About the Author

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Within a short period, I will be marrying a the most wonderful and beautiful woman I've ever met.

She has kids, so the acronym "MILF" definitely applies.

But by virtue of this, will I get promoted to "DILF"?

No One Falls for "Pull My Finger" Gags Anymore

Predator Press

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But if you tie a string to your finger, the comedy endures.

A Strange Sense of Porpoise

Predator Press

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WOW!

Predator Press has never been slammed with like 57 awards simultaneously before, and we would like to thank Debbie Dolphin and Joyce Hopewell.

We were slammed with one award simultaneously before, but the Marines running Toys for Tots are keeping lead strictly limited to their bullets this year: a reciprocal plug for China seems in poor taste.

That's so damn many awards, I got exhausted just moving my Dale Earnhardt commemorative plates off of the fireplace to make room for them!

Will you guys help me carry all of them to the car? And up to my apartment? On my new piano?

I always buy a piano when I win awards.

... Pleeeeease?

Pressing 50,000

Predator Press

LOBO

Every few thousand hits, I'm going to do a random screenshot of my playground. (Note that cool desktop pic: I stole that at Photos from Northern Norway.)

Thanks for reading!

About the Author

Predator Press

This blog is a demanding and high-maintenance project already, and LadyTerri is always telling me, "You need to comment more. It will get more people involved."

First of all, I'm far too much a contrary blend of reckless carelessness and obsessive-compulsive psychotic tendencies for decent commenting; after stewing over what to say for an hour, I'll drop a little well thought-out intellectual gem on them like:


"Graet blog!"

--and completely overlook the spelling error. Then I'll break into a cold sweat: "That son-of-a-bitch's blog screwed me up!" I'll complain. "It didn't look like that in the preview!"

Then I imagine the entire internet looking at my comment, and laughing at what a dumbass I am.

That's a lot of people to have killed when you only four days off.


***

So I picked up a few comments of my own on my last post. Our friend Uri Kalish was kind enough to illustrate the definition of SEO: it's an acronym [anagram? angioplasty?] for "Search Engine Optimization".

Unfortunately, "Search Engine Optimization" is even twice as lame as I feared.

See, we figure Predator Press fans don't have any problems finding Predator Press, because one of the few prerequisites of being a Predator Press fan is actually finding Predator Press in the first place. We carefully planned for this actually: if too high of a percentage of your gray matter is tied up with respiration and lottery tickets, big words and sarcasm are only going to piss you off. And we don't have any liability insurance that covers someone poking their own eye out trying to 'bookmark' us.

Luckily, however, we've thought about them as well: by promising a few t-shirts to the more, eh, "militant" of our fans when we start merchandising, we've obviated the need for any SEO completely.

Look: every Predator Press fan knows to make Predator Press their homepage immediately, and even the dumbest ones have smart freinds that can make backups and capture cool images for their desktop. And those new smart Predator Press fans are the most valuable of all: they go to work an hour early, sneak around cubicle to cubicle and share the joy with their unwitting coworkers.

Don't -and I repeat DON'T- do that "cubicle trick" at the Defense Department anymore.

Those Defense Department guys are assholes.

And now I owe those pricks a lot of t-shirts.


***

So I'm looking at my new listing on Humor Blogs (I said I had a kickass blog: I never said anything about the continuity of the writing). And ours is one of the few without a banner.

I felt a strange pang of disloyalty. I mean just about everyone else has a banner, right? I like to think that I have a rather spectacular gift of knowing exactly how and when to collapse to peer pressure with style: it has been one of my finest qualities since junior high school.

So after thirty hours of no sleep --and when I say 30 hours, I mean 29.75 hours of trying to get my newly-pirated image editing software to work, and .25 hours of good and sound actual sheer creativity-- I had finished what I had regarded as a 160 X 40 pixel masterpiece.

Behold:




When LadyTerri saw that on Humor Blogs, she laughed her ass off. Which is cool. I mean, aside from someone having a fatal seizure and the cops finding a smouldering corpse staring at my cool new banner and us getting a "BLOG KILLS" plug on CNN, laughing at it is the second-best desired effect, right?

