LOBO PHOTOGRAPHED

Predator Press

[Ethan]

Personally, I always thought he was black ...
but couldn't those actually be Brad Pitt's legs?

In any case, this pic is going on eBay tonight.

White House Refuses to Answer Subpoenas

Predator Press

[LOBO]

When I saw that headline on CNN.com, I thought, 'Wow, you can just refuse to answer them?' Too bad Paris Hilton didn't know that a month ago. And just wait until Babs finds out!

As Supreme Chancellor of the tiny country of LOBOnia -the border being a 10-foot mobile radius around myself- this has little effect on me; we seceded from the nation months ago. But this is fantastic news for you, 'o Loyal Reader!

Cast away those piles of nuisance parking and speeding tickets, as the reign of oppression is no more. I would still recommend a non-confrontational attitude if you're ever pulled over by the police, as they might not yet be aware that they have no authority whatsoever.

The fact that they were living a lie all this time might be somewhat traumatic. Be supportive. Offer him or her one the refreshing beers icing in the passenger seat, and maybe a soothing hit off of your bong; revelations like this are seldom pleasant, and a kind, humanitarian gesture like that might make all the difference in the world.

Above all, be gracious in your moment of moral victory. Remember, this poor slob is now dejected, unemployed, on drugs and alcohol, and still has a shit-ton of weapons for which to "tune you up".

--just like in the Good 'Ole Days.

Was Paris Hilton Really Released?

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Here is a photo of Paris before prison:




But here is a photo of Paris being released from prison today:




Now while the resemblance is incredible, you might notice that "post-prison Paris" has more delicate, effeminate and attractive features than the original --a mistake commonly made during makeshift prison plastic surgeries.

Scienticians from the Predator Press Research Laboratory have taken tiny microscopic measurements over areas such as the forehead slope, bust size, chin length, et cetera, and have come back with a startling conclusion:


Clearly, what we have here is an imposter.

Was this a mystery person that spent three weeks doing "hard time" for our beloved princess? Or part of an elaborate prison escape?

Hm?

Exclusive: Tank Johnson Linked to Jessie Davis Murder

Predator Press

Bobbie Cutts Jr., suspect in the double murder of Jessie Davis and her unborn child, may not have acted alone.

A preliminary investigation has revealed that Cutts had a personal relationship with the troubled Bears player Tank Johnson.


"The association is as chilling as it is clear," states world-renown documentarian Oliver Stone. "Cutts had a dry cleaner who cleaned the suit of a college roommate of a guy that once had lunch with an Aflac saleswoman who bought a used car from a guy whose brother once fueled it in a gas station less than thirty feet from a mailbox --a mailbox conveniently used to send written correspondence all over the United States, including but not limited to Bobbie Cutts Jr himself. The implications are staggering."

Stone continues on to allege that Cutts had watched numerous Bears games on television --many that included “Tank” personally—most likely looking for visual cues and instructions. In his interview with “Son of Sam” slayer David Berkowitz, Berkowitz surmised that “[Cutts] probably felt the neighbor’s barking dog was annoying and often unreliable, and turned to professional football like any other guy that wants to kill his wife”.

The neighbor’s barking dog and Adam "Pacman" Jones, while wanted for questioning, have not yet been formerly charged with any involvement.

NBC, Predator Press Vie for Post-Prison Paris

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Our initial offer was some 2-for-1 Whopper coupons, and one for $4 off for an oil change at Meineke.

But then NBC edged us out by offering an additional $999,992.00 in cash.

So I call Brian Williams, right? I says "Brian, Buddy. What are you doing?"

And Brian says, "We're going to scoop you on this one LOBO. I've secretly always wanted to have a larger, more popular news organization than Predator Press."

"As Paris' oldest and staunchest supporters and fans," I reply, "we're still counting on her coming through for us instead. And NBC has a lot of potential; don't jeopardize your credibility over some petty jealousy."

"Screw you LOBO," says Brian. "We're getting this story."

