[LOBO]
Wednesday
Tuesday
The Showtunes Must Go On
[LOBO]
Slightly bleary, President Barack Obama pads to the breakfast table in his bathrobe, a series of newspapers -with stories already highlighted for his attention- crooked under his arm. The rest of the family out of town, the large empty table only seems to underline the eerie quiet.
Obama presses a discrete button built into his chair, an aide allows himself in.
“Good morning sir,” says the aide.
“I guess that depends on what you have to say,” Obama smiles, eyes still skimming his newspapers. “What’s on my agenda today?”
Obama presses a discrete button built into his chair, an aide allows himself in.
“Good morning sir,” says the aide.
“I guess that depends on what you have to say,” Obama smiles, eyes still skimming his newspapers. “What’s on my agenda today?”
Obama groans. “Jesus. You people might as well have those pre-printed on your stationary.”
“There has been some movement in the Middle East Peace Process.”
“Yeah," Obama guffaws. "Whatever.”
“Kim Jong Un is here requesting an audience.”
“I don’t understand a word that guy says. He’s, like, French or something.” Obama yawns deeply. “What would you do?”
“As President?”
“Yes.”
“With my wife and kids out of town? I would probably just surf porn I suppose.”
“Can’t,” says Obama. “My wife found the line item in the budget I pay for it out of.”
"Ouch,” the aide winces.“Let’s back up. What about that ‘gays in the military’ thing?"
“People of,” the aide coughs, “’alternate lifestyles’ are feeling persecuted out of serving in the armed forces.”
“Wait. These people want to enlist? They’re aware of the dress code, right?”
“Yes.”
“Well what’s the problem? Don’t we have enemies that need a good smacking around?"
“Not really.”
“How about one that should be patronized condescendingly during an ambush makeover?
“Kim Jong Un maybe?”
“Word," laughs Obama. Fist-bumping ensues. "He wouldn’t understand a damn thing they said. It would be hilarious. But in all seriousness, we can’t, under any circumstances, allow homosexuals to get killed in war.”
“Why is that, sir?”
“Too valuable. You know what happens to an America without gays?”
“No.”
“Pittsburgh.”
“Really?”
“I’m serious. We had a whole Top Secret study done. We would have full saturation in six months if we're lucky. And anyone alive a year later better damn well like Coors Light, playing pool, and NASCAR.”
“No, homosexuals can’t be allowed to get in the military, period. They're a national resource.” Obama scratched his chin, pondering aloud. “And we can’t ask them about their sexuality directly anymore-"
“Wait. Can I ask you some questions about that ‘Pittsburgh’ thing-?"
Obama snaps his fingers. “I got it,” he says with authority. “During boot camp, there’s a mandatory twenty-four hour David Hasselhoff marathon. And all the recruits get nothing but water and Cheetos."
“I’m not following you,” the aide squirmed.
“Then discharge everyone with glowing orange genitals.”
“Ah. Medical reasons.”
"So to keep gays out of the military, you want to make up a disease -'Bioluminescent-Affected Mammallian Disorder'-"
"Uh-huh. 'BLAMD.' Perfect."
"That has no other symptoms or cure?"
"Uh-huh. 'BLAMD.' Perfect."
"That has no other symptoms or cure?"
"Excellent."
"-To save America from becoming Pittsburgh."
"It's genius," Obama smiled. “Now get me Rick Astley on the phone! Stat.”
Sunday
Femmolition
Predator Press
[LOBO]
I remember Mom looking down at me and smiling.
“You can be anything you want to be,” she explained. “You can be a musician, an astronaut, a scientist … anything.” Winding in the strained peas on the yellow plastic spoon she soothed, “The only thing you can’t be is a failure.”
And she was right.
-I should have been a musician, astronaut, or scientist.
Saturday
I Ate WHAT?
A ‘meat and potatoes’ guy myself, not a lot of foreign cuisine sneaks across my rather discriminating palette. But every once in a while there is a lapse in my security -otherwise airtight, I assure- and I feel I owe it to you O loyal reader, to complain about it in great, anguished, and excruciating detail.
While how we got the Grape Nuts cereal remains a mystery, I strongly suspect Terri: we’ve been married six years now, and I’m virtually positive it isn’t the first time poisoning me would have crossed her mind.
It has the texture you would guess human brains mixed with tiny skull fragments might feel like. And how do Grape Nuts taste? For a toxic gash in the fabric of culinary history, it's surprisingly not very subtle or apologetic: imagine eating pulverized mulch, soil and tree bark dogs have peed on for years. Mix that with a generous sprinkling of rabbit turds, and eating it out of a corrugated box with only a spade and a rake. Okay, are you picturing that? Now imagine eating only the box. Grape Nuts -utterly bereft of grapes or nuts, I should add- should be called ‘Rape Guts.’
Worse, it makes your poop unsinkable, unflushable battleship girders that circle around the whirlpool defiantly, bending the laws of physics and thermodynamics at will -some are so brazen, they swim against the Coreolis Effect! The larger ones exert a gravitational pull over the smaller ones, and they are drawn together -often into skirmishes for control of the tiny blue sea; the clanging and shrieking metal-on-metal sounds become extremely audible as armadas collide in angry, bobbing counter-orbits, and people are soon banging on the bathroom door. “LOBO are you okay?” and ”Where the hell are all those sparks coming from?”-I would warn them to run for their lives, but I’m far too embarrassed. In fact I'm sorry but if weeds start growing out of my ass, we’re all going to die and that’s that.
Grape Nuts scores impressively, however, in practical secondary applications. It makes a great spackle for instance. The stucco patterns one can achieve are fantastic. Has a tree in your neighborhood recently been felled by a storm? A box of Grape Nuts, some water and fertilizer, and you can just stick that sucker right back on the stump.
Another high-scoring secondary feature is how it elevates the art of farting: it’s analogous to going from mere garden-variety ma an pa sticks of dynamite to military shaped charges. Terri had some friends over from work, and I didn’t even have to enter the room: from the top of the stairs, I cut a 'Silent But Deadly' [SBD] that felt like I passed a hot light bulb.
