Predator Press
[LOBO]
Well bless our little black hearts, we finally made 10,000 hits.
Thank you readers, particularly those doing their psychiatry practicum on us: those government grants go a long way for pizza and beer.
Still, it's a little difficult to show our appreciation properly. Not really because of a lack of words, but because I'm chained hanging by my wrists in the brig of the Daisy Mae, speeding back to The Leading Edge of the Center of the Universe; it's hard to properly address my enthusiasm while having to blog with my toes.
I got separated from the rest, and my capture was brokered chiefly between the Robot Dinosaur Overlord and the Student Loan people. The Student Loan people, while normally a typical colossal effigy of government inefficiency, sneakily petitioned Satan and got my body switched back. And judging from the condition Princess Phoebe left me in, I'll bet Max is gonna be pissed.
RDO gets to torture me for the first 1,000 years, and then Dash and the Alien Zombies get me for the next 1000. Finally, the Student Loan people get me, and it's their distinct honor to perform the proper execution.
Ha! Fooled them Student Loan people again, didn't I? I'll never live 2000 years!
What dumbasses.
Tuesday
Predator Press
[LOBO]
Phoebe was standing over me as the ship sank.
"C'mon LOBO," she insisted over my broken and battered pile of hapless flesh and bones. "We have to fight Admiral Crunch!"
Prostrate, I mutter vainly through a leathery, swollen head.
"You can't give up now," she pleaded encouragingly. "It's like falling off of a horse. What do you do when you fall off of a horse?"
"You shoot them," I mumbles.
Beautiful White Stallion --spattered with oil and gunpowder stains-- was quiet until now, cringing under the closing explosions. "This guys a jerk," he concludes to Phoebe.
Goddamn it I thought. A concussion.
This has been a long day.
Above all else, pretend you don't see that damn polka-dotted horse.
[LOBO]
Phoebe was standing over me as the ship sank.
"C'mon LOBO," she insisted over my broken and battered pile of hapless flesh and bones. "We have to fight Admiral Crunch!"
Prostrate, I mutter vainly through a leathery, swollen head.
"You can't give up now," she pleaded encouragingly. "It's like falling off of a horse. What do you do when you fall off of a horse?"
"You shoot them," I mumbles.
Beautiful White Stallion --spattered with oil and gunpowder stains-- was quiet until now, cringing under the closing explosions. "This guys a jerk," he concludes to Phoebe.
Goddamn it I thought. A concussion.
This has been a long day.
Above all else, pretend you don't see that damn polka-dotted horse.
Predator Press
[LOBO]
Honestly, I don't think that crazy bitch Phoebe noticed the eight camouflaged elves with AR-15s and rocket launchers when they started their assault. She just rubbed her cheek and glared at me. "Oh, it's on bitch!" she smiled.
Jimmy Orlando screamed as hot, elven AR-15 lead darkened the skies. Armored little people in black started repelling from the upper floor.
"Back to the ship!" Brighta commanded.
***
Well, most everybody ran away to the Bloodlust like cowardly sissys; at least I have the distinction of getting my ribs broken as Princess Phoebe round-housed my limp, bleeding carcass onboard.
The last aboard was Brighta, furiously dueling with Admiral Crunch. The cutlasses clanged loudly as Brighta desperately fought to prevent us from being boarded.
But Crunch's Navy, simultaneously, was blowing holes into the port side of the Bloodlust. Ultimately, the grand warship was hit so hard, the letters "L,O,O,D, and L" fell off into the ocean.
Starboard, we saw Dash Cunning on the deck of an armored hydrofoil. Sporting his new bionic Brad Pitt legs and a pith helmet, he laughed evilly.
And behind him was the vast Alien Zombie Armada.
[LOBO]
Honestly, I don't think that crazy bitch Phoebe noticed the eight camouflaged elves with AR-15s and rocket launchers when they started their assault. She just rubbed her cheek and glared at me. "Oh, it's on bitch!" she smiled.
Jimmy Orlando screamed as hot, elven AR-15 lead darkened the skies. Armored little people in black started repelling from the upper floor.
"Back to the ship!" Brighta commanded.
