Friday, May 16, 2008
Thursday, May 15, 2008
Hex on the Breach
Predator Press
[LOBO]
As I entered the spacious office, McKracken rose from his chair.
"It's a pleasure to see you again sir," he said shaking my hand over the desk.
Trying not to wince visibly under his vice-like grip I reply, "I wish I could say the same."
"The Anti-Brent Diggs security system we designed isn't working?"
"No it's fine," I says. "To my knowledge, Brent hasn't been within a hundred miles of my place."
"How about the bathtub shark cage?"
"That's fine too."
"I hope you've taken my advice and stopped reading Don Lewis' fear-mongering."
"That guy is a menace and must be stopped."
McKracken gestures to a seat in front of his desk, and eyes me carefully as he sits. "I take it you have further need for our security services."
"And how," I says. Pulling a folded piece of paper from my lapel, I toss it in front of him. "Everywhere I've surfed the Internet lately, I see things like this."
"These sick bastards," I explain, "are tryin to squish the Earth into a weird heart shape!" I punch my finger into the image loudly. "This would almost certainly screw up our orbit around the Sun."
"I think," says McKracken, "this is just an effort to organize awareness for human rights."
"The right to squish the Earth?" I guffaw. "I need the Earth. All my stuff is there. And just look at Canada!"
"No," McKracken says patiently. "I mean the heart-shaped Earth is like a metaphor. As if to say 'the world should be more sensitive'. They aren't really trying to squish it."
"I'm not buying that," I says. "And frankly the last thing I need are bloggers 'uniting'. How long until one of them figures out that they can eliminate the best blog in the universe -Predator Press- by the simple act of sticking a shiv in the back of my neck while I'm mowing the lawn?"
"I've seen your yard," says McKracken. "I wouldn't classify that as a serious threat."
"I think we need to start discussing my options."
"Like what?"
I stand and walk to the window, thinking. "How about a giant vacuum that will suck everyone off of the face of the Earth except me, LadyTerri, Phil and the kids?"
"It sounds expensive," replies McKracken. "Plus you still have to worry about other dangers. You know, earthquakes and so forth."
"Okay," I concede sullenly. "How about if we airlift our house out into the middle of the Pacific where no earthquake -or organized bloggers- could possibly reach us?"
"Well," sighs McKracken. "You would still have hurricanes, tidal waves-"
"An orbiting satellite?"
"Asteroids, meteors, gamma rays-"
"Polar research station?"
"Polar bears, hypothermia-"
"Undersea research vessel?"
"Crushing depth pressure, pilot fish, killer whales-"
"Goddamn it McKracken!" I whirl. "I'm completely fed up with your lousy excuses!"
"Hell," says McKracken. "I haven't even started with microorganisms, disease, deadly bacteria-"
"So what you're essentially telling me," I says. "Is that you are completely unable to provide me with any 'security' whatsoever."
McKracken fidgets nervously.
"Well that settles it," I says. Nodding in comprehension, I head for the door. "McKracken, you're fired!"
The door slams.
"Is he gone?" says a voice in the closet.
McKracken breathes a sigh of relief. "Oh thank God yes sir. He's gone."
A shadowy figure emerges. "You have done well."
"It was my pleasure sir. If I got another blood-curdling scream on my home phone at 2:00am, my wife was going to leave me."
The figure throws a small package on the desk.
"A bonus," he says ominously.
"A copy of Tinsel of Doom? Sir, you are too kind!"
"Just be sure that security system is offline today," says the figure. "I just can't take anymore Bee Gees music."
Tuesday, May 13, 2008
Guns and Drugs
Predator Press
[LOBO]
As a good rule of thumb, if I'm not writing frequently I'm either:
a) sick as a dog
b) sick as a dog, or
c) sick as a dog.
Sure there's always the occasional rare exceptions -such as my amazing pro football career, the grueling astronaut training or the occasional zombie uprising- but in this case, it was mostly "B" with a little dash of "C".
So I spent most of the time staring slackjawed at the pretty colors changing on television. And completely at LadyTerri's mercy, I got a crash course in about 30 years of horror movies.
Gems like The Texas Chainsaw Massacre, Silence of the Lambs, and The Ring worked my addled psyche. Even my muddled dreams were terrifying: one in particular -about some crazy planet where people talked funny and hats were mandatory- had me so upset, even LadyTerri's gradually increasing talent for dosing me with sedatives via dart gun failed.
