Predator Press
[LOBO]
Let me get this straight.
For a few bucks, you can name your own star?
Does this mean that in 2090 we are going to be fiercely embroiled in a galactic war against creatures from 'Steve Loves Amanda XXXOOOXXX'?
First of all, how would you write catchy graffiti like, "Take that, creatures from Steve Loves Amanda XXXOOOXXX!!!" on the bombs? And you know how military spending goes: every single one of those "X"s and "O"s will be like a billion dollars.
Let's leave the naming space stuff to guys like Steve Hawking. One look at the guy, and you know he's a big Dungeon and Dragons head: we'll have cool places to have wars with like The Great Ogre Vortex and The Giant Leech galaxies.
Well, if everyone else is going to get a star, here's the name of mine:
LAST CHANCE FOR GAS. PERIOD.
I like the idea of some lost space jerk desperately looking through some equally spacey Encylopedia Bricktabula for whatever the Hell "GAS" is.
Sunday
Matt Drudge
Predator Press
[LOBO]
Matt, our self-proclaimed truth-seeking valiant knight of the "Free-Press", has just spent ten minutes assailing the Space Program for collecting comet dust in pursuit of ... uh ... The Truth?
Just when did these frenetic little faux-intellectual ferrets become listened to by the mainstream?
... Oops ... after checking the shows timeslot and ratings, I withdraw the question.
I'm not going to argue that our Space Program funding shouldn't reflect on whatever current state of affairs our country finds itself in --shit all these wars alone probably cost our government like fifty or sixty bucks a month. But giving up the study of Astronomy would be analogous to giving up on Biology.
Further, giving all these mad scientists something to do besides making bigger and better bombs is a good thing. Tell those geeks to put a remote-controlled solid gold life-sized Barbie Corvette on Alpha Centauri ...
... for Science ....
[LOBO]
Matt, our self-proclaimed truth-seeking valiant knight of the "Free-Press", has just spent ten minutes assailing the Space Program for collecting comet dust in pursuit of ... uh ... The Truth?
Just when did these frenetic little faux-intellectual ferrets become listened to by the mainstream?
... Oops ... after checking the shows timeslot and ratings, I withdraw the question.
I'm not going to argue that our Space Program funding shouldn't reflect on whatever current state of affairs our country finds itself in --shit all these wars alone probably cost our government like fifty or sixty bucks a month. But giving up the study of Astronomy would be analogous to giving up on Biology.
Further, giving all these mad scientists something to do besides making bigger and better bombs is a good thing. Tell those geeks to put a remote-controlled solid gold life-sized Barbie Corvette on Alpha Centauri ...
... for Science ....
Friday
"... 'Fer Almost Losin' Us the Big One ... "?
Predator Press
[LOBO]
What is this obsession we have with suffering, dysfunctional pre-pubescent British kids as represented in the Amer'Kan box office?
First we had Harry Potter(s). Then Lemony Snickers' "A Series of Unfortunate Hollywood Budget Surpluses". Now C.S. Lewis' "The Lion, the Pale Skinny Pissed Broad and the Rainbow" or whatever. Al Pacino would've saved them Narnia Chronicles people a lot of time, just smacking the bejeezus out of the witch with her Turkish Surprise pan.
"Jou are so POLLUTED!"
Roll credits.
Look, even though I detest hearing them butcher our fine Amer'Kan language in these big epic-battle toting Hollywood special effects catalogs, the Brits have given us a LOT: The Sex Pistols. Sean Connery. An intellectual inferiority complex ...
... Oooh! Struck a nerve there, eh? Those pricks sound smarter'n us! So we'll let Hollywood make us up fantasies about 'em getting smashed to bits as kids. It's therapeutic, after all: we can't wage war on 'em with all these brown people still around to have wars with ... now that would be crazy.
Still, I suggest the next new threat to the US should be the Ahmish. [Wait, hear me out!] Just what exactly are these people doing with all that butter? C'mon ... long beard, no mustache; it's not exactly a look that pulls down the ladies in droves. And what the hell kind of maniac would want more than one wife? Jesus, isn't one woman living in a perpetual state of disappointment in you enough?