But it turns out she's laughing at the banner and not with it.

"That's it?" she guffaws. "These people spend a lot of time and money on banners. Those people are serious bloggers. And you throw five words in black and white up there?"

I was so pissed, I diverted the conversation to our upcoming wedding.

She must pay for this insolence.


***

We've both agreed on tattoos rather than wedding rings. I tend to work in industrial environments, and plus neither one of us take much stock in "conspicuous consumption" by virtue of gems and jewelry: her willingness to accept these explanations has saved me a bundle, and I am absolutely crazy about this woman.

"What are the tattoos going to say?" she asks.

That's actually something I hadn't thought of honestly. I thought we were just going to get bands. "I don't know. Our names?"

She says, "I'm just going to get [our new last name]."

"Okay," I says. "I'll just get [my current last name] too."

She frowns, "No. That's only your last name now."

"And that'll be only your last name then," I point out.

"Well, I just wanted to keep it simple," she says. "I've never had a tattoo before, and I've heard it hurts a lot."

"Well, we'll get really drunk," I reason, hoping to bluff into a decent position for negotiation.

"We could just get each other's first name," she offers.

"I suppose," I says. "But then the next thing you know, you're hanging around with dozens of other [My First Name]s, subverting swift religious persecution by trying to confuse God. And God doesn't take kindly to that kind of shameless manipulation."

"Oh please," she giggles.

"No, I'm serious," I says, taking her hands and looking her sincerely in the eyes. "Honey, I'm trying to save you from burning in the Lake of Fire for all Eternity!"

She bites her lip. "Okay. What will my tattoo say then?"

"I was thinking along the lines of 'Property of [My Name], the most handsomest and brilliant man in the world, and the only man I will ever love period ever again. Period. Keep Out. This Means You. Sincerely, [Her Name]. All Rights Reserved."

"You want me to get all that tattooed on my wedding finger," she glares incredulously.

"I haven't gotten to the bar code yet."

Ask LOBO

Predator Press

[LOBO]

People are always asking me, "LOBO, how come you don't have like 97 blogs?"

Well, I'm glad you asked me that.

My favorite neighbor, the Canadian Curmudgeon, has two great and well-written blogs. And from "across the pond" Lord Likely has about 12. No matter what your thoughts are on the butchery of our fine American language with that crazy accent, you have to salute the British for just sheer blogging industriousness; Lord Likely alone makes our discovery of England completely worthwhile. When's the last time you read a brilliant gem out of the Galapagos Islands? Hm?

But I'll be blog surfing in MyBloglog or blogcatalog and stumble onto some profile -invariably a weird, hairy dude with a scantily clad attractive woman icon- that has like 15 or twenty blogs, and the only thing they have in common is the disturbing desire to escape every one of them: the topics will range from something cute and fluffy like "My Intermittent Ponderings" to "How Spiders F--k".

And I'm cool with that. I mean who doesn't want to read an insightful scientific dissertation on how spiders f--k? How many legs can she get behind her head? I mean you have to click on that.

So now you're committed: Join? Not join? And then you start seeing the other stuff like "SEO Academy: Internet Marketing". Bloggers, I'm coming clean on this right now: nothing shuts my brain off faster than the word 'SEO'. It's mind numbing. I don't even know what the hell 'SEO' means, and I'm bored to death with it.

It has been long standing Predator Press policy to have people that visit but don't 'join' our neighborhood swiftly and quietly killed. But, for instance, MyBlogLog only lets you join 15 'neighborhoods' a day ... and it now I got like 18 more blogs to read by this prolific asshole! Man I was trying to relax and enjoy some web-surfing, and now you're making me make decisions.

Jerk.

So why don't I have 97 blogs? Because:

a) I don't have that kind of time,
b) I'm already complaining about stuff as fast as I can, and
c) I'm almost certain I've pointed out how lazy I am on this blog before, so back off.