But we cannot fault LadyTerri's mournfully terrible aim in this particular case entirely; my fevered horror was magnified exponentially by superhuman quantities of erythromycin, Alka-Seltzer, Nyquil, Contac, and the blood of a homeless wretch I felt helplessly impelled to bite repeatedly ... and were all followed by a nice fat codeine chaser.
I stole the car, locked the doors, and made for my escape laughing in triumph while slamming through the garage door at six miles per hour.
"Left!" I cried. "Left! We are almost free. Left damn you!"
Alas, my victory was to be short-lived: while my neighbor's vast and well-manicured LAWN OF FREEDOM lie merely inches ahead, I was halted abruptly and soundly by a cleverly-placed insurmountable six-inch curb.
The car's alarm went off.
And there was blackness.
The cop banged on the window with his flashlight.
"Sir," he said. "Please step out of the car."
"No!" I says, cracking the window slightly. I motion him closer to the door and put my lips to the gap whispering, "There's crazy people out there!"
"Sir," says the cop with vague disinterest. "If you don't come out, I'm going to have to break the window."
It was then I spotted his gun.
"WOW!" I says. "That's cool. Can I have one of those?"
"Well, probably yes thanks to the Republicans."
"What do I have to do?"
"Well first you have to get a FOID card."
"Do you have an extra one?"
"No. You have to apply for one."
"How long does that take?"
"About three days," he says. "Now-"
"And then I can shoot people?"
"No sir," he says.
"Well how long do I have to wait to do that?"
"Sir," he says exasperated. Winding back with the large flashlight, he prepares to break the window. "Please just open the door."
"Officer!" interrupts LadyTerri. "I have an extra key."
"Honey," I says. "I know it's hard to believe this right now, but I'm doing this for our own good. In fact, I'm doin' this for America. I'm doing this for Liberty. I'm doing this for Freedom!"I punch the gas on the car.
"Ma'am," says the cop. "I don't think he realizes the car isn't running."
Thinking quickly, LadyTerri pretends she's jogging next to the car. Driving furiously, I suddenly notice her pulling up beside me.
"Jesus you run fast!" I smile. "By any chance, can you steer left?"
"Baby," she says. "Don't leave me without giving me a goodbye kiss!"
I roll down the window, pucker up and lean over.
... The dart caught me right in the neck.
correctly spelling "The Cult of Qelqoth".
Saturday, May 10, 2008
Wide Open Spaces
Predator Press
[LOBO]
After returning the big sack of *plasma* television that never worked to Best Buy, the living room was in nightmarish disarray; I decided I needed to make it up to LadyTerri by replacing our woefully dated light switch panels.
... Now I'm considering adding on an extra bedroom.
Friday, May 09, 2008
Idle Hands
Predator Press
[LOBO]
While trying to install my new *plasma* television, I was pleased to find I own a tool.
A tool commonly referred to as a “screwdriver”.
This "tool" -which I had previously mistaken for one of mom's fancy cooking utensils- is a steel rod with a four-sided pointed tip used to drive screws ... hence it’s designation: a flathead screwdriver.
Used properly, this item can be held by the silvery thin part and used to bash the screws in with the wider end, also known as the handle.
But this television is a piece of crap.
Station Atomica comes in crystal clear.
Thursday, May 08, 2008
Heavy Metal
Predator Press
[LOBO]
LOBOnian Rule of Law dictates that if mom cooks the dinner, someone else must wash the dishes.
And that’s all well and good, but “someone else”, upon occasion, ends up me.
Now how is this fair? When I cook, there’s two dishes: the macaroni and cheese pot, and the big spoon I use to launch “doses” at the kids. Sure there’s some paper towel follow-up on the wallpaper and linoleum ... but if you do it within 48 hours, all that comes off pretty easy.
But with her dishes, I’m scrubbing, arc welding, and calling in diesel-fueled construction and mining equipment ... scientists, physicists, geologists and chemists gotta get involved.
Jesus Christ woman, what the hell did you cook? I make cold cereal, and you are smelting battleships!?
It’s not fair.
Let's just buy new dishes.
Wednesday, May 07, 2008
TV Dinners
Predator Press
[LOBO]
I don't watch "Survivorman", so I didn't immediately recognize Les Stroud and his Science Channel camera crew.
