Eyes Without No Mace

Predator Press

[LOBO]

When I saw that cop standing there in the doorway, I knew precisely what to do. Suddenly dropping to my knees, I sobbed loudly, "Taze me, bro! Tase me please!"

"Son," says the officer calmly. "Why in the world would I want to do that?"

Clutching his shiny boots, I wail "I saw what you guys did to that guy that asked you not to on television!"

"Well, you do have an awful lot of dead mailmen in your front yard," he observes.

"They were like that when they got here."

"You mean they were already on fire, and all of them just sort of collapsed coincidentally at your house?"

"Yes. May I be beaten severely now sir? And have my rights violated repeatedly as I'm hauled of to an excruciatingly long interrogation where I'll crack and confess to a whole bunch of ridiculous crap I couldn't possibly have done and be thrown down into some dark hole where I'm forgotten 'til I die?"

"If you weren't white I would've done that a half hour ago," he says. Perplexed, he scratches his chin. Whispering audibly, he adds "I wonder why all these incendiary mailmen are drawn to this place?"

"It's totally plausible. I belong to a lot of record clubs."

Shrugging, he tips his hat. "Sorry to bother you citizen. Everything appears to be in order here. Have a nice day, and stay out of trouble. I am going to stop at the corner store. Do you need a burrito or something?"

"No thanks," I says waving.

As he heads for his car, he pauses at one of the piles of bones and pokes it with his night stick. Lifting a skull by the eye socket, he inspects it shrewdly. "They do make rather cool Halloween decorations, don't they?"

"Want one?"

You've Got Mail

Predator Press

[LOBO]

You readers know I love you, right?

I would do anything, anyplace, anytime for either one of you. I would even dredge Lake Michigan eventually!

... But I absolutely live for Saturday mornings.

There's nothing like padding around in your footie pajamas and watching cartoons until noon.

On Saturdays, no one gets mad at me for it; but when I do it on Tuesday, oh holy crap it's all 'bitch, bitch, bitch'.

On Saturday mornings, I don't always answer the phone either.

Ironic, isn't it? That I will spend a fortune on a security system with thermal detectors, a moat filled with starving alligators swimming in napalm and a perimeter surrounded by high-powered motion-detecting laserbeams? Nothing can pierce the heart of this tranquil womb of solitude.

Except the telephone.

As Ethan is calling, I'm sipping a latte and fiddling with the security cameras, zooming in and out of what has become a bizarre and intriguing discovery.

My front yard has fallen victim of some kind of crazy litterbug.

I pick up the phone absently.

"Yeah?" I says.

It's Ethan.

"Are you watching the news?" he asks.

"No," I says distantly, zooming the camera onto a small pile of smoldering rubbish on the sidewalk. It looks like a bag.

"Bob Guccione Jr just got arrested for starting all those California wildfires."

"No shit?" I says, zooming in on a second pile over on the walkway. It's another scorched sack of some kind.

This one appears to be labeled 'US Mail'.

"Yeah," Ethan continues. "They caught him red-handed burning a script someone mailed him."

Panning out with the camera, I see three of those little mail trucks, all oddly peppered and scarred with what appear to be burns from high-powered motion-detecting laserbeams.

An ashen dust-devil whips through a charred and blackend skeleton, hanging listlessly from the seatbelt.

Well, it appears my Saturday is completely fucked already.

Feeding Me Softly

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Are you "feeding" this site? I just checked the "feed" and everything looks out-of-sequence.

With no discernable traffic, I'm thinking about cutting my RSS.

Please "check in" somehow if you are.

Synchronicity

Predator Press

[LOBO]

"So you got kicked out of California too?" says Ethan.

"Well, if you call being handcuffed into the luggage compartment of a Greyhound bus at gunpoint 'kicked out'." I says. "I considered it more being escorted. Besides, it was a mutual decision. I'm just too edgy for conservative prudes like that."

"You don't have many states left."

"I know," I says, setting my watch back to central time. "This whole country is going to crap."

"That clock is a few minutes fast," Ethan points out.

"Why is it," I complain, "that every clock in this building says something different?"

