Predator Press
[LOBO]
I didn’t have my door locked, and Babs ‘an six big guys in matching jumpsuits just come right in.
The jumpsuited glandular freaks are carrying furniture.
What the fuck?
“Good,” she says. “I’m glad you’re here. I’ve decided I’m moving in.”
“Here?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“What do you mean why? You might’ve squirmed out of that marriage business for now, but you’re still my bitch.”
“But we were getting along so well not seeing or talking to each other,” I reason.
“Yes, well all that’s changing.”
“Ma’am?” says a mover. “There isn’t going to be room for the china hutch.”
“The hell there isn’t,” she scowls, circling the house. Decidedly, she stops and points. “Get rid of that.”
“My big screen television!?” I says. “Look here, sister. What in the hell makes you think you can just walk right in here and start throwing out my stuff?”
“I can bend parking meters with my thighs.”
“What kind of china is it?”
Saturday
Friday
Sugar Rush
Predator Press
[LOBO]
Please stop emailing me and asking me to run for President again.
Despite my $516 "Vote for LOBO Cuz Those Other Guys Suck!" media blitz, I didn't make a dent in the 2006 Elections; frankly, I wasn't even on the damned ballot.
The fact of the matter is I've got what politicians refer to as "baggage".
I used to be a Jolly Rancher whore.
Before I found God, I might've had a hard time talking about my "problem" this openly. But back when I was single --and before rehab-- if you were a hot chick with Jolly Ranchers, I would do anything.
It started off innocently enough; a hot chick offers me an Apple STIX, and then I 'top off' with a Wild Berry Fruit --you know, just to be social and fun.
But before long, I was doing Double and Sourbolt Blasts --you know, the heavy stuff-- and "servicing" three or four hot chicks at a time.
All this has all changed since I've found God, the Republican Party, and a girlfriend that would cut my nuts off for ever eating any Jolly Ranchers again.
So please stop asking me to run for President.
[LOBO]
Please stop emailing me and asking me to run for President again.
Despite my $516 "Vote for LOBO Cuz Those Other Guys Suck!" media blitz, I didn't make a dent in the 2006 Elections; frankly, I wasn't even on the damned ballot.
The fact of the matter is I've got what politicians refer to as "baggage".
I used to be a Jolly Rancher whore.
Before I found God, I might've had a hard time talking about my "problem" this openly. But back when I was single --and before rehab-- if you were a hot chick with Jolly Ranchers, I would do anything.
It started off innocently enough; a hot chick offers me an Apple STIX, and then I 'top off' with a Wild Berry Fruit --you know, just to be social and fun.
But before long, I was doing Double and Sourbolt Blasts --you know, the heavy stuff-- and "servicing" three or four hot chicks at a time.
All this has all changed since I've found God, the Republican Party, and a girlfriend that would cut my nuts off for ever eating any Jolly Ranchers again.
So please stop asking me to run for President.
Thursday
Kyle Sampson is a Big Fat Lying Poo-Poo Head
Predator Press
[LOBO]
It’s jerks like that that completely ruin our ability to enjoy this Zenith of Republican Enlightenment. Look around you! There are no wars, taxes, or poverty. Everyone is free to worship Our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ as much as they choose, and the streets are safe because anyone able to hold a gun, does.
And the spinach will definitely not kill you.
All you alarmist liberal hippies and pinko-commies should put down your hookahs and catch a boat back to whatever other country kicked you out for treason.
Move along. There's nothing to see here America; go about your business.
Everything’s just fine.
[LOBO]
It’s jerks like that that completely ruin our ability to enjoy this Zenith of Republican Enlightenment. Look around you! There are no wars, taxes, or poverty. Everyone is free to worship Our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ as much as they choose, and the streets are safe because anyone able to hold a gun, does.
And the spinach will definitely not kill you.
All you alarmist liberal hippies and pinko-commies should put down your hookahs and catch a boat back to whatever other country kicked you out for treason.
Move along. There's nothing to see here America; go about your business.
Everything’s just fine.
Wednesday
Cured
Predator Press
[LOBO]
“You’re finished with your Penance already my son?” asks a skeptical Father Fritz.
“10,000 ‘Hail Marys’?” I says. “Not a chance.”
“Well then what are you doing here?”
“It’s a Miracle,” I says excitedly. “I’m no longer a pyromaniac, nymphomaniac, or hypocondriac. And my claustrophobia, necrophobia, xylophobia, spectrophobia, bolshephobia, agateophobia, phthiriophobia, syngenesophobia, coimetrophobia, sophophobia, virginitiphobia, agrophobia, russophobia, spacephobia, myrmecophobia, phasmophobia, and phobophobia? Gone. Gone! And best of all, my sinuses decompressed for the first time in weeks.”
