There Are Too Many Of You People

Predator Press

[LOBO]

I wonder why there are so many hockey players in general.  For instance I don't personally know anyone that ice skates, therefore I'm led to the observation that ice skaters are pretty rare.

But then you need one that says, "Gee, I sure like ice skating. Too bad it's not violent."

Where Do Babies Come From?

Predator Press

-By LOBO

(My first children’s book. Illustrator needed)

So you have been wondering where babies come from, and you’re not buying the whole “stork” thing anymore?

Fret not.

-I'm gonna give you the straightforward birdless, beeless science.

See when mommies and daddies are in love, they take their pants off and share a ‘Special Hug.’ And if the hug is done right, they shoot Deoxyribonucleic Acid [DNA] all over each other.  This sometimes makes babies.

But one day mommy found daddy with his pants off, shooting Deoxyribonucleic Acid all over the realtor lady.

Mommy should have almost certainly gotten therapy -she still has that weird tic in her face. But instead she got an AR15 from the gun rack downstairs, and unloaded the clip on daddy and the realtor lady while they were in the shower.

The lawyers tied up the entire estate in probate, and the whole thing was gone even before the blood, bone and hair had swirled down the shower drain. And they were unable to get mommy a manslaughter plea deal: she was sentenced to six years, and subsequently jumped the $250,000 bail. That’s why you and mommy live out of a car in rural Montana, drink boiled rainwater and eat slightly al dente squirrels six times a week, and poop into a coffee cans for squirrel cooking fuel.

Probably.

But now that you’re older and have read the newspaper articles, have you ever wondered why you, daddy, and the realtor lady all had the same last name and mommy doesn't? Or noticed that you look more like the realtor lady than you do your so-called "mommy?"

Babies come from a horrible, horrible place.

Now go to sleep, ya lil bastard.

So What is a Caucus?

Predator Press

[LOBO]

A caucus is a meeting held by Caucasians –hence why most are held in Iowa.

Caucasians are a group of light skinned people who, like the Jews, have faced decades of oppression. For instance in early American history, the North American Indians started firing arrows at them almost upon sight.

The "Anne Coulter" was a
popular Caucasoid model
in the late 19th Century.

The peaceful Caucasians -armed only with firearms, cannons, a naval armada and organized militia- were soundly conquered on the battlefield of Indianapolis, Indiana. Even to this day, Caucasians are subjugated by horrifying casino odds, and Caucasian children are issued agonizing "Indian burns" on the playground.

Later in early American history, plantations and farming became big business.  But while darker-skinned people were allowed to have jobs, Caucasians were forced to stay home and perform vastly less dignified duties such as accounting and planning cotillions.

Widespread violence and cruelty often forces Caucasians to deploy decoy robots of themselves. These are called Caucasoids.

Modern Caucasians, while not attending caucuses, are often found watching NASCAR, playing in the NBA [citation needed], attending square dances, and buying Toby Keith records.

The Jawbone of an Ass

Predator Press


[LOBO]

Monday Night Football -opening night- is something I've been looking forward to for six months. But staring up at the large television screen, I suddenly realize I have no idea who is playing.

And like a ship coming in from a midnight horizon, I slowly realize Barbarossa is talking to me.

"... I mean it's your third divorce right?" he shrugs in a saccharin optimism. "It's just like riding a bike."

We are regulars here. I even have a drink named after me.  But from somewhere deep behind the warm, invisible shield provided by my third or fourth "el LOBO" (a Fuzzy Navel with a miniature umbrella), I concede that there are far too many witnesses present to kill Barbarossa; despite the chemically-exaggerated comfort level and nigh irresistible appeal to irony, "Happy Hour" lacks the sadistic discretion required for murder.

-And it's hard to kill a man with a jukebox, napkins, and neon beer signs frankly ... it would be a lot easier, for instance, if we were at Sears in the Craftsman tools section.

Tall and lanky, Barbarossa's skinny arm lands across my back, grabs my opposite tricep and pulls me in for a sympathetic hug. Balancing haphazardly on the barstool, my eyes bulge in sobering panic.

"Stop walking around so ... so wounded," he slurs in sincere sympathy. "Don't think of them as marriages.  Think of them as leases. You know, serial monogamies."