Unbathed and naked -save for makeshift shoes made from palm fronds and duct tape- he started a fire blindfolded with wet sticks one-handed to boil the leeches he caught. Then, he stuffed six big red hot rocks up his arse to prevent toxic fluid loss from bloody diarrhea.
I don't know how long they were actually waiting in the drive-thru, but I sure hope that McDonalds gets it's act together.
Sunday, May 04, 2008
Corn Hole
Predator Press
[LOBO]
The long and winding hitchhike home from Hollywood to beloved Pianosa has really inhibited my ability to blog.
For instance, last week a famous Disney entertainer created huge controversy when risqué, sexually charge photographs of her were released in spite of her widely-adolescent target audience.
I only caught the tail end of the story on the radio, but I immediately knew who the story was about ... and all I can say is it's about time that filthy whore was exposed for the tramp she really is.
I'm staring out the window, slackjawed at Kansas.
Utterly revolted.
What is with all these farms?
For the woeful few of you that haven't been reading Predator Press since inception, you should know that I regard the 'American Farmer' as the most lazy, worthless, ignoble and unpatriotic occupation known to humankind: all they do is hog immense amounts of land, obstruct much-needed superhighways and airports, provide an occasional vehicle for Pauly Shore movies, and grow the most gruesome looking flowers I've ever seen.
One merely has to glance at a "farm" in America to witness hideous evil and atrocity. I mean how much inbreeding has to take place before you get a dog that looks like this monstrosity?
Unspeakable perverted acts are being committed on millions of cows by farmers even as I write this.
Unlike It's a Funny Thing's author Don Lewis, I regard farming as an abomination: I buy my food straight from the grocery store exactly as God intended.
Next Year in Review
Predator Press
[LOBO]
settings: Lesbian, Butch, and Semper Fi.
Thursday, May 01, 2008
Shenanigans
Predator Press
[LOBO]
It can't be true.
It just can't.
... It's been almost two weeks since I've tried to infuriate It's a Funny Thing's brilliant author Don Lewis!
Long ago, I concluded that the internet is utterly useless aside from infuriating Don Lewis.
I've sought high and low for some decent SEOs so my search engines are optimized.
And how I yearn for the remotest hope of penis enlargement.
Please don't get me started on the futility of finding porn.
Will no one reveal to me the secrets of Internet Marketing or Making Money Online?
Doesn't anyone accept VISA Platinum anymore?
[*sigh*]
All there is is Don.
Don Lewis.
Even as I type this, the sole recipient of the Predator Press Temporary Lifetime Achievement Award is probably all tucked in, sleeping soundly, and thinking of genuinely funny and unique crap ... crap that will doubtlessly distract countless blog readers from the wholesome Wisdom, Purity, Hope and Truth which Predator Press strives only to promote.
Well, I won't stand for it.
Not for a second.
Not even for a nanosecond.
In a fit of jealousy, I'm stripping Don of his monopoly on the coveted and highly sought-after honor that I will one day actually create: the Predator Press Lifetime Achievement Award.
Today, the subtle and
unobtrusive Predator Press Temporary Lifetime Achievement Award -currently recognized as the Good Housekeeping Seal of Approval- is being bestowed upon the following blogs as well:
.45 Caliber Headspace
Angry Seafood
Average Dudes
Bee's Musings
Blogs We Luv
DEAD ROOSTER
ettarose-edgeofsanity
From the Roads
LadyTerri
Lord Likely
My Interesting Files
neOnbubble
OMYWORD!
Speedcat Hollydale
The Cult of Qelqoth
The Offended Blogger
The Ominous Comma
The Skwib
When Things Get Dark
-:¦:-•:*'""* -:¦:- NICE -:¦:- WORK -:¦:- *'""*:•.-:¦:-
Now "Don Lewis" -if in fact that is your real name- every time you surf the funniest sites on the internet, you will see your own award prominently displayed smack on every one of them!
Tantrums, Fury, and the Art of Self Destruction
Predator Press
[LOBO]
Now it's time to interrupt a dramatic plot with another inconveniently-timed, ill-fated, useless Public Service Message.
Have you ever had one of those days when you're cut off in traffic by some jag in a green Nissan Sentra yappin' on his cellphone, and you just want to slam a toaster into his mushy receding hairline until the twitching stops?
