The Fart of War

or "Piece on Earth"

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Operating on the theory that you can get Christmas-related posts virtually anywhere, we here at Predator Press have decided to briefly defy convention, continuing with the world-renown medical science millions and millions of readers have come to expect.

Yes, we're going to talk about farts.

Again.

Few associate Christmas with farting. In fact, farting is really more of a Thanksgiving thing I suppose -the phrase "Black Friday" is no accident. But I contend that after Thanksgiving, a whole month of leftovers, questionable company dinners, and experimental baking, we have created an entire society of unsung "gastronomical daredevils"; this under-appreciated methane-fueled event is currently at an apex unprecedented in the -dare I say- annals of human history.

In the many years I have known my beloved wife, I have never known her to fart. Not once! This distresses me immensely; I suspect that once she hits critical mass, she sneaks out with the car in the middle of the night and screams out to some obscure cornfield on the outskirts of town, blasting a crop circle into the otherwise orderly and unsuspecting topography.

This must be the case, right? Like it or not, everybody has to fart -and the more restraint you exercise, the worse the occurrence; forcing those things to percolate unnaturally is dangerous, and one could spontaneously explode in a big stinky bang that craters and kills everything biological for several miles, with the equivalent force of six Rosie O'Donnells at the Ponderosa salad bar. Sure I've got "Flight of the Bumblebee" in the chamber ... but are those arctic scuba divers, chipping out their now-frozen bubbles of mirth and mischief, Fed-Exing the joy abroad for no reason whatsoever?

Farting cannot -and should not- be regulated for any reason, and some of the oldest cultures on Earth still revere this fact. Muslims, for instance, don't eat burritos; if all Muslims broke wind simultaneously while facing Mecca during prayer, over the years it would gradually decelerate the Earth's rotation, causing environmental chaos!

As Americans, we are a wisely fart-tolerant, fart-friendly, fart-encouraging society, and the fart is imprinted solidly into our national olfaction -steeped deeply in tradition and heritage. Indeed, Supreme Court Chief Justice John G. Roberts has been quoted to say "When we see Sonia Sotomayor's robes a-flappin' in the wind, we immediately pull the fire alarm and engage in a orderly and well-practiced evacuation of the chambers."

Twas the Night Before Christmas

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Twas the night before Christmas
and I’m wide awake,
arraying the chimney
with beartraps and snakes;
the booby-trapped stockings
set with infinite care,
in hopes that fat bastard’ll
blow his hand off in there.

There arose such a clatter
up on my roof,
-and I’m sick of cleaning up
piles of froze reindeer poop!
I let loose a war cry
-a blood curdling scream-
and empty the contents
of my AR-15.

One two three four five
six seven eight nine
thumps from above tell me
I missed one this time.
“Oh Dasher, Oh Dancer”
cries a loud booming voice,
“LOBO this tears it.
You give me no choice!”

I empty a blast
at the source of the sound
-and another at a spot
I think he might bound
-but the fat man is spry
for all that it’s worth-
he evaded hot lead,
belying his girth.

Not a creature was stirring
as I reloaded my shells,
“I don’t want any trouble!”
I finally yells.
“Just leave all the toys,
and get the hell out
I don't want to send cops
on that long North Pole route!”

The back door exploded
in splinters and slag
and a blood-splattered Santa
in smoldering rags
was removing his coat
and rolling his sleeves
“This time,” says Santa,
“Only one of us leaves.”

We circle each other,
and I’m very alarmed.
I can’t believe
the size of his arms!
“Hey what gives?" I says stunned.
"You’ve been working out!
Where’s the ‘bowl full of jelly’
you trespassing lout?”

With a wink of an eye
and a twist of his head,
I know within moments
I will likely be dead.
Santa flicks his nose,
“You dumb blogging hack!
I’ve lost two hundred pounds
on my Nordic Track.”

"Old Mrs. Clause
must thing you're a riot"
I says, "and that Stetson cologne?
I'll bet she don't buy it."
"I wear nothing but Polo," he says.
"Don't even try it.
Now I'll pound you to pulp,
and then leave here real quiet.”