So you've got these hundred million sexually confused and frustrated Ahmish teenagers lookin' for trouble. Growing mustaches. Next thing you know, they're skipping school and secretly churning margarine. Cutting the good stuff with "I Can't Believe It's Not Butter!", and putting it on unsuspecting people's muffins.
People's English muffins.
Following me here?
Yes folks, for the small price of, say, Utah we can once again be the conquerors we were destined to be. The world will be safe from the Weapons of Mass-Margarine, and we can go on clogging the arteries of the world with complete impunity, just as God intended.
[LOBO]
What is this obsession we have with suffering, dysfunctional pre-pubescent British kids as represented in the Amer'Kan box office?
First we had Harry Potter(s). Then Lemony Snickers' "A Series of Unfortunate Hollywood Budget Surpluses". Now C.S. Lewis' "The Lion, the Pale Skinny Pissed Broad and the Rainbow" or whatever. Al Pacino would've saved them Narnia Chronicles people a lot of time, just smacking the bejeezus out of the witch with her Turkish Surprise pan.
"Jou are so POLLUTED!"
Roll credits.
Look, even though I detest hearing them butcher our fine Amer'Kan language in these big epic-battle toting Hollywood special effects catalogs, the Brits have given us a LOT: The Sex Pistols. Sean Connery. An intellectual inferiority complex ...
... Oooh! Struck a nerve there, eh? Those pricks sound smarter'n us! So we'll let Hollywood make us up fantasies about 'em getting smashed to bits as kids. It's therapeutic, after all: we can't wage war on 'em with all these brown people still around to have wars with ... now that would be crazy.
Still, I suggest the next new threat to the US should be the Ahmish. [Wait, hear me out!] Just what exactly are these people doing with all that butter? C'mon ... long beard, no mustache; it's not exactly a look that pulls down the ladies in droves. And what the hell kind of maniac would want more than one wife? Jesus, isn't one woman living in a perpetual state of disappointment in you enough?
So you've got these hundred million sexually confused and frustrated Ahmish teenagers lookin' for trouble. Growing mustaches. Next thing you know, they're skipping school and secretly churning margarine. Cutting the good stuff with "I Can't Believe It's Not Butter!", and putting it on unsuspecting people's muffins.
People's English muffins.
Following me here?
Yes folks, for the small price of, say, Utah we can once again be the conquerors we were destined to be. The world will be safe from the Weapons of Mass-Margarine, and we can go on clogging the arteries of the world with complete impunity, just as God intended.
Thursday
Predator Press
LONG, LONG AGO
IN A GALAXY FAR FAR AWAY
THOSE PEOPLE PROBABLY COULD NOT READ THIS
BUT THEY WILL STILL OWE US ROYALTIES.
In Blue, the thundering powerhouse, harvester of countless empire-shattering defeats.
In Red, the promising newcomer, possessing brutal, blistering speed and the ruthless zeal of a young passionate heart.
The match had started sportingly enough; introductions were short but potent, and then the lockstep dance of death began. Red began with an explosive, crowd-charging battery of iron-fisted mayhem. But Blue, experienced and wiser, saw his opening ... Before long, Red was pressed against the plastic ropes, hands covering his head from the thunderous blows. Red's face, the wholly unrealistic hard, warrior-like face manufactured by a cash-laden bloodthirsty audience, was crushed under the sheer weight of Gods own Doomsday weapon.
But just then, when all was thought lost, the impossible happened.
Red rushed up with a colossal roar. A battered, defeated, desperate roar. And he connected with Blue's chin with an uppercut that defied mortal explanation ... the oxygen was ferociously sucked out of the room, and for one magnificent and terrible moment in time you could hear nothing but the audience wheezing for a breath.
Blue's head launched upwards, neck and vertebrae exposed --an instant kill-shot.
Perhaps the most horrific element was that Blue does not fall; spinal column severed, his head now dangled dead over Red, forever frozen in that dedicated, maniacal gaze as the soul departed that now vacant shell.
Well, I screamed like a little girl.
