Internal Combustion

Predator Press

[LOBO]

“Sir,” says the disinterested woman. “You quit your last job and have excellent references.”

"Yes," I agree.

She pulls her glasses down to the tip of her nose. “You should just consider getting a job. I have serious doubts applying for Unemployment will get you anywhere at all.”

“Yeah I know,” I explain. “It’s more of a tradition when I’m not working to look for free money. It's like getting popcorn at the movies. Or eating nothing but baked beans for the week before you take a trip on an airplane.”

“Excuse me?”

“Everybody eats popcorn at movies,” I explain.

“No,” says the woman. “I mean about the airplanes.”

“Ah god airline travel is horrible,” I says. “Do you realize that you’re enclosed in an airtight tube with a bunch of other people greedily suckin up all your oxygen with giant flarin hippopotamus nostrils? A week’s worth of baked beans can extend your life a full seventeen minutes.”

“Huh,” says the woman, now intrigued. “I’ll bet your flights arrive on time too.”

“If not early,” I agree. “Sure there’s a lot of complaining at the time. But in retrospect I’ll bet all those other passengers would thank me.”

“Couldn’t the release of, eh,” the woman pauses, “'noxious gasses' on an airplane be considered a terrorist act?”

“It could,” I agree. “But so could all the other passengers, depleting the oxygen and by virtue of respiration replacing it with carbon monoxide. Nobody breathes carbon monoxide except maybe plants and people from Detroit. And the Detroit Lions are 0-and-5.”

“0-and-5?” she replies. “Wow. That should make you want to suck some carbon monixide for sure.”

“Detroitians just scurry along quietly on to Vegas or Florida or whatever," I says wiggling my fingers in the air, "replacing all the oxygen in their wake, just like God intended.”

"The quality of air in Detroit must be fantastic," she observes. "You've been playing a lot of Spore, haven't you?"

"Yep," I nod. "And seventeen minutes is seventeen minutes."

“Well, says the woman, affixing a big red stamp on my file, "I can't give you Unemployment, but we can assist with job placement. Have you ever considered working for the Fox News Channel?”

“Meh,” I says. “I was hoping for a cruise gig managing an Applebee's or something.”

Face Forward

Predator Press

[LOBO]

The last jobs I’ve had segued so smoothly into each other, I can’t even remember the last time I needed to search for one.

I’m totally at a loss. I have no local work history or references -and mooching from relatives during a simultaneous apartment search, I don’t even technically have a fixed address. Half of our disorganized stuff is buried deeply in a tightly-packed storage unit; even mustering up a professional appearance has it’s difficulties.

Still, somehow I need to maintain a What's not to love? veneer over this to prospective employers.

I vaguely remember job-hunting tips from junior high school. The teacher was an exceedingly unhappy gentleman named Mister Brown. He wore a suit and tie to class every day, and was absolutely convinced that The Number One Rule for Getting a Job is having nice, immaculately polished shoes.

“That’s the first thing a smart employer will look at,” he explained. “It communicates your attention to detail.”

Mister Brown also had the dubious distinction of running the ‘Alternative Ed’ program, so I got a much larger dose of him than normally required. Alternative Ed was essentially a human repository for the “troublemakers”; presumably this was to remove us from the general population lest our ideas and general discontent permeate the larger more docile and compliant culled herds of cattle.

I had outgrown making overt scenes and fighting at school, and just stopped going altogether. To me the solution seemed pretty clear: You don’t want me here questioning your verbose theories on the wide-reaching impact of uncomfortable footwear, and I don’t want to be here listening to them.

Not very complicated, right?

But Chicago public schools got paid by the number of butts in the seats. So for what likely amounted to a few hundred bucks a year, my seat for eight hours a day –as was for typically ten to fifteen other ‘hooligans’- was a cracked plastic orange or green one in side-by-side three-walled four-by-four concrete cubicles.

Look I'm wearing out my hyphen key with this description: just picture a bathroom stall with a graffiti-addled ledge for a desk. Okay?

