Predator Press
[LOBO]
"Alright," I says to the kid. "How much homework do you have to do every day?"
Joshua pauses for a second, confused.
He holds up ten stubby little fingers.
"Okay," I acknowledge. "About an hour. You get on your bus at like 7:20 every morning, and leave on one at 3:10. And get home at, like, 3:25. Am I correct?"
Joshua squirms.
"Well buddy, that's about (x3)(4)=(X-6) more than the average adult commits to their careers, and then bitches about how they have no time." I walk behind Joshua, and put my arm over his shoulder. "But I've got good news too. I'm making you President of Student Council. And your first act as President will be to announce that school is done at noon, and that homework is illegal under penalty of death. Would you like that? All you and your motivated constituents have to do is swear a dark allegiance to me. No big deal."
"I like to color!" he giggles shyly.
"This isn't supposed to be a negotiation, you little shit ... "
Wednesday
Re-Tardy
Predator Press
[LOBO]
I was leafing through the paper --feigning interest in Rumsfeld's resignation so I didn't have to actually talk to anybody-when I found out I was elected District 57's Superintendent of Schools.
I don't even know where District 57 is, and I'm apparently late for work.
***
I burst into the Principal's office pretending to have an agenda and know what I'm doing, and being really pissed off about it. And this bitch dressed like a penguin yanks the cigarette out of my mouth!
"There's no smoking in here," the wrinkly old bat growls, squishing my non-generic and expensive smoldering joy under her thick, flat arches.
I point to the nearest nine year old, and he flips me a Kool.
"Bullshit," I says, lighting up.
[LOBO]
I was leafing through the paper --feigning interest in Rumsfeld's resignation so I didn't have to actually talk to anybody-when I found out I was elected District 57's Superintendent of Schools.
I don't even know where District 57 is, and I'm apparently late for work.
I burst into the Principal's office pretending to have an agenda and know what I'm doing, and being really pissed off about it. And this bitch dressed like a penguin yanks the cigarette out of my mouth!
"There's no smoking in here," the wrinkly old bat growls, squishing my non-generic and expensive smoldering joy under her thick, flat arches.
I point to the nearest nine year old, and he flips me a Kool.
"Bullshit," I says, lighting up.
Tuesday
Revolution
Predator Press
[Mr. I]
Election Day.
Yippee.
All very boring; voting between only two candidates that have been financed and feted for our Constitutional Right to have two candidates that have been financed and feted.
It doesn’t particularly excite me.
But what if the Village Idiot got voted in? Oh that’s too funny …
I’m writing in “LOBO” for everything … ! haha
… Bet nobody has ever thought of this gag before …
[Mr. I]
Election Day.
Yippee.
All very boring; voting between only two candidates that have been financed and feted for our Constitutional Right to have two candidates that have been financed and feted.
It doesn’t particularly excite me.
But what if the Village Idiot got voted in? Oh that’s too funny …
I’m writing in “LOBO” for everything … ! haha
… Bet nobody has ever thought of this gag before …
Fuck Democracy
Predator Press
[LOBO]
This whole election is a sham.
I spent 87 bucks on a Presidential Campaign, and I wasn't even on the fucking ballot.
Still, I voted. I voted against all those jerks that left messages on my answering machine.
Sometimes this electoral strategy forced me to vote for a Democrat, which still feels strange. I spent years as an Anarchist, which ultimately, is as "Conservative" as you can get if you think about it: no rule of law, just remains of dissenters.
Who wants to deal with all those bodies? I'm far too lazy to be a decent Anarchist.
On everything else, I wrote "LOBO" as a write-in.
God, that's so funny. I'll bet nobody's ever done that before ...
[LOBO]
This whole election is a sham.
I spent 87 bucks on a Presidential Campaign, and I wasn't even on the fucking ballot.
Still, I voted. I voted against all those jerks that left messages on my answering machine.
Sometimes this electoral strategy forced me to vote for a Democrat, which still feels strange. I spent years as an Anarchist, which ultimately, is as "Conservative" as you can get if you think about it: no rule of law, just remains of dissenters.
Who wants to deal with all those bodies? I'm far too lazy to be a decent Anarchist.
On everything else, I wrote "LOBO" as a write-in.
God, that's so funny. I'll bet nobody's ever done that before ...
Good Sport
Predator Press
[LOBO]
Well Jesus, that was pretty darn funny. Nice touch with the fake newspaper!!
Haha, ya got me.
But I'm still tellin your Dad.
Good luck tryin' ta heal cripples this week ...
[LOBO]
Well Jesus, that was pretty darn funny. Nice touch with the fake newspaper!!
Haha, ya got me.
But I'm still tellin your Dad.
Good luck tryin' ta heal cripples this week ...
Sunday
Amazing Football Prediction From Jesus!!!
