Predator Press

Detroit Lions to Place Calvin “Megatron” Johnson on Waivers

2013-05-18T11:28:00.001-05:00

Predator Press

[LOBO]

“This is not a reflection on Calvin’s football skills,” insists Offensive Coordinator Scott Linehan. “He’s just too big.”

Complaints about Johnson –an unabashed armrest hog- aren’t limited to airline travel.

“He farts a lot," says Matthew Stafford, quarterback. "And every time he sees a Volkswagen, he punches me and giggles ‘Slugbug.’ Don’t ask me what a ‘PT Bruiser’ is. It’s just ugly all-around.”

“I should be worried about football,” remarks Lions Defensive Coordinator Gunther Cunningham. “But most of the season I’m completely preoccupied with making sure Calvin and Rex Ryan aren’t at the same continental breakfast.”

Ask LOBO

2013-05-15T17:52:00.000-05:00

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Millions and millions of readers are always asking me everyday, "LOBO, why can’t I get Predator Press merchandise?"

Well I’m glad you asked me that.

You can all stop setting yourselves on fire demanding it. You can all stop jumping off of buildings demanding it. You can all stop setting yourselves on fire and then jumping off of buildings demanding it!

They are here:

Now I’ve noticed a slight problem with the first 150,000 I had made, and this brings me to my first disclaimer: Predator Press t-shirts do not come with Spellcheck installed.

These were intended to be $9.99. But I had to send them back and get them corrected:

Now, correctly stenciled, they came in at $26.99 apiece.

But that looks kinda weird, right? So I had them sent back a third time. And for the low-low price of $69.50, I give you the Official Predator Press T-Shirt:

Click on it to enlarge!

It’s 100% polyester. That's four times the ester!

Separated at Birth?

2013-05-11T18:49:00.002-05:00

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Pondering

2013-05-11T02:53:00.001-05:00

Predator Press

[LOBO]

So I'm just hanging around the lily pad, minding my own fucking business, right? And along comes this gigantic human princess.

She's stompin' around, pickin up my buddies -BOOM BOOM SPLASH BOOM *smooch*, BOOM SPLASH BOOM BOOM BOOM *smooch*- I mean she is sexually harassing everyone in the pond.

Deeply offended, I blink my left eye. This isn't 'that' sort of pond ... this is a family pond. And this lady is really risking numerous lawsuits.

-Or if nothing else, a very long series of angry letters.

Internet Swag (to Terri)

2013-05-05T23:43:00.002-05:00

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Mahatma Gandalf

2013-05-03T14:40:00.001-05:00

Okay. At some point, you're just bragging ...

Predator Press

[LOBO]

"So how is the deportation from Saudi Arabia going?"

"Meh," I reply, staring at my cold fries with mild disinterest. "Hey, aren't you dead?"

Mister Insanity, still wolfing down food with a predatory fierceness, shrugs. "This blog has killed me numerous times."

I ponder this as he breathlessly slurps at his beer between bites.

"I wouldn't stand for that. That sucks," I offer sympathetically. "Someone should be punished."

He nods in agreement, dabbing his mouth with a napkin. "So you read an article saying three guys got deported from Saudi Arabia for being too irresistible to women. And, thinking you could use the publicity, defected to Saudi Arabia to get deported?"

"What's with the sarcastic tone?" I ask, "This is probably the best idea I've ever had. It's just taking a little longer than I initially planned."

"Maybe they don't find you irresistible enough to deport."

"Hah," I guffaw. "No, that's not it. I think they want to keep me to learn how to be a better country from me complaining about them."

"It sure worked for America," Mister Insanity notes.

"Yes," I agree. "I can be their Gandalf."

"Pardon?"

"I can teach them nonviolent resistance and stuff."

"You mean Gandhi," he corrects. "Mahatma Gandhi."

"Really?"

"Yes."

"Thank God," I says. "This beard itches like crazy."

"You realize I'm going to have to run all things LOBOnian while you're gone."

