Kickin' Ass and Taking Naps

Predator Press

[LOBO]

I'm silent.

Undetectable.

--and it was Mr. Submarine Ninja's last mistake to underestimate my stealth and guile.

"Shit!" he screams, sprawling in the darkness. "LOBO, what the fuck?"

"Doc Mike?" I says aghast. "You're a submarine ninja?"

"A what? What the hell is going on here?" he demands.

"Well, thanks to your catlike reflexes, now I have to get up to break your neck." I grunt while climbing to my feet --this martial arts stuff is really tough work. "Where are you? Hold still."

Doc flips the switch, and searing light blinds me. "C'mon Doc," I implore. "No dirty tricks. I would've expected you to die with some dignity."

"Why were you sprawled out on the floor like that in the dark?"

"You, my so-called-friend, have fallen prey to one of my deadliest moves. I call it the Bloated Starfish."

"I tripped on you!"

"Fell victim."

"Tripped!"

"Yeah, okay," I says, rolling my eyes. "Whatever".

"What have you done to your apartment?"

"I've converted it into my Dojo. I figured having a lot of trophies around would make me more menacing."

"Where'd you get them?"

"Garage sales," I says.

Doc inspects an inscription: it reads 'World's Greatest Dad'.

"So the neon sign out front that reads 'Chinese Food Restaurant' isn't a mistake?"

"That sign I stole says 'Chinese Food Restaurant'?" I says, deflated. "I was really hoping it would say 'LOBO's School of Bone-Crushing, Testicle-Ripping, Deadly Self Defense Art.'"

"No," sighs Doc. "It says 'Chinese Food Restaurant'."

"Odds were equally good," I point out, "that the sign would have read 'LOBO's School of Bone-Crushing, Testicle-Ripping, Deadly Self Defense Art'."

"It's in English too," says Doc. "Right under the Kanji."

"Maybe they're not bilingual," I offer.

"LOBO, Ethan asked me to check on you," says Doc. "Says your talking crazy. Something about submarine ninjas."

I guffaw. "Crazy like a Peking Duck Master," I point out. Cautiously I approach the window, and stare out into the inky silence. "--but they're out there. I can sense their movements." Grabbing a flashlight off the shelf, I stab light into the parking lot below and yell, "Hear that you bastards!? I can sense your movements you know!"

"LOBO," says Doc. "I think you've finally-"

"Oh my GOD," I exclaim.

"What is it?" asks Doc, startled.

"Someone opened a Chinese Food Restaurant here!"

Internet Swag

Predator Press

Katas

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Ethan calls.

Again.

Groggily, I reach for the phone.

"lobo?"

"Ethan," I says. "It's LOBO."

"That's what I said," he replies.

"Ethan, you know I'm in training. It's only 10:30 in the morning"

"So you're resting up for the submarine ninjas?"

"It's called a kata, sir," I says, setting the Cheeto bag on the coffee table. "It's a strict discipline, steeped in tradition."

"I thought today was laundry day."

"The washer is still busted," I explain. "I find it easier to just buy new clothes when the old ones get stiff."

"That's disgusting," says Ethan.

"It's a strict discipline," I explain.

"Well I'm giving you a few days off," says Ethan. "I don't want you stinking up the office, while submarine ninjas are wrecking up the place trying to pull your tongue through your keyster."

Damn, I think. I'm good.

"You don't think they will come here, do you?" he asks. "My 'lawyers' have really been packing on the pounds since they started studying your 'Peking Duck' technique. I really don't think they're up for this."

"You can take my cat Phil," I suggest. "He's a level 8."

The Art of Peking Duck

Predator Press

[LOBO]

“LOBO-san,” says the boy. “I have urgent news.”

“What is it, strange little person?” I says.

“It is I, son of Bang Ho.”

“I’m sorry about that.”

“Bang Ho," he corrects politely. "Grand Master of the Peking Duck!”

“That Bang Ho?” I says.

“Yes LOBO-san. He is dead.”

“No shit?”

“He and 14,004 of our Sacred Acolytes were all killed touring the White House yesterday.”

“I told them to got to the Smithsonian."

“LOBO-san,” says the boy. “I don’t think you understand. You are now Grand Master of the Peking Duck.”

My iPhone rings.

It's Ethan.

"Hey there 'Screaming Eagle' or whatever," I says to the boy, holding up a finger. "Hang on. This is important. Hello?"

"LOBO?" says Ethan.

"Yes?"

"I've started reading Predator Press, and I'm starting to suspect that what you're publishing isn't entirely true."

The boy tugs on my arm. "LOBO-san, ninja enemies of the Peking Duck are arriving on nuclear submarines. We must be going!"

Putting my finger to my lips, I give the boy the universal 'Shh!'

"I know," I whisper, leaning in close and holding the phone away.

"-Ethan is just tryin to get out of buying donuts."

Bush Finds Porno, Sexual Activity On Internets

Predator Press

[LOBO]

"My Fellow Americans," says Bush. "This morning, when checking my email, I got one from a little girl named 'Samantha' --or so it stated clearly in the 'Subject' field."

"But 'Samantha', it turns out," he continues, "Is a curvy 24 year old D-cup, and before I knew it, her magnificent, well-tattooed boobies had leapt straight through my retinas, and into my brain."

[a pause]

"Samantha," he says. "How dare you? How dare you promote your depraved naked activities in public on www.samanthaspreads.org, and send them to me over the public telephone? I, the very President of the United States, was a victim of teleboobie, right there in the Oval Office. And right in front of a tour group!"

[pause]

"Once we've closed all the popup ads and the entire tour group has been exterminated, Samantha -if, in fact that is your real name-- you will be facing Federal Trial for two counts of Aggravated Teleboobie in Abu Ghraid."

Dick Cheney Has Last Human Organ Removed

Predator Press

A happy and healthy Vice President Dick Cheney smiled and waved to the cameras as he left the George Washington University Jiffy Lube sporting his new terror fighting cardioverter-defibrillator.

"He will require some rest," explains Lead Technician Jeremy Ipswick. "But the operation went perfectly. The new cardioverter-defibrillator will have the VP fighting terror with 12% higher efficiency."

'Event of Emergency' Laminates Differ in First Class

Predator Press

During sudden decompression, traditional 'Place Oxygen Mask Over Nose and Mouth' instructions are less-than-popular among Americas' jetset.

Richie Sentenced to Four 'The NASA Life' Episodes

Predator Press


No one appeared more stunned than Nicole Richie when she was sentenced to do pilot episodes for a Fox Network reality show called The NASA Life --except maybe her own lawyer when she shot him right through the forehead with a 9mm.

"Order," demanded the judge, banging his gavel. "Young lady I said ORDER!"

