Predator Press
[Mr I]
“Oh Ox Nuts, my love,” cries Gwendolyn. “The ocean is so vast, and yet here it is, for us and us only. Our love is captured forever in this meaningless, private moment on a magnificent beach.” She unties her flowing, golden hair. “Even the stars have turned away from us tonight. Take me now, you savage lustful beast! Before you are captured.” Her flimsy clothing slips over her pointed nipples, her curves, finally falling around her bejewelled ankles. “I want to have experienced your mighty passion, so I can remember it fondly while you are tortured and executed by my abusive boyfriend, the vile Prince of Zanzibar. Ox Nuts, ride me like a wild stallion …”
Tuesday
Idiot Bag
Predator Press
[Mr I]
“10,000 Pounds of Thrush?,” I says. “Where’d you come up with that crap?”
“I do not question THE BAG,” says LOBO. "Ever."
“The bag? What bag?”
“The bag of words I pull from when I’m trying to come up with a title.”
“Every time you need a title, you pull words at random? I call bullshit.”
“Behold!" says LOBO, thumping a heavy sack on his cluttered desk. “Bask in the splendor, ye nonbeliever.”
“Does it work?”
“Try it out,” says the screwball. “What kind of story are you working on?”
“Let’s say a love story.”
"You pansy."
"What?"
"I said 'Oooh, fancy'."
LOBO closes his eyes, as if in a trance.
“Oh for God’s sake--“
“Silence!” LOBO demands. “Oh, mighty and wise bag. Divulge unto us your creative genius, that of which we are so devoided!”
He pulls out two slips of paper, “The title of your romance epic shall henceforth be named,” he opens his hand, “Ox Nuts.”
“Ox Nuts.”
“Yes, Ox Nuts.”
“Well, let's see if this thing will help me with a title for my next post ...”
[Mr I]
“10,000 Pounds of Thrush?,” I says. “Where’d you come up with that crap?”
“I do not question THE BAG,” says LOBO. "Ever."
“The bag? What bag?”
“The bag of words I pull from when I’m trying to come up with a title.”
“Every time you need a title, you pull words at random? I call bullshit.”
“Behold!" says LOBO, thumping a heavy sack on his cluttered desk. “Bask in the splendor, ye nonbeliever.”
“Does it work?”
“Try it out,” says the screwball. “What kind of story are you working on?”
“Let’s say a love story.”
"You pansy."
"What?"
"I said 'Oooh, fancy'."
LOBO closes his eyes, as if in a trance.
“Oh for God’s sake--“
“Silence!” LOBO demands. “Oh, mighty and wise bag. Divulge unto us your creative genius, that of which we are so devoided!”
He pulls out two slips of paper, “The title of your romance epic shall henceforth be named,” he opens his hand, “Ox Nuts.”
“Ox Nuts.”
“Yes, Ox Nuts.”
“Well, let's see if this thing will help me with a title for my next post ...”
10,000 Pounds of Thrush
Predator Press
[LOBO]
Every year, Cobe gets together with his friends and family for a catered Christmas ho-down of galactic proportion.
And every year I decline the invitation and just send a gift.
This year I’m sending Lawn Jarts.
I’ve been sharpening these things for weeks.
[LOBO]
Every year, Cobe gets together with his friends and family for a catered Christmas ho-down of galactic proportion.
And every year I decline the invitation and just send a gift.
This year I’m sending Lawn Jarts.
I’ve been sharpening these things for weeks.
Don't Blink
Predator Press
[LOBO]
Phoebe sets the big bowl of chicken soup on the counter, and Phil lands gracefully right next to it.
“That’s very sweet of you,” I says, shooing away Phil.
“Ethan and I were just going to see Rocky VI, and your place was on the way.”
“Who is 'The Italian Stallion’ fighting this time? His HMO?”
Phoebe shoos away Phil. “LOBO, we need to talk.”
“What’s on your mind?”
“How are you going to explain this whole ‘Sapphire’ thing?"
“What do you mean?” I says, shooing away Phil.
“Well, how can she have a black baby? There aren’t that many black people on this blog.”
I'm puzzled.
“Is it Jimmy Orlando?” she demands.
“First of all, I go to great lengths not to describe people, so the readers can just superimpose themselves over the characters. What are you saying? That I’m not kicking around minorities enough? For anyone knows, you're black." I shoo away Phil, "Jimmy Orlando is Hawaiian, by the way. Thanks for reading."
“I guess I never figured you as a inter-racial kind of guy. Don’t you think this might be kind of sensitive material? It's very important that you handle this properly. The very next thing you write could have dramatic polarizing effects on how mixed races will coexist for generations.”
“As far as I’m concerned, everybody should keep fucking everybody else until we’re all the same color."
”Hey, it’s really hot in here,” says Phoebe. “Do you mind if I take off my clothes?”
“What?” I says, startled.
“I said ‘it’s really cold in here, and you should keep that window closed’.”
“Oh. Yeah.”
“Do you know it’s rude to blog while someone is talking to you?” she says. "And, hey, the cat is eating your soup!"
"What?"
[LOBO]
Phoebe sets the big bowl of chicken soup on the counter, and Phil lands gracefully right next to it.
“That’s very sweet of you,” I says, shooing away Phil.
“Ethan and I were just going to see Rocky VI, and your place was on the way.”
“Who is 'The Italian Stallion’ fighting this time? His HMO?”
