Predator Press

Predator Press Interviews: Doctor Harold Toboggans

2009-11-30T17:58:00.017-06:00

Predator Press

When my Fantasy Football Team failed to reign in an unexpectedly winnable matchup Sunday, I was miffed. And when my tire went flat yesterday, I resisted. But when I found out the Jon and Kate Gosselin were getting a divorce, that was the last straw.

-It was time to eliminate the source of all my misfortunes, none other than Brent Diggs.

The connection to football, automotive failure, ‘Jon & Kate Plus 8,’ and Brent Diggs I don't exactly understand. But I don’t understand how fusion works either, and it does. It’s called science. You should try it sometime.

In a ghillie suit made of almond tree branches I made, I followed Brent completely undetected. And in a brazen act of stealth and guile, I slipped silently behind him as he let himself in his front door. He tried to make me into think he did see me by saying “Hello LOBO” -but because I was in camouflage, I knew he was bluffing.

Conveniently, Brent left the room and I began to plot how and where his murder would take place. I decided that because it was almost Christmas, I would hide in his fireplace chimney ... and then, when he opened the flue for Santa Claus on Christmas Eve, POW.

The problem with this plan is that a ghillie suit made of almond tree branches is too flammable to wear hiding in a chimney, and I would need a trash can of adequate size to dispose of them properly so I not annoy Mrs Brent. I am a guest. This may be Brent’s murder, but that’s no excuse not to be tidy.

Never, in a million years, would I have expected Doctor Harold Toboggans to enter the room!

-Doctor Phil, maybe. But not Doctor T.

“Psst!” I whisper from the center of the room, waving subtly. “Doc! It's me, LOBO. I’m over here in camouflage!”

"I was wondering why the Christmas tree reeked of Old Spice."

“Are you here to murder Brent Diggs too?”

"No, he is still useful to me as my web-lackey, working off his therapy bill and publishing my exploits. But I used up all my compassion today at the office, so if you simply must "bump him off" I won't stand in the way. In fact, unless your aim has improved, I won't even stand in the room."

“Probably a good idea," I agree. "Seein' as this is a murder, things could get ugly. Brent is an ex Marine, and Marines are extremely difficult to kill. Luckily I’m an ex-Marine too.”

"Reaaaaaaally?"

“No. I made that up. Besides I’m far too deadly for the Marines. They said so. It wouldn’t be fair to the other countries.”

"Well you definitely put the special back in Special Forces..."

"When did you start growing your mustache upside down?"

"Is it upside-down again?!!! I mean...well LOBO, sometimes when I put my entire focus on a single problem, like acquiring your debit card number, my follicles actually invert. It's quite a rare phenomenon, in fact now that Einstein is gone I think I'm the only one that still does it."

“Doc," I says, laying out on the couch. "I’ve probably got some time to kill before Brent gets back, and then something else to kill, and then more time. Mind doing an impromptu interview? I’m on the last step of ‘800 Steps To Adequacy,’ and only $2,000 away from graduating to the ”Ladder of Adequate Empowerment -a huge fan of your work. ”

"No session today, I'm fresh out of pepper spray. But be sure to purchase my latest self-help masterpiece, 'Learning to Live With Self-Loathing.' It's perfect for challenging cases like yourself."

"Wow!" I whistle, impressed. "That's the book I've ever seen. It must be brilliant. And it just so happens I'm in dire need of a large, heavy and brilliant blunt object. How much is it?

"How much do you have?"

***

LOBO: Your new series, Mind Over Memphis, is a towering triumph of both science and cinematographical achievement. It’s like a burrito with a mountain of information for beef and intriguing guests for cheese ... all wrapped in a delightfully soft, still-steaming entertainment tortilla. Do you know if Brent has any food here?

DT: Yes, my videos are quite amazing. It's the sort of work Spielberg would do if he were ready to move to the next level. And yes, I think there is some jello in the back of the fridge that isn't too badly molded.

LOBO: What will become of your Mind Over Memphis show if you find the fabled ‘Memphis’? And how did you get your mind over it without knowing where it is? And where was the rest of you at the time?

DT: Actually the title refers to the way my intellect towers over this town like a benevolent thundercloud of wisdom. Unfortunately, the city does stray form under my impressive shadow from time to time and I have to track it down. Such is the price of greatness.

LOBO: In your lecture series “Approaching the Outer Edge of Adequacy,” DVD 192 -roughly 80 minutes in- you said “over-adequacy can be just as dangerous as a lack of adequacy.” Can you elaborate on that theory?

DT: The pool of over-adequate individuals on this planet is fairly small, basically just me. And if there is one thing I don't tolerate, it is competition. It can be quite dangerous, if you know what I mean.

LOBO: In DVDs 404, 405 and 406, were you aware you had linguini in your mustache? I have always thought it was symbolic of something.

DT: LOBO, my entire life is a symbol of hope to lesser intellects...And to money launderers everywhere.

LOBO: I haven’t found any references to “Cryohydrotachophobia Purging” in your work. Yet during your “Crouching to Competence Wilderness Retreat,” you had me wear a sack over my head while the rest of the campers punched me, insisting it was the only cure for the morbid fear of rogue icebergs. Is that an experimental treatment? And why was everyone laughing?

DT: You just have to trust me, I'm the doctor.

LOBO: There has been some speculation –and numerous lawsuits- surrounding the fact that your anti-zombie patch Cerebitol causes sterility in a significant number of it’s users. Why people would people want to have babies in the face of the Zombie Menace is completely beyond me. Have you any thoughts you wish to share on this clearly-frivolous pending litigation?

DT: Really? That's excellent. It means I can market it as a contraceptive too. Your words ring with the sound of money.

LOBO: And you heard they can cause blindness, right?

DT: That was you. You aren't supposed to put the patches on your eyes.

LOBO: Pirates have zombie troubles too -and given the growth potential of that market, don't you think it's a mistake to alienate them? You could be a hero in their circles. Just imagine ... every time you vacationed in Somalia, they would buy you drinks and stuff. [wistful sigh] Say, you know what Doc? The mere calming effect of your presence has inexplicably diminished my desire to kill Brent. Is there a cure for that? Or am I just being lazy?

DT: Actually, you've been field testing my latest innovation, Slumberoos. Imagine a custom blend of ritalin and tranquilizers all together in a giant patch. Now take that patch and weave a snug undergarment out of it. Then sneak it into someones wardrobe and watch the therapy begin.

LOBO: Well, being unable to feel my legs while wearing them is difficult to get used to -but you can't beat this absorbency. By the way, this gum is terrible. I didn’t know gum spoiled. I probably shoulda known ‘cuz there was hairs in it.

DT: That's spirit gum. Don't worry about the lint, it's a great source of fiber.

LOBO: [slurring] Is that spearmint?

DT: No, that's Aqua Velva.

LOBO: Doctor T, you’re amazing. I’ll bet you could cure anyone. Any thing! I’ll bet you could take, like, sick polar bears that think they are deep sea bass and get them to think they are polar bears again. Or at least some kind of mammal ....

DT: Ah LOBO, so many issues, so little time. I guess Brent lives another day.

LOBO: zzzzzzzzzz

Dear Tiger Woods

2009-11-28T17:25:00.029-06:00

Predator Press

[LOBO]

I think I speak for the entire world when I am the first to tell you the following:
Haw!!
It’s not that I’m not unsympathetic -as you can probably guess, I’ve seen my share of murderously pissed women. But she chased you out of your own house with a golf club! Hah! That’s like Bruce Lee’s wife beating his ass with his own nunchucks.

In any case, you do have my condolences; this event will doubtlessly culminate into your expulsion from the PGA, as it doesn’t reflect the conduct of a professional golfer.

This is more of a NASCAR thing.

Adam Lambert is NOT Gay. SHUT UP SHUT UP I CAN'T HEAR YOU LA LA LA ...

2009-11-25T15:06:00.027-06:00

Predator Press

[LOBO]

I don’t know when this crazy rumor got started, but you all should be ashamed of yourselves.

Not that there would be anything wrong with Lambert being gay … as you all know, Predator Press is a very, eh, alternate lifestyle-friendly publication, and we’ve always treated people committing wanton abominations against God and Nature with nothing but the utmost respect and dignity.

