[LOBO]
Monday
Predator Press Exclusive: Athlete Kim Kardashian Denies Sleeping With Identified
Predator Press [LOBO]
The United States population is 307,006,550.
-I know this because I keep a complete and meticulously cared for list -”The Most Talented Celebrities in America”- where I categorize us all in order. The top of The List (Tom Hanks, Edward Norton, Helena Bonham Carter, …) typically remains pretty stable. Most of the “action,” on the other hand, takes place in the middle and at the bottom.
In 1996, Herbert Khaury -better know as Tiny Tim, and for his rendition of “Tiptoe Through the Tulips”- suddenly died, and a huge talent vacuum ensued.Enter NFL player Bret Lockett.
See, Brett had a good idea initially. Once you crack The List, with some shrewd maneuvering you might be seducing the middle in no time -the likes of Dane Cook and Whoopie Goldberg. And after such an unprecedented quantum leap, Lockett would be within striking distance of the Ric Flairs, Kathy Lee Giffords, and the guy that does the ’Jack’ voiceovers for the Jack in the Box fast food franchise -arguably in the low eight digits, and the upper two-fifths of The List's hierarchy. By playing his cards right, Bret Lockett could have been banging Tom Hanks, Edward Norton, and Helena Bonham Carter in no time.
So you see, Bret Lockett needed to crack The List.Bad.
The bottom three people on The List are my fourth grade Physical Education teacher Coach Berkowitz [307,006,548], Paris Hilton [307,006,549], and Kim Kardashian [307,006,550]. (Paris Hilton nudged out Kim K mostly because I am an animal lover: Hilton has one of those little teacup dogs, and I figured with no one under her Paris might become a suicide risk and that little dog would be totally fucked. Kim K would eventually follow suit with her own little teacup dog, but I already cited that advantage to Hilton who had the idea first.)
So Bret Lockett has to decide, right?
Well it turns out that my fourth grade Physical Education teacher Coach Berkowitz would be difficult to reach: he had just retired, and was touring the southwest in a Winnebago. For Lockett, this fact alone might not have been convincing when staring down the Hilton/Kardashian barrel … But one must keep in mind that Coach Berkowitz is a very hairy individual; Bret Lockett’s alcohol consumption may not be where it need be to go through with the dirty deed.
Anyway, Kim K denies the whole thing. And this is as cruel to Lockett as it is dumb for Kardashian, because Lockett must now come forth with sordid, intimate details about Kardashian that only another lover would know … thusly doomed with an impossible task and helpless against his own unbridled ambition, Bret Lockett would inevitably become the only victim here.-But you know the more I think about it, the more I can’t figure out why he didn’t go with Coach Berkowitz.
the ideas, beliefs, and opinions of the author.
Sunday
Diary of a Scapegoat Herder
[LOBO]
I had a feeling I shouldn’t have used the orphanage’s food budget for a line of credit in Vegas.
-But we're in the middle of an unexplained recession. And did you ever think maybe this was a better country when addled with snortable cocaine, fun-loving alcoholics, unbridled sexual harassment, and wave after endless wave of citizens suffering from yet-undiagnosed Attention Deficit Disorder? I'm not letting the Rainbow Coalition off the hook either: it seems like as soon as the world got gay people -the 1990s or so- pow, the entire damn nation went into the crapper.
As far as the orphan food, don't give me some 'Holier 'n Thou' crap: I should first point out that the imitation gruel is really popular. Christ it’s not like I’m making them eat ‘Grape Nuts,’ right? And speaking of horrible crap, people are forced to hang out with Sally Struthers starving to death in other countries -meanwhile you people eat a bran yogurt tofu muffin only to purposely burn it off on a treadmill later while watching Jersey Shore.And again speaking of horrible crap, what is the fascination with Jersey Shore? Those people look like the CPR dummies at a cosmetology school. (No, I am not a cosmetologist. But if something is going to enable me to give Martians mudpacks and facials, it ain't going to be the goddamn Russian space program. Those people don't even make a car.)
-And I defy you to find any orphan taste whatsoever.
Tuesday
One Man Flash Mob
Predator Press
The guard completed a complex-seeming series of transactions with a set of keys, and the heavy doors slid back open; the armored elevator seemed to have moved at all, but the dungeon-like quality of the new floor was immediate and palpable.
Flandsa Ha’asasanba -familiar somewhat with the cellblock for his own reasons- proceeded to cellblock 'I' -ironically the location of LOBO's 'POD'- without an expected direction request.
In the center of a checkerboarded lancing of light, LOBO, in an orange jumpsuit, sat on a cot facing the opposite wall. He was not the pensive animal Flandsa was expecting. He seemed, well, serene.