"Screw me!?" I says. "I'll wedgie you up to your ears, you jerk!"

"Yeah," says David. "You and what army, you stinky-faced poo-poo head?"

"I know you are but what am I?" I retort cleverly.

"I'm rubber and you're glue-"

"I know you are but what am I?" I maintain relentlessly. Then, sticking fingers in both ears, I sing "Lalalalala" for like five minutes.

At some point, he hung up on me.

Real mature, Brian.

Real mature.

Editorial: The Driver 'Ten Commandments'

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Ethan and I have to weigh in on this; we've always been of the opinion that the ability to drive is reflected inversely by the number of 'Jesus Fish' symbols proudly displayed on the bumper.

So if 'Jesus is your co-pilot' and God is now in the back seat, do we all need to start driving minivans again?

1. You shall not kill.

Redundant? Maybe. If you remember, this is already in the 'Original Charter'. Or is that a subtle reminder that plague, pestilence, famine, locusts and floods are still okay?

Hmmmmmmm.

2. The road shall be for you a means of communion between people and not of mortal harm.

The only people we've ever seen "communing" on a road were in the major Chicago Metropolitan Area, on either I-94, or I-290.

And they're probably still there.

--praying for The Rapture.

3. Courtesy, uprightness and prudence will help you deal with unforeseen events.

So might a fortune teller, but looking into the future equals witchcraft. Thusly, 'courtesy, uprightness and prudence' may be actually considered Heresy.

4. Be charitable and help your neighbor in need, especially victims of accidents.

Always flip the decapitated family a buck or two to ease their suffering.

5. Cars shall not be for you an expression of power and domination, and an occasion of sin.

Yeah. We're in agreement on this one: All you cats out there with decals that say 'Git 'R Done' or have Calvin peeing on stuff are gonna be skinny-dipping in The Lake of Fire in fairly short order.

6. Charitably convince the young and not so young not to drive when they are not in a fitting condition to do so.

This is a call to return to what 'The Finger' originally represented.

7. Support the families of accident victims.

--and when you're pulling them out of the burning car, be sure to jerk their spine around violently; it might help 'bring them to'.

8. Bring guilty motorists and their victims together, at the appropriate time, so that they can undergo the liberating experience of forgiveness.

Bringing guilty motorists and their victims together is how the motorists became guilty and the victims became victims in the first place.

We recommend joining the 'Jaycees' or maybe a Rotary instead.

9. On the road, protect the more vulnerable party.

Throw them your handguns and grenades. Now you've not only protected them, but odds are you're the new 'more vulnerable party'.

--But always remember when 'turning the other cheek', everyone has a maximum of four --unless you're really, really fat.

10. Feel responsible toward others.

We're convinced this is a sentence fragment. It should say "Feel responsible toward others at very high speeds, and surrounded by two tons of fiberglass and steel".

--because if they ever do anything stupid like that again, you're responsible.

Spamlet: Act II

Predator Press

[LOBO]

"Okay," I says to the Ghost of Christmas Past. "Now you're going to give me shit too?"

"Look," he points out. "The 'Ghost of Christmas Past' wasn't in Hamlet. And why the hell would I try and give everyone the Christmas Spirit in June? I'm supposed to be in the Bahamas!"

"That's why he picks you up in the stealth bomber right before the duel with Hitler's Robotanks," I says, losing patience. "You know, why don't you try doing a little homework first, lil miss 'Negative Nancy'? It's all right there in my first draft."

"Sir?" a shrill voice yells up to the window. "Sir, are you there?"

I flip open the shutters, and look six stories down onto the sidewalk. "See?" I says.

"It's Tiny Tim," scowls the ghost, perplexed. "What is he doing here?"

"This is the part when the crippled poor kid mooches a Christmas turkey off of newly-redeemed Hamden-"

"Hamlet," the ghost corrects. "And the character you are referring to is actually Ebenezer Scrooge."

