into oblivion.

“Oh wait sir!” cries Botter. “I forgot your Tylenol in the car!”

LOBOcop

Predator Press

[LOBO]

"LOBO" says the text.

"What?"

"CAN YOU READ THIS?"

"Well yeah," I respond.

"YOU DIED 50 YEARS AGO IN AN ELEVATOR, AND WE PUT YOUR FROZEN BRAIN IN A ROBOT BODY AS YOU REQUESTED."

"Well, can you please stop typing in these green upper caps?"

"NO. YOU OPTED FOR THE DOS PROTOTYPE."

"But I did get the hovershoes, right?"

"YES."

"And a spell checker?"

"YES. SPELLCHECK COMES STANDARD IN THE FUTURE."

"Can I go to Arbys?"

"ARBYS WAS DESTROYED IN 2019 BECAUSE THEY FORGOT YOUR FRIES AT THE DRIVE THRU. JUST THINK C:\WINDOWS\HISTORY\WWXI\ARBYHOLOCAUST\FLAVOR.EXE"

"Fuck that. This 'Fries' cache file is totally corrupted."

The Cube of Woe

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Man I was unbelievably pissed.

"Sir," squawks the technician over my cellphone. "It would be a lot easier to help you if you calmed down."

"Calm down?" I demand. "I'm going to die in this thing!"

"I highly doubt that sir. You said you already called the fire department, right?"

"Yes I did. I also called the police, the CIA, the FBI, FEMA and Interpol. How dare you unleash this poorly designed and untested -potentially lethal device- upon the unsuspecting public?"

"It's called an elevator, sir."

"It's a goddamned box of death, you quack! You people are the geometric equivalent of Comcast. Where'd you learn engineering, cosmetology school?"

"Sir, I assure you our engineers and technicians are highly qualified. But I'm only a customer service rep for Otis Elevators."

Inspecting the warning panel, I verify this: Otis Elevators is clearly marked right next to 'In Case of Emergency' and the 800 number I dialed.

"Well, let me talk to Otis."

"Excuse me?"

"Otis," I demand coolly. "Put that fucker on."

[muffled laughter]

"Uh, sir, -"

"I'm sorry. Did you say something? I can't hear you unless you're Otis!"

"Um," says the guy. "I'm Otis sir."

"Really?" I says.

"Yes sir. Now you said you already called the fire department. Is there anything I can do for you?"

"Well it's pretty boring in here. And the fire department won't be here for another half an hour."

"You don't have a paperback or something?"

"No," I says glumly. "I even called Mandy."

"Mandy?"

"Yeah. It's scratched in the glass here. 'For a good time call Mandy'. She's actually a pretty decent cello player, but it was eating up my minutes."

"Sir, I've been running a satellite diagnostic on the elevator you're in and it's responding just fine. Which floor did you press?"

"Floor?"

"Yes sir. There are buttons you have to press with numbers that correspond with the floor you want to go to."

"No shit?"

"Yes sir. They should be right over the warning plaque."

"I'll be damned. Otis, you're a genius!"

"Thank you sir."

"Wow. They even light up!"

Real Estate

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Apartment hunting can be one long series of let-downs after another.

But as the guy that fills in when the Predator Press Copy Editor is sick, I figure I gotta think ferocious and big.

We have an image to keep up after all.

I rather liked this one. Despite the dust and the skeletons, I thought it would make a nice 'fixer-upper'. I'll bet if I went to the store and bought some flathead screwdrivers and then hired some people who knew how to use them, this place would have been top notch in no time.

If it wasn't for the commute, I might have gone for it.

Still, there are other pyramids.

This stately model was really attractive. I mean it's like Aztec or something. What better place to raise your kids, knowing full well that one day they must slay you that they may finally worship themselves instead?

I finally concluded that I didn't want to deal with all that lawn care and landscaping.

I finally settled on this place. I mean sure it's too small and the bathrooms smell funny: in real estate terms, that means "cozy" and "odorific".

Just look at all those kickass videogames.

And hello? A mechanical bull? I've always wanted a mechanical bull!

I can just imagine the tears of joy when LadyTerri finds out I got this cool place with a mechanical bull by merely cashing in our 401k.

She might even make pork chops.

The Proliferation of The Left

Predator Press

[LOBO]

According to ABC News, "Statistics show left-handed people are more likely to be schizophrenic, alcoholic, delinquent, dyslexic, and have Crohn's disease and ulcerative colitis, as well as mental disabilities."

Further tedious statistics reveal that 7-10% of the human population consists of left-handers; this means one out of ten people are left handed.