As you can guess, hilarity ensues. I think they heard the palpable thump as it detonated on the living room floor below ... and what followed was ten seconds of erie silence, four minutes or so of shrill mayhem (choking, weeping, and the opening of windows and doors and such), and then five minutes of watery-eyed fingerpointing.The next time Terri makes me go to church, I’m gonna choke down a whole box of this crap.
***
There is some good news on the foreign food front. We ate at a place called “Panda Express” the other day. Who knew panda was so delicious? Judging from the number of customers, I'll bet they were serving up four or five pandas a day! This is Entrepreneurialism at it's finest. And what better way to raise awareness of the plight of the mighty panda, nearly extinct, than to remind Americans how mouth-wateringly good they are when nuggettized and in a honey glaze -just like you would get them in Nature?
And they're only extinct because they won't have sex, right? How nappy must those panda bitches and hos be if a male panda -born in a zoo and never had no sex before- don't want to toss 'em good an proper on top of the plastic habitat that looks like a rock? Maybe the male panda is looking for something a little more upscale and refined, sensitive to his needs -like a panda in a cheerleader outfit. Would it kill her to wear a cheerleader outfit every once in a while?
Maybe he’s a gay panda. Or what if he's got, like a racist sex-fetish and wants a grizzly -or a polar- bear? Hm? Are the female pandas, like, real fat, or otherwise stricken with infirmities? Try not reminding him of Oreo cookies or Loa Tzu; maybe this bear is just such a hard-core fucking nihilist, he’s trying to end the species. This planet is a dump if you think about it.
Anyway, I can’t say enough about Panda Express, nor their fine work and noble commitment to save the lazy and otherwise worthless panda.
-And maybe they have a card I can get stamped for a free panda in the future!
Predator Press Superbowl Commercial Scripted
Predator Press
[LOBO]
[total silence, text fades in and out of darkness one line at a time]
Are you tired of writing your blog?
Or are you just too busy?
Well millions of wealthy and high-powered CEOs and celebrities just like you suffer from many of these same issues.
And so do some robots.
[cut to woman in pantsuit, dramatic music begins]
Woman in Pantsuit: “I’m a very busy executive, and in charge of a lot of things. Between flying my private jet and watching my stock market ticker, I just don’t have any time for blogging.”
[pan back to see baseball player behind her hit a home run, run the bases and then get swamped by masses and masses of cheering fans. cut back to woman -now confused, tearful and afraid.]
Woman in Pantsuit: “I don’t know anything about baseball. I sure hope Predator Press can come up with something that rich entrepreneurs like myself can pay for so people will think I do!”
[cut away to man in suit with pistol, firing at henchmen in a castle]
Man in Suit with Pistol: “After a hard day of espionage, who has time to blog?”
[short martial arts sequence with ninjas]
Man in Suit with Pistol: “Oh Predator Press I live in bloggless shame! Can’t you find a way to aid me with this difficult burden that I must bear for my entire life forever?"
[fade to black, dramatic music builds, narration begins]
Narrator: “In a world that has turned it’s back on Humanity.”
[fade in footage of Wall Street and tanks and bombers and stuff]
Narrator: “In a world that has turned upon itself”
[footage of, like, Hitler or something]
Narrator: “In a world that has turned upside down, because that’s what happens when you turn something round upon itself. And remember how it 'turned it's back on Humanity'? Well the world would be facing it again now ... assuming it's a sphere.”
[hey, who the &@# hired this *@#! narrator?]
Narrator: ”In a world where very busy rich people have no one to turn to.”
[okay. maybe rats, like gnawing through a bloody argyle sock. no, wait! like picture the dude in front of a gigantic citizen cane-style fireplace just typing into a laptop and then like ten rats just start eating his legs. twenty rats. a million rats! he tries to fend them off with his cognac snifter and a big cigar, but finally succumbs to them right on top of his bear skin rug as blood sprays everywhere. yes. kiss my ass, spielberg.]
Narrator: “One man answered the desperate call of a dying planet."
[cut to tinfoil fedora. hey, if we use the 'raiders' theme, do you think anyone would notice?]
Narrator: “One blog rose to the challenge.”
[cut to Predator Press logo as logo is struck by lightning and explodes into like a million pieces. but don’t make it a million pieces because that'll be a real bitch to clean up … make it like 12 or 15 pieces. and make it of Styrofoam. and then cut to me looking cool.]
LOBO: “Hi. My name is LOBO, and I’m here to help.”
Narrator: Hey, isn't that the 'Raiders' theme?
[ignore the narrator, but cut to guy on yacht before that dumbass says anything else]
Guy on Yacht: “Thank God you finally have arrived LOBO. I have to decide between blogging and going to the Big Party tonight. And Princess Fantasia is going to be there! What shall I do?”
LOBO: “Have no fear my wealthy friend. I can write your blog for you!”
[i open my laptop, and like golden rays of sunlight beam up and a subtle angelic hymn begins]
Guy on Yacht: “Really LOBO? You can write my blog?”
LOBO: “Yes it’s true. For an astronominal fee you can go to the Big Party and leave all your blogging worries to me.”
[cut to surgeon, surrounded by nurses mocking him]
Nurses Mocking Surgeon: "Be careful or you'll bore the patients to death!"
[nurses exit laughing stage left]
Surgeon: “LOBO, chicks think my blog is really dull. Can you help me spice it up so they will dig me?”
[i take the laptop off of the patient’s chest and hand the surgeon his glimmering scalpel, confidently smiling.]
LOBO: “Do you want 'Dangerous' or just 'Freaky'?"
[cut to leper on table]
Leper: “But with all the working out you obviously do, you can’t possibly have time to help all of us.”
LOBO: “Why yes I do my friend.”
[i touch the leper’s forehead, and he is, like, healed.]
LOBO: “Yes I do.”
[here’s where I narrate a montage of really scientific-looking lab equipment. cue upbeat sciency music]
LOBO: “See we here at Predator Press have always prided ourselves in looking out for the welfare of very, very wealthy people. And very wealthy people often have very difficult and expensive obstacles in the way of their blogging destiny."