“Flandsa Ha’asasanba,” said LOBO in a cool voice that unnerved Flandsa. Rubbing his wooly, unkempt facial growth in thought, LOBO didn’t turn to address him, but as Flandsa grew closer, he could see LOBO’s face -it was covered in a macabre splash of dripping red.
Flandsa stopped at the sliding cell door and steeled himself for anything. “I don’t know why I would be surprised to see you in here,” he joked.
“Yes,” LOBO replied coolly. He rose, slightly wobbly from the crutch, and made his way to his visitor. “I’m a con now. A hardened, dangerous man. Did you know I converted to Islam? I‘m also a Crip and a Blood.”
“You’ve only been in here two hours.”
“Two hours is plenty of time to get yourself killed when you’re on this side of the law,” whispered LOBO with authority. "Respect is everything in here. And do you know the best way to get the respect you need to survive when doing Hard Time?"
Flandsa shrugged patiently. LOBO was moving poorly, and only now arriving to lean on the cellbars.
“You have to make a name for yourself," said LOBO, squinting painfully. Fully in the sharp wedge of light, his eyes dialated wildly. "You have to pick out the biggest, meanest, toughest, ugliest guy in your POD and rape him.”
“You mean fight him,” Flandsa corrected helpfully.
“Fight him? Shit. Have you seen the biggest, meanest, toughest, ugliest guy in my POD? He’d kill me.”
“Well then how would you-?”
“I was thinking roofies or something. I don’t know. It’s complicated,” LOBO admitted. “Not to mention I don’t think I’ve ever even been drunk enough to rape a guy. I mean I guess I just close my eyes and pretend it’s Sarah Palin.”
Brief shuffles of movement. From various directions just out of the stale, flickering overhead lights over Flandsa. The loneliness of this conversation is wholly illusion.
“What happened to your face?” Flandsa asked, changing the subject.
“It’s these fucking ketchup packets. They’re complicated enough as it is, but the lighting in here is terrible.”
“Why didn't you bail out?” Flandsa inquired. “It’s only six dollars.”
-Nervous, illusive titters spring like lightning bolts. LOBO, noticing, starts seeking them out. Speaking unnecessarily loudly, he asks, “So my boy, did you bring me the Viagra and rolls of duct tape I asked for?”
Silence.
“Yeah well, it’s been long enough. Post Cereal has agreed to drop all charges if you promise to-”
"Only now, too late, does Big Cereal realize it has wakened a sleeping giant," LOBO snarled. “I don’t negotiate with Big Cereal. Especially now that the juggernaut has rumbled to life. Their oppresive rule is coming to an end.”
The pause that ensued was punctuated dramatically by a fart from someone sleeping to Flandsa's left.
“But you have a broken ankle and boken wrist," Flandsa implored. "Don’t you want some medical attention? Some painkillers?”
“The pain merely helps burn in the memory,” LOBO scoffed proudly. “The memory of the beginning of the overthrow of Big Cereal. And we won‘t need painkillers in a post-Post world. With real food, our bones will be nigh indestructible.”
“You think Post Cereal is poisoning you?”
“Ever had Grape Nuts?”
“Well-” Flandsa stammered. “Yeah."
“I have no idea what that crap is either,” LOBO explained. “But I can tell you you would be hard pressed to find a grape or a nut in it. And it tastes like the spackle for holes in Noah’s Ark.”
“I think you’re supposed to add sugar and stuff-”
“Add stuff? Isn’t it pretty much a box of added stuff already?” LOBO is incredulous. “What is this, the Middle Ages? Well the Middle Ages are over buddy. I‘m ending this Middle Age just like Paul Revere ended the last one.”
“LOBO, the Sheriff has asked me to ask you to leave. They can’t keep you without some kind of reason.”
“Participate in a cover up? And end the Revolution? Never!” But after a thoughtful surveillance of his cell, LOBO relented.
“Only if they let me redo my mug shot.”
The guard completed a complex-seeming series of transactions with a set of keys, and the heavy doors slid back open; the armored elevator seemed to have moved at all, but the dungeon-like quality of the new floor was immediate and palpable.Flandsa Ha’asasanba -familiar somewhat with the cellblock for his own reasons- proceeded to cellblock 'I' -ironically the location of LOBO's 'POD'- without an expected direction request.
In the center of a checkerboarded lancing of light, LOBO, in an orange jumpsuit, sat on a cot facing the opposite wall. He was not the pensive animal Flandsa was expecting. He seemed, well, serene.
“Flandsa Ha’asasanba,” said LOBO in a cool voice that unnerved Flandsa. Rubbing his wooly, unkempt facial growth in thought, LOBO didn’t turn to address him, but as Flandsa grew closer, he could see LOBO’s face -it was covered in a macabre splash of dripping red.
