Predator Press
[LOBO]
Look, nobody told me my brother’s squeeze was in the Peace Corps.
I heard the cell phone ring and yelled “PULL!”
But instead of throwing it, he answered.
I'll bet the Emergency Room sees a lot more of this than they are willing to admit.
Thursday
Shake a Leg
Predator Press
[LOBO]
This weekend is going to be huge.
I’m switching to nights for a few months at the job Monday, so I have to flip my sleep cycle. Predator Press will be getting the most posting I can manage, but in an effort to increase traffic, I also have to find four or five hours to add our tags to about 30 web-searching engines. Plus I need to shop for a car. And let’s not forget The Game, which will more or less wipe out all of Sunday.
In hopes of borrowing some deep-arctic gear, I paid a visit to my outdoorsy “little” brother. We didn’t grow up together, and tend to have long stretches with little or no contact. Still, it’s always good to see the handsome pup.
In the preliminary phone call, I got the sense that he was on the verge of landing a new femme fatale; so when I got to his place, I was a little distressed to see his house still a veritable shrine for the old one.
“Why are you keeping this crap?” I ask bluntly.
“I dunno,” he says, a little uncomfortable. “I guess it’s not mine and I don’t feel right about getting rid of it.”
“Dude, she played you for six months and then dumped you during a crisis. I’ll bet she didn’t even send a Christmas card. Why are you contorting over this at all? She doesn't care about this stuff; she just left it here like your house is her own personal trash can.”
“So I’m supposed to just throw it out?”
I start grabbing her pictures, baubles, and dainty crap into a plastic bag. They are easy to pick out, as they contrast heavily with the pressboard furniture and bikini posters. “Look,” I says, wincing at a shelf full of Anne Rice novels, “There comes a time in every healthy relationship when it must be terminated with extreme malice in order for the healing to begin.” After scooping the books into the bag with a single arc of my arm, I pause. “Do you still have your guns?”
“I’m not going to fucking kill her,” he snaps.
“No you’re not. You’re going to live a robust, healthy and successful life and hope she does the same, so she sees what she fucked up for a good long time. Every success, every conquest, every breath will be another joyous opportunity to stick it to her.” I continue gathering everything pink, frilly, or shiny. “What time does the gun range open on Saturday?”
“Eight in the morning.”
I hold up the heavy bag, smiling, “Now we know what to do with her stuff.”
He gets a sly smile I haven’t seen in awhile. “Even the stereo?”
“Especially the stereo.”
[LOBO]
This weekend is going to be huge.
I’m switching to nights for a few months at the job Monday, so I have to flip my sleep cycle. Predator Press will be getting the most posting I can manage, but in an effort to increase traffic, I also have to find four or five hours to add our tags to about 30 web-searching engines. Plus I need to shop for a car. And let’s not forget The Game, which will more or less wipe out all of Sunday.
In hopes of borrowing some deep-arctic gear, I paid a visit to my outdoorsy “little” brother. We didn’t grow up together, and tend to have long stretches with little or no contact. Still, it’s always good to see the handsome pup.
In the preliminary phone call, I got the sense that he was on the verge of landing a new femme fatale; so when I got to his place, I was a little distressed to see his house still a veritable shrine for the old one.
“Why are you keeping this crap?” I ask bluntly.
“I dunno,” he says, a little uncomfortable. “I guess it’s not mine and I don’t feel right about getting rid of it.”
“Dude, she played you for six months and then dumped you during a crisis. I’ll bet she didn’t even send a Christmas card. Why are you contorting over this at all? She doesn't care about this stuff; she just left it here like your house is her own personal trash can.”
“So I’m supposed to just throw it out?”
I start grabbing her pictures, baubles, and dainty crap into a plastic bag. They are easy to pick out, as they contrast heavily with the pressboard furniture and bikini posters. “Look,” I says, wincing at a shelf full of Anne Rice novels, “There comes a time in every healthy relationship when it must be terminated with extreme malice in order for the healing to begin.” After scooping the books into the bag with a single arc of my arm, I pause. “Do you still have your guns?”
“I’m not going to fucking kill her,” he snaps.
“No you’re not. You’re going to live a robust, healthy and successful life and hope she does the same, so she sees what she fucked up for a good long time. Every success, every conquest, every breath will be another joyous opportunity to stick it to her.” I continue gathering everything pink, frilly, or shiny. “What time does the gun range open on Saturday?”
“Eight in the morning.”
I hold up the heavy bag, smiling, “Now we know what to do with her stuff.”
He gets a sly smile I haven’t seen in awhile. “Even the stereo?”