"Hang on there boy!" I yell out the window. "Ebenezer Scrooge wasn't in 'Hamlet' dumbass," I says, turning to the ghost. "And Predator Press isn't about 'accuracy'. It's about making sure that the moral of the story is conveyed intact." I lean down into my deep-freezer, and produce a 70-pound frozen turkey. "Wow," I grunt. "This thing must have been a damn Pterodactyl!"

"Hurry sir," Tiny Tim calls faintly. "I'm getting weak from malnutrition, and I think one of my crutches is about to break!"

"I'm coming you impatient little shit! Now shut the fuck up before you piss off my neighbors! I'm busy." Struggling with the slippery turkey, I set it on the edge of the freezer. "I'll bet that little prick is going to be a real pain in the ass once Hitler turns him into a nuclear cyborg."

"So what exactly is the moral in Shakespeare's Hamlet?" the ghost asks.

"See, Omelet-"

"Hamlet."

"Would you stop interrupting me when I'm trying to answer your questions?"

"Sorry."

"Help me get this thing up on the windowsill, okay? In this adaptation, Hansel, the main character, is deeply-wounded mostly because his sister Gretel is in love with his mother Ediplex. Plus she's like this really messy eater ... every time they have a picnic, there's like breadcrumbs all over the place. This pisses off the cops, and gets them fined like a million dollars by the EPA."

"You've never even read Hamlet, have you?"

"Sure I have," I reply.

"Is that it, sir?" calls up the boy excitedly.

"You betcher bony crippled ass it is, Rick!" I yell down. "Are you ready?"

"Yes sir!" cries Tiny Tim, arms outstretched.

"Wait," says the ghost. "You're not going to-"

"Here goes!" I cry, pushing the turkey smoothly over. "Four seconds remaining in the game, and Green Bay is up by four; LOBO sees an open man in the End Zone--!"

"I got it!" cries Tim. "I got i-!"

Suddenly, there's this thick, wet thud.

"It's complete!" I cry, shooting my arms up in the air. "Home run! LOBO wins it! The crowd goes wild!" Shaking my fist in celebration, I jog victoriously in a little circle while simulating a raspy crowd noise in my throat. "In your face, Brett Favre!"

"You killed him!" cries the ghost from the window.

"What? Nah. Look." I says, pointing at a twitching shoe surrounded by a growing pool of blood. "He's still moving. He's fine. Stuff like this builds much-needed character in today's uncultivated youth."

"Well he's leaking 'character' all over the place," says the ghost.

"Hey, along with all that great parking, a little rain must fall. And sometimes that rain comes in the form of big gigantic frozen turkeys. Is it my fault this place isn't wheelchair accessible? You heard him: he had crappy crutches; this was bound to happen eventually."

"So you're saying a 70-pound frozen turkey falling six stories on a crippled, starving boy was most likely inevitable."

"No, I suggested potato salad, or maybe coleslaw. The turkey was his idea."

"So you're merely the medium through which the 'Hand of Destiny' works?"

"Yep. Act of God. This happens all the time around the North Pole. You're just walking around minding your own business, you know, building igloos and clubbing baby sea lions, and suddenly a flock of indigenous turkeys succumb to hypothermia while flying overhead. Then wham. It's all over. Entire villages are wiped out. It's tragic."

"And this relates to Hamlet how, exactly?"

"Who?"

Spamlet: Act I

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Okay, fine. I was supposed to relieve Max, Brighta and Vetter from guard duty at six in the morning.

Wednesday.

But when I showed up Friday night, those stinky fucks were all sleeping!

"Wake up you lazy bastards!" I says, kicking them.

"LOBO," exclaims Brighta. "Oh please God tell me you brought food--!"

"Yes Brighta," I says. "We will have many talks and committee meetings over your obviously deficient work ethic, your inability to score any action beyond 'Butter-Faces' in bars, and your overall bitchy attitude towards guard duty in the future. But enough about your passive-aggressiveness due to latent homosexuality!" I turn on my holographic belt buckle. "Predator Press is bring robbed."