"Hey, feel free to fix them yourself," says Ethan dismissing me with a hand gesture absently. "You can't really travel much anymore. Might as well make yourself useful."


***

The reason Ethan gives me these technical jobs is because of they are often fraught with hidden complexities.

For instance, I would set the clocks at 2:35, but the Predator Press warehouse is massive; by the time I got done, the first one would be several minutes off.

In an effort to synchronize them perfectly, I tried running, but the Safety jerks yelled at me out of fear I would get hit by the swarms of well-orchestrated forklifts and equipment.

I got 16 people -one for each clock-who were all supposed to simultaneously set their respective clock when I stated the time over their radios. But when you hand 16 industrial guys radios, suddenly they think it's Karaoke night; I couldn't get a word in edgewise between the howling, tone-deaf tinny choruses of "I Got Friends in Low Places" and "Take this Job and Shove it".

The only way I'm going to be able to do this effectively is going to be by setting the clocks, and then turning them all on at the same time. And the only way to do that it appears, will be by pulling this 'Main Power' swi

Headless Chick Haunts Mountain During Blizzards

Predator Press

[LOBO]

As you know, I neither read, make up, or verify anything.

But it's all right there plain as day on Sarcasm Abounds ...

Livin Large

Predator Press

[LOBO]

So here I am at Qualcomm Stadium with the rest of the Californian evacuees, getting a massage and blogging after my yoga lessons.

Honestly, I don't know what those Katrina people were complaining about; this is the best vacation I've ever had.

For dinner, I had a 24oz brick of "Evacuee Cheese", and it was splendid.

The tan woman distributing the rescue food was obviously distressed.

"Wouldn't you like some lobster tail?" she asks, concerned. "Or some baked Alaska?"

"No thanks," I says, grabbing some eating utensils. "But I'll take a 2-liter bottle of Mountain Dew if you've got one."

"Aren't you worried about your cholesterol?" she persists.

"Why?" I says, looking around nervously at the crowded scene. "Are these infidels trying to steal it?"

"Infidels?" she asks, handing me a 2-liter bottle of Mountain Dew.

"Well, that's the only explanation isn't it? I mean God clearly hates you people." While taking a deep swig, I eye the inside of the cap. "Earthquakes, fire tornados, floods, tsunamis. Take the hint already, and stop hanging around here trying to steal cholesterol!"

"No," she clarifies, smiling politely. "I mean high cholesterol can lead to heart attacks."

"My heart is completely incapable of any attack whatsoever," I assure her. "I doubt it could even successfully lobby for trade tariffs. Now this here cap says I won a 'free 2-liter Mountian Dew'. Will you honor it?"

She nods. "But you should get some exercise and eat better."

"It gets cold out here at night. I kinda like that hot, burning sensation I get as the blood squirts though." A portable radio is blaring some fat sounds I like. "Who is that?"

"That's Given Up by Linkin Park," she says, handing me another 2-liter bottle of Mountain Dew. "They've been one of the biggest bands in the United States for almost five years. You've never heard of them?"

"No," I says.

"Not very hip, are you?"

"Maybe I'm too hip to notice," I retort.

"Are you even a citizen?" she asks.

"What?"

"Hablo un poco español; ¿comprende usted?"

"How dare speak to me in 'Tongues', you common Babylonian whore?" I demand, making a Cross symbol with my plastic knife and spork.

"Security!" she cries. "Security!"

"So where's your fancy pagan 'français parlez' now?" I demand.

God, I don't understand why these things continue to happen to me ...

FEMA Isn't Racist, Just Lazy

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Ethan says, "Go cover the story in California."

I figure cool right? Nice mild weather, tanned chicks in bikinis, sushi, and being harangued by anti-smoking laws. Bob Gucionne Jr just gave me $50 of blow money minus the shipping costs too; I figure I'm going to go see my "Brokeback Mountain Troll" script being planned by Miramax in style.

Well, it turns out that California is on fire.

I can't believe the sheer irony of my huge story being ruined by California being on fire.

Where the fuck are all the firemen, you hippies!?