[cut back to nurses previously mocking surgeon, all staring into a computer monitor]
Nurse Previously Mocking Surgeon: "Wow was I wrong about that surgeon! Did you know the government is considering replacing George Washington’s image on the quarter with his?”
Other Nurse Previously Mocking Surgeon: "Yeah. And last weekend he saved a puppy out of the shark tank using nothing but a carpet deodorizer!”
Another Nurse Previously Mocking Surgeon: "Do you think the surgeon would mind if we all go skinnydipping?”
[other nurse previously mocking surgeon begins to unbutton her blouse]
Other Nurse Previously Mocking Surgeon: “Race ya!”
[cut to surgeon in front of shark tank, giving “thumbs up” to camera]
Surgeon: “Thanks Predator Press. "You have completely changed my life forever.”
Former Leper and Nurses Previously Mocking Surgeon: [splashing, laughing off camera] "Thanks Predator Press"!
[LOBO][total silence, text fades in and out of darkness one line at a time]
Are you tired of writing your blog?
Or are you just too busy?
Well millions of wealthy and high-powered CEOs and celebrities just like you suffer from many of these same issues.
And so do some robots.
[cut to woman in pantsuit, dramatic music begins]
Woman in Pantsuit: “I’m a very busy executive, and in charge of a lot of things. Between flying my private jet and watching my stock market ticker, I just don’t have any time for blogging.”
[pan back to see baseball player behind her hit a home run, run the bases and then get swamped by masses and masses of cheering fans. cut back to woman -now confused, tearful and afraid.]
Woman in Pantsuit: “I don’t know anything about baseball. I sure hope Predator Press can come up with something that rich entrepreneurs like myself can pay for so people will think I do!”
[cut away to man in suit with pistol, firing at henchmen in a castle]
Man in Suit with Pistol: “After a hard day of espionage, who has time to blog?”[short martial arts sequence with ninjas]
Man in Suit with Pistol: “Oh Predator Press I live in bloggless shame! Can’t you find a way to aid me with this difficult burden that I must bear for my entire life forever?"
[fade to black, dramatic music builds, narration begins]
Narrator: “In a world that has turned it’s back on Humanity.”
[fade in footage of Wall Street and tanks and bombers and stuff]
Narrator: “In a world that has turned upon itself”
[footage of, like, Hitler or something]
Narrator: “In a world that has turned upside down, because that’s what happens when you turn something round upon itself. And remember how it 'turned it's back on Humanity'? Well the world would be facing it again now ... assuming it's a sphere.”
[hey, who the &@# hired this *@#! narrator?]Narrator: ”In a world where very busy rich people have no one to turn to.”
[okay. maybe rats, like gnawing through a bloody argyle sock. no, wait! like picture the dude in front of a gigantic citizen cane-style fireplace just typing into a laptop and then like ten rats just start eating his legs. twenty rats. a million rats! he tries to fend them off with his cognac snifter and a big cigar, but finally succumbs to them right on top of his bear skin rug as blood sprays everywhere. yes. kiss my ass, spielberg.]
Narrator: “One man answered the desperate call of a dying planet."
[cut to tinfoil fedora. hey, if we use the 'raiders' theme, do you think anyone would notice?]
Narrator: “One blog rose to the challenge.”
[cut to Predator Press logo as logo is struck by lightning and explodes into like a million pieces. but don’t make it a million pieces because that'll be a real bitch to clean up … make it like 12 or 15 pieces. and make it of Styrofoam. and then cut to me looking cool.]
LOBO: “Hi. My name is LOBO, and I’m here to help.”
Narrator: Hey, isn't that the 'Raiders' theme?
[ignore the narrator, but cut to guy on yacht before that dumbass says anything else]
Guy on Yacht: “Thank God you finally have arrived LOBO. I have to decide between blogging and going to the Big Party tonight. And Princess Fantasia is going to be there! What shall I do?”LOBO: “Have no fear my wealthy friend. I can write your blog for you!”
[i open my laptop, and like golden rays of sunlight beam up and a subtle angelic hymn begins]
Guy on Yacht: “Really LOBO? You can write my blog?”
LOBO: “Yes it’s true. For an astronominal fee you can go to the Big Party and leave all your blogging worries to me.”
[cut to surgeon, surrounded by nurses mocking him]
Nurses Mocking Surgeon: "Be careful or you'll bore the patients to death!"
[nurses exit laughing stage left]
Surgeon: “LOBO, chicks think my blog is really dull. Can you help me spice it up so they will dig me?”[i take the laptop off of the patient’s chest and hand the surgeon his glimmering scalpel, confidently smiling.]
LOBO: “Do you want 'Dangerous' or just 'Freaky'?"
[cut to leper on table]
Leper: “But with all the working out you obviously do, you can’t possibly have time to help all of us.”
LOBO: “Why yes I do my friend.”
[i touch the leper’s forehead, and he is, like, healed.]
LOBO: “Yes I do.”
[here’s where I narrate a montage of really scientific-looking lab equipment. cue upbeat sciency music]LOBO: “See we here at Predator Press have always prided ourselves in looking out for the welfare of very, very wealthy people. And very wealthy people often have very difficult and expensive obstacles in the way of their blogging destiny."
[cut back to nurses previously mocking surgeon, all staring into a computer monitor]
Nurse Previously Mocking Surgeon: "Wow was I wrong about that surgeon! Did you know the government is considering replacing George Washington’s image on the quarter with his?”
Other Nurse Previously Mocking Surgeon: "Yeah. And last weekend he saved a puppy out of the shark tank using nothing but a carpet deodorizer!”
Another Nurse Previously Mocking Surgeon: "Do you think the surgeon would mind if we all go skinnydipping?”[other nurse previously mocking surgeon begins to unbutton her blouse]
Other Nurse Previously Mocking Surgeon: “Race ya!”
[cut to surgeon in front of shark tank, giving “thumbs up” to camera]
Surgeon: “Thanks Predator Press. "You have completely changed my life forever.”