But if we act quickly, we could totally wipe this seething hoard of freaks out all at once: at ten to one, in a span of mere days we could eradicate the soulless left-handed menace from the face of the Earth altogether.

I like to think it of it as us helping Darwin help God.

Rejection Coverage 2008

Predator Press

[LOBO]

This election -like any other- is goddamn boring, and I've finally figured out exactly why.

See, nobody really loses: there are absolutely no consequences for the flaccid, unimaginative narrow group America decides I'm free to vote for endlessly bugging me with their incessant crap.

There's always:

a) the person that wins the Whole Enchilada, and
b) a ton of leftovers getting tons of $ to make more mind-numbingly pointless and dull speeches.

We need one of those Presidential wanna-bees to be the capitol "L" LOSER so's we can dish out some payback ... and I say we beat that audacious and annoying prick into grainy paste over the next four years for even trying.

Make it a charity thing maybe. For instance, if you pay $1 to the March of Dimes, you get to kick Mike Huckabee in the ribs for Arkansas Amendment 2, "a constitutional amendment increasing the state sales tax 0.125% to improve the state's park system and natural resources".

0.125%? For providing bears a place to shit!?

... I don't even live in Arkansas, and I think that guy is a jerk.

Author's Note: This blog does not represent the ideas nor beliefs of the author, nor does it endorse the ill-treatment of Mike Huckabee.

Mike Huckabee was not harmed during the writing of this post.

Oops

Predator Press

[LOBO]

That whole last 'Hittites' post was actually supposed to be about Frank Lloyd Wright.

So at LadyTerri's request, I visited Doctor Viz-O-Quack, 'an that witch doctor prescribed me glasses like twin Hubble telescopes.

While wearing them makes my back hurt, I can now see how I have been so wrong:

I hate organic architecture, and I'm blind.

Author's Note: This blog does not represent the ideas nor beliefs of the author, nor does it endorse the ill-treatment of Frank Lloyd Wright.

No Frank Lloyd Wrights were harmed during the writing of this post.

A Good, Dead Hittite

Predator Press

[LOBO]

While not rubbing elbows with rock bands and committing insurance fraud, it's a little known fact that I'm a vehement racist.

I'll bet you never would have guessed that, but there it is.

I hate Hittites.

I hate them with a purple, venomous passion.

See, the Hittite kingdom is conventionally divided into three periods: the Old Hittite Kingdom (ca. 1750-1500 BC), the Middle Hittite Kingdom (ca. 1500-1430 BC) and the New Hittite Kingdom (the Hittite Empire proper, ca. 1430-1180 BC).

And I freakin hate all three of them. I mean they are dead, right? How the fuck great can you be if you're dead? Hm? I can, say, go make a pot of coffee. Would you Hittites like a cup of coffee? No? Oh, you're dead you say?

Well, HA HA.

More coffee for me.

And no, I don't think organizing a protest is a good idea ... I'll go Dustbuster on your ass.

We all know intuitively that red is bad, right? Well, just look at this satellite photo: see how bad these people are? I mean that is concentrated fucking evil: I hope the Sumerians kick the crap out of them!

Indo-Hittites are pretty cool, but unfortunately everytime I see cuneiform I just wanna puke 'cuz it reminds me of those lousy scumbag garden-variety Hittites. I'm nauseated I gotta breathe the same air they did! Blech. I can still taste Hittite crawling in this lousy air.

They oughta make anti-Hittite Febreeze.

Author's Note: This blog does not represent the ideas nor beliefs of the author, nor does it endorse the ill-treatment of the descendants of the noble Hittite.

No Hittites were harmed during the writing of this post.

Walk this Plank, Talk this Plank

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Two days ago, I totaled my first car.

See, here in Illinois it's like 70 degrees, and for January that's pretty damn freakishly weird.

But last September you were telling me I was a fool ejecting hair spray into the sky for hours on end. Remember? And you scoffed mercilessly as I planted those palm trees in a nice line up the driveway.

Well who's eating coconuts now, bitch?

So yeah. Eight inches of snow melted, and then it rained. It was explained to me later that the ground is still somewhat frozen, so the water really doesn't have anyplace to go. Water, it turns out, is a lot like teenagers: if it doesn't have anything to do, it looks for trouble. It comes home late. It makes excuses for not doing chores.

It wants to borrow the car.

So there I am just driving around this cool new lake that used to be a Super Kmart and something glinty caught my eye. -And not just any shiny object, mind you: this thing glittered and glowed like nothing I had ever seen before. My heart raced. What is this magnificent Thing? I asked myself. Maybe it's a fabulous gem. Or perhaps some lost Holy relic! I simply must have it.

