Starter Gods

Predator Press

[LOBO]

I don’t imagine you would start out as The God. I think you would start small and work your way up. Like, for instance, you would begin as the God of the Star Wars Jawas –curing blindness by changing the AA batteries that make their eyes work, et cetera.

See the rules for gods are the same as in boating: the bigger gods get the “right of way” and the smaller ones have to yield. For you non-nautical types, think of it in terms of going to the buffet: if you and some kid that looks like Pauly Shore are making a play for the same pork chop, you stab Pauly with your fork to make your intentions clear and that’s it. But on the other hand if it’s the woman being recruited as a linebacker for the Saint Louis Rams –you know, with her fat, powerful toes spilling out over her flip flops and gripping the carpet like it might suddenly become the ceiling should gravity reverse itself- you might consider some Salisbury steak instead.

So where was I? Oh yeah. Jawas. Creepy little guys. They dress kinda like ghosts. Ever play Pac Man? When you eat the big flashing dot the ghosts turn blue, and you can eat them. Blue like R2D2! Coincidence? Or were the Jawas trying to protect their endangered brethren? Hmm?

Answer me, dammit!

I’m kidding, of course. As the Unofficial God of Jawas, I have it on good authority R2-D2 was mistaken for a Jawa in a mumu, and all efforts to get him to Mos Eisley where he was to catch his connecting Honolulu flight were all grossly overblown misunderstandings. Then one Jawa innocently peaked up R2’s torso to see where that third leg came from and whammo: lawsuit.

And what would Jawa porn be like? I mean you don’t see much of them except their glowing eyes what with the robe and all. Are their eyes the only -*ahem*- things that glow? Could we expect a strobe effect while on Jawa spanked the other screamin ”Who’s your daddy?”

So where was I?

Oh yeah.

To All You Poor Rich People: WELCOME!

Predator Press

[LOBO]

I heard Rush Limbaugh giving a speech today.

It’s safe to say it alarmed me a little. Not what he was actually saying … oh Christ no I’ve been tuning that guy out for years. But the fact that he is talking to people who are listening always gives me the heebie-jeebies.

The Obama camp is being besieged by a re-inspired Republican Party: the rationale is that Obama is supposedly leading us into a Socialist-type quagmire.

I’m not any political party.

And with that being said, I think the Republicans should shut the fuck up. You “Republicans” who rationalized George W. Bush –barely a mammal- for eight fucking years have the balls to wonder why the “Republican Party” leaves a bad taste in America’s mouth right now?

Seriously?

I suggest you guys reprioritize and go find yourself a candidate that can be, well, elected.

:)

All My Worldly Possessions

[LOBO]

Okay.

I’ve bought a chest from roughly the World War II era.

And for the last ten years I’ve filled it with random stuff like slabs of cuneiform, Aztec sundials, obscure navigational coordinates, and maps of unidentified-yet-historic European fortresses and cathedrals.

–All sprinkled lightly with tantalizing Latin and Arabic poetry and diagrams.

The lawyer reading my Last Will and Testament will bequeath this unexplained trove via Overnight Fed-Ex to my least favorite relative with the following note:


I was so close!

Predator Press: Wise Investing

Predator Press

[LOBO]

As a male, I have a preoccupation with the family’s “Investment Strategy.”

Terri is always “401k this,” and “stocks ‘n bonds that.”

All that Wall Street hocus-pocus never excited me much: I always thought we should simply buy a waterbed frame that I can just lie in and, fed by tubes, slowly fill up to exactly the size of my coffin.

Life insurance? O hell no. Just spray the lining with PAM and flip me into the cemetery!

See, I’m thinking of installing a garage door right in the bedroom. Terri –once she’s acquired the proper OSHA certifications- could theoretically drive a forklift right in. Modern forklifts –and I’m speaking of the ones with electric batteries- can run without issue for eight hour stretches. I would probably top out at about six hundred pounds -well below specifications.

From our location, we could make it to Alcatraz, Los Angeles, the San Andreas Fault and the Sequoia National Park with a good 50 hours of hard driving and intercepting charged batteries via strategic Fed-Ex locations.