Well, you're not alone my friend: according to the American Mental Association, approximately 52,000 Americans suffering from this disease go undiagnosed every year.
Tuesday.
Obama don't dance, but the Comma can rock 'an roll.
Tuesday, April 29, 2008
The Watchtower All Along
Predator Press
[LOBO]
Poor .45!
-I've botched the entire mission to save his soul.
It all started so innocently; all I had to do was help Paul bury those heavy plastic bags in his trunk out in the desert.
Paul and I were in dire need of one of my little-known 'gifts' at this point: digging all those big deep holes was going to require a lot of people capable of 'physical labor', and all those protests and sit-ins I mounted on numerous college administration buildings in the past made me very skilled at the process of organizing people for a common cause. Even without any money, I knew some folk in these small rural towns are just plain helpful ... and sure enough in no time at all, a handful of friendly local police were eager to pitch in.
But just as soon as I rounded the corner with those big, strappin' ditch-diggin lawmen, Paul peeled out of the station.
I was left behind.
:(
"What am I gonna do?" I asked the truck stop cashier.
"I dunno buddy," says the guy in the cowboy hat. "But you should know that Utah County is like 90% Mormon."
"I hardly think that's true," I says. "They appear to be a fairly advanced civilization."
"I said Mormon," he corrects. "It's a religion."
"Know anything about them?"
"I am one," he smiles. Offering his hand he says, "My name's Peter."
"Why does everyone have, like, the same 12 first names?"
"That's nothing. We only got like four last names."
"So I take it 'Mormonism' is a hip and trendy religion?"
"No."
"Rats," I says. "Well you've been very helpful."
I didn't have any money. All I had was my suitcase full of issues of The Watchtower I had meticulously doctored with pornography and profanity to ease .45's transition into Salvation.
"Here buddy," I says. "Thanks for the advice."Peter goes pale.
"Mister, we ain't got no place fer yer smut," he says, rolling up the issue and jamming it in his back pocket. "If you got any more of those," he adds, "I highly advise you to hand them over to me right now so's that I might dispose of them."
A bead of sweat forms on Peter's forehead.
Hmmm
"Okay," I says. "If you give me all this entire display of 'I love Utah County' keychains."
"Well, I can't just-"
"And," I add, looking around. "This canister of portable Zippo lighter fluid."
"Mister, we're talkin' about your soul-"
"And," I add. "This here entire plastic tube of beef jerky!"
"Fer the whole suitcase?"
"For two more issues."
"Deal!"
Six issues later, I had a nice car and a posh motel room.It was only when I lay back on the giant waterbed and clicked the remote control for the widescreen television when I found out Salt Lake City had declared a 'State of Emergency': according to the mayor, there was a huge, inexplicable religious defection taking place, and the entire state was converting to Jehovah's Witnesses.
A town meeting was called at the church.
And as a concerned citizen, I felt obliged to attend.
Peter arrived at the same time I did.
"Peter!" I cried. "What has happened to our beloved community?"
He stops me at the door. "I don't know LOBO. But you can't come in the temple."
"Why?" I demand. "Have not hours and hours of blood, sweat and equally Mormonesqe tears proven me worthy to-"
"Sorry LOBO," he says shutting the ornate doors. "Non-Mormons may not enter."
SLAM
"Oh no you didn't!" I start to circle the building, and yell at the stained glass. "I know you guys are crackin' wise about my momma in there!"
But nothing I did provoked a response.
I had been unjustly, and without due process, been Excommunicated from my Faith.
With a chain I fashioned out of 560 'I love Utah County' keychains, I scaled that church.
"You ain't getting' away with this!" I swore, swinging my suitcase onto the roof.
Now, I don't know much about Mormon engineering and architecture, but that damned suitcase blew through that church roof life it wasn't even there. And tryin' to grope after it, I lost my balance and fell in right behind it.The suitcase landed first, and burst wide. This was lucky, as about 1,650 meticulously doctored issues of The Watchtower cushioned my fall.
Landing squarely in front of the preacher, he squinted through the cloud of fluttering pornography and profanity.
"And I see," he said simply into the microphone. "That LOBO has chosen to join us today."
Then the canister of portable Zippo lighter fluid detonated.
"Witch!" screamed Peter.
"Peter, you're a damned liar and hypocrite!" I protested.
And suddenly, 1/12 of the congregation pounced.
grow precariously on the Edge of Sanity.
