Wednesday

A Predator Press Halloween

Predator Press

[LOBO]

"Thanks for the flowers. You may now
remove yourself from my presence."


My carved pumpkin was less-than-well
received at the 2007 Jedi Convention


In a perfect world, Peter Parker makes J. Johnah Jacobsen
watch the same episode of 'Spongebob Squarepants' 86 times.

Today.


No one believed that giant plastic dinosaurs
once roamed freely in my backyard.

-Until they saw the colossus 350-ton statue of
a pack of cigarettes Andy Warhol made me.


Oh, sure. Like you've never French kissed a snake.


Tuesday

Blasphemy

Predator Press

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Originally posted on October 27, 2006

I know this sounds crazy, but every year around this time my house gets visits from these teeny little ghosts, ghouls, devils, and Power Rangers, all demanding candy. No sooner do I give em candy and shut the door, and more of the little mooching pagan bastards show up.

Last year, even after I ran out of Tic-Tacs, this diminutive Godless hoard continued to swarm over my home relentlessly. I started giving them whatever I could find; cans of beets, maple syrup, beer, Tupperware lids, ketchup ... I even gave one a whole 5 lbs bag of sugar, in hopes diabetes might scale the vile dwarven hellspawn onslaught back a few notches.

And they kept coming.

On and on through the night, I am for whom the doorbell tolls: a cheery warning of yet another invasion by the insatiably greedy brood. My radio. My microwave. My television (that staggered the little bastard).

But this year, it'll be different.

I'm dressing as R Kelly.


Sunday

Violence Solves Everything

Predator Press

[LOBO]

His parents reasoned with him, cajoled, and gently encouraged, but Little Timmy would not be denied this singular opportunity to make our airborne experience one we would never forget.

Little Timmy ran up and down the isle. Little Timmy launched food into people's hair and clothes.

Little Timmy was evil.

The in-flight movie -an Eddie Murphy vehicle- did nothing to drown out evil Little Timmy and his animated adventures dancing on the edge of everyone's nerves.

As I watched, Little Timmy single-handedly terrorized the entire flight for two solid hours.

I heard people quietly scheduling vasectomies on their cellphones.

Finally having had enough, I stepped up to the happy couple.

"Excuse me. I don't mean to be a bother, but I'm wondering how long until the beatings take place?"

They looked at each other bewildered. Eventually, the presumed father spoke. "Excuse me?"

"The beatings," I repeat. "I need to use the lavatory, and I don't want to miss them."

"Sir," said the offended woman. "We never touch our child in anger."

"Well, can one of the rest of us do it? The precocious little scamp has made quite an impression."

The woman pressed the button calling the flight steward. "Sir, if you continue bothering us, I'll-"

"Do what?" I inquired. "Have me kicked off?"

The father stood. "How we raise our child is none of your business."

This wasn't going as well as I had hoped. "If and until we arrive in Houston, I'm afraid it is."

"Little Timmy," interrupted the woman, "is going to learn to decide to behave himself."

"Not without a severe beating, ma'am," I point out.

"I'll not condone violence on the boy," says the father.

"Violence is such an ugly term," I says. "And I'm not condoning 'violence'. Just a severe beating. It's not the same thing."

The woman gaped. As the flight attendant arrived, she was almost stammering in anger. "Sir," she began. "This man-"

The flight attendant looked at me. "Are they beating him yet?"

"No," I says.

He glowers at the couple menacingly. "And why not?"

"Lady," I continue. "Severe beatings are good for a child. In fact, I daresay mandatory. This child should receive severe beatings on a regular basis."

"What about when he's behaving?" the woman asked incredulously.

"Especially when behaving!" I says. "That child's entire life should be one long series of severe beatings, punctuated by brief and random interludes of wondering where, when and why his next beating is coming."

The pilot squawked over the intercom. "Are they beating him yet?"

"Not yet sir," said the flight attendant into the air.

The father sneered at me, "And how many children do you have, 'Mister Expert'?"

"None!" I says flatly. "I don't have the required propensity for violence."


Saturday

Eyes Without No Mace

Predator Press

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When I saw that cop standing there in the doorway, I knew precisely what to do. Suddenly dropping to my knees, I sobbed loudly, "Taze me, bro! Tase me please!"

"Son," says the officer calmly. "Why in the world would I want to do that?"

Clutching his shiny boots, I wail "I saw what you guys did to that guy that asked you not to on television!"

"Well, you do have an awful lot of dead mailmen in your front yard," he observes.

"They were like that when they got here."

"You mean they were already on fire, and all of them just sort of collapsed coincidentally at your house?"

"Yes. May I be beaten severely now sir? And have my rights violated repeatedly as I'm hauled of to an excruciatingly long interrogation where I'll crack and confess to a whole bunch of ridiculous crap I couldn't possibly have done and be thrown down into some dark hole where I'm forgotten 'til I die?"

"If you weren't white I would've done that a half hour ago," he says. Perplexed, he scratches his chin. Whispering audibly, he adds "I wonder why all these incendiary mailmen are drawn to this place?"

"It's totally plausible. I belong to a lot of record clubs."

Shrugging, he tips his hat. "Sorry to bother you citizen. Everything appears to be in order here. Have a nice day, and stay out of trouble. I am going to stop at the corner store. Do you need a burrito or something?"

"No thanks," I says waving.

As he heads for his car, he pauses at one of the piles of bones and pokes it with his night stick. Lifting a skull by the eye socket, he inspects it shrewdly. "They do make rather cool Halloween decorations, don't they?"

"Want one?"


You've Got Mail

Predator Press

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You readers know I love you, right?

I would do anything, anyplace, anytime for either one of you. I would even dredge Lake Michigan eventually!

... But I absolutely live for Saturday mornings.

There's nothing like padding around in your footie pajamas and watching cartoons until noon.

On Saturdays, no one gets mad at me for it; but when I do it on Tuesday, oh holy crap it's all 'bitch, bitch, bitch'.

On Saturday mornings, I don't always answer the phone either.

Ironic, isn't it? That I will spend a fortune on a security system with thermal detectors, a moat filled with starving alligators swimming in napalm and a perimeter surrounded by high-powered motion-detecting laserbeams? Nothing can pierce the heart of this tranquil womb of solitude.

Except the telephone.

As Ethan is calling, I'm sipping a latte and fiddling with the security cameras, zooming in and out of what has become a bizarre and intriguing discovery.

My front yard has fallen victim of some kind of crazy litterbug.

I pick up the phone absently.

"Yeah?" I says.

It's Ethan.

"Are you watching the news?" he asks.

"No," I says distantly, zooming the camera onto a small pile of smoldering rubbish on the sidewalk. It looks like a bag.

"Bob Guccione Jr just got arrested for starting all those California wildfires."

"No shit?" I says, zooming in on a second pile over on the walkway. It's another scorched sack of some kind.

This one appears to be labeled 'US Mail'.

"Yeah," Ethan continues. "They caught him red-handed burning a script someone mailed him."

Panning out with the camera, I see three of those little mail trucks, all oddly peppered and scarred with what appear to be burns from high-powered motion-detecting laserbeams.

An ashen dust-devil whips through a charred and blackend skeleton, hanging listlessly from the seatbelt.

Well, it appears my Saturday is completely fucked already.


Thursday

Feeding Me Softly

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Are you "feeding" this site? I just checked the "feed" and everything looks out-of-sequence.

With no discernable traffic, I'm thinking about cutting my RSS.

Please "check in" somehow if you are.