A Predatory Discourse on Entrecard

Predator Press

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As a 4-year blogger, I've spent the last several months aggressively seeking new ways to shamelessly whore my stuff.

I don't know about the rest of you, but the bottom line is that I'm a writer, and my goal is to get paid writing somewhere; therefore, I have to balance whoring with the generation of copious amounts of this schlock on a consistent basis.

The end result is a lot of a product of bare minimum quality, which I'm proud to say I excel at.

Occasionally, this has made me a little zealous to get on board with "the next big thing". As you may already know, I'm not much of a "commenter", and generally this is key in any blogger's success. I try. I swear I do ... but I just don't have it in me. Before today, if you saw any one of my various little avatars pop up on your site, you generally could rest assured that I like it.

Well, "Entrecard" has totally ruined all that.

Recently, the "blogosphere" got injected with this little tool and it has shifted my M.O. entirely. Now, instead of surfing news stories in search of story ideas, I'm hopping a startling number of interlinked and cross-promoting sites in order to get Enrecard credits -I call it 'skimming' for lack of a better term. These credits are useable for advertising on other sites, which presumably skim through my site with the exact same level of utter disinterest.

Don't get me wrong: via Entrecard, I did discover some real gems like spacedust and neOnbubble -brilliant sites that I am eager to share with you. But I was accepting whatever the hell ad happened to cross my path, and a lot of that stuff was just plain 'ole commercial.

I was starting to feel kinda dirty.

The fact that I evidently had "standards" shocked no one more than myself.

So a few nights ago, I couldn't live with it anymore; I ended up doing what likely constitutes the Entrecard Cardinal Sin, and gutted my ad schedule. This made me feel even worse, because now I wasn't following through with commitments I've made.

But how dare those other blogs exploit my Entrecard naivety, wreck up my credibility, and leave and make me feeling this way?

... I blame them entirely.

So to avoid the risk of feeling rejected -or more importantly, pissing me off- I've come up with some statistics to aid you should you seek becoming advertised on Predator Press:

Sites containing the words "Marketing" or "Make Money Online": 0%
Has suicide really fallen that far out of fashion?

Sites that promote anonymous link exchanging: 0%
The rest of humanity pays for prostitution. Why shouldn't you?

Blogs written by guys named Travis: 0%
Know why King Travis the Second never conquered Rome? 'Cus there never was no King Travis the First, Second or Third. It's a bullshit name we just made up like twenty years ago. If you're going to bother making up names, try something with balls like 'Chainsaw'.

... Unless it's a boy. Then I like 'Todd'.

Sites that automatically start playing music: 0%
You want me dancin or reading? I think another site already has this covered. It's called iTunes.

But thanks ... every cubicle in earshot really needed a sudden blaring dose of your '80s crap.

Sites with popups: 0%
I will kill you all.

Slowly.

Sites about pets and cutesy pics with captions: 50%
Actually this statistic surprised me too ... while I honestly think icanhascheezburger has pretty much got the market cornered, who can get enough of animals?

They're delicious!

Sites that make me laugh, are clever, insightful, amusing, thought provoking, and/or have potential: 75%
Just "good enough" isn't always good enough. We love you, but Predator Press is a fickle mistress.

In the spirit of this new tradition, I promise that the only ads you'll see here will be hand-picked kickass sites worth clicking on.

And to commemorate this day, I'm proud to have a kickass blog that I read on a consistent basis in the slot. I've been onboard with .45 Caliber Headspace since it's inception: it's darkly funny, well-written and frankly one of the best sites out there. From day one I knew it was going to be a monster success, and I was not wrong.

Thanks for the laughs .45.

We're glad you're here.

E-Bay Raid-Afay. E-Bay Ery-Vay Raid-Afay

Predator Press

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Dear eBay,

I just did a search for "Kung Fu Hustle DVD", and this came up.

This is not a DVD, it's a UMD.

To me, it's this is the pricey equivalent of a drink coaster.

I can see typing in a plain movie name and getting T-shirts 'an crap. But when I specifically search "Kung Fu Hustle DVD" I do not want a Kung Fu Hustle toaster. Nor do I want Kung Fu Hustle hair gel.