They stare in amazement at the beamed images.

"Wow," says Max. "That's really cool."

"It was $11.99 at a Best Buy in Dallas," I says. "But I think I got the last one."

"Is it that guy behind Cobe?" asks Brighta, pointing at a holographic Cobe walking fast as a jogger overtakes him.

"No," says Max. "It is Cobe."

"No fuckin way!" says Brighta.

"Yes Brighta," Max says calmly. "Look behind his left ear."

"It's a pencil," says Brighta, squinting. "Is it some special 'Secret Project' pencil?"

"No," I interrupt. "It was a goddamned authentic Predator Press #2 pencil, and it came right out of this here box." I flip it open. "See? There's only four left."

Brighta stares.

"Four," I demand, "out of a box of ten?"

"Watch," says Max.

Cobe walks right past his own luxury car, and opens the twin doors of a 53' semi trailer.

Like 10,000 #2 pencils spill into the road.

"I ask you," I says, staring at Max. "How exactly am I supposed to get Nelson Mandela to testify for Paris's release with this going on?"

"Well," says Max, "Don't let him fucking shop at Best Buy, for one."

CNN.com More Interesting When Read Too Fast

Predator Press


Russian Computers on Space Station
Rebooted, Partial Power Restored

-70 Dead

With Malice of Thought

Predator Press

[LOBO]

"Let me get this straight," says Nurse Garrison, looking out at me over her glasses. "Lindsay Lohan lopped your arm off?"

"Check," I says.

"You realize that your insurance doesn't cover prosthetics."

"I thought you said we had Mr Insanity frozen in a block of carbonite."

"I did," says Nurse Garrison.

"Well, I don't really see him signing anything soon, do you?"

"You're a monster," she replies.

"Fuck off!" I says.

I hate HMOs.

Jedi Woodshed

Predator Press

[LOBO]

"LOBO," says Lindsay Lohan, extending her lightsaber. "You are plotting to use drugs to fund an intergalactic Empire, and thus have fallen to the Dark Side."

"Yeah, so?" I says. "What about the 'Grateful Dead'? And Pfizer? And Twinkies for that matter?"

"You may have beaten my Time-Traveling Ninja Bodyguards," she continues, "but I emailed George Lucas today; when he finds out about all these copyright infringements, he's gonna sue you down to your socks!" She rubs her thumb across her fingertips, and then blows on them. "Predator Press is finished."

"WHORE!" I scream, viciously swinging my, uh, 'lit up, pointy-stick' ...

Rock Bottom

Predator Press

[LOBO]

"What happened?" says me.

"I gave the FDA a sample of OxyCaine," says Ethan. "Two hours later, the FDA headquarters burned to the ground."

"Who's the guy in the cage?"

"That's Andrew C. von Eschenbach, M.D.," says Ethan. "The head of the FDA."

Andrew C. von Eschenbach, M.D., wearing nothing except a tie and an argyle sock on his left foot, reckognizes his name and peers out hopefully.

"Yech," says Ethan. "Make him put on some underwear before he pokes someone's eye out."

I reach into the cage, and scratch behind his ear. "He doesn't seem so bad."

"Well," says Ethan, "without his approval, we can't sell this crap."

"Who's a good boy?" I says in my puppy voice while scratching Andy's neck. "Why you are!" I says. I hold up some pills by his nose. "Iszoo gonna 'prove Ethan's feely-good pills?"

Drooling sloppily, Andy nodded an effusive yes.

"I gotta tell you Ethan," I says, tossing the pills into the corner of the cage as Andy bounded after them. "I don't think this is as complicated as you do."

This is Your Brain on Drugs and Ruining My Carpet

Predator Press

[Mr Insanity]

“Is it addictive?” asks the President of the Food and Drug Administration over the speaker.

“Not at all,” replies Ethan. “OxyCaine lodges itself in the pleasure center of the brain and, eh, 'improves the efficiency the circuitry’ if you will, on a completely permanent basis. Who would want to increase dosage for that?”