"If you think that's Polo,
age is taking it's toll,"
-that's when I did
a slick ninja-like roll,
and from under the sugar-plums
grab the control,
“Bring a knife to a gunfight?”
I says laughing. “How droll!”

Missile TOW missiles launched
from tubes placed discretely,
but Santa danced deftly
–they missed him completely.
One of them arched
so high and so true
It blew the poor neighbor’s place
clear out of view.

“LOBO let’s stop this.
You’ve blown up the Burkes!”
“To Hell with you Santa!
Those people were jerks!”
“I don’t understand
why this is unpleasant,”
Santa opens his arms.
“Especially since I brought you a present.”

“Really?” I says,
resisting suspicion.
I lower my bazooka.
“That was your mission?”
“Why sure!” says Santa.
“It’s from your mother.”
And when I looked in that hand,
he punched me with the other.

Electric pain flashes
all through my cap,
My nose must be broken,
completely smashed flat.
I stagger backwards.
“Santa, you’re dead!”
… But Rudolph, behind me,
clean kicked off my head.

It landed on a spike
three blocks away
and I could see where my body
dropped and lifelessly lay.
Up on the rooftop,
the reindeer all raised
to assume the mantle
of pulling The Sleigh.

As I lay dying
I heard Santa fly off
-and I spat blood and teeth
in my last final cough.
“On Dasher on Dancer,
and to Mrs. Clause praise!
-We need bulletproof vests
for the reindeer these days.”

Santa, still climbing,
resumed his long flight
-his sleigh silhouetted
against the cold lunar light-
and as it grew distant
and faded from sight,
I heard "Merry Christmas to all,
and to all a good ... "




... I dunno ... I couldn't make out the rest.

An Issue of National Insecurity

Predator Press

[LOBO]

I’ve been a fan of Jesse Ventura for as long as I can remember.

He broke ground in wrestling –it seems to me- by being a likable and flamboyant bad guy. The only thing better than seeing my friends’ wrestling heroes getting pounded to a pulp for their altruism was having it done by a guy wearing a feather boa and pink tights; I delighted in their horror at every opportunity.

But he was unlike most of your standard-issue wrestlers in other ways. In the late 1990s, America began its preoccupation with electing the cast of Predator. And during the traditional mud-slinging process it would come out that Jesse had an unexpected integrity throughout his dubious celebrity; rather than drinking drugging and whoring in his free time as was common amongst the hard-touring wrestling “athletes,” he would spend countless hours on the hotel phone with his wife. Uncharacteristically outspoken for politics, aided by a military background and a peculiar state of moral unassailability, Jesse would eventually be elected as the Governor of Minnesota.

Now I told you all this to set the stage for a commentary on Jesse’s new television series Conspiracy Theory -a show I’ve only seen once so far, but a show I regard as “must see.” And not because it’s good … to the contrary, you will spend every second of watching this show white-knuckled and thinking “This guy got how close to being president?”

Picture your grandfather. Okay? Now picture your grandfather at 6’4”, 270 lbs, wild-eyed and armed with a budget, SUVs, helicopters, the works ... and cameras following him 24/7, to capture every thought he deigns to utter aloud.

Jesse: What is this?

Tiny Guard: This is the HAARP facility.

Jesse: Let me see it.

Tiny Guard: This site is 'Classified.'

Jesse: What is the fence for?

Tiny Guard: To keep out unauthorized personnel.

Jesse: Well, a place with a fence around it suggests to me that you guys are doing stuff in there you don’t want the public to know about.

Tiny Guard: Hence the 'Classified' designation.

Jesse: Why is it 'Classified?'

Tiny Guard: Sir, you do understand the definition of the word ‘Classified.' Right?

Jesse: Hey buddy. I’ve been in the military and I’ve been Governor. I know all about ‘Classified’ stuff. It means you don't want people to know what is in there.

Tiny Guard: Good.

Jesse: So what’s in there?

Tiny Guard: Can't tell you. But it's very cool.

Jesse: Aw c'mon.

Tiny Guard: Do you have authorization?

Jesse: I certainly do. It's from the American public, pal. How do I know you are legit? Let me see some identification.