I want a DVD.

In no way is this a DVD.

To avoid confusion, I use a very simple principle to determine what is a DVD:


RULE # 1:

My DVD player plays it.

-This is to a DVD like a Boeing 747 is to foot powder.

Your negligence and total lack of precision almost cost me $10 ... Please feel free to continue this logic when you seek my credit card payment, and charge it to Brent Diggs.

Nonetheless, for betraying the prosperous commerce LOBOnia and America have peacefully shared for years -and dammit crimes against Humanity- I see no recourse other than to deal out harsh penalties for your treasonous acts: I hereby bestow upon you the official Predator Press Stone of Shame, and have had it permanently installed just outside of your main entrance.

Every day your employees come and go to work, they will be forced to gaze upon it and reflect on this shameful moment in history.

kewlguy_LOBO77

Ask LOBO

Predator Press

Blogging from two days in THE FUTURE has it's advantages.

For instance, no longer do readers need risk their deeply intimate details and crazy problems in the mail when seeking my advice and wisdom. What if those humiliating and profoundly entertaining letters fell into the wrong hands?

Now I can answer them in advance.

Behold:

"Dear LOBO,

I'm growing increasingly concerned my husband doesn't find me attractive anymore, and I'm starting to catch his 'wandering eye' with greater and greater frequency.

Can you give me some advice that
might spice up our romance?"

Kelly L. Bittencroft
865 Palm Palace
Tampa, Florida
33610

Kelly,

It's a widely-known fact that chicks pack on the pounds as a passive-aggressive hostile act toward their spouses, and nothing is more humiliating to a guy than a having a fat chick in tow. As an ironic consequence, however, this displaced anger exacerbates the cycling negative behaviors between you and your significant other. Worse, it leaves you a bitter old dried-up hippopotamus woman with drawn-on eyebrows, well-calloused bristling elbows, and gnarled toes that audibly snag and clicketty-clack on the linoleum kitchen tiles when you walk barefoot.

First, set down the Chunky Monkey; it will only degrade your health, and make you a further embarrassment to your friends, family and loved ones. Abandon the concept of 'spicing up your romance', and fully embrace your hate instead.

Spoil yourself! Go buy an entire case of Glade aerosol spray and a nice big fat insurance policy on your husband; the air freshener will be necessary to get the smell of molten flesh, hair, and Pabst Blue Ribbon out of the house when you throw the radio into his bathwater. Think of the flickering lights as the fading youthful beauty and vitality you might have squandered on that hairy, bloated, unemployed redneck: given enough time he would have left you an utterly spent and decaying husk, oozing the desiccated viscera of unanswered dreams and unrequited passion.

Sell the house and the Dale Earnhardt commemorative plates -especially the Dale Earnhardt commemorative plates; take all that insurance money and start over someplace in South America. Splurge for a well-muscled pool boy named Chavo, and indulge yourself in a moderately-priced cocaine habit to melt those extra pounds away. Go get so much plastic surgery, you'll make Mr. Potato head look like a ranked amateur hack.

Above all else Kelly, remember: relationships are a piece of cake, but you can't make anyone else happy if you're not happy yourself.

Report from THE FUTURE: Everything Still Dumb

Predator Press

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Having accidentally snapped the Space-Time continuum, I'm now conducting this blog from two days in the future.

Frankly, it's boring. Some chick named Colbie Caillat evidently discovered the word "Realize", and wrote a song that contained it 715 times. I sent her a thesaurus that contained numerous references to other words like "comprehend" and "understand" only too late: to her chagrin it's now being broadcast over 92 local radio stations 24/7.

But THE FUTURE is not a total wash. In news that will excite Fanton and Chelle B., we indeed have flying cars:




Unfortunately the human ability to drive has not evolved at all, and some autopilot jerk tooling around in the fast lane at barely 900 mph is a real bitch to pass on the freeway.

The really big advancements seem to have come for sports: taking a cue from the raging success of Shark Boxing, Major League Baseball has ramped up the game in an effort to satisfy the thrill-seeking "modern" viewer that stubbornly insists on being entertained.