“Are there any side effects?”.

“No, no,” Ethan says into the speakerphone. “Other than feeling and acting like a pretentious ass all the time, an intense enormous 24-7 erection and losing ten pounds a month like it or not, there are no side effects whatsoever.”

There’s a brief silence.

Then finally, “Um, can I get some samples before I make my decision?”

Predator Press Interviews: Sheriff Lee Baca

Predator Press

LOBO: So you're the heroic cop that vainly tried to free our beloved Princess?

Baca: No, I'm not.

LOBO: You're not Sheriff Lee Baca?

Baca: Uh-uh.

LOBO: Hm. That's weird. You do look familiar though. Hey, aren't you that shaved Wookie that sold me that crappy Timeshare on Kashyyyk?

Baca: Nope. But for your information, throughout history the Timeshare has repeatedly demonstrated startling gains in equity.

LOBO: It was on a volcano.

Baca: I'll bet the view was spectacular.

LOBO: I hadda flush the toilet water every thirty minutes to keep it from boiling.

Baca: Look, I'm a Sheriff in Los Angeles. I can't just drop everything and fly to Kashyyyk every time a tenant has a plumbing issue.

LOBO: I thought you said you weren't Sheriff Lee Baca.

Baca: No I didn't.

LOBO: Ever heard of OxyCaine?

Baca: Nope. And it's absolutely legal to sell it to kids until I do.

LOBO: So what motivated you to free Paris?

Baca: I thought she was hot.

LOBO: So Sheriff, you're admitting on Predator Press that you that tend to pull people over in an effort to get dates?

Baca: Why are you calling me Sheriff?

LOBO: Ah, hm. Well, you got any interests or hobbies?

Baca: Well, I do occasionally umpire for Little League baseball. It's in my contract with Gillette.

My God

Predator Press

[LOBO]

What are you people, savages?

Just look at this poor woman, America's Princess, weeping and screaming as they illegally haul her to jail once again.

I must say I am shocked and appalled.

After all she's been through, it's right back into 'The Clink'? While scrawling out her own adorable little version of Mein Kampf, she will most certainly waste away like a petite flower denied sunshine and water! When I heard her pleading to her mother 'It's not right!', my heart just broke.

Speaking of Paris' mom, I can only imagine how awful this must be to endure. If it will at all ease her suffering, I'm publicly offering myself up for adoption to her for the duration. Nothing weird -I'm not wearing Paris' clothes or anything-but if Paris' mom needs the companionship provided by your offspring laying siege upon your refrigerator and always trying to borrow money, it seems the least I can do for a couple of weeks.

And think about it for a second: Paris will come out with an older brother to look up to!

We're with you, Paris' mom!

OxyCaine

Predator Press

[Mr Insanity]

"For the last time," says Ethan. "Were not moving the entire operation to Los Angeles. Have you any idea how expensive this would all be in California?"

"You are suffering from hopelessly antiquated thinking in this regard," says LOBO.

"Excuse me? Just yesterday, you were calling for open revolt!"

"I've changed my mind. If being too pretty, too famous, too rich, or too whiney counts as a legal defense, I'm all for it. Hell, I've got a whine that'll rip through your cerebral cortex like a pickaxe. Want to hear it?"

"Not particularly."

"Ethan, just think of all the money we would save in lawyer fees when we load up our cars with drugs and crash them repeatedly under the influence and without a license. That's the kind of selective enforcement that we need."

"But none of us do drugs!"

"Maybe that's a problem too," LOBO retorts. "Everyone who's anyone is doing drugs now. America has embraced it. It's very 'Chique'. We need to 'get with the times' so to speak."

"So you think we'll all be better off if we start doing cocaine."

"Cocaine," guffaws LOBO. "Cocaine is so passé only criminals use it anymore. I'm talking OxyContin, Ritalin, and Viagra."