“Really?”
“Yeah. Who would’ve thought chemically-treated pallets would smell so good.”
“Pallets?” says Fritz. “Where exactly were you saying those ‘Hail Marys’?”
“At the music studio.”
“You have pallets at a music studio?”
“No, no. I was at the warehouse.”
“I’m not following you.”
“Well, I did like ten or fifteen of them but it was getting really tedious. So I made a recording of saying it, and set it on a loop. According to my calculatrons, by this time next Wednesday I’ll have said like 50,000 of them!”
“I don’t think you understand the concept of Penance,” chided Fritz.
“Sure I do,” I says. “Even after I added drums and guitar, it’s totally mind-numbing after a while. You know, with billions of people doing that every day, I would bet God is ready to blow his brains out.”
“You’re supposed to suffer through it in a show of Faith and Discipline, in hopes that the Saints will prepare your way to Heaven!”
“Aw, but all those guys are dead! Can’t I just smite some pagans or something? I know tons of Protestants just begging to be smoted.”
“Penance isn’t supposed to be fun!”
“We have a gay guy at work. What if I go into Jimmy Orlando’s office once a day, and, like, shuffle all his papers up while he’s a lunch? Or maybe burn his house down?”
“Jimmy Orlando?” says Fritz. “How do you know Jimmy Orlando?”
“I dunno. We met him a year or so ago,” I says. “He claims to work part-time as a pool boy for some hotshot bigwig in Miami.”
“What is Jimmy doing working as a pool boy?”
“I dunno," I shrug. "We checked it out. This guy ain’t got no pool."
[LOBO]
“You’re finished with your Penance already my son?” asks a skeptical Father Fritz.
“10,000 ‘Hail Marys’?” I says. “Not a chance.”
“Well then what are you doing here?”
“It’s a Miracle,” I says excitedly. “I’m no longer a pyromaniac, nymphomaniac, or hypocondriac. And my claustrophobia, necrophobia, xylophobia, spectrophobia, bolshephobia, agateophobia, phthiriophobia, syngenesophobia, coimetrophobia, sophophobia, virginitiphobia, agrophobia, russophobia, spacephobia, myrmecophobia, phasmophobia, and phobophobia? Gone. Gone! And best of all, my sinuses decompressed for the first time in weeks.”
“Really?”
“Yeah. Who would’ve thought chemically-treated pallets would smell so good.”
“Pallets?” says Fritz. “Where exactly were you saying those ‘Hail Marys’?”
“At the music studio.”
“You have pallets at a music studio?”
“No, no. I was at the warehouse.”
“I’m not following you.”
“Well, I did like ten or fifteen of them but it was getting really tedious. So I made a recording of saying it, and set it on a loop. According to my calculatrons, by this time next Wednesday I’ll have said like 50,000 of them!”
“I don’t think you understand the concept of Penance,” chided Fritz.
“Sure I do,” I says. “Even after I added drums and guitar, it’s totally mind-numbing after a while. You know, with billions of people doing that every day, I would bet God is ready to blow his brains out.”
“You’re supposed to suffer through it in a show of Faith and Discipline, in hopes that the Saints will prepare your way to Heaven!”
“Aw, but all those guys are dead! Can’t I just smite some pagans or something? I know tons of Protestants just begging to be smoted.”
“Penance isn’t supposed to be fun!”
“We have a gay guy at work. What if I go into Jimmy Orlando’s office once a day, and, like, shuffle all his papers up while he’s a lunch? Or maybe burn his house down?”
“Jimmy Orlando?” says Fritz. “How do you know Jimmy Orlando?”
“I dunno. We met him a year or so ago,” I says. “He claims to work part-time as a pool boy for some hotshot bigwig in Miami.”
“What is Jimmy doing working as a pool boy?”
“I dunno," I shrug. "We checked it out. This guy ain’t got no pool."
Tuesday
Salsa
Predator Press
[LOBO]
I'm looking down through the trees, and there she is.
And I'm wanting to wave, but I realize she is undressing quickly, and not aware that I can see her undressing; she slides her shorts down over her curvy hips, and in moments she's not even wearing a thong. And then the shirt; a brief and tantalizing silhouette of those magnificent breasts--
"Look," says Father Fritz. "Fine, you're a Republican now. But this isn't therapy, it's Confession --"
"But then she starts rubbing down with this tanning lotion... "
Father Fritz scowls, "Now you're just bragging."