After adding acid quicksand cleverly disguised as natural turf [pictured right], they did away with that pansy 4 base crap; baseball now has 56 electronically randomized bases from 15 feet to 6 miles apart, each requiring a vine swing over flaming pits of starving alligators swimming in hydrogen peroxide and gasoline. This dramatically culminates into a spectacular slide through broken glass and ignited napalm, and is celebrated by the award of 9 points, fireworks, and more free booze and meth for the player.

Major League Baseball has also adopted a far stricter drug policy too: now steroid abuse is absolutely mandatory. And why not have the greatest athletes modern science can provide? Enraged victim-exploiting monster thugs with throbbing forehead veins wielding bats were already highly-valued family entertainment vis-a-vis the Fox Network show 'COPS' ... we just needed them statistically quantified.

Besides locating Atlantis and finding out the Jews really did control everything, there really isn't anything interesting to speak of. But fear not, 'o loyal reader! I shall not leave you without some useful futuristic wisdom.


LOBOSCOPES

You are the only sane one left. All the other signs of the Zodiac have gone crazy and are out to get you.

It's kill or be killed, you poor bastard.



If you were never born, world hunger, famine and poverty would have abruptly ceased long ago; peace and harmony would've been the hallmark of all humankind.

Other than that, your outlook is great.



Still waters run deep.

Unfortunately, you are about as 'deep' as the Spice Girls.

Geminis should avoid careers that involve operating heavy machinery, explosives, basic math, spelling, and speaking out loud.



It is a tumor.

I don't know how you did it, but you got testicular, prostate, ovarian and breast. On the bright side, those things incubating on your itchy genitalia won't be succesfully diagnosed until after the autopsy.



There's nothing wrong with your sexual appetites a little "Liquid G" can't handle.

Otherwise, just conduct your sermons as normal.



You are shrewd and ruthless: upon reading these horoscopes, you immediately buy life insurance on every Cancerian you know.

To enjoy your bountiful destiny, it is a Cosmic imperative you eye your insurance broker strangely ... He's a Taurus. They like that.

It makes them respect you more.

Your lucky number today is "-1".



You will meet a tall, dark stranger. Carry a can of mace, and you might be able to get away eventually. After prosthetics and several years of rehab, psychiatry, and heavy medication you might even be released to the family on weekends.

... But don't count on it.



You Leo, are the lion of the Zodiac. This means you are as fat, lazy and worthless as the ones in the wild kingdom. While you sleep all day, your concubines run around hunting to feed you during the brief debacle of your slothful consciousness.

Well done!



You are a complete loser, and the only person in the world that doesn't know it. Your own mother has to refrain from signing it on your birthday cards. Even your pets know it; your dog hides on walks when other dogs are around, and your goldfish are trying to spell it in the aquarium gravel.

Don't feel too bad, however; you could have been a Cancer ...



You are intelligent, amiable, charming, and good looking.

... Nobody can stand you.



Your wonderful and generous nature is rewarded rather ironically by Fate when you 'Realize' you were killed by one of Colbie Caillat's tour busses.



You Pisces, are the fish of the Zodiac. Even if you've learned to spell "LOSER" in the aquarium gravel, your only claim to history and fame will be an indirect and unfortunate association with the invention of tartar sauce.

Fish are ultimately animals that swim in their own urine and get hooked, beheaded, flayed, gutted, and deep-fried by the billions everyday. That having been said, do you really want to know your future?

As if your horoscope will say "You will wake up tomorrow a Scorpio" ... ?

Duh!!

It's About Time

Predator Press

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Brace yourselves ... for what I am about to reveal to you might just be such a profound shock to your unprepared noggin, it might twist your frail psyche into a pretzel. And not a warm, soft and chewy pretzel ... I mean a mind-shattered, neurosis-addled, learning impaired, curled-up-in-an-embryonic-position-in-the-corner-of-the-room stale kind of pretzel!

Look at the date on this post. It clearly says "Wednesday, March 26, 2008", doesn't it?

Now look at your calendar.

Hm?

