What if our Alien Visitors are Delicious?

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Oh, come on ... you're all thinking it, you're just too chicken to ask.

And I can already hear you bleeding heart liberals complaining, 'But LOBO, aliens capable of interstellar travel would be super-intelligent!' blah blah.

Oh please ... ridden a bus lately?

What if these are celestial losers tryin to get a picture of themselves next to the intergalactic equivalent of the 'World's Biggest Ball of Yarn?"

Pthbttt!

The capability of travel doesn't impress me. In fact, non-intelligent beings travel every day (see right, also TFASD).

Frankly, these rude and unannounced tourists being 'intelligent' only makes the idea more attractive: what could be better than a meal that preheats the oven, sets the timer, lathers itself in a fine Mornay sauce and is fully cooked to a succulent golden-brown before you even get home?

As far as I'm concerned, the only question is whether to serve them with a white wine or a red.

Julia Childs was secretly part of the Jeff Rense Program.

Internet Swag

Predator Press

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Ask LOBO

Predator Press

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People are always asking me, "LOBO, you are so worldly and brilliant, when are you going to give us your secrets on having happy and fulfilling relationships?"

Well, I'm glad you asked me that.

-Now that I have been blissfully wed for two full months, I feel I am qualified to lecture comprehensively on the subject.

It all boils down to five simple rules:

1) Keep the Romance Alive: Pretend you have feelings, and talk about them frequently.

2) Honesty is Not Optional: When your significant other is firing known minefield queries like 'do you think she's attractive?' DO NOT PANIC: tools to bring about your own self-destruction are often in ample supply when one is thinking creatively. Electrical cords, for instance, can be used to hang yourself in the absence of piano wire and guitar strings; if time is a luxury you posses, carefully knotted strips of bath towels and/or blue jeans will do the job with considerably less mess.

3) Appreciate Her Uniqueness: The best visual aid I can offer is that men communicate like this:




... while women communicate like this:




Remember that '8os horror movie Scanners where people's veins swelled up purple until their heads exploded? That's what'll happen to you if you try to figure them out.

Stick with chocolate.

4) Take the other point of view: When she wants you to have an opinion, she will give you one.

Be patient.

5) Know your limitations: Find a woman that is already aware that you're an idiot. This will save you both from a lot of unnecessary conversations trying to convince you otherwise. Plus, once she realizes you're far too simpleminded to try and "pull one over on her", sentences like "Honey, I had no idea this was pornographic material. I was just trying to figure out why they kept misspelling 'come'!" will be interpreted as honest and straightforward -just as they were intended to be.

There you have it: my five simple rules.

Hopefully LadyTerri will let me back inside long enough so I can post them soon.

Maybe Daisy can unlock the door ...

Porno for Pandas

Predator Press

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"Pull my finger!"

Full Immersion

Predator Press

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I have come into possession of my very first deep fryer.

Sweet.

I started small. You know, french fries, mushrooms, that sort of thing.

But soon my habit blossomed.

Within hours, I was deep-frying an entire 16 oz block of cheddar.

And then a bucket of fried chicken.

Sure enough, this turned out to be what the cops refer to as the "gateway appliance": soon I was deep-frying a carelessly unattended pair of Oakley sunglasses, coffee grounds, an iPod, the entire first season of Spongebob Squarepants on VHS, and somewhere around four pillowcases.

LadyTerri calls it "cheating on my diet".

I call it science.

I had to explain all this to the Mattress Police.

Divining Rod

Predator Press

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If you're reading this blog, most likely you are already sitting.

This is good, because what I'm about to tell you may come as quite a shock ... and I don't need any more lawsuits.

Here goes:

There's a pretty significant statistic of planet
Earth that isn't reading Predator Press.
Okay.

Relax.

Deep breaths.

Take a few seconds before continuing.

I don't type that fast.