Well, most everybody ran away to the Bloodlust like cowardly sissys; at least I have the distinction of getting my ribs broken as Princess Phoebe round-housed my limp, bleeding carcass onboard.
The last aboard was Brighta, furiously dueling with Admiral Crunch. The cutlasses clanged loudly as Brighta desperately fought to prevent us from being boarded.
But Crunch's Navy, simultaneously, was blowing holes into the port side of the Bloodlust. Ultimately, the grand warship was hit so hard, the letters "L,O,O,D, and L" fell off into the ocean.
Starboard, we saw Dash Cunning on the deck of an armored hydrofoil. Sporting his new bionic Brad Pitt legs and a pith helmet, he laughed evilly.
And behind him was the vast Alien Zombie Armada.
Predator Press
[LOBO]
I was only slowly regaining consciousness.
The Crone was saying something about 'The Dragon' destroying China.
"Does that evil dragon have a name?" asks Princess Phoebe.
"Yes," says The Crone. "His name is 'Scraps'."
Brighta tried to heave me onto my woozy legs. "So the dragon destroying China's name is 'Scraps'?" he asks.
"See for yourselves," says The Crone, workin the TIVO remote control. "They have footage of Scraps wading up through the Tokyo Harbor on CNN".
The actual footage was rather blasé and unspectacular ... the Japanese were kinda used to this sort of thing. But the point was well taken.
"We have to stop it!" says Brighta.
***
See, I already know this whole thing is a scam. 'China' is a made-up thing by the CIA, just like The Soviet Union, Vietnam, the 'Moon Landing', and Oprah ... It's all a vast global conspiracy to keep America livin in fear. Just like that 'World is Round' dogma.
C'mon, think about it: if there really was a "France", wouldn't we have just airlifted New Jersey over and dropped it on 'em? Of course we would've. In fact, I'll bet we would nuke it ten years later just in case any roaches survived ...
Balanced by Brighta, I blinked my blackened eyes open.
Princess Phoebe was looking at me carefully. "Are you okay?" she asked. "I'm really sorry about that. We're trying to save the world."
I mumbled something softly, and she leaned in closely to hear.
An that's when I jacked her up.
[LOBO]
I was only slowly regaining consciousness.
The Crone was saying something about 'The Dragon' destroying China.
"Does that evil dragon have a name?" asks Princess Phoebe.
"Yes," says The Crone. "His name is 'Scraps'."
Brighta tried to heave me onto my woozy legs. "So the dragon destroying China's name is 'Scraps'?" he asks.
"See for yourselves," says The Crone, workin the TIVO remote control. "They have footage of Scraps wading up through the Tokyo Harbor on CNN".
The actual footage was rather blasé and unspectacular ... the Japanese were kinda used to this sort of thing. But the point was well taken.
"We have to stop it!" says Brighta.
See, I already know this whole thing is a scam. 'China' is a made-up thing by the CIA, just like The Soviet Union, Vietnam, the 'Moon Landing', and Oprah ... It's all a vast global conspiracy to keep America livin in fear. Just like that 'World is Round' dogma.
C'mon, think about it: if there really was a "France", wouldn't we have just airlifted New Jersey over and dropped it on 'em? Of course we would've. In fact, I'll bet we would nuke it ten years later just in case any roaches survived ...
Balanced by Brighta, I blinked my blackened eyes open.
Princess Phoebe was looking at me carefully. "Are you okay?" she asked. "I'm really sorry about that. We're trying to save the world."
I mumbled something softly, and she leaned in closely to hear.
An that's when I jacked her up.
Monday
Predator Press
[Mr. I]
As Ethan watched oblivious from his skyscraper headquarters, his home was under attack.
The Keebler Elves had dug a tunnel into his cereal cabinet, and --once unified--hundreds of tiny evil commercial mascots of were paratrooping all over his kitchen ....
[Mr. I]
As Ethan watched oblivious from his skyscraper headquarters, his home was under attack.
The Keebler Elves had dug a tunnel into his cereal cabinet, and --once unified--hundreds of tiny evil commercial mascots of were paratrooping all over his kitchen ....
Predator Press
[Mr. I]
I was in a Wal-Mart when I got the call from Legless Jim, somewhat bewildered. For some reason, there was nothing on the shelves except snow shovels and Twizzlers.