"But I'm standing right here," I point out.

"You have the emotional capacity of a five year old, you're wildly incompetent, and every heartbeat you have only increases the threat you will end the entire human race."

I blink. "I'm standing right here, you know," I remind him.

"And you're lucky I haven't called Immigration," he reminds me.

"Touché."

"So what's your plan?"

"I finally logged into my fantasy baseball team, you know, to reaffirm my patriotic American affiliation. I'm trying to pretend 'America's favorite pastime' is interesting." Smugly, I add "-I haven't watched any soccer at all."

"You don't like baseball?"

"I only played one game," I admit. "It was when I was an impressionable lad of maybe twenty-six years old. I went up to bat, and the coach told me to 'line drive between second and third base.' Knowing I would be lucky to hit the ball at all, I asked him for a map of where between second and third base is. He chuckled and said how much he like my spirit, and said 'go for it.'"

"So what happened?"

"I cracked that ball with everything I had," I says. "But while we were all taking off our sunglasses and searching for the ball in the sky, the ball rolled to a stop in front of the pitcher."

"That's rough," Mister Insanity admits.

"He had me 'out' at first base before I even got to my telescope."

Big Pimpin

2013-04-29T20:15:00.000-05:00

Predator Press

The Return of Mister Insanity

2013-04-28T19:25:00.001-05:00

Predator Press

[Mr. I]

"Our intelligence suggests that LOBO defected to the Saudi," explains Sapphire.

"Hmm," I says ponderously. "You are aware that this blog has killed me off three or four times. Are you going to offer the readers any explanation?"

Sapphire stares.

"Well okay then," I says. "Has anyone thought of going on a manhunt to get LOBO back?"

Sapphire stares.

More.

"Well," says Barbarossa finally. "I don't think we want the parade called off."

FUCK Monday

2013-04-28T18:45:00.000-05:00

Predator Press

[LOBO]

The problem with working on Predator Press is that it has taken all the spice out of calling off of work ... thus, basking in my usual slothful indolence has lost a certain degree of debauched and ruthless zeal.

Still, I can offer up endless lame excuses all day long to you, o loyal reader.

Because I care.

So here goes:

"Dear Boss,

The reason I don't get around to blogging very often is that I occasionally moonlight as a double-secret agent. Last week I was in LOBOnia investigating MINDERBINDER, INC for the United States Government. (LOBOnia is a country a little south of Nigeria and a little north of, uh, Antarctica.) It was there that I was taken by surprise by a well-armed horde of time-traveling Space Mongols. I was subsequently held in a concentration camp for forty-four years, escaping with only the cunning use of my hair gel and a twig.

I’m now blogging via satellite, riding on the back of an elephant through Deepest Darkest Africa in search of the US Embassy. But satellites are really heavy, and my elephant is getting tired and cranky so I have to keep this short.

I have to warn the world of the coming Space Mongol invasion which would totally happen if you fired me. I also think I should not do anything resembling work tomorrow either … you know … in case anything weird happens. I need to conserve my energy.

The President, Myself, and the rest of the Free World all thank you for your cooperation and understanding in this matter, and I will blog some more as soon as I find a new elephant."

Ahhhh ... that's better.

Foreign Policy

2013-04-28T11:13:00.000-05:00

Predator Press

[LOBO]

When Terri pointed out the bizarre story that Saudi Arabia had deported three men for being "too irresistible to women" [linked here], the entire tiny yet robust nation of LOBOnia immediately seceded from the United States.

LOBOnia, as you know, is the invisible ten foot mobile sphere that surrounds me at all times.

-I figured getting kicked out of Saudi Arabia could be a real career boost.

Still, despite having cast off the shackles of American oppression, I fidget nervously.

"Has Saudi Arabia called about my deportation yet?"

Terri rolls her eyes.

"No," she sighs.

