Predator Press
[Zombie Mr Insanity]
Let me get this straight.
LOBO had my body dug up in order to promote Predator Press?
Wow. And here I am dripping maggots.
I‘m hungry.
Friday
Lake of Pants on Fire
Predator Press
[LOBO]
Please stop asking me why --despite this kickass physique-- I don’t play professional football.
Once and for all, it’s because of practical, ecological, humanitarian, and litigious considerations:
I don’t think I can quarterback without spilling my Latte Frappuccino all over those glaringly white tights during a “blitz” defense.
Yet.
[LOBO]
Please stop asking me why --despite this kickass physique-- I don’t play professional football.
Once and for all, it’s because of practical, ecological, humanitarian, and litigious considerations:
I don’t think I can quarterback without spilling my Latte Frappuccino all over those glaringly white tights during a “blitz” defense.
Yet.
Whore
Predator Press
[LOBO]
Well, let's see.
Sex: check.
Guns: check.
Violence: check.
Beastiality: check.
Necrophilia: pending. (I've got Max, Brighta and Vetter digging up Mr Insanity to see if there are any takers.)
Honestly, the only other thing I can think of perverse enough to trigger shit-tons of search engines is maybe golf, and that’s just going way too far even for me.
All set for the onslaught of Googlites, Yahoonians and maybe even a weathered Lycosian or two, I just found out that the site crawlers could take as long as six weeks to kick in.
Please try to remain interesting-looking in the meantime.
[LOBO]
Well, let's see.
Sex: check.
Guns: check.
Violence: check.
Beastiality: check.
Necrophilia: pending. (I've got Max, Brighta and Vetter digging up Mr Insanity to see if there are any takers.)
Honestly, the only other thing I can think of perverse enough to trigger shit-tons of search engines is maybe golf, and that’s just going way too far even for me.
All set for the onslaught of Googlites, Yahoonians and maybe even a weathered Lycosian or two, I just found out that the site crawlers could take as long as six weeks to kick in.
Please try to remain interesting-looking in the meantime.
Thursday
WE ARE GETTING "CRAWLED" BY GOOGLE
Predator Press
[LOBO]
We aren't getting enough web hits.
Look, I know I've been tawdry ... but how am I to warn the masses of, say, a zombie uprising? Or an alien invasion? It is my sacred duty as a self-appointed Defender of Humankind to increase readership. So your brains don't get eaten! Or you get rectal-probed or something!
***
Well wow, it's morning already ... the cock is crowing somewhere, and my pussy cat can sense it; she is stroking against my ankles after dreaming long and hard of a breast-pounding sweaty hunt of some tit mice in a bush. Or maybe a hole. (What am I, a fucking pet psychiatrist? Go back to licking your fur, beast!)
Well, I gotta blow on outta here. My lips are chapped ... they feel like leather. They would probably be pink if I were a member of an enormous cross dressing group and at a costume party where people wore lots of lipstick and hung out with lesbians.
Lastly, an observation: The words "Penis" and "Vagina" both contain the letters "i" and "n".
Coincidence?
Hm?
Butt I digress.
[LOBO]
We aren't getting enough web hits.
Look, I know I've been tawdry ... but how am I to warn the masses of, say, a zombie uprising? Or an alien invasion? It is my sacred duty as a self-appointed Defender of Humankind to increase readership. So your brains don't get eaten! Or you get rectal-probed or something!
Well wow, it's morning already ... the cock is crowing somewhere, and my pussy cat can sense it; she is stroking against my ankles after dreaming long and hard of a breast-pounding sweaty hunt of some tit mice in a bush. Or maybe a hole. (What am I, a fucking pet psychiatrist? Go back to licking your fur, beast!)
Well, I gotta blow on outta here. My lips are chapped ... they feel like leather. They would probably be pink if I were a member of an enormous cross dressing group and at a costume party where people wore lots of lipstick and hung out with lesbians.
Lastly, an observation: The words "Penis" and "Vagina" both contain the letters "i" and "n".
Coincidence?
Hm?
Butt I digress.
Skeet
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.
[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.
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.
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