G.W.B.

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Less than a week after we watched in horror as journalist Muntazer al-Zaidi tried to wang American President George W. Bush upside the head with a leather pair of size 10s, Predator Press has uncovered evidence that he was not, in fact, working alone.

“The forensic evidence of at least one additional shoe-thrower is overwhelming,” says a smart-looking guy in a lab coat. Taking a pen from his pocket, he points at the toe. “This is a very expensive soft leather. Where are the inevitable scuffs? Are we to believe this was some kind of scuffless ‘magic shoe’? Pfft. As if! The odds of such a shoe being hurled and not scuffed are somewhere in the vicinity of, like, a jillion-to-one.”

He continues on to dispute the now well-known footage: “Now watch the shoe tosses themselves. Both are hurled with high degrees of backspin, thusly creating a significant amount of aerodynamic [he makes quote marks in the air with his fingers] 'torque'. This causes what golfers call [he makes quote marks again] 'hook'."

"As you can see in this AutoCAD recreation of the trajectories, both peel back and to the left. This forces Bush to duck toward the right. It's all very scientific.”

When asked what bearing this had on the ongoing $154M investigation he responded, “Absolutely none whatsoever ... I've just never been on TV before.”


He pauses and waves.

"Hi mom!"

Oh, and About This Whole "Christmas" Thing ...

Predator Press

[LOBO]


Fingers pinching the bridge of my nose, I wince into them –but this does nothing practical to ease the pain.

They just keep going.

I can’t take it.

And going.

Please stop.

Finally I crack like an eggshell.

“For God’s sake, please STOP!”

Within seconds, the packed auditorium dwindles to a quieted state: a handful of Mrs. Tanner’s first grade class –still lost in song apparently- were among the last few to drift into silence.

And barring the puzzled murmurs of some 300 other parents that attended the South California Middle School Christmas Celebration Ball, there is a glorious absence of sound entirely.

“Excuse me?” says Mrs. Tanner from the side of the stage.

The kids are starin at me slackjawed.

“Ma’am,” I says. “I love Christmas just as much as anyone else. But so help me God if you make those kids do whatever that was again, I will kill you.”

“That was The Twelve Days of Chrismas,” she defends.

“No,” I says. “That was somebody smashing a 40-ounce beer bottle and jamming the pieces into my Frontal lobe.”

A fat blonde kid in front raises his hand. "Mrs Tanner-"

“Shut up!” I says, pointing at him wild-eyed.

I stand and approach the stage. “You!” I indicate the boy. “What’s your name?”

“Joseph,” he says.

“Joseph, do you have any idea what happens when you have twenty-two pipers piping simultaneously?”

Joseph just stares.

“And don’t get me started on-“ I count out some fast and furious math on my fingers, “thirty five golden rings? Oh holy Christ!”

“It’s just a song mister,” says Joseph.

“And you know what you do when you sing that song a full half an octave flat Joseph?” I lean down into his pudgy little still-asymmetrical face. “You make Santa cry.”

A tear streamed down Joseph’s cheek.

“Sir," snaps Mrs. Tanner. “They’re only six!"

I seize the clipboard from her hand. “That’s why I’m holding you entirely accountable.” Skimming her list, I begin “Oh lookit. Jingle Bells. How original.” I pause and glance at her. “You call yourself a professional? You didn’t even bother to put the ugly kids in the back row!”

Joseph wails.

“Shut up!” I repeat, already back to Mrs Tanner’s songlist. “A Hippopotamus for Christmas?” I guffaw. “Well that’s not even plausible ... !”

“Have you no soul?” cries Mrs. Tanner.

I shrug. “I got a jar of mayonnaise for it in 2003.”

Bullets to Spare

Predator Press

[LOBO]

“Let’s say a complex unfixable issue in Section 36 will likely cause us all to die,” I says. “I would immediately say ’You know what Section 36? You guys are assholes!’”

I pause for a second, looking out the window for dramatic effect. “-and then Section 36 fixes the issue. Disaster is averted, and we all survive.”

There’s an uncomfortable silence.

Crap.

-I thought I was doing really well there.

“See,” I continue -hoping to recapture my previous inertia and maybe rescue the effort. “That’s the kind of job I need: a 'sexy, take chargy, top-secrety, lot's of cashy company jetty'-type job. And that’s why I think I am perfect for your company.”

“Sir,” he says blandly. “We make baby bottles here.”

“Seriously?”

If You Can't Beat Them ... Well ... THEN What?

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Complainy, already a hard-core 16 year-old ‘texter,’ has probably already lost all ability to see anything further than eighteen inches from her face at this point.

-And glasses ain’t cheap.

“Would you just call those damned people already?” I demand. “You’ve been 'tiny-typing' them for hours!”

“You work on your blog for hours,” she says absently. “Why don’t you just call them?"

“Well I … ,” I begin. “Uhn, … "

“Actually talking to people is so passé,” she says, blue screenlight reflecting in her fixed brown eyes.