Flandsa stopped at the sliding cell door and steeled himself for anything. “I don’t know why I would be surprised to see you in here,” he joked.
“Yes,” LOBO replied coolly. He rose, slightly wobbly from the crutch, and made his way to his visitor. “I’m a con now. A hardened, dangerous man. Did you know I converted to Islam? I‘m also a Crip and a Blood.”
“You’ve only been in here two hours.”“Two hours is plenty of time to get yourself killed when you’re on this side of the law,” whispered LOBO with authority. "Respect is everything in here. And do you know the best way to get the respect you need to survive when doing Hard Time?"
Flandsa shrugged patiently. LOBO was moving poorly, and only now arriving to lean on the cellbars.
“You have to make a name for yourself," said LOBO, squinting painfully. Fully in the sharp wedge of light, his eyes dialated wildly. "You have to pick out the biggest, meanest, toughest, ugliest guy in your POD and rape him.”
“You mean fight him,” Flandsa corrected helpfully.
“Fight him? Shit. Have you seen the biggest, meanest, toughest, ugliest guy in my POD? He’d kill me.”
“Well then how would you-?”
“I was thinking roofies or something. I don’t know. It’s complicated,” LOBO admitted. “Not to mention I don’t think I’ve ever even been drunk enough to rape a guy. I mean I guess I just close my eyes and pretend it’s Sarah Palin.”
Brief shuffles of movement. From various directions just out of the stale, flickering overhead lights over Flandsa. The loneliness of this conversation is wholly illusion.
“What happened to your face?” Flandsa asked, changing the subject.
“It’s these fucking ketchup packets. They’re complicated enough as it is, but the lighting in here is terrible.”
“Why didn't you bail out?” Flandsa inquired. “It’s only six dollars.”
-Nervous, illusive titters spring like lightning bolts. LOBO, noticing, starts seeking them out. Speaking unnecessarily loudly, he asks, “So my boy, did you bring me the Viagra and rolls of duct tape I asked for?”
Silence.
“Yeah well, it’s been long enough. Post Cereal has agreed to drop all charges if you promise to-”
"Only now, too late, does Big Cereal realize it has wakened a sleeping giant," LOBO snarled. “I don’t negotiate with Big Cereal. Especially now that the juggernaut has rumbled to life. Their oppresive rule is coming to an end.”
The pause that ensued was punctuated dramatically by a fart from someone sleeping to Flandsa's left.
“But you have a broken ankle and boken wrist," Flandsa implored. "Don’t you want some medical attention? Some painkillers?”
“The pain merely helps burn in the memory,” LOBO scoffed proudly. “The memory of the beginning of the overthrow of Big Cereal. And we won‘t need painkillers in a post-Post world. With real food, our bones will be nigh indestructible.”
“You think Post Cereal is poisoning you?”
“Ever had Grape Nuts?”
“Well-” Flandsa stammered. “Yeah."
“I have no idea what that crap is either,” LOBO explained. “But I can tell you you would be hard pressed to find a grape or a nut in it. And it tastes like the spackle for holes in Noah’s Ark.”“I think you’re supposed to add sugar and stuff-”
“Add stuff? Isn’t it pretty much a box of added stuff already?” LOBO is incredulous. “What is this, the Middle Ages? Well the Middle Ages are over buddy. I‘m ending this Middle Age just like Paul Revere ended the last one.”
“LOBO, the Sheriff has asked me to ask you to leave. They can’t keep you without some kind of reason.”
“Participate in a cover up? And end the Revolution? Never!” But after a thoughtful surveillance of his cell, LOBO relented.
“Only if they let me redo my mug shot.”
Sunday
What The Hell Is Wrong With You, MicroSoft?
[LOBO]
I just made my default browser “Google Chrome” after what seems like far too much debate.
Only now does it occur to me that for decades the thought of buying an Apple computer over a PC would have been ardently scoffed at. I've been ‘on board’ with computers since the TI-99 -one could argue that’s from the inception of the Personal Computer Revolution- and so help me God, through the defective chip releases and temperamental software, I've been a PC guy all the way.
But I look around my desk to see an iPhone, iPod, iTunes, iThis, iThat … now I’ve even ditched even Internet Explorer. And you know what PC? I ain’t married to you either: if Apple brings all this CrApple together into one collapsible device the size of a DVD case or so, I can’t imagine Intel ever getting another nickel from me.
Unless it’s some sort of government bailout.
Friday
The Spork of Damocles
Predator Press [LOBO]
I must've stood in that WalMart entrance for a full ten minutes until the old bat showed up.
"It's about time," I says icily, tapping my foot.
"Excuse me?" says the elderly woman.
"I've been standing here for, like, an hour waiting to be greeted." I glower menacingly. "You are a 'Greeter,' are you not?"
