Punch-Drunk Drunk

Predator Press

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ADAM Sandler will doubtlessly be suing me after this post.

No, I’m serious. I spent all of Saturday and Sunday poring over dizzyingly-long subpoenas, and it turns out he is among the proud and few not suing me yet. And I can't counter-sue until Adam Sandler sues me first.

What does this all mean? This means Adam Sandler has completely lazy and worthless lawyers: they are overpaid and pasty gelatinous SLOBS swishin’ around in lil skirts.  Soon we will hear half-full Chinese take-out boxes, chicken bones, and small unfortunate animals tumbling through air pockets trapped in mountainous, groaning layers of Adam Sandler lawyer flab as it lunges in desperate pursuit of that one last cheerleader to roll over before the fire department hoists their STD-riddled, flea-infested fat asses out of pricey condominiums via numerous helicopters and cranes while dead, rotting hookers flop lifeless out from under ample bedsore-covered acres of greasy cellulite and acne once-rumored to be human Adam Sandler lawyer flesh.

-The universe has no place for idle, dawdling lawyers!

See, I am losing huge in all my countersuits on average too … and I figure Adam Sandler is easily worth $1,000,000 in fat countersuit greenbacks: that is exactly what it will cost to burn the memory of Eight Crazy Nights out of my brain.

But what do Sylvester Stallone, Hillary Swank, Mark Wahlburg, and Adam Carolla have on the mighty Adam Sandler?

Hm?

Boxing movies.

I want Mister Sandler -Adam, if I may be so bold- to read my script Punch-Drunk Drunk. It’s a sequel to Punch-Drunk Love -a stoic follow-up that finds Barry Egan succumbing to his seven evil sisters, thus being forced to eek out a meager existence boxing grizzly bears.

But boxing grizzly bears is a terrible way to eek out a meager existence, especially when you just got promoted to astronaut!  In the final match, the Emperor Grizzly Bear cheats and punctures Barry's pressure suit in the third round and is disqualitied.  (I think Rob Schneider is a shoe-in for ‘Best Supporting Actor,’ particularly because he doesn’t appear in this movie.)

So Barry is now Boxing Champion of the World and Emperor of the Grizzly Bears.  But the controversy surrounding the victory yields only mockery and taunting from sports fans of virtually every species. Tormented, Barry gets hooked on 5-Hour Energy Drinks. He doesn't know what he needs energy for -let alone 5 hours worth- but suddenly he’s a quarterback in the NFL too. Eventually Sarah Palin shoots the evil Former Bear Emperor, and -thusly befriended- the grizzly bears team up with Barry, and together they go and defeat the vampires.  And the Raiders.

(I still have to write Acts II and III.)

Man, You People Sure Like Guns

Predator Press

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"Why the hell would you drive my Mercedes G-SUV out here in the woods?"  Aaron cried, motioning to the splintered and gnarled front grill with his rifle.

"The manual says it is an off road vehicle," I says, flipping through the pages as evidence.  "I checked.  Why should we lug all this crap around?"

"That car cost over a hundred thousand dollars!"

"And it runs like a dream.  You can't even feel the rocks and trees once you get over 50 miles an hour."

"I had the biggest buck I've ever seen in my crosshairs," he scowls, throwing his cap to the ground.  "And you drive up, blaring the horn-"

"I didn't want to accidentally run one of you over," I point out.  "You guys take camping to a whole new level.  It's hard to see you in all that camouflage stuff."

"This is a hunting trip!"

"Well even hunters have to take a break for lunch."  Pulling the whistle from my neck I bleet out three sharp whistles and call loudly into the forest, "Guys, I win!  I got a dozen Whoppers with cheese in the car!"

One Billion Brain-Eating Amoebas Can't be Wrong

Predator Press

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-Follow ongoing sports humor HERE.

The Concrete Ceiling

Predator Press

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Three weeks ago I requisitioned 100 Q-Tips and this morning I received, on official and spiff Predator Press stationary, the rejection letter.  Evidently a minimum of three contract bids are required.

So I either need to triple the money I make, or reduce bills below the excruciating level I live at now.  And with the American economy obviously flagging -and apparently dragging the LOBOnian down as well- I'm probably being more realistic addressing the latter at the moment.  But what am I supposed to do?  Cut High Definition out of my cable bill and watch football like poor people?

Why in America is it so hard to find an affordable modest, clean, crime-free apartment adjacent to an Emergency Room with a helicopter pad?

Ask LOBO

Predator Press

"Dear LOBO,

I'm growing increasingly concerned my husband doesn't find me attractive anymore, and I'm starting to catch his 'wandering eye' with greater and greater frequency. Can you give me some advice that might spice up our romance?"