But if Lambert is gay, it’s only in the ‘happy’ sense of the word. Very happy. Are you jealous of guys that are happy? Is that it? Sure he wears eyeliner and likes to wear Michael Jackson memorabilia. Well so does Larry Craig upon occasion, and Larry Craig insists he isn’t gay. So there.

My suspicion is that the rumors got started by guys hoping Lambert is gay -an unfortunate consequence of Lambert's inexplicable tendency to repeat the phrase "I am gay" in numerous televised public forums. But, like teaching the Kamikaze pilot to land, the hopeful and heartbroken homosexual community is completely wasting their time: after having searched every phone book in the United States I discovered a Martha Lambert that lives in Des Moines.

Is it a coincidence we’ve never heard of Martha? I think not: obviously, this is Adam’s secret wife. Martha Lambert lives in a carefully-constructed obscurity that could only be manufactured by Hollywood -as a Union Steward for a company that subcontracts battleship construction for the U.S. Military Industrial Complex.

Clearly, this whole controversial "homosexual" thing is a sophisticated sham in order to generate publicity -but can one judge Adam for chasing every American's dreams of fame, wealth, and the inalienable right to accessorize with feather boas and leather chaps? And when we do inevitably get around to judging, should we stop at chaps? I think we should throw in cowboy hats too -in one sweeping revolutionary piece of national legislation we make good taste a patriotic duty, and simultaneously wipe out a lot of bad music forever.

BREAKING NEWS UPDATE: 5:23 pm

While Martha Lambert's 'Facebook' is suspiciously devoid of any mention of Adam, she claims to enjoy baking cookies, singing in the church choir, and apparently shares Adam with her other husband Joe Lambert, six kids, and four grandchildren.

Mister Flirtypants

2009-11-20T21:55:00.041-06:00

Predator Press

[LOBO]

I’m not exactly one of those priss readers that needs total tranquility. In fact, quite the contrary -one of the few benefits I got from college was an ability to study virtually anywhere; at the paltry price of $50,000, I could probably read retentively at a mortar range in full swing.

What I can’t do is resist writing. And for some reason reading –particularly reading something good- gives me that "itch." It's like a switch gets thrown, but the subsequent current isn't one-way like it's supposed to be; the computer, in this sense, becomes something that needs to be escaped ... left to my own devices, I could probably write a book faster than read one.

My usual escape method is to read over coffee at a local fast food chain. I won’t name it, but they make hamburgers and have an annoying add campaign with a creepy guy running around dressed like a king. Today, however, was flat out beautiful, and I decided to go outside, fire up a good cigar, and kill off what was left of a paperback I had been working on. Our patio furniture, nestled under a tree in a communal backyard, is comfortable, and my last Earthly thoughts before flipping to my bookmark are musings of how it hasn’t been stolen yet.

About ten pages in, I became distantly aware that my neighbor was working on his extremely Earthly thought-provoking lawn mower –starting it, revving it way up to alarming seeming pitches and volumes, shutting it off, and then repeating the process.

I don’t know why the guy even has a lawn mower. We have a gardener.

-Can’t we all at least pretend we’re not white trash, or should I just go ahead and get the obligatory 'Git R Done' tattoo?

In what can only be classified as a cosmic refutation, a previously undetected neighborhood stray cat chose that exact moment to jump under my elbows into my lap. I suppose I can't fault it for its good taste in humans, but that little bastard startled the bejesus out of me: CRASH goes the whole scene –and even as I’m picking up the broken ashtray while bein stared at by the bemused, somewhat amused feline culprit, Lawn Mower Man peeks around the corner.

“You okay?” he says. “I thought I heard a scream.”

“That wasn’t a scream,” I says. “It was more of a shriek.”

He looks around, perplexed. “No, it was definitely screaming.”

don’t make conversation don’t make conversation don’t make conversation don’t make conversation and above all else do not make conversation-

“Whatcha doin?” he askes.

“Thinking about going to get a burger,” I says, looking at my book forlornly

He pats for his wallet. “Hey can ya get me one too?”

“Um-“

“’Cept maybe a chicken sandwich,” he explains. “I can’t say much for their burgers honestly. But their commercials are hi-larious.”

[Smash-Cut: One Hour Later]

“What do you mean you couldn’t get any reading done?” asks Terri, home for lunch. “You don’t even have a job.”

“It’s a long story,” I says, wearing my 'walked right into that, didn't I?' scowl. “I’ll try again this afternoon.”

“Um,” says Terri. “My sister asked if you could pick up her kids. The weather report says it’s going to rain.”

“Rain?” I says skeptically. “There ain’t a cloud in the sky.”

“It’s going to rain.”

“It rains here once or twice a year. Your sister has done gone and lost her marble.”

Silence.

Sighing, I acquiesce. “What time do they get out?”

“In an hour.”

“Perfect,” I says. “I’ll just go there after dropping you off, get a nice quiet parking spot, and do my reading there.”

“Well hurry up. I have to be back at the office in ten minutes.” She winces. “Were you smoking cigars in here?”

“No,” I call truthfully, already in the next room. Spotting my paperback and my keys, I seize both. “You know I could get a lot more reading done if it wasn’t for kids. I don’t know what people see in them really.”

“We have kids.”

“That’s only because you won’t listen to reason.”

[Smash-Cut: Twenty Minutes Later]

Despite the fact that she even mentioned smoking in my hasty exit, I had forgotten my cigarettes.

-Which would have been fine really. I mean I can go an hour or two. But I would have had to buy some today anyway.

The 'problem' is I’ve already got this kickass parking spot, right smack in front of where the kids come out like a bull’s-eye. In about forty-five minutes this place is going to be jammed up like Chicago rush hour: if I move the car now, I'll be stuck out on the fringes -the outer circle, where the most anxiety-riddled late parents will be crushing in, streaming profanity and cutting each other off in an attempt to rescue their children from potential evil in a timely fashion.

Anyone that lives in California will tell you it's a criss-crossed nightmarish ziggedy-zagged tangle of one-way roads that all only seem to go the wrong way -it's like some freakish vortex previously impossible in physics: in a car, six blocks could require a detour through Las Vegas.

But I’m in this uncharacteristically non-lazy mood, and there’s a store about six blocks up 'as the crow flies.' Plus the weather is spectacular. I could walk this thing within a few minutes, and still have plenty of time to dive into the book.

[Smash-Cut: Twenty Minutes Later]

The rain blew in out of nowhere, right smack when I was leaving the Shell station -the apex of distance I could possibly be from my car.

I tried to wait it out. But as the time school was being let out grew ever closer, I was increasingly assured of what was inevitably going to follow.

"This is 2009!" I says to no one in particular, staring through posters of cigarette adds in the picture window at the torrential assault. "I should be able to press a button on my keys, and my car comes to get me. But what do we got? We got Twitter!"

The confused cashier blinks at me.

"Twitter!" I underline in frustration.

[Smash-Cut: Twenty Minutes Later]

It's like sprinting through a wall of water.

I was so wet within moments, there wouldn't have been a point in hurrying: I was soaked to the bone.

The reason I was hurrying? Well, let's just say because I probably could've done smarter things than freaking out that store cashier considering my circumstances. I could hear the police dispatch in my head: 'Unit 99, be on the lookout for an escaped mental patient, described simply as the only dumbass walking around in this rain.'

Once in the car I caught my breath, and assessed my situation while attempting to dry off with a newspaper I found in the back seat. The fact that my cellphone still worked was nothing short of amazing: as I set it on the passenger side, I notice my paperback.

The school bell rings.

Dammit!

-Well, at least I got this kickass parking. We’re going to be out of here in five minutes.

[Smash-Cut: Thirty Minutes Later]

I’m still in my bulls-eye parking spot.

And I am minus one nephew.

I know he’s fine, because I spotted him immediately after my niece came out; he’s pretty large for a thirteen year old, and you can’t miss him. He walked a few feet out the front of the school for a second, didn’t look at anything in particular, and turned right back around. I'm not exaggerating: he overlooked a vehicle -the closest vehicle to him- parked perpendicular, straight ahead, twenty feet away. And simply walked back into the atrium.