"I can't believe you're s-"

"Wait!" LOBO interrupts. "What if we create 'Oxy-Caine'? Now that's a party."

"Lobo," says Ethan. "You've sunken to an all-new low. Get the hell out of my office."

"I'm just saying-"

"Out!"

LOBO, rolling his eyes, closed the office door quietly behind him as he left.

"Idiot," breathed Ethan aloud into his empty office. Then he pressed the button on his intercom.

"Phoebe?"

"Yes, Ethan," she replied.

"Is lobo gone?"

"Yes Ethan."

"Get me someone from Phizer Research and Development on the phone."

No, You WON'T "Be Back"

Predator Press



Before ousting every last member of autocrat
swill from the empire we built, blow 'em a kiss:


Governor Arnold Schwarzenegger

State Capitol Building
Sacramento, CA 95814
Phone: 916-445-2841
Fax: 916-445-4633

To send an Email please visit:

http://www.govmail.ca.gov


ALSO


Los Angeles County Sheriff's Department Contact List

Los Angeles County Sheriff's Department
"Compliments, Complaints": (323) 526-5541

Gloves Off: It's ON

Predator Press

[LOBO]

So Paris is finally home after paying her debt to society with a lengthy stay in prison.

50 hours. Less than 5% of her original sentence.

People get stabbed in jail and have to stay. People get terminal cancer in jail and have to stay. Paris gets traumatized by, what, seeing a scary person in the window and is sent home? Is that how jail works? You raise your hand and say 'I don't like this' while crying? If so, get ready for a shitload of appeals!

That tears it. I'm tired of fat, bloated government pigs sending our kids -not theirs- to be murdered and maimed overseas. I'm tired of building their fortunes with my labor. And now that I can plainly see the provided hypocritical, inept and corrupt sack-of-shit Monarchist crap that passes for a 'Legal System' for what it is, I want to burn the whole fucking thing to the ground and start all over.

Minus the "Aristocracy".

Vive L'Anarchie.

Americana

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Living in America, a funny blog just kinda writes itself.

This is the only country in the world that would send troops to die in a field for your Freedom of Speech, and fine you were anyone to see a woman's breast in the process.

We buy great big fantastic off-road post-apocalyptic vehicles during a gas crisis, just wide enough to stop all the lanes of traffic while creeping over a tiny pothole.

And shamefully guilty of having brutally dragged people over here to do all the work hundreds of years ago, we simultaneously draw up legislation to stop millions of other people stubbornly trying to bust in and 'take away our jobs' --all the while 'outsourcing' work to other countries.

All I need now are a bunch of people in Alabama tellin' Arabs and Jews what Christ was like, and I'm all set.

But that could never happen.

Killing Time

Predator Press

[Mr Insanity]

Lindsay Lohan opened the plain unmarked envelope, and procured a piece of paper.

She unfolded it to find only two words, made up of glued magazine letters:


C oP P e R hEA d

fl O T il La

This was code for some very bad news.

Immediately, she dialed a memorized phone number she hoped she never would have to.

"This is Number Four," answered a digitally disguised voice.

"Where is Number Two?" asked Lindsay.

There's a brief pause. Then the sound of a phone in motion.

Like it's being hung up.

Lindsay smacked her forehead softly; she had forgotten to identify herself.

"There are raccoons in the barn," she added quickly.

"Hm," says the voice. "Are you on a secure line Number One?"

"Yes of course," replied Lindsay. "Now where is Number Two?"

"Number Two was slain a few hours ago."

Shit

"What happened?" asked Lindsay coolly.

"We're not sure yet ma'am."

"Not sure yet?" demanded Lindsay. "Have you any conception how much you time-traveling bodyguard ninjas are costing me?"

"Yes ma'am," replied the voice with detectable nervousness. "Number Two was on assignment to assassinate LOBO as planned. LOBO and an unknown subject were coming out of a restaurant, and Number Two reported he was about to move on the target. That's the last we heard from him."