Predator Press
[LOBO]
As usual, Jesus picks one hell of a day to come down and tell me to not take my Lithium and bet everything I own on a sports event ... you would think he would know by now to call first. I was sitting at home kicking ass on Grand Theft Auto, and here comes the Son of God barging in again, wrecking up my lazy Sunday (Fourth Commandment, aka God's Will, I might add) with another stupid "prophecy".
Well, here it is:
THE BEARS ARE UNSTOPPABLE.
COWER, PUNY FLORIDIANS, AS YOUR PUNY FOOTBALL
TEAM IS CRUSHED IN THE WAKE OF THE BEARS
JUGGERNAUT 104-0, AND SENT HOME TO THE PUNY
EVERGLADES IN SHAMEFUL, PUNY DISGRACE.
JESUS HATES FLORIDA
(How is the weather down there?)
[LOBO]
As usual, Jesus picks one hell of a day to come down and tell me to not take my Lithium and bet everything I own on a sports event ... you would think he would know by now to call first. I was sitting at home kicking ass on Grand Theft Auto, and here comes the Son of God barging in again, wrecking up my lazy Sunday (Fourth Commandment, aka God's Will, I might add) with another stupid "prophecy".
Well, here it is:
COWER, PUNY FLORIDIANS, AS YOUR PUNY FOOTBALL
TEAM IS CRUSHED IN THE WAKE OF THE BEARS
JUGGERNAUT 104-0, AND SENT HOME TO THE PUNY
EVERGLADES IN SHAMEFUL, PUNY DISGRACE.
JESUS HATES FLORIDA
(How is the weather down there?)
Saturday
The Joy of Travel
Predator Press
[LOBO]
I like to travel.
Well, except for the packing part. And the act of physically going from point to point. And the sleeping in strange places, on things who knows what has happened on. And the forgetting stuff, and having to use available stuff recently used by puss-oozing, sneezy people who --currently nowhere to be found-- left yet another layer of crawling and voracious creepy organisms to intermingle with the already-dominant seething biological cesspool of thousands of other forgetful travelers: a veritable greenhouse of self-perpetuating aggressive microscopic deadly and carnivorous forgetful and stupid DNA, feasting on your flesh and brains and making you itchy until you buy an irresponsible amount of scratch-off lottery tickets. And then missing the stuff that was too big or otherwise impractical to bring. And the timetables and schedules. And the geographic disorientation, and sleep depravation. And being away from your friends, surrounded by shifty-looking, mistrustful strangers with big mutton chop sideburns and a top hat, twirling their handlebar mustaches. And the unpacking.
Aside from all that, I love to travel.
The first time I ever flew, Ethan pinned a note to my sweater that said:
I am traveling alone
for the first time.
Please be nice to me.
He arranged to get me a tour of the cockpit, as long as I promised not to touch anything.
The stewardesses brought me airplane pins and coloring books, and fawned and fussed over me ('cept I'm not supposed to call them "stewardesses" anymore for some reason, so now I call them "those hot bitches that bring me peanuts"). Still, at twenty-six, I was completely jazzed about air travel; they had made quite an impression.
See, airline companies seemed to recognize the value of getting an impressionable youth enthusiastic about flying, in hopes of gaining a lifelong customer.
Now the only company that does that is Phillip Morris.
God bless Big Tobacco.
[*sigh*]
[LOBO]
I like to travel.
Well, except for the packing part. And the act of physically going from point to point. And the sleeping in strange places, on things who knows what has happened on. And the forgetting stuff, and having to use available stuff recently used by puss-oozing, sneezy people who --currently nowhere to be found-- left yet another layer of crawling and voracious creepy organisms to intermingle with the already-dominant seething biological cesspool of thousands of other forgetful travelers: a veritable greenhouse of self-perpetuating aggressive microscopic deadly and carnivorous forgetful and stupid DNA, feasting on your flesh and brains and making you itchy until you buy an irresponsible amount of scratch-off lottery tickets. And then missing the stuff that was too big or otherwise impractical to bring. And the timetables and schedules. And the geographic disorientation, and sleep depravation. And being away from your friends, surrounded by shifty-looking, mistrustful strangers with big mutton chop sideburns and a top hat, twirling their handlebar mustaches. And the unpacking.
Aside from all that, I love to travel.
The first time I ever flew, Ethan pinned a note to my sweater that said:
for the first time.
Please be nice to me.
He arranged to get me a tour of the cockpit, as long as I promised not to touch anything.
The stewardesses brought me airplane pins and coloring books, and fawned and fussed over me ('cept I'm not supposed to call them "stewardesses" anymore for some reason, so now I call them "those hot bitches that bring me peanuts"). Still, at twenty-six, I was completely jazzed about air travel; they had made quite an impression.
See, airline companies seemed to recognize the value of getting an impressionable youth enthusiastic about flying, in hopes of gaining a lifelong customer.
Now the only company that does that is Phillip Morris.
God bless Big Tobacco.
[*sigh*]
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