Now, while close enough to tell his eye color, he's well out of horn and yelling range; the air is thick in the din of laughs and yelps of hundreds of kids pouring out of the school eagerly, only to find themselves trapped together in an an increasingly-small amount of dry space.

But there, just inside the gates, my lingering nephew was lingering chattily.

With a girl.

And because I think this is funny, I give him a few minutes.

See, it was at that exact moment I was finding out from my niece they went to see the new Twilight sequel last night. Opening night. And she continued on to explain to me that he loved it.

Electing to wait a few more minutes for some merciless comedy because I’m busting him, I’m already spinning my evil webs.

“He must’ve really liked that smoochy movie,” I says to my niece, pointing at him through the fence. “Lookit him. He’s flirting.”

The timing was perfect. He was blushing heavily at that moment.

“Haha!” she says, seeing it immediately. “Mister Flirtypants!”

My work here is done.

But then the girl leaves, and he slips deeper back into the school.

-and then lost line of sight with him.

Five minutes later, and he’s still nowhere to be found.

He might’ve needed to talk to a teacher or something, I reason.

Then ten minutes. I’m still soaked, mind you. And uncomfortable, I’m getting squirmy and irritable.

“Did he have detention or something?” I ask.

“I don’t think so,” says my niece.

Then fifteen.

Now I’m physically at the only exit of the school, so I know he’s in there. But if I go in, I can’t be sure to catch him attempting to leave –and the idea of leaving my niece in the car alone should be avoided. She’s only twelve.

At fifteen minutes I’ve run up to the gates twice –through the rain- to see if he was somewhere just out of view, shielding himself from the torrents ... but he’s nowhere to be seen. At this point, the kids have really thinned out too: if I have to fool my Terri’s sister by getting another kid that looks like my nephew, I better get cracking ... this campus was going to be a ghost town in minutes.

"Twitter!" I sob at my bewildered niece.

At twenty minutes –just before I’m about to drag my niece with me to search the campus in the rain- I call Terri’s sister. I’m reluctant to go on an Elementary School because I’m not on either of these kids’ Emergency Contact list -plus, after the whole Shell station thing, a possible fugitive. But I got a missing kid here too, and was starting to get alarmed. Getting her on the phone with the school was probably a good idea.

“He’s on the other line with me,” she says with thinly-masked venom. ”He called from the principals office because you weren’t there. Are you running late-?”

-Pow, the waterlogged cellphone finally craps out.

Perfect.

The Road to a Woman's Heart

2009-11-19T21:08:00.013-06:00

Predator Press

[LOBO]

“Alright,” I says, setting the phone on the counter so I can get back to the thick, red simmer. “The hamburger was done, so I went ahead and added the two cans of sauce.”

I’m a little surprised I don’t mind learning to cook -but then again, I’m not proud I don’t have a job either.

”And you already cooked the pasta?” Terri squawks over the speakerphone.

“Yeah,” I says, talking sideways as I drain it. “I wouldn’t have called, but I don’t know if you need to add anything. I can take it off the heat until you get here.”

Terri just got promoted, and I’m “pitching in.” Her training schedule is hellish.

”Well, it's done,” she says. "We have parmesan cheese, right?"

It seems the least I can do.

“Wait,” I says. “Your ‘Secret Family Recipe’ for spaghetti is browned hamburger and canned sauce?”

”That’s it,” she says. ”We should be there in about five minutes.”

-because now she can buy me shit.

“Baby, you’re a genius!”

9/11 Trials: Now All We Need Is A Jury

2009-11-18T11:37:00.024-06:00

Predator Press

[LOBO]

So where do we get twelve people that don’t know about September 11?

“Juror Number Nine,” says the attorney, pushing his glasses back on his nose. “Where exactly have you been for the last eight years?”

“I was chained down in a hole, where a masked French guy in a dress fired a staple gun at me while singing show tunes.”

“Okay you're cool,” says the attorney, checking a box on his clipboard. “How about you Number Ten?”

“I was firing staples and singing show tunes at a gentleman I had chained down in a hole.”

“Nice dress,” observes the attorney. “But can you serve? You seem like a very busy guy.”

“Oui, monsieur. I am all out of staples.”

“Alright, you're in," the attorney nods. "What about you, Number Eleven?”

“¿Qué pasa?”

"Perfect. Twelve?"

"I was shipwrecked on an uncharted island, somewhere off of the coast of Guam."

The attorney frowns.

"Doesn't that call your citizenship into question?"

Christmas? AGAIN!?

2009-11-17T12:51:00.018-06:00

Predator Press

[LOBO]

I told Terri we shouldn't take last year's Christmas tree down -and just like I predicted, pow, they're havin another one already.

[*sigh*]

... Our lives would be so much easier if she just listened to me once in a while.

So Long, Suckers -I'm RICH!

2009-11-16T15:17:00.027-06:00

-or "Disposable Outcome"

Predator Press

[LOBO]

From: CBN (cntrlbankofnigeria@gmail.com)
Sent: Mon 11/16/09 1:36 AM
To: [none]

Good day,

This is to notify you that after we met today with The President,Finance Minister,The senators,House of Representative and The Central Bank Governor and we came to a conclusion that we have to pay you the sum of USD1.5M.

The payment will be via ATM CARD,therefore send your name and address/tel. number.

Your immediate respond is urgently needed.

Mailafia.

From: LOBO
Sent: Tues 11/17/09 8:36 PM
To: From cbn (cntrlbankofnigeria@gmail.com)

Dearest Mailifia,

First let me express how overwhelmed I am at such an impressive collection of dignitaries that owe me money. It doesn’t happen very often –indeed, my mail is so full of indignants, I might have overlooked this entirely.

Without meaning to offend, would you be so kind as to prompt my memory as to who you are? The name ’Mailifia’ doesn’t ring a bell. Is that Jewish? There’s a Jewish guy out here that makes cool movies, but Steven Spielberg doesn’t return my calls ... and has thus far returned every screenplay I’ve sent him doodled with pornography and smelling suspiciously like urine.

And I don’t offhand remember many business dealings in Nigeria –in fact I don’t really have any idea where Nigeria even is geographically. So-Cal maybe? There was this one time I had to drive through Memphis and had to stop for gas. I bought 9 gallons, a bag of Funyuns, and a box of Chicklets. I was fully an hour away before I discovered that the Chicklets weren’t in the bag, and solemnly swore from that moment forward I would never leave the United States ever again.

Is this my Chicklet refund, plus accrued interest? I must say if you have gone through all this trouble to track me down and “make things right,” it might change my low opinion of foreigners -particularly ones too dumb to move out of their third world, backwater provinces- and vastly improve our diplomatic relations.

Visa # 9748-5099-1818-7707

MasterCard # 8080-7891-4504-9909

The MasterCard is actually my wife’s, but she’s cool. Both accounts only contain a few thousand dollars so you might need the ‘PIN’ numbers too, so the bank doesn't flag this disproportionately large deposit: they are both “7984.”

In the spirit of global peace, I accept this gesture from the Great Nation of Tennessee. May our countries enjoy many years of mutual prosperity, and the time where we bomb the crap out of you be far, far in the distant future.

-LOBO

The Myth of the Female Orgasm

2009-11-14T19:45:00.023-06:00

Predator Press

[LOBO]

“Huh,” says my oldest son. “Smells good. What is that?”

“Chicken noodle soup.”

Skeptically, he digs into the thick fluid with the wooden spoon. “What’s in it?”

“Chicken. And noodles.”

"Blech," he grimaces, spotting the carrots and celery.

"Sorry," I says. "I forgot about the 'soup' part."

“I’ll just get something later.”

“So what are you guys going to be doing?”

“I dunno,” he shrugs, sliding into his jacket. “Hanging out.”

“Yeah, okay,” I says incredulously. “Listen. When I was your age, my mom -your grandma- gave me some advice, and I still use it. She said, ‘Always remember, men are only after one thing.’”

“What does that mean?”

“That’s all she said,” I reply walking him to the door. “I took it as some kind of warning. What she has against sleep isn’t clear, but she’s the unhappiest woman I’ve ever known.”