Ha! Bask in the splendor, ye nonbelievers! Albert Einstein and, eh, lots of other noted physicists all said it couldn't be done. But by the simple act of putting a picture of the inside of my pocket in my pocket, I have shattered the Space-Time continuum.

Indeed, it's all very scientific; you have to do long division, and there's lots of fractions an stuff. Nonetheless, I, LOBO, am speaking to you from THE FUTURE.

... In your face, you mathematical quacks!

Further, I hold in my hand a lottery ticket. But this isn't just any lottery ticket; it's a lottery ticket from THE FUTURE. And as soon as all you jerks catch up with me and we all get to Thursday, I'm gonna be a very wealthy man.

And what will I do with my kajillion dollars? Well, I certainly ain't going to take any blog crap; I'm going to hire pricey ruthless mercenary thugs like Mike Tyson, Bill Gates 'an Martha Stewart to go stomp the daylights out of all those other blogs. Then, as Predator Press stands alone over the wasteland of ashes and smoldering rubble, I'll hire some more guys to burn down the wasteland of ashes and rubble. Streaming tears of joy, I'll dance and squish my toes in what remains of this impudent "Blogosphere"... Then I alone shall reign supreme as technocratic god-king, merciless tyrannical ruler of all I survey!

I won't stop there either. I'll throw a barbeque, and conduct a mass execution of people who leave big chunks of onion in their potato salad ... we'll line 'em up right next to guys who wear eye-watering quantities of Axe Body Spray -dammit, it's high time we took a stand in the name of having a personality. And don't even get me started on the writers of ABC's TV show "LOST" ... can't they please just finally fix the 'collate' feature on the copy machine they issue scripts from? No? Well I'll fix those goddamn pothole plotlines good.

I must admit I don't completely understand how buying a lottery ticket when you time travel to THE FUTURE increases your odds of winning. I mean, don't all those other people buying lottery tickets on Wednesday have exactly the same odds too?

This is perplexing.

Let's just forget I said anything at all.

Illinois-Shaped Corn Flake Goes for $1,350 on eBay

Predator Press

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I can’t believe this.

$1,350!?!

My dandruff flake shaped like Idaho hasn’t scored a single bid, and it's twice that size!

I mean, I could see if it was a Lucky Charm shaped like the Hubble telescope -or maybe even a string of Honeycombs that looked like the Laker Girls!

But a Corn Flake shaped like Illinois?

-It wasn’t even frosted!

I couldn't possibly imagine what Jesus would say.

Well, except maybe ...


Happy Easter!!!

How Would OJ Fare at Shark Boxing?

Predator Press

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Our hometown Pianosa now has an exit off of I-80, and is starting to take shape. It's the only town in Illinois that has both ski resorts and tropical beaches, and located smack between a Denny's and a Shell Station. It has further been statistically proven that on Saturday nights 14% of the people at the Shell station know the directions to Pianosa (the other 86% are only looking for directions to the Denny's).

I intend to change all this: I intend to make Pianosa the host of the first registered global exhibition match of a chum-soaked man in boxing gloves being pitted against a pissed-off 47' hungry Great White shark.

Shark Boxing promises to be the largest Man-Boxes-Shark Pay-Per-View event ever broadcast on network television.

We've named our Champion "Daisy."

And once again, Predator Press scienticians have stepped up: this time to answer that age-old burning question on everyone's mind, How would OJ Simpson fare at Shark Boxing?

At great expense to you, 'o Loyal Reader, we built a supercomputer that ran simulations of what would happen should OJ accept our challenge to take the $100 prize money.

See, because she weighs in at around 3 bone-crushing school busses, you immediately think the reigning champion Daisy has the advantage, right? Well, you forget that aside for being an all-around good guy, OJ Simpson is famous for only one thing: his athleticism. He's a Heisman Trophy winner. Sure that was a few years ago, but I'll bet he can still play basketball just as good.

Shockingly, after 17 kajillion separate identical simulations it turns out OJ wins the bout 98% of the time.

We showed Daisy the statistics, and she seemed unimpressed. In fact, one of our techs captured Daisy muttering something about OJ being a "stinky-faced poo-poo head."

I can't believe OJ is letting her get away with talking trash like that.

