Predator Press

The Emperor's New Hos

2009-11-06T15:51:00.086-06:00

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.

Am I the Only One that thinks Twitter is Crap?

2009-10-20T14:09:00.018-05:00

Predator Press

[LOBO]

In the “What are you doing?” box, I put “typing” about 6,005,004 times until I learned that I could cut and paste stuff with hotkeys.

-Now I can put “Cutting and pasting ‘typing’ with hotkeys” 10 times faster than I ever could type “typing.”

But, but despite this markedly increased efficiency, I don’t get it.

Doctor Toboggans, you should stop "following" me now ... I won't be doing anymore updates.

I’m over this.

Red and Black and Spider Green

2009-10-19T20:56:00.011-05:00

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Adultery is easy

Adultery is common.

Adultery is saucy.

-But Fidelity seems far more rare and exotic in contrast.

Fidelity is difficult, understated, and unsung.

As a consequence, Fidelity is the moral equivalent of that skinny redhead kid in grubby clothes that the other kids throw their Tater Tots at when the adults aren’t looking ‘cuz he got lice camping last year after refusing to play 'Doctor' with that slutty chick that was doin "Whip-Its" with all the pesticides.

-Unlike glamorous Adultery, Fidelity slips quietly through High School with nary a ripple ... largely because he has a leg braces, a big weird retainer, and is socially awkward in general. And after trying out for the football team, poor ‘lil unrecognized Fidelity is not considered to live an equally-dangerous full-contact lifestyle as sexy athletic Adultery does, and Fidelity is issued woefully inadequate protective gear: subsequently, he tears his ACL, his team loses the game ... the the seemingly sure-fire trajectory to lead their division into the Finals is utterly destroyed.

And while a battered and broken Fidelity just chugs blandly along forever, Adultery in contrast is already rushed to the front of the line to Oblivion: fueled by an often rage-inciting behavior, chain-smoking boozer Adultery's lifelong hedonistic sex binge is statistically far likelier to receive either a dignified quick youthful death, a lucrative reality show, or a fantastic political career.

-Fidelity, instead, is left adrift to flounder helplessly on his HMO, hobbling around on makeshift crutches and squeaky, bent wheelchairs for many more years to come.

Many years later, Fidelity once again meets that slutty chick from camp that was hoggin all the pesticides and caused him to get lice. Weirdly both -now adults- fall deeply in love. But a week before the wedding Fidelity contracts Hepatitis and discovers his bride-to-be is secretly a coke whore and Libertarian: a subsequent botched sting operation to catch her stealing Fidelity's paltry life savings backfires, and she narrowly escapes by ironically dousing Fidelity in the eyes with an entire bottle of lice repellent leaving Fidelity permanently blind and with a raging, yet-unprecedented case of accelerated male pattern baldness.

Years later, poor Fidelity finds he can’t hide that urine smell no matter how much Old Spice he uses, and he is banished to the alleys ... but still this former athlete adapts, thrives and survives by stealing food from unmonitored rat traps. Seemingly indestructible -even after his arms are amputated due to the numerous untreated rat bites- he persists by swift and dexterous use of his increasingly-nimble toes.

In Fidelity's final decades, our unfaltering hero will grow ultra-sensitive to natural light, shrinking away and shrieking hideously when exposed to it. But again Fidelity turns apples to applesauce: deep within the catacombs of a Los Angeles sewer, Fidelity will enjoy many a comparatively tranquil year laying under a startlingly high-protein leak directly under a liposuction clinic. Content and happy, Fidelity ultimately succumbs to his piteous and unsanitary lifestyle as a host to a hive of giant stainless steel bees with razorwire stingers and acid drool that slowly devour him -from the inside out- in a horrific and macabre agonizing death.

Hallooo Down There!

2009-10-18T15:02:00.024-05:00

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Okay. I know it maybe wasn’t a publicity stunt. But I also know the Heenes were on a reality show called Wife Swap.

-And getting on a reality show alone takes a certain kind of narcissistic media whore: at some point, the Heenes hadda sit in a roomful of other narcissistic media whores trying to get on Wife Swap, and the Heene’s narcissistic media whoring stood out tall and proud above all others.