Diamond Cutter

2009-11-13T11:54:00.015-06:00

Predator Press

[LOBO]

“Maybe he was really busy,” Terri offers.

“Too busy to be a decent human being?” I says, staring at the monitor. “I don’t buy it. I’ve got plenty of time, and I’m a lousy human being.”

“That’s not what I said.”

“This was an attack,” I insist. “He planned the whole thing.”

“Okay. So you’re argument is the guy wrote two books just to screw with your blog.”

“Indeed,” I says. “He coulda had a crack team of insurgents write those books for him. You want books? I'll bet with right terrorist connections, you could get your hands on, like, three books. They have training camps for this sort of thing in Afghanistan."

“Wait. What-?”

"If you get ‘em young enough," I continue, "you can brainwash them into doing suicide ‘pie in the face’ gags. It’s diabolical, but it’s the same strategy we used when we invaded Pearl Harbor." I shake my head solemnly. "No wonder those bastards hate us.”

"Have you slept?"

“What? Need more proof you say? Look at this,” I says, pointing at the screen. “November 11. Like September 11. ‘Cept worse –nobody told me I ‘email like a girl’ on September 11.”

Using ALT and TAB, I flip to my email inbox. "'Email like a girl,'" I mutter. "That’s preposterous.”

“Look, why don’t you take a breather?”

“That is preposterous. Right?”

There’s an awkward silence.

"Ah crap," I scowl. “Would putting pornography in it help?”

"Mercury Falls Is Awesome" Claims Douchebag Author

2009-11-12T01:36:00.083-06:00

-or "WTG, Dumbass"

Predator Press

[LOBO]

From: diesel@mattresspolice.com
To: carpenoctum@hotmail.com
Subject: RE: Final
Date: Wed, 11 Nov 2009 21:29:19 -0800

Dude, I was joking. I was being hostile on purpose. As a joke. Because I was joking. Apparently the joke didn't work.

It seems like pretty much every email exchange I have with you ends up with you getting all hurt for some reason. It's like you're a girl or something.

If you don't think it's funny, then I can do it over. But don't be a girl. I don't have the energy to deal with that right now.

Anyway, it's your blog. Do what you want.

Cheers,
Rob "Diesel" Kroese

From: Cathouse Mouse [mailto:carpenoctum@hotmail.com]
Sent: Wednesday, November 11, 2009 9:15 PM
To: Rob Kroese
Subject: Final

Q1: "Hemingway" spelling would be corrected in final - this was a rough

Q7: Ignored?

Q 6, 10, and 11: I have to incorporate this into a dialog. And is the mom stuff necessary? Really? -In this "interview" you have already stated "if you can go to hell for being stupid, make sure you say hi to him for me when you get there," and asserted "Blog readers are total deadbeats who expect everything for free. Except yours. Yours are awesome." And I can write out the questions [5&6] centering on the answer " Can you get the grizzly bears to ask me stupid questions? It helps my motivation." But collectively, with the "mom" stuff, it all seems hostile.

Still, with the exception of Q1, I can roll as-is. I'll make it work.

-Is there any chance you can tackle this in a better mood? Or did I approach this wrong? I haven't read MF yet, and was confident I was firing on all pistons despite that.

I hope Mark Rayner has a better experience ... I suck at this "tour" thing.

From: diesel@mattresspolice.com
To: carpenoctum@hotmail.com
Subject: RE: Current Version
Date: Wed, 11 Nov 2009 14:50:00 -0800

Angry? No, I thought it was pretty funny. If you think it's too harsh, I can tone it down a bit, but I was just having fun. :)

Cheers,
Rob "Diesel" Kroese

From: Cathouse Mouse [mailto:carpenoctum@hotmail.com]
Sent: Wednesday, November 11, 2009 2:37 PM
To: Rob Kroese
Subject: RE: Current Version

Are u angry? I didn't expect to have to cough something up overnight ... was working fast

From: diesel@mattresspolice.com
To: carpenoctum@hotmail.com
Subject: RE: Current Version
Date: Wed, 11 Nov 2009 13:52:20 -0800

Here you go, dude. Let me know if you don't like the mom jokes.

The ditch digger post is here: http://mattresspolice.com/default.aspx/Can-you-dig-it?PostID=148

Thanks!
Diesel

From: Cathouse Mouse [mailto:carpenoctum@hotmail.com]
Sent: Wednesday, November 11, 2009 1:07 PM
To: Rob Kroese
Subject: Current Version

Only difference is a new question [search "**" ], and I changed "Mercury Falls Tribute Band" to "Mercury Falls Musical" ["***"]

-I will still need the "Ditch Digger" link

Predator Press Interviews: Rob "Diesel" Kroese

Predator Press

[LOBO]

If I thought getting an interview with Diesel last year was difficult, since the official release of Mercury Falls it has become nigh impossible: the success has brought him a bigger and smarter entourage, more airtight Temporary Restraining Orders, and a spiff new car alarm –thusly obviating one of my favorite ambush methods, and forcing me to pay for accommodations.

LOBO: Diesel! Imagine seeing you here!

Rob Kroese: You’re on my porch.

LOBO: I’ve been here since Friday. I was hoping to catch an interview.

Rob Kroese: What is that you’re wearing?

LOBO: It’s a Ghillie suit made of almond trees I found.

[Main body of “interview” –you can skip questions you don’t want to answer]

Q1: I haven’t yet read Mercury Falls, but your first book Antisocial Commentary: From the Secret Files of the Mattress Police was hilarious. And if you remember, I warned you if Antisocial Commentary was too good, they would probably make you write another. They made this guy Hemmingway write like three books. I don’t know how any mortal human could endure even reading three books, let alone writing three. Have you learned your lesson?

A: Hemingway only has one 'm'. I could hear you misspelling it. That's how good I am.

Q2: Is the religious component of Mercury Falls –which seems a strange contrast to Antisocial Commentary- an illustration of your guilt-riddled feelings in regard to how you exploited the ditch-digger*, and an attempt to obviate what will doubtlessly lead to your own personal Eternal Damnation?

A: Yeah, I feel pretty bad about what an idiot that kid was. If it turns out that you can go to hell for being stupid, make sure you say hi to him for me when you get there.

Q3: Doesn’t the fact that people are putting pineapple on pizzas and carrots in cake make this whole “Apocalypse” thing kinda passé?

A: What? Sorry, I was checking my gopher trap. That sausage isn't going to make itself.

Q4: ** Does it help selling your book on your blog? I'm trying to sell my mp3s, but everyone says it sounds like ABBA boiling cats.

A: No. Blog readers are total deadbeats who expect everything for free. Except yours. Yours are awesome.

Q5: You’ve now built a house by hand, created Humor-Blogs, and written two books. What’s next? Have you considered wrestling grizzly bears? I’ve always thought there was a huge unanswered demand for grizzly bear wrestling.

A: Can you get the grizzly bears to ask me stupid questions? It helps my motivation.

[regardless of answer]

Q6: I think a book about a grizzly bear wrestler would be an overnight success. Especially if the guy was an astronaut -a guy that hadda wrestle grizzly bears in a pressure suit would be at a huge disadvantage, so it would be, like, an ‘underdog’ story. But somehow at the end, the hero jacks up the grizzly bear and defeats the vampires.

A: That's actually a pretty good idea.

Q: You really think so?

A: No.

Q7: Did you know these almond branches are extremely flammable? You should be careful. These things are a lawsuit waiting to happen. And they taste terrible.

Q8: *** Will there be a Mercury Falls musical? As your P.R. Agent, I think opening for Pearl Jam would be a good move from a publicity standpoint. I've already got Freddie Mercury, the frontman from Queen, under contract.

A: Freddie Mercury died in 1991.

Q9: That's okay. Jon Gosselin is hot for the role. How many parts will Lindsay Lohan be playing in the motion picture?

A: That depends on how many years she ages over the next six months.

Q10: By the use of the ‘Replace’ function in your word processor, you could have changed the word “angel” to “vampire” in less than a minute –thus selling, like, a jillion more copies. Was that an ‘artistic integrity’ thing, or is your accountant just flat out dumb?

A: I don't use a word processor.

Q: Really? What do you write on?