Former Leper and Nurses Previously Mocking Surgeon: [splashing, laughing off camera] "Thanks Predator Press"!
Friday
WTF Ever Happened to Quicksand?
Predator Press
[LOBO]Once again, at no small expense to you, we here at Predator Press have set out to settle an age-old question burning in everyone’s mind: What ever happened to quicksand?
You remember ... one could barely get through a half an hour of television without some poor slob stumbling upon his buddy's pith helmet laying mysteriously on the ground. Then he or she goes to pick it up, and the horror ensues.
-It’s quicksand!
I remember being taught about quicksand by no less than three teachers during the brief debacle of my education. They all conflicted with each other too. “Don’t struggle,” one said. “Lay flat and roll out,” said another.Clearly even then this enigmatic sedentary evil was barely understood. Of course this was the heart of Chicago, where they taught us to curl up in a hallway in case of aerial bombings and hide under our desks during nuclear blasts. It's safe to say if graffiti didn't stick to it, we Chicagoans didn't know shit about it.
So after years of jumping over suspicious looking sidewalk squares it occurred that inner city quicksand may well have evolved a cracked appearance -perhaps even a Hopscotch pattern as camouflage! And tedious "research" revealed absolutely no cases of Chicago quicksand attacks, thus proving conclusively the deadly hunting prowess of this formidable and fearsome predator: no one had yet survived an encounter with it to tell the tale.
-I haven't slept in years.Unfortunately, the Predator Press scienticians really let us all down this time. All they did was gorge Dominoes pizza, play World of Warcraft, and work on their Facebook profiles until SPAM beguiled them into downloading crippling computer viruses via porn. Obviously the Great Mystery of Quicksand is beyond the feeble understanding of even the greatest minds of our time.
Still, we here at Predator Press remain hopeful that perhaps one day Humanity will learn to communicate with quicksand, the most misunderstood, secretive, and voracious of Nature’s killers.But we recommend you all wear big, buoyant hats in the meantime.
Just in case.
Tuesday
The Nature Versus the Nurtured
Predator Press
[LOBO]
“No, I will not teach you to play guitar,” I says to the Butterbean kid flatly. “I don’t know where you got the idea I play guitar in the first place. These are crazy rumors, spread by an obviously deranged individual. Probably a meth freak.”
Butterbean unslings his guitar on the porch. “Miss Terri said you used to be real good at it.”
“Terri knows better than to get addicted to meth,” I argue. “Shit. TMZ doesn’t even know we exist yet.”
“My mom says she’ll give you ten bucks a lesson.”
“Is this the same woman that insists you are ‘big boned’? I have serious doubts about her mathematical prowess. Tell your mom I want fifty million.”
Butterbean seems strangely skeptical.
"Maybe fifteen?"
"Your mom is a shrewd woman," I reply thoughtfully. "Tell her forty nine million, nine hundred and ninety nine thousand, nine hundred and eighty five is my final offer. Anything less would be cutting into my overhead."
“I don’t think she would go that high really,” he says.
“Then how about we compromise and just tell your mom I’m giving you guitar lessons?" I counteroffer. "We'll split whatever we get.”
“Seriously,” says the boy. “I want to hear you play.”
“Of course you do,” I says. “That’s what a lad I once knew insisted –almost verbatim- many, many years ago. ‘I want to hear you play, I want to hear you play, I want to hear you play.’ Christ you couldn’t shut him up about it. And then he quit drugs, fired David Lee Roth, started playing keyboard, and married Valerie Bertinelli.” I eyed the Butterbean kid warily. “This kind of knowledge can destroy your mind. Is Eddie Van Halen’s a fate you would like to share?”
“Who is Eddie Von Helsing?”
“See?” I stammer, almost speechless in frustration. “This is precisely what I mean. Eddie would go on to die broke and in utter obscurity. And worse than that, he died broke and in utter obscurity while having to listen to Valerie Bertinelli clipping her toenails … Crack! Crack! Crack! And have you seen Valerie Bertinelli’s toenails? Somebody is going to lose an eye with those things shooting all over the place.”
“What if I promise to stay away from Valerie Bertinelli?”
“It’s more than just Valerie Bertinelli's deadly aerodynamic toenails and shocking capacity for evil,” I says coolly. “Playing guitar is a strict discipline. A lifestyle. Yes. A lifestyle of long hours, bloody fingertips, and skinny guys named ‘Kirk’ and big-haired chicks named ‘Amber.’ A lifestyle of being woken at three in the morning by colliding trash can lids, and stringing your guitar in under eight minutes. A lifestyle of forcing people to listen to you play ‘Smoke on the Water,’ like, ninety jillion times.”
Punctuating the discussion, I scoop up the welding mask from the counter and strap it to my forehead. Pausing for a moment before flipping down the mask I ask, "I'm making lunch. Do you want a grilled cheese?"
"That's not really grilling them technically," Butterbean points out, eyebrows furrowed.
"Well, I’ve always considered the term 'grilled cheese' more of a guideline than a recipe. After all, there's no reference to the bread or the butter either." Flipping my mask, I crack the arc to life. "You know, say what you will about plasma. But nothing really brings out the flavor like a good old fashioned carbon electrode."
Butterbean cupped his hands to boost his voice over the noise. "Should you be doing that in a Snuggie?"
"It's hard finding footie pajamas in my size," I call.
"No. I mean isn't that thing flammable?"
"I can't wear the gear," I explain loudly. "That stuff chafes, and I have very sensitive nipples." Pulling my torch to the side, I flip my mask back and inspect the soapstone surface. "Man I hope Terri managed to find a company that will give us another fire insurance policy. Grilled cheese is hell on these countertops."
"You think they will cover making arc-welded cheese sandwiches?"
"Well if they have a better way to cook, I'd like to hear it." I look around thoughtfully. "You know, you're right ... I should torch the whole place just in case. I'm getting a little tired of this furniture anyway. Good idea."
"You can do that?"