I would hold them more accountable for that.

Still, it worked.

It ‘raised the bar’ of narcissistic media whoring in fact.

Well so far I haven’t even been nominated for the Nobel Peace Prize in Narcissistic Media Whoring this year yet: if I don’t stay on my toes, it could go to either Jon Gosselin or Doctor Toboggans -and I owe that 'Toboggans' cat way too much money not to pay him with whatever he might have won if Gosselin and I didn't reach a deal.

So unlike that pansy Heenes kid, I have actually launched myself into the stratosphere: from like, 1,000,000 feet in the air, I, LOBO, am blogging to you from my laptop.

-I hope my electrical cord will hold Larry King when he has ta shimmy his butt all the way up here.

Dear Entrecard,

2009-10-17T14:17:00.037-05:00

Predator Press

[LOBO]

My first email was just a simple suggestion, and the Entrecard site says, quote: "We're very keen for any feedback you can give. Complaints about broken things, stuff you like, things you think are pretty or ugly, or even questions you'd like answered."

I can't bring my original query up because it wasn't in conventional email. But my suggestion was "Instead of subverting the ads we spent our credits on, why don't you just phase in "Paid Ads" after 120 seconds or so?"

Brilliant, right?

The response was this:

"Hi,

Thank you for your email. Please restate your question because I'm unsure what you're asking. We have the sponsor ads which Entrecard reserves 15% of the ad network inventory for sponsors.

Please let us know if you have any other questions.

Entrecard Support

This prompted my response:

"Seriously.

-You have NO IDEA what I'm talking about? How about forwarding this email to one of your supervisors?

Lemme simplify:

When you do a "PAID AD" (aka an ad where you subvert our credits for cash), how about making the "PAID AD" (the ad where you subvert our credits for cash) phase in after a minute or so? That way our "CREDITS" -the mystical crap you made up so we get something for spreading the word about your site- is still actually worth something?

-And PS: does EC even have 300 people a day I can "drop" on anymore????"

:)

Don’t Hate Me Because I’m Beautiful

2009-10-16T11:39:00.011-05:00

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Marrying a hot chick should have inherent perks.

See on a scale of 1-10, if you factor in the charm, raw genius, and Adonis-like physique, I’m only about a 12.

But unfortunately, this makes my wife roughly a 19-22.

-Mathematically this equates to being married to a big pain in the ass.

According to science.

See, a 19-22 such as my wife should regard a lowly 12 as pretty mediocre, right? I should be the jealous one. Sure I suppose it’s remotely possible a bunch of rogue, drunken supermodels might somehow not notice I’m married, taser me, inject me with drugs causing a thick amnesiatic fog, and toss me -kicking and screaming- into a van with tin foil covered windows in order to tie me up and live out sick and debauched fantasies.

But would that be my fault?

I think my slacker wife and drunken perverted supermodels with tasers, drugs, tin foiled vans, and a preternatural gift for skillful knot tying should share some culpability here. I mean maybe you could overlook the wedding ring, but shouldn’t this big, throbbing vein in my forehead be a dead giveaway to my marital status too?

Well apparently not.

Whenever Terri and I go shopping, I always have to stare at the ceiling joyces and lighting fixtures lest my eyes randomly fall in the direction of anyone even vaguely female. And how do you shop like that? I once went into a WalMart for catfood, and came out with six stitches and a mulching lawn mower.

-Despite the tongue lashing I gave the manager, that light fixture is still flickering and my cat hates me.

I’ll bet the lawn looks good though.

White House to Bail Out Tampa Bay Buccaneers

2009-10-15T00:14:00.010-05:00

Predator Press

[LOBO]

In news that came as a shock to a sports world still buzzing over Rush Limbaugh’s failed bid to purchase the Saint Louis Rams, Hilary Clinton has announced her intent to acquire the Tampa Bay Buccaneers.

“Guess what, you ****ing ****s,” she told press conference attendants. “It really was a Vast Liberal Conspiracy! Now unless it's Election Day, get the **** out of my face you ****-knocking piece of ****-eating ****stick -or I'll have your **** removed, and your entire family tree ****ed, ****ed, and ****ed.”

Details of the conference are garbled.