“People are not a mixture of minced meat and fat in the form of spreadable paste, generally made from a finely ground or chunky mixture of meats and liver and often generally enjoyed on crackers,” I remind her.

"That's pâté," she corrects.

“Nobody likes a smart ass," I retort. "And you can’t hold me responsible for that whole 'Arkansas' thing forever: I lost my wallet, and I certainly wasn’t going to catch a deer with two cans of 'Old Style.'”

-I pause for a second, rewinding the incident in my head.

“And that jerk was wearing A1 sauce,” I recall pounding my fist into the table. “He was askin’ for it!”

Complainy blinks at her phone. “Were you saying something dad?”

“Man what is wrong with you kids today?” I demand. “Back in my day, AC/DC was cool, Ozzy was evil, and Red Hot Chili Peppers was seasoning!”

“Really,” she says disinterested. “Wow.”

“And we respected our … !"

Uh-oh.

“Ah screw it,” I concede. “Just try to stay out of jail, okay?”

Generations

Predator Press

[LOBO]

There’s a moment in every father’s life when his son’s accomplishments and talents will eclipse his own.

Contemplating this solemnly, I open the small gray panel on the wall. Screechy, the six year old, is surrounded by animated friends and family and playing Centipede furiously in the living room.

-And he is poised to break my all-time high score.

Locating the black switch scrawled “Living Room” in marker, I toggle it to “off,” and then back to “on.”

A disbelieving shriek emanates throughout the house, but I’m already rappelling down the back of the house and into my waiting car.

Throwing the ski mask into the back seat, I punch the gas to the floor. The tires scream hot on the concrete for traction.

"Not today ya little bastard," I says.

Obama Cabinet Appointments Raise Eyebrows, Concerns

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Being unemployed has it’s upside: you have time to do things other people don’t, such as recapture your old high score on Centipede or Defender.

But I’m a journalist dammit: millions and millions of readers every day come to Predator Press as their sole source of news, and I owe it to them to steal Barack Obama’s briefcase if you think about it -the injuries I sustained busting the lock off are all part ‘an parcel to the gig.

There’s no need to thank me until Pulitzer time rolls around.

-I'll be playing Missile Command by then.


***

Anton 'Ice Cream' Wellingsdale the Second will be the "brains" of the operation as Secretary of State. Ice Cream is most well-known for his controversial book I Hate Whitey and the sequel Whitey Kiss My Ass -both of which are currently runaway bestsellers, and the first books ever to go double platinum.

Kimbo Slice will be filling the slot of Attorney General. I don’t really know what the Attorney General actually does, but whatever it is I’ll bet this former MMA fighter will be doin a lot of it: simulations testing Kimbo's diplomatic aptitude almost universally concluded with him wrapping the cord around Mao Zedong's neck and beating him upside the head with the red phone.

Secretary of War Rendell 'The Mix' Warren is a Harvard Graduate and a former Black Panther. You may best remember him from The Electric Slide Made Me Do It defense put forth by his lawyers, culminating into a “not guilty” verdict for the murder of an barload of drunk chicks using a dog-eared copy of Ice Cream’s Whitey Kiss My Ass.

In The Mix's downtime, he enjoys working with his Saddam Hussein tribute band, drinking "40s," theoretical astrophysics, classical art from the 1800s and baking.

There’s more information on some of these guys than others: the data on our new Secretary of the Treasury is sketchy at best –all I got was this picture and some "You Gonna Get Raped" letterhead.

The one on top is scrawled "Draft legislation outlawing Nascar, the Country Music Awards and square dancing."

-It's underlined twice.

Glop (or “How to Save Yourself $50,000”)

Predator Press

[LOBO]

“Okay,” says Terri. “We have three kids, no silverware, a crock pot and $26 with which to eat on for three days. What did you come up with?”

“Well," I says, "Since none of you mincing pansies are brave enough for the candy corn, I hadda go with glop."

-See, this is why Terri wisely chose me as a mate: I have an innate unwavering natural gift for making her kids shut up happy.

We shall eat glop, and the glop shall be Good.

-So sayith the Board.

“What the heck is glop?” asks Shiftless.

Complainy sighs, “Tonight we dine in Hell.”

“Glop,” I says, “Is what I ate through college. It stands for Get Lots On Plate. You go to a grocery store and just wing it. Rice, chicken, a can of corn ... maybe peas. Add some soy sauce and poof. Glop.”

“Mine has splinters in it,” says Terri.

“That’s because I didn’t have a knife,” I explain. “I hadda cut it with the edge of a two-by-four. But it’s tenderized and fully-cooked. Perfectly sanitary.”

Shiftless pulls the spoon from the pot, and it looks like a turkey leg of sticky rice with peas stuck all over it.

With a despondent scowl, he bangs the fork loudly against the pot’s edge in vain effort to break the surprisingly impact-resistant glop free.

“Man," he says. "Fuck college.”