Predator Press
[LOBO]
Ethan and I, smoking cigars, watch 'the dailies' with great interest.
"Rumsfeld is killing Osama?" he asks. "I thought Cheney killed Osama about twenty minutes ago."
"No, that was Saddam. Remember the mustache?"
"No, that was Chemical Ali."
"No, Chemical Ali was killed by Ann Coulter."
"I'm confused."
"Remember, when Cheney and Limbaugh had to hook south at the Anthrax factory? Rush, the team medic, told her he had something she could take that would let her take six or seven more direct mortar hits. Then Chemical Ali attacks them, and Ann rips out all eight of his arms and pushes him over the cliff?" I sigh. "I agree. This edit seems a little disjointed. Maybe it was a bad idea to have Cobe play all the bad guys after all."
"Cobe just doesn't seem to have any acting range whatsoever," Ethan observes.
"Vince!" I yell up at the projection booth. "Play the opening sequence." I settle back in. "Still Ethan, you're gonna love this."
Monday
Sunday
Chiefly Speaking
Predator Press
[LOBO]
George Bush Junior, clutching a fire hydrant, was begging. "Please don't do this anymore. I'll do anything!"
"George," says the guy in the Nixon mask. "Join me, and together we shall rule the galaxy."
"Shit, I'd join you if you just took me to Dennys!"
"You have no idea the power of the Dark Side."
"Look, asshole. I already said I would join you." Bush gets up, walks to the mysterious stranger's car, climbs in the passenger side and slams the door. Rolling down the electric window, he yells, "This is the maximum level of joining you."
"George," says the masked stranger. "I am your father."
Suddenly, the Nixon mask comes off, and it's George Bush Senior!
"Oh yeah Dad," says George Junior tiredly from the car. "Like that bit didn't get old the first time you did it. What was I, eight then? Huh Dad? I'm thirty-five now. I'm in college fer Chrissake. Plus I think I'm a goddamn member of Congress or something like that."
Sulkily, George Bush senior drops the mask, and shuffles for the car.
"Chop chop, there pops," says Bush Junior. "I'm trying to decide between the AARP and the military defense fund even as we speak."
George Senior shuts the door, and puts his seat belt on.
"I'm gonna have twelve Happy Burgers and fifty milkshakes!" Cries Bush Junior. "Yeah!"
"Look," mumbles Bush Senior, adjusting the bulletproof mirror. "Just don't make a scene if some kid's already done the maze on the menu again. They have thousands of those in back. We just have to ask a waitress."
"Okay Dad," Says George Junior. "But can you make this car bounce in the air like those Mexican cars do?"
Bush Senior scowls and starts the car.
"Phooey,” says George Junior, folding his arms. “I don't know what the point is of being President is if you can't have a bouncy car."
[LOBO]
George Bush Junior, clutching a fire hydrant, was begging. "Please don't do this anymore. I'll do anything!"
"George," says the guy in the Nixon mask. "Join me, and together we shall rule the galaxy."
"Shit, I'd join you if you just took me to Dennys!"
"You have no idea the power of the Dark Side."
"Look, asshole. I already said I would join you." Bush gets up, walks to the mysterious stranger's car, climbs in the passenger side and slams the door. Rolling down the electric window, he yells, "This is the maximum level of joining you."
"George," says the masked stranger. "I am your father."
Suddenly, the Nixon mask comes off, and it's George Bush Senior!
"Oh yeah Dad," says George Junior tiredly from the car. "Like that bit didn't get old the first time you did it. What was I, eight then? Huh Dad? I'm thirty-five now. I'm in college fer Chrissake. Plus I think I'm a goddamn member of Congress or something like that."
Sulkily, George Bush senior drops the mask, and shuffles for the car.
"Chop chop, there pops," says Bush Junior. "I'm trying to decide between the AARP and the military defense fund even as we speak."
George Senior shuts the door, and puts his seat belt on.
"I'm gonna have twelve Happy Burgers and fifty milkshakes!" Cries Bush Junior. "Yeah!"
"Look," mumbles Bush Senior, adjusting the bulletproof mirror. "Just don't make a scene if some kid's already done the maze on the menu again. They have thousands of those in back. We just have to ask a waitress."