Frankly, Predator Press is already beyond my control: it's a rampant and insatiable fusion-fueled juggernaut of a blog that chews up entire universes and spits out kittens. For fun. Another "Predator Press" would tear holes in the fabric of Space-Time, destabilize the "Blogosphere", and ultimately collapse the entire internet into a singular dense point that corrupts your computer cookies, downloads brownies and pizza instead, and ultimately skews your ebay feedback until you have to burn down your own home for the insurance money while fighting zombies dressed in a Speedo.

Would you really want more than one Predator Press?

I, for one, happen to like cookies.

And zombies are assholes.

A Pilgram's Progress

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Aside from Halloween, Thanksgiving is simply one of the most darkly disturbing holidays ever ... and I've already dubbed this year "Cranksgiving 2007".

You know, I am thankful. I'm having one of my best years ever: I've got great friends, a fantastic job, and a big-assed television. Game over. I win, right? So why stick me in that viper pit of poultry pounding relatives?

Jesus. I sneak peeks around the room, and find my mind turning the same thought over and over: how the hell did I come out normal around these weirdoes?

Then I force my attention back to the football game on my big-assed television.

God I love that television.


***

Inevitably, my cozy, slothful splendor will be torn asunder: somebody forgot something at the store, and I've gotta face the cold to address an emergency cranberry deficit or something. I mean why do I have to suffer for someone else's pisspoor planning? History is absolutely littered with the arrow-riddled bodies of pilgrims toting last-minute yams and 12 packs of Coke ... even after fifty of sixty years, have we learned nothing?

Mom should be fired immediately. Hey, I'm sorry ... I understand that you were up all night poking and prodding a dead bird in the oven. But this is like the 20th Century already: we have frozen turkey dinners now. Six minutes in the microwave. Plastic sporks. Boom! On to the football.

It's called the Pilgrim's Progress, and Americas neverending quest for big-assed televisions and footbal is well-documented in all the history books. Embrace it. Learn from it. And never forget, lest ye be slain horribly by Indians too.

.. And please note that I'm not saying be mean to mom; I mean she is mom after all. Give her a decent reference. Set her up with one of them "Golden Parachutes" and a nice severance package to make sure she can afford COBRA for the duration while she seeks some other deserving nomadic tribe of needful pilgrims without microwave ovens. It wouldn't be so bad if done properly; I mean all she needs to do is hang out on the beach and wait for a boat, right?

Mom could use a tan.


***

And every family has one. The member -usually a brother- who has a new "significant other" every year. So every year you gotta mince about on eggshells to impress this new person you will never see again.

Last year, we took the new harlot aside and insisted that the entire family had been genetically blessed with a superfluous nipple that, until blessed with new progeny, we primarily use to feed the cats.

She was gone before the football even started.


***

Inescapably my mind will turn to our troops overseas. Each and every one of them is a million miles from home, friends, and family, blowin the crap out of stuff. This is the one day of the year I'm completely overtaken by jealousy of them.

And it's here that the sarcasm screeches to an abrupt and uncharacteristic halt ...

Even as I sit and write and bitch, there are people being shot at to defend me. Kids mostly. Undeniably, a quantifiable statistic of them will never see the land they are fighting for again ... and some will be so brutalized, they might wish they were part of that statistic.

I'm scared for them, and I don't understand our enemy at all; can't we all just get big televisions, and watch the Packers smear the Lions through a sated tryptophan haze?

Even just today?

Happy Thanksgiving to our troops; you are in our thoughts and prayers.

And I wish you come home safe.

... so I can complain about you next Thanksgiving.

:)

Internet Swag

Predator Press

[LOBO]

As we can plainly see, my Permukaan is scientifically
quantifiable as bigger than the average puny bebas.

But I do miss the hos.

Weather Proves Difficult to Blame on Grossman

Predator Press

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Rex Grossman has more talent in his little finger than most of you armchair wanna-bees, and you so-called Bears "fans" outta be ashamed of yourselves for sarcastic crap like this.

Seriously.

According to our supercomputer, the Chicago Bears kick the crap out of the Yankees in every single Superbowl simulation.

I'm betting everything.

Internet Swag

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Do we really want robots to
look and act more human?