Tiny Guard: You don't need to see my identification.

Jesse: I don't need to see your identification.

Tiny Guard: This isn't the HAARP facility you're looking for.

Jesse: This isn't the HAARP facility we're looking for.

Tiny Guard: You can go about your business.

Jesse: Oh well then. I guess we better be going about our business.

Tiny Guard: Move along.

Jesse: Sorry we bothered you-

Tiny Guard: Nah. I'm kidding. This is the HAARP facility. I've just always wanted to try that. This job gets pretty boring.

Jesse: Dammit I hate when people do that to me! Are you stonewalling?

Tiny Guard: Yep.

Jesse: Why?

Tiny Guard: Can't tell you.

Jesse: Can't tell me why you are stonewalling?

Tiny Guard: Oh, that? I already told you. This job gets pretty boring. I'm a security guard at the remotest site in Alaska the government could find ... the highlight of my day is picking which tree I'm going to pee on. Sometimes I'll shoot the tree afterwards, you know, so there aren't any witnesses. Or sometimes I'll shoot the tree next to the tree I'm peeing on, and scream Don't make me shoot another one! Man the trees hate that. And then I gotta file paperwork at the office to report why I used all my ammunition on my shift again ... on paper! Isn't that ironic?

Jesse: I think it's ironic we're even still using paper. The environmentalists are right to point out what a waste that is ...we should breed animals to write on. That way, your grocery list actually follows you around so you can't lose it. And the skin grows back for new messages for free for as long as the animal lives.

Tiny Guard: Huh. I could make a whole calendar for trees I want to pee on and shoot that would follow me around? That's a real timesaver. You know, environmentalism only makes good sense if you think about it.

Jesse [to camera]: I’ll tell you what is really strange about this place. Ever since we got here, I’ve felt the oddest sensation that I need to get something.

Camera Man: Really?

Jesse: Yeah. It’s like they are using some kind of mind control device to get us off this site.

Camera Man: What is it you feel the need to get?

Jesse: I need, ah [rubbing temples, concentrating] that thing you put in your mouth. And chew.

Camera Man: Ah ... food?

Jesse: That’s it! [to Tiny Guard] Can I get 'a food' here?

Tiny Guard: No.

Jesse: Did you point some diabolical mind control device at me, making me want a food so I would leave?

Tiny Guard: No.

Jesse: [glowering] Then I guess you know, I gotta do what I gotta do.

Tiny Guard: Yep.

[Smash-cut to Jesse driving away in black SUV]

Jesse [narrative voiceover]: “While my investigation of the HAARP facility has been thwarted by an unexplainable and irresistible need to acquire and consume a food, obvious proof of the deep government conspiracy to construct a weather-controlling weapon …”

[montage of Katrina devastation, tornados, tsunamis]

Jesse [voiceover continues]: ... I got an important clue from the gang of militant thugs I had to overpower at the gates ...

[Smash-cut to Tiny Guard, waving as he recedes in the distance]

Tiny Guard: Bye Jesse! Come back next month. We're having an Open House!

Jesse [voiceover continues]: “... so I’m not done with this investigation yet. These people clearly have no idea who they are dealing with.”

[Smash-cut to Jesse rolling down SUV window]

Squawky voice over radio box: Can I help you sir?

Jesse: I think you can. And I would appreciate a little cooperation for a change.

Squawky voice over radio box: I would be happy to assist.

Jesse: I would like, ah [scratching chin], a Big Mac, large fry, and a medium Coke.

Squawky voice over radio box: Your total is $6.74. Please pull up to the second window.

Jesse: You know what? That was a little too easy. First HAARP makes me need a food, and lo and behold, you have a food. What’s waiting at that second window? Government sleeper agents? Ninjas?

Squawky voice over radio box: No sir. We will have your food-

Jesse: Ah ha! So you admit to having a food here, eh? What do you know about the HAARP project?

Squawky voice over radio box: Sir, this is a McDonalds.

Jesse: So you say. What’s going on in there really?

Squawky voice over radio box: Cooking, sir.

Jesse: I’m coming in!

Squawky voice over radio box: Customers aren’t allowed in the kitchen sir.