"That's the whole point of having insurance. Why go through the whole hassle of moving when you can just get new stuff?" I switch off the torch. "They deliver and install it too. Just watch your spelling."
"Spelling?"
"Our last insurance guy got really pissed when I misspelled 'bathtub' as 'H-E-A-T-E-D-I-N-D-O-O-R-P-O-O-L' on the claim. But it was an honest mistake. My spelling acuity is a direct result of the American public education system. I'm the victim here if you think about it."
"So you can get in trouble for it?"
"Well … yes. It turns out some people are really, really touchy about arson. But this was your idea, remember?" I rub my chin, trying to remember if there is any gasoline in the garage. "And frankly I'm shocked you thought of that. If I ever went on trial for arson and insurance fraud, you better hope I never have to testify 'cuz I'm singing like a canary."
"I don't think it's a good idea then."
"I think it's a great idea!" I says. "We could make it look like an innocent arc welded cheese sandwich making accident. But I would need to make a video all the stuff in our house first. Know where any friendly rich people live? I want another Ming vase to put our umbrellas in."
"You've got a Ming vase? Really?"
"Four of them. We use them as trash cans. See?"
“These say ‘Made in China.’”
“Yeah. Ming, China probably."
"There is no such place as Ming, China."
"Look, it says ‘Ming’ right there,” I point. “Next to the picture of the guy fighting Flash Gordon. How can you possibly doubt its authenticity?”
“I think 'Ming' is supposed to reference an ancient dynasty.”
“Well I would hope these aren't crappy old ones, ” I says, inspecting the container closely. "Over the past century, China has come a long way in an effort to improve the quality of their products."
“Hey, look at this,” says Butterbean, peeling at the label. “The back of this ‘Made in China’ sticker says ‘Made in Korea.’"
“Maybe Ming has a factory there in Korea. You know … outsourcing. China is very busy crafting high end vases like these. Vases, and making pandas boink. Maybe China just doesn’t have time for labels anymore.” Reflecting on this, I add, “I’ve heard of some odd fetishes before. But pandas? That’s just plain weird.”
“Actually,” corrects Mister Smarty-Pants, “they are trying to breed the few remaining pandas to save the species.”
“Yeah, whatever,” I scoff. “Another common misconception. How do you explain all those freaky websites?”
“Websites?”
“Yeah. I’ve downloaded about fifteen hours of panda porn. You’re too young to see it. But I assure you with possible exception of the Kanji, this stuff has no artistic merit whatsoever. It's pure filth.”
“Wait,” says Butterbean. “You downloaded fifteen hours of panda porn?”
“It was strictly for educational purposes,” I says. “If you want to study a culture, there’s only so much one can learn from a couple of vases.”
“But if this is all true," Butterbean speculates shrewdly, "then pandas wouldn’t be an endangered species.”
“Pandas are too busy having sex to make babies.”
Butterbean stares.
“Oh no,” I says, rolling my eyes slightly. “Don’t tell me. Somebody gave you that whole speech on how you make babies having sex, didn’t they?”
“Well, yeah,” says Butterbean. "Mom and Dad said that-"
"Silence!" I command, dangerously close to a lot of unwanted mental imagery of Butterbean's parents rolling around and grunting like sweaty, greasy hippopotami with a background narration by Lorne Greene. 'Mutual of Omaha presents ...' Shivering slightly I persist, trying to come up with an example. "Look. Have you ever watched 'Forensic Files'?"
"That television show about when the police solve those murders?"
"Yes. You watch the half hour program, and by the end the solve the crime."
Butterbean nods expectantly. "Okay."
"Well there's another show called 'Missing Persons Unit.' Similar, but this show is a little less predictable because sometimes they find the missing person alive."
"Go on."
"My point is with 'Forensic Files,' they catch the killer. With 'Missing Persons Unit,' it's almost the same thing ... you watch them interviewing suspects, canvassing the area, dredging the river, interviewing more suspects, blah blah blah. But then after fifty-five minutes of watching all that time, energy, money and manpower wasted, they find the kid waiting tables in Hollywood hoping to blow Steven Spielberg to get their screenplay read or whatever."
"I'm not following you."
"Think about it. We walk away hating the kid that survived. For putting us through all that."
Butterbean nods, but I can tell he's not 'getting it.'
"If you're going to lie and make people think you are dead," I elaborate, "and you aren't dead, don't you think it should be incumbent upon all concerned parties to provide some closure? We can set a dollar amount for it. Let's say when the search costs more than $250,000 and the kid has been alive and safe the whole time, somebody has to die. For $250,000, I want a body. And it should go up from there. For $500,000, I want two bodies. And so on."
"But what does this have to do with sex?"
"We're not there yet. We're still talking about lying. And you have to preface a conversation about sex with a conversation about lying. Any honest adult male will tell you well-woven and elaborate lying is an intrinsic component of having sex ... unless he's lying because he's trying to have sex with you. But we'll get to 'Courtship' soon enough. Stop interrupting me."
"Okay."
"Now where was I? Oh yeah. I'm not saying wax the kid right there on the Spago salad bar ... this all has to be treated on a case-by-case basis. What if maybe the kid was running away from abusive parents, and they should be killed? See? By lying we've transformed the whole situation. People deserve -if not demand- being lied to, and it's in their best interest really. I'm happy, you're happy, and Steven Spielberg is really happy. We all walk away slaked in the confidence and comfort of cosmic justice well-served, and with vastly improved television as a byproduct."
"I gotta tell you, this is way different than the speech my parents gave me," says Butterbean. "Are there birds and bees in this one somewhere?"
“No," I says flatly. "You’re too grown up for those fairy tales. But the truth about babies is actually more horrifying than you could possibly imagine -maybe worse even than being raped by a pack of wild pandas! That's why your parents are distorting the truth,” I assert. "They are trying to protect you."
Pensive and rapt, the boy hung on my every word.
“If sex resulted in babies,” I began, “we would have stopped doing it a long time ago. The first caveman to find a melted Jolly Rancher in his pelt would have been the end of the whole damn human race.”