“Especially the stereo.”
Tuesday
Slings and Arrows
Predator Press
[LOBO]
I was really having a great week at work.
First, my iPhone got approved, and then I got this nifty wireless transmitter with a range larger than the entire plant. Now I can yell at people or pretend I'm talking to Twiki from the bathroom, the parking lot, anywhere.
But things went south in a big way today.
For the past few weeks, the company has been buying 8 Chicago Bears tickets a game and raffling them off to us. And this week I won the stupid pool.
Well technically Louie won. But since he’s lucky enough to no longer be with us, Babs says now I’m the one that has to endure all that traffic both ways and sit in like 12 degrees for nine hours with ten billion of you drunk and rabid crazies.
Sunday, I’m going to my first live professional football game.
You know, say what you will about my anti-social tendencies, but I’m a basically happy guy when it all boils down. And I like football. But I passionately hate being in crowds; I would much rather catch the game at home. My first impulse was to sell the tix, or maybe even give them away.
But High Command has spoken: attendance is non-transferable and mandatory.
The memo concludes teasingly, “Wear something skimpy.”
Based on the weather report, I’m hoping gasoline and matches qualify.
[LOBO]
I was really having a great week at work.
First, my iPhone got approved, and then I got this nifty wireless transmitter with a range larger than the entire plant. Now I can yell at people or pretend I'm talking to Twiki from the bathroom, the parking lot, anywhere.
But things went south in a big way today.
For the past few weeks, the company has been buying 8 Chicago Bears tickets a game and raffling them off to us. And this week I won the stupid pool.
Well technically Louie won. But since he’s lucky enough to no longer be with us, Babs says now I’m the one that has to endure all that traffic both ways and sit in like 12 degrees for nine hours with ten billion of you drunk and rabid crazies.
Sunday, I’m going to my first live professional football game.
You know, say what you will about my anti-social tendencies, but I’m a basically happy guy when it all boils down. And I like football. But I passionately hate being in crowds; I would much rather catch the game at home. My first impulse was to sell the tix, or maybe even give them away.
But High Command has spoken: attendance is non-transferable and mandatory.
The memo concludes teasingly, “Wear something skimpy.”
Based on the weather report, I’m hoping gasoline and matches qualify.
Monday
Memento
Predator Press
[LOBO]
It struck me while visiting a friend this weekend how apparent one’s personal philosophy can be when looking for the clues. In stark contrast to my place, I observed walls peppered with pictures of loved ones. Family heirlooms abound. Antiques. Home entertainment systems and trendy furniture.
Souveniers.
Personal treasures.
And I remember something.
One day, on my way to work, a man on foot ran across the busy, speeding highway to retrieve his errant hubcap. Heavyset, tall, and about my age, I could see his dumbass sheepish smile.
But somehow, the truck behind me did not.
It swung around to pass me, and in my rearview, I saw it blow the foolish pedestrian into many unrecognizable pieces like a child’s doll. The truck jackknifed across the highway, and I would be among the last cars to pass for several hours.
It was amazingly horrible. I don’t know how I got the car over to the shoulder safely.
I do not keep objects of sentiment.
Especially fucking hubcaps.
[LOBO]
It struck me while visiting a friend this weekend how apparent one’s personal philosophy can be when looking for the clues. In stark contrast to my place, I observed walls peppered with pictures of loved ones. Family heirlooms abound. Antiques. Home entertainment systems and trendy furniture.
Souveniers.
Personal treasures.
And I remember something.
One day, on my way to work, a man on foot ran across the busy, speeding highway to retrieve his errant hubcap. Heavyset, tall, and about my age, I could see his dumbass sheepish smile.
But somehow, the truck behind me did not.
It swung around to pass me, and in my rearview, I saw it blow the foolish pedestrian into many unrecognizable pieces like a child’s doll. The truck jackknifed across the highway, and I would be among the last cars to pass for several hours.
It was amazingly horrible. I don’t know how I got the car over to the shoulder safely.
I do not keep objects of sentiment.
Especially fucking hubcaps.
Sunday
Catch 3.14
Predator Press
[LOBO]
Well, I’ve pretty much wasted the weekend.
I’m the worst IT customer you could want: the intermediate.
I need a basic template to get rolling, but I ultimately need to be able to access the raw HTML for custom work as well.
Every time I hire a host, I go in at look at their web tools. And within two hours, I’m leaving looking like I'm one on the writing staff of “The Brady Bunch” that last season. You know, when Mike Brady shows up to shoot in that big perm and silk shorts and rollerblades?