"Well I can't wait to get the back into the shackles of American oppression forever," I complain. "I called the Saudi embassy, but the guy that answers the phone only speaks gibberish and eventually hangs up on me. What kind of lunatic country does that?"

"It sounds like you will fit right in," she replies.

-Uh oh.

"The Bible" for iPod Users:

2013-04-27T22:01:00.000-05:00

Predator Press

Taste

2013-04-27T20:22:00.002-05:00

Predator Press

[LOBO]

"... and that is why," I conclude, "Every time you blew on a rose petal, a dust of diamonds would float off."

"Wow, man," Barbarossa breathes.

"So okay, your turn. If you could bang a celebrity, who would you fuck?"

"Sonia Sotomayor," he replies. "She is sooooo hot."

"Who?"

"The Supreme Court Justice. I would bend her over the waffles, and smack that hot booty ... "

-I will reply as soon as I can stop blinking.

Internet Swag

2013-04-26T01:51:00.000-05:00

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Internet Swag

2013-04-20T14:59:00.002-05:00

Predator Press

To Terri: I Love You. There, I Said it. Now About that Thing with the 'Lil Bo Peep' Outfit .. :)~

2013-04-20T02:08:00.003-05:00

Predator Press

[*smooch*]

Downsizing

2013-04-20T01:47:00.001-05:00

Predator Press

[LOBO]

“Are you ready to give your presentation?” asks my boss.

I have no idea how to work the PowerPoint thingy.

“My presentation,” I reply coolly.

He leans on my file cabinet. “The one I assigned you last Tuesday. On how the company is moving toward full ISO compliance.”

I also haven't the slightest clue what the ‘International Organization for Standardization' or whatever is or does.

“Sure I am,” I says.

“Care to give me some highlights?”

“Well," I says, "I figure we have to retool the whole company for it.”

“Really? Can you give me an example?”

Standing and looking around I says, “How many do you need?”

"How about just one?"

"For starters," I reply, "take for instance ... these … cubicles.”

“What about the cubicles?”

“Why hire average and large-sized people? We could fit four times as many people in here if we started hiring midgets.”

I see the temple on the left side of his head swell.

“And,” I continue, “we could stack the cubicles three-high, thusly tripling that number.”

-The right side temple pops forth, and I can clearly see the heartbeat surging through it.

“The Fire Marshall,” he replies, (thup-thup, thup-thup) “would never allow us to stack midgets in cubicles due to the lack of access to the fire escapes.”

“That’s what the tornado slides are for.”

Bob White

2013-04-18T21:14:00.002-05:00

Predator Press

@SnarquisdeSade

The murmuring stops suddenly as I enter the cafeteria.

Sapphire, clearly distressed, stands as she notices my entrance. "I'm sorry I couldn't get a conference room Mister -"

"And I'm sorry to have called this on such short notice," I says reassuringly. "This will do just fine. I didn't hire you because I thought you could put together last-minute meetings. I hired you because your resume says you can read Braille with your nipples. You never know when that might come in handy."

"Thank you," she replies.

Scanning the group of motley losers assembled, I watch them squirm under my gaze for a moment.

"Ladies and gentlemen and Bob," I says finally, "I have uncovered a deadly threat -one that could destroy the company with inefficiency, property damage, and injury lawsuits."

Barbarossa raises his hand. "Is it me?"

"Not this time," I reply. "Now let's imagine we have an inept and dangerous driver. I'll make up a name and spell it backwards for this hypothetical situation. Eh, Bob. Yes. Bob-"

Bob White, coincidentally an inept and dangerous driver that could destroy the company with inefficiency, property damage, and injury lawsuits, snaps his pencil.

"Fuck you," he replies.

"So this guy, uh, Bob," I point the PowerPoint remote at the microwave. "Has been at this for a long time as you can see ... "

"You can't do a PowerPoint presentation on a microwave, dumbass," Bob White guffaws.

Feigning confusion, I open the microwave -revealing dozens and dozens of Dunkin Donuts.

Barbarossa stands.

"Death to Bob!"