Nicole, seeming to shake that spooky 'vacant' look, promisingly set the safety on her pistol and strapped it back into her thigh holster. "I'm sorry Your Honor."

"The fact that you murdered a lawyer in my courtroom won't get you any points with me today, Missy," said the judge coolly. "I'm going to make you ridicule honest and hard working middle class people for four whole episodes in space."

When asked for comment, Paris Hilton's Parole Officer claimed Paris was “already making daiquiris in the centrifuge”.

MTV 'Pimps My Space Shuttle'

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Beleaguered by accusations of sabotage and drunk driving, NASA --threatened with Federal Funding cuts and numerous parking tickets-- has decided to downgrade the expectations and pay of their most troublesome resource:

Unmarketable scientists and engineers.

"We saw this trend coming last October," says Senior Physicist Doctor Morgan 'The Mango' Therez. "And when the advertisers saw Exhibit hoist out the Discovery's engine in his garage to change the spark plugs, we knew we had a winner.”

When asked to demonstrate his scientific prowess, Xzibit drew us a diagram on a napkin. “The 'pimped' space shuttle, the EnterPlaya,” he explains, “will come fitted standard with floor-to-ceiling thick shag carpet, a kickass sound system, Xbox 360, landing gear spinners, eight waterbeds, and an aquarium. Booyaa!"

The Truth About the Rat Race

Predator Press

[Mr Insanity]

As LOBO was being arrested, Templeton peered out from under Phil’s rabies tag.

Phil, LOBO’s cat, was reading extreme signs of stress. And if Phil somehow didn’t find her way back into LOBO’s custody, poof, RDO's entire mission was a failure.

Baking in the 120 degree heat of the sunbathed car, Phil barely noticed as Templeton took flight through the cat cage bars. And perched on the bottom of the steering wheel, Templeton scanned through all data he had on internal combustion engines.

LOBO was already handcuffed and in the back seat of the squad car, but the Chick Magnet’s engine was still running; rolling down all the electric windows -the most important thing- was mere child’s play. The car would go down forty degrees within minutes.

But how was Templeton to save Phil from starvation?

Contemplating this thoughtfully, Templeton flew out the window to seek human aid, only to be promptly struck by a fateful sports car at 220 MPH. The impact ruptured the car’s radiator almost completely on impact, and caused it to limp woundedly aside less than a mile ahead.

The driver was racing from New Jersey to Las Vegas on a highly illegal and lucrative bet, and was suddenly in desperate need for an available vehicle.

And that’s how they met Jimmy Orlando.

Internet Swag

Predator Press

Lohan Sues eBay Over Faulty Ankle Bracelet

Predator Press


"Oh man, I just knew something was up Your Honor," explains Lohan.

Once sworn in, Lindsay Lohan dropped bombs: "This necklace is supposed to detect for cocaine, and it only worked for about two weeks," she sobbed. "And that guy had a 101.02% PowerSeller rating! We should all --in pursuit of justice-- collectively leave him some really mediocre 'Feedback'."

When asked for additional comment, Lohan would only reply by grinding her teeth, having animated conversations about how shiny her car was, and proclaiming any juror needing sleep a 'Communist Pussy'.

Keith Richards, legendary guitarist for the Rolling Stones and CEO of mammajammadrugtectingkewlaccessories105@yahoo.com, insists that MammaJamma technology has been 'totally bastardized by The Man'."

"These devices beam data about the wearer's drug use directly to my BlackBerry," claims Richards. "I just wanted to keep track of where the party was. This is the biggest exaggeration of a product line's intent since the sperm whale got a blowhole."

I'll Whore the Simpsons Movie for This Cool JPEG

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Miss Crabapple would dig me.

You know it.

Blogger Summit Accomplishes Little

Predator Press

[LOBO]

"Hey," I says. "Thanks for getting me out of jail."

"No problem," says Doc Mike. "Actually it was Lord Likely."

With a sharp crack, Botter delivers a series of searing blows about my legs with a riding crop. "If M'Lord ever hears of you besmirching blogdome by blogging on a dead rat again," he declares, "He'll have you basted with gravy, and leave you on an island of cannibals!"

"Yes sir," I says, wincing as my sweat burns into the wounds. "How's the food there?"

"Not bad," says Likely.

"Hey," says Domestic Minx. "Why aren't you crying like a sissy?"

"I temporarily fused my tear ducts closed with hot wires," I explain.

"Was that so other prisoners couldn't see you crying?" asks Doc.

"No. That was because a big hairy guy with a knife wanted to see what would happen."

"So you burned your tear ducts closed?" asks LadyTerri.

"Hey," I says. "I was just glad he wasn't some kind of weirdo."

"Good point," says Likely.

"I thought your were a 14th-level Master of Peking Duck," says Doc.

"I am," I says coolly.

"A 14th-level Peking Duck Master," explains Doc skeptically, "can hide under or behind anything, virtually instantly. Thai legend says it can only be learned in a vision during intense meditation."

"Intense meditation!" demands Minx, eyeing me closely.

"I overslept for breakfast and work the next day," I insist. “Fortunately I didn’t have eggs, sausage, pancakes, or a job. Everyone would have been totally fucked.”

"Peking Duck," says Michael-Anne incredulously. "You expect us to buy that--?"

"Where'd he go?" asks Minx.

"I'm right here," I says. "Up in this tree."

"So am I," says Babs. "And I studied The Duck under Ethan's 'lawyers' for two months."

"Babs!" I says. "When did you get out of jail? And did Ethan's lawyers give you that cool set of nunchuck chainsaws?"

"They would given me nukes. The EPA even cleared it. I just wanted the tactile pleasure of slowly dismembering you myself."

"And better JPEGs," volunteers Minx.

"Step back ladies," insists Likely to Terri, Minx, and Michael-Anne. "Don't get LOBO's blood on your dainty ankles."

"14th Level my ass," mutters Doc.

Former Country Music Star has $1000 for Bail

Predator Press

[LOBO]

While arresting boozy, brawling, drug-addled former country music stars is 'par for the course', having one in custody that can make her own bail defies all known modern history.

"I was totally floored," says Sheriff Jason Alden of the Lee County Sheriff's office. "I mean, rap stars yes. Rap artists share a special kind of camaraderie when it comes to incarceration, and often leave VISAs and 'bling' hidden in the cells so their rivals can be quickly freed and more easily shot at."

He showed us a manila folder.

It's obviously true.

"But Country music artists have a long history of getting raped by record companies," he continues, "and continuing on to boondoggle investment strategies involving precious rhinestones and impractical head and footwear. When I found out Mindy McCready had a Grand just laying around, I was completely mystified."