When I awoke in the hospital, the doctors tried to explain everything away the way doctors do: I had gone into shock, evidently from witnessing some terribly traumatic event. Blah blah. Listen you! You think rap music influences kids violently? Try Rock 'em Sock 'em Robots, a cutesy little toy put out by the evil non-lawsuit-settling empire Mattel.
My therapists all think I would "fit in" better if I told this story like I was really freaked out about the safety of the toy. You know, like it was over the little blue guy's head coming off and poking someone in the eye. But that's a good point too! Blue's head shoots off, stabbing little Little Sally right in the eye. Blinded, lil Sally stumbles into traffic, causing a bicyclist to spin out of control and crash into a truckload of chickens and burst into flames as he jacknifes it into a Kraft truck. Pandemonium and chicken parmesan everywhere, a giant, fiery morsel of cholesterol-laden death smashes into a highway support beam under a busload of girl scouts, dolphins and puppies.
My God man! Think of the puppies!
Rock 'em Sock 'em Robots is an abomination to humankind: an elaborate plan for corporate types to hawk plastic crack to our nation's youth while giving odds at off-track online betting facilities. Kids are losing their Krayolas while THE MAN eats veal and charred, blackened husks of girl scouts, dolphins and puppies.
The ghouls at Mattel dream of nothing except rendering our beautiful blue-green planet into a grey and lifeless shell drifting aimlessly into the godless void ... the godless void where interest rates are somehow relevant and lil Sally cannot possibly get a scholarship anywhere.
Mattel, purveyor of wanton, savage violence, rake in all that Cristmas cash while you can.
... because I'm watching you.
LONG, LONG AGO
IN A GALAXY FAR FAR AWAY
THOSE PEOPLE PROBABLY COULD NOT READ THIS
BUT THEY WILL STILL OWE US ROYALTIES.
In Blue, the thundering powerhouse, harvester of countless empire-shattering defeats.
In Red, the promising newcomer, possessing brutal, blistering speed and the ruthless zeal of a young passionate heart.
The match had started sportingly enough; introductions were short but potent, and then the lockstep dance of death began. Red began with an explosive, crowd-charging battery of iron-fisted mayhem. But Blue, experienced and wiser, saw his opening ... Before long, Red was pressed against the plastic ropes, hands covering his head from the thunderous blows. Red's face, the wholly unrealistic hard, warrior-like face manufactured by a cash-laden bloodthirsty audience, was crushed under the sheer weight of Gods own Doomsday weapon.
But just then, when all was thought lost, the impossible happened.
Red rushed up with a colossal roar. A battered, defeated, desperate roar. And he connected with Blue's chin with an uppercut that defied mortal explanation ... the oxygen was ferociously sucked out of the room, and for one magnificent and terrible moment in time you could hear nothing but the audience wheezing for a breath.
Blue's head launched upwards, neck and vertebrae exposed --an instant kill-shot.
Perhaps the most horrific element was that Blue does not fall; spinal column severed, his head now dangled dead over Red, forever frozen in that dedicated, maniacal gaze as the soul departed that now vacant shell.
Well, I screamed like a little girl.
When I awoke in the hospital, the doctors tried to explain everything away the way doctors do: I had gone into shock, evidently from witnessing some terribly traumatic event. Blah blah. Listen you! You think rap music influences kids violently? Try Rock 'em Sock 'em Robots, a cutesy little toy put out by the evil non-lawsuit-settling empire Mattel.
My therapists all think I would "fit in" better if I told this story like I was really freaked out about the safety of the toy. You know, like it was over the little blue guy's head coming off and poking someone in the eye. But that's a good point too! Blue's head shoots off, stabbing little Little Sally right in the eye. Blinded, lil Sally stumbles into traffic, causing a bicyclist to spin out of control and crash into a truckload of chickens and burst into flames as he jacknifes it into a Kraft truck. Pandemonium and chicken parmesan everywhere, a giant, fiery morsel of cholesterol-laden death smashes into a highway support beam under a busload of girl scouts, dolphins and puppies.
My God man! Think of the puppies!