[LOBO]
I'm looking down through the trees, and there she is.
And I'm wanting to wave, but I realize she is undressing quickly, and not aware that I can see her undressing; she slides her shorts down over her curvy hips, and in moments she's not even wearing a thong. And then the shirt; a brief and tantalizing silhouette of those magnificent breasts--
"Look," says Father Fritz. "Fine, you're a Republican now. But this isn't therapy, it's Confession --"
"But then she starts rubbing down with this tanning lotion... "
Father Fritz scowls, "Now you're just bragging."
Bittersweet
Predator Press
[LOBO]
I don't tell you this often, so when I say explicitly "this is a true story," this is a True Story. My mom, given the opportunity, will confirm it.
And neither one of us recall me as a toddler being a particularly fussy eater.
But when introduced to Brussels's sprouts, it was on.
I still hate those innocuous-looking vile little hellspawned biological perversions.
Oh, sure mom issued the S.O.P. 'Miranda Rights' for a kid: "No desert 'til you clean your plate!" --generally this heralded "GAME OVER"; it was a matter of time before I would capitulate.
Except this time; even after a cascading portfolio of ice cream and Popsicles, I would not budge.
Dad said "Fine," and put me in the high chair. "No desert at all then. Yell for us when you're done."
And then they left for the living room.
They turned the lights off, and the television on.
... My god, these people aren't bluffing.
***
Around 9:30, I was kaput.
And I had no ideas.
I made an audible sound, acknowledging tiredly 'I give up!'. The living room stirred to life in that flickering pale blue light of the television amongst giggles like, "Well, I was starting to think he was never going to cave in."
It was at that exact moment, as they so smugly gloated, that I stuffed those vile green horrible objects into my cheeks.
And I waited.
***
6:30 the next morning was routine: I get deposited in the bathroom momentarily while mom gathers the diaper change and my daily threads.
But just starting to scuttle and crawl, I've got some surprising mobility, and right at that Single Perfect Moment I drag myself of the side of the toilet bowl, and spit those hateful sprouts from last night directly in the toilet.
It was the perfect crime.
Except I didn't know how to flush yet.
[LOBO]
I don't tell you this often, so when I say explicitly "this is a true story," this is a True Story. My mom, given the opportunity, will confirm it.
And neither one of us recall me as a toddler being a particularly fussy eater.
But when introduced to Brussels's sprouts, it was on.
I still hate those innocuous-looking vile little hellspawned biological perversions.
Oh, sure mom issued the S.O.P. 'Miranda Rights' for a kid: "No desert 'til you clean your plate!" --generally this heralded "GAME OVER"; it was a matter of time before I would capitulate.
Except this time; even after a cascading portfolio of ice cream and Popsicles, I would not budge.
Dad said "Fine," and put me in the high chair. "No desert at all then. Yell for us when you're done."
And then they left for the living room.
They turned the lights off, and the television on.
... My god, these people aren't bluffing.
Around 9:30, I was kaput.
And I had no ideas.
I made an audible sound, acknowledging tiredly 'I give up!'. The living room stirred to life in that flickering pale blue light of the television amongst giggles like, "Well, I was starting to think he was never going to cave in."
It was at that exact moment, as they so smugly gloated, that I stuffed those vile green horrible objects into my cheeks.
And I waited.
6:30 the next morning was routine: I get deposited in the bathroom momentarily while mom gathers the diaper change and my daily threads.
But just starting to scuttle and crawl, I've got some surprising mobility, and right at that Single Perfect Moment I drag myself of the side of the toilet bowl, and spit those hateful sprouts from last night directly in the toilet.
It was the perfect crime.
Except I didn't know how to flush yet.
"Beta" Blogger
Predator Press
[LOBO]
I swear to God, I can't tell you how much I hate what they've done to Blogger ... On a tight schedule, I just lost two hours worth of work because of their defective "Word Verication" software --I even backed the page up both times to see if the mistake was mine!
I would so love to freeze every last one of them in liquid nitrogen, and slowly chip little pieces off until I was knee deep in gory slush ...
[LOBO]
I swear to God, I can't tell you how much I hate what they've done to Blogger ... On a tight schedule, I just lost two hours worth of work because of their defective "Word Verication" software --I even backed the page up both times to see if the mistake was mine!
I would so love to freeze every last one of them in liquid nitrogen, and slowly chip little pieces off until I was knee deep in gory slush ...
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