"Well-"
"I was totally greetless!" I snap. "And as the person who specializes in it here, I hold you solely responsible for my wholly sub-par welcome."
"Sir," says the woman. "I was on break."
"On break?" I laugh. "From saying 'Welcome to Walmart'!? Oh that must be soooo exhausting. Maybe you should Unionize. You know, trim it down to 'Welcome.' Or maybe even just 'Hi.'"
Her jaw curls slightly as she eyes me.
-But I don't care. At this point, I'm pontificating fully.
"Maybe an abbreviation would make all this easier to endure." I spin around and throw my arms wide, framing the gigantic WalMart sign. "Or maybe you could just stand under this and point at it smiling!"
She taps my shoulder.
I turn.
"Welcome to Walmart sir," she says.
And then at that exact moment, she jams the front right wheel of her walker into my foot.
"Please don't," she growls softly, twisting her crushing full weight into my big toe. "break anything, or I'll cut you're fucking nuts off."
With superhuman will, I do not whimper aloud.
"Ask me what I'll cut off if you shoplift," she grins toothlessly.
A single tear starts welling in my eye.
I can't let this witch win, I thought. If I don't take a stand here, Al Queda will have finally won.
Thinking quickly, I throw an entire display of Snickers into her fat, wrinkly face. The weight suddenly comes off of my foot, and crying out, she staggers backwards covering her eyes.
Kicking the walker aside, I roll up my sleeves. "Don't mess with the bull, bitch. You'll get the ... eh ... the crap kicked out of you!"
"Please," she stammers, wobbling clumsily forward. "I'm an old woman."
Suddenly, 187 expertly-thrown 'smiley-face' pins impale my face, shoulders and chest. Reeling and screaming I seize at them desperately, but they are slippery with my own blood.Her fist caught me square, flattened my nose, and bright bolts of light shot through my head.
I woke moments later, sprawled flat in shattered rack of inexpensively priced -yet completely viable- watches while she danced spryly back and forth with her fists up blocking her face.
"Anything else to say punk?"
Shadowboxing, I could hear her whipping fists snap the air.
"Yes," I says, holding my palm flat to her. Hefting myself up slowly using a nearby pressboard armoire, I spit a tooth. "You punch like a Dollar Store cashier!"
A look of sudden psychotic rage transformed her face, and she leapt recklessly forward. Prepared for this, I twist slightly left and she crashes full bore into a rack of Kung Fu Hustle toasters.
-Pressing my new advantage, I jam her throat against a nearby vertical support beam with my left elbow while delivering vicious blows to her abdomen and kidneys with my right.
"How do you like me now, you talentless hack?" I says between blows. "How will the worms play Pinochle on that, bitch!?"
I blink.
I'm in the passenger side of the car."We're here," she says smiling. "Did you fall asleep?"
I look around, and slowly recognize the familiar parking lot.
WalMart.
"Let's go get that barbecue grill," she says excitedly. "We've got a big weekend planned."
"And we can't go to Kmart?" I sob.
Exclusive: Wikipedia Search Casts Doubt on Bin Laden Assassination
Predator Press[LOBO]
Q 1: How could a seal possibly have pulled the trigger?
Fact: Seals don’t have opposable thumbs. And perhaps more importantly, they don’t have shoulders. Am I supposed to believe a “navy” seal swam to Pakistan carrying an AK-47 in its flippers the whole way?
Those guns have straps for a reason.
Q 2: What the hell is a "navy" seal doing in the dessert anyway?
Fact: Osama bin Laden [ObL] wasn’t holed out on some parfait floating in the ocean. That’s a dessert. A desert, it turns out, is a place like the beach except there is explicitly no ocean by definition. So where did the “navy” park all their boats an crap without somebody seeing them do it?
Remember this isn’t attacking a dessert -you can’t just throw sprinkles on your aircraft carrier and hope for the best ... Pakistan would have hit you broadside with a strawberry in a second.
Q 3: Why does President Obama’s Birth Certificate make no mention of the effort?
Fact: Obama’s Birth Certificate was created by ancients like fifteen or twenty years ago, and it could not have known about the events that transpired on 9/11.-Or could it? Obama's Birth Certificate contains a wealth of knowledge about Obama such as where and when he was born, his parents' names, and the fact that he was once black.
The Birth Certificate, therefore, has demonstrated repeated culpability and motive in the entire presidency from infancy -maybe even from inception.
So how can we ever know that the afore-mentioned Birth Certificate itself didn’t hide Mother Obama’s birth control on that fateful, romantic night in Syria or Iran?
-Or that the fate of America‘s 2008 president wasn't SEALED [eh?] that night on a blue EPT stick by Hitler himself?
Hm?
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