"For some of us maybe," I says, peeling his spider-like arm off. Scowling thoughtfully, the urge to drive ample fistfuls of spent miniature umbrellas repeatedly through his eyes and deeply into his brain melts away; instead I find myself reeling in Barbarossa's unprecedented nugget of dark philosophical wisdom -an observation so devoid and pure of subjectivity, it borderlined math.

Barbarossa wobbles visibly. "That's the spirit," he agrees apropos of nothing I can readily discern. Then, after perhaps suffering a fleeting glimpse of self-awareness, he sits more upright, raising his drink in an courage-inspiring toast to me.

"So what are you going to do first?"

Absently, halfheartedly colliding my drink into his beer mug, I weigh this murky prospect carefully too.

"Everything," I decide.

"Seriously?" he says in disbelief. "Man, it's already like nine thirty. How about pinball?"

Rejection Coverage 2012

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Hmmmmmm.

My life was never worse than it was under the much-ballyhooed Ronald Reagan.

But Ronald Reagan is credited with restimulating the American Economy exponentially during the 80's.

Thus -despite being all old and battered and spent- I owe another hellish decade to protect the Nation's future for my kids and should vote Republican?

-Have you seen my kids?

Internet Swag

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Father-Son Chat with Alan Thicke from Alan Thicke

Predator Press Interviews: James Carville

Predator Press

[LOBO]

“Federation or Borg?” the Butterbean kid demands. He’s standing on a chair, looking through the peephole of my front door.

“Excuse me?” asks a muffled voice from outside.

Sensing the kid’s alarm, I approach. “Who is it?”

“You gotta see this,” he replies, face pressed against the door. “It’s either Jean-Luc Pickard or Locutus.”

“Jesus,” I breathe. “What the hell is he selling?”

The kid steps down and moves the chair. “I don’t know yet.”

I open the door. “Can I help you?”

“Hello,” says the well-dressed man. “My name is James Carville.”

Butterbean and I stare.

“The lead strategist for the Clinton presidential campaign?” he adds helpfully.

I scowl. “You’ve got the wrong house. There’s nobody here named ‘Clinton.’ And do you have any idea what time it is?”

He looks at his watch. “10:30 in the morning?”

“I better get some free ice cream for dragging me out of bed like this,” I says.

He smiles. “I believe you’re confusing me with Carvel ice cream. I’m just visiting random registered democrats to get their feelings on the 18 billion in bailout money earmarked for executive bonuses.”

“No Fudgie the Whale, no dice,” I insist. “Besides, you should probably know I’m a registered republican, populist, libertarian, and anarchist too. I like being on the winning team.”

Butterbean whistles. “You can screw everything up and get 18 billion in bonuses?” He looks at me. “You’re in the wrong business.”

“Shut up,” I says.

“Look,” says Carville. “We’re on the precipice of major change. A few years ago, America elected it’s first African-American president, and-“

“We have a black president?” I says. “Is it Tupoc?”

There’s and uncomfortable silence.

“No,” Carville says finally.

“Can you teach me the Vulcan Nerve Pinch?” asks Butterbean.

“You’re thinking of Leonard Nimoy,” replies Carville.

“Don’t confuse this guy with Leonard Nimoy,” I says to Butterbean. “Leonard Nimoy is a class act.” I eye Carville. “Leonard Nimoy would’ve brought us ice cream.”

“Uh-huh,” Butterbean agrees. “Plus he would’ve stayed out of those tanning beds.”

“Seriously!” I says. “Carville you look fifty years older since The Lord of the Rings. You know there’s spray-on stuff now that doesn’t turn your skin into melted leather.”

“Will you shoot an arrow off of my head?” asks Butterbean.

“No I will not shoot an arrow off of your head,” replies Carville. “You’re thinking of Orlando Bloom.”

“Yeah dumbass,” I says to Butterbean. “This is the guy that burned the picture of the Pope.”

“That’s Sinead O'Connor,” corrects Carville.

“Pulp Fiction?” I offer.

“Bruce Willis,” says Carville.

"The Transporter?" asks Butterbean.

"Grant Latham," replies Carville.

"Triple 'X'?" I venture.

"That's Vin Diesel," says Carville. “Are you guys just going to bark out a bunch of random bald celebrities now in an effort to figure out who I am rather than discussing government policy?”

“Probably," I says. "Why?"