Predator Press
[LOBO]
I’ve decided to marry Sapphire.
This marriage counselor I know is hot ... and I could drag an actual marriage on for years.
Maybe then she'll notice me.
But Sapphire, it turns out, is far too self-absorbed to marry me so I can win the love of our marriage counselor. This conversation did, however, prompt an appearance from the baby’s father:
My Presidential running mate, Edward Harrows.
“Oh my God,” I says. “You’re banging Sapphire?.”
“Yes.”
“Better’n me?”
Edward hesitates, “Sapphire says all you ever did was run around the room with your fingers in your ears, going ‘la la la la’.”
“Better’n me?” I repeat.
“Yes,” he admits. “I have no idea why she likes that so much, but I’m a Baritone.”
“Have you any idea how much this is going to effect our polls?”
“Vaguely.”
“Well, she can have all her Enya CDs back," I says. "But I’m keeping the Häagen-Dazs."
“Like hell you are.”
Thursday
Wednesday
Measured Results
Predator Press
[LOBO]
“Dude,” I says. “That was amazing. I mean, ‘Ox Nuts’ is going to be a major bestseller. It’s genius. I don’t think I’ve ‘punched the clown’ while crying this much since, like, September ... Who knew you could write like that?”
“I post on the blog almost every week or so,” says Mr. I.
“Yeah, but who reads that tripe? 'Ox Nuts' is big. Can you put in some explosions and helicopter chases? I don’t want to infringe on your art, but a scene where Ox fights a giant bug or something might help get some of your boring soppy romance edited out.”
“It’s supposed to be a love story, moron.”
“Well how about some buxom Nordic chicks in Viking helmets, wielding electric battle-axe guitars that go 'bla-WANGGGGGG--'?”
“Maybe.”
[LOBO]
“Dude,” I says. “That was amazing. I mean, ‘Ox Nuts’ is going to be a major bestseller. It’s genius. I don’t think I’ve ‘punched the clown’ while crying this much since, like, September ... Who knew you could write like that?”
“I post on the blog almost every week or so,” says Mr. I.
“Yeah, but who reads that tripe? 'Ox Nuts' is big. Can you put in some explosions and helicopter chases? I don’t want to infringe on your art, but a scene where Ox fights a giant bug or something might help get some of your boring soppy romance edited out.”
“It’s supposed to be a love story, moron.”
“Well how about some buxom Nordic chicks in Viking helmets, wielding electric battle-axe guitars that go 'bla-WANGGGGGG--'?”
“Maybe.”
Tuesday
Moonlighting
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 …”
[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 …”
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
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