Internet Swag

2013-04-17T00:31:00.000-05:00

Predator Press

Her Anxiety

William Butler Yeats

Earth in beauty dressed
Awaits returning spring.
All true love must die,
Alter at the best
Into some lesser thing.
Prove that I lie.

Such body lovers have,
Such exacting breath,
That they touch or sigh.
Every touch they give,
Love is nearer death.
Prove that I lie.

Here. Have a Migraine.

2013-03-21T23:55:00.001-05:00

Predator Press

@SnarquisdeSade

Just like all the other greatest minds of our time, I have pondered the enigma of "Dark Matter." But unlike those other dumbasses, I figured it out during a rerun of "Happy Days." It was during the episode where The Fonz entered a demolition derby, and Pinky Tuscadero was nearly killed. (I'm not going to elaborate here on my research methods as the science would bore you to tears. Suffice to say, fuck the Mallachi Brothers.)

If the universe is expanding at the speed of light, suppose one side (point "A") watches the opposite side (point "B") race away faster than the speed of light.

So if matter and time and energy are all interrelated, maybe we are watching ancient photons escape faster than it can be witnessed in a "linear" sense, and taking on the illusion of physical properties such as mass and time.

So kiss my ass Stephen Hawking.

-You pussy.

The Savage Beast

2013-02-24T13:48:00.000-06:00

Predator Press

@SnarquisdeSade

With my lawyer arriving at 2:00pm, it's with some reluctance I concede it's time to get up; even as the coffee pot gurgles, my mind struggles to find traction between the dreamworlds and reality. Good sleep is a casualty of years of hard living, and the leading edge of consciousness is always the worst.

The rarefied event of entertaining a guest has me self-conscious of the condition of my apartment; the toilet seat is up, and I correct this. Books, in widely different states of completion, are scattered about the floor, as if a small library received the full ire of an illiterate mortar team. Overnight, Phil II scattered a pile of documents -bills mostly. And were it not for the basket of neatly folded laundry, I would probably be doubting the existence of Washington Street entirely by now.

The Laundromat I went to yesterday wasn't on Google. I had learned about it from a friend, and it was considerably closer to home than the one I typically use. Shockingly blighted, the glass doors were cracked in vast spiderweb patterns. The signs were faded with age. Behind the old woman who seemed to be agelessly crocheting, the wall was covered with dusty and yellowed John Wayne memorabilia. A bulbous and antiquated tube television played seemingly endless black and white episodes of I Love Lucy. And on a bulletin board, in stark and bright white contrast, a crude brochure advertising the legal services of Thelonious Reebok Oswald Esq, PhD stood out, replete with tear-off vertical tabs at the bottom, like a skull missing teeth.

I have one of those teeth in my pocket.

The two stage act of doing laundry, as we all know, takes about an hour and a half. And once the drying stage was underway, I found myself restless. With forty-five minutes to kill, I decided to explore Washington Street. It was quaint; general stores, shoe shops, things one might associate with a receding Americana. Music I only vaguely recognized, some kind of mix of blues and jazz, thumped from across the street, subdued by nondescript walls. I wandered over to find a small sports bar. It's at this moment, as I recall, my first suspicions seethe to the surface: the laundromat, the close-by bar, the cozy and oddly functional neighborhood … it all just seemed too familiar, too convenient. And -almost playing to my rising intuition- an apartment building with a “For Rent” sign was well within view once I looked for it.

Upon entry, the dark and smoky bar required my vision to adjust. The first things to come into focus were the large flatscreen televisions, all replaying flaming car crashes from the Daytona 500. Taking the stool closest from the door I ordered a Miller Lite, discretely observing the small yet talkative crowd, while simultaneously attempting to identify the strangely familiar music.

There were perhaps six other bar patrons.

-And they all reminded me of dead people I have known. Joe was there. Billy Taylor -aged twice what Fate allowed him- was there …

It was eerily like being among old friends.