Rock 'em Sock 'em Robots is an abomination to humankind: an elaborate plan for corporate types to hawk plastic crack to our nation's youth while giving odds at off-track online betting facilities. Kids are losing their Krayolas while THE MAN eats veal and charred, blackened husks of girl scouts, dolphins and puppies.
The ghouls at Mattel dream of nothing except rendering our beautiful blue-green planet into a grey and lifeless shell drifting aimlessly into the godless void ... the godless void where interest rates are somehow relevant and lil Sally cannot possibly get a scholarship anywhere.
Mattel, purveyor of wanton, savage violence, rake in all that Cristmas cash while you can.
... because I'm watching you.
Friday
Portfolia
Predator Press
[LOBO]
When people find out that I lived in Hawaii for something like seven years, inevitably the next question I get is "Well what the heck are you doing here?" Very tedious. But don't ask me when it's negative five degrees outside and I'm chipping at a block of ice that might happen to have my car in it. Or when I'm waddling Michelin Man-like, overly-laden with twenty pounds of winter gear, terrified that I might slip and a squall of snow covers me up until Spring. Or even when the repair guy grins like a vampire at a Wes Craven movie as he tears out my lengthy bill after fixing my furnace.
Throwing gasoline on this whole issue is my beloved mother, who still lives in Hawaii. "What the heck are you doing there?"
Very tedious.
But she sweetens the pot. She's got a nice live-aboard yacht I can live on for free. Her boyfriend runs a salvage business out there, and offers me a job ... one that pays about twice what I make here.
To illustrate the whole mess I've made of things, I'm going to have to be the first to break rank with my respected colleagues and offer some personal details. But don't start loading yer shotguns, gassing up your Humvees and polishing your mortars labeled "LOBO" just yet because I'm not going to make this easy on you jerks.
Hawaii was simultaneously beautiful, comfortably temperate, excruciatingly dull, small, opulent, expensive, and frankly not much fun overall. Don't get me wrong; I went through the whole beachy-keen surf punk phase for a while. The water is crystal clear and hued with blue undertones. And I mean BLUE ... not that creepy grey/green opaque thing the Atlantic has got going on. I guess all the sediment stays down because of all the coral formations and so forth.
But after a while I realized that this crystal-clear water makes for great visibility for the hungry superintelligent giant squid on the go. I have it on good authority that the Hawaiian waters are widely regarded as fast-food drive-up windows in the superintelligent giant squid community. It's a classic right out of the Superintelligent Giant Squid Playbook.
Landlocked on a tiny island surrounded by deadly predators. On property and bills so huge I got to the point that I found them laughable. In a community that has little but contempt for young white males mooching and trying to shoot their DNA all over the damn place. Clutched in a combination of mortal fear and mind-numbing tedium, I fled to the last bastion of idiots that would actually still have a washed-out chemically enhanced loser freak such as myself. Besides Scientology.
I went to college.
So skip ahead two years.
Graduation.
I discovered, quite by accident, that I like the academics. Ever since elementary school, school was all about "stand up, sit down, shut up, kiss The Ring" kinda stuff. But this was college; a learning institution. College was less concerned about the whole discipline thing, and seemed much more a magnificent forum for the free exchange of ideas --radical and otherwise. It was almost revered by myself as a holy sanctum.
So I did the stuff you do when in a holy sanctum: I chased lithe beautiful nubile rich girls hell bent on effecting Earth-shattering liberal hippie-type ideals and really pissing off their parents. I posed nude in the school paper. I overthrew the student government in one semester, and then in the next became the Editor-In-Chief of the school newspaper to leverage the coupe [and also warn others of the superintelligent giant squids lurking about].
You know, learning.
So I always liked this one magazine based in New York, and began to send them writing samples. I would make a 'hard' copy, plus send them the stories on floppies formatted on IBM and Macintosh. And every single one of the damn things would come back unopened, with a form letter saying "Your shit most likely sucks, so we didn't bother".
I had about two thousand bucks saved up, plus another three thousand on the way (I was getting published quite a bit at the time). I didn't even go to the Graduation ceremony. Swear to Honest-to-God Truth I took my final exams, dropped my #2 pencil and was on a plane back to the "mainland" states within two hours.