"Okay Dad," Says George Junior. "But can you make this car bounce in the air like those Mexican cars do?"
Bush Senior scowls and starts the car.
"Phooey,” says George Junior, folding his arms. “I don't know what the point is of being President is if you can't have a bouncy car."
Let Freedom Scream
Predator Press
[LOBO]
"Alright Newt," I says. "Lets go over this scene once more."
"I'm standing right here," says Newt. "I don't think you need the megaphone."
"Look Newt," I says frustrated. "This ain't Capitol Hill. I handle all the censorship around here. Now in this scene, you jump off of the fourth story, somersault gracefully to the ground by virtue of this crane and harness, and kick the crap out of six insurgents."
Newt pulls on the harness nervously. "Are you sure this thing is safe?"
"It's all physics, baby," I says walking back to my chair. "As long as you're exactly 180 pounds like it says on your driver's license, you're as safe as if in your mother's arms. Now the second you here the 'All Clear' safety bell, jump."
A bell rang, and Newt jumped. The crane buckled, and what followed was a scene of catastrophic mechanical failure.
The bell rang again.
Exasperated, I answered my cell phone.
"Hello? Oh hi Mom. Listen I can't talk right now. I'm shooting a movie."
Somewhere below, I could hear Newt groaning.
The 'All Clear' safety bell rang.
"Cut!," I yell. "Print it. That was fantastic! Newt, nice touch with that look of terror. It looked absolutely believable."
"Uhhnn," he says.
"Alright everyone," I says into the megaphone. "We have 30 more scenes to shoot today. Is the Limbaugh Piranha Cannon ready?"
"We're all set sir," says a wincing aide two feet away. "But Rush is complaining that there aren't any piranhas in Iraq."
"Fucking actors," I breathe. "Is he at least in his suit basted with goldfish flakes and pork chops?"
"Yes."
"Well, just push him in the ammo pool and shoot that. I suspect the piranhas aren't such sticklers for detail."
[LOBO]
"Alright Newt," I says. "Lets go over this scene once more."
"I'm standing right here," says Newt. "I don't think you need the megaphone."
"Look Newt," I says frustrated. "This ain't Capitol Hill. I handle all the censorship around here. Now in this scene, you jump off of the fourth story, somersault gracefully to the ground by virtue of this crane and harness, and kick the crap out of six insurgents."
Newt pulls on the harness nervously. "Are you sure this thing is safe?"
"It's all physics, baby," I says walking back to my chair. "As long as you're exactly 180 pounds like it says on your driver's license, you're as safe as if in your mother's arms. Now the second you here the 'All Clear' safety bell, jump."
A bell rang, and Newt jumped. The crane buckled, and what followed was a scene of catastrophic mechanical failure.
The bell rang again.
Exasperated, I answered my cell phone.
"Hello? Oh hi Mom. Listen I can't talk right now. I'm shooting a movie."
Somewhere below, I could hear Newt groaning.
The 'All Clear' safety bell rang.
"Cut!," I yell. "Print it. That was fantastic! Newt, nice touch with that look of terror. It looked absolutely believable."
"Uhhnn," he says.
"Alright everyone," I says into the megaphone. "We have 30 more scenes to shoot today. Is the Limbaugh Piranha Cannon ready?"
"We're all set sir," says a wincing aide two feet away. "But Rush is complaining that there aren't any piranhas in Iraq."
"Fucking actors," I breathe. "Is he at least in his suit basted with goldfish flakes and pork chops?"
"Yes."
"Well, just push him in the ammo pool and shoot that. I suspect the piranhas aren't such sticklers for detail."
Saturday
The Best Laid Mice of Plans and Men
Predator Press
[LOBO]
"The idea," says Ethan touring me through the studio, "is simply that if the media is responsible for the state of current affairs-"
We enter a room where Donald Rumsfeld, shirtless with an M-60 and bandoliers, is shooting six Al Qaeda guys while rifle-butting another and rescuing a puppy.
"-that we can end the end the war the same way," Ethan finishes.
Donald 'tucks and rolls' into an adjacent set, where he delivers an Iraqi baby waving a tiny American flag, all the while ducking gunfire and lobbing potent hand grenades.
"Okay," I says. "But I don't see where I come in."