A loud knock at the door interrupts my ponderings of yesterday. I open the door to find Thelonious Reebok Oswald, Esq, Phd, standing before me. He is a black man in dreadlocks, roughly five feet tall, and wearing reflective, round sunglasses. As I mentioned I don't have many guests, and quickly blurted the first thing that came to mind in order to make him feel welcome.

“Word up, Homie!” I said enthusiastically, extending my hand in what I expected to be a complicated handshake.

Theloious Reebok Oswald, Esq, PhD just just kind of froze for a beat, with a simple gaze galvanizing me as perhaps the whitest man on Earth.

“You Michael Wolfe?” he asked finally, grinning in gold.

“Yes,” I reply. “Please come in.”

He enters, looking around in mild distaste. “My name is Thelonious Reebok Oswald, Esquire. Widely renown in legal circles as 'TRO.' And it has come to my attention that you have had a recent issue with the pigs.”

“Indeed,” I reply. “But first let me thank you for making a house call. I tried to find your office, but ...”

“Yeah,” he dismisses me, raising his hand. “I used your retainer to get the van an oil change.”

“Good thinking. I love that suit by the way. Is that Armani?”

“It's FUBU,” he shakes his head. “Says so right on the hoodie. So who the fuck we gonna sue?”

I take a deep breath. “I paid for these streets. And I won't be told when and where I will cross them.”

“The problem is,” Thelonious replies, “You is guilty as Hell of First Degree Jaywalking. As your legal counsel, I recommend you just pay the thirty dollar fine.”

“Fuck that,” I growl. “I want this to go all the way up to the Supreme Court. Terri's credit cards are no object!”

Thelonious scratches his beard thoughtfully. “Well, my office could use new upholstery after the fire.”

“Fire?”

“Never mind,” he replies. “You should try intimidating the judge, like you'll kick his ass. Try and look menacing ...”

Wild-eyed, I bear my teeth.

“Meh,” he replies. “Just walk into the courtroom, tell him to fuck off, and then pee on the podium.”

“I love this strategy,” I confess. “Which law school did you go to?”

“I never went to law school. But I saw 'Flight' four times. And if Denzel Washington doesn't get an Oscar, I'm gonna stab me some whitey!”

“Me too!” I agree.

Alive, Undisputed

2013-02-16T17:00:00.000-06:00

Predator Press

[LOBO]

My best guess, when explaining the random fits of rage, would be a combination of lack of sleep and “Seasonal Affective Disorder” ... something I typically get in March. The extreme temperatures of the Midwest have made the outside extremely inhospitable and arguably deadly; the absence of warmth and sunshine coupled with the extended time trapped indoors has made for some frayed nerves -that the last few years have been fairly Hellish just pours gasoline over the whole condition.

I'm not sure how or if the poor sleep is connected, but it warrants consideration. My memory and ability to concentrate have notably suffered. This is probably how I lost my driver's license in the first place. While the identification card has since been located and recovered, I've been needled randomly while attempting purchases -most poignantly at a semi-local WalMart where I shopped weekly- where company policy was applied rather than common sense.

-I exploded in fury. And I would argue it was justifiable, thus I offer no apology and will never shop there again. Still, it's clear my general moodiness is obvious in all facets of my life. The few unwanted brushes with the general public seem to only exacerbate my angst; traffic and road construction triple the length of projects. People, somehow utterly oblivious to others, seem to obstruct my every move, and conversations seem disjointed, disconnected, analogous to a poorly-tuned radio. Quietly, I suspect that the intelligence of the population has dropped an average of fifty IQ points ...

Woman: What are teenage boys thinking when they look at me like that?

Me: They are plotting the shortest route to your ovaries.

Woman: Eeewe. What do they think about when not looking at me?

Me: The shortest route to someone else's ovaries.

None of this is true of course. It's in my head.

A way to calm down and relax -as mentioned in a recent post- seems most imperative, lest another unlucky and unwitting individual face a massive supernova of my culminating, hair-trigger frustration.