I pit-stopped here in Pianosa, Illinois on my way to New York. It was an opportunity for the rest of my money to catch up with me before I bolted for "The Big Apple" for good, but it was also a post-college breather with the added benefit of seeing a side of my family I hadn't seen in over twenty years.
The money didn't arrive for months. And by the time it did, my original two thousand had dwindled down to close to nothing. Of the twelve boxes I had sent from Hawaii, three of them were in Pianosa waiting for me ... the train had wrecked, burning virtually all my belongings. No clothes. No books. No software archives. No portfolio. Oddly enough, when that last three grand finally materialized I was already working for an insurance company trying to reconstruct all the claims that they lost in the same train crash.
It was then that I started breaking out in frying pan dents in my skull. Turns out I got married. Ill-fated as it was, it probably saved my life. Years later the deranged, hideously brutal cowardly act of an insane man named Osama Bin Laden wiped out the main office of that magazine, reducing the place to ashes and rubble and simultaneously taking out over four thousand innocent people drinking their lattes and trying to feed their families.
On September 11th, oddly enough, I was working for an explosives company. They called a special meeting about the security that night. Now, amongst my usual duties I loaded and drove a truck that carried blasting caps, boosters ... all kinds of really loud and fun toys. This required going to these remote locations at, like, 3am called magazines, where they store the stuff. In the dead of night, with no security, you could spend an hour or two with a flashlight grabbing complex combinations of blasting stuff, charge delays, 55-pound boxes of stuff that'll put a rhino on mars etc. And at this "Special Meeting", I was informed that if there was any sort of confrontation, hijack attempt, whatever, that we were just to surrender the material without incident or challenge.
Shocked really isn't the word for it. I kept thinking that this was the 'company line' that they had to say to cover some legallistic codicil in some liability defense. I kept thinking "Just let them have it? That's fucking insane!"
Remember the level of paranoia on that day. We knew we were attacked, we weren't certain by who. And more importantly, we weren't even certain the attack was even over. Frightened to death, I was stuck: "Keeping America rolling" seemed the best thing I could do as but a lowly patriot and citizen .. but "in the event of an event" I had to detonate all these materials on the spot, literally vaporizing myself and everything else within a few hundred feet, leaving an empty smoldering crater and a shitload of questions.
Well, let that be a lesson to all you little leaguers ... no matter where you are, no matter what you do, there's a superintelligent giant squid waiting to launch a tentacle out of the bathroom sink and drag you into a PVC oblivion.
[LOBO]
When people find out that I lived in Hawaii for something like seven years, inevitably the next question I get is "Well what the heck are you doing here?" Very tedious. But don't ask me when it's negative five degrees outside and I'm chipping at a block of ice that might happen to have my car in it. Or when I'm waddling Michelin Man-like, overly-laden with twenty pounds of winter gear, terrified that I might slip and a squall of snow covers me up until Spring. Or even when the repair guy grins like a vampire at a Wes Craven movie as he tears out my lengthy bill after fixing my furnace.
Throwing gasoline on this whole issue is my beloved mother, who still lives in Hawaii. "What the heck are you doing there?"
Very tedious.
But she sweetens the pot. She's got a nice live-aboard yacht I can live on for free. Her boyfriend runs a salvage business out there, and offers me a job ... one that pays about twice what I make here.
To illustrate the whole mess I've made of things, I'm going to have to be the first to break rank with my respected colleagues and offer some personal details. But don't start loading yer shotguns, gassing up your Humvees and polishing your mortars labeled "LOBO" just yet because I'm not going to make this easy on you jerks.
Hawaii was simultaneously beautiful, comfortably temperate, excruciatingly dull, small, opulent, expensive, and frankly not much fun overall. Don't get me wrong; I went through the whole beachy-keen surf punk phase for a while. The water is crystal clear and hued with blue undertones. And I mean BLUE ... not that creepy grey/green opaque thing the Atlantic has got going on. I guess all the sediment stays down because of all the coral formations and so forth.