Predator Press Gets Book Deal

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Out Go the Lights

Predator Press

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Those silly bastards at Comcast thought that I would be stupid enough to pay them $200 a month to insult their lousy online service to the rest of the world.

So due to a complete failure in negotiations, I've decided to go back to a far more prudent $9.95 56k Earthlink dial-up modem.

... Earthlink has a 5X Accelerator now!

Internet Swag

Predator Press

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Karma

Predator Press

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It's a little-known fact that for extra cash in college, I hacked porn sites for fellow students at $10 a pop.

I suppose that could be considered stealing.

So according to the theory -to cancel out the 'Bad Karma'- I have to do a selfless good deed. Well, more accurately I would have to go to all those sites and give them $10, and start taking up Feminist causes.

Screw that.

Here goes Plan "B".


***


See that guy on the right?

He was a cop whose third wife was found with her skull broken in a bathtub.

After an investigation, it was officially ruled an "Accidental Drowning".

The only reason this has even came to light is because now his fourth wife, pictured, is missing.

Ladies, please.

Stop marrying this man.

(There. I feel better. Don't you?)

90210 Doesn't Hold Up Against 1856

Predator Press

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Blister Pack of Lies

Predator Press

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"Look," says Nurse Garrison, lowering her clipboard and sighing audibly. "I'm going to have to tell the insurance company something."

"Tell them it's Cobe's fault," I reply simply.

She picks up her pen, and pushed her glasses back over her nose. "Who is Cobe?"

"He's a guy that I sent to straighten out all our operations in Antarctica last year."

"So this is his fault how?"

"Well, he's still in charge of the scheduling and catering of the Company Picnic." I tear up as I stare at the wool mittens over my hands. "He did this on purpose. What kind of sicko schedules a company picnic in November?"

"But it's a clear day, and 72 degrees outside," says Garrison. "I think the guy made some pretty good choices all things considered."

"That's exactly what Cobe would want you to think," I illustrate. "But he scheduled the date and the caterer both."

"So?"

"The caterer came with a clear agenda," I says. "He sets up and starts grilling chicken. I simply asked him from time to time if it was done yet."

Nurse Garrison moaned dubiously. "How many times did you ask him?"

"Thirty four," I says. "Finally he says Sure buddy. It's done now. Knock yourself out. He never tells me that the stuff on the grill is like searing hot."

"So he caused 3rd degree burns on your hands, " she scrawls. "Were you around when he made the potato salad?"

"Yes," I confess. "Why?"

"We'll have to check you for tapeworms too." She pauses. "Colonoscopy?"

"Three weeks ago," I reply, sullen.

"Well you're due," she says, checking a box. "At your age, you can't be too careful. Now why are you wearing those cheap wool mittens?"

"They were Ethan's idea," I says, inspecting them wincing. "But I sterilized my hands in boiling hydrochloric acid first like he told me."

"Ethan told you to sterilize your hands before going to the hospital by boiling them in hydrochloric acid while wearing wool mittens?"

"This happened at last year's picnic. He figured with an HMO, getting my leg pulled would cost essentially the same."

Tearing a bloody strip cautiously from the mitten she remarks, "Is that salted Brillo?"

"Yes. But this year I remembered not to try to grab French fries out of the grease," I proclaim. "I hate that smell."

Internet Swag

Predator Press

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Freeloading Moocher Invades Predator Press

Predator Press

[LOBO]

"Hey, 'Geneva Convention' my ass."

The Hunt for Red November

Predator Press

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Doc Mike and I finish watching Duane "Dog" Chapman on Larry King Live, and come to separate conclusions.

Doc clicks off the widescreen. "You know what would have been funnier?"

"Funnier than this guy listening to an authentic recording of himself being a racist asshole, and blaming the National Enquirer?" I says. "Not really."

"Well, this guy is a bounty hunter, right? And bounty hunters are supposed to be tough. But this guy is crying on television? He shoulda rolled with it. Shaved his head. Got some swastika tattoos. Offered a half-price special apprehending black men while spitting foam all over the place."

"Yeah," I concede, cracking open another Blue Beaver Beer. "And then Oprah paratroops in -Mission Impossible style- rips off one of Larry's legs an beats the shit out of everyone with it."

