Predator Press
[LOBO]
I decided to “get the drop” on the game day crowd, and camp out all night here at Wrigley Field.
These fucking seats are awesome.
Sunday
Saturday
Brunch
Predator Press
[Zombie Mr Insanity]
I knock three times.
No answer.
I raise my arm to knock again, and I can hear sounds behind the door.
“What?” says a voice.
“LOBO?” I says.
“Maybe.”
“It’s me, Seth.”
“Who?
“You know, Mr Insanity?”
“I thought you were dead or something.”
“Oh heavens no!” I says chucking. “It was all a big prank. Now let me in so I can tell you all the details and eat your brains.”
“Well,” says LOBO. “I’m running late. I’m supposed to meet my brother at the gun range. Why don’t you meet us there?”
I scratch my chin, thinking, and a slab of flesh falls of. “I lost my car to probate. Can I ride with you guys?”
“Well that depends,” says LOBO. “Was that a chunk of rotting flesh I just heard hit the floor?”
Kicking the maggot-riddled swatch deftly away, I reply, “No. Of course not.”
“Was that the sound of you kicking away a chunk of rotting flesh and 131 maggots?” says LOBO.
“Oh all right,” I concede. “You got me.”
“I really don’t want all that crap falling off in my car.”
“So it’s 20 degrees, and you want me to walk eight miles,” I says, recapping.
“Hey, Fred or whatever,” says LOBO. “It’s a rental. I can’t even smoke in the fucking thing. Quit being such a pussy about it. It’s not like I’m asking you to pick up ammo and donuts something.”
“You’re an asshole.”
“I’m an asshole? You’ll be walking right by Kmart!”
"So?"
"Ammo and donuts make my brains tastier," he replies.
"Really?"
"And coffee makes them taste like hickory-smoked barbequed ribs."
[Zombie Mr Insanity]
I knock three times.
No answer.
I raise my arm to knock again, and I can hear sounds behind the door.
“What?” says a voice.
“LOBO?” I says.
“Maybe.”
“It’s me, Seth.”
“Who?
“You know, Mr Insanity?”
“I thought you were dead or something.”
“Oh heavens no!” I says chucking. “It was all a big prank. Now let me in so I can tell you all the details and eat your brains.”
“Well,” says LOBO. “I’m running late. I’m supposed to meet my brother at the gun range. Why don’t you meet us there?”
I scratch my chin, thinking, and a slab of flesh falls of. “I lost my car to probate. Can I ride with you guys?”
“Well that depends,” says LOBO. “Was that a chunk of rotting flesh I just heard hit the floor?”
Kicking the maggot-riddled swatch deftly away, I reply, “No. Of course not.”
“Was that the sound of you kicking away a chunk of rotting flesh and 131 maggots?” says LOBO.
“Oh all right,” I concede. “You got me.”
“I really don’t want all that crap falling off in my car.”
“So it’s 20 degrees, and you want me to walk eight miles,” I says, recapping.
“Hey, Fred or whatever,” says LOBO. “It’s a rental. I can’t even smoke in the fucking thing. Quit being such a pussy about it. It’s not like I’m asking you to pick up ammo and donuts something.”
“You’re an asshole.”
“I’m an asshole? You’ll be walking right by Kmart!”
"So?"
"Ammo and donuts make my brains tastier," he replies.
"Really?"
"And coffee makes them taste like hickory-smoked barbequed ribs."
Friday
Special Guest Appearance
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.
[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.
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.
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