Jesse: Says who?

Squawky voice over radio box: Our corporate offices.

Jesse [peeling out of drive thru, voiceover]: Dammit! As I suspected, the government is in bed with the private sector on HAARP.

[montage of Vietnam, nuclear explosions]

Jesse [narrative voiceover]: "Guided by my instincts, I took my team from the HAARP site in Alaska 3,500 miles away to where the real conspiracy lies, right here on this opulent campus in Oak Brook, Illinois."

Secretary: Can I help you sir?

Jesse: Well for starters, you can tell me everything you know about the HAARP project.

Secretary: Sir, this is Hamburger University … training facility for McDonalds managers.

Jesse: A training camp for raiders on American liberty!

Secretary: No sir. Strictly food.

Jesse: Ah ha! Then how do you explain me going to HAARP and needing a food, and when I went to get a food, I was nearly assassinated by one of your sleeper agents with a radio purchased by you? [Jesse throws receipts onto the desk]. Betcha didn't know Radio Shack keeps good records.

Secretary: This is a receipt from Walgreens. One box of laxatives, and a bottle of Viagra.

Jesse: Don’t try your fancy corporate double-speak on me. What’s going on here really?

Secretary: Training for McDonalds managers.

Jesse: Okay fine, Lady McDeath. Then get me a Big Mac and a large fry-

Secretary: Sir, we don’t actually make food here …

Jesse: So you are admitting on camera that this whole McDonalds franchise is a sham, created to cover up the development of a weather-controlling weapon for the United States government?

Secretary: Yeah sure. Whatever. Hey, am I going to be on television?

Jesse [narrative voiceover as credits roll]: "And there you have it -another conspiracy confirmed. Next week we’ll uncover explore the John F. Kennedy assassination, and how Britney Spears stood to make mountains of cash as a result of his death. I'm Jesse Ventura, and thank you for watching this week’s edition of Conspiracy Theory. Jesus Christ this theme music it too loud. And it’s cold in here. And do we really need all these lights on? Who pays this electric bill … ?"

Internet Swag

Predator Press

Tiger, Tiger, Burning Bright

Predator Press

[LOBO]

I’m feeling a little over-saturated with Tiger Woods news.

But am I above capitalizing on this topic? Oh hell no. Like Michael Jackson’s death and Kanye West’s VMA debacle, I’m going to be right up here pontificating with the rest of the world. I mean c’mon ... where else but America would a guy get busted for adultery, and mistresses -in numbers likely to exceed the double-digits- come out of the woodwork acting sanctimonious?

Think about it: given the sheer number of Tiger's apparent, eh, “dalliances,” is it even remotely possible that not a single one of them knew that Tiger -one of the most highly-sought media figures in the past ten years- was married? None of their friends? Colleagues? Unwilling to openly solicit exclusive deals with the media yet, to a (wo)man they all look into the camera and say, “Why am I coming forward? I just wanted Tiger’s wife to know her husband is a whore.”

Hah! That’s freakin’ awesome.

Look, the truth is Tiger’s wife, Elin Nordegren shoulda known what the sport of golf is really like in the first place. Hasn’t she seen Caddyshack? The fact that this is a shock to anyone at all alarms me. Before I was married, even I almost slept with Tiger: he was always comin’ around the Predator Press HQ swishin around in a sundress, hooker pumps and fishnet stockings, tryin to chip away a little piece of your truly. Honest to god he almost fooled me, too: I would probably be in therapy right now if I hadn’t noticed his purse didn’t match his shoes, his lipstick seemed garishly over-pronounced for his skin tone, and his base/blush scheme was horribly wrong for his facial features and extremely non-flattering to his cheekbones.

“Aren’t you Tiger Woods?” I says.

“No. I’m Arnold Palmer,” he lied.

“Arnold Palmer is white,” I reply, proud to have expended virtually everything I know about golf in the conversation already. “He’s, like, Donny Osmond white.”

“So what are you saying?” says Tiger, indignant. “You would sleep with Arnold Palmer but you wouldn’t sleep with me? What is it? Because I’m black?”

“No, it's because I'm as hetero as it gets," I point out. "You could sharpen a pencil in my keyster.”