“Then where did I come from?”
“I doubt anyone really knows with one hundred percent certainty," I confess. "But it definitely was not from sex. I mean put yourself in everyone else's shoes. Would you have sex knowing there was a risk of having you? And I’ve seen your parents. Trust me. Those people aren’t having sex ... especially with each other. Blech.”
“Maybe there are spores? Like mushrooms?”
“Well that seems plausible," I concede. "But it seems far more logical for people to contract babies. Like syphilis or rabies.”
“So the pandas are immune to babies?”
“No. I’ll bet pandas are as susceptible as anything. If there’s a scarcity of baby pandas, it’s more likely due to them being delicious.”
Butterbean’s inquisitive look transformed instantly to horror. “You mean we are eating the baby pandas?”
“There's a Panda Express two blocks from here,” I shrug. “And have you ever eaten baby panda? It’s fantastic. It tastes like chicken.”
Suddenly, I realize that this conversation –if furthered pursued- might actually make Butterbean vomit, cry, or vomit while crying simultaneously. But no matter how desirous these potential outcomes might be, I would prefer none of these events to take place in my kitchen.
“You look a little pale,” I comment. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine,” says Butterbean unconvincingly. He seemed a bit wobbly, and it occurred to me he might faint. Fainting trumps vomiting, crying, and vomiting while crying simultaneously in my kitchen, but he could hurt himself -and I wouldn’t be a very responsible adult if this were to occur when it was completely avoidable, would I?
“Would you like to try some baby panda?” I says, grabbing the almost novelty-large, craziest, jagged-looking knife I can find out of the wooden block. “I’ve got some in the freezer. It’ll take me five minutes if I arc weld it. You can have the ears. They're kinda small, but that's the part Hostess uses to make Ho-Hos-"
WHAM!
It was a clean fall, square in the center of the kitchen ... afterward the sight of which could only be described as a small whale having beached itself on the linoleum. I probably could have caught him, but I would have missed the comedy entirely and therefore couldn't. Plus I was thinking about my new invention: the Sea Skateboard.
See, what we do is we make a really big skateboard without wheels. But here's the kicker: the Sea Skateboard floats on water. You could paddle around on it and ride waves or whatever. (I probably shouldn't have blogged this idea now that I think about it. People have a bad habit about stealing my ideas ... especially those shifty goddamn Hawaiians.)
Anyway. Once more concerned for the still-inert boy's safety, I poke him with the grilled cheese spatula until I'm convinced his vital signs are stable.
-And by the time he fully 'comes to,' I’m already on the phone with his mom.
“I think twenty bucks an hour is more fair," I explain, hardballing Butterbean’s mom over a terrible, static-addled connection. “This lazy kid was uncooperative and fell right to sleep during the lesson. If I'm going to take millions and millions of dollars in my time away from developing the Sea Skateboard, I deserve some kind of equitable compensation."
Butterbean groans. "Is that my mom?"
I put my finger to my lips to shush him quietly, and then cover the ear opposite the phone to hear better over the crackling background noise. "It's a really big skateboard without wheels that floats on water," I explain to her. "You could paddle around on it and ride waves or whatever. Shit ... you're not Hawaiian, are you ma'am?"
"What happened?" he asks, blinking blearily at the ceiling.
"Look," I says into the phone, trying to ignore him. "I'll only charge you ten bucks for this first guitar lesson, but look what I have to work with here ... this is the musical equivalent of smoking a cigar, drinking coffee and eating a box of Oreos in the dentist's waiting room. Your son would be better off doing something for which he was more genetically suitable. Like ..." Thinking quickly, I turn and look at the boy, still on the kitchen floor, for ideas. "Like, I dunno, becoming a perfume or something.”
Absently twirling the phone cord in my fingers, I see Butterbean sit up.
"Those poor pandas," the boy whimpered weakly.
"Shhh!" I says to him irritated, covering the phone mouthpiece. "I'm negotiating." Turning my back to him in order to concentrate, my attention returns completely to Butterbean's mom.
"So we have a deal then?" I ask. "Good. Now how much will you give me not to teach him ‘Smoke on the Water’?"
[LOBO]“No, I will not teach you to play guitar,” I says to the Butterbean kid flatly. “I don’t know where you got the idea I play guitar in the first place. These are crazy rumors, spread by an obviously deranged individual. Probably a meth freak.”
Butterbean unslings his guitar on the porch. “Miss Terri said you used to be real good at it.”
“Terri knows better than to get addicted to meth,” I argue. “Shit. TMZ doesn’t even know we exist yet.”
“My mom says she’ll give you ten bucks a lesson.”
“Is this the same woman that insists you are ‘big boned’? I have serious doubts about her mathematical prowess. Tell your mom I want fifty million.”
Butterbean seems strangely skeptical.
"Maybe fifteen?"
"Your mom is a shrewd woman," I reply thoughtfully. "Tell her forty nine million, nine hundred and ninety nine thousand, nine hundred and eighty five is my final offer. Anything less would be cutting into my overhead."
“I don’t think she would go that high really,” he says.
“Then how about we compromise and just tell your mom I’m giving you guitar lessons?" I counteroffer. "We'll split whatever we get.”
“Seriously,” says the boy. “I want to hear you play.”
“Of course you do,” I says. “That’s what a lad I once knew insisted –almost verbatim- many, many years ago. ‘I want to hear you play, I want to hear you play, I want to hear you play.’ Christ you couldn’t shut him up about it. And then he quit drugs, fired David Lee Roth, started playing keyboard, and married Valerie Bertinelli.” I eyed the Butterbean kid warily. “This kind of knowledge can destroy your mind. Is Eddie Van Halen’s a fate you would like to share?”
“Who is Eddie Von Helsing?”
“See?” I stammer, almost speechless in frustration. “This is precisely what I mean. Eddie would go on to die broke and in utter obscurity. And worse than that, he died broke and in utter obscurity while having to listen to Valerie Bertinelli clipping her toenails … Crack! Crack! Crack! And have you seen Valerie Bertinelli’s toenails? Somebody is going to lose an eye with those things shooting all over the place.”