Addressing the sleep issue seems the only approachable angle. I've spent the last week taking unwise amounts of time off of work, and indeed slept days away in my typical broken and haphazard fashion. My dreaming is wild and oddly exhausting: while not nightmares in the fearful sense, they are of wars, natural disasters, post-apocalyptic survival, almost borderlining into strangely rich and textured yet-unlikely adventures that would make little sense in “reality.” Colossal, impossible vessels -organic and bioluminescent in appearance- crash into crowded cities, killing untold tens of thousands as I watch in a helpless, macabre, and horrified awe. Abandoned houses I explore seem to change shape once inside, offering tunnels that could not fit in the architecture, precarious walkways, wide and dangerous chasms to jump, dungeons and underground waterfalls and streams, endless creatures to fight, puzzles to solve …

Admittedly, going insane isn't for everyone.

-But I'm digging it immensely.

The 2013 "Knock it Off!" Rebirth

2013-02-13T10:48:00.000-06:00

Predator Press

[LOBO]

"I mean who really cares if we call it 'Christmas?' Now we call it 'Winter Holiday.' Or if the Ten Commandments are on display someplace in public?" A migraine almost certainly looming, I rub my temples. "At some point America lost the ability to call an asshole an asshole. And as a consequence, we lost the ability to tell assholes to knock it off."

"Man you think about this stuff too much," replies Barbarossa. "You need to relax more. Why don't you try golf?"

"I love golf," I point out. "I play it on X-Box all the time."

"No," he replies. "I mean for real. You meet a different breed of people. Last week I met a guy who is sooooo rich," he pauses for a second, "His name was Rich, and-"

"You met a rich guy named Rich?"

"Yeah. He's got a horse-"

"Is the horse's name 'horse?'"

Barbarossa ponders this for a moment, rubbing his beard. "I don't know. But he's got this wicked Corvette, too ..."

"What the hell would a horse do with a Corvette?"

"You're telling me to knock it off, aren't you?"

Com-Castrated

2013-01-25T20:55:00.002-06:00

Predator Press

[LOBO]

One of the casualties of trying to pay for my car was my cable television.

-Between renting the equipment and blah blah services, I cut my bill by ninety dollars.

Still it was rough; pulling those cables out this morning was a very painful experience, analogous almost to euthanizing a pet.

"So why are you working here?" I ask Barbarossa as we stand in the cafeteria chow line. Friday chow has a Mexican food theme, and it's the only day of the week I may deign to eat there.

And the only lunchtime I see Barbarossa, now a non-smoker.

"My last boss was a racist," he replies.

The lady behind the counter 'wraps up' her last customer and turns to me. "What can I get you?"

I manage a smile, despite the fact that I don't have cable. "I would like the mega nachos with everything -including jalapenos- but without beans." Well rehearsed and recited, my thoughts never left my dearly departed cable TV.

-But I decided to be strong.

"A racist?" I asked Barbarossa. "What happened?"

Barbarossa, next in line, stares at the menu, jaw agape. "He found a half a joint in my F-16. And then he had me take a piss test."

"Did you want jalapenos?" asked the lady behind the counter.

"Yes please," I nod politely.

"So," I pause, "where did the racism come in?"

Barbarossa, still reading a menu that said, "Nachos or MEGA Nachos," scratched his beard in thought.

"I think he was like ... Ukrainian or something," he replied.

The lady making my nachos dips the big spoon into a big, blacked pot.

"You said extra beans, right?"

Predator Press got a BETTER Sponsor. FUCK YOU, Nike

2013-01-13T13:24:00.001-06:00

LOBO

Predator Press

Too slithy for anything but the mimsy of gyring toves, wabe bororoves and gamey bandersnatches every frumious brillig?

Do you find yourself always galumphing around the tulgey with uffish, manxome, whiffling thoughts of completely outgrabed mome raths?

