The Cube of Woe

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Man I was unbelievably pissed.

"Sir," squawks the technician over my cellphone. "It would be a lot easier to help you if you calmed down."

"Calm down?" I demand. "I'm going to die in this thing!"

"I highly doubt that sir. You said you already called the fire department, right?"

"Yes I did. I also called the police, the CIA, the FBI, FEMA and Interpol. How dare you unleash this poorly designed and untested -potentially lethal device- upon the unsuspecting public?"

"It's called an elevator, sir."

"It's a goddamned box of death, you quack! You people are the geometric equivalent of Comcast. Where'd you learn engineering, cosmetology school?"

"Sir, I assure you our engineers and technicians are highly qualified. But I'm only a customer service rep for Otis Elevators."

Inspecting the warning panel, I verify this: Otis Elevators is clearly marked right next to 'In Case of Emergency' and the 800 number I dialed.

"Well, let me talk to Otis."

"Excuse me?"

"Otis," I demand coolly. "Put that fucker on."

[muffled laughter]

"Uh, sir, -"

"I'm sorry. Did you say something? I can't hear you unless you're Otis!"

"Um," says the guy. "I'm Otis sir."

"Really?" I says.

"Yes sir. Now you said you already called the fire department. Is there anything I can do for you?"

"Well it's pretty boring in here. And the fire department won't be here for another half an hour."

"You don't have a paperback or something?"

"No," I says glumly. "I even called Mandy."

"Mandy?"

"Yeah. It's scratched in the glass here. 'For a good time call Mandy'. She's actually a pretty decent cello player, but it was eating up my minutes."

"Sir, I've been running a satellite diagnostic on the elevator you're in and it's responding just fine. Which floor did you press?"

"Floor?"

"Yes sir. There are buttons you have to press with numbers that correspond with the floor you want to go to."

"No shit?"

"Yes sir. They should be right over the warning plaque."

"I'll be damned. Otis, you're a genius!"

"Thank you sir."

"Wow. They even light up!"

Real Estate

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Apartment hunting can be one long series of let-downs after another.

But as the guy that fills in when the Predator Press Copy Editor is sick, I figure I gotta think ferocious and big.

We have an image to keep up after all.

I rather liked this one. Despite the dust and the skeletons, I thought it would make a nice 'fixer-upper'. I'll bet if I went to the store and bought some flathead screwdrivers and then hired some people who knew how to use them, this place would have been top notch in no time.

If it wasn't for the commute, I might have gone for it.

Still, there are other pyramids.

This stately model was really attractive. I mean it's like Aztec or something. What better place to raise your kids, knowing full well that one day they must slay you that they may finally worship themselves instead?

I finally concluded that I didn't want to deal with all that lawn care and landscaping.

I finally settled on this place. I mean sure it's too small and the bathrooms smell funny: in real estate terms, that means "cozy" and "odorific".

Just look at all those kickass videogames.

And hello? A mechanical bull? I've always wanted a mechanical bull!

I can just imagine the tears of joy when LadyTerri finds out I got this cool place with a mechanical bull by merely cashing in our 401k.

She might even make pork chops.

The Proliferation of The Left

Predator Press

[LOBO]

According to ABC News, "Statistics show left-handed people are more likely to be schizophrenic, alcoholic, delinquent, dyslexic, and have Crohn's disease and ulcerative colitis, as well as mental disabilities."

Further tedious statistics reveal that 7-10% of the human population consists of left-handers; this means one out of ten people are left handed.

But if we act quickly, we could totally wipe this seething hoard of freaks out all at once: at ten to one, in a span of mere days we could eradicate the soulless left-handed menace from the face of the Earth altogether.

I like to think it of it as us helping Darwin help God.

Rejection Coverage 2008

Predator Press

[LOBO]

This election -like any other- is goddamn boring, and I've finally figured out exactly why.

See, nobody really loses: there are absolutely no consequences for the flaccid, unimaginative narrow group America decides I'm free to vote for endlessly bugging me with their incessant crap.

There's always:

a) the person that wins the Whole Enchilada, and
b) a ton of leftovers getting tons of $ to make more mind-numbingly pointless and dull speeches.

We need one of those Presidential wanna-bees to be the capitol "L" LOSER so's we can dish out some payback ... and I say we beat that audacious and annoying prick into grainy paste over the next four years for even trying.

Make it a charity thing maybe. For instance, if you pay $1 to the March of Dimes, you get to kick Mike Huckabee in the ribs for Arkansas Amendment 2, "a constitutional amendment increasing the state sales tax 0.125% to improve the state's park system and natural resources".

0.125%? For providing bears a place to shit!?

... I don't even live in Arkansas, and I think that guy is a jerk.

Author's Note: This blog does not represent the ideas nor beliefs of the author, nor does it endorse the ill-treatment of Mike Huckabee.

Mike Huckabee was not harmed during the writing of this post.

Oops

Predator Press

[LOBO]

That whole last 'Hittites' post was actually supposed to be about Frank Lloyd Wright.

So at LadyTerri's request, I visited Doctor Viz-O-Quack, 'an that witch doctor prescribed me glasses like twin Hubble telescopes.

While wearing them makes my back hurt, I can now see how I have been so wrong:

I hate organic architecture, and I'm blind.