But after a while I realized that this crystal-clear water makes for great visibility for the hungry superintelligent giant squid on the go. I have it on good authority that the Hawaiian waters are widely regarded as fast-food drive-up windows in the superintelligent giant squid community. It's a classic right out of the Superintelligent Giant Squid Playbook.
Landlocked on a tiny island surrounded by deadly predators. On property and bills so huge I got to the point that I found them laughable. In a community that has little but contempt for young white males mooching and trying to shoot their DNA all over the damn place. Clutched in a combination of mortal fear and mind-numbing tedium, I fled to the last bastion of idiots that would actually still have a washed-out chemically enhanced loser freak such as myself. Besides Scientology.
I went to college.
So skip ahead two years.
Graduation.
I discovered, quite by accident, that I like the academics. Ever since elementary school, school was all about "stand up, sit down, shut up, kiss The Ring" kinda stuff. But this was college; a learning institution. College was less concerned about the whole discipline thing, and seemed much more a magnificent forum for the free exchange of ideas --radical and otherwise. It was almost revered by myself as a holy sanctum.
So I did the stuff you do when in a holy sanctum: I chased lithe beautiful nubile rich girls hell bent on effecting Earth-shattering liberal hippie-type ideals and really pissing off their parents. I posed nude in the school paper. I overthrew the student government in one semester, and then in the next became the Editor-In-Chief of the school newspaper to leverage the coupe [and also warn others of the superintelligent giant squids lurking about].
You know, learning.
So I always liked this one magazine based in New York, and began to send them writing samples. I would make a 'hard' copy, plus send them the stories on floppies formatted on IBM and Macintosh. And every single one of the damn things would come back unopened, with a form letter saying "Your shit most likely sucks, so we didn't bother".
I had about two thousand bucks saved up, plus another three thousand on the way (I was getting published quite a bit at the time). I didn't even go to the Graduation ceremony. Swear to Honest-to-God Truth I took my final exams, dropped my #2 pencil and was on a plane back to the "mainland" states within two hours.
I pit-stopped here in Pianosa, Illinois on my way to New York. It was an opportunity for the rest of my money to catch up with me before I bolted for "The Big Apple" for good, but it was also a post-college breather with the added benefit of seeing a side of my family I hadn't seen in over twenty years.
The money didn't arrive for months. And by the time it did, my original two thousand had dwindled down to close to nothing. Of the twelve boxes I had sent from Hawaii, three of them were in Pianosa waiting for me ... the train had wrecked, burning virtually all my belongings. No clothes. No books. No software archives. No portfolio. Oddly enough, when that last three grand finally materialized I was already working for an insurance company trying to reconstruct all the claims that they lost in the same train crash.
It was then that I started breaking out in frying pan dents in my skull. Turns out I got married. Ill-fated as it was, it probably saved my life. Years later the deranged, hideously brutal cowardly act of an insane man named Osama Bin Laden wiped out the main office of that magazine, reducing the place to ashes and rubble and simultaneously taking out over four thousand innocent people drinking their lattes and trying to feed their families.
On September 11th, oddly enough, I was working for an explosives company. They called a special meeting about the security that night. Now, amongst my usual duties I loaded and drove a truck that carried blasting caps, boosters ... all kinds of really loud and fun toys. This required going to these remote locations at, like, 3am called magazines, where they store the stuff. In the dead of night, with no security, you could spend an hour or two with a flashlight grabbing complex combinations of blasting stuff, charge delays, 55-pound boxes of stuff that'll put a rhino on mars etc. And at this "Special Meeting", I was informed that if there was any sort of confrontation, hijack attempt, whatever, that we were just to surrender the material without incident or challenge.
Shocked really isn't the word for it. I kept thinking that this was the 'company line' that they had to say to cover some legallistic codicil in some liability defense. I kept thinking "Just let them have it? That's fucking insane!"
