Monday

Rejection Coverage 2012

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Staring down the barrel of one of the most depressing, disproportionately-charged presidential elections in decades, I suppose some rare political commentary is warranted.

From Romney’s poor categorization of Russian foreign policy to Obama’s flabbergasting ignorance(?) of the role of the Supreme Court, I have seen enough historic distortion and political boobery to be genuinely concerned over the fate of a country LOBOnia shares deep and mutually-beneficial diplomatic ties with.

The United States of America.

My issue with Obama is simply that if he held off the announcement of Osama Bin Laden’s [OBL] death at least for a few weeks, we could have used the intelligence we gathered at his compound and snuffed out Al Qaeda entirely. My issue with Romney is kinda less-specified, but one only has to listen to Rush Limbaugh for five minutes to cement distrust for the Republican Party .

Under the much-ballyhooed Ronald Reagan, my life was never worse. I bussed tables at a “Duff’s” smorgasbord, and worked as a pizza cook in an effort to feed my family –all for four dollars and twenty-five cents an hour. And I was “lucky” to have it, as there was always five or six job applications from people just as desperate for the jobs I had.

There’s no point to this post, other than the sheer creeping horror I’m dealing with.

I always took it on Faith that the people in charge would be better than me. Smarter.

-I am officially concerned.

Tuesday

Chicago “Occupied” as Octomom to be “Preoccupied”

Predator Press

[LOBO]

See technically, I know Everything.

-But that means I know things that aren't necessarily true.

I am as hard-wired to news as one can be I think. And every brief debacle of my slothful and indolent consciousness on Earth is soaking up salacious gossip from any “information” source at my immediate disposal. Even at work, in the dizzying depths of my hoary hamster cage, AM radio (Right-Wing punditry disguised as news) has some frail signal.

So I knew that Nadya “Octomom” Suleman would ultimately collapse under the weight of a debased, schadenfreude-wrapt nation before you did. Honestly I knew this would happen years ago: inevitably she would have no choice. But she is paying for her desire for fame, no?

More importantly, I know that every Anarchist’s anathema, other Anarchists, are making Anarchists in general look like total assholes.

Random acts of violence and chaos are just plain evil.

These pipsqueaks are just sociopaths. "Terrorists" in the truest sense.

(More to follow. I'm feeling "heady.")

Monday

"Loki" or "Voodoo?"

Predator Press

[LOBO]


Razed Right


Predator Press

[LOBO]

Currently embroiled in my third divorce, I now feel I feel I am qualified to lecture comprehensively on the subject.

-The first strangely invigorating, thoroughly rude sensation, is that initial shower blast.

Hanging from the showerhead, the 80’s songs you propped yourself up with last night thunder in your skull. You fumble for the hairy bar of soap as a weird mix of “Safari” perfume, WD-40, glitter, and some bent tricycle spokes cyclone helplessly down the drain.

Toweling off, you curse whoever made you this coffee. They fucked it up entirely- it’s either too strong or too weak.

In an impotent rage, you realize you made this coffee yourself.


It Gets Better.

Sunday

Wednesday

Phillip K. Dickhead


Predator Press

[LOBO]

Picture a gigantic five-story hamster cage a quarter of a mile across, and each of the five floors separated by a maze of its own storage, industrial equipment, and systems of belts to bring freight in and out.

A demented child’s toy, blown up to the size of an amusement park.

-But I often forget its subtle and elegant genius; here at the precipice, the fifth floor, I can see down through all the cage floors, and clearly make out faces of my coworkers clocking in.

Coburn, my boss, is explaining something in excruciating detail. Probably the daily goals and hot issues, and I’m pretending to listen. But frankly the last thing I remember hearing him say was at the cafeteria pizza party two weeks ago, when he announced to some forty of us workers he “couldn’t eat with us because he is vegan.”

Well, I don’t want to work for a vegan –especially the world’s only fat vegan. At 5’2" and with a blunted-looking head, Coburn almost casts a perfectly cube shadow from any direction.

Coburn stops talking at the same moment I see Barbarossa, out of breath and sweating, clocking in on the ground floor.

Barbarossa is four minutes late.

“We will descend upon this like the angels of an angry God,” I growl.

Coburn, I’m surprised, is still here. In fact I’m reflexively engaged in his weirdly-hard, excruciating handshake.

“You’re a good man,” Coburn explains. “And the company has its eye on you.”

Sunday

Don't Eat the Red Snow

Predator Press

[LOBO]

"You realize," says Max, arcing his lightsaber gracefully, making the 'hyms' and 'hums' with the blue beam, "George Lucas is going to sue the hell out of us."

"I wonder if they work though?" replies Brighta. With this, Brighta lashed his red beam into Max's. Then, spinning, he delivered a second.

Max, caught wholly off guard, watched in horror as his left hand fell to the ground.

Twitching.

"You dick!" Max screamed.

"Why didn't you block?" Brighta defended.

"No lightsabers!"

"Okay fine." Closing his eyes, Brighta made his third and final wish.

And where Max's amputated hand was once attached, a chrome, high-tech Gatling gun grew from his forearm.

Max goggles. "Cool!"

"Now let's do this thing," Brighta nods, coolly clipping his glowing lightcycle helmet on. "Before Vetter drinks all the booze."