-My “*” key kept getting stuck.

Chicago Cubs File for Bankruptcy

2009-10-12T18:09:00.007-05:00

Predator Press

[LOBO]

As a Chicagoan, I’ve been following the Cubs for years.

-Drafting them in my Fantasy Football League was the last thing they needed.

Jealous?

2009-10-10T13:55:00.090-05:00

Predator Press

[LOBO]

I’m both puzzled and alarmed at the media distress over Obama winning the Nobel Peace Prize.

First, it seems to me that a sitting American president getting one could only be a good thing in regard to global politics and the "world stage."

Second, who cares? Unless you were another nominee and screwed out of yours, I don't see this as much more than pointless whining and pining about something that has nothing to do with you anyway.

And didn't two American win Peace Prizes in economics this year? Haha -anyone upset over something 'Noble' isn't even spelled correctly on needs a nap.

But fret not! When you wake up, there's this cool place you can go to called a "trophy store" and buy a correctly-spelled Peace Prize. Or anything really! For less that a hundred bucks you can get a spiff one waaaaay bigger'n Obama's, and get it engraved with something cool like "2009 Superbowl MVP" too.

Besides, having the "But I've got a Peace Prize" phrase in your chamber is fantastic against counter arguments: case closed, end of debate, nothing torpedoes logic more effectively. So relax. I'm sure this White House -as would any other- will be putting that baby to good use almost immediately. I myself have three or four Peace Prizes for precisely this reason.

-And that isn't counting the one I sent back when the delivery guys scratched it on the ceiling fan either: once my “Just for Bein’ Kickass” Peace Prize is replaced, I think I'll have five.

But that one is my favorite.

I'm golfing on that one.

Frozen Ted Williams Head Sparks Controversy

2009-10-08T15:58:00.028-05:00

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Alcor, the company facilitating storage of baseball great Ted Williams' frozen remains, is reeling under media siege due to scandalous allegations of post-mortem abuse to the decedent put forward by former employee Larry Johnson.

Cryonics is a process where remains are frozen and preserved in hopes that one day medical science –once sufficiently advanced- may be able to revive and cure the deceased.

“I wasn’t the slightest bit suspicious until the company picnic,” claims Johnson. “But finding that Red Sox cap in my daiquiri really got me to thinking.”

While Alcor has thus far refused to talk directly with mainstream media, Predator Press got an exclusive interview with Chairman Charles Platt.

“We are flatly denying these shocking and baseless accusations, accusations made by a clearly disgruntled former employee,” says Platt. “We have begun an internal investigation regarding numerous recent record-setting three legged race results. But that is purely a coincidence, and you would be a fool to think otherwise. Crap. I said that out loud, didn’t I? Oh, look behind you! Britney Spears!”

Kanye West has yet to comment on the unfolding drama, but I might have missed it when I was looking for Britney Spears. Still, I feel confident West would have concurred with my gut instinct that a baseball player that wants to make out with space chicks wasn't a very good story, and that Predator Press readers would prefer some good, juicy dirt on Kevin Federline. Heck, what was Britney Spears doing here anyway? Was she going to freeze her head too?

Unfortunately, it appears Britney Spears is very elusive when it comes to interviews and I never found her.

Ah screw it.

Never mind.

I’ll Take a Case of Those Baskets, Please

2009-10-07T19:49:00.014-05:00

Predator Press

[LOBO]

This post comes with a battery of "hat tips." First, that image was found at CrownDozen.com -an interesting-looking site I'll certainly be exploring in some greater depth.

Second, this post is inspired by a podcast by Adam Carolla and Larry Miller available here. It was they who made the astute observation I’ll distill simply as “In ‘70s cinema, there wasn’t anything not to susceptible to demonic possession."

This goes for cars, dolls, kids, dogs, severed appendages, televisions, statues, totems, jewelry, clothing … ah cripes, that list just goes on and on and on.

Everything in the ‘70s would at some point would try and kill us. And if it wasn’t due to an outright demon possession, it was some crazy recluse exercising some unexplained mind control, sicking killer bees or hounds or something on some hapless and well-intended yet far-too-nosy tourists. Or a monster or robot that inevitably turns on it’s “master.”