It called and cooed to me in a sing-song melody:

"LOBO come get me,
and I'll make all your dreams come true.
Your friends will be so jealous!
Have I told you what a handsome bastard you are?"
Helplessly beguiled, I drove closer and faster ... only to find this magnificent and enchanting object to be four inches of exposed decorative chrome edging on the top of a completely submerged Aerosmith tour bus.

And as the water inched up waist deep in my own car, I realized the truth: my Japanese piece of crap was riddled with boyancy issues never once mentioned in Consumer Reports, and I had been wooed to my watery grave by siren song.


***
It was Steven Tyler himself who dove in and pulled me out, and after dragging me to the roof of the bus he tried to resuscitate me with CPR. Waking up with Steven Tyler kissing me was exactly as bad as I'd previously imagined it: while he had fresh, minty breath, I could not escape the mute horror of locking lips with perhaps billions of groupies and cheerleaders. I was almost certainly going to get a cold sore.

"Dude," says Brad Whitford. "Why did you do that? We were waving you off! We've been stranded here for three days."

It was then I decided to make my move. I immediately kicked Joe Perry in the neck, and then shoved Steven right into the waiting mouth of one of the circling alligators. Then diving past Brad, I gripped the exposed decorative chrome corner of the tour bus and unsuccessfully tried to wrest it free until we were rescued by the Coast Guard.


***
So here it is two days later, and everyone is mad at me. Me! After six used car lots LadyTerri is starting to fray at the edges a little too, and her anger redoubled when she got that weird cold sore. Without hesitation, she continues to barrage me with little nuggets of wisdom, like "What the fuck were you thinking?" and "How the hell did you get a Driver's License in the first place?"

I, conversely, have managed to stay upbeat. I will not be defeated by the simple total loss of a vehicle ... humans got along fine for dozens of years without cars, and this is no different!

Determined to go soak up some nice weather and sunshine, I put on my thong and rollerblades and decided to cruise around and do some exploration of the flooded and changing terrain. Maybe find some ice cream, you know? There's a bar about a mile away that always has a bunch of motorcycles in front of it, and all those guys taking time out of their busy schedules driving around and beating people up must mean that place has kickass ice cream. Maybe I'll regale 'em with the tale of how I just met Aerosmith!

I'll bring my boom box too: my copy of A Thousand Different Ways by Clay Aiken came in the mail two weeks ago, and I still haven't had a chance to check it out.

Doesn't ice cream sound good right now?

Dear John.com

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Having received the Cult of Qelqoth Anti-Award, everything is clear to me now.

Many of you have been reading other blogs. Hell, some of the worst of you offenders have been writing them! There are now more blogs out there than body parts on the field the year those lepers went to the Superbowl.

I am shocked and appalled at this discovery.

I thought we had something special.

Well consider this you blog floozies: Will those other blogs tuck you in at night after a bedtime story? Or hold your head in the sink while you are puking MargaRitas and Chex Party Mix? Will they provide numerous accounts in excruciating detail of the Stock Market Crash of 2014, and how it will subsequently lead to World War VI and VIII? Mark my words: Even as Al Gore's fourth head wails the battle cry, "Tonight we dine in temperatures suitable to sustain life!" I will personally be far from the battlefield safely documenting it from his office, occasionally shuffling random papers on his desk and doing obscene things to his paperweight Cheney skull.

And you know what? You're not as clever as you think you are either. One night when you said you were just browsing eBay and Wikipedia, I knew something was up so I hired a private detective to hide in your closet. Don't believe me? He hasn't transmitted anything since October, so I figure he is probably the skeleton with a webcam immediately behind the gray overcoat. Go ahead and look. I’ll wait. See? There you are. Try not to be in so much of a hurry next time you shave ... you get better results.

SO after all we've been through, this is the thanks I get? Why don’t you just rip my heart out, roll it around in salted glass and thumbtacks and then flush it down a non-hygenic sulfuric acid toilet?

Don't say anything. Just go.

And no, I am not crying.

I've just got something in my eye.

The Phantom Membership

Predator Press

[LOBO]


Episode IVXIv.2

The Empire Strikes Out


President Bush called General Petraeus.

"You want me to bomb a city in the continental US?" asks Petraeus incredulously.

"And how," says Bush.

"And not one in New Jersey?"

"Nope. Pianosa, Illinois."

"Why sir?"

"It's our secret weapon to get the Republicans back in office, disguised as part of a new strategy in our War on Terror. Who's going to screw with us if we're so crazy we'll nuke ourselves?"

"Good point sir."