Kelly L. Bittencroft
865 Palm Palace
Tampa, Florida 33610
VISA #5194-5559-5555
Exp Date 01/15
Birthday 01/05/85
PIN:VISA

Kelly,

It's a widely-known fact that chicks pack on the pounds as a passive-aggressive hostile act toward their spouses, and nothing is more humiliating to a guy than a having a fat chick in tow. As an ironic consequence, however, this displaced anger exacerbates the cycling negative behaviors between you and your significant other; it leaves you a bitter old dried-up hippopotamus woman with drawn-on eyebrows, well-calloused bristling elbows, and gnarled toenails that snag in carpets and clicketty-clack on linoleum kitchen tiles when you walk barefoot.

First, set down the Chunky Monkey; it will only degrade your health and make you a further embarrassment to your friends, family and loved ones. Then, abandon the concept of 'spicing up your romance' entirely. Try fully embracing your mutual hatred instead.

Go shopping! Buy an entire case of Glade aerosol spray and a nice big fat insurance policy on your husband; the air freshener will be necessary to get the smell of molten flesh, hair, and Pabst Blue Ribbon out of the house when you throw the radio into his bathwater. Think of the flickering, failing lights as your fading once-youthful vibrant beauty -all of which you've squandered on this hairy, bloated, unemployed redneck. Take solace in the fact that over a long enough timeline he would have left you -an utterly spent and decaying husk, oozing the desiccated viscera of unanswered dreams and unrequited passion- for a snaggletoothed bartender with a teardrop tattoo and an obsession for Beanie Babies.

Sell the house and the Dale Earnhardt commemorative plates -especially the Dale Earnhardt commemorative plates- and combine it with the insurance money. This should be plenty to start your life over someplace in South America. Splurge for a well-muscled pool boy named Chavo, and indulge in what will now be a moderately-priced cocaine habit to melt those extra pounds away. And as far as repairing your mortally-wounded self-esteem, the only healthy way is in the hands of a professional physician trained in such delicate matters: with a good plastic surgeon, you'll make Mr. Potato head look like a ranked amateur hack in a matter of weeks. This will also aid in throwing the Authorities off of your trail.

Above all else Kelly, remember: relationships are a piece of cake, but you can't make anyone else happy if you're not happy yourself.

I've Given Myself the Heebie-Jeebies

Predator Press

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How often do I write straight-up fiction?  A few times a year?

-The Aurora Massacre occurred within two hours of my completion of "The Reaper Grim," my take on the role of the big GR himself.  And I'm not really a Batman fan either, yet there's recent Bat-saturation on this blog.

This post was supposed to be about World Peace btw.  But my flight to Vegas leaves in an hour.  I'm very, very busy.

"With Great Power Comes Great Responsibility."

The Reaper Grim

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Occasionally my job takes me downstate.

And I don't really mind.  When time permits, I'll even take the back roads instead of I-57. While from the map it looks a boring plaid, the corn farmers plant lavender on the roadsides; you can see the purple-edged road wind over mild hills almost to the horizon. Last week a crop duster "buzzed" me -I was both exhilarated and terrified frankly.  I thought he was crashing.

Inspired by the weather, I took my motorcycle this time.  It's a respectable 929cc crotch rocket I acquired recently during an intersection of "bargain" and "random circumstance" instead of personal taste.

But this is exactly what brought on my encounter with the rider in black.

Male presumably.  But this rider is always so thoroughly covered in black leather and high-tech looking protective gear, I couldn't tell you the color of his skin.  The bike, also completely black, is a make I don't recognize despite numerous attempts.  It is enviously cool.  This driver's signature, however, is that he usually blows by me at some freakish speed right around the same time and same place every day.

But today he slips into the lane beside me and revs his engine twice.

I rev back.

Race.

He gives universal "watch for cops" hand signals, and counts down from three with his fingers.

-And he is gone.  A spec on the horizon.

I grin as I rip through my own gears in pursuit.  As the engine roars underneath me, and I am lost in the road completely.  A glance at the speedometer has me at 156 miles an hour, however even that slight nod has my sunglasses being ripped from my face by the wind.  Miraculously I catch them, and as I struggle them back to my nose I smell and taste melting steel, smoke, and rubber -while being pelted with a painful mist of particulate matter.

Shrapnel.

The rider in black had crashed ahead.

-And I was screaming up on the accident scene.

I was so close behind him the debris field was still spreading.  The combine and the two cars involved in the accident were still lurching to a stop as I weaved through the macabre event still taking place untouched, almost as if I were a rumor or a ghost; someone deaf who had blinked would never have known I was ever there at all.

As for the driver, what I caught a glance of I hope to soon forget.

At least until I go to work tomorrow.