Again, I’ll return to paraphrasing Adam and Larry’s funny dialogue: it starts with the indignant “How dare you! I made you!” But this former minion is undaunted, having gained some insight to it’s own evil misuse: right smack in the now-burning “control center,” it would kill the puppet master -and itself- even as the evil human mastermind unconvincingly screamed ”Noooooooooo …!”

The people who voted on the Oscars –“the Academy” or whatever- in the ‘70s must have been very, very bored and overpaid.

Still, another ten years or so of the ‘70s would have produced some fairly interesting results ... On that trajectory, a movie about robot zombie space piranhas would have been completely inevitable.

[*sigh*]

-Now I can’t get anyone to look at my screenplay.

Jesus' Friends Were Jerks

2009-10-06T15:45:00.007-05:00

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Look, I’m only sayin it because I’m right around His age when everything went south.

-Right about now, Jesus is planning for a World Tour to spread His Message. So He’s packing, going over travel plans, hiring His security detail, checking His itinerary against His reservations, and verifying that His passport is in order.

But then His buddy Bill comes in.

“Word up, JC,” says Bill.

“Word,” says Jesus. "Look, I'm really busy. Just set those buckets of water in the corner, and I'll change them as soon as I can."

"Cool," replies Bill. “Whatcha doin?”

“I’m making ready to spread My Sacred and Holy Message, that I might save the world.”

There’s an awkward silence.

“I don’t know,” says Bill, scratching his chin.

“You don't know what?”

“Well, any religious nut can go on tour. I mean you might as well walk around wearing one of those sandwich board signs that says ’THE END IS NEAR’.”

“What do you suggest, Mister Smarty Pants?”

Bill thinks quietly for a moment. “I think you need to think big. What if you get betrayed, captured, beaten, whipped, skinned alive, crucified, and your remains are subsequently squished through the mesh of a screen door, thereby absolving Humankind of all their sins?”

“I rather like My idea better,” says Jesus. “Look at My tour schedule. I’ll be in Cancun right in the middle of Spring Break!”

“It's been done. Look J, this isn’t, like, B.C. anymore. In these modern times, people are a lot more sophisticated. They need something dramatic."

“We could do a bake sale.”

“Meh,” sighs Bill. “You know these wacky Romans … someone is bound to lace some brownies or something, and then there’s a huge chariot pileup. Then there's an investigation, and it finds who responsible? You. The insurance liability alone just makes me shudder. Don’t set yourself up for failure like that.”

“I don’t know, Bill. Maybe I could-”

“No,” Bill interrupts, grabbing Jesus firmly at his shoulder. “Look, you're the Messiah. And as the Messiah, one has certain obligations to go beyond sermons and bake sales.”

“So I’m supposed to let them kill Me!?”

“Hey, don’t get mad at me. I didn’t make you the ‘Son of God’. I’m only telling you all this because I’m your friend.”

“Yeah, I know," sighs Jesus resolutely. "Thanks.”

“No problem,” says Bill. "Now how about them buckets?"

This Crack Me Up Long Time

2009-10-05T15:13:00.009-05:00

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Now I'm as guilty as anybody butcherin' our fine American grammar, punctuation and spelling good 'n proper.

-Perhaps doubly so, because "American" is my first and only language: if you laid all the English teachers and editors I've driven to suicide end-to-end, they would doubtlessly stretch to somewhere in the middle of New Mexico.

But in my defense, Predator Press, like GM, doesn't sell anything.

Besides, have you seen New Mexico lately? I'm sure they would welcome the companionship.

So Terri and I got a good laugh out of this:

"Finding Ease in Getting Number of Traffic Visitor in Our Site. Business is the need of every human being, especially to establish a life in a household, and also it can add business income from all of us. By doing a business we will have a lot of money, and also when a business has a lot of visitors, was able in making sure that the money generated will be abundant."

"Just what are they selling?" Terri giggles.

"I don't know," I says. "But it was $860 for three of them."

"What!?!"

"Oh come on. When is the last time you saw something that hilarious? This will doubtlessly provide us with endless amusement."

Terri scowls. "I took your credit cards away months ago."

"Tell me about it," I says. "It wasn't easy to get them to take a check."