The Jehovah's Witness Protection Program
Predator Press
[LOBO]
"Where ya goin?" asks the driver.
"Pianosa," I says.
Leaning over, he opens the passenger side door. "Hop in. I ain't goin that far, but I can get you partway."
Hesitating for a second, I size him up.
I figure he looks pretty harmless.
I pull the paperback out of my back pocket, swing into the seat, pull the heavy suitcase into my lap and close the door.
"Name's Paul," says the driver, offering his right hand.
"Fredrico," I says. "Fredrico Enchilada Del Morte Pinky Tuscadero Manora."
I'm not immediately certain why I'm lying ... but the suitcase must be protected at all costs: this is the suitcase filled with issues of The Watchtower I had meticulously doctored with pornography and profanity to ease .45's transition into Salvation.
"I see you've got a copy of Catcher in the Rye there."
"Yeah," I says listlessly. "Want it? I just finished."
We build speed, and safely leave the I-15 shoulder into sparse traffic.
"What did you think of it?" asks Paul.
200 lousy pages. No pictures, ninjas, car chases or robots. Just some weird punk who doesn't even kill anybody. What a turd.
"This book was crap." I complain.
"It's the devil's work," Paul agrees.
"Well I don't know. I wouldn't have thought the devil would be that boring."
"There's only one book worth reading, Fredrico," Paul says confidently.
"Is it Antisocial Commentary?"
"No, Fredrico. It's The Bible."
Uh oh.
"Oh yeah," I agree thinking quickly. "That's my favorite too."
"Then why were you coming out of a strip bar?"
"I was, uh, tryin to Save all those lost souls." Looking out the window, I wince as I hear my own words fall out. "I'm a missionary."
"Really?'
"Yes," I groan painfully.
"Well that's fantastic. This whole world has just sunken into a briny cesspool of sin and debauchery. There'll be a lot of blood spilled when Jesus returns."
"That's not today, is it?"
"Could be," smiles Paul. "Say, that's a pretty heavy suitcase for a missionary. What's in it?"
"Oh you know. White collars. Bibles. Holy cinderblocks-"
"Which Bible?"
"The thick one."
"No, I mean is it the King James?"
"King Jesus," I correct.
"Halleluiah!" says James, still grinning. "I like you Fredrico."
"I'm glad," I says.
"Say," says Paul. "Can you hand me that black bag in the back seat?"
"Sure" I says, struggling to twist under my own luggage. "But I don't see it. Hey, why do you have so many chainsaws?"
"I'm a chainsaw salesman," he replies.
"No way."
"Yep. That's how I lost my hand."
Drawing his left hand into full view for the first time, I see it's been replaced by a large sharp metal hook.
"Wow!" I says. "That's totally cool!"
"That bag's back there somewhere," he assures.
Twisting back again, I repeat the search. "I don't see it."
"Maybe it's under all the pictures."
"You mean the ones with all the eyes cut out?"
"Yep. I was making tiny little masks."
"You're very precise." I says. "But no bag."
"How about under the machetes?"
Grunting, I clang them about a bit. "Nope. Oh. Wait. Is it the big black one?"
"Yeah," says Paul. "The one with the gun in it."
"What do you need a gun for?"
"I'm a very successful chainsaw salesman. You can't be too careful these days."
"That makes sense," I agree. "That explains the infrared scope. You could easily be jumped by like 700 well-organized deer if you demonstrated the foliage-cutting prowess of these beauties at night. You want me to load it for you?"
"It's already loaded," says Paul. "But I wouldn't worry. I doubt we'll be needing it where we're going."
"Were are we going?"
"Someplace untouched by the sin and perversion of humanity."
"But I kinda like Earth."
Holding the wheel with his hooked hand, he cocks the rifle with the other.
"We're goin to Utah!"
incur the wrath of Angry Seafood.
Sunday, April 27, 2008
Wild, Wild West
Predator Press
[LOBO]
Just a short Wi-Fi note; the relentless old bat I mugged for this laptop is really upset and won't leave me alone.
But before you go on all 'judging' me, keep in mind this is LA; the law has long since abandoned any hope of reclaiming it.
I really should break down and buy my own laptop someday. These are nice!
... Besides, I don't seem to be able to run as fast as I used to.