"And how about that kid that sold the tape to a tabloid?" Doc continues. "I mean that family must be a total mess."

"I'll bet Thanksgiving dinner at that house is nothing short of spectacular. The kid walks in, 'Hi dad, I want you to meet my new girlfriend ...' Then the needle screeches accross the Perry Como record, and is followed by this big long awkward silence."

Doc muses for a moment. "Can't you just picture Dog carving the turkey with the gravy boat stickin out of his back?"

"That would certainly sell a lot of Tide and Shout commercials," I agree. "It's like a violent version of 'Dancin With the Stars', with 10% more white trash." I grab my laptop and boot up. "We should get Trew Life to narrate it. The ratings will be stellar."

"And right at the end," says Doc, creative juices flaring, "Al Sharpton comes in, pours the cranberries off of the hubcap they're using as a serving dish, and decapitates everyone with a single mighty throw."

"And carrying Duane's head by the mullet," I says drafting furiously, scrawling HTML like a machine gun, "he gets away by stealing the El Camino in the yard? I'm way ahead of you."

China Answers Demand for Lead-Free Toys

Predator Press

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You have to love an entire country that makes Predator Press "Quality Control" look methodical and comprehensive.

-And now there's a potential spokesperson deal for R. Kelly!

Wits End

Predator Press

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I hate the inconsiderate and ungodly hours Predator Press tends to hold meetings.

I've never been to a single meeting conducted before noon that yielded anything practical whatsoever.

Almost by instict, I've avoided them entirely. I regard groups of disagreeing people highly efficient mistake-making machines, second only to ones that concur. And never fail, some jerk is always yelling at me, "But we told you about the blah blah blah at the last meeting!"

Frankly, I'm just plain tired of people that operate under the assumption that I'm paying attention.

I hold meetings strictly between midnight and 2am. If you're going to disagree with me, you better be damn well committed, and fully prepared to face the full fury of your "significant other" who has to pick you up after being dumped at some nondescript Dunkin Donuts 800 miles away.

For smart cats, the quickest way to the mouse is the cheese.

Pipsqueak

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Look.

Nobody gives two shits about any planets other than the Moon and Saturn.

Period.

And by virtue of finding this obviously scientific and compelling jpeg on the internet, Predator Press is finally weighing in on this ancient mystery.

You know what we found? Bitchy scientist trying to make it hard on kids. Like when you make them memorize all 15 of the Presidents of the United States: it's all just academic busywork invented as a reason to pour more government money into schools.

Nine planets? Bullshit. And I'm not even talking about that whole 'Is Mars Really a Planet?' crap; as we all know, RDO destroyed Mercury six years ago and replaced it with an International House of Pancakes.

Just tell all teachers and charlatans this : "As per Predator Press, from now on there are only four planets: Earth, the Moon, Saturn, and the Sun."

They will likely be annoyed.

... We're screwing them out of billions in Student Loans.

Labels

Predator Press


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My second job -thanks to Divine Intervention- was a job working for none other than Steven Spielberg, and for a huge tax bracket jump to $6.50 an hour handing out the name tags at his box socials and raves and such.

As a young blossoming writer having finally achieved an annual income over five digits a year, I started to brashly share my creative gifts with the heavyweights of the Hollywood kingmakers.

Who knew the one that got 'Laci Peterson' would be such a bitch about it?

I'm not giving her any more glow sticks.

All Along the Watchtower

Predator Press

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The instant word was out that I was a new writing gun for hire, my historic rocket to stardom showed inevitable and undeniable signs of life: I got hired as Copy Editor for an eclectic and trendy, free-thinking hip publication called The Watchtower.

It was there I made my debut, and just look how I punched up that text on my first day:

"Consider the results of one study of at over 12,000 teenagers degrees Fahrenheit. The conclusion of the researchers: 'A strong emotional electrical connection to a parent car battery is the best guarantee of a teenager's health zombie-free human and the strongest barrier to high-risk behaviors becoming infected.' Yes, children zombies crave attention from their parents victims. A mother once asked her children, 'If you could have anything you wanted, what would you like most?' All four responded, 'More time with Mom and Dad.' brains!"