Also worthy of mention is that for Mister Brown rules not about getting a job were a bit more complex than merely appropriate shoes: Face the wall, toward your ledge. No standing. No talking and/or noise. Lunch is served at your cube. The two bathroom breaks a day are tightly regimented, and you take them separately from not only each other, but between class periods so you encounter no other students.

You can do schoolwork –doubtless of which you are hopelessly behind on without the class time- or nothing at all.

All day.

Cheers!

Breaking this excruciating silence upon occasion, Mister Brown’s precious shoes could be heard as he paced authoritatively back and forth behind us.

You know, ensuring compliance to the "Non-Job" Rules.

So utterly devoid of any stimulation whatsoever I would often muse Are those shoes I hear the very shoes that got Mister Brown this job?

At one point, trying to make the best of it, I tackled a book report for English class and cracked open a five-inch thick copy of Dune.

Mister Brown’s shoes soon screeched to a halt audibly behind me.

Book report or no, I could not read Dune in Alternative Ed.

So no book report?

Face forward.

To the crude drawings and phrases rendered on heavily-pored and peeling concrete paint instead?

No talking.

Oooh, look there in the corner! Don't those cracks look almost like those spiff, shiny fucking shoes of yours with your still-smoldering dismembered ankle stumps sticking out of them?

This is for your own good somehow.

Or a few hundred bucks.

-I can't remember anymore.

Getting "Discovered" is Tougher than I Thought

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Well, today marks one whole week since we’ve arrived in California and I have yet to appear in a single movie.

Oh sure … I’ve had offers. But at the moment I need to focus on my political career.

-And Civilization IV.

Still, a job might help. It’s pretty tense right now: I’m essentially about one Google search from Terri finding out there’s actually no such thing as Arecacephobia -the morbid fear of palm trees- and without health insurance, the stitches from a blow from a frying pan could totally ruin us.

I need to think of something quick.

Today, taking a page out of Lana Turner’s playbook, I hung out at the drug store all damn day.

“Hey,” says the soda jerk, “Aren’t you-?”

Ah thank god. A Predator Press fan.

“-going to order something?” he continues. “You can’t sit there unless you order something.”

"You're not fooling anybody, damonkappas!" I says. "I'm on to you!"


***

So 6 32-ounce Mountain Dews later, still no employment.

Now I have to pee like a Russian racehorse, and my laptop battery is nearly dead because I’ve written six Broadway musicals and a rather lengthy sequel to Les Misérables.

I was just wrapping up the part where Cosette finds out Marius Pontmercy is actually a zombie space alien and crushes him against his own flying saucer in her Escalade when the drug store closed and I got kicked out.

Honestly with a work ethic like that, I don’t know how anything gets done out here at all.

BLORE

Predator Press

[LOBO]

I'm looking for a word I can't find.

So's I call Merriam Webster.

"Merriam," I says. "I need a word for blogging whore."

"I don't think there is one LOBO," says Merriam.

"Well that's pretty shoddy work on your part," I says. "You people need to get with us here in the Twentieth Centurion. We got computers nowadays, and people are whoring their blogs on them."

"I suppose you're right," concedes Merriam. "Any ideas?"

"Well, I'm kinda partial to blore."

"Huh. I like it. It's a noun and a verb."

"Can it have a picture of me in the definition?"

"Do you think you qualify?"

"Do I ever! Humor Bloggers, Alltop, Entrecard ... you name it, I'm bloring on it."

"You're on Humor-Blogs too, right?"

"Oh man it should be illegal how much bloring I do on Humor-Blogs. 'Cept Diesel keeps busting it. He calls it 'upgrading'."

"Should I send him a copy of my book?"

"Nah. Between conquering the internet, writing, his job, building a house, kids, wife, et cetera he'd never read it. He's one of those, ah ... Hey, what's a word for 'somebody that's always doin stuff'?"

"Busy?"

"Yeah. He's like really, really busy. Which is probably why he made the site faster."

"I thought you said he busted it."

"I said upgraded. Jeez Merriam ... those two words don't mean anything like each other. I thought you wrote them big thick books with all the alphabetized words and definitions."

"You mean Dictionaries?"