The fact that Mindy McReady had 'raised the bar' came with mixed reviews from the country artist community as a whole. "Just as soon as we get trucks, booze, beer, whiskey, boots, cheatin', divorce, IRS, taxes, John Deere, jobs 'an Jesus all rhymed up," says one fan, "she's gone and thowed in words like 'recognizance'. Ain't nothing gonna rhyme with recognizance. This is the worst thing to happen to the Marlboro Man image since Willie Nelson's hair."

When asked if "cowpunchers" really punched cows, he replied, "Only if they look me in the eye."

Britney Launches Malfunction-Proof Clothing Line

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Very popular in beach communities like Miami, the Boyant Chastity line of clothing has met nothing but rave reviews.

"Boyant Chastity clothes are very comfortable, modest and inconspicuous," says Maria Rodriguez Fernando Jesus Arigoto Vinnie Vito NASCAR Starbucks NASCAR Again Epstein Jones. "I always hated the unwanted attention I would get when I wore my thong to the grocery store or to church."

Snow: 3 of 5 Polyps Already Debriefed on Iraq

Predator Press

[LOBO]

You know, I thought this idea was so funny I would finish it later.

I'm still laughing too hard.

Research Team Doesn't Know Harry Potter Ending

Predator Press

[LOBO]

“I’m only on chapter 12,” complains Doctor Franz Swaret. “Reading the Book on an iPhone can be a real pain in the gluteus maximus, if you catch my drift.”

When questioned why they were out in the brutal cold and what they were researching, the electronics specialist rolled a "20", scoring a critical hit against a berzerker with his +4 Sword of Bloodlust, killing it instantly.

It was then we said 'screw this story'.

It's freaking cold up here.

Cheney to Run Country During Bush Surgery

Predator Press

[LOBO]

During President Bush's colonoscopy, Dick Cheney will search for Weapons of Mass Destruction and victory in the Middle East.

Predator Press Releases Fragrances

Predator Press

[LOBO]

We know that when you think Predator Press, you think romance; that's why we came out with our spiff new line of fragrances.

Predator Press Perfume ($19.99) has all the amorous scent and flavor of grilled pork chops and stuffing with half the calories; Predator Press Musk ($5.99) hints of creamy brown gravy drenched mushrooms and buttered biscuits.

Exclusive: VALERIE PLAME IS A SPY

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Valerie Plame screwed up our perfectly good exclusive today by admitting she was a spy in Federal Court.

We've known for weeks that she was a spy; it's written all over the bathroom wall at the White House.

And today, just as we're about to stuff this heaping helping of Truth down your gullet, she just flat out blurts "Hi. I'm Valerie Plane, and I'm a spy", right into cameras and microphones that broadcast it all over the world.

Seriously!

So we figure it's not a total loss, right? Maybe we'll be there to get the footage of when she leaps up and kills all them guys with a teeny concealed machine gun in her watch, or hurls a laserbeam stiletto hairpin into some important guy's heart. Or maybe she just vaporizes them with a satellite death ray, and escapes in a sports car that turns into a submarine! Hell, now that would be a pretty kickass story too. And it seems, after all, the least she could do after we've gone through all this trouble, right?

So what happens?

Nothing.

Thanks a lot Valerie.

WTF?

Michael Vick Falsely Accused of Dogfighting

Predator Press

We here at Predator Press rarely take part in "Investigative Reporting"; investigations tend to be lengthy and boring, and the reporting doubly so.

Still, when we found out that NFL star Michael Vick was under fire for alleged dogfighting, we were really intrigued.

But a preliminary examination of Micheal Vick's lavish pad produced exactly zero airplanes. None. Zip.

Hear that CNN?

The fact is, Michael Vick doesn't possess a current pilot's license, nor has he ever. And aside from 2 rather incriminating Red Baron frozen pepperoni pizzas and a conspicuously inordinate amount of bottled water and lava lamps, we uncovered absolutely nothing during the search to support these slanderous allegations. How can a man with no plane or pilot's license possibly engage in mortal air-to-air combat?

Hm?

Rowling Begins ‘Harry Potter and the Iron Lung’

Predator Press


Daniel Radcliffe, depicted left, has signed on to JK Rowling's final final installment in the Harry Potter series.

In this film, an incontinent Harry faces banishment from the AARP, and loses his health insurance for turning his AFLAC agent into a duck.

Radcliffe, busy trying to keep neighborhood kids off his lawn, declined comment.

Revenge-Seeking Paris Hilton to Record New Album

Predator Press


Paris Hilton, embittered by three weeks in prison, has re-entered the recording studio in order to exact her merciless vengeance upon Humankind.

On the condition of anonymity, a public relations executive from Apple --the iPod designer and manufacturer-- spoke with Predator Press immediately prior to his suicide. "Last week, we were worried about the liability when that kid almost got his head blown off by a lightning strike. Now this. I don't think even rampant iPhone profits will cover all the inevitable destruction and chaos."

Scientists from around the world are expressing agreement that the devastation will take on many forms besides the obvious economic ones. "We've linked last week's earthquake in Japan to the exact time Paris' sound checks were being done," explains noted physicist Stephen Hawking. "You know how a voice can shatter a glass? Well, picture busting God's glass, and spilling red wine all over His cosmic lapels!"

The EPA, distressed by the sudden flight of virtually all wildlife from the west coast, offered little comfort. "Let's put it this way," says Regional Director Alan Fremont. "We're so fucked, even the trees are leaning east."

Reports of mass immolations are pouring in, and human ears and bloody tufts of hair dot the streets between the broken bodies of jumpers. Bracing for shockwaves 'with the catastrophic potential to crack the planet in two', FEMA, the Peace Corps, and the National Guard have been recalled from all over the globe so they may spend their final days on Earth distributing contaminated ice with their friends and loved ones.

"We survived Yoko Ono, Paul Stanley's solo album, and the last few years of the Rolling Stones," says a homeward-bound missionary. "I was almost starting to think we had a chance."

Amy Polumbo Out, New Jersey Runner-Up Crowned

Predator Press

Shocked at Amy Polumbo's scandalous admission that she is 'not a robot', the committee in charge of New Jersey's beauty pageant reacted with her swift and immediate disqualification.

"Look," points out a judge. "Everyone knows the first sign that someone is indeed a robot is when they deny being a robot."

"That techno-floozy has a proven history of circulating her tawdry schematics," cites another official. "We have numerous photos of her publicly rubbing hydraulic fluid into her chassis, and completely removing her service panels at large drunken MIT frat parties."

"It really came down to her behavior," he explains. "When you think of New Jersey, we want you to think 'Garden State', not 'common filthy Popular Mechanics whore'."

The new Miss New Jersey, Rosie Reuboux, was unavailable for comment.