“What if I promise to stay away from Valerie Bertinelli?”
“It’s more than just Valerie Bertinelli's deadly aerodynamic toenails and shocking capacity for evil,” I says coolly. “Playing guitar is a strict discipline. A lifestyle. Yes. A lifestyle of long hours, bloody fingertips, and skinny guys named ‘Kirk’ and big-haired chicks named ‘Amber.’ A lifestyle of being woken at three in the morning by colliding trash can lids, and stringing your guitar in under eight minutes. A lifestyle of forcing people to listen to you play ‘Smoke on the Water,’ like, ninety jillion times.”Punctuating the discussion, I scoop up the welding mask from the counter and strap it to my forehead. Pausing for a moment before flipping down the mask I ask, "I'm making lunch. Do you want a grilled cheese?"
"That's not really grilling them technically," Butterbean points out, eyebrows furrowed.
"Well, I’ve always considered the term 'grilled cheese' more of a guideline than a recipe. After all, there's no reference to the bread or the butter either." Flipping my mask, I crack the arc to life. "You know, say what you will about plasma. But nothing really brings out the flavor like a good old fashioned carbon electrode."
Butterbean cupped his hands to boost his voice over the noise. "Should you be doing that in a Snuggie?""It's hard finding footie pajamas in my size," I call.
"No. I mean isn't that thing flammable?"
"I can't wear the gear," I explain loudly. "That stuff chafes, and I have very sensitive nipples." Pulling my torch to the side, I flip my mask back and inspect the soapstone surface. "Man I hope Terri managed to find a company that will give us another fire insurance policy. Grilled cheese is hell on these countertops."
"You think they will cover making arc-welded cheese sandwiches?"
"Well if they have a better way to cook, I'd like to hear it." I look around thoughtfully. "You know, you're right ... I should torch the whole place just in case. I'm getting a little tired of this furniture anyway. Good idea."
"You can do that?"
"That's the whole point of having insurance. Why go through the whole hassle of moving when you can just get new stuff?" I switch off the torch. "They deliver and install it too. Just watch your spelling."
"Spelling?"
"Our last insurance guy got really pissed when I misspelled 'bathtub' as 'H-E-A-T-E-D-I-N-D-O-O-R-P-O-O-L' on the claim. But it was an honest mistake. My spelling acuity is a direct result of the American public education system. I'm the victim here if you think about it."
"So you can get in trouble for it?""Well … yes. It turns out some people are really, really touchy about arson. But this was your idea, remember?" I rub my chin, trying to remember if there is any gasoline in the garage. "And frankly I'm shocked you thought of that. If I ever went on trial for arson and insurance fraud, you better hope I never have to testify 'cuz I'm singing like a canary."
"I don't think it's a good idea then."
"I think it's a great idea!" I says. "We could make it look like an innocent arc welded cheese sandwich making accident. But I would need to make a video all the stuff in our house first. Know where any friendly rich people live? I want another Ming vase to put our umbrellas in."
"You've got a Ming vase? Really?"
"Four of them. We use them as trash cans. See?"
“These say ‘Made in China.’”
“Yeah. Ming, China probably."
"There is no such place as Ming, China."
"Look, it says ‘Ming’ right there,” I point. “Next to the picture of the guy fighting Flash Gordon. How can you possibly doubt its authenticity?”
“I think 'Ming' is supposed to reference an ancient dynasty.”
“Well I would hope these aren't crappy old ones, ” I says, inspecting the container closely. "Over the past century, China has come a long way in an effort to improve the quality of their products."
“Hey, look at this,” says Butterbean, peeling at the label. “The back of this ‘Made in China’ sticker says ‘Made in Korea.’"
“Maybe Ming has a factory there in Korea. You know … outsourcing. China is very busy crafting high end vases like these. Vases, and making pandas boink. Maybe China just doesn’t have time for labels anymore.” Reflecting on this, I add, “I’ve heard of some odd fetishes before. But pandas? That’s just plain weird.”“Actually,” corrects Mister Smarty-Pants, “they are trying to breed the few remaining pandas to save the species.”
“Yeah, whatever,” I scoff. “Another common misconception. How do you explain all those freaky websites?”
“Websites?”
“Yeah. I’ve downloaded about fifteen hours of panda porn. You’re too young to see it. But I assure you with possible exception of the Kanji, this stuff has no artistic merit whatsoever. It's pure filth.”
“Wait,” says Butterbean. “You downloaded fifteen hours of panda porn?”
“It was strictly for educational purposes,” I says. “If you want to study a culture, there’s only so much one can learn from a couple of vases.”
“But if this is all true," Butterbean speculates shrewdly, "then pandas wouldn’t be an endangered species.”
“Pandas are too busy having sex to make babies.”
Butterbean stares.
“Oh no,” I says, rolling my eyes slightly. “Don’t tell me. Somebody gave you that whole speech on how you make babies having sex, didn’t they?”
“Well, yeah,” says Butterbean. "Mom and Dad said that-"
"Silence!" I command, dangerously close to a lot of unwanted mental imagery of Butterbean's parents rolling around and grunting like sweaty, greasy hippopotami with a background narration by Lorne Greene. 'Mutual of Omaha presents ...' Shivering slightly I persist, trying to come up with an example. "Look. Have you ever watched 'Forensic Files'?""That television show about when the police solve those murders?"
"Yes. You watch the half hour program, and by the end the solve the crime."
Butterbean nods expectantly. "Okay."
"Well there's another show called 'Missing Persons Unit.' Similar, but this show is a little less predictable because sometimes they find the missing person alive."
"Go on."
"My point is with 'Forensic Files,' they catch the killer. With 'Missing Persons Unit,' it's almost the same thing ... you watch them interviewing suspects, canvassing the area, dredging the river, interviewing more suspects, blah blah blah. But then after fifty-five minutes of watching all that time, energy, money and manpower wasted, they find the kid waiting tables in Hollywood hoping to blow Steven Spielberg to get their screenplay read or whatever."