Tiger peers around cautiously, to see if anyone is listening. Leaning in he says quietly, “C’mon man. You can’t be serious. Let’s say you weren’t straight. You mean to tell me you would sleep with Arnold Palmer before you got you some of this?”

“Meh,” I says thoughtfully. “I would like to think Arnold Palmer would know better than to wear sundress and fishnet stockings.”

Tiger shrugs. Extracting a compact out of his handbag, he flips it open, checking his lipstick. “I think you’re just a racist,” he says, with finality.

“Look,” I says. “I’m not sleeping with you to prove I’m not a racist. But that is a cool trick. Does that work on women?”

"Having trouble with the ladies?"

"My last girlfriend died a few hours after our date."

"That's terrible."

"Yeah," I agree. "One minute me and Gertrude are watching the Blue Man Group, and a few hours later, pow."

"What happened?"

"The doctor said she poured QuickCrete into her vagina."

“You gotta be romantic with women," offers Tiger. "You gotta make a woman think she is the most important, beautiful, fantastic creature that has ever graced your presence.”

“I gotta lie?"

“Like a rug on Ambien.”

Ragnarök

Predator Press

[LOBO]

I don’t really watch much prime time television –in fact I’ll wager 85-90% of what I watch is documentaries.

My favorite show, I guess, would be “The Universe” on the History channel.

At first blush this series appears to be a modern incarnation of Carl Sagan’s “Cosmos,” but it has one huge noteworthy difference: ‘The Universe’ is utterly devoid of the trademark feelgood optimism Sagan seemed to insist on. ‘The Universe,’ in contrast, makes it a point to scare the hell out of you: many a night I’ve found myself involuntarily rocking in an upright fetal position on the couch, making peace with Jesus while waiting for a rouge pulsar or quasar to incinerate the our atmosphere. Or perhaps an undetected black hole, swinging by at seven zillion miles per hour, pulling our solar system out of orbits around the sun. Or maybe just a good ‘ol fashioned colossal meteor strike that’ll bake the bones of the lucky to ash, and leave everyone else to slowly die in the subsequent nuclear winter.

Thusly rendered unable to sleep, over the next few hours I’ll try and relax myself with more uplifting material such as Forensic Files -a show often about solving unbelievably ruthless murders. This show typically runs back-to-back until about 5:00 am -at which point the rising sun will find me hiding under the coffee table, swinging the table lamp at anything vaguely resembling moving ankles with deadly precision. Everyone in the house –from Terri down to my cat Phil- now walks with a limp, but a few bruises are a very small price to pay for my personal safety. And if you think about it, what am I supposed to do? True, the house is probably oozing serial killers with ankles distinct in appearance ... but the last thing I would need is a bunch of selfish family members oozing nuclear fallout under the coffee table with me: if I get radioactive poisoning, who will be left to ensure the serial killers aren’t the only ones left to repopulate the Earth?

SO last night -with a 2-hour gap between intergalactic apocalypses and sociopathic killing sprees- I found myself deeply engrossed in a show highlighting the National Transportation Safety Bureau’s efforts to solve mysterious plane crashes. This was followed by another program dissecting the space shuttle Challenger’s final, fatal voyage.

And behind my bloodshot, riveted eyes, my brain started quietly working over the question Why am I doing this to myself?

I’m too young to remember Evil Knieval’s career when it was in it’s heyday, for instance. But I remember having the toy motorcycle [pictured], the Snake River Lunchbox, and a vague sense of hope that -whoever this lunatic was- he would somehow survive failing to jump something insane this week. Let’s face it: Knieval’s daredevil skills and stunts were in inverse proportion … the more his jumping skills seemed to diminish, the crazier his stunts became.

But at that age, I was out of the “media loop” and operating off of schoolyard legends. In retrospect, Evil Knieval’s daredevil career was already over … and this was probably good for Knieval: over a long enough timeline, him smashing headlong into the Sears Tower filled with half-starved piranhas, rabid ocelots and flame-spewing sulfuric acid in a futile attempt to jump it was inevitable. Imagine how many lunchboxes he would have sold after that!