Boeing: Dreamliner Technology 'Crash-Resistant'

Predator Press

Press Release: I Am Definitely NOT 'The Emperor'

Predator Press

[LOBO]

As an official diplomat of the vast country of LOBOnia, I would quickly like to point out that I have never uttered the words, "I am The Emperor and I'm here to take over state government".

Just to be clear, that would have been crazy.

LOBOnia is a peace-loving nation of people that often go to great efforts in pursuit of not getting beaten up or shot; "Chancellor" is maybe more along the lines of what we were getting at.

You know, something fun.

Al Gore Jogging Route Mysteriously Destroyed

Predator Press

[LOBO]

"I'm baffled," says Chief Civil Engineer Frank Stewart as he puts stickpins in his map. "Never seen anything like it. The path of destruction starts at a Krispy Kreme, wipes out nine Starbucks, and ends curiously one half mile away at a Dairy Queen."

Nobody Likes Me In Here

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Having figured out how to post with the simple use of a dead rat, I would have been fine finishing my entire sentence right there in my cell. But my other new hobby -counting my time served by drawing hash marks on the wall-was already getting me into trouble.

"Jeez," says the guard. "How many of them hash marks are there?"

"40,045," I reply.

"But you've only been here two hours."

"Time can be very subjective," I offer.

"Listen," says the guard. "Your best bet of getting out of here isn't feeding this psycho image. Prison is about rehabilitation. You should take a class or something, and develop a skill that you can use on the outside. It would also demonstrate a social capacity for getting along with others."

"What kind of classes do you offer?"

"What don't we have?" says the guard, eying his clipboard. "At two o'clock, we've got 'Doing Drugs Out of a Light Bulb'."

"Nah," I says.

"How about 'Toilet Micro Breweries'?"

"No."

He flips a page. "Crochet?"

"No," I sigh.

"Painting."

"Uh-uh."

"How to Balance Your Wall Street Portfolio?"

"Oh God no. What was that last one?"

"Painting," he repeats.

"Yeah, okay."


***

"Painting," says the teacher, "has proven itself to be very healthy and therapeutic for men in captivity for centuries."

"Eneries?" I ask.

"LOBO please don't talk with your mouth full," says the teacher.

I spit my paintbrush out over my muzzle. "Centuries?" I repeat. "What the hell did those guys do?"

"It's a figure of speech," says the teacher. Still, the imagination can be a vastly powerful thing. That's why I had you paint 'Something That Made You Happy on the Outside.' Now who wants to be the first to bring theirs to the front of the class for discussion?"

Uh-oh

"How about you Posey?" asked the teacher, keeping thing moving.

Whew, I thought. How hard can it be to follow up after a guy named Posey?

An angry-looking, well-muscled man dragged his canvas to the front. "This picture," he says, setting it on the easel, "represents me stabbin the key trial witness in the eye with a parking meter."

The room was alight with excited murmurs.

"Very well done Posey!" says the teacher. "And I take it that's the Judge hanging from the chandelier, spilling his entrails? Nice attention to detail."

Blushing, Posey grabbed his painting and took his seat as the room politely applauded.

"How about you LOBO? What did you paint?"

"Eh, nothing," I says.

"Nonsense. I've watched you working on that for hours. Let's see it."

Dolefully, I am wheeled to the front of the class, and a guard sets my painting roughly on the easel.

"There," I try to shrug. "Happy?"

Judging from the gasps, it was as if all the oxygen had been removed from the room.

"What the hell is that?" asks Razor Face.

"It's a basket of puppies," I says.

Posey vomited into the isle.

"You sick bastard!" screams the teacher. "Get out of my class!"

... Nobody likes me in here.

No One Likes Me In Here

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Having figured out how to post with the simple use of a dead rat, I would have been fine finishing my entire sentence right there in my cell. But my other new hobby -counting my time served by drawing hash marks on the wall-was already getting me into trouble.

"Jeez," says the guard. "How many of them hash marks are there?"

"40,045," I reply.

"But you've only been here two hours."

"Time can be very subjective," I reply.

"Listen," says the guard. "Your best bet of getting out of here isn't feeding this psycho image. Prison is about rehabilitation. You should take a class or something that you can use on the outside. It would also help as you would have demonstrate a social capacity for getting along with others."

"What kind of classes do you offer?"

"What don't we have?" says the guard, eying his clipboard. "At two o'clock, we've got 'Doing Drugs Out of a Light Bulb'."

"Nah," I says.

"How about 'Toilet Micro Breweries'?"

"No."

He flips a page. "Crochet?"

"No," I sigh.

"Painting."

"Uh uh."

"How to Balance Your Wall Street Portfolio?"

"Oh God no. Wait. What was that last one?"

"Painting," he repeats.

"Yeah, okay."


***

"Painting," says the teacher, "has proven itself to be very healthy and therapeutic for men in captivity for centuries."

"Eneries?" I ask.

"LOBO please don't talk with your mouth full," says the teacher.

I spit my paintbrush out over my muzzle. "Centuries?" I repeat. "What the hell did those guys do?"

"It a figure of speech," says the teacher. Still, the imagination can be a vastly powerful thing. That's why I had you paint 'Something That Made You Happy on the Outside'. Now who wants to be the first to bring theirs to the front of the class for discussion?"

uh-oh

"How about you Posey?" asked the teacher, keeping thing moving.

Whew, I thought. How hard can it be to follow up after a guy named Posey?

An angry-looking, well-muscled man dragged his canvas to the front. "This picture," he says, setting it on the else. "Represents me stabbin the key trial witness in the eye with a parking meter."

The room was alight with excited murmurs.

"Very well done Posey!" says the teacher. "And I take it that is the Judge hanging from the chandelier, spilling his entrails? Nice attention to detail."

Blushing, Posey grabbed his painting and took his seat.

"How about you LOBO? What did you paint?"

"Eh, nothing," I says.

"Nonsense. I've watched you working on that for hours. Let's see it."

Dolefully, I shuffle to the front and set my painting roughly on the easel. "There," I says. "Happy?"

Judging from the gasps, it was as if all the oxygen had been removed from the room.

"What the hell is that?" asks Razor Face.

"It's a basket of puppies," I says.

Posey vomited into the isle.

"You sick bastard!" screams the teacher. "Get out of my class!"

Nobody likes me in here.

Thirty Minutes in 'The Hole'

Predator Press

[Mr Insanity]

So once again I find myself staring at LOBO through one-way glass. But this time it's in a state penitentiary.

"Wow," I says. "I rather like the muzzle and restraints. Did he try to hurt someone?"

"No," says the Warden. "He just kept complaining it was cold in there."

Two somewhat bookish, attractive women enter the room.

"Why are they here?" I ask.