Naturally, no one was more shocked than I at this news. I had the Predator Press scienticians check and recheck my figures and spreadsheets, and unfortunately there's just no doubt about it: at this moment you, 'o loyal reader, may be among the lucky few with my selfless Wisdom, Purity, Hope and Truth screaming electronically through your doe-like retinas and into your frontal lobe.

But we cannot judge this widespread ignorance too harshly.

See, roughly 70% of the Earth's population just doesn't get the internet at all. And of the remaining 30%, half of those have Comcast so they aren't able to read any blogs either.

This leaves about 15%.

Now two-thirds of these people are an acceptable margin that I classify as "blog fodder": they are the mindless yet litigiously-solvent and loveable masses of chaff that do the dumb things I make fun of -and won't sue me because they don't know I'm alive.

The remaining 5% are likely the surgeons, firemen, and congressmen -far too busy maintaining the infrastructure of the world, and clearly under the misconception that I am paying attention to it.

Essentially, this leaves Rodney Morgan who lives at 1664 Wintergreen Terrace in Pennsauken, New Jersey.

Rodney has internet connectivity, a fairly mindless job, not much of a social life, no lawn to maintain, no pets, and only goes to family functions twice a year.

Rodney has no excuses whatsoever.

And I want his ass kicked.

Earth is a pretty nice place when viewed From the Roads.

Making a Stand

Predator Press

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<a href="http://www.predatorpress.blogspot.com/"><img border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5168923798517701042" style="display:block;border:0px solid #000000;margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" alt="Save Canada with Predator Press" src="http://bp3.blogger.com/_WDsEaKOhn9U/SC4URUNa6qI/AAAAAAAACxw/A848_4ZygwI/s400/80s.jpg" img/></a>

Hex on the Breach

Predator Press

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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."

McKracken has deleted all of My Interesting Files.

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.

You can win free sneakers by
correctly spelling "The Cult of Qelqoth".

Wide Open Spaces

Predator Press

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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.

The people that built our house were contracted by Lord Likely.

Idle Hands

Predator Press

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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.

The picture ain't so good, but
Station Atomica comes in crystal clear.

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.

My legal disputes are all handled by Julius Bloop.

TV Dinners

Predator Press

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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.

Les would have been better off with some Gorilla Sushi.

Corn Hole

Predator Press

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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.

Crops grow better after a healthy dose of PULSAR FUSION.

Next Year in Review

Predator Press

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In 2010, Flowbee will introduce three new
settings: Lesbian, Butch, and Semper Fi.
You can never have a bad hair day at the Redneck Bar and Grill.

Shenanigans

Predator Press

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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 -:¦:- *'""*:•.-:¦:-




<a href="http://predatorpress.blogspot.com/2008/05/assault-of-earth.html"><img border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5168923798517701042" style="display:block;border:1px solid #000000;margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" alt="The bearer of this -The Predator Press Temporary Lifetime Achievement Award- has demonstrated such a fantastic aptitude for comedy that Predator Press nearly created an award to commemorate their momentous achievement. Predator Press is not affiliated with the Good Housekeeping Seal's fine services or products. In fact, Predator Press is locked in a fierce legal battle with them ... however, this statement can only be characterized as accurate if you replace the words 'locked in a fierce legal battle with' with the words 'being sued by'. Please do not lick, eat, snort, swallow, drop, smoke, or otherwise ingest award. Not valid unless placed on title page of blog, over, near, or in place of your respective banner. Or tattooed." src="http://bp2.blogger.com/_WDsEaKOhn9U/SBupFDd97fI/AAAAAAAACpc/mH-h_jyaD7E/s400/rsz_11GH_seal_C.jpg"/></a>

Hah!

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!

Jerk.
Eat Humor Blogs. Poop kittens.

Tantrums, Fury, and the Art of Self Destruction

Predator Press

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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.

And this year, we're all doin it.

Tuesday.

Obama don't dance, but the Comma can rock 'an roll.