A: Your mom.

Q11: Will there be a sequel? And will it have vampires? Or grizzly bears?

A: I think writing on your mom is frightening enough.

There's No Saving This Daylight

2009-11-10T08:42:00.005-06:00

Predator Press

[LOBO]

LOBO, I says in my head. The kids don’t go to school for another hour. You should get up, make some coffee, shower and shave.

“Feh!” I manage audibly, rolling over.

Shit.

-I think I sprained my lips.

The Emperor's New Hos

2009-11-06T15:51:00.087-06:00

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Wha-? Almost a week since my last post?

Well as difficult as it must be to imagine, I upon occasion get bored with myself. Which is no excuse, I suppose; millions and millions of Predator Press readers are clearly not bored with myself, and I don’t want them showing up here on my my lawn, holding vigils and immolating themselves.

I am fine.

Just bored.

But as they say, “Bored hands are the Devil’s workshop"

-I need to snap out of it, lest I fall into the vile, slippery clutches of Lucifer!

-So when I found out that my buddy Chris over at Angry Seafood had a Death Star, I was all ears.

“Can I drive it?” I asked.

“Hell no you can’t drive my Death Star,” replied Chris. “You would probably scratch it or something,”

“You could take it out to some unoccupied part of the galaxy and teach me,” I whine. “I’ll be real careful.”

“Do you know what would happen if you got busted driving a Death Star without a license?” Chris counters. “They would probably impound it.”

“Fine,” I concede, fishing in my pocket for my cigarettes. “I’ll get my license first. Then can I drive it? I want off of this dump of a planet in the worst way. And the option to blow it up? Oh man …”

“You want to blow up the Earth?”

“Do I ever" I says, excitement mounting. “That would be freakin awesome. I could do it on the Fourth of July. We could have a barbeque, and watch the whole thing on a giant plasma screen.”

“Wouldn’t you miss Earth?”

“Miss it? Shit. This dump? Don’t be silly. Nobody would miss this place.”

“What about the people that live here?”

“Well with the Swine Flu in full swing I have my doubts Humanity will even make it to 2012, and that's when all those Mayan Gods are coming back to kick the crap out of us,” I explain. “And hey, no revenge-seeking Mayan god in its right mind would pass up the opportunity to have a Death Star. I would be in a perfect position to destroy the rest of Humanity for them, thusly getting on the Mayan gods' good side.” I touch the lighter flame to the cigarette tip. “I think being the only surviving human could be a good career move for me,” I says, exhaling smoke. "And if nothing else, at least one of us is left," I shrug.

“You can’t smoke on my Death Star,” Chris points out, unrolling the blueprints. "It’s not finished yet. It’s still being painted, so there are crazy fumes everywhere."

“Huh,” I says disappointedly. “Hey, are you married to this whole ‘gun metal gray’ color scheme? It’s depressing.”

“It’s just a primer,” says Chris. “But I was thinking black. You know -so’s I can sneak up on stuff in space.”

“Ugh,” I says. “Every Death Star in space is black. I think you should, I dunno, pimp it out or something."

"Black enhances the intimidation factor," Chris points out.

"Look I almost got a 'C' in my college psychology class, so you should listen to me on this. Intimidation or no, if you don’t find a way to incorporate some -I dunno- cheerier pastels or something, your Stormtrooper Suicide Hotline is going to be on fire 24-7. And you’ll never attract tourists, except for maybe those creepy Goth people. And those creepy Goth people don’t spend much money playing Blackjack and stuff on vacations -all their money goes to raves an nose rings an crap. Goth is a euphemism for broke. And 'broke' is not intimidating, no matter how many nose rings it has.”

“Look-” says Chris.

"Do you know what you get when you cross a dead hippie with 30 years?"

"No."

"Goth."

“I’m not going with pastels," Chris argues. "It’s a Death Star.”

“And that’s another thing,” I add. “That is really depressing. I mean the word ‘death’ is right in the title. How about ‘Molecular Liberator’ or something? I would play Blackjack at a place called ‘Molecular Liberator,’” I sniff. “I’m just sayin.”

“There aren’t any casinos on my Death Star,” says Chris, patience worn. “It’s a weapon. We don’t have room for casinos.”

“No room?” I says incredulous. “Look at those huge unfinished spaces and gaps. You could fill those with millions of casinos.”

“Those are for the engines.”

“Engines? What the heck does this thing need engines for?”

“So it can go to the planets I want destroyed.”

“And have you seen the price of fuel lately?” I challenge. “Oh jeez Chris, you would just be pumping money into Al Qaeda. You’ve got this all backwards. You need the enemy to come to you. You know, offer card-carrying Rebellion members free rooms, extended credit lines and continental breakfasts. Then pow, you steal their credit card numbers, take their money and wreck up their credit ratings. Thusly bankrupted and impoverished you could make ‘em hookers, prostitutes, hookers and prostitutes, heroin mules, Starbucks employees, anything."

"I dunno," says Chris. "I rather like that whenever I want to blow up a planet, I can just hop in and go there."

“C'mon man. Killing people with cinderblocks and pointy sticks the good old fashioned way is far more cost-effective. We've been doing it that way for millions of years."

"You have a point," says Chris. "But my way seems less cruel and more tidy somehow."

"You have to stop taking pity on these people with this 'instant planetary vaporization' crap. It’s not your fault those jerks are rebelling against you and need to be exterminated, is it? And if they are trying to kill you, why should you pick up all that added expense?"

I put out my cigarette in the ashtray, blowing the final drag sideways.

"Instant planetary vaporization should be an exclusive premium only worlds we like can enjoy."

"Minus the mobility," argues Chris. "Why not just stick to luring our enemies to Earth then?"

Glancing cautiously in all directions, I lean in close and whisper.

“WalMart!”*

* In advance, I don’t know what "Evil" the good people at WalMart and/or their fine products have wrought upon mankind to promt this story. In fact, I don’t know what Evil has wrought upon mankind in the first place -I mean aside from this whole WalMart thing, Evil has done nothing to me personally. Further, I think with some counseling and therapy me an Evil can work this thing out if Evil stops bein such a dumbass.

See ya at WalMart, bee-yatch.

Swine Flu Update: Are You All Still Dead Yet?

2009-11-02T16:43:00.054-06:00

Predator Press

[LOBO]

So update me.

Yeah, I know a handful of creditors that haven’t stopped calling -and that crack team of pizza delivery guys is on full swing.

But how are the rest of you holding up?

-And do you know of anyone still alive that delivers Chinese? Or know of any Chinese restaurants woefully unarmed and stockpiled with food maybe?

What most of these intensive pricks don't realize is that I find the Apocalypse really, really depressing.

So I tried to cheer myself up, right? By creating something 'permanent' aliens would find among all of our scattered, well-gnawed bones, preserved for Eternal Cosmic Wisdom? But those snobs at the Louvre called my pornographic 30-foot mosaic of Da Vinci's Mona Lisa made of Skittles "Laughably Pedestrian." NASA called it "Frankly Uninspired."

I don't have to take any crap from those NASA rubes, and I half-blame whoever this uninspired 'Frank' guy is anyway. I hope he regards this as a "wake-up call": Predator Press is no easy mistress ... one more slip up like this and -Armageddon or no Armageddon- Frank will never work in this town ever again.

So despite Frank's sub-par "uninspired" Post-Apocalyptic artistic debut and his lackluster impact at NASA, I started cutting blues records for posterity and bling instead. But yesterday I got a tear in my rubber suit on the armoire, and was suddenly reminded both Frank was a smudge on my facemask and I was actually woefully Caucasian! Upon review I discovered that whole 250 hours of soulful, mournful crooning I wrote in Humanity’s memory sounds like ABBA boiling cats. And Frank -wearing 3-D glasses- was using brown Skittles instead of blue ones on the mattress pattern all day, making Mona Lisa's nipples leap out like King David is hurling rocks at the viewer personally. WTG Frank: while storyboarding, Nancy Pelosi's stiletto heels and g-string matched Glenn Beck's loincloth ... but now everything is is totally screwed up.

Dumbass.