"I dunno. I have a dresser with a broken leg and the corner it props up covers the title almost entirely. You're probably right. It ends with a 'Y', but I don't think there's a book that indexes words by their last letter yet. Hey ... isn't that discrimination against people with dyslexia?"

"Before we get too far off-track, is there anything else you can tell me about blores such as yourself?" asks Merriam. "I'm taking notes here so don't go too fast."

"Well," I says, thinking. "We don't take criticism very well."

"Really."

"Yeah. Like about my last post, this dude damonkappas said 'That's too much to read. Your post wanders all over the highway like a 76 ford pickup with a broken axle. Focus man, focus!'"

"How did that make you feel?"

"I don't know really. I found a quarter after that. And then while watching television I got hungry so I drove to Wal-Mart and bought some pants."

"You got hungry so you bought pants at Wal-Mart?"

"Well I needed something with pockets to put the quarter in."

"How is your election coming along?"

"Eh, I dunno." I shrug. "I don't really follow politics. I figure John Nobody will let me know one way or another."

"What will you do if you two win?"

"You mean besides have the Secret Service wax damonkappas?"

"Yes."

"And rubbing it good and merciless in Don Lewis' face until the end of time?"

"Yes."

"Never thought about it."

"Really?"

"Well the President isn't the guy that puts up a stop sign so's playing kids don't get hit by cars. Or get your street's potholes fixed. Or opens an art museum in your neighborhood. All the real important stuff in people's day-to-day lives is handled at a far more local level; I'll bet you a dollar 4/5ths of the people voting on Election Day couldn't name three people on their own City Council."

"Maybe you should change all that," says Merriam.

"You mean become, like, The Pothole Party?"

"Eh ... "

"Waaay too much work. Plus pot is illegal ... all I would get is a very smooth drive to the state pen and maybe a case of "the munchies." No, at this level people don't want anything effectual at all. Effects tend to have consequences. John and I have far too much at stake to risk having any consequences whatsoever."

"Why bother then?" asks Merriam.

"Because the risk of Don Lewis winning is far too horrifying. Rather than talking to the people in meaningless and endless reassuring circles, Don Lewis would doubtlessly see some important issue and impudently do something about it. Then, BOOM! Consequences. John Nobody and I are twice as ineffectual as Don Lewis. There will be no consequences while we are in Office."

"I see."

"So does my new word go in the dictionary?"

"Based on your logic, wouldn't having an effect on the American lexicon jeopardize your election?"

"Damn, you're right!" I pause for a second. "What if we said it was Don Lewis' idea?"

Hey This Shinola Smells Like Crap

Predator Press

[LOBO]


I don't know what I'm more excited about -the move to California or the nod as John Nobody's Vice Presidential running mate.

At first I figured I should prioritize the up-and-coming election. You know, start making up the policies and so forth I would be pretending to stick to?

But then I found out Don Lewis went to Oregon.

On purpose.

-Man, this election is going to be a piece of cake.


***

So about the trip. This post -like the last one- is kinda hastily slapped together. Before we left, Comcast was kind enough to turn our services off a day early. Rendered wholly unable to use the phone and pay off the bill with my VISA due to this, I considered the remaining balance as a 'going away present' and spent the entire $200 frivolously on postcards and snowglobes from obscure locations across continental LOBOnia.

Thanks Comcast! I would send you this snowglobe of Twentynine Palms, but you would probably break that too.

Now safely on the "other side," we find ourselves hanging by a tenuous fingernail with internet connectivity once again. We are staying with Terri's relatives, and Terri's relatives are Mac users.

But do not judge Terri's woefully uniformed Mac-using relatives too harshly! Remember we are mooching heavily from these people; this is no time to point out their laughable choice of a clearly inferior so-called "operating" system.

Nay, this is a time where patient understanding and tolerance of their quaint eccentricities and dumb misguided boobery must be respected and embraced as our own.

For today, Terri and I shall be respectful of this pagan foolishness. But once we figure out these weird and counter-intuitive Mac network configurations, we will surely inform them of their colossal technological blunders and mournful misgivings: !!!Whammo!!! -The mighty oak tree of TRUTH will come a-callin', right upside the head.


