Ask LOBO: How to Blog Part II

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Millions and millions of readers are always asking me everyday, "LOBO, how can I learn to blog good?"

Well I’m glad you asked me that.

See, the environment from which you blog can’t be taken seriously enough.

Obviously we can’t all blog like Diesel does -drinkin’ chardonnay and smokin’ cigars with all the leisure time in the world, insulated in the 57th-story penthouse of the Humor-Blogs skyscraper and guarded by an evil Ed Harris and a battery of deadly bikini-clad secretaries.

Nor can we like the much-beloved Doctor Toboggans -from the deep unmapped catacomby bowels of the Delta Medical Center, surrounded by cages of helpful serial killers and upbeat Wall Street executives.

From the surface level of the Earth one must take precautions lest the aliens read your unprotected terrestrial thoughts and suck out your blogging ideas -thus paving the way to the enslavement of Humankind in the blogging labor camps on Alpha Centauri.

And not just anybody can make a regulation foil fedora that blocks your brainwaves from interception: don't fall for rank amateur construction! Without the proper pyramidical dimensions, improper geometrical configurations can actually amplify valuable transmissions to the Evil Alien Omnocracy!

Further, one should probably start with a nice and quiet ergonomic space restricted explicitly for blogging.

And deploy a 3000-watt strobe light immediately.

-It confuses the zombies.

Children of the Spud

Predator Press

[LOBO]

I’m an optimist when it all boils down.

-I mean here I am faced with an economic apocalypse which will doubtlessly spiral America into a feudal and barbaric warlike state over control of ever-dwindling resources: cities will collapse and burn under the fleeting interests of growing dissonance and anarchy.

I think this would, in fact, finally catapult my career into high gear.

Now I’ve never actually been a feudal overlord before, so I may stop just short of that -you know, maybe I’ll spend a few weeks as an underlord so I can ‘learn the ropes.’

But ultimately -once I’ve re-unified all the global superpowers and voluntarily abdicated my throne- you won’t be able to throw a rock without hitting my movie or book deals. My biography will be all the rage, ‘an the poster will be me in some kind of crazy battle armor swinging a high-tech battleaxe with a scantily-clad Terri hangin on my bulging pectorals.

See?

Optimist.

But Northern Idaho stands poised to change all that.

See most people don’t put the words “evil” and “Idaho” together often. It’s true about me too: I just don’t care that much about foreign policy abroad, and tend to stick with domestic issues. Besides, sometimes I really question this whole prejudice against big scary "evil." I mean what has evil ever done to me?

-Nor do I think "Regular Joe" Americans really know Idaho’s rich heritage of blood-soaked serious evildoing. Even today Idaho grows potatoes. Hitler loved potatoes: a large part of Idaho’s economy is subtly intertwined with nourishing the Fuhrer (should he have survived).

It’s Prima Facie: the average Idahoan capacity for evil is underestimated and completely unregulated, and I don’t understand why we don't send our navy to bomb the crap out of that place before Don Lewis returns.

Internet Swag

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Nosebleed

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Possessing the radiant braniosity of 1,000 men (or roughly six women) can be a lonely cross to bear.

See, people don’t always embrace genius. True, genius is often well-received ... but more often than not genius is dressed like Rihanna and in front of Chris Brown’s house, yelling disparaging comments about his penis size.

-But I carry on because I care.

Still, when I found out there was a scientific institute named The National Aeronautics and Space Administration (NASA) that I wasn’t a part of, I was furious.

Not only was I not invited to participate, but they didn’t even change the name -lifting it directly from my own institution: The National Aeronautics and Space Administration of LOBO (NASAL).

And how can you have an “aeronautic space administration” –national or otherwise- without the world’s foremost theoretical astrophysicizer?

Hm?

Spree

Predator Press

[LOBO]

“I fixed your hood ornament,” says the tech.

“Actually you broke it off,” I point out.

“Semantics,” he replies. “It kept poking me while I was under the hood so I got rid of it. You didn’t need it anyways. It’s more aerodynamic this way.”

“That’s not the point, is it?”

“Look,” says the guy. “I put a different one on. It’s just as good, and this one doesn’t poke me anymore. What are you afraid of? Somebody will mistake your stupid car for another stupid car? Frankly I’m sick of you people and your petty imaginary car competitions -all conducted the expense of my physical and emotional well-being!”

I have a headache now.

He pokes me in the shoulder.

"By the way, here's your antenna.”

How I Got Back on the Board of Education

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Being back in the Principle’s office, I believe, makes my edginess warranted.

My fifteen years of adolescent “education” were absolutely riddled with paddlings.

-They don’t do it anymore, but I still make the association.

For a few moments I fall behind the gentleman as we walk to Screechy’s classroom, and I find myself staring at the back of his head and thinking I could take this guy.

“This is the classroom,” he says, swinging the door wide.

What followed was an assault of color and information that reminded me of that mushroom pizza I had in Amsterdam: there wasn’t a square inch of that place that wasn’t both visually stuffed with information and somehow delicious in appearance like candy.

This room could make me insane.

“He’s a good student,” the Principle says. “He just-“

OMG they’ve got 'HOP on Pop‎.'

“-and upon occasion we’ve noticed-“

I LOVE 'HOP on Pop!'

“Sir?” says the Principle.

“I said this room is terrifying,” I repeat.

I think.

“How so?”

“Well,” I begin. “The alphabet pictures over the chalk board. They show pictures of animals. A-Aardvark, B-Brontosaurus, C-Cat, D-Dog…”

“And this is a problem?”

“S is a stethoscope. Until ‘S’, we have all animals.” I shake my head. “You people will be the first to ditch me when my son asks for a pet stethoscope. How could you be so heartless?”

“We’re trying to tell you,” Principle Estevez continues, “that your son is exhibiting narcissistic delusions of grandeur, aggression and slightly paranoid antisocial behaviors.”

“That comes from his mother,” I explain. “Are you guys serving donuts? You guys dragged me in here at 8:30 in the morning and don’t have coffee and donuts? Seriously?”

"Sir, we-"

"I should totally kick your ass."

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.