-So as of today Frank is fired, I'm having a fire sale on brown Skittles, Nancy Pelosi won't return my calls, Glenn Beck won't stop calling, and I hope I never get beaten by the police like that again ... in fact, as far as all these jerks are concerned, I'm officially glad it's The Apocalypse!

Yesterday was worse -but yeesh don't get me started on yesterday.

Look, if you're already dead, please be patient; I'm tryin to get Richie Sambora to spice up a few of my "Humanity, We Hardly Knew Yee" tracks so they have a more, well, urban feel. But if any of you are still alive, don't you want this digitally-mastered Purell-soaked, dignity-filled 250 hours of "Humanity, We Hardly Knew Yee -by LOBO and featuring Richie Sambora" for $39.95? Each and every digitized copy is Blessed for safety by a guy that once conducted a legal marriage on a boat at high sea, and ate so much lime jello he puked a green sludge into the punchbowl two hours later.

Coolest. Prom. Ever.

A lot of my songs will sound like Black Sabbath's Iron Man, the intro to Led Zepplin's Stairway to Heaven, and Foghat's Smoke on the Water ... and that's because they are those songs, but with better, more topical lyrics, and a synthesized drum set -exactly as God intended the end of the world. And track 312 has never-before heard audio of me trying to talk Richie Sambora into to kicking the crap out of Frank -audio so explicit you can't put on public radio because of the FCC, the Jaycees, the FBI and the 4H Club. And those 4H pricks called us "jerks" afterward, too! It turned out Frank was the Spokesman.

Well if swift and lethal payback on the 4H Club doesn't motivate you to buy dozens of copies of "Humanity, We Hardly Knew Yee -by LOBO and featuring Richie Sambora" as Christmas gifts to leave on the tombstones of all your friends and loved ones, I don't know what will.

But this rubber suit is getting really stinky and has a hole in it.

I need a new one.

Pound of Flesh

2009-10-31T18:22:00.068-05:00

Predator Press

[LOBO]

I listen to a lot of news on the radio, and it’s not uncommon to catch an accidental three or four minutes of Rush Limbaugh or Sean Hannity from time to time.

-I don't avoid them because I'm 'Liberal.' I avoid them because, well, I'm not a mushhead.

"Mushheads" aren't necessarily stupid, they are just too busy to do their own thinking. But my wife will tell you I do a lot more thinking than doing ... thus, apparently, mushheads doing the stuff I'm thinking about are an essential part of our overall ecology.

Were it not for all those hard-working mushheads, I'll daresay I would probably have to cancel one of my naps. As a consequence, Predator Press, a very mushhead-friendly website, will tolerate exactly zero "mushhead-bashing" in the future. Nadda. Zilch. And when you’re standing there alone and with no mushheads of your own -doin your own laundry or whatever- don’t come cryin’ to me: you’re gonna hafta get your own mushheads just like everybody else.

Anyway. Today Hannity opened his show with the proclamation he was against celebrating Halloween.

Need to read that again?

Today Hannity opened his show with the proclamation [*cough*] he was against celebrating Halloween.

-To paraphrase, he thought it taught little kids to be door-to-door beggars.

Well thank God after almost a year of Obama oppression, the Republicans may have finally found a platform from which to attack -and a platform of exponential potential! Little kids might’ve joyously loved this 'Halloween' thing not being politicized for decades were it not for this bold stance, and Hannity "stuck it" to generations of dangerous, egg-throwin masked little Liberal pricks good 'n proper.

While somewhat perplexed at this recruitment strategy, I for one am glad Hannity put the kibosh on this ‘Halloween’ nonsense once and for all: in the eyes of God, we're far better off with this 'Harvest Festival' thing -where history celebrates the bloody massacre of livestock- than all this Satanic mumbo-jumbo anyway. One can only hope these pagan Halloween bastards'll one day grow up and thank Sean for such acute “finger on the pulse” social insights. Where would we be without them? Don't fool yourself: you weren't 'Bobbing for Apples' -you were bobbing for souls.

Frankly I don't think Sean has gone far enough: we should introduce legislation so he can allowed to just kick the crap out of children with impunity. You know, if he sees one of 'em getting out of line, pow, a backhand upside the head -that'll teach those 2-8 year old little moochers juiced on Pixie Sticks and unrealistic expectations what the spirit of Halloween is all about.

Nobody smites evil like Sean: legend has it his belt has been blessed by the Vatican. Like a samurai sword, it has been folded, like, a jillion times, and once procured it must taste backside. And once Sean gets to smiting, look out! -he is known to have smoted an entire Miley Cyrus concert: in one evening, he blistered thousands of those lil pagan keysters all the way back into Jesus' flock where they would be safe from evil.

Maybe Sean and Sarah Palin can team up, and hunt down trick or treaters with her helicopter! Oh man, that would be awesome -stubby lil ghost and goblin arms and legs flailing everywhere as they swoop in from nowhere blarin' Wagner's Ride of the Valkyries, darkening the sky with the righteous fire of religious pamphlets and darts laced with Ritalin.

Bravo, Sean. Bravo.

What's next? Christmas maybe?

In Loving Memory

2009-10-30T23:57:00.001-05:00

Predator Press

[LOBO]

My family is Christian, Catholic … I dunno, something.

Cremate, bury, priest, yes, no, blah blah ….

I want a dead chicken revolved over my grave for twenty years.

And a monster car rally.

-Exactly as Buddha would have wanted it.

Cynical Airline Denies "Pay It Forward" Frequent Flyer Miles, Haley Joel Osment Stranded at O'Hare

2009-10-29T12:14:00.021-05:00

Predator Press

[LOBO]

At some point, one of the kids is going to inherit the LOBOnian Empire.

-And before you ask, no, I don’t intend on dying. But while the LOBOnian Empire is a vast and complex kingdom, it’s also often excruciatingly boring too: I wouldn’t have bothered having kids were it not for the need of someone to ~~dump~~ bestow it upon.

Regarding the ability to run said empire, it’s too early to tell with the youngest, Screechy. He's seven. At this age, he has the attention span of a gnat -no, that’s too moderate: picture a hyper spaz gnat, suddenly paroled from a ten-year stint in prison, jazzed up on a half gallon of expresso, and then dropped off immediately at the gnat equivalent of the Playboy Mansion. Scatter empty juice boxes in the most improbable places you can think of, stir in an insatiable appetite for restless eight-second viewings of Spongebob Squarepants, and there you go: Screechy.

I’m forced to admit Screechy’s cousin, a year older, currently looks a bit more promising: she’s not only focused, but she’s a conniving, relentlessly talkative tattletail that -over a long enough timeline- drives everyone in earshot murderously insane.

-As a potential heir, she’s light years ahead of any of my immediate brood.

Her name is, eh, Freckles or something I think. And at the request of my mother in law, I’m taking her to school this morning. This is not a big deal as Screechy goes to the same one -but as a consequence of the unexpected detour, were running the risk of being late.

“I’m going to be Darth Vader,” Screechy says of Halloween, tiny feet beating the pavement hard to keep up with us. I can’t see his face under the hood of his jacket, but you can tell by his voice he’s beaming. “I got the cape and the and the mask 'an lightsaber and everything!”

“I’m going to be a princess,” Freckles challenges.

We’re at the crowded and narrow school gate, and this is where the whole ‘bonding with the kids’ thing pays off for me and I humiliate them mercilessly: the last time we were here it was “Crazy Sock Day,” and in front of a boy Freckles has a crush on I pointed at the sign and announced loudly, “See? I told you. Crazy Sock Day -there’s no such thing as Crazy Face Day!”

Freckles -having no appreciation for the laughter she inadvertently provided- turned beet red and smoldered with mixed rage and embarrassment instantly.

Well that was only a week ago. She shoulda known better than to set me up with this ‘princess’ thing. And as a potential heiress to the LOBOnian Empire, she's going to have to learn to anticipate these things.

“You can’t be a princess,” I explain, wading through chattering waist-high traffic. “You have to be nice to be a princess. I think you guys should trade costumes.”

Wobbling dangerously under the weight of his backpack, Screechy punches my thigh. Simultaneously, Freckles doubles the distance between us.

“You’re a princess!” she taunts.