Maybe I should just be happy here at “Blogger”.
Maybe "never being complete" is the natural and healthy state ...
[LOBO]
Well, I’ve pretty much wasted the weekend.
I’m the worst IT customer you could want: the intermediate.
I need a basic template to get rolling, but I ultimately need to be able to access the raw HTML for custom work as well.
Every time I hire a host, I go in at look at their web tools. And within two hours, I’m leaving looking like I'm one on the writing staff of “The Brady Bunch” that last season. You know, when Mike Brady shows up to shoot in that big perm and silk shorts and rollerblades?
Maybe I should just be happy here at “Blogger”.
Maybe "never being complete" is the natural and healthy state ...
Saturday
Dry Socket
Predator Press
[LOBO]
"Well sir, you're all set, " says the guy. "Shall I charge your credit card $7,043 for all your new upgrades now?"
"What?" I says. "I think I was napping."
"You now have higher bandwidth, 5,000,000 gigabytes of memory, and the coveted Dale Earnhardt set of commemorative plates."
"Will the site be in color?" I demand shrewdly.
"For another $50 it will be."
[LOBO]
"Well sir, you're all set, " says the guy. "Shall I charge your credit card $7,043 for all your new upgrades now?"
"What?" I says. "I think I was napping."
"You now have higher bandwidth, 5,000,000 gigabytes of memory, and the coveted Dale Earnhardt set of commemorative plates."
"Will the site be in color?" I demand shrewdly.
"For another $50 it will be."
Friday
Writer's Blockade
Predator Press
[LOBO]
I already quit “Writing.com”. It seems that some of my work is unfit for penetrating the innocent deer-like retinae of today’s youth, and I agree wholeheartedly: screw the kids.
But these people are pretty extreme. Yesterday they upped the rating on “Idiot Bag” to adult, because the word “idiot” is deemed offensive.
This is the worst kind of discrimination there is.
This is the kind against me.
Today, to make matters worse, they “adultrified” a watered-down version of “Because I Care” because in the dialogue, a spreadsheet is referred to as stupid.
They would have saved me a lot of trouble by banning adjectives altogether.
It’s time to go independent. “Blogger” has been getting a little sketchy lately anyways since this Beta release; if I’m lucky enough for it to be available at all, it sometimes takes 20 minutes just to upload text. Plus it doesn't save drafts correctly anymore.
At 25,000 hits, Predator Press is due for a tune up.
What this means to you might require a little work. I generally post almost every day. While www.predatorpress.com is ours, our “hosting” is mirrored to Blogger, hence the weird web address. But if we upgrade, you will continue to be forwarded to this site which --while hopefully, is bookmarked-- will no longer be getting the updated posting.
In a nutshell, if it gets quiet, be afraid. If suddenly you don’t see daily posting, it means we are officially moved. You will have to manually type “www.predatorpress.com” into your browser, and replace the old bookmark.
I’ll do my best to keep you informed when this occurs. And I know this seems a little complicated, but I sincerely hope you will go through the effort.
We’re worth it.
Promise.
[LOBO]
I already quit “Writing.com”. It seems that some of my work is unfit for penetrating the innocent deer-like retinae of today’s youth, and I agree wholeheartedly: screw the kids.
But these people are pretty extreme. Yesterday they upped the rating on “Idiot Bag” to adult, because the word “idiot” is deemed offensive.
This is the worst kind of discrimination there is.
This is the kind against me.
Today, to make matters worse, they “adultrified” a watered-down version of “Because I Care” because in the dialogue, a spreadsheet is referred to as stupid.
They would have saved me a lot of trouble by banning adjectives altogether.
It’s time to go independent. “Blogger” has been getting a little sketchy lately anyways since this Beta release; if I’m lucky enough for it to be available at all, it sometimes takes 20 minutes just to upload text. Plus it doesn't save drafts correctly anymore.
At 25,000 hits, Predator Press is due for a tune up.
What this means to you might require a little work. I generally post almost every day. While www.predatorpress.com is ours, our “hosting” is mirrored to Blogger, hence the weird web address. But if we upgrade, you will continue to be forwarded to this site which --while hopefully, is bookmarked-- will no longer be getting the updated posting.
In a nutshell, if it gets quiet, be afraid. If suddenly you don’t see daily posting, it means we are officially moved. You will have to manually type “www.predatorpress.com” into your browser, and replace the old bookmark.
I’ll do my best to keep you informed when this occurs. And I know this seems a little complicated, but I sincerely hope you will go through the effort.
We’re worth it.
Promise.
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