“Man I can’t believe this,” says Legless Jim over the cell phone.
“Believe what?” I says absently.
“Dude,” he says. “Somebody stole Brad Pitt’s legs!”
Something is wrong.
Something is really wrong.
[Mr. I]
I was in a Wal-Mart when I got the call from Legless Jim, somewhat bewildered. For some reason, there was nothing on the shelves except snow shovels and Twizzlers.
“Man I can’t believe this,” says Legless Jim over the cell phone.
“Believe what?” I says absently.
“Dude,” he says. “Somebody stole Brad Pitt’s legs!”
Something is wrong.
Something is really wrong.
Writing on Fire
Predator Press
[Mr. I]
Surly, a chiseled 6'6" tall, 280 lbs steroid-jazzed Kris Kringle was in no mood to take any shit.
While Kriss "Krusher" Kringle had a promising career in the WWE --particularly in light of his 'finishing move', The Santa Claw-- when he showed up in a white leotard and mask proudly brandishing his initials, he was summarily --publicly-- fired by Vince McMahon.
To make matters worse, Kringle had six payments left on Santa's Slayer -his new sleigh engineered by NASA and Harley Davidson. The fuckin lawyers in The Divorce were completely sucking him dry.
He got stuck in traffic for two hours leaving the coliseum, only to get a $75 ticket from a dickhead cop for failing to signal during a lane change.
And finally home, as he flew over his frozen fortress, his bad day was punctuated by spotting three polar bears stalking his reindeer stable.
By the time he got to the 650 lbs runt of the starving trio, he was almost too exhausted to snap it's neck with his bare hands.
But he managed.
***
Macabre mission accomplished, he couldn't ignore Babs anymore. "What?" he demanded.
Babs was running through the snow in her trademark thong, her nipples stuck through the bikini like sexy Howitzers. "You've got a letter from SGS!" she says excitedly, waving a folded piece of wet-seeming paper that smelled oddly of crab cakes and Russian submarine hull. "He's finally ready to go 'nice'!"
Kringle, slightly incredulous, heaved the last bear carcass into the zinc smelter. "I really doubt that," he panted through his blood-spattered beard.
"No honey," says the nubile beauty. "He says that LOBO is planning a sneak attack in October."
Kringle watched the bear's carcass flashed colorfully into oblivion, laughing.
"Don't sing it LOBO," he grinned. "Just bring it."
[Mr. I]
Surly, a chiseled 6'6" tall, 280 lbs steroid-jazzed Kris Kringle was in no mood to take any shit.
While Kriss "Krusher" Kringle had a promising career in the WWE --particularly in light of his 'finishing move', The Santa Claw-- when he showed up in a white leotard and mask proudly brandishing his initials, he was summarily --publicly-- fired by Vince McMahon.
To make matters worse, Kringle had six payments left on Santa's Slayer -his new sleigh engineered by NASA and Harley Davidson. The fuckin lawyers in The Divorce were completely sucking him dry.
He got stuck in traffic for two hours leaving the coliseum, only to get a $75 ticket from a dickhead cop for failing to signal during a lane change.
And finally home, as he flew over his frozen fortress, his bad day was punctuated by spotting three polar bears stalking his reindeer stable.
By the time he got to the 650 lbs runt of the starving trio, he was almost too exhausted to snap it's neck with his bare hands.
But he managed.
Macabre mission accomplished, he couldn't ignore Babs anymore. "What?" he demanded.
Babs was running through the snow in her trademark thong, her nipples stuck through the bikini like sexy Howitzers. "You've got a letter from SGS!" she says excitedly, waving a folded piece of wet-seeming paper that smelled oddly of crab cakes and Russian submarine hull. "He's finally ready to go 'nice'!"
Kringle, slightly incredulous, heaved the last bear carcass into the zinc smelter. "I really doubt that," he panted through his blood-spattered beard.
"No honey," says the nubile beauty. "He says that LOBO is planning a sneak attack in October."
Kringle watched the bear's carcass flashed colorfully into oblivion, laughing.
"Don't sing it LOBO," he grinned. "Just bring it."
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