Predator Press
[Mr. Insanity]
Stop feelin sorry for Legless Jim!
I drew the short straw when in came to LOBO's charity work.
To raise money for ovarian cancer research, I have to hawk these "Yes! I Like Vagina!" T-Shirts ...
Thursday
THE SCALDING
Predator Press
[Mr. Insanity]
In LOBO's absence, we drew straws to see who would handle the "Hollywood" side of Predator Press.
Legless Jim lost.
I threw the thick packet of documents toward him, and it thumped heavily on the table.
Resigned to his fate, Legless Jim spun the fat manilla envelope around so he could read the big letters written across it:
The Scalding
by LOBO
and Rod Scattin
Legless Jim pulled out what was to be a mockup promo poster: it was of a rather large-chested, scantily clad woman standing in flames as she struggled with what appeared to be a evil, grinning chrome waffle iron. It’s electrical cord was tightly wrapped around her neck, and the plug was poised menacingly, pointed toward her tough-yet-frightened face.
This was all bad enough, but Jim skimmed the two-page script on the plane.
Throughout, the girl on the poster -affectionately referred to as ‘large-chested, scantily-clad chick number one’- is relentlessly tormented and attacked by a radioactive space toaster.
Legless Jim, an educated and enlightened man, flagged a flight attendant.
“Can I have a drink please?”
***
The effusive cast and crew greeted him as he arrived on the set.
“Big fan, Mr. Jim,” says Large-Chested, Scantily-Clad Chick Number One, smiling broadly. “Nice legs.”
“Uh,” says Jim to into the heavy, hypnotic sway of the D-cups. "Yeah."
Legless Jim was corralled to the set.
“Pleased to meet you sir,” says a homeless-looking guy. “I am the Producer of The Scalding, and I’m sparing no effort or expense to make this the greatest epic thriller since The Exorcist." A thick bourbon smell complimented his whispers. "We are now filming the scene when Large-Chested, Scantily-Clad Chick Number One’s boyfriend arrives after his CIA mission."
“Alright, everybody,” demands the apparent director. “Quiet on the set. Large-Chested, Scantily-Clad Chick Number One, this is your Big Scene. I want to see some fear. And ... Action!”
Large-Chested, Scantily-Clad Chick Number One cringes against the large picture window in the kitchen [?] as special effects guys pull a rather un-menacing looking waffle iron crablike across the countertop with fishing line.
Large-Chested, Scantily-Clad Chick Number One screams, mascara-stained tears raining down over her magnificent bosom. She kicks at the waffle iron vainly with her high-heels. “You’re lucky my boyfriend isn’t here,” she cries.
“Alright, mark!” says the director. “Cue airplane now!”
A tiny plastic model of a Stealth Bomber –also on fishing line— starts randomly spinning in a downward trajectory by the picture window.
“There he is!”, exclaims Large-Chested, Scantily-Clad Chick Number One, pointing. “He’ll stop you, you evil radioactive space waffle iron!”
Suddenly, the Stealth Bomber’s fishing line got tangled with the toaster's electrical cord. And after a few frenetic moments, the toaster flew up in the air, crashing solidly into the plasic Stealth Bomber.
Both burst into flames.
The fishing line burned away, the two objects fall to the ground with a hideous clang off camera.
“Cut!” yells the director. He stands. “That was brilliant! I'm already envisioning the 'Revenge of the Toaster' sequel!”
“What exactly is the budget for this production?” asks Legless Jim.
“About eight bucks.” Says the producer. “You got a quarter? We need more fishing line.”
[Mr. Insanity]
In LOBO's absence, we drew straws to see who would handle the "Hollywood" side of Predator Press.
Legless Jim lost.
I threw the thick packet of documents toward him, and it thumped heavily on the table.
Resigned to his fate, Legless Jim spun the fat manilla envelope around so he could read the big letters written across it:
by LOBO
and Rod Scattin
Legless Jim pulled out what was to be a mockup promo poster: it was of a rather large-chested, scantily clad woman standing in flames as she struggled with what appeared to be a evil, grinning chrome waffle iron. It’s electrical cord was tightly wrapped around her neck, and the plug was poised menacingly, pointed toward her tough-yet-frightened face.
This was all bad enough, but Jim skimmed the two-page script on the plane.
Throughout, the girl on the poster -affectionately referred to as ‘large-chested, scantily-clad chick number one’- is relentlessly tormented and attacked by a radioactive space toaster.
Legless Jim, an educated and enlightened man, flagged a flight attendant.
“Can I have a drink please?”
The effusive cast and crew greeted him as he arrived on the set.
“Big fan, Mr. Jim,” says Large-Chested, Scantily-Clad Chick Number One, smiling broadly. “Nice legs.”