Cycling through his monitors, Bush finds his guy. "General!" he says excited. "That guy right there. Sector 754XA5."

"You mean the guy sleeping in his car at Cardinal Fitness?"

"No one will miss a loser like that." Bush squints at the screen. "Ugh ... from the looks of it, we'll be doin that poor bastard a favor."

"Still, what with nuclear fallout and all, I would suggest something a little more suitable to the scale of the threat."

"Like a giant robot crocodile?"

"No sir. Like a surgical strike. A platoon of tanks maybe."

"Oh god no. Have you seen the price of gas lately? I like the 'Giant Robot Crocodile' idea better."

"Yes, well-"

"It'll come up out of Lake Michigan, and seek out Terror with X-Ray vision, and smash it with the Tail of Liberty. Bam! Bam!"

"Well, while I understand your enthusiasm--"

"BOOM!"

"--I would still go with the tanks."

"General, this is the dawn of the Twentieth Centurion. Unless they hover, tanks are boring."

"We don't have a giant robot crocodile sir. The Liberals scuttled the budget in 2005."

Bush sighed audibly into the phone. "Just how many damn schools do I have to build before I get a giant robot crocodile that fights Terror?"

There's a long pause. "I don't know sir," the General finally answered.

"Why can't we nuke it again?"

"Because it's American soil sir."

"Is it New Jersey?"

"No sir. It's Pianosa, Illinois. Look," says Petraeus, exasperated. "We could put streamers and sparklers on the tanks. Then it would look cool as we bomb that prick into the Mesozoic."

"Like a parade!"

"Yes sir. A really loud and pissed-off parade."

"All right General," says Bush. "Make it so."


***

The 99th Battalion left Decatur Illinois at precisely 3:17am, and stopped to refuel in Bloomington, Schaumburg, Danville and Arlington Heights before anyone realized that they had no idea where Pianosa was.

This single blunder took up 18% of the entire annual military budget.

Due to this -and the Vast Liberal Conspiracy- the Terror-Fighting Robot Crocodile Project would never get off the ground.

BLOG WARS

Predator Press

[LOBO]



Episode IVXIv.1b

A New Dope


On day six, I woke with a screaming headache.

Wincing, I pull open the curtains. The sun immediately sears itself into my brain.

I scream.

LadyTerri, phone pressed to her ear, rushes in. "What the hell happened?"

Holding the back of my head, I whine. "I don't know. I'm thinking maybe we should lay off my Jedi training for a while."

"You mean the training where you have to try to dodge me as I try to hit you with a frying pan?" She switches the phone to the other ear.

"The helmet helps. But with the blast shield down, I can't even see." Rubbing my throbbing temples, I look at her. "Who's on the phone?"

"I'm on the phone with the doctor for the results of your physical."

"My what?"

She dismisses me with her hand. "Yes Doctor I. M. Nyarlathotep? He's fine for the fitness training?"

What the hell?

"Yes sir. I'm glad you all got a good laugh too," she continues. Pressing a button, she sets the phone on the table. Looking at me with some resignation she says, "Well, you're all set."

"Please elaborate," I says.

"For the fitness training program. You got approved."

Desperately, I searched my deeply-receded memory. The last thing I remember is going to church yesterday. I decided that my Chi needed some cleansing before I engage in the Holy War that is to come, and for a mere $1000 donation, the Catholic Church rushed me to the top of the list: I was issued a cross and four gallons of holy water almost immediately.

Peeking out the window a little more carefully, I survey the landscape. I see playing children and unkicked puppies. There are no panzer tanks in the driveway.

We must still be winning

"What happened after church?" I ask cautiously.

"Before or after you drank four gallons worth of Holy Daiquiris?"

"After," I reply, slowly putting things together.

"I'm not really sure. You swore a slurry oath to exact revenge upon someone and avenge something ... I don't know. Then you got frustrated because the police, fire department and newspapers kept hanging up on you."

... Traitors.

"And then you took off and signed up for a Premium membership at Cardinal Fitness."

"I thought he was offering mass!" I protest.

"Your trainer is supposed to give you an orientation in fifteen minutes."

"My trainer? Oh Jesus Christ. Please tell me you're joking. Honey, I've worked a long time to get this fantastic physique. I'm not gonna go ruin all that by going to a gym."

"You gave him a $500 retainer."

I scream again.


***

My "trainer", it turns out, is none other than Jimmy Orlando.

"Hey, don't you work for me?" I says sitting at his immaculate desk.

"Your payroll checks never cleared," he replies coolly.

"Well you never worked!"

He slides a paper under my nose. "LOBO, look. Just sign the goddamn waiver so we can get this over with."

