[LOBO]
“Look,” says Terri. “I think it’s time we had a talk about your drinking.”
“What about it?”
“You wrote the bartender at the wedding a letter of recommendation.”
“Well he clearly deserved it,” I counter, scratching my chin. “Who got married?”
Friday
Chemically "Enhanced"
[LOBO]
“Look,” says Terri. “I think it’s time we had a talk about your drinking.”
“What about it?”
“You wrote the bartender at the wedding a letter of recommendation.”
“Well he clearly deserved it,” I counter, scratching my chin. “Who got married?”
Wednesday
Thursday
Exclusive: New Obama 2012 Cabinet Nominations Raise Eyebrows, Concerns
Predator Press
[LOBO]
Any of you guys remember when I interviewed that guy “Barrack Obama?”
-Holy shit, it turns out that guy became President! And not only that, but he's running for office again. He wanted to make that announcement here on Predator Press first, but -as you remember- I was locked in Ted Williams' Mercedes at the time.
Because Obama wasn't answering my follow-up calls, I figured it was my duty to you -O' Loyal reader- to hack his email and steal his Cabinet 'Picks to Click' for 2012. And who would have thought the most powerful man in the world's Hotmail account password would be "PASSWORD?"
Anton 'Cream-G' Wellingsdale the Second will be the "brains" of the operation as Secretary of State. Cream-G 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 know what the Attorney General actually does, but whatever it is this former MMA fighter will be doin a lot of it: simulations testing Kimbo's diplomatic aptitude universally concluded with him wrapping the cord around Khadaffi, Gadaffi, Gandolf -whoever's- neck, and beating him upside the head with the red phone.
Secretary of War Rendell 'Icepick Icepick Icepick' 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 the slaying of forty drunken white people while armed only with the jawbone of Jon Bon Jovi.In Icepick Icepick Icepick'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 jpeg and "You Gonna Get Raped" letterhead.-It's in 'bold,' and underlined twice.
Wednesday
The End is Near
Predator Press
[LOBO]
“Egypt has a Revolution, Japan has Earthquakes, nuclear meltdowns are imminent, we’re bombing Libya -” I throw my hands in the air in crisis fatigue. “And now this?“
“Honey,” Terri soothes. “It’s toilet paper.”
“It’s 1-ply!”
“Egypt has a Revolution, Japan has Earthquakes, nuclear meltdowns are imminent, we’re bombing Libya -” I throw my hands in the air in crisis fatigue. “And now this?“
“Honey,” Terri soothes. “It’s toilet paper.”
“It’s 1-ply!”
Sunday
Driving Miss Crazy
Predator Press
[LOBO]
“You need to slow down,” scolds an already irritated Terri. “You know why they put those ‘Children Crossing’ signs up, right?”
“Sure I know” I says. Decelerating, I sigh and roll my eyes. “They have to. Because children are stupid.”
“Children are not stupid.”
“Oh reeealllly,” my eyebrows arch in a mix of fury and snark. Spotting a little girl at the stop sign, I press the button to roll down my window. “You!” I points to the little girl. “Who won the 1994 World series?”
To this, the little girl stared confused -and after a moment decided to smile and wave.
“Ptthbtt,” I says, rolling my window back up. Proceeding into the clear intersection, I underline “See that? Dumb as a fuckin' post.”
Terri scowled. “There was no World Series in 1994. The players went on strike that year.”
“Really?”
“You need to slow down,” scolds an already irritated Terri. “You know why they put those ‘Children Crossing’ signs up, right?”
“Sure I know” I says. Decelerating, I sigh and roll my eyes. “They have to. Because children are stupid.”
“Children are not stupid.”
“Oh reeealllly,” my eyebrows arch in a mix of fury and snark. Spotting a little girl at the stop sign, I press the button to roll down my window. “You!” I points to the little girl. “Who won the 1994 World series?”
“Ptthbtt,” I says, rolling my window back up. Proceeding into the clear intersection, I underline “See that? Dumb as a fuckin' post.”
Terri scowled. “There was no World Series in 1994. The players went on strike that year.”
“Really?”
Monday
Predator Press Reviews: The Ingredients of a Good Thriller
[LOBO]
But -despite my diminished hopes and the inversely growing sense of foreboding- I wanted to make good on reviewing it fairly.
-Predator Press readers would demand nothing less, right?
“What’s that sound?” I says, flicking on my lighter.
“It sounds like we are leaving,” says Flandsa.
I pull out a cigarette.
“Can I have one of those?” asks Flandsa.
“I suppose,” Flandsa sulks. “What do you think Ted Williams is going to do to us?”
“Well Ted Williams is formerly homeless, right?”
“Yes.”
“I’m assume he’s going to have you beaten to death with a shovel somewhere out in the dessert. But maybe he’ll have me dropped off on the way.”
“By Chris Wood?”
“No shit. You’ve read it?”
“Read it?” says Flandsa. “I memorized it. It was a brilliant and well-written ‘how to,’ essential to not just thriller writers, but to general thriller fans. Would you like me to recite it to you?”
I kick on the lighter again to examine the trunk contents, and calmly evaluate the crisis at hand. “No ashtrays back here. Jesus. Spare tire, jack ... This is a Mercedes, right? The condiment dispenser only has domestic mustard, and where the fuck is the beer? You might think those Brits would take that into consideration when engineering these things."
“Shh!” I says. “We’ve stopped. What has it been? Four hours maybe?”
“It’s been around eleven minutes.”
“We’ll split the difference. Four hours divided by eleven minutes, times sixty miles and hour …" I rub my temples. "Shit, we must have gone out to the dessert first.”
The barely-audibly engine is turned off, and we hear the four car doors all open and close individually.
“Well it was nice seeing you again Flandsa,” I says, as inches from my head a set of keys work the trunk lock. “Can I have my laptop back now? Did you save your work?”
I suddenly realize I am surrounded by dozens of Flandsa Ha’asasanba’s.
And they are all carrying shovels.
-I think I screamed.
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