"That's his psychiatrist and his lawyer. They're the only way we could get him to bathe."

"What?" I says. "How else will he get beaten and raped by the other prisoners?"

"Release him into the general population? No, no, no," says the Warden. "A diabolical genius like LOBO can't be allowed to interact with the other prisoners. He's far too dangerous. There would be pandemonium."

"Diabolical genius?!" I repeat, completely floored. "LOBO?"

"I'll sure sleep a lot better when he's released," says the Warden. "Then the prison will be safe again."

"This guy calls me to his house when he sees a spider in the bathtub. Have you even talked to him?"

"Oh my no. Nobody is allowed to talk to him except his psychiatrist and his therapist. Strictly off-limits. It's the 'diabolical genius' thing."

I watch as the blonde prepares a bucket of soapy water and a sponge while the brunette straddles him to unlock the steel hooks on the mask.

"Look," I says. "At least listen in. Can we do that?"

"Listen in?" says the Warden. "Why would we want to do that? Just the very idea just gives me goose pimples."

Looking under the window, I see an audio speaker. The Warden stares frozen in mute horror as I flip the switch to the 'on' position, just as the blonde is removing LOBO's muzzle.

"Hello Clarice," says LOBO.

The Warden has stopped breathing entirely.

"Relax," I whisper. "That's Doctor Clarice DePalma. Psychiatrist."

"Hello LOBO," says Doctor DePalma.

"Hello Sydney," says LOBO.

I hear a tight whimper from the Warden.

"That's Sydney Warwick et al, from Daly, Warwick, and Chun," I explain in a frustrated, hushed tones. "She got off all twelve jurors off in the O.J. trial. Now stop watching so many fucking movies."

"Hello LOBO," says Sydney.

"Have you checked the children?" LOBO asks.

The Warden fainted.

"Yes, sweetie," replies Clarice. "That case of headlice didn't come from anyone at her school. We were all relieved."

"LOBO," says Sydney. "Have you been being good and telling everyone what I told you to tell them?"

"Yes, Sydney," says LOBO glumly. "But I gotta tell you. I'm not particularly fond of fava beans or chianti."

LOBO Goes to Jail

Predator Press

[LOBO]

"And that's what happened," I says. "I don't really understand what the big deal is."

The old man just stared at me.

I was feeling chatty. "Then, check this out. I figured if I was going to go through with the whole 'telling the cop to go fuck himself' thing, I was basically clearing my schedule for the afternoon. So I speed-dial Phil's vet to cancel his appointment, right? The chick on the phone is concerned that Phil will be left in the car when it gets towed. She says 'Sir, please make sure you call someone to come get your dog'."

The creepy guy just kept staring.

"My dog?" I says. "I mean my vet thinks Phil is a dog. What a dumbass. No wonder they think he's a girl!"

"Sir," asks the Judge. "Will you please sit so we can begin the proceedings?"

"We haven't started?"


***

"And that's what happened," I says. "I don't really understand what the big deal is."

"LOBO," says Babs over the phone. "Please don't tell me you used your one phone call to call me."

"Actually, I used that to order a pizza. I'm fucking starved."

"What do you want?" she twists the Rec Room payphone wire into a loop roughly the size of my neck.

"I want to break us out," I says.

"But we're in different prisons," she says.

"Doesn't matter. What we need is some way to make a bomb. I learned how to do it from watching an episode of MacGyver ."

"I'm listening."

"All I need is a paper clip and a tampon."

"How are you going to get a tampon in prison?"

"Well, that's where you come in," I says. "But first, can you spare one?"

"Let me get this straight," she says. "You need me to break out of my prison, and break into yours to bring you a tampon."

"You'll have to be fast," I says. "You'll have to back in your prison by the time it's discovered that I'm missing."

"You do realize that prison officials monitor these phone calls."

"I hope so," I says. "I bet they got paper clips."

Fast Lane

Predator Press

[LOBO]

"Son," says the officer. "I've got you clocked at 240 miles per hour in a 35. Would you care to explain to me why you are driving over 200 miles per hour?"

"This is a medical emergency," I says. "And we need a police escort."

"Really?" He glances over to the passenger side and sees Phil's cat cage, chained and padlocked to the passenger seat.

"Yes," I says. "He's due for kidney testing today because he was eating IAMS a few months ago. We either go to the Pianosa Veterinarian Hospital or he dies. The hospital will sue me, I will sue IAMS, IAMS will sue China, and then China will wipe out Tibet. Now sir, are you prepared to have your fine performance record with The Force blemished with an international incident?"

"How about you just explain to me how you were going 240 miles per hour in a 1990 Plymouth Horizon?"

"It's actually a 2008 Porsche Panamera with custom-fitted removable vintage Plymouth Horizon panels."

"No shit?" says the cop.

"These weather-beaten fenders alone cost me $6,400. Those finely crafted dents in the door and on the hood were meticulously hammered in by hard-working industrious Brazilians. The interior is Corinthian leather, and oiled by genuine imported crushed bald eagles. The rusty discoloration is manufactured in Venice for $1,800 --the dust is about $8 an ounce. The left headlight has all the Blaupunkt stereo components, and the left has a death ray that On Star won't activate until I get a credit card."

I lovingly pat the primer hood, and the rearview mirror falls off.

"Breakaway mirrors increase aerodynamic efficiency," I explain.

"Did you know you're dragging your muffler?"

"That's a safety feature."

"Slows the car down?"

"No, the grinding squeal alerts other drivers to my presence, and the sparks increase my visibility."

"This all seems like a long way to go to keep your car from getting stolen."

"Well, I've always preferred to leave it unlocked and with the keys in it and my wallet sitting on the dashboard next to the loaded pistol," I reflect.

"Loaded pistol?"

"Knocking out those red lights in town has increased my fuel efficiency 8%."

"And it's never been stolen?"

"Oh, sure it has. All the time, in fact. But they always come back once they encounter the anti-theft technology: the Corinthian leather is flaked with hi-tech razor-sharp edges, and the battery doesn't last two hours."

"May I see your license and registration please?"

"I'm sorry officer. I would love to comply, but Phil and I are granted diplomatic immunity by the LOBOnian Consulate." I says.

"The what?"

"The LOBOnian Consulate," I elaborate. "An elite group of dignitaries that manage all affairs of the entire vast country of LOBOnia."

"Who are they?" asks the cop.

"Me an Phil."

Kitchen Fire Destroys Predator Press Headquarters

Predator Press

“See Ethan? I told you Pop-Tarts would pop
if you cooked them in a microwave.”