"Fine," I sneer. Determined to not show any pain, I struggle against the weight of the pen and nonchalantly draw an 'X'. "How long is the tour?" I says, huffing slightly.

"About 45 minutes."

"You people are fucking monsters," I says. "We'll have to break this into two or three sessions. You do have cots, right?"

"No, Jar Jar" he grins.

"Well, can I have my steroids now please?"

Does Not Get Along Well With Others

Predator Press

[LOBO]


In the Beginning

good always overpowered the evil

of all man's sins. But in time, the nations grew weak and ...


[... Wait. That's the wrong preamble. Here goes:]


Episode IVXI

The galaxy is in turmoil.

Some bunch of guys are pissed at a

bunch of other guys, and we'll write some excuse for

it in a subsequent prequel; please buy the merchandise in the meantime.


***

Yeah today, I was possitively brimming with story ideas.

I mean, on the one hand I got America's Princess Britney Spears havin another meltdown. And on another, I learned that we have a potential President named Mitt Romney ... and say what you will about politics and crap, but 'Romney' sounds like the name of a guy that can get shit done. I can see the headlines now: "Romney Wastes Purse-Snatcher with Steel Girder", or "Mitt Saves Kittens from Fire".

But no. Instead I gotta address a social and professional faux-pau committed against Predator Press that just might destroy the fabric of space and time as we know it.


***

Now, when we bloggers submit our blogs for review, there's a tacit sort of unwritten translation that means, "Hey, I'm inviting you to wax enthusiastically about my stuff," right?

Well Humor-Blogs.com just missed that boat entirely; not only did they not include the word "genius" at least three times --the industry standard-- but they didn't even say it once.

I know! Can you believe it? In fact, they said stuff like "Just not my cup of tea. Clean site, good graphics, but too far out even for me. There's some funny things in there, but the whole psycho-punk stuff just weirds me out and I wanna hurl everytime I see it. Just the thought of it makes me vomit dangerous colorful projectiles."

[I added that red text, but I think it captured the mood better than that plain old period.]

One reviewer really struck home, however. He [or she] said: "The blog itself is very plain. Uninteresting looking ... without the pictures the black text on white background reads a little sterile"

This reviewer is the only one I've asked the ninja assassins to spare; I mean it's entirely possible that Predator Press needs some sprucing up, right? Deeply committed to rectifying this optical blogging atrocity, I've been sifting around the internet to find a new background.

I've narrowed it down to:



I like this one, but it reminds me
too much of flapjacks and blood.

This one's kinda cuddly ...

... but this one is my current fave.

[Vote Romney!]

LadyTerri Gets Romantic Tattoo

Predator Press

[LOBO]

My supposedly identical tat says "Pred~ta~rPros.cam".

... evidently the police wouldn't let them pusses finish because of all the prolonged writhing, howling and screaming.

Ask LOBO

Predator Press

[LOBO]

People are always asking me, "LOBO, how is it you live in this lavish palace, drive powerful, exotic cars and fight off supermodels left and right ... but we never see you doin nothing but blog?"

Well, I'm glad you asked me that.

See, hiddin under my desk is a secret, state-of-the-art ankle-building right-sided isometric micro-blogger gymnasium, specially designed by Bowflex.

You know those kickass ankles on page 4 of the GNC pamphlet?

That's me.

Admittedly, they hadda use some CGI to make both my ankles look identical: there's simply no way for one mortal human to be able to bulk up on both like that ... honest to God I took every steroid I could get. I could get 'em pretty big, but I couldn't keep that whole 'vein' thing workin.

Without steroids, my ankles were as boring as some pale cotton candy-scarfing dork walking around the beach boardwalk getting sand kicked in his face, lugging around smooth, ladylike La-Z-Boy recliners with feet. Now I can't even get to the boardwalk and beat that lilly-assed poser into paste: I got sectionals with veins, bitch! Booyah!

But what did abusing steroids get me ultimately? One Sunday, I ended up kicking a football that ripped a guy totally in half. Boy was my face red when I hadda explain to some kid that his dad's upper torso would have to be lowered from the goalpost by several firemen for a proper burial.

Let this be a lesson to all you Little-Leaguers: sure taking steroids can get your picture in a lot of cool magazines ... but the downside is you will have to go to a lot of boring meetings with pricey, unhappy lawyers discussing them.

Still, if you think the powerful and exotic cars are cool, my crutches get ESPN and can text message.

Resolutions

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Man, I'm freaking tired.

The pace at work over the last few months has been nothing short of blistering: I like the cool lab coat and all, but if I would have known that stem cell research would be so time consuming I woulda scraped out those Petri dishes right into the toilet a long time ago.