Anyway. My point is I wasn’t hoping he would crash. In contrast, I was rooting for the guy to survive himself somehow. Was that just youthful naivety, or did I change? Or did we change as a culture collectively? Following my implied trend from Knieval, we see the dramatic rise of NASCAR –a sport enthusiasm for which I cynically suspect comes largely from the inevitable spectacular crashes. “America’s Funniest Home Videos” soon thereafter broke ground with the idea that watching a guy snap his femur in a bizarre trampoline accident would make we, the viewers, laugh and laugh and laugh. Add to the list the “Faces of Death” series and [admittedly poorly juxtaposed, but bearing mention] John Walsh vehicles. Today, we have websites and entire cable television networks wholly devoted to cataloging car crashes, tragedy, disasters, and general human boobery.

Don’t get me wrong ... I’m aware the Roman Coliseum was built for explicitly these same purposes. But haven't we evolved at all since then? Judging from the materialization of a lucrative schadenfreude-based, ShamWow-fueled economy, as a species we seem to love this stuff now just as much as we ever did -if not more.

But why?

Predator Press Interviews: Doctor Harold Toboggans

Predator Press

When my Fantasy Football Team failed to reign in an unexpectedly winnable matchup Sunday, I was miffed. And when my tire went flat yesterday, I resisted. But when I found out the Jon and Kate Gosselin were getting a divorce, that was the last straw.

-It was time to eliminate the source of all my misfortunes, none other than Brent Diggs.

The connection to football, automotive failure, ‘Jon and Kate Plus 8,’ and Brent Diggs I don't exactly understand. But I don’t understand how fusion works either, and it does. It’s called science. You should try it sometime.

In a ghillie suit made of almond tree branches I made, I followed Brent completely undetected. And in a brazen act of stealth and guile, I slipped silently behind him as he let himself in his front door. He tried to make me into think he did see me by saying “Hello LOBO” -but because I was in camouflage, I knew he was bluffing.

Conveniently, Brent left the room and I began to plot how and where his murder would take place. I decided that because it was almost Christmas, I would hide in his fireplace chimney ... and then, when he opened the flue for Santa Claus on Christmas Eve, POW.

The problem with this plan is that a ghillie suit made of almond tree branches is too flammable to wear hiding in a chimney, and I would need a trash can of adequate size to dispose of them properly so I not annoy Mrs Brent. I am a guest. This may be Brent’s murder, but that’s no excuse not to be tidy.

Never, in a million years, would I have expected Doctor Harold Toboggans to enter the room!

-Doctor Phil, maybe. But not Doctor T.

“Psst!” I whisper from the center of the room, waving subtly. “Doc! It's me, LOBO. I’m over here in camouflage!”

"I was wondering why the Christmas tree reeked of Old Spice."

“Are you here to murder Brent Diggs too?”

"No, he is still useful to me as my web-lackey, working off his therapy bill and publishing my exploits. But I used up all my compassion today at the office, so if you simply must "bump him off" I won't stand in the way. In fact, unless your aim has improved, I won't even stand in the room."

“Probably a good idea," I agree. "Seein' as this is a murder, things could get ugly. Brent is an ex Marine, and Marines are extremely difficult to kill. Luckily I’m an ex-Marine too.”

"Reaaaaaaally?"

“No. I made that up. Besides I’m far too deadly for the Marines. They said so. It wouldn’t be fair to the other countries.”

"Well you definitely put the special back in Special Forces..."

"When did you start growing your mustache upside down?"

"Is it upside-down again?!!! I mean...well LOBO, sometimes when I put my entire focus on a single problem, like acquiring your debit card number, my follicles actually invert. It's quite a rare phenomenon, in fact now that Einstein is gone I think I'm the only one that still does it."

“Doc," I says, laying out on the couch. "I’ve probably got some time to kill before Brent gets back, and then something else to kill, and then more time. Mind doing an impromptu interview? On the last step of ‘800 Steps To Adequacy,’ and only $2,000 away from graduating to the 'Ladder of Adequate Empowerment,' I'm a huge fan of your work.”