“Uh,” says Jim to into the heavy, hypnotic sway of the D-cups. "Yeah."
Legless Jim was corralled to the set.
“Pleased to meet you sir,” says a homeless-looking guy. “I am the Producer of The Scalding, and I’m sparing no effort or expense to make this the greatest epic thriller since The Exorcist." A thick bourbon smell complimented his whispers. "We are now filming the scene when Large-Chested, Scantily-Clad Chick Number One’s boyfriend arrives after his CIA mission."
“Alright, everybody,” demands the apparent director. “Quiet on the set. Large-Chested, Scantily-Clad Chick Number One, this is your Big Scene. I want to see some fear. And ... Action!”
Large-Chested, Scantily-Clad Chick Number One cringes against the large picture window in the kitchen [?] as special effects guys pull a rather un-menacing looking waffle iron crablike across the countertop with fishing line.
Large-Chested, Scantily-Clad Chick Number One screams, mascara-stained tears raining down over her magnificent bosom. She kicks at the waffle iron vainly with her high-heels. “You’re lucky my boyfriend isn’t here,” she cries.
“Alright, mark!” says the director. “Cue airplane now!”
A tiny plastic model of a Stealth Bomber –also on fishing line— starts randomly spinning in a downward trajectory by the picture window.
“There he is!”, exclaims Large-Chested, Scantily-Clad Chick Number One, pointing. “He’ll stop you, you evil radioactive space waffle iron!”
Suddenly, the Stealth Bomber’s fishing line got tangled with the toaster's electrical cord. And after a few frenetic moments, the toaster flew up in the air, crashing solidly into the plasic Stealth Bomber.
Both burst into flames.
The fishing line burned away, the two objects fall to the ground with a hideous clang off camera.
“Cut!” yells the director. He stands. “That was brilliant! I'm already envisioning the 'Revenge of the Toaster' sequel!”
“What exactly is the budget for this production?” asks Legless Jim.
“About eight bucks.” Says the producer. “You got a quarter? We need more fishing line.”
Wednesday
Lights Out
Predator Press
[LOBO]
I have never been hit so hard.
Seriously.
You know how your whole head lights up and you smell this almost-electrical bone and blood smell, and then you're just completely gone?
That Phoebe has a mean left hook.
Please don't let ... Orlando ... administer ... CPR ...
[LOBO]
I have never been hit so hard.
Seriously.
You know how your whole head lights up and you smell this almost-electrical bone and blood smell, and then you're just completely gone?
That Phoebe has a mean left hook.
Please don't let ... Orlando ... administer ... CPR ...
Tuesday
Disorientation
Predator Press
[LOBO]
"Fritz!" Jimmy Orlando wailed, falling to his knees at the news. "Oh my God, not Fritz!"
"Who is Fritz?" LOBO whispers to Brighta.
"Fritz was Jimmy's," he does quote marks in the air with his fingers, "Life Partner."
"Well what happened to the poor bastard?"
"He was the Commander of the Johnson, and killed in the line of duty during a recent troop deployment. Didn't you see any of this in the news?"
"Uh," I says. "Nope."
A prostrate Jimmy Orlando, heaving loud sobs as he wept, was absolutely uncontrollable with grief. Princess Phoebe held him, rocking slowly and drying his tears with a tissue.
I nudged him with my foot. "Dude, if you keep blubbering like this, people are going to think you're gay or something."
[LOBO]
"Fritz!" Jimmy Orlando wailed, falling to his knees at the news. "Oh my God, not Fritz!"
"Who is Fritz?" LOBO whispers to Brighta.
"Fritz was Jimmy's," he does quote marks in the air with his fingers, "Life Partner."
"Well what happened to the poor bastard?"
"He was the Commander of the Johnson, and killed in the line of duty during a recent troop deployment. Didn't you see any of this in the news?"
"Uh," I says. "Nope."
A prostrate Jimmy Orlando, heaving loud sobs as he wept, was absolutely uncontrollable with grief. Princess Phoebe held him, rocking slowly and drying his tears with a tissue.
I nudged him with my foot. "Dude, if you keep blubbering like this, people are going to think you're gay or something."
Orientation
Predator Press
[Mr. Insanity]
I thought maybe I could help Max 'acclimate' to his new world by explaining his predecessor to some degree. LOBO's itinerary included picking up his repaired lawn mower from Sears, so I tried to offer some insights and observations on the way.
Fascinated by the modern and alien surroundings, Max didn't say a word until we were at the counter. "This LOBO character doesn't sound very responsible. I'm a little impressed that he even owns a lawn mower."
"Me too," I admitted. "Especially since he ripped out the lawn two years ago and laid down green linoleum. Now once or twice a month he just hoses the beer cans off into the gutter."