The Christmas 'break' was all jammed up too. I mean besides the usual shopping, police harassment and anarchy, I was working a grueling schedule donating my time teaching orphans to shoplift after school: there's just nothing like the sense of satisfaction you get when you look into the gleeful, hungry eye of one that has just boosted his [or her] first iPod.

I would still be doing those $20 seminars, but one of the more entrepreneurial of the little pricks lifted my wallet. Can you believe that? Man, you can't trust nobody nowadays. They're fiercely loyal to each other too: I practically hadda squish poor lil Jimmy through a fine mesh screen before he tearfully broke down and ratted on his own brother. Growing up in that decrepit old house together must have fostered some pretty serious bonding --and I don't mean decrapit in the 'quaint' sense of the word either: that place is a total dump. Too bad it didn't foster some taste instead.

But things are winding down to a crawl, and now I have the leisure time to design and develop my Evil Robot Minions. Chrysler says they can bring my Peacekeeper v1.1 into production for the paltry sum of $458,596,054.13 apiece, which is about $458,596,032.65 more than Jimmy's scumbag orphan brother left on my debit card. Now I have to decide between rewarding loyal lil Jimmy with the winter coat I promised him or cup holders.

... But I happen to be very fond of Starbucks, and the last thing Jimmy's shithole needs is moths.

With Great Pectorals Comes Great Responsibility

Predator Press

[LOBO]

I bust into Ethan's office, and show him the pictures.

"Christ Ethan! Did you know the Unabomber was a real guy?"

Ethan stares at me for a second. "Yeah. They caught him in Montana or something."

"Really?" I says, flipping through a few more pages of Crime Magazine. "How about the Zodiac Killer?"

Ethan puts down his pen. "Are you serious? You thought that whole 'Zodiac Killer' thing was a story?"

I walk around his desk and slap the magazine down for effect. "Hell yes! And currently, it's totally unsolved. Ethan, I think we need to hire some security. I'm a Cancer, goddamnit."

"Tell me about it," says Ethan. Incredulous, he slides his glasses down his nose. "You do realize Batman is a fictional character, right?"

Nervously peeking through the blinds, I ponder this.

"Man, I ain't never going to Gotham City."

Cheers

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Admittedly, I've had enough vandalism, injustice, larceny and violent fantasy to tide me over all the way until next Christmas. Why beat a dead horse?

All the little freeloading moochers are already asleep -dreaming peacefully of tomorrow's considerable load of swag- and I have some quiet reflective moments to myself. At the behest of my dear friend Lord Likely, I'm making an effort to regain some elements of 'Spirit' before it's too late.

Jesus never showed up to get the cool MP3 player I got him, so I'm listening to it now. And I know Jesus would want to enjoy the spectacular audio capabilities of this fantastic device vicariously through me, so luckily I already downloaded 3.4 gigabytes of vicariously enjoyable music on it last Tuesday.

Man I sure hope the King of Kings likes Def Leppard.


***

In my minds eye, I imagine all the things that would normally cheer me up. Like looking down on my vast naval armada from my impregnable fortress on a mountain that rains a hellstorm of bullets and laserbeams on people that get past the electric razorwire, invisible watchdogs and patrolling fighter jets. Or a giant solar-powered robot that throws gazebos and melts busses into slag while simultaneously transmitting unreasonable and contradictory anonymous demands and encrypted obscenities to random global superpowers, interlaced over hi-fidelity Korn and NFL highlights: "... Take that Kevin Rudd! That ain't football!"

But nothing seems to work.

Maybe I've got this whole 'Christmas' thing backwards. I mean maybe I should stop selfishly thinking of other people, and just start thinking selflessly of myself for a change. Maybe I should just face the fact that I have a fantastic, wonderful, beautiful and brilliant fiancé, great kids, a warm home and a full refrigerator ... the world is absolutely riddled with losers I can lord that over! I could start doing volunteer work so's I could help the less-fortunate and really do some bragging: those guys are a total mess.

And with this cheap labor pool, I shall build my sprawling and mighty empire; the triumph of my wisdom and the protection enjoyed under my iron-fisted merciless rule shall bring happiness for generations upon generations.

Wow.

... I do feel better!

Predator Press Interviews: Joyce Hopewell

Predator Press

Joyce Hopewell enters the studio, and I am immediately freaked out: she's wearing flowing long white sungod-esque robes and a leafy Caesar headband woven in delicate strands of gold.

Without word, she sits.

Joyce Hopewell: It's nice to see you too, LOBO. I'm fine.

LOBO: Joyce! How nice to see you again. How have you been?