"No session today, I'm fresh out of pepper spray. But be sure to purchase my latest self-help masterpiece, 'Learning to Live With Self-Loathing.' It's perfect for challenging cases like yourself."

"Wow!" I whistle, impressed. "That's the biggest book I've ever seen. It must be brilliant. And it just so happens I'm in dire need of a large, heavy and brilliant blunt object. How much is it?

"How much do you have?"



***

LOBO: Your new series, Mind Over Memphis, is a towering triumph of both science and cinematographical achievement. It’s like a burrito with a mountain of information for beef and intriguing guests for cheese ... all wrapped in a delightfully soft, still-steaming entertainment tortilla. Do you know if Brent has any food here?

DT: Yes, my videos are quite amazing. It's the sort of work Spielberg would do if he were ready to move to the next level. And yes, I think there is some jello in the back of the fridge that isn't too badly molded.

LOBO: What will become of your Mind Over Memphis show if you find the fabled ‘Memphis’? And how did you get your mind over it without knowing where it is? And where was the rest of you at the time?

DT: Actually the title refers to the way my intellect towers over this town like a benevolent thundercloud of wisdom. Unfortunately, the city does stray form under my impressive shadow from time to time and I have to track it down. Such is the price of greatness.

LOBO: In your lecture series “Approaching the Outer Edge of Adequacy,” DVD 192 -roughly 80 minutes in- you said “over-adequacy can be just as dangerous as a lack of adequacy.” Can you elaborate on that theory?

DT: The pool of over-adequate individuals on this planet is fairly small, basically just me. And if there is one thing I don't tolerate, it is competition. It can be quite dangerous, if you know what I mean.

LOBO: In DVDs 404, 405 and 406, were you aware you had linguine in your mustache? I have always thought it was symbolic of something.

DT: LOBO, my entire life is a symbol of hope to lesser intellects...And to money launderers everywhere.

LOBO: I haven’t found any references to “Cryohydrotachophobia Purging” in your work. Yet during your “Crouching to Competence Wilderness Retreat,” you had me wear a sack over my head while the rest of the campers punched me -insisting it was the only cure for the morbid fear of rogue icebergs. Is that an experimental treatment? And why was everyone laughing?

DT: You just have to trust me, I'm the doctor.




LOBO: There has been some speculation –and numerous lawsuits- surrounding the fact that your anti-zombie patch Cerebitol causes sterility in a significant number of it’s users. Why people would people want to have babies in the face of the Zombie Menace is completely beyond me. Have you any thoughts you wish to share on this clearly-frivolous pending litigation?

DT: Really? That's excellent. It means I can market it as a contraceptive too. Your words ring with the sound of money.

LOBO: And you heard they can cause blindness, right?

DT: That was you. You aren't supposed to put the patches on your eyes.

LOBO: Pirates have zombie troubles too -and given the growth potential of that market, don't you think it's a mistake to alienate them? You could be a hero in their circles. Just imagine ... every time you vacationed in Somalia, they would buy you drinks and stuff. [wistful sigh] Say, you know what Doc? The mere calming effect of your presence has inexplicably diminished my desire to kill Brent. Is there a cure for that? Or am I just being lazy?

DT: Actually, you've been field testing my latest innovation, Slumberoos. Imagine a custom blend of ritalin and tranquilizers all together in a giant patch. Now take that patch and weave a snug undergarment out of it. Then sneak it into someones wardrobe and watch the therapy begin.

LOBO: Well, being unable to feel my legs while wearing them is difficult to get used to -but you can't beat this absorbency. By the way, this gum is terrible. I didn’t know gum spoiled. I probably shoulda known ‘cuz there was hairs in it.

DT: That's spirit gum. Don't worry about the lint, it's a great source of fiber.

LOBO: [slurring] Is that spearmint?

DT: No, that's Aqua Velva.

LOBO: Doctor T, you’re amazing. I’ll bet you could cure anyone. Any thing! I’ll bet you could take, like, sick polar bears that think they are deep sea bass and get them to think they are polar bears again. Or at least some kind of mammal ....

DT: Ah LOBO, so many issues, so little time. I guess Brent lives another day.

LOBO: zzzzzzzzzz