Friday, April 25, 2008
Hollywood
Predator Press
[LOBO]
"Cut, cut, cut!" I yell into the megaphone.
-LOBO: The Motion Picture has thus far been nothing but headache after headache.
"C'mon Jackie," I says, rubbing my temples. "The line is, 'You pullb my tond through my keythter!'"
"But why would I talk like that?" asks Jackie Chan.
I should've gone with Stallone.
Once again, I calmly explain. "You would have to talk like that if Lindsay Lohan pulled your tongue through your keyster!"
"Lindsay Lohan is in this movie?"
"Yes. Sort of. But due to various licensing liberties and an explicit lack of consent, we're to referring to her as 'Bindsay Bohan'."
"Really," replies Jackie.
"Yeah. And she's being played by Chris Tucker."
"Well, what's my motivation?" smiles Jackie politely.
"Your 'motivation' is that Lind -I mean Bindsay- has sent her time traveling ninja bodyguards out to assassinate you, and you're disguised as a giant cicada. Jesus, do I have to explain everything?"
Frustrated, I walk back to my chair. Sitting heavily, I raise the megaphone to my lips.
This is what I get for flying out to Hollywood to make a documentary.
"Alright. Take two." I command. "Cue the robot dinosaur. Aaaaaaaand action!"
Jackie bounds up the six-story mechanical reptile, skewering stunt ninjas left and right. When he reaches the upper-left shoulder, he does a summersault flip and balances gracefully on the radiator of a car it was crushing in it's giant claws.
Howling in fury, the robot dinosaur unleashes it's full arsenal of laserbeams and missile batteries, and Jackie dances and twists impossibly to avoid them.
For a full thirty seconds, the sky is a thunderous inferno alive with fire, explosions and shrapnel. But soon the robot's howitzers cease their deadly hail of steel, and one by one the metallic clicketty clicketty clicketty of empty chambers replace the deafening storm.
It had blown it's own claws off.
And now it was out of ammunition.
The smoke slowly clears, revealing Jackie perched on the beast's nose.
It's eyes lock on him, and the pupils expand.
With a serene look, Jackie pounces into the air and severs the beast's head off with a single stroke his lightsaber.
But even as the screaming monster's head slides off in a horrible shriek of grinding steel, Chris Tucker appears behind him on a hovercycle:
Chris Tucker: "You have fallen right into my trap LOBO!"
Jackie Chan: "Don't sing it Bohan. Bring it."
[blinding flash]
Jackie Chan: "You purred my tongs through my keystone!"
"Cut!" I scream, hurling my megaphone. "God dammit Jackie. If I was okay with plain English bein butchered, I woulda got Schwarzenegger!
Thursday, April 24, 2008
Wesley, Cripes!
Predator Press
[LOBO]
Once again, the United States Government has jealously dealt a sneaky beneath-the-belt blow to the mighty Predator Press Empire -this time having sentenced Wesley Snipes to 3 years in prison.
The premier of LOBO: The Motion Picture has been once again postponed indefinitely.
This is no small setback. It’s not as simple as just getting another actor; after seeing Blade, I was instantly convinced that only Wesley had the vast acting range, martial arts repertoire and rigorous superhuman physical endurance necessary to play yours truly.
So it’s back to the drawing board.
Despite the rejection letters in the mail, I would like the following gentlemen to return to the set for another screen test:
Sunday, April 20, 2008
Pulp Non-Fiction
Predator Press
[LOBO]
"Tagging" me seems redundant; more than half of the material I've done in the past few weeks is pimp other sites.
So while flattered, I never know what to make of memes 'an stuff.
I'll do the first and most important part -the part about me- but as for spawning it on, you'll just have to trust that anything linked on my site is worth checking out.
1) I'm Anesthetically Inclined: In my brief career as a truck driver, I once covered 4,500 miles in 90 hours. That's the equivalent of New Jersey to Los Angeles, and halfway back.
Exhausted, I accidentally brushed my teeth with a handy tube of Neosporin. Despite the horrifying taste, I was so tired and in a hurry I said screw it. I mean, it's kind of a paste ... and it's also some kinda sterile germicide, right?
-I drooled and couldn't talk for about 300 miles.
2) I Stopped the "Music": While now merely a terrible writer, I was once a terrible musician too. After the 80s-ish Cheap Thrills and the 90s-ish Destructive Criticism, I started mixing equally terrible stuff on a label called The Spanish Fly Industrial Complex.
