Predator Press
[LOBO]
I forgot my mom reads this blog.
The whole ‘Ox Nuts’ debacle alone was bad enough … but when she found out that her 150 pound bundle of joy watches porn … wow.
Now I’m grounded from TV for life.
I hate everybody.
Sunday
Free
Predator Press
[LOBO]
Taking Phoebe's advice and going out wasn't such a bad idea after all.
And let me have said, once and for all, that going to bars and not drinking is the slickest predatory move ever devised. Sure it’s a long drive and like eight bucks for a Pepsi, but the with your head clear and eyes open, chasing tail is like shooting blind, drunken, promiscuous fish in a barrel of terrible music ... with a Howitzer. I can’t believe I’ve never thought of it before! In the space of a few hours, this chick I never met before leaves her panties in the car, pounces me in a cheap motel, and now wonders why I have "irrational insecurities over our relationship prospects".
[*sigh*]
My plan to quit smoking hasn't really made much headway, however. This one last vice will undoubtedly be the most difficult of all. Everything I do makes associations with it: driving, working, writing ... I'm thinking about spending some time out of town over the holidays and tackling it then.
But for now, I'm more worried about the bills. It's not that I can't afford to pay them, it's the fact that I'm sick and stuffy; the voice-activated services in place are getting thrown off by my sniffing, sneezing and coughing. It took an hour to do the gas bill ... and now I'm debating whether to even try Comcast ...
Can’t somebody cure this? My cold is fucking up commerce now ...
[LOBO]
Taking Phoebe's advice and going out wasn't such a bad idea after all.
And let me have said, once and for all, that going to bars and not drinking is the slickest predatory move ever devised. Sure it’s a long drive and like eight bucks for a Pepsi, but the with your head clear and eyes open, chasing tail is like shooting blind, drunken, promiscuous fish in a barrel of terrible music ... with a Howitzer. I can’t believe I’ve never thought of it before! In the space of a few hours, this chick I never met before leaves her panties in the car, pounces me in a cheap motel, and now wonders why I have "irrational insecurities over our relationship prospects".
[*sigh*]
My plan to quit smoking hasn't really made much headway, however. This one last vice will undoubtedly be the most difficult of all. Everything I do makes associations with it: driving, working, writing ... I'm thinking about spending some time out of town over the holidays and tackling it then.
But for now, I'm more worried about the bills. It's not that I can't afford to pay them, it's the fact that I'm sick and stuffy; the voice-activated services in place are getting thrown off by my sniffing, sneezing and coughing. It took an hour to do the gas bill ... and now I'm debating whether to even try Comcast ...
Can’t somebody cure this? My cold is fucking up commerce now ...
Resplendent
Predator Press
[LOBO]
Phoebe knocked for like two hours before she figured out that the door was unlocked. And there I was, in all my slothful, indolent glory.
“You have to get up,” she says flatly.
“Why?” I says.
Then there’s this big awkward pause.
“Because it’s not healthy,” she says finally. “You’re wasting away.”
“Wasting away with Hi-Def,” I says. “Now would you please go away? You’re blocking the screen.”
“What are you watching?”
“’Nympho Space Accountants From Sector 6’. It’s a sequel to the timeless classic ‘Horny Babe Outlaws From Sector 5’.” I turn it down with the remote, sighing, “but this one is just riddled with plot holes.”
Moving my bag of Cheetos, she sits at the corner of the bed. “LOBO, we’ve know each other a long time. Fess up. Did Sapphire break your heart?”
“My what?”
"Did Sapphire and Edward, you know, break your heart? It's hard seeing you like this."
I happen to glance at her, and suddenly realize she being sincere.
I press pause on the television. "Look", I says, trying to be comforting. "They do heart transplants all the time. It's like getting stitches now. And I like this one. This little thing has carried me a long way already--"
It was at that moment, in a moment of macho bravado, I thumped my chest.
But instead of the solid resonant thud we expected, there was a soft, sharp crack.
"Fuck!" I says, scowling.
"What was that?" asks Phoebe.
"Well, I'm hoping I just broke my breastbone."
[LOBO]
Phoebe knocked for like two hours before she figured out that the door was unlocked. And there I was, in all my slothful, indolent glory.
“You have to get up,” she says flatly.
“Why?” I says.
Then there’s this big awkward pause.
“Because it’s not healthy,” she says finally. “You’re wasting away.”
“Wasting away with Hi-Def,” I says. “Now would you please go away? You’re blocking the screen.”
“What are you watching?”
“’Nympho Space Accountants From Sector 6’. It’s a sequel to the timeless classic ‘Horny Babe Outlaws From Sector 5’.” I turn it down with the remote, sighing, “but this one is just riddled with plot holes.”
Moving my bag of Cheetos, she sits at the corner of the bed. “LOBO, we’ve know each other a long time. Fess up. Did Sapphire break your heart?”
“My what?”
"Did Sapphire and Edward, you know, break your heart? It's hard seeing you like this."
I happen to glance at her, and suddenly realize she being sincere.
I press pause on the television. "Look", I says, trying to be comforting. "They do heart transplants all the time. It's like getting stitches now. And I like this one. This little thing has carried me a long way already--"
It was at that moment, in a moment of macho bravado, I thumped my chest.
But instead of the solid resonant thud we expected, there was a soft, sharp crack.
"Fuck!" I says, scowling.
"What was that?" asks Phoebe.
"Well, I'm hoping I just broke my breastbone."
Saturday
What’s This?
Predator Press
[LOBO]
While trying to install the television, I was pleased to find I own a tool.
A tool commonly referred to as a “screwdriver”.
This tool, which I had previously mistaken as a fancy cooking utensil, is a steel rod with a four-sided pointed tip used to drive screws. Hence it’s designation: a flathead screwdriver.
Used properly, this item can be held by the silvery thin part and used to bash the screws in with the wider end, also known as the handle.
... but this television sucks ...
[LOBO]
While trying to install the television, I was pleased to find I own a tool.
A tool commonly referred to as a “screwdriver”.
This tool, which I had previously mistaken as a fancy cooking utensil, is a steel rod with a four-sided pointed tip used to drive screws. Hence it’s designation: a flathead screwdriver.
Used properly, this item can be held by the silvery thin part and used to bash the screws in with the wider end, also known as the handle.
... but this television sucks ...
Friday
Bedsore
Predator Press
[LOBO]
I finally got a kickass little plasma flatscreen for my bedroom.
I originally bought it as an X-mas present for a friend, but then I decided I liked it, and that he was probably an asshole anyway. That's how I scored these really cool Lawn Jarts!
Now I can watch the Playboy channel and browse porn simultaneously.
I need to go buy somebody an X-mas helicopter.
[LOBO]
I finally got a kickass little plasma flatscreen for my bedroom.
I originally bought it as an X-mas present for a friend, but then I decided I liked it, and that he was probably an asshole anyway. That's how I scored these really cool Lawn Jarts!
Now I can watch the Playboy channel and browse porn simultaneously.
I need to go buy somebody an X-mas helicopter.
Thursday
Enema of the State
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.”
[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.”
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.”
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