“Nice comeback, Potsie,” I says

-Because nothing cripples the logic of an eight year old little girl like ‘Happy Days’ references.

“I’m calling you princess from now on, Ha ha,” she says in sing-song, skipping. “Prin-cess, prin-cess … “

Under dozens of tiny amused stares I lost a beat pondering this. How bad could it be? I’m thinking. Nice cars, a big castle, and a cadre of servants … I could lay around poolside drinking margaritas. You know … eye candy. And make people try to slay dragons and stuff.

Assuming there’s no homosexual component, the only downside of being a princess I could think of would be having a tennis instructor and a fitness trainer … but surely my dungeon could always hold a few more, right?

Heck, I would probably make a kickass princess.

“Fine,” I says, aloof and to no one in particular in a British-sounding falsetto voice. Holding up my hand daintily, I swish a bit as I walk to her and stick my foot out. “And my first act as a monarch is to command you to kiss Our Royal Pinkie Toe.”

“You’re a jerk,” she says.

“Princess,” I correct.

T Tauri

2009-10-28T12:52:00.062-05:00

or "Woke Up on the Wrong Side of the Universe"

Predator Press

[LOBO]

One can only assume God, in His infinite wisdom, put me on this imperfect world in order to straighten some of this crap out.

So, bound by this sacred duty, I’m occasionally impelled to inform you of how things are going.

The current State of Affairs is “This Sucks.”

Now I know “This Sucks” is the same State of Affairs as the last time and the time before that-

-you know what? Now that I look, they all say “This Sucks.”

No, wait. Here’s one from when I was in college:

“****, This Sucks!”

Based on this steady lack of profanity, one can infer there has there has been some progress I suppose: “This Sucks” is clearly more subdued than “****, This Sucks!,” reflecting a small -yet undeniable- measure of suck reduction.

In fact if you think about it, Humanity is already reaping the fruit of my hard sacrifices and labor. There is no need to thank me -my humility suggests I would likely be too embarrassed anyway. Moreover I have deliberately made your doubtless gratitude for my contributions nigh impossible to express: you cannot, for instance, send me precious metals, high end electronics or luxury cars -heck, until my preemptive Temporary Restraining Order is lifted, you can't even call.

-But now that I think about it, a world without routes to ingratiate me seems a cruel and inhumane world too horrible to imagine. Fine. I will set up a PayPal account or something if you promise to stop sidetracking me with your incessant, woefully unrequited appreciation.

Anyway where was I? Oh yeah. The State of Affairs. This is probably the last one: I have decided to cancel all future 'State of Affairs' updates unless there is a change in the "This Sucks" status. Why? Because “This Sucks” appears to be the upper end of the spectrum for what even a gifted and impossibly handsome mortal man such as myself can accomplish, and I deem these reports redundant and needlessly depressing. The Earth sucks. There. I officially said it. And I know this will come as a rather unpleasant shock, but let not your heart be troubled: if necessary, cheer yourself up by beating the crap out of an environmentalist or something.

Worsening things the economy intrinsically bound to Earth sucks, and the hope for getting off of this planet and finding another one to complain about is unlikely in the near future: such exploration is often dicey and extremely expensive. Thusly forever imprisoned, we may find some solace in that the rest of the universe is a dump too -but isn’t this dubious comfort merely a further symptom of the colossal galactic scale of improbable and staggering suckitude that permeates all things known and unknown?

The mind reels ... with this irrefutable proof that my presence has made the Earth suck slightly less, how can we quantify the mind-bogglingly vast amounts of suck probably out there where I am not? You would have to invent, like, a whole new math. And math sucks, don't forget -this only deepens our situation further.

Everywhere else in the universe, clouds of hydrogen are collapsing upon themselves due the inescapable power of suck, igniting their cores to create mammoth fusion-powered suck machines that suck on each other to form globular clusters of suck that will one day explode their suckiness all over the rest of the infinitely vast and insatiable sucking void. We have that to look forward to. And that will really suck.

A famous smart guy once wrote something like “And with strange aeons, even sucking may suck.”

Man that guy was ahead of his time.

It was probably me. Or Einstein.

There Was an Old Woman Who Lived in a Shoe

2009-10-27T20:24:00.003-05:00

-as retold by Predator Press

[LOBO]

Humpty Dumpty knocked on the outside of the massive shoe.

No answer.

He knocked again. Louder.

“Who is it?” she cried from deep within.

“It’s the Humpster, baby” Humpty grinned into the peephole.

“Come on in. The door isn't locked.”

He opens the door a few inches.

“You busy?” he calls into the seemingly-cavernous shoe.

“No,” she replies. “I’ll be there in a second.”

“Damn girl,” jokes Humpty. “You ain’t havin another baby, are you?”

There’s an awkward silence.

“Aw, congratulations!” says Humpty. He grabs some towels, and heads over to the kitchen to boil water.

Man this crazy ol lady sure does love to get her 'freak' on, he thinks smiling to himself. Shoe or no shoe, this girl knows what to do.

He fires the burner, and fills the pot with water smiling to himself, "Well, you know what they say about chicks with big feet."

“What?”

But Humpty, struggling for his asthma breather, didn’t hear her. The sight of the boiling pot of water had triggered a panic attack; all he could hear was the voice of his mother saying ”That’s what happened to your father. One minute he was driving a forklift at a macaroni factory, and the next,” she pauses, ”poached.”

“Hey are you alright?” asks the old woman. Now dressed in a sweatsuit, she alertly helps Humpty fumble his breather to his mouth. “What’s wrong?” she asks.

”Poached,” his mother repeated in his head.

“I’m sorry,” he chokes, tears streaming. “Every time I see boiling water, I just want to grab a Bushmaster AR-15 and kill everyone I can find.”

“Well I do loves a man with an eye for safety,” she whispers. “I like Armalites ... don’t get me wrong. But they just don’t have the Viper range safety device that Bushmans do." She throws his arm over her shoulder. "Humpty, have you met my kids?”

Humpty leans away from the kitchen counter, testing his weak and wobbly legs. “Probably not all of them ma’am.”

With her arms still around him, she helped him stand. Perhaps it was the proximity or the moment of utter vulnerability –maybe it was merely the smell of her perfume- but Humpty decided if ever there was a moment to tell her how he feels, this is it.

“Baby,” he says, staggering to look into her eyes. “We’ve known each other for a long time. How come we never, eh, 'hooked up'?”

“Oh, Humpty,” she blushes. “I’m very flattered, but you’re an egg. What would my friends say if I started dating an egg?”

Humpty, pride mortally wounded, looked away to hide the tears.

“I mean maybe if you were at least an embryo or something,” she continues. “But an egg? Ewe!”

Despite his aching heart, Humpty fought to reply. “You know,” he sobbed. “We have our differences. But I have yearned for you for years now. I know your favorite band, favorite color, favorite flower … Damn it I love you.”

The woman, shocked, stared in disbelief.

“And I don’t care that I’m an egg and you’re an old woman that lives in a shoe,” Humpty continued, grabbing her shoulders forcibly. “Can’t you see that discrimination is tearing us apart!?”

The woman’s pupils narrow.

“Get your filthy egg-hands off of me!” she screams.

“But baby-“

She dives for her cellphone, “How dare you!?”

“I was only trying to-“

“Hello?” she barks into the phone. “Is this all the King’s men?”

“There’s no need to-!“

“Yes,” she says. “A filthy egg is attacking me. How did you know?”

Humpty lunges for her phone, and wrests it away from her. “God damn it woman, those people will be trying to kill me now!”

Suddenly, Humpty realizes he has a .45 caliber pistol pointed into his temple.

The woman growls. “You make a sound before the cops get here, and I’ll blow your yolk all over the goddamned insole.”

“Jezebel!” cries Humpty, lashing out.

"You damn ... dirty ... egg!" she chokes, and falls limp in his arms.

“Oh my god,” cries Humpty as police sirens wail in the distance. “She’s dead!”

And even as the galloping sound of all the king’s horses become deafening, he screams into the sky:

"Oh sweet Jesus! what have I done!?!”