***

As far as the contiguous parts of our great nation of LOBOnia, let me first point out I had no idea how big it is. It's too big. I mean it took like fifty gallons of gas to get accross it!

I'm going to level with you: I don't need this much space.

Plus I need some quick cash.

Does anyone know if any countries might be interested in shelling out a few hundred bucks for the east side of it? I'm not there anymore, and therefore there can't be a while lot going on. It does hold some sentimental value, but still I seriously doubt it would be missed.

The best current offer is from a fun-loving scrubby-looking group of guys called "The Taliban": on the table is four cows, six virgins and 500 free hours on AOL.

While this appeared to be a tempting offer at first, it turns out that four of the six virgins were actually the cows anyway, and the remaining two virgins were hippopotamus women with unkempt toenails that extended waaay beyond their sandals.

All damn day I heard nothing but clackitty-clicketty-clack against the linoleum, and the occasional mournful wail when one periodically snagged in the shag carpet.

Ultimately I'll probably turn "The Taliban" down.

How could I possibly allow beloved Pianosa I's shag carpet be reduced to bloodied tufts as such?

Besides, their music sucks.


***

Anyways, I do miss Pianosa I. The full weight of emotions didn't fully hit until the morning we arrived here at Pianos II -my tiny black heart collapsed into a singularity and exploded.

-Well, it kinda coughed for a second. If you look closely, there's a stress fracture in the left ventricle. I'm almost sure it's permanent too.

But Terri did this for me a year and a half ago. She sold and gave away everything, told her family goodbye, and "followed her heart" with only me to rely on.

Would you cross a woman that crazy?

LOBOnian Marines, Air Force Flex Military Muscle

Predator Press

[Associated Press]

In order to prevent what was labeled as a 'false sense of security' due to LOBO’s departure, LOBOnian officials have released footage of secret military exercises designed to scare Pianosa I into "keeping their shit together or else."

“Under LOBOnian leadership, Pianosa I is now recognized as The Mecca of Wisdom and Progress," replied the LOBOnian Chancellor in a telephoned interview. "We decided that demonstrating our military capacity to strike from the skies or unseen from the forests would serve as a warning not to start farming soybeans and corn -or something equally lame."

"It’s for their own good,” he continued. "Now if you will excuse me, I have to chainsaw down this tree so's I can get our bomber back."

Sin, Sex, and Sunday Night Football

Predator Press

[LOBO]

“Come in!” I says swinging the door open wide. “Good to see you guys!”

“Thanks LOBO,” Jessica says stepping inside. Eric hands me a bottle of wine with a ribbon tied around it. “This is for you and Terri. We heard you two were moving to California.”

“Oooh fancy,” I says, reading the label. “How’ve you been? And where have you been? We haven’t seen you guys in ages.”

“Jessica and I have been going to church a lot,” says Eric.

“Well that explains it then.”

“How come you haven’t been going?” asks Jessica.

“Terri is there now,” I reply. "That counts, right?"

Jessica scowls. “You don’t go?”

“I just went last year, remember? There was a full-on sermon about some guy.” I set the bottle on the table and gesture for them to sit. Easing back in the recliner, I check the Redskins score. “Besides, despite all my prayers God apparently hates my Fantasy Football team. We’re 1-and-2. I’m kinda thinking maybe I should lay low for a while.”

At that exact moment, Terrell Owens nimbly slipped through a thick defense and scored a touchdown.

Subtly wiping back a tear I says, “So what triggered all this new interest in religion?”

Eric’s eyes get a little evasive.

“We were,” Jessica hesitates, “having some marital issues.”

“Really?”

“But we’ve been getting counseling,” says Eric. He smiles at Jessica, and clasps her hand. “It’s been really great for us.”

“I’ll bet,” I concur. “Probably the best thing for you. And I hear it’s a sin if a wife doesn’t submit to her husband’s –eh, desires.”

Jessica goes fire truck red.

Eric squirms. ‘We’ve, uh, learned to come to terms and respect one another.”

“Well it must save you two a lot of foreplay,” I affirm. “Take your pants off bitch, or I’m tellin’ Jesus!”