"How do you know he's not in deep cover still following the target?" asked Lindsay.

"We found his body ma'am. He had a large Dennys serving tray imbedded in his skull. Judging by the angle and velocity, we calculate that the killshot was hurled from the window of a vehicle, most likely a 2007 Cadillac of some sort."

"This is very unfortunate Number Four," says Lindsay. "Unfortunate and very, very sloppy."

"Yes ma'am-"

Lindsay hung up, and sat on the corner of the bed.

Well well, LOBO, she thought. By killing Number Two, you were obviously a much more formidable enemy than I might have suspected.

Opening her closet, she peered at the series of pictures.

Gerald R. Ford, Chuck Yeager, and Charles Nelson Reilly already had large black 'Xs' drawn over them.

This left only LOBO and David Hyde Pierce.

"We will meet again, LOBO," she promised the photo softly. Crumpling the cryptic envelope and note, she threw them in a metal waste paper basket.

And watching the small fire, she repeated, "Indeed LOBO. We shall meet again."

American Monarchy X

Predator Press

[LOBO]

“When Paris Hilton was handed a jail sentence,” I says, “my first impulse was pity. And really not for any other reason than I wouldn't want to go to jail, and I'm probably ten times as equipped to survive a jail sentence than she.” I flick my cigarette out of the Cadillac. “Pull over here,” I says.

“Really?” says Gilmore.

“Yeah.”

Gilmore’s eyebrows furrow. “That isn’t even a parking place.”

“There’s plenty of room for the car. That's a parking place if I ever saw one.”

Gilmore stopped the car in a rude diagonal, right in front of the Dennys entrance.

“For me," I says removing my seat belt, "the pity eroded quickly as I listened to her various and vapid post-trial defenses. ‘But I told the truth’ was the really odd one: there was no acknowledgment of personal responsibility anywhere at all; the fact that she was caught red-handed and decided to cooperate should've made everything fine.”

We simultaneously exit the car and walk in.

“Ten bucks,” I challenge behind the crowded Please Wait To Be Seated sign. “Ten bucks says I can get food before Paris Converts to Islam.”

“This isn't really about Paris,” argues Gilmore. “Trust me, ‘Paris Hilton’ is the last thing to worry about. In fact, she's inconsequential to the real issues here. As I've pointed out with Mike Tyson, blaming Paris Hilton is like blaming The Monster instead of Doctor Frankenstein. Paris, with few discernable talents, commands $250,000 for an appearance. Who writes those checks? We do. We made these people. We love them with our wallets and our cameras. We feed and house them.”

Watching a waitress come out of the kitchen balancing a large serving tray of food, I nudge him.

“That one?” I says.

“Nah,” replies Gilmore. “It’s all rabbit food.”

“As a repeat offender,” I offer, “she got a shorter sentence than I would have. And her parents mocked the judge, something that would have not only increased my sentence, but would have got my parents locked up too.”

One of the many families of four in front of us get a table, and we advance a little.

“Look,” says Gilmore. “We encourage this. Because at some innate level they are fun to watch. The brief spectacle of one ‘self destructing’ in an environment we provided them is just fantastic television. Fuck Paris. She doesn't deserve anymore credit than a pet goldfish; she’s merely a symptom of sadistic masses as a whole."

"See, why go and down goldfish?" I says.

"LOBO," Gilmore says emphatically. "We were watching Paris and just salivating for something like this to happen. That's a pretty barbaric form of entertainment."

Another waitress comes out of the kitchen.

“How ‘bout that?” I ask.

“Not bad,” says Gilmore.

We step out of line and into the restaurant, intercepting the waitress with the large tray of food. Gilmore slips her a $100 bill as I grab the entire tray, and we walk by the crowd still 'waiting to be seated' nodding politely, and climb into the car.

Excruciatingly, Gilmore continues as we fasten our seat belts. “I can't believe after all that, her sentence gets reduced."