Well, break out your vorpal sword under the Tumtum tree and chortle with frabjous, beamish joy as you gimble up some all-natural nutritious lowfat Snicker-Snacks ®! *

Eat Snicker-Snacks ®
by Jabberwocky

-Now chocked full of vitamin-fortified Jubjub!

* Warning: possible side effects may include drowsiness, dizziness, migraines, insomnia, temporary blindness, stomach cramps, hallucinations, aneurisms, nausea, cancer, democratic fundraisers, projectile vomiting, projectile diarrhea, projectile vomiting and projectile diarrhea, tsunamis, wormholes, lesions, Microsoft updates, Chelsea Handler, malignant tumors, and conspicuous erections in prison.

If consumed, please consult your physician immediately.

Go Fighty!

2013-01-12T13:43:00.002-06:00

Predator Press

[LOBO]

It's a fact: people never give Predator Press any credit for the huge socio-economic and medical advances we have provided Humanity.

And how about the Science and Engineering?

Hm?

When we presented the alternative to 'Doggie Stairs' with our 160 horsepowered Doggie Centrifuge, did this fantastical technological advancement get mentioned in a Scientific American, Popular Mechanics, or maybe even a lousy Readers Digest?

No. We got "-but the dogs land in random places at crazy speeds!" blah blah.

So now where is Sports Illustrated on our groundbreaking 'Mag-Cat' Research and Development? My theory that cats -cunning natural predators equipped with lightning-fast reflexes, guile, and grace- are ideally suited for intense Air Hockey competition is gonna make us millions.

Just kiss my ass, Forbes.

***

First and foremost, the Air Hockey table -pointedly designed for humans- would have to undergo some minor modifications to provide for a suitable and level playing field for serious Feline Competition. So at great expense to you, our own Predator Press Scienticians magnetically reversed an Air Hockey table surface.

Unfortunately, cats are naturally highly-resistant to magnetism, and tiny little magnetically-repellant boots needed to be developed to respond to the magnetic fields. This realistically replicates the 120-decibel gravity-free Air Hockey environment for cats exactly as it would occur in nature.

We should have a good “regulation” set of these boots available commercially by Christmas. And while coming in at a hefty $850, you must remember that there are four ... plus we throw in our patented "This Side Up" polarity collar and a Buell helmet totally for free. Further, we think $850 is a small price to pay for any serious Air Hockey or cat safety enthusiast: once augmented with the $800 fire extinguisher mandated by California State, your cat will be howling past you on the freeway.

Four of our cats can get to Madison Square Garden from here in eight minutes.

-Theoretically. They cannot read maps, and are complete suckers for every Stuckey's they see along the way.

But truthfully I do not consider an insatiable Pecan Roll dependency a side effect of our regimented and complex training: for several months now, one of Phil's kittens (due to her inexplicable and irritable disposition I call her "Fighty") has undergone 1,074 hours of observation actually wearing the boots, and she finally acclimated well to her vastly improved mobility -even with the chainsaw attachments.

And let me tell you buddy, she hates Pecan Rolls.

Fighty -already a Mag-Cat first season veteran- is ready for some healthy competition. And she's virtually undefeated! Her 27-1 record was most unfairly despoiled by Barbarossa rubbing her fur backwards during the Winter Halftime Show last February; this triggered a static discharge resulting in one hell of bang, four molten transformers, subsequent rolling blackouts, two crashed satellites, an irrepressible odor of burning hair permeating everything in the Lab, and me spilling my coffee.

Now, the fire department gets cats out of trees all the time, right? When's the last time you saw a cat skeleton in a tree? But you call those jerks and tell them about your smoldering and pissed steroid-jazzed chainsaw-wielding cat magnetically attached to the side of a water tower and see what happens.

I swear those fire department guys are totally worthless.

Nonetheless, lil' Fighty today is an Air Hockey Champion nose-to-tail; just show her that plastic puck or a Pecan Roll, and she yowls, spits and hisses ...

(I should probably get her spayed.)