Papal Decree: "My God Can Kick Your God's Ass"

Predator Press

[LOBO]

"Look," said Pope Benedict XXX during the press conference. "I can't throw a rock without hitting a 'Church of Agnostic Baptist Jesuit Diagonal Orthodoxies' or whatever anymore -you mushheads would worship iced tea and spotted rocks if Tom Cruise told you to."

"Tom Cruise hates tea!" called someone in the background.

"Facts are facts people," Benedict continues, rubbing his temple in exasperation. "The bulk of you are going to burn in the Lake of Fire forever. And with electric eel enemas if I have anything to say about it too ... from here on out, I'm goin' Old Testament on yer asses!"

-The news that God hates and has doomed them all to Hell forever came as quite a shock to theologians across the world.

"I was so wrong all this time," says the dejected Dalai Lama. "Have you any idea how long I've been waiting to get one of them cool hats?"

"Hello Dalai," laughs the Pope, pulling the corners of his eyes into a squinty expression. "-So solly! I wear this hat, and only I wears this hat. This hat is deeply-rooted in the tradition of being a symbol of the One True Faith. But you can buy a nice baseball cap at the Vatican gift shop. I'll even Bless it for you."

Suddenly, Gandhi leaps from the shadows. Grabbing Benedict's hat, he scampers off. "Haha," he chimes, hat teetering dangerously as he dances in gleeful victory.

"Gimmee my hat back, you asceticist hippie freak!" shrieks Benedict. "I'll poke your eye out with this here pointy stick!"

"Alright that's it Gandhi," says Jesus, rolling up his sleeves. "I'm kicking your ass all the way up and down the Eightfold Path."

"You do that, and I'll tell your Dad," says Buddha.

"Oh really Buddha?" says Jesus holding up both fists. "As far as Gods go, you're pretty lame. I mean you can't even grow hair. And how about putting down the cheese sticks and spending a little time on that Nordic Track we got you for Christmas?"

"Wow," says Buddha, eyeing Jesus' circling fists. "I didn't know you were a southpaw."

"I'm not a southpaw," Jesus replies. "What makes you think I'm a southpaw?"

"Your left hand has the bone structure of a southpaw."

"Really?" says Jesus, inspecting it closely. "I've never noticed a-"

Just then Buddha smacked His elbow, driving Jesus' Holy fist into His own Holy nose.

"Buddha, stop messing with Jesus," says Mohamed, storming into the room. Sizing up Buddha's girth, he whistles. "Dude, we all pitched in on that Nordic Track. Did you even open the box?"

"Hey hey hey," demands Benedict. "Shut the door behind you or you will let out the air conditioning!"

"Yeah Mohamed," says Gandhi. "Were you born in a barn?"

"Oh, very funny," says Jesus. "My Dad can kick the crap out of all you guys."

"Yeah?" says Buddha. "Where exactly did you read that?"

"It's in the Bible."

"I thought God wrote the Bible," says Ganesha.

"He did," says Jesus.

"Okay," says Shiva. "Lessee here. If my Dad wrote a book about kicking other Gods' butts, I wonder how it would turn out ... "

"Excuse me," I says, clearing my throat.

"What the hell is that?" asked Buddha.

"That is one of My Father's creations," says Jesus. "His name is LOBO."

"Ewe," says Pelé. "I'm going to have to rinse my eyes in lava to burn this image out."

"How revolting," says Buddha. "Just look at his skin. Blech. He must play a lot of Final Fantasy XII. Jesus, your Dad is taking credit for that?"

"Maybe," says Jesus reflectively. "I think maybe I better check my facts here."

"Well, look into it," says Pelé. "I'll bet if you ever had to get an eyewash from a volcano, you would be a lot more careful."

"You could 'poki' you eye out," says Benedict. "Eh? Eh?"

[Nobody got it]

"He isn't even wearing any fish skeletons!" remarks Poseidon.

"Be serious P," says Tupoc. "This punk-ass loser ain't got no bling."

"Am I late for the party?" asks Zeus. "I brought everybody gold!"

"You better keep that 'Shower of Gold' in your pants Mister," says Hera, "or Perseus is going to public school!"

[All laugh]

"It's all good baby," says Zeus. "It's all good."

"Okay," says Benedict. "Nobody got my 'poki' joke, but Hera is all the rage by joking lamely about her husband's infidelities?"

"Dude," whispers Shiva. "Don't go there. Zeus gets pissed. Turns you into crap."

"Well Hera is an enabler," Benedict reasons.

"Uh, yeah, okay," guffaws Shiva, rolling her eyes. "If 'enabler' is a euphemism for slut."

"Excuse me," I repeat, clearing my throat.

"Jesus," breathes Ghandi. "Are they just letting anyone in here now?"

"It appears so," says Jesus.

"What is it repulsive little mortal man?" demands Pelé.

"Hey sister," says the Dalai Lama. "I wouldn't talk so tough. You eat poi. Blech. Eating poi is like eating a big bowl of acne."

"This dialogue is getting a little complex," I interrupt. "I'm only a blogger. But since you're here together, can't you just slug it out to the death once and for all? It would be a lot simpler to write about, and I only got about six shots left on my disposable camera anyways. This is the reel from Cancun."

"Fight to the death?" asks Shiva. "Why would we do that? Without many of us to choose between, humans wouldn't have the ability to decide who to worship. And what good is an entire mortal lifetime not squandered over the amusing fear of cryptic laws, weird rituals of worship, moral ambiguity, perpetual doubt, and the ever-present potential consequence of Eternal Damnation?"

"Well that's kinda what I'm getting at," I says. "Can't you all just duke it out right now and settle this big mystery? A single God would really take the pressure off, and that's what we're looking for really: a dynamic God with a refreshing 'can-do' attitude. That way we can just stop with all these headaches and just build Him or Her pyramids or whatever under a crushing, repressive theocratic reign for the rest of Eternity in happiness."

"I can see his point," says Gandhi. "One God and one simple set of rules would really help humankind through a lot of this confusion. Besides, I always wanted a pyramid."

"No, no, no," the Dalai Lama scowls incredulously. "If we lose, we'll prob'ly hafta eat poi!"

"How would we settle this?" asks Hera.

"Well," I says. "I got two-to-one that says Vishnu will clean house if it's boxing."

"Look, we're not boxing over the fate of the Universe," says Apollo. "I say we go 'Rock, Paper, Scissors'."

"Then it's three-to-one on Vishnu."

"Oh sure," says the Dalai Lama. "We'll play 'Rock, Paper, Scissors' with the fastest entity in the universe. Why don't we just save a lot of time and energy and give it to the guy wearing the gayest boots?"

"Kiss my ass," says Apollo.

"I'll bet it tastes like poi," warns the Dalai Lama.