"Heck, they gave her a private suite." I reply. "And she complained about that. It was making the time go slower 'cuz she was bored."

"Yeah. Can you imagine explaining to a Parole Board that you deserve to get out based on the simple virtue that incarceration isn't amusing enough? Or that 'the cells are filthy'? I would have slapped a few months on just for that! Why should we respect ‘The Law’," he drones, "when it doesn't even try for an appearance of integrity? It's bad enough that hard-working decent people have to work under the oppressive nature of a 'Free Nation' that employs a different set of laws upon the rich and the poor. But must their noses be shoved in it too? Paris complained that the cop initially pulled her over to hit on her. You know, that might even be true and I don't care. Celebrity, fame, popularity ... oh it's such a drag. This carefully and cultivated image was planned and thrust upon poor Paris, wasn't it?"

“Gilmore, I don’t think you understand,” I says, winging the empty serving tray out the window of the car like a discus before putting on my seat belt. “Paris Hilton is exactly that. She's America's own manifestation of Princess Di. She was born into this. Do you want to see our Princess sticking a shiv in some crazy tattooed naked chick’s kidney while showering? My god man, her own parents would probably kill you for that.”

“I understand that rich people have problems too," he rudely continues. "But it's really not the same is it? There's a huge leap between worrying about your family's mere survival and well-being, and worrying about ... well, whatever it is the rich are worrying about. I'm sure it's not easy. I imagine that had Paris injured or killed someone, her grief would have been completely insufferable; it would have tarnished her public 'socialite' image, and probably caused the cancellation of various endorsements. She probably would have had to cough up a few million to the family before she could bear to face her next latte.”

“Dude,” I says. “These potato skins are awesome.”

“Dibs on the mozzarella sticks.” replies Gilmore, peeling out.

"And you owe me 10 bucks," I remind.

It's Either This, Or I'll Burn Your Damn French Fries

Predator Press

[LOBO]

My mom once took about 300 pages of printed Predator Press posts to an agent.

Swear to God, true story.

The agent told her that I would have to pay a $300 consultation fee, and that there was no guarantee that they would even “pick me up”.

So it could be $300 for “pointers” from some guy who maybe never even reads the thing.

That story is funny on a lot of levels. The fact that my mother was hawking my stuff was very sweet and flattering. But it was also clear evidence that she –a strict Conservative Catholic-- had never read a single page.


***

Since roughly February, I've been trying to produce something every day ... like simulating I have a job doing it. Make it a discipline if you will. I think initially I was toying with maybe writing for sit-coms or something, and wanted to challenge myself to 'create' more frequently. This often required posting under 'less-than-desirable' circumstances (like days when I didn’t feel like it).

And I've gotta tell you once I abandoned even the slightest hint of quality, it was all smooth sailing. Perfect for television. Further, I’m proud to officially report to you ‘o Loyal Reader, that my rapid-fire posting over the last few months produced the same, exact, equally-bad writing. And a lot more of it!

Let’s face it. There are like 900 bazzillion talented blogs out there competing for attention, and I’m far too lazy for all that. Plus, I’m a hack: guys like Lord Likely will get the book deals; they’re the “Genuine Article”.

And sure I would love to see a paperback compilation of my stuff. But who would buy it when you can get it here free? And write for a magazine? What magazine would publish this crap? Hell, does National Lampoon even exist anymore? Or Mad Magazine?

Yeah, I’m pretty screwed. So when this “agent” specter got raised again, this time I’m taking a closer look. I mean it can’t hurt, right?”


***

So here’s the deal.

I can't do this on talent alone. So I gotta cheat, right? 'Agents', it turns out, are good for that. But rather than flopping down 550 pages, I’m essentially going to ask you to do all the work and decide on the 5 or 6 stories I present. Did anything on this site “grab” you?”

For this rather “objective and informal consultation”, I was thinking about devising a contest of some sort. And the Grand Prize would be The Most Valuable Unframed Object In World History On Earth That’s Not On Ebay:





Hm? Hm?