Predator Press
[LOBO]
In a moment of sate and surfeit I haven't enjoyed in years, I find myself somewhat caught up on the bills and occasionally drifting over “home appliance” specials; I’ve been in dire need of a washer, dryer and refrigerator for some time now.
... but that stuff looks heavy.
Wednesday
Tuesday
Blindside
Predator Press
[Zombie Mr Insanity]
You didn’t think I would show up at the gun range, did you?
You’re forgetting I know LOBO. He was going to require something subtle. Something sneaky … like showing up at Wrigley Field to bash that little fucker’s brains in with this tire iron.
I didn’t foresee Babs making a "less-than hostile” bid at a Hawly Enterprises takeover.
This is a rather intriguing development.
[Zombie Mr Insanity]
You didn’t think I would show up at the gun range, did you?
You’re forgetting I know LOBO. He was going to require something subtle. Something sneaky … like showing up at Wrigley Field to bash that little fucker’s brains in with this tire iron.
I didn’t foresee Babs making a "less-than hostile” bid at a Hawly Enterprises takeover.
This is a rather intriguing development.
Monday
History Depletes Itself
Predator Press
[LOBO]
Back in the golden days of the Roman Empire, the woolly mammoth and 8-track tapes, Roman radiators fought to the death for the viewing pleasure of a bloodthirsty audience. “Going to a Bears game” meant that at the coliseum that week, gigantic and hungry bears were going to be set loose to publicly devour criminals, Christians, and other undesirables.
This, incidentally, made going to a Jets game really cool.
But nowadays, apparently, it’s different.
Babs and Mr Insanity carried me to the hospital, and after I got my ankle all bandaged up -- and jacked up high with Children's Morphine to stop my hysterical screaming-- we all headed back to face the throng of people at Wrigley Field. I was just wondering why Children’s Morphine tasted suspiciously like Tic Tacs, and then it dawned on me:
There was no game.
I don’t care what you think you saw on television. I was right there, loyal and enthusiastic, waving my giant Blackhawks foam finger at gametime, and there was nothing on that field except for tumbleweeds.
At first I thought maybe they were short of players; quite the physical specimen myself, I valiantly prepared to volunteer by drinking a whole 22 oz Gatorade. But the only other people at the field at all were those mean Japanese tourists that followed me because of my foam finger.
Just like Bigfoot, the Lunar Landing, and the female orgasm, football is a myth.
No one was more shocked than I. Doubting even myself, I went over my DVR copy of the game to look for inevitable inconsistencies. And sure enough, numerous times you can see the string attached to the football. Further, exactly 2 minutes into the second quarter if you look closely behind Rex Grossman, you can see Kenny, Stan, Cartman, and Kyle lining up for scrimmage. It happens right after the “Your DVR has run out of space,” techno-babble.
Luckily, I have noted journalist Oliver Stone on speed dial.
[LOBO]
Back in the golden days of the Roman Empire, the woolly mammoth and 8-track tapes, Roman radiators fought to the death for the viewing pleasure of a bloodthirsty audience. “Going to a Bears game” meant that at the coliseum that week, gigantic and hungry bears were going to be set loose to publicly devour criminals, Christians, and other undesirables.
This, incidentally, made going to a Jets game really cool.
But nowadays, apparently, it’s different.
Babs and Mr Insanity carried me to the hospital, and after I got my ankle all bandaged up -- and jacked up high with Children's Morphine to stop my hysterical screaming-- we all headed back to face the throng of people at Wrigley Field. I was just wondering why Children’s Morphine tasted suspiciously like Tic Tacs, and then it dawned on me:
There was no game.
I don’t care what you think you saw on television. I was right there, loyal and enthusiastic, waving my giant Blackhawks foam finger at gametime, and there was nothing on that field except for tumbleweeds.
At first I thought maybe they were short of players; quite the physical specimen myself, I valiantly prepared to volunteer by drinking a whole 22 oz Gatorade. But the only other people at the field at all were those mean Japanese tourists that followed me because of my foam finger.
Just like Bigfoot, the Lunar Landing, and the female orgasm, football is a myth.
No one was more shocked than I. Doubting even myself, I went over my DVR copy of the game to look for inevitable inconsistencies. And sure enough, numerous times you can see the string attached to the football. Further, exactly 2 minutes into the second quarter if you look closely behind Rex Grossman, you can see Kenny, Stan, Cartman, and Kyle lining up for scrimmage. It happens right after the “Your DVR has run out of space,” techno-babble.
Luckily, I have noted journalist Oliver Stone on speed dial.
Sunday
Huddle
Predator Press
[LOBO]
I see Babs climbing the bleachers, and I’m excited to see a familiar face in this lonely place.
She hands me a cup of hot chocolate, and I nearly cut myself on her sweater reaching for it; indeed, at eight degrees, her nipples were deadly and fascinating weapons. Cuddling close to me, she nuzzles them heavily in my arm, and I can smell the Safari wafting through the air.
We stare in silence and stark solitude at the flat, square place guys play sports on.
“Do you know what I’m thinking?” she whispers.
“That maybe I should put golf on my blog after all?”
“No,” she says, inching closer.
Suddenly, she screams “Zombie!” and Mr. Insanity lurches from out of the dugout.
Now, I tried to throw her out of the way so I could escape without trampling her, but my foot got caught in the seat; I toppled to the ground, bolts of pain shooting through my ankle.
“Don’t you even think about leaving me behind!” I scream at Babs, weeping openly. “I’ll throw my hot chocolate at you!”
[LOBO]
I see Babs climbing the bleachers, and I’m excited to see a familiar face in this lonely place.
She hands me a cup of hot chocolate, and I nearly cut myself on her sweater reaching for it; indeed, at eight degrees, her nipples were deadly and fascinating weapons. Cuddling close to me, she nuzzles them heavily in my arm, and I can smell the Safari wafting through the air.
We stare in silence and stark solitude at the flat, square place guys play sports on.
“Do you know what I’m thinking?” she whispers.
“That maybe I should put golf on my blog after all?”
“No,” she says, inching closer.
Suddenly, she screams “Zombie!” and Mr. Insanity lurches from out of the dugout.
Now, I tried to throw her out of the way so I could escape without trampling her, but my foot got caught in the seat; I toppled to the ground, bolts of pain shooting through my ankle.
“Don’t you even think about leaving me behind!” I scream at Babs, weeping openly. “I’ll throw my hot chocolate at you!”
Go Bears
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.
[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.
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.
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