The proposed CD jacket -a giant chromed fly in a hangar bay- was the inspiration for the character 'Templeton' in my older stories.
I still own the rights to the label.
Want them?
3) I Unsuccessfully Tried Charity Work: I own the url "www.ilikevagina.com".
-The original idea was to sell "Yes! I like Vagina!" T-Shirts to fundraise for ovarian cancer prevention.
4) Lands End: There are nuggets of truth that inspired Walk This Plank, Talk This Plank; on the way to the vet, I wrecked a vehicle into a large body of water and had to rescue my cat from it.
5) Numb and Number: I am wholly and utterly unaffiliated uninspired and disloyal politically, and shamelessly so: all I want is an alternative energy source so we can starve other countries of the money they use to kill us with.
Otherwise, I couldn't give a crap.
-S.S.D.D.
6) The Speedo Torpedo: I can't remember which book, but Kurt Vonnegut once gave some measurements and wrote that "as far as he knew, his 'endowment' was a World Record".
-I considered writing a letter to correct him.
7) My Academic Accolades: In my first semester of college, my English teacher singled me out in front of the class. After reading one of my badly-butchered paragraphs aloud, she continued on to say how much she "resented having to deal with remedial students here at the college level".
One year later, I became the Editor-In-Chief of the school newspaper.
I posed nude in the first issue.
8) Rubbing Elbows the Wrong Way: As a teenager, I met Dave Mustaine at a Holiday Inn.
At the time, I had no idea who he was.
I didn't own the album he as touring on.
In fact, I didn't own any of them: I disliked Megadeth music in general.
He thought that was refreshing.
We had a great time.
9) *BONUS* Love Synchs, Yeah Yeah The character "LOBO" evolved out of an online dating profile I filled out as a gag. All the other profiles were blasé clones citing a love for 'long walks on the beach' and 'sunsets'.
You know. Horsecrap.
I wondered What would one of these things look like if you were too stupid to lie?"
The questionnaire, filled out honestly, was hilarious. There's a reasonable facsimile of the Q & A -republished in story form- here.
But this single vicious act of wanton and savage sarcasm gave me more than my nom de plume; it's also how I met my wife LadyTerri.
On top of dealing with my battle-scarred psyche and general goobery, Predator Press probably wouldn't be here without her; while I spend countless hours trying to pound out things that make people laugh, she spends all that same time keeping me "freed up".
Heart and soul I love her, and my whole world revolves around her.
Saturday, April 19, 2008
Buff
Predator Press
[LOBO]
During a recent meme, I was asked to list "8 truthful things about myself".
LadyTerri stopped me at "freakishly muscular".
"Muscular?" she asked. "Where?"
"You can't see them. They're like ant muscles. And ants can lift the equivalent of a bus."
"Uh huh."
"And I can lift like ten ant-sized busses."
And That's How I Rescued Diesel (Bring on the Ewoks!)
Predator Press
[LOBO]
I must admit, I expected the triumphant and long-awaited return of Predator Press to Humor-Blogs to look as pictured left.
Which may indeed occur -I'm mean it's entirely possible that Diesel has hidden the crowds and fireworks in his office.
But currently, it looks like this:
"Where's Diesel?" I demand firmly.
"Well, he ain't here," says Ed Harris, kicking me in the ribs even more firmly. "What do you want from him?"
[blonde on lobby television: "It's the monster!"]
"Well for starters," I wheeze, "I want you to stop kicking me."
"No dice," says Ed, pulling a note out of his pocket. Holding it in front of my swelling face, he reads it aloud:
[blonde on lobby television: "I had better put on my stiletto heels so I can escape it down the middle of the highway!"]
"But I'm trying to save Humor-Blogs!" I protest. "Hey, you work for Thomas Kinkade now, don't you?
"Mr. Kinkade has asked me not to respond to questions. Now would you roll over please? These ribs are all broken, and this side is too soft and spongy already."
[blonde on lobby television: click click click click click click click click ...]
"Think about it Ed," I says, turning onto my stomach. "You don't want to work for -oof!- some artist that looks suspiciously like -ughn!- Eddie Izzard! This revolution could usher in a whole new era of comedy. Just look at this spiff new banner I made by ripping off Don Lewis!"
[blonde on lobby television: click click clock "Dammit! I broke a heel!"]
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