-But I think Terri is just plain lazy.

Oasis

Predator Press

[LOBO]

“No, Shiftless,” I says to my teenage son with finality. “You can’t play Blood Armageddon IX while Screechy is around anymore. He’s six. I don’t want him evolving the idea that violence solves anything for anyone except myself.”

“What?”

“You heard me. If word gets around violence works for other people too, I could be in big trouble.”

Johnny Cash: Beyond Thunderdome

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Dear Mr. Steven Spielberg,

As your bodyguards have recently reminded me, I know this is in direct violation of my Temporary Restraining Order.

-But I cannot in good conscience let you miss out on this script!

Enclosed is the first three chapters of my script Johnny Cash: Beyond Thunderdome.

While one thousand six hundred and seven pages might seem a bit cumbersome, please remember that they are double-spaced for your reading convenience.

To summarize, Joaquin Phoenix reprises his role as Johnny Cash who has risen from the dead in a post-apocalyptic world due to bad Tina Turner music. Then he becomes a Rabbi and is forced to kick the shit out of Mad Max (portrayed by Mel Gibson).

Humiliated, Mad Max is forced underground and forges an uneasy alliance with Batman and the “A” Team: together they create a the Death Dradle which threatens to wipe out Thunderdome which -while redundant- meanaces however many extras we can pick up fast and “on the cheap.”

Alerted to the Death Dradle’s sinister purpose, the population of Thunderdome rally behind Johnny, and the six of them design and create a lethal countermeasure: The Aurora Menorah. This plan –essentially throwing sand and scorpions at anyone with a Mohawk hairstyle- is doomed to failure however: the Mohawk guys have invisible motorcycles and guns.

Johnny Cash -now known as "Snake"- is captured, and Thunderdome is immediately retaken by Max. But Johnny’s last wish before his execution is to play an invisible guitar, and he plays a song so bluesy and sad Batman –his guard- hangs himself with his own BatCables™ . Johnny, after administering mouth-to-mouth CPR on Batman and triggering numerous lawsuits from DC Comics, escapes with the aid of his newfound pet rat Ben and continues on with his plan to assassinate Hitler.

Fleeing into the desert, Johnny is beset by visions and memories of his past life, realizing he died fairly definitively in the movie Walk the Line.

-Indeed, Johnny must be the world’s first musical Jewish zombie!

And if anti-Semitic Mad Max was going to be defeated, Johnny has to learn to set aside his overpowering musical Jewish zombie craving for brains: this sets the stage for some fantastic Oscar-worthy performances:


DIALOGUE EXCERPT
“Ben,” says tormented Johnny. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“How the fuck could I know?” says the rat (voiced by Bruce Willis).

“Can’t I have just a little bit of brains?”

“No,” says Ben. “It’s a strict discipline.”

“But I caught you eating my bicep yesterday! Can I at least lick the brain spoon after you put the chocolate chips and sprinkles in it?”

“Let me have the bicep and I’ll think it over.”

“Done. Here.”

“No,” says Ben between chews. "Now load your invisible gun and get on your invisible motorcycle. Tina Turner just issued a press release calling you Bigfoot's Manifesto."


END DIALOGUE EXCERPT
Steven, I have no doubt you -the premier visionary Director of the Twentieth Centurion- see immediately in the genius of this script. Please call me to begin negotiations at 555-999-5150.

And hurry up.

-It’s a payphone.

I Miss George W. Bush

Predator Press

[LOBO]

I think –in pursuit of shaking this slump- I need to listen to less news.

What happened to that doddering white guy in cowboy boots everybody hated tellin’ us how great everything was a few months ago? I slept better knowing he was out there pickin fights ‘an declaring victory on random stuff. But now every morning it’s a black guy goin’ ”Holy freakin crap people, we’re screwed!”

I think the white guy should maybe fill in on weekends and vacation days: Saturday mornings I could tune into CNN and be pleasantly surprised with an upbeat newscast like Middle East Makes Up, Orgy Ensues or Chili Con Carne Recipe Cures Cancer, Genital Warts.

Would that be so bad?

Seriously?