"How do you discipline or train your children without 'irritating' beating them? There are no secret formulas, especially since every child is different. and if you beat up a prostitute in frustration instead, her pimp will probably kill you."

Man these people needed me.

This stuff is pretty damn dry.

Hollywood Writer Strike = Deep Discounts Offered

Predator Press

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When it comes to scab labor, I'm your guy.

$9 an hour.

Period.

I'll even make Starbucks runs and sort paper clips or whatever. Loan me the Hummer, and for a free latte I'll squish that picket line into a gooey puddle that smells like construction paper, glue, glitter and tanning oil.

Think about that for a second: for less than $30 I can eliminate your enemies and crank out six full-length movies complete with corresponding Oscar acceptance speeches ... all with ample time to surf porn and complain about having to go to Starbucks for cheap Hollywood Bigwigs while making $9 an hour.

For me it's all about the integrity of the art.

Don't believe me?

Here goes:

1) LOBO: The Motion Picture

2) LOBO: The Motion Picture Prequel: An in-depth look at LOBO's parents, and how they screwed everything up with a staggeringly laughable inability to provide Panzer ground support during a historically critical defeat. This ultimately indemnified me from ever eating Brussels sprouts again.

3) The Scalding: A psychotic waffle iron terrorizes a bunch of dumb college students during Spring Break.

4) The Office Stabby Thing: Creepy, huh? If you thought that piece of crap about the kids running around in the woods, playing with sticks and dripping boogers was scary, this will institutionalize you: it's about a giant psychotic stapler that delights in hanging snarky Post-Its on cheapskate Hollywood Bigwigs with an unsanitary steel "U".

5) No Deposit, No Dice: A documentary about a guy who robs a sperm bank and now serves a sentence for 607 billion counts of kidnapping.

6) The Making of LOBO: The Motion Picture: All CGI and Special Effects are explored, including interviews with John Woo, George Lucas, Johnny Depp, Jessica Simpson, Chuck Norris, Geoffrey Rush, and the Coen Brothers.

See that?

13 minutes.

See, I'm like that guy in "Shine" except without the talent or that freak pasty thing going. You know, like after the kids have already beat the teacher's erasers together after class. Yeah. Like all the bullies just beat the chalk out of me, and left a pasty, broken, vindictive glob of flesh that had one finger left with which to blog with. And then years later, letter-by-letter the maimed blogger has them all horribly killed.

The Control-Alt-Delete scene alone will be huge at the Sundance Film Festival.

Do I hear $8?

In Space, No One Can Hear You Bitch

Predator Press

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Once it was discovered that I wouldn't stop throwing my wrenches on China, I was permanently removed from the Space Program.

Internet Swag

Predator Press

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Dog the Bounty Hunter Begins Sensitivity Training

Predator Press

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"You must let the healing begin. Close your eyes and
repeat after me: 'At least she wasn't Jewish'."

Internet Swag

Predator Press

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Stay the Hell Away From the Light

Predator Press

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I staggered into the Emergency Room.

"I'm dying," I gasp, collapsing to the floor.

"I thought Security just kicked you out of here," says Nurse Garrison.

"Twithe," I says, weakly fogging the glossy linoleum.

"You have a cold."

"I'm a crawling host for billions of parasitic viruses," I paraphrase. "C'mon, woman. Heal me for God's sake. It's not like I have an HMO."

"Where did you get the hospital gown?"

"I keep a few in the car," I reply. "It might save me a few mortal seconds of begging for medical attention on the hospital floor."

"Go home and rest. Drink some chicken soup."

"Chicken soup? What the hell kind of Voodoo crap is that?" I stand. "Shall I circle the chicken over my head while chanting? Hm? Are you even licensed to practice medicine in the United States? I want to see some credentials, you Hypocratic quack."

"Get a vaporizer," she offers. "You would be amazed how much that soothes."

I was slightly encouraged. "You know," I confess, "I've never actually vaporized anyone before."

With new purpose, I shuffle out in my paper booties. "You'll still be here in an hour, right?"