"LOBO," sighs Ethan. "I want you to film Bush, Cheney and Rumsfeld getting pissed off and flying to Iraq, and ending the war once and for all. Personally."
"I like the name 'Gen. David H. Petraeus' too. It sounds kinda Latin. Biblical. Greek even. 'Petraeus' almost sounds Roman, and even after all these centuries the Romans are still kicking ass. Shit, you can't make a movie sequel anymore if it doesn't have an 'V' or an 'X' or a vowel in it somewhere. What the hell would Sylvester Stallone have called his movies then?"
"Exactly."
"Okay," I says as Rumsfeld climbs into a convenient helicopter, and starts napalming 6 guys that look like Osama. "But we're going to have to get Rumsfeld a stunt chest; his pasty tits just flopping around like that might give us a PG 17 rating." I scratch my chin. "Plus it's hell on the sound guys; they say everything sounds like two fat people fucking. Can we get a prosthetic chest? Or maybe 'CGI' something in?"
"That's why you're here," says Ethan smiling. "I want you to film victory."
[LOBO]
"The idea," says Ethan touring me through the studio, "is simply that if the media is responsible for the state of current affairs-"
We enter a room where Donald Rumsfeld, shirtless with an M-60 and bandoliers, is shooting six Al Qaeda guys while rifle-butting another and rescuing a puppy.
"-that we can end the end the war the same way," Ethan finishes.
Donald 'tucks and rolls' into an adjacent set, where he delivers an Iraqi baby waving a tiny American flag, all the while ducking gunfire and lobbing potent hand grenades.
"Okay," I says. "But I don't see where I come in."
"LOBO," sighs Ethan. "I want you to film Bush, Cheney and Rumsfeld getting pissed off and flying to Iraq, and ending the war once and for all. Personally."
"I like the name 'Gen. David H. Petraeus' too. It sounds kinda Latin. Biblical. Greek even. 'Petraeus' almost sounds Roman, and even after all these centuries the Romans are still kicking ass. Shit, you can't make a movie sequel anymore if it doesn't have an 'V' or an 'X' or a vowel in it somewhere. What the hell would Sylvester Stallone have called his movies then?"
"Exactly."
"Okay," I says as Rumsfeld climbs into a convenient helicopter, and starts napalming 6 guys that look like Osama. "But we're going to have to get Rumsfeld a stunt chest; his pasty tits just flopping around like that might give us a PG 17 rating." I scratch my chin. "Plus it's hell on the sound guys; they say everything sounds like two fat people fucking. Can we get a prosthetic chest? Or maybe 'CGI' something in?"
"That's why you're here," says Ethan smiling. "I want you to film victory."
Australia
Predator Press
[LOBO]
"I left you guys," says Ethan tersely, "on a teambuilding exercise. For two weeks. And you have burned my entire empire to the ground."
"There's always the rubble," I says.
"You burned the rubble down!"
"Well, you can't say I'm not thorough."
"Well, I really appreciate it," says Ethan. "Now Babs doesn't get shit."
"So you're okay with having lost $470,005,058.05 as long as Babs didn't get anything?"
"Oh yeah."
"So we're cool?"
"Shit, as soon as I get some money, I'm giving you a raise!"
"Well," I says. "It had better be substantial. You have no idea how traumatizing this has all been."
"We got a military contract," says Ethan. "$150,000,000,000. The first year."
"Ethan, I don't think I'm up for pissing off other countries anymore. Do you know it's a Class X felony for a woman to have sex with me in Australia now?"
"I told you Australia existed."
"I know. And now I want to have sex there in the worst way!"
"The last thing you need right now is another woman."
"Yeah," I concur, sighing. "Another vagina to feed."
"I need you, and your amazing media prowess on this project."
"Will there be cake?" I'm clapping my hands. "I love cake!"
[LOBO]
"I left you guys," says Ethan tersely, "on a teambuilding exercise. For two weeks. And you have burned my entire empire to the ground."
"There's always the rubble," I says.
"You burned the rubble down!"
"Well, you can't say I'm not thorough."
"Well, I really appreciate it," says Ethan. "Now Babs doesn't get shit."
"So you're okay with having lost $470,005,058.05 as long as Babs didn't get anything?"
"Oh yeah."
"So we're cool?"