Author's Note: This blog does not represent the ideas nor beliefs of the author, nor does it endorse the ill-treatment of Frank Lloyd Wright.

No Frank Lloyd Wrights were harmed during the writing of this post.

A Good, Dead Hittite

Predator Press

[LOBO]

While not rubbing elbows with rock bands and committing insurance fraud, it's a little known fact that I'm a vehement racist.

I'll bet you never would have guessed that, but there it is.

I hate Hittites.

I hate them with a purple, venomous passion.

See, the Hittite kingdom is conventionally divided into three periods: the Old Hittite Kingdom (ca. 1750-1500 BC), the Middle Hittite Kingdom (ca. 1500-1430 BC) and the New Hittite Kingdom (the Hittite Empire proper, ca. 1430-1180 BC).

And I freakin hate all three of them. I mean they are dead, right? How the fuck great can you be if you're dead? Hm? I can, say, go make a pot of coffee. Would you Hittites like a cup of coffee? No? Oh, you're dead you say?

Well, HA HA.

More coffee for me.

And no, I don't think organizing a protest is a good idea ... I'll go Dustbuster on your ass.

We all know intuitively that red is bad, right? Well, just look at this satellite photo: see how bad these people are? I mean that is concentrated fucking evil: I hope the Sumerians kick the crap out of them!

Indo-Hittites are pretty cool, but unfortunately everytime I see cuneiform I just wanna puke 'cuz it reminds me of those lousy scumbag garden-variety Hittites. I'm nauseated I gotta breathe the same air they did! Blech. I can still taste Hittite crawling in this lousy air.

They oughta make anti-Hittite Febreeze.

Author's Note: This blog does not represent the ideas nor beliefs of the author, nor does it endorse the ill-treatment of the descendants of the noble Hittite.

No Hittites were harmed during the writing of this post.

Walk this Plank, Talk this Plank

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Two days ago, I totaled my first car.

See, here in Illinois it's like 70 degrees, and for January that's pretty damn freakishly weird.

But last September you were telling me I was a fool ejecting hair spray into the sky for hours on end. Remember? And you scoffed mercilessly as I planted those palm trees in a nice line up the driveway.

Well who's eating coconuts now, bitch?

So yeah. Eight inches of snow melted, and then it rained. It was explained to me later that the ground is still somewhat frozen, so the water really doesn't have anyplace to go. Water, it turns out, is a lot like teenagers: if it doesn't have anything to do, it looks for trouble. It comes home late. It makes excuses for not doing chores.

It wants to borrow the car.

So there I am just driving around this cool new lake that used to be a Super Kmart and something glinty caught my eye. -And not just any shiny object, mind you: this thing glittered and glowed like nothing I had ever seen before. My heart raced. What is this magnificent Thing? I asked myself. Maybe it's a fabulous gem. Or perhaps some lost Holy relic! I simply must have it.

It called and cooed to me in a sing-song melody:

"LOBO come get me,
and I'll make all your dreams come true.
Your friends will be so jealous!
Have I told you what a handsome bastard you are?"
Helplessly beguiled, I drove closer and faster ... only to find this magnificent and enchanting object to be four inches of exposed decorative chrome edging on the top of a completely submerged Aerosmith tour bus.

And as the water inched up waist deep in my own car, I realized the truth: my Japanese piece of crap was riddled with boyancy issues never once mentioned in Consumer Reports, and I had been wooed to my watery grave by siren song.


***
It was Steven Tyler himself who dove in and pulled me out, and after dragging me to the roof of the bus he tried to resuscitate me with CPR. Waking up with Steven Tyler kissing me was exactly as bad as I'd previously imagined it: while he had fresh, minty breath, I could not escape the mute horror of locking lips with perhaps billions of groupies and cheerleaders. I was almost certainly going to get a cold sore.

"Dude," says Brad Whitford. "Why did you do that? We were waving you off! We've been stranded here for three days."

It was then I decided to make my move. I immediately kicked Joe Perry in the neck, and then shoved Steven right into the waiting mouth of one of the circling alligators. Then diving past Brad, I gripped the exposed decorative chrome corner of the tour bus and unsuccessfully tried to wrest it free until we were rescued by the Coast Guard.


***
So here it is two days later, and everyone is mad at me. Me! After six used car lots LadyTerri is starting to fray at the edges a little too, and her anger redoubled when she got that weird cold sore. Without hesitation, she continues to barrage me with little nuggets of wisdom, like "What the fuck were you thinking?" and "How the hell did you get a Driver's License in the first place?"

I, conversely, have managed to stay upbeat. I will not be defeated by the simple total loss of a vehicle ... humans got along fine for dozens of years without cars, and this is no different!

Determined to go soak up some nice weather and sunshine, I put on my thong and rollerblades and decided to cruise around and do some exploration of the flooded and changing terrain. Maybe find some ice cream, you know? There's a bar about a mile away that always has a bunch of motorcycles in front of it, and all those guys taking time out of their busy schedules driving around and beating people up must mean that place has kickass ice cream. Maybe I'll regale 'em with the tale of how I just met Aerosmith!

I'll bring my boom box too: my copy of A Thousand Different Ways by Clay Aiken came in the mail two weeks ago, and I still haven't had a chance to check it out.

Doesn't ice cream sound good right now?