Joyce Hopewell: I require no assistance.

LOBO: Would you like one of our techs to hook you up so we can begin the interview?

[A headset microphone floats toward her, and the switchboard modulators adjust themselves noisily.]

Joyce Hopewell: LOBO, you haven't gotten that mole checked out yet, have you?

LOBO: I don't go for all that medical hocus-pocus stuff. God is real strict about witchcraft. He throws all those heathens in a vat of flaming acid for 10,000 years ... and speaking of Eternal Damnation, how is this whole 'Astrology' thing going for you?

Joyce Hopewell: I have gained knowledge and wisdom of things your tiny, callow mind could never appreciate.

LOBO: Wow. So how do you get those butterflies to keep fluttering around you? All I get is regular flies.

Joyce Hopewell: Seriously. You need to get that mole checked out.

LOBO: I read the post where you did a Chart on Ricky Hatton, the Champion Boxer. I thought it was great. What could you reveal about me?

Joyce Hopewell: You want me to do your chart?

LOBO: No. I mean if I fought Ricky Hatton.

Joyce Hopewell: He would kill you.

LOBO: Seriously? At his age?

Joyce Hopewell: You know your plan to mug Santa Christmas Eve?

LOBO: Yeah.

Joyce Hopewell: Santa will kill you.

LOBO: Dammit!

Joyce Hopewell: Do you want to know what happens next time you forget to feed Phil?

LOBO: What?

Joyce Hopewell: She will kill you. And Phil is a girl by the way.

LOBO: Really? I was just giving Phil his privacy.

Joyce Hopewell: You've had her for three years.

LOBO: You are joking, right?

Joyce Hopewell: LOBO, Phil has nipples.

LOBO: I have nipples.

Joyce Hopewell: Eight of them?
LOBO: Maybe it's a gene defect. I could easily have them removed by the vet.

Joyce Hopewell: Speaking of medical attention, would you please get that mole checked out?

LOBO: What mole?

Joyce Hopewell: Stop thinking about Britney Spears.

LOBO: There's nothing more depressing than your first Christmas after a divorce. And now her sister is pregnant too.

Joyce Hopewell: Her sister isn't pregnant.

LOBO: You mean on top of all that, her uterus is busted?

All Good Things

Predator Press

[LOBO]

"Ethan," I says. "I quit."

"You quit what?"

"I quit Predator Press."

"You quit doing what exactly?"

"Well, I was hoping you could help me out with that. I'm having a lot of trouble with my Letter of Resignation."

"What brought this on?" says Ethan.

"I've decided I want to be a sheepherder."

"A sheepherder."

"Well, it turns out the sheep is not a very fast animal."

"Do tell."

"Yeah. I figure I'll use GPS, and catch 'em in my jeep just when the little pricks think they're home free."

"Possibly," says Ethan, scratching his chin. "But you would have to protect them from predators too."

"Oh please," I says. "The only other animals I ever see around sheep are cows, and cows are pussies. My sheep will be combat-trained, hardened bad-asses that rule over the cows with an iron-fisted tyranny thusly unprecedented in their eternal struggle."

I drift off for a second.

My sheep will have leather jackets.

Silent Night, oh Holy Crap

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Come to think of it, I guess I've always been a complete bastard.

I blame everybody else, and simultaneously forgive them.

There. I feel better. Don't you?

I remember Christmas one year. We were spectacularly poor ... Depression Era geezers used to circle us on wheelchairs and walkers, pointing and mocking how poor we were.

I often got the crap beat out of me at public school for having to wear thrift shop clothing. In Chicago, nothing will seal your inner-city fate quicker than making your debut on the first day of class dressed to the nines in ill-fitting plaid pants, a button-up green shirt and white dress shoes. Without cufflinks or zodiac jewelry! To pull off that look, you've either got to be really cool or really durable: Always leaning to the practical side, I chose the latter.

One day as the kids at school held me down while the Depression Era geezers did unspeakable things in my Dukes of Hazzard lunchbox, I accidentally busted Timmy Farkas' pinky finger on my forehead. It was pretty bad. He was bleedin 'an stuff.

I got scared and skipped school so's I could duck THE MAN.


***

I had been skipping school a lot anyway. Back then we had Truant Officers roamin the streets, and I was on a first name basis with my local guy. Invariably -after a grand chase- he'd return me by the ear to that kiddie prison of sadistic glandular freaks, drug and firearm deals and atomic wedgie-dishing where I would be safe from all the evils of the world. Long story short, I got suspended from school anyway because of the grievous wound I had inflicted on poor Jimmy Farkas.