"Shit, as soon as I get some money, I'm giving you a raise!"
"Well," I says. "It had better be substantial. You have no idea how traumatizing this has all been."
"We got a military contract," says Ethan. "$150,000,000,000. The first year."
"Ethan, I don't think I'm up for pissing off other countries anymore. Do you know it's a Class X felony for a woman to have sex with me in Australia now?"
"I told you Australia existed."
"I know. And now I want to have sex there in the worst way!"
"The last thing you need right now is another woman."
"Yeah," I concur, sighing. "Another vagina to feed."
"I need you, and your amazing media prowess on this project."
"Will there be cake?" I'm clapping my hands. "I love cake!"
White Power
[LOBO]
Well, being in jail is by no means fun; nonetheless, when I found out I was in jail with Richard Gere, I was thrilled.
Richard Gere, star of such brutal fight scenes such as the ones in 'An Officer and a Gentleman' and 'Pretty Woman', was right the fuck here sharing a holding cell with me!
I immediately start talking trash.
Dice, Tic Tock, and Shiv weren’t too impressed at first, but when I told ‘em all they was 'so ugly they hadda fake orgasms while masturbating', they had a huddle.
Dice: “Yo man, these are either the dumbest white men on Earth, or maybe they’re just crazy.”
Tic Tock: “Yeah, dude just said Tom Wopat was the Antichrist. Who the fuck is Tom Wopat?”
Shiv: “Wasn’t that one cracker that dude in Pretty Woman?”
“That’s right!” I exclaim. “And if I give the word, Richard will pull your tongues through your keysters!” I stare at them crazily.
“What you dogs doin time for?” says Tic Tock.
“Tell ‘im Richard!” I says, all twitchy-like.
“I was at Christmas Mass and this guy and a hooker showed up. During the footage, I was holding hands with my wife.” Richard wipes away a tear. “They got the whole thing on film.”
“You know Richard,” I says facing a 6’6” tall angry guy twice my width, “I was hoping --as an artist—you could do better than that.”
“Better than getting arrested for the proliferation of phony ‘Fat Burning' Twinkies?”
Dice: “These niggas are fucked up.”
Tic Tock: “Just be cool.”
Shiv: “I’m tellin you, that cat was in Armageddon or something.”
Suddenly, a voice calls, “LOBO, you’ve made bail. Please exit to your left.”
“Well wow,” I says, grabbing Richard’s hand and shaking it heartily. “Good luck my friend.” I pause. "Can I have your autograph?"
Well, being in jail is by no means fun; nonetheless, when I found out I was in jail with Richard Gere, I was thrilled.
Richard Gere, star of such brutal fight scenes such as the ones in 'An Officer and a Gentleman' and 'Pretty Woman', was right the fuck here sharing a holding cell with me!
I immediately start talking trash.
Dice, Tic Tock, and Shiv weren’t too impressed at first, but when I told ‘em all they was 'so ugly they hadda fake orgasms while masturbating', they had a huddle.
Dice: “Yo man, these are either the dumbest white men on Earth, or maybe they’re just crazy.”
Tic Tock: “Yeah, dude just said Tom Wopat was the Antichrist. Who the fuck is Tom Wopat?”
Shiv: “Wasn’t that one cracker that dude in Pretty Woman?”
“That’s right!” I exclaim. “And if I give the word, Richard will pull your tongues through your keysters!” I stare at them crazily.
“What you dogs doin time for?” says Tic Tock.
“Tell ‘im Richard!” I says, all twitchy-like.
“I was at Christmas Mass and this guy and a hooker showed up. During the footage, I was holding hands with my wife.” Richard wipes away a tear. “They got the whole thing on film.”
“You know Richard,” I says facing a 6’6” tall angry guy twice my width, “I was hoping --as an artist—you could do better than that.”
“Better than getting arrested for the proliferation of phony ‘Fat Burning' Twinkies?”
Dice: “These niggas are fucked up.”
Tic Tock: “Just be cool.”
Shiv: “I’m tellin you, that cat was in Armageddon or something.”
Suddenly, a voice calls, “LOBO, you’ve made bail. Please exit to your left.”
“Well wow,” I says, grabbing Richard’s hand and shaking it heartily. “Good luck my friend.” I pause. "Can I have your autograph?"
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