Remember the level of paranoia on that day. We knew we were attacked, we weren't certain by who. And more importantly, we weren't even certain the attack was even over. Frightened to death, I was stuck: "Keeping America rolling" seemed the best thing I could do as but a lowly patriot and citizen .. but "in the event of an event" I had to detonate all these materials on the spot, literally vaporizing myself and everything else within a few hundred feet, leaving an empty smoldering crater and a shitload of questions.
Well, let that be a lesson to all you little leaguers ... no matter where you are, no matter what you do, there's a superintelligent giant squid waiting to launch a tentacle out of the bathroom sink and drag you into a PVC oblivion.
Thursday
!?!
Predator Press
[DASH CUNNING]
DASH CUNNING HAS RECEIVED ENOUGH STETSON COLOGNE GIFT SETS THANK YOU.
DASH CUNNING IS NO LONGER LEGALLY ABLE TO WEAR STETSON BECAUSE HIS SECRETARIES' EYES MELTED OUT OR SOMETHING.
HAVE YOU PEOPLE THOUGHT OF LUXURY CARS? AN EIGHT-STORY GOLDEN DASH STATUE INCLUDING PLACES TO WORSHIP DASH IN SELF-DEPRECATING COMFORT AND SPLENDOR? OR WHAT ABOUT MULTIPLE LARGE, TECHNICALLY LEGAL POLITICAL CONTRIBUTIONS TO JESSE HELMS?
OR MAYBE A SMALL POLITICALLY UNSTABLE REPUBLIC SOMEWHERE IN THE PACIFIC? HM? DASH CUNNING HAS ALWAYS WANTED A SMALL POLITICALLY UNSTABLE REPUBLIC SOMEWHERE IN THE PACIFIC.
WELL THANK YOU ANYWAY, AND MERRY CHRISTMAS!
[DASH CUNNING]
DASH CUNNING HAS RECEIVED ENOUGH STETSON COLOGNE GIFT SETS THANK YOU.
DASH CUNNING IS NO LONGER LEGALLY ABLE TO WEAR STETSON BECAUSE HIS SECRETARIES' EYES MELTED OUT OR SOMETHING.
HAVE YOU PEOPLE THOUGHT OF LUXURY CARS? AN EIGHT-STORY GOLDEN DASH STATUE INCLUDING PLACES TO WORSHIP DASH IN SELF-DEPRECATING COMFORT AND SPLENDOR? OR WHAT ABOUT MULTIPLE LARGE, TECHNICALLY LEGAL POLITICAL CONTRIBUTIONS TO JESSE HELMS?
OR MAYBE A SMALL POLITICALLY UNSTABLE REPUBLIC SOMEWHERE IN THE PACIFIC? HM? DASH CUNNING HAS ALWAYS WANTED A SMALL POLITICALLY UNSTABLE REPUBLIC SOMEWHERE IN THE PACIFIC.
WELL THANK YOU ANYWAY, AND MERRY CHRISTMAS!
Tuesday
School Sucks
Predator Press
[LOBO]
My college talked me out my Philosophy AA in the faintest hope of collecting on the student loans. (silly bastards ... I guess "Hope Springs Eternal")
But now, armed with a Liberal Arts degree and without the Philosophy background, people expect me to do stuff all the time. Like go to work. And then, even after the whole "showing up at work" debacle, they actually make me stay there. And work!
And then --after all that-- I gotta pay bills with the money! Bills that generally revolve around reliable transportation to work, food so I can work, and clothes ... [most places to work require clothing too ... Can you believe this crap!?]
And let us not forget paying pack the Student Loans!
[*choke/sob*]
BASTARDS!!!
[LOBO]
My college talked me out my Philosophy AA in the faintest hope of collecting on the student loans. (silly bastards ... I guess "Hope Springs Eternal")
But now, armed with a Liberal Arts degree and without the Philosophy background, people expect me to do stuff all the time. Like go to work. And then, even after the whole "showing up at work" debacle, they actually make me stay there. And work!
And then --after all that-- I gotta pay bills with the money! Bills that generally revolve around reliable transportation to work, food so I can work, and clothes ... [most places to work require clothing too ... Can you believe this crap!?]
And let us not forget paying pack the Student Loans!
[*choke/sob*]
BASTARDS!!!
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