Mom subsequently informed me that -as far as Christmas was concerned- Santa "had my number": as the virtual poster boy for 'naughty', I was essentially going to get screwed.

"Everybody tells their kid that," I thought. "Every kid's gotta get something for Christmas. You know, like a retainer!"

By December 23rd, I positively beamed with wholesome goodness and a youthful, zesty exuberance. And despite this mammoth effort, Santa's rat never changed his story or revealed his or her identity. At one point I was virtually certain it was the guy that ran the arcade. Maybe he was feeding encrypted info to the Ice Cream guy ...

... and so it goes.


***

On Christmas Eve, Mom was pretty adamant that Santa was still pissed, and at this point, I'm essentially panicked. Whoever this squealer was, he wasn't changing his story for anything short of curing cancer, and I had busted my microscope during a GI Joe interrogation months ago. ["No, Mr Joe. I expect you to die!"] And while burnin stuff down is always fun, lumps of coal aren't really the best medium for it. This was the day and age of napalm thank you.

I paced in my room, my massive soon-to-be-unfulfilled Christmas list ran through my mind like those glowing numbers on the Stock Exchange. No aircraft carrier. No F-16s. Probably not even some lousy weapons-grade plutonium.

No tanks.

Nothing.

I went back downstairs to get a last forlorn look at the Christmas tree. It was really pretty, and the colored lights danced playfully along the walls. Why I could swear there was more lights than you could count. One for every curse word Dad uttered as he dragged the box of 'em out of the garage attic, hauled them in, located and fixed the busted bulbs, and drag the ladder in to put that star on top.

Scattered around the bottom of the tree, there was already presents.

"To Mom from Dad".

"To Dad from Mom"

It was a beautiful thing. While there was nothing for me there, I stood gazing at the spectacular demonstration of love expressed between my parents.

I teared up. For it was in that one shining moment that I understood the true spirit of Christmas.

While Santa might not be coming to give me presents, he would be coming here tonight.

For them.


***

My mind raced as I padded upstairs. What kind of fight could one expect from the fat man? Was he even fat? Santa obviously had a vast intelligence network ... could the rotund, happy and good-natured image be entirely composed of a propaganda campaign? What if he's all slimmed down from a Mrs Claus-mandated diet of lowfat proteins and carbs? I pictured a Rambo-like Santa running on a Nordic Track, Glock in each hand, picking off pictures of people on his "naughty" list.

From my closet, I dug out my armor and weapons: my football helmet, pads, cup, and a nice aluminum baseball bat.

"You don't come on my turf and mess with the bull," I growled. "You'll get the horns."

Then, arching my body impossibly over the presents, I nestled myself comfortably behind the tree.

And I waited.


***

Now, I'll bet the Emergency Room sees a lot more of this on Christmas morning than they are really willing to admit.

My mom got up early and -in her bathrobe and big fuzzy bunny slippers- made coffee. In a rare moment of quiet solitude, she wandered by the tree to admire it. The big cup of coffee cupped in both hands, head slightly cocked ... in my mind's eye I can almost see her angelic wistful face admiring the splendid culmination of all my dad's cursing.

Spotting a fallen ornament, she gracefully leans down to pick it up and re-hang it.


***

I woke up to the rustling sound of activity nearby. Bleary, I listened through the helmet. No, I definitely heard something. I opened my eyes cautiously, and spotted movement.

It was time.

I tensed up and sprung out like a cat, screaming.

Now, my mom, previously enjoying a quiet solemn Christmasy moment, probably reacted pretty normally to a screaming midget in a football uniform wildly waving a baseball bat bursting out of her Christmas tree dragging huge, macabre tangles of Christmas lights and tinsel.

She screamed.

Dad, hearing us both screaming, came tearing out of bed and rushing downstairs. Now, do you know how many times this man has yelled at me about running up and down the stairs? Sure enough, he missed a stair and crashed noisily to the ground, breaking his leg.

Mom looks at dad and screams. I scream. Mom looks at me again, screams, and then faints --cutting herself on the broken ornament and requiring four stitches. I see blood and I faint.

... And so on.


***

The paramedics and police, alerted immediately by the neighbors, got on the scene in minutes.

I woke running a fever. Seems Santa not only has a sense of humor, but he possesses biological weapons and is more than willing to use 'em. Must have injected me while I was asleep.

Next year, fat man.

Next year.

"Amazon.com" Amazonless! Worst Porn Site Ever

Predator Press

[LOBO]

I don't know how long this link will last, but if you like some great, serious Amazon.com snark CLICK HERE.

(Be sure to read the responses too!)

Internet Swag

Predator Press