Phoebe shoos away Phil. “LOBO, we need to talk.”
“What’s on your mind?”
“How are you going to explain this whole ‘Sapphire’ thing?"
“What do you mean?” I says, shooing away Phil.
“Well, how can she have a black baby? There aren’t that many black people on this blog.”
I'm puzzled.
“Is it Jimmy Orlando?” she demands.
“First of all, I go to great lengths not to describe people, so the readers can just superimpose themselves over the characters. What are you saying? That I’m not kicking around minorities enough? For anyone knows, you're black." I shoo away Phil, "Jimmy Orlando is Hawaiian, by the way. Thanks for reading."
“I guess I never figured you as a inter-racial kind of guy. Don’t you think this might be kind of sensitive material? It's very important that you handle this properly. The very next thing you write could have dramatic polarizing effects on how mixed races will coexist for generations.”
“As far as I’m concerned, everybody should keep fucking everybody else until we’re all the same color."
”Hey, it’s really hot in here,” says Phoebe. “Do you mind if I take off my clothes?”
“What?” I says, startled.
“I said ‘it’s really cold in here, and you should keep that window closed’.”
“Oh. Yeah.”
“Do you know it’s rude to blog while someone is talking to you?” she says. "And, hey, the cat is eating your soup!"
"What?"
Monday
Fight in the Dog
Predator Press
[LOBO]
Okay. I’m sick.
It’s two o’clock in the afternoon, ‘an I’m staring into my blog with puffy eyes, dry as a bone. With a 175 degree fever, my skull feels like a hot bowling ball has been installed behind my eyes.
I would’ve been sent home sick had I bothered to go to work.
Still, I called Ethan, trying frantically to think of some crazy story so I could get the day off:
“What?” says Ethan.
“I'b sick”.
“Dude. It’s noon.”
[pause]
“It's Daylight Sabings already?” I says.
“No. But you can work from home on this one. I want you to get started on that 'Plan 9' script."
“But I’ve nebber even seen that—“
[dial tone]
***
number of pages: 01 of 01
12:16 pm
To: Ethan
Re: “Plan 9” script
Wesley Snipes, currently embroiled in some kind of local contract dispute, can’t help me on this one. So we'll have to go light on the stunts.
Our movie opens with me floating around in a really cool looking hangar bay, making out with a space chick. Like a space Jennifer Anniston.
And then I go fight some aliens.
The Aliens capture me, and then I make out with a bunch of space chicks in a substance that looks and tastes like lime Jello. This is because the only way the Aliens can survive is by banging us in lime Jello --thereby extracting our virus-immune potassium-charged DNA via squirty vertebrate sex and an apocalyptic number of helpless Styrofoam banana slices-- and then lopping off our heads.
Then I fight some more space aliens. But this time I unveil a sinister plot that the ‘lopping off the heads’ part is really optional.
The End
I interpret 'Plan 9' as a love story. Your thoughts?
LOBO
[LOBO]
Okay. I’m sick.
It’s two o’clock in the afternoon, ‘an I’m staring into my blog with puffy eyes, dry as a bone. With a 175 degree fever, my skull feels like a hot bowling ball has been installed behind my eyes.
I would’ve been sent home sick had I bothered to go to work.
Still, I called Ethan, trying frantically to think of some crazy story so I could get the day off:
“What?” says Ethan.
“I'b sick”.
“Dude. It’s noon.”
[pause]
“It's Daylight Sabings already?” I says.
“No. But you can work from home on this one. I want you to get started on that 'Plan 9' script."
“But I’ve nebber even seen that—“
[dial tone]
12:16 pm
To: Ethan
Re: “Plan 9” script
Wesley Snipes, currently embroiled in some kind of local contract dispute, can’t help me on this one. So we'll have to go light on the stunts.
Our movie opens with me floating around in a really cool looking hangar bay, making out with a space chick. Like a space Jennifer Anniston.
And then I go fight some aliens.
The Aliens capture me, and then I make out with a bunch of space chicks in a substance that looks and tastes like lime Jello. This is because the only way the Aliens can survive is by banging us in lime Jello --thereby extracting our virus-immune potassium-charged DNA via squirty vertebrate sex and an apocalyptic number of helpless Styrofoam banana slices-- and then lopping off our heads.
Then I fight some more space aliens. But this time I unveil a sinister plot that the ‘lopping off the heads’ part is really optional.
I interpret 'Plan 9' as a love story. Your thoughts?
LOBO
The Early Worm
Predator Press
[LOBO]
Finally I’ve adjusted to getting up at 5 in the morning.
... So where the hell is everybody?
[LOBO]
Finally I’ve adjusted to getting up at 5 in the morning.
... So where the hell is everybody?
Saturday
Got Wood
Predator Press
[LOBO]
Well, I don't think any of us expected Sapphire's baby to be black.
But I can't dwell on these things right now. Predator Press is now in negotiations with George Lucas; we're remaking Plan 9 From Outer Space with the epic operational budget of $8,570,868,975.16.
Out of this, Ethan demands free Gatorade for life.
What the heck is 'Gatorade'?
[LOBO]
Well, I don't think any of us expected Sapphire's baby to be black.
But I can't dwell on these things right now. Predator Press is now in negotiations with George Lucas; we're remaking Plan 9 From Outer Space with the epic operational budget of $8,570,868,975.16.
Out of this, Ethan demands free Gatorade for life.
What the heck is 'Gatorade'?
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