"I'm not following you."
"Think about it. We walk away hating the kid that survived. For putting us through all that."
Butterbean nods, but I can tell he's not 'getting it.'
"If you're going to lie and make people think you are dead," I elaborate, "and you aren't dead, don't you think it should be incumbent upon all concerned parties to provide some closure? We can set a dollar amount for it. Let's say when the search costs more than $250,000 and the kid has been alive and safe the whole time, somebody has to die. For $250,000, I want a body. And it should go up from there. For $500,000, I want two bodies. And so on."
"But what does this have to do with sex?"
"We're not there yet. We're still talking about lying. And you have to preface a conversation about sex with a conversation about lying. Any honest adult male will tell you well-woven and elaborate lying is an intrinsic component of having sex ... unless he's lying because he's trying to have sex with you. But we'll get to 'Courtship' soon enough. Stop interrupting me."
"Okay.""Now where was I? Oh yeah. I'm not saying wax the kid right there on the Spago salad bar ... this all has to be treated on a case-by-case basis. What if maybe the kid was running away from abusive parents, and they should be killed? See? By lying we've transformed the whole situation. People deserve -if not demand- being lied to, and it's in their best interest really. I'm happy, you're happy, and Steven Spielberg is really happy. We all walk away slaked in the confidence and comfort of cosmic justice well-served, and with vastly improved television as a byproduct."
"I gotta tell you, this is way different than the speech my parents gave me," says Butterbean. "Are there birds and bees in this one somewhere?"
“No," I says flatly. "You’re too grown up for those fairy tales. But the truth about babies is actually more horrifying than you could possibly imagine -maybe worse even than being raped by a pack of wild pandas! That's why your parents are distorting the truth,” I assert. "They are trying to protect you."
Pensive and rapt, the boy hung on my every word.
“If sex resulted in babies,” I began, “we would have stopped doing it a long time ago. The first caveman to find a melted Jolly Rancher in his pelt would have been the end of the whole damn human race.”
“Then where did I come from?”
“I doubt anyone really knows with one hundred percent certainty," I confess. "But it definitely was not from sex. I mean put yourself in everyone else's shoes. Would you have sex knowing there was a risk of having you? And I’ve seen your parents. Trust me. Those people aren’t having sex ... especially with each other. Blech.”“Maybe there are spores? Like mushrooms?”
“Well that seems plausible," I concede. "But it seems far more logical for people to contract babies. Like syphilis or rabies.”
“So the pandas are immune to babies?”
“No. I’ll bet pandas are as susceptible as anything. If there’s a scarcity of baby pandas, it’s more likely due to them being delicious.”
Butterbean’s inquisitive look transformed instantly to horror. “You mean we are eating the baby pandas?”
“There's a Panda Express two blocks from here,” I shrug. “And have you ever eaten baby panda? It’s fantastic. It tastes like chicken.”
Suddenly, I realize that this conversation –if furthered pursued- might actually make Butterbean vomit, cry, or vomit while crying simultaneously. But no matter how desirous these potential outcomes might be, I would prefer none of these events to take place in my kitchen.
“You look a little pale,” I comment. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine,” says Butterbean unconvincingly. He seemed a bit wobbly, and it occurred to me he might faint. Fainting trumps vomiting, crying, and vomiting while crying simultaneously in my kitchen, but he could hurt himself -and I wouldn’t be a very responsible adult if this were to occur when it was completely avoidable, would I?
“Would you like to try some baby panda?” I says, grabbing the almost novelty-large, craziest, jagged-looking knife I can find out of the wooden block. “I’ve got some in the freezer. It’ll take me five minutes if I arc weld it. You can have the ears. They're kinda small, but that's the part Hostess uses to make Ho-Hos-"
WHAM!It was a clean fall, square in the center of the kitchen ... afterward the sight of which could only be described as a small whale having beached itself on the linoleum. I probably could have caught him, but I would have missed the comedy entirely and therefore couldn't. Plus I was thinking about my new invention: the Sea Skateboard.
See, what we do is we make a really big skateboard without wheels. But here's the kicker: the Sea Skateboard floats on water. You could paddle around on it and ride waves or whatever. (I probably shouldn't have blogged this idea now that I think about it. People have a bad habit about stealing my ideas ... especially those shifty goddamn Hawaiians.)
Anyway. Once more concerned for the still-inert boy's safety, I poke him with the grilled cheese spatula until I'm convinced his vital signs are stable.
-And by the time he fully 'comes to,' I’m already on the phone with his mom.
“I think twenty bucks an hour is more fair," I explain, hardballing Butterbean’s mom over a terrible, static-addled connection. “This lazy kid was uncooperative and fell right to sleep during the lesson. If I'm going to take millions and millions of dollars in my time away from developing the Sea Skateboard, I deserve some kind of equitable compensation."
Butterbean groans. "Is that my mom?"
I put my finger to my lips to shush him quietly, and then cover the ear opposite the phone to hear better over the crackling background noise. "It's a really big skateboard without wheels that floats on water," I explain to her. "You could paddle around on it and ride waves or whatever. Shit ... you're not Hawaiian, are you ma'am?""What happened?" he asks, blinking blearily at the ceiling.
"Look," I says into the phone, trying to ignore him. "I'll only charge you ten bucks for this first guitar lesson, but look what I have to work with here ... this is the musical equivalent of smoking a cigar, drinking coffee and eating a box of Oreos in the dentist's waiting room. Your son would be better off doing something for which he was more genetically suitable. Like ..." Thinking quickly, I turn and look at the boy, still on the kitchen floor, for ideas. "Like, I dunno, becoming a perfume or something.”
Absently twirling the phone cord in my fingers, I see Butterbean sit up.
"Those poor pandas," the boy whimpered weakly.
"Shhh!" I says to him irritated, covering the phone mouthpiece. "I'm negotiating." Turning my back to him in order to concentrate, my attention returns completely to Butterbean's mom.
"So we have a deal then?" I ask. "Good. Now how much will you give me not to teach him ‘Smoke on the Water’?"
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