George Lucas Weighs In On Swine Flu Vaccinations

2009-10-26T15:28:00.021-05:00

Predator Press

[LOBO]

"

Harvester of Marrow

2009-10-25T12:35:00.001-05:00

Predator Press

[LOBO]

This “blog,” while still somewhat of a pipsqueak, reaps some benefits Entrecard. Aside from an occasional random-seeming traffic burp, it averages 300-500 hits a day -roughly half of which are directly EC-related.

And I am what Entrecard users classify as a “Harvester.” Harvesters are the villainous and much-hated dastardly bastards that skim through sites at the highest velocity possible. The rate I “drop” versus the rate I read is hideous: when an Entrecarder blogs “I get a lot of new traffic, but they only stay for a fraction of a minute -clearly not reading,” they are complaining about me.

But let’s examine that for a second.

You got people to your site. Correct?

-And nobody reads your stuff?

So your conclusion is the failure to recognize your “brilliance” is because nobody recognizes your brilliance, right?

The fact is getting people to your blog is 95% of the battle; I assert that complaining they don’t stick around is essentially howling to potential new readers “My blog sucks, and it's your fault!” I'm concerned over zombie uprisings and the worrying speculation my burnt toast might’ve once had Jesus’ image on it: don't take it personally, but WTF could I possibly care about your coin collecting and Peruvian copper speculations? Gee, I’m sorry I wandered onto your site. Is there a quiz?

You’re an asshole for bitching that -despite the best possible opportunity- you have failed to grab people’s attention.

-You're probably a zombie too. And stay the fuck away from my toast!!!

I have found some great sites via EC. I've gained some great readers, too. Beyond that, I've clicked on a site 100 times before seeing something that interested me, and then started reading it regularly.

Plus, let's face it: we “Harvesters” are the best EC ads to buy. I’m not particularly disciplined, but I have enough regulars to break 100 or so a day daily –and with high-speed internet, I can do it in 20 minutes or so. Thus, if you’re advertised on my site, you’ll get the bulk of those hits reciprocated.

EC whiners shouldn't feel bad. Human history is chocked full of unrecognized "brilliance."

They won’t be lonely.

Shocking Evidence Suggests Someone May Have Slept With Nicole Richie

2009-10-24T20:23:00.000-05:00

or "Simple Life"

Predator Press

[LOBO]

The global scientific community was rocked today by suggestions that someone may have indeed slept with Nicole Richie.

Doctor Winifred Shaw, Head Researcher for the Darwin Institute, took a moment from looting the burning laboratory of microscopes and Petri dishes to clarify.

"For a long time now, we have lived in a shadow of doubt regarding Darwin's Theory of Evolution. This, finally, is a clear refutation. And think about it for a second: if Darwin's theory is correct, why are there still ugly people all over the place?"

Hurling a fire extinguisher through a rack of cathode tubes, Doctor Shaw continues. "Barring the statistically improbable confluence of a blind and deaf recent parolee consuming heroic amounts of alcohol, we have no explanation for this whatsoever. Now if you will excuse me, I've had my eye on a supercollider downstairs for years."

The Final Exam

2009-10-23T11:33:00.023-05:00

Predator Press

[LOBO]

I can’t find the story, so I have to paraphrase for now.

I heard a news blurb that doctors were suggesting the import of many routine cancer exams are exaggerated -and in fact might deceive people about their overall health, posing a risk.

Now this was heard at about five in the morning, and over my first bleary cup of coffee: if you have a routine cancer exam planned, don’t blow it off due to my potent journalistic ability and vast medical expertise ... please consult with your personal physician.

-This alone wouldn't have even been a blip on my radar, but the story continued on to say “probably the only exam we would exclude from this group would be the breast exam.”

Pow -my entire morning is preoccupied with imagining that AMA meeting. What I wouldn't give to be a fly on the wall for that discussion ... I've gotta at least see the transcript:

“-and we have decided,” says a guy at the podium, “to announce our findings the media in a press conference today. Any questions?”

Hands shoot up.

All of them.

“Yes Doctor Wilson,” indicates the speaker, almost plastic-seeming in the immaculate suit.

“All routine exams?”

“Yes,” confirms the speaker.

All the hands fall, save for one.

-a pony-tailed guy in a leisure suit with patches on the elbows.

“I don’t care for this plan,” he says. “And I'm sure I speak for everyone when I say you are doing the medical community a huge disservice, and really bumming us out.”

“A what? I’m sorry. Who are you again?” The speaker winces and covers his eyes. “And could you please put your necklaces behind your kerchief? The reflection is blinding.”

“I’m Doctor Love,” he says smiling, putting one dazzling high-heeled snakeskin boot on his chair with a dramatic flair.

“What is your objection, Doctor Love?”

“You can’t do this. I mean cripes, you gotta leave us breast exams or something. Hell, I don’t even think I would do doctorin anymore. It would be just too depressing.”

“What about the Hippocratic Oath?”

“Meh,” Doctor Love shrugs. “Kinda lost its luster now, hasn’t it?”

Murmurs skip and jump around the room like lighting bolts.

“Don’t quit, Doctor Love,” says a nearby man. “We need you. And what would you do for a living?”

“Becoming a podiatrist was one of the biggest mistakes I ever made really," scoffs Love. "School alone costed me, like, thousands of dollars -I’ve filed for bankruptcy twice. I only do it for the breast exams really. I suppose I would just get on with my cousin selling air conditioners. But that means every week that goes by, thousands of women will go without my breast exams -and are you people prepared to accept the responsibility if thousands of women get cancer every week?”

Sensing he’s on to something, Love whirls and points to the podium. “How dare you mention the Hippocratic Oath to me sir?”

The room explodes as hundreds of doctors in the audience boo and toss objects at the speaker.

“You bastards!” the speaker cries, wounded by a well-aimed stethoscope. “Fine. We’ll explicitly exclude breast exams from today’s announcement.”

-And there was much rejoicing.

Cactus Jack and the Beans Talk

2009-10-22T11:00:00.050-05:00

or "Jack and the Beanstalk" aka "Jack the Giant Killer"

-as retold by Predator Press

[LOBO]

“You’ve got to be joking,” says Squatting Bull. “You actually believe the Vatican had the Taco Bell dog assassinated?"

“Jeez, man ... not so loud,” says Cactus Jack, peering from under his hat nervously. “I thought you people didn’t, you know, talk much.”

“There's nothing around us for fifty miles," gestures Squatting Bull to the vacant horizon. "And besides, that 'talking' thing is just another racial stereotype the white man thrust upon us.”

“Well you know what?” Jack replies, idly spinning the bullet chamber of his revolver. “Whitey did this. Whitey did that. Cripes I’m sick of it. At some point you have to assume some culpability here -and anyone that trusts a culture that digs Riverdance deserves exactly what they get.”

“How come you aren’t wearing the mask today?”

Jack stares down his gunsight at a distant tumbleweed, contemplative.

“I figure there’s no point in trying to hide my identity anymore,” he says finally.

“Huh,” says Squatting Bull. “I didn’t know it was to hide your identity. I thought it was, like, a public service or something.”

“Nope,” says Jack, oblivious. “And for the record, I don't think masks made of cactus are a very good idea. The acne is a nightmare." Standing, he holsters his weapon. "Well, we better get movin. That Giant ain't defeating himself.”

“Hurry, Kimosabe," says Squatting Bull in a mock Indian drawl. "Me want see him tear paleface off, and shove it up own pasty butt." He arcs has hand overhead. "Me laugh many moons."

"Very funny."

Eyebrows furrowed, Squatting Bull folds his arms. "So what's your plan?”

“Were gonna use these magic beans I bought,” says Jack. Picking one from his shirt pocket, he places it in the dirt.

-And within moments, a 1973 Ford Pinto sprung up out of the ground.

“They didn’t have any Porsche beans,” Jack explains. “And it was either this or a bunch of GMs.”

“Eh,” Squatting Bull shrugged, checking the interior. “Then what?”

Jack scratches his neck thoughtfully.

“Then we trick him into driving it and rear-end him.”

Muling Heroin

2009-10-21T16:17:00.006-05:00

Predator Press

[LOBO]

What?

Dawn Quixote was a dude?

-Well this post is totally ****ed now.

Thanks.

Ah screw it. Maybe my readers won’t notice.