Thursday

Intensive Carelessness

Predator Press

[LOBO]

“Let me get this straight,” says Nurse Garrison, looking out at me over her glasses. “You narrowly escaped being assassinated by the United States Government disguising yourself as a flesh-eating cicada … like the ones that wiped out your entire town?”

“Check,” I says.

“Then,” she says while flipping through pages on her clipboard, “Lindsay Lohan kicked your ass.”

“Lindsay Lohan and four bodyguards kicked my ass,” I corrected.

“That’s funny,” says the nurse. “Because there’s no mention of any bodyguards in the Police Report.”

“Well they were there,” I insist. “They must’ve snuck off. Like ninjas. In fact, yes. Now that I’ve thought about it, all six of those bodyguards were wearing black pajamas.”

“But Lindsay Lohan has issued sworn testimony that she doesn’t employ any bodyguards.”

“Currently.”

“Currently?”

“They could’ve been ninjas from the future. What if Lindsay Lohan, like, meets this creepy weirdo one day? Then she gets the bodyguards.”

“Ninja bodyguards … that can time travel.”

“You know for somebody that took the Hypocritical Oath to ‘Serve and Protect’, I’m starting to think you’re not taking me seriously.”

“Well, I am a little puzzled by some things.”

“Like what?”

“Like, if you escaped millions of carnivorous cicadas by dressing as one, why didn’t you just dress as Lindsay Lohan?”

“Look, just kiss my ass. Okay?”

“Not with that stiletto heel in there. Someone could poke their eye out.”

Internet Swag

Predator Press

Predator Press Interviews: Lindsay Lohan

Predator Press


LOBO: Wow. You're that famous chick!

Lohan: Who are you, and why are you dressed like that?

LOBO: My name is LOBO. So why are you here? Are you getting your Blogger License too?

Lohan: My rehab doctor thinks that exploring other methods of expression might curtail my self-destructive behavior and speed up my recovery.

LOBO: Rehab? I thought you were in prison.

Lohan: That's Paris Hilton.

LOBO: Sorry. It's hard to see through these pasta strainers. I really love your movies.

Lohan: Well thank you.

LOBO: What was it like working with Mike Myers on 'Shrek 3'?

Lohan: That's Cameron Diaz.

LOBO: Oh, that's right. Sorry. Did you ever get to meet Tim Robbins when you narrated 'The Shawshank Redemption'?

Lohan: That's Morgan Freeman.

LOBO: I thought you said you were in movies.

Lohan: I am. I was in 'Freaky Friday' 'Herbie Fully Loaded' and 'The Parent Trap'.

LOBO: So you do mostly documentaries?

Lohan: [pause] Would you please just get away from me?

LOBO: Any Oscars? Emmys?

Lohan: I'm calling the cops.

LOBO: Well you go right ahead there little Miss Hoity-Toity 'Can't-Take-Some-Pointed-Questions-From-A-Guy-Wearing-A-Trash-Can'. Call 'em! I'll have you arrested for impersonating an actress!

Teacher: All right class, pencils down. Please hand your Blogger License Exam to the person in front of you.

LOBO: Damn it!

Lohan: You bastard!

Remedial Blogging 101

Predator Press

[LOBO]

So dressed as a giant cicada –complete with ingenious pasta strainer eyes, a trash can carapace, and two old wireless routers stuck above the ears as antennae-- I arrived at the testing center early enough to smoke three cigarettes before being ushered in.

And while worried at first that being dressed as a giant bug might be rather ‘conspicuous’, I was relieved to find that I was taking the exam with four bees, two bears, a badger, and Lindsay Lohan.

Cauterized

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Well, I'm stranded in Mr Insanity's house surrounded by tanks hoisted 3 feet in the air by camouflage-painted helicopters --all sporting streamers and sparklers-- and billions of starving carnivorous, flesh-eating cicadas.

And it dawns on me.

Oh my God, my Blogger's License re-exam is in five minutes!!!

Tuesday

Warhead

Predator Press

[Mr Insanity]

Once Sapphire called Ethan to verify she had the pictures, Ethan called President Bush.

Then President Bush called General Petraeus.

"You want me to bomb a city in the continental US?" asks General Petraeus incredulously.

"And how," says Bush.

"And not one in New Jersey?"

"Nope. Pianosa, Illinois."

"Why sir?"

"It's part of a new strategy in our War on Terror. Who's going to screw with us if we're so crazy we'll nuke ourselves?"

"Good point sir. Still, what with the fallout and all, I would suggest something a little more suitable to the scale of the threat."

"Like a giant robot crocodile?"

"No sir. Like a surgical strike. A platoon of tanks maybe."

"Oh god no. Have you seen the price of gas lately? I like the 'Giant Robot Crocodile' idea better."

"Yes, well-"

"It'll come up out of Lake Michigan, and seek out Terror with X-Ray vision, and smash it with the Tail of Liberty. Bam! Bam!"

"Well, while I understand your enthusiasm--"

"BOOM!"

"--I would still go with the tanks."

"General, this is the dawn of the Twentieth Centurion. Unless they hover, tanks are boring."

"We don't have a giant robot crocodile sir. The Liberals scuttled the budget in Congress."

Bush sighed audibly into the phone. "Just how many damn schools do I have to build before I get a giant robot crocodile that fights Terror?"

There's a long pause. "I don't know sir," the General finally answered.

"Why can't we nuke it again?"

"Because it's American soil sir."

"Is it New Jersey?"

"No sir. It's Pianosa, Illinois. Look," says Petraeus, exasperated. "We could put streamers and sparklers on the tanks. Then it would look cool as we bomb that house into the Mesozoic."

"Like a parade!"

"Yes sir. A really loud and pissed-off parade."

"All right General," says Bush. "Make it so."


***


The 99th Battalion left Decatur Illinois at precisely 3:17am, and stopped to refuel in Bloomington, Schaumburg, Danville and Arlington Heights before anyone realized that they had no idea where Pianosa was.

This single blunder took up 18% of the entire annual military budget.

Due to this --and the Vast Liberal Conspiracy-- the Terror-Fighting Robot Crocodile Project would never get off the ground.

Monday

Silly Girl

Predator Press

[LOBO]

There was a knock at the door.

“Who is it?” I asked.

“It’s me, Sapphire.”

“How do I know that—?“

“Look, just shut up and open the door!”

Sapphire enters.

She’s crying.

“Sapphire, what’s wrong?”

“Oh LOBO,” she sobs. “I really want to go to Twentynine Palms, California, but I don’t know how to get there!”

“Sapphire,” I says calmly. “I’ve got some trucker's 2004 Road Atlas right here under this tuna sandwich!”

“Really?” she says.

“Sure!” I says, handing her the maps. “Now have fun in California.”

God, I’m thinking. What would chicks do without me?