Every inch of this is comedy gold
-but I don't think it was supposed to be funny.
Moreover, there’s a big red button in the middle of my desk positioned directly between us. It’s not hooked up to anything, and we never talk about it ...but on the rare occasion I feel I'm 'losing him' -and the prize wheel doesn't work- I’ll sort of let my hands linger around this button. You know, like folding my hands near it? Or sometimes just lunging toward it while stretching during an improbably-abrupt, deep yawn? For another good "wake up call," I'll put a 5-pack of Bic lighters in the nearby dryer ... and every time one detonates I'll run in circles, screaming.
While numerous scientists agree that nothing untards an ex con like being a copy editor for Predator Press, many scientists also do not agree ... and as a scientist myself, I am disinclined to set those nerds straight good 'n proper this time: who wants Barbarossa -in the current frail state he is in- exposed to the trauma of seeing numerous scientists I have proven wrong immolating themselves on bunsen burners and impaling themselves on broken test tubes? Hm? In a rare moment of human compassion I have agreed to help Barbarossa along on his precarious road to Redemption and thusly steer him away from evil when possible: having solemnly taken charge of this clearly promising, impressionable lad's future, I cannot let that happen for his or her own sake.
Yes, it’s almost Fantasy Football time again. Want to sign up for my amateur league? Send an email to “carpenoctum at hotmail dot com." But act quickly -it is first come, first served, and almost half the spots are already taken.
With Shark Boxing still tied up in pre-production due to a quagmire of insurance hassles, I generally spend my weekends coaching a Pop Warner pee-wee football team called the Starfishes -a spirited and rugged little squad of ‘can do’ types, all afflicted with advanced stages of leprosy.
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