"You know maybe Humankind is ready," says Zeus, stroking his beard. "Perhaps we should finally reveal to them that the True way to Heaven and Eternal Happiness is ... "

"Look, all this endless jibber-jabber is getting us nowhere," I sigh. "I think I speak for all Humankind when I say that we humans don't give a crap about all that blissed-out hippie Eternal Salvation or whatever, and sitting around and debating this crap is how we got into this problem in the first place. I'm sticking to my guns with the boxing thing. Elimination matches, one survivor, winner-take-all. Aren't you curious yourselves who the first punk would be to get whacked?"

"Not particularly," says L. Ron Hubbard.

Final Fantasy XII has Ruined My Life

Predator Press

[LOBO]

At the paltry price of a few days of my life, I have achieved an average level of 67 before leaving the city of Archades. Zodiac Spear in hand, I defeated the Hell Worm before even possessing the 'Arise' spell in a pitched, white knuckle 5-hour battle.

But I summon the mighty wrath of Gods upon my deserved enemies at a great price: the defense against the inevitable encroach of the lawn outside. I can almost feel the throb of continuously renewed, teeming life through the hot walls. Though it sickens me, I must endure.

I rationalize it.

My yard has become a real-life Salikawood tribute.

Even my woeful neighbors have stopped complaining as the City Zoning Commission has long since forgotten my dwelling even exists; only the pizza guy knows for sure, and he is well-paid for his tight-lipped secrecy.

Elaborate algebraic flow charts litter the floor in a visual effort to discern what effects Ether will have when under a "Reverse" spell while wearing the treasured and hard-won Pheasant Netsuke.

I think I need an 'Intervention' spell ... or rehab or something. I'm like that monkey from those cocaine commercials back in the 1980s. Remember? "He gave up food, sex, et cetera?" 'Cept rather than giving up the food, I've developed a rather kickass ensemble of sweatpants. And is it really fair to say that I "gave up sex" when my complexion has gone a pasty translucent hue from a lack of exposure to natural light? On the bright side, never again shall I require an X-Ray; if I drink cherry Kool-Aid, I can readily see any organ I choose under the mere flickering of the pale blue television light. And to ward off bedsores, I have an alarm clock that goes off every six hours signaling the time to switch sides on the couch.

Oh curse ye, Square Enix; thy hooks are deep.

THE LIST

Predator Press

[LOBO]

1) Former Hawaiian Govenor Ben Cayetano for lies, lies, lies.

2) UHPA (The University of Hawaii Professional Assembly) for endorsing the mammoth tuition hike in 1997 -thusly sentencing entire generations of poor and middle class academic hopefuls trapped on a tiny, overpriced island to bussing tables for rich tourists-in hopes of leveraging an inconsequential raise from the then current Governor Ben Cayetano (See Above).

In their defense, that "Aloha Spirit" ain't cheap, and they've made the transition from an economy based on tourism directly to one based on harvesting souls very smooth.

It's easier when you control the information, after all.

3) Telemarketers Lightly salted, jagged and rusty catheters. 'Nuff said.

4) Books Banned by Churches that are are Actually Pretty Lame Overall "Catcher in the Rye" was such a pile of horsecrap, I started this blog.

5) Caffeine-Free Diet Whatever Yes. I want all the chemicals and side effects, just none of the flavor.

6) Movies With an Unwarranted Adult Rating Or worse, movies that have Adult Ratings with naked dudes and/or gay cowboys. If I wanted to see gay cowboys, I would just go ahead and hammer a railroad spike through my penis on an anvil.

--Please don't make me pay $10 on top of all that.

7) Cold Fries I always enter that first set of double doors at Burger King, and wait until I hear the skull-piercing beeping. Then I run in yelling "Fries Are Done!" in an electrified manner.

--It helps if you are wearing The Crown.

8) Movies With Roman Numerals in Them Didn't the Romans get their asses kicked in, like, the early 1900s? Why does anybody care about a demographic that got their ass kicked in the 1900s? I'm walkin' around watchin Rocky movies in complete confusion. Fuck Romans!

9) Mission Impossible Movies OMG where is my Motrin?

10) Jerry Agar I can't remember how, but he somehow bumped "airline food" off THE LIST.

--Whatever it was, it must have been serious.

Love Canal

Predator Press

[LOBO]

I just spent about ten minutes on my walkman listening to Jerry Agar pontificating about the woes of Minnesota outlawing the purchase of American flags made in China.

I'm not proud; I was mowing the lawn in 95-degree heat. Dragging around the widescreen television was simply out of the question.

Jerry's entire case was "What right does America have to decide for me whether or not I want an American flag made in China? Or any products made in any other country?"

Normally I would agree with this prick: how, where, and why people want to display the nifty new whatsis they bought really isn't of my interest or concern.

But China --with at least a few Human Rights political allegations unanswered—is responsible for a disproportionate number of dangerous products introduced to the unsuspecting American consumer this year. IAMS pet food killed many of our pets (Phil, as you recall, had resulting kidney issues arrested at no small expense to me) and 'Thomas and Friends' lead-lined toy trains were readily available to decay the minds and futures of our children.

This isn't "any other country" asshole; through sheer greed and negligence, China has waged a more subtle war, targeting things nearest and dearest to our hearts. And why didn't Jerry Agar’s Pro-Capitalistic Laissez-Faire Feng Shui philosophy catch this murder befor it could might have happened?

Because we had no cause to be suspect?

Congratulations, Jerry Agar.

You just made it on a very short list.

If lead poisoning children wasn’t enough for you to get concerned about the source of a product, I’m kinda glad you’re not in fucking charge.

Zen

Predator Press

[LOBO]

AS you millions and millions of fans already know, July is commemorated worldwide as the birthday of Predator Press.

This is because Ethan, I, President Bush, and anyone else important was born in July --although I'm sure there are others upon occasion.

Even as we speak, insurgents from August and June are petitioning access to July birthdays. Come on; those people aren't fooling anybody, and only anger the Gods of July further: they should be stopped by any means at your disposal. (On August 1st we usually throw out all the leftover cake, but lace it with rat poison. This kinda thins out those ranks 'on the cusp'.)


***

Here in America, I was initially shocked to see all the local businesses open and operating, completely contrary to the treasured national holiday of Predator Press Month. But then President Bush told me, "If those people aren't able to shop for cool birthday presents for us today, those people wouldn't be able to buy cool birthday presents for us today. And then we would stop contracting the company that provides the machines that shred all them unopened birthday presents and turns them into fat-free low cholesterol Turbo-Gruel for our 3rd world orphanage in Newark."

This would be a terrible time for the entire world to grind into complete economic standstill on those orphans from Newark. And maybe paying everyone time-and-a-half for working during this most sacred of months is good for the economy too.