The clerk wheeled out the new-looking John Deere. "There's no charge," says the guy. "Tell LOBO that this mower will last for years if he stops using it to make daiquiri ice. The only thing wrong with it was a defective diaphragm. It was messing up the fuel intake."
I looked at Max waiting.
Max looked back at me, confused.
"This is where LOBO would say something like 'See, I'm so virile my lawn mower needs a diaphragm'."
This is going to be tough. I can tell.
[Mr. Insanity]
I thought maybe I could help Max 'acclimate' to his new world by explaining his predecessor to some degree. LOBO's itinerary included picking up his repaired lawn mower from Sears, so I tried to offer some insights and observations on the way.
Fascinated by the modern and alien surroundings, Max didn't say a word until we were at the counter. "This LOBO character doesn't sound very responsible. I'm a little impressed that he even owns a lawn mower."
"Me too," I admitted. "Especially since he ripped out the lawn two years ago and laid down green linoleum. Now once or twice a month he just hoses the beer cans off into the gutter."
The clerk wheeled out the new-looking John Deere. "There's no charge," says the guy. "Tell LOBO that this mower will last for years if he stops using it to make daiquiri ice. The only thing wrong with it was a defective diaphragm. It was messing up the fuel intake."
I looked at Max waiting.
Max looked back at me, confused.
"This is where LOBO would say something like 'See, I'm so virile my lawn mower needs a diaphragm'."
This is going to be tough. I can tell.
Monday
Pedigree
Predator Press
[LOBO]
First of all, my ex-wife is a magnificent woman, and I hope that she is enjoying the happiness that she deserves.
And notably, I was briefly in Hell. So --what with the time distortion and all-- I had an eternity to rethink the whole relationship over and over, to try to find some way to make amends for being a total and complete insensitive bastard the entire time: If you see her, please tell her that I'm very very very very very very very very very very very very sorry.
And if it's any consolation, this bodyswitching crap hurts more than it did either time Tupac shot me.
I fumbled and staggered to stand and look in the mirror. Strangely, "CONAN the BARBARIAN" was scrawled accross the top.
Well, I thought. At least this guy is almost as buff as me.
After a few long moments, Princess Phoebe piped up. "Brighta, why is Max flexing at the Arnold Schwarzenegger poster?"
[LOBO]
First of all, my ex-wife is a magnificent woman, and I hope that she is enjoying the happiness that she deserves.
And notably, I was briefly in Hell. So --what with the time distortion and all-- I had an eternity to rethink the whole relationship over and over, to try to find some way to make amends for being a total and complete insensitive bastard the entire time: If you see her, please tell her that I'm very very very very very very very very very very very very sorry.
And if it's any consolation, this bodyswitching crap hurts more than it did either time Tupac shot me.
I fumbled and staggered to stand and look in the mirror. Strangely, "CONAN the BARBARIAN" was scrawled accross the top.
Well, I thought. At least this guy is almost as buff as me.
After a few long moments, Princess Phoebe piped up. "Brighta, why is Max flexing at the Arnold Schwarzenegger poster?"
Vexed in Biolence
Predator Press
[Mr. Insanity]
Our email read:
"Dear Boss,
Everything is great. We balanced the budget: even excluding the eight cents made in May, you stand to make around two hundred thousand a year starting now.
All bills are already paid. In fact, we paid the next four years of Predator Press taxes in advance.
There's not much to do except count all this money over and over. Sapphire got a tattoo, but we already wrote it off in 2008.
We were hoping for the office Christmas party in the Cayman Islands this year.
Sincerely,
The remaining Predator Press Staff"
***
Ethan's eyebrows furrowed ... the email clearly smelled of Pina Coladas and sunscreen.
He pushed himself back from the desk and rubbed his temples under stylish, reflective, interactive x-ray vision sunglasses.
"A profit?" he wondered aloud.
"What the hell happened to LOBO?"
[Mr. Insanity]
Our email read:
"Dear Boss,
Everything is great. We balanced the budget: even excluding the eight cents made in May, you stand to make around two hundred thousand a year starting now.
All bills are already paid. In fact, we paid the next four years of Predator Press taxes in advance.
There's not much to do except count all this money over and over. Sapphire got a tattoo, but we already wrote it off in 2008.
We were hoping for the office Christmas party in the Cayman Islands this year.
Sincerely,
The remaining Predator Press Staff"
Ethan's eyebrows furrowed ... the email clearly smelled of Pina Coladas and sunscreen.
He pushed himself back from the desk and rubbed his temples under stylish, reflective, interactive x-ray vision sunglasses.
"A profit?" he wondered aloud.
"What the hell happened to LOBO?"
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