I have decided to rejoice the festivities in the time-honored tradition of doing absolutely nothing. Well, nothing unless nothing need be done; then I will spend a little while wondering what equipment I would need to rent to do nothing efficiently. Eventually concluding nothing, I would then congratulate myself for my shrewdness.

Now what were we talking about?

Today’s News In My Briefs

Predator Press

[LOBO]

11 LA cops led on a high speed chase. While apprehended unharmed, the perp was subsequently taken to an LA hospital Emergency Room where she is expected to be dead in about 45 minutes.

The Tour de France opened today. My best guess is that French officials, rattled by Independence Day fireworks, gave a bunch of people distracting bicycles to avoid a miscued surrender.

The White House acknowledged 'Global Warming', as a result of melting ice caps and freon deficit.

Al Gore’s shockingly tubbier offspring sent to rehab. Annoyed Gore Senior --relocated carefully by scientists as not to send Earth into wobbly Vernal orbit-- grounds son 1 week of deserts.

--Wall Street concerned as Krispy Kreme faces Chapter 11.

Dick Cheney's 'Dead Earth' concert proposal met lukewarm support. The ACLU forms committee to investigate "prejudice against non-living", suggests more quail hunting.

After months of bitter court battles regarding an alleged sexual assualt, Kobe Bryant apologizes to Lakers General Manager for some reason.

College student accidentally gets Paris Hilton's old cell phone number: boils self when Hilton's "Fave Five" found to be Motel 6 locations.

President George Bush Junior is grounded from television after not cleaning up 1" = 1" scale model political quagmire toys before going to bed.

Goldman Sachs gets death threats: security guard for investment banking and securities firm woken up and forced to 'patrol menacingly'.

Nicole Richie Got LAID?

Predator Press

[LOBO]

The Global Scientific Community was rocked today by recent confirmation that Nicole Richie is indeed 'knocked up'.

Doctor Winifred Shaw, Head Researcher for the Darwin Institute, took a moment from looting the 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? What kind of creature looks at a screechy broomstick with a bad attitude and thinks "I simply must thrust my genitalia in that"?

Hurling a fire extinguisher through a rack of cathode tubes, doctor Shaw continues. "Barring the statistically improbable confluence of a blind recent parolee wearing earplugs and 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 on the fourth floor for years."

Clarkson Album Debut Marred by Terror Attacks

Predator Press

LOBO

In an effort to derail sales of American Idol pop star Kelly Clarkson's album "My December", Al Qaeda spent virtually the entire weekend trying to bomb the crap out of anything it could find in the United Kingdom --the birthplace of Simon Cowell.

Al Qaeda spokesman Osama Bin Laden expressed his fury in messages intercepted and decrypted by Predator Press. “I don’t care if that tawdry Jezebel won on Infidel Pig-Dog Idol or whatever. If I had known "Because of You" would be done in redneck, I would’ve bought Green Day’s “Dookie” instead!"

When asked to elaborate, Osama continued. "Well, I feel ripped off, and a Jihad on Simon Cowell is completely warranted; Sanjaya had more talent in is little pinky than this harlot has in her whole entire immodestly clothed curvaceous body! Ah ... oh jeez. Now I gotta blow something up again. That whore!”


*In Other News*
Predator Press would officially
like to thank Ann Coulter
for temporarily letting us move
our offices into her home.

The location, of course,
will be kept a strict secret.

Click here for MapQuest

Smashing Success

Predator Press

[LOBO]

If George can pardon a scooter, I'm issuing a pardon for Stretch Armstrong.

See, George and I have a lot of unanswered, tawdry aggression to get out. The much-sought-after Mortal Kombat "Fatality" and the collective, visceral dream of ripping someone's spleen out and strangling them with it was still years away, and mitigated only by unceremoniously bursting your 50,000th marauding Galaxian; saving six months of paper route money might get us a six-pixel seizure machine to exterminate entire alien species' on an Atari 2600 from the comfort of your own home.

But for the most part, all we had was either scooters, or "Stretch Armstrong".

George has long since exceded the "Spleen Dream" by simple virtue of not issuing Pardons, and many a tearful, guilty Texan jaywalker has ridden the lightning into oblivion over his admirable tenacity; thus, no one was more suprised than I when George finally had a merciful change of heart today.

But while a scooter was only cool if you could find Christian Slater and tell him to 'Gleam this bitch!' while blowing up a bus; Stretch was cool all the way until you let your dates brothers tie him between two car bumpers and peel out in opposite directions. Remember silently feeling a part of your soul cry out and die?

There was, after all, a more "dignified" fate for Stretch: puncturing him with a pen and leaving him to quietly bleed that weird, sticky and toxic blue gel over the rest of your toys until your mom discovered the ruined carpeting and kicked your ass.

But we are not here to judge your mothers' ability to roller-skate and serve people through the window of parked vehicles! It was a simpler time. Adults used to meet in The Diner, and secretly plot whose kids to buy a Stretch Armstrong for Christmas. (A 'Stretch Armstrong for Christmas' --for those of you that didn't know-- was a 6 month plan to make the whole damn family move because of an unidentified mysterious chemical HAZMAT spill in the closet, with tiny melting plastic red briefs stuck in it to explain away.)

Rise Stretch Armstrong! You are no longer the inanimate subject of our insufferable, unmerciful, unholy wrath.

You are forgiven.

Predator Press versus NASCAR

Predator Press

[LOBO]

You know, I really love July.

First of all, Ethan and my birthdays are both in July. Hundreds of people in millions of countries are preparing to celebrate them even as we speak. In a few days, even America will break out in spontaneous fireworks displays, commemorating their joyous adoration.

Ethan and I decided that these drunken people with explosive and incendiary devices blowing their fingers off in our honor deserved some kind of tribute; some way of saying "thanks", and saying it in a way they would appreciate.

So we sponsored a car in NASCAR.

Within six hours, our crack team of Predator Press scienticians came up with a sleek new design:

The Stingray

"So you're driving it, right?" asks Ethan.

"Hell no," I says. "I'm going to be cutting out the labels on these potato chips so we can stick them on the car. We're gonna need to sue somebody."

"Well, we need a driver."

"And one that's not weighed down bein' all muscular like we are. We need somebody light."

"There's always midgets," says Ethan hopefully.

"Hey!" I says in epiphany. "They got midgets at that Elementary School. That place is crawling with the tiny little bastards."


***

Man, midgets drive like shit.



During the qualifying lap, a cow walked across the track. And rather than using the assault rifle we provided, this guy swerved right into a tree. NASCAR would later claim this was due to "bad brakes, and subsequent catastrophic wheel failure" or whatever.

Fucking pansies.




* No childeren were harmed in the photography of this story. We used a "stand-in".

... That guy probably got hurt in the actual crash.