Ask LOBO

Predator Press

[LOBO]

People are always asking me, "LOBO, after a mere four years, you've blossomed Predator Press into the colossal juggernaut of a blog it is today. What's your secret?"

I always tell them the same thing I tell both of our readers. It all boils down to two things: Awareness, Determination, and above all Discipline.

"A.D.D." for short.

See, what most people don't realize is that blogging about something is exactly the same as actually doing it. Here you can pretty much say anything and everything in full confidence that a preponderance of lack-of-evidence to the contrary is virtually everywhere. You know how I blogged about having lost both arms when I was shot down in the Battle of Leyte Gulf? Well now the U.S. Navy blogs about sending me disability checks. And remember how LadyTerri and I got married last week? The miracle of blogging transformed our wedding from this:




Into this:




Don't believe me? Ask any successful blogger to show you their "To Do" list. It will look something like:


1) wake up turn on computer, blog

2) take lithium drink coffee, blog

3) go to work call off, blog

4) go to doctor appointment surf WebMD, blog

5) reschedule colonoscopy eat White Castles, blog

6) clean garage buy gasoline, matches and fire insurance, blog

7) give dog bath away, blog

8) make dinner Mac and Cheese, blog

9) spend quality time with family ask lazy freeloading moochers to bring you some Mac and Cheese, blog

10) sleep blog

Again, discipline is the key.

And if all else fails, include some pornography.

Predator Press “Self-Centered Cosmology” Theory Rejected by Scientists, Wife

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Heather Mills Nets 50 Million for Four Year Marriage

Predator Press

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Musical genius you are I say -but that’s
6.5 Ashley Alexandra Dupres a day!

[chorus]

It's a Diabolical Thing

Predator Press

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AS we can all see, the bravado of DONCO has been its own undoing: WITNESS the proof that Don possesses weapons of mass destruction!

Currently he is constructing a giant Death Dog so devastating, once complete it will launch state-of-the-art unimaginable human-melting horrors and patio furniture from its sides.

And not just any pooch: it's a Boston Terrier.

... I wouldn't want to be Boston right now.

Read this Post or DIE

Predator Press

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After 57 episodes of "ASK A NINJA", I bought the book, T-shirt, the Neu Tickles album, the DVD, the cap, and some kickass black jammies. (Actually mine are dark green jammies; black jammies are described as difficult to get in Episode 1 ... but these are way cooler than black jammies: these got little froggies all over 'em.)

... As soon as that scary looking squirrel gets out of the front yard, I'm gonna open a can of whoop-ass.

Maybe I'm late for the dance (again) and you've already seen these -there are like 75 million episodes. Still, I thought they were a lot of fun. Check 'em out if you haven't!

Fore Science

Predator Press


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Following in the tradition of other great sages and intellects suffering from a deep crisis of Faith, I went golfing with Speedcat Hollydale.

As a natural born athlete, I derive much pleasure from sports: distraction might be just what I need.

"Fore!" I call. Throwing the golf ball up in the air, I smack it hard with the bat and it arced gracefully. The distance was good, but it landed far to the right of my target.

"Dammit!"

"That's a mean slice you have there," says Speedcat addressing his own ball. He had a curious habit of hitting the ball from the ground with a bent metal stick.

"You should let me take a mulligan," I protest.

"Not a chance," says Speedcat, concentrating. "I've already let you take six."

"But a daiquiri umbrella was stuck in my facemask!"

"Look," he says exasperated. "At some point you're just going to have to face the fact that you're gonna owe me that 100 bucks."

Whock

... Crash!

"Hah!" I says. "You didn't call your shot!"

"First, this isn't Pool. And second, that's the only damned window the police car had left!" Speedcat argued. "Speaking of which, we should get moving. That cop is bound to come out of that Dunkin' Donuts any second now."

"So you forfeit?"

"Like hell."

"All right, screw it," I says. Struggling under my protective sternum plate, I dig for my wallet.

'Your game was really off today," observes Speedcat. "What's bothering you?"

"I hadda get a blood test for the wedding," I concede. "The whole thing was very traumatizing."

"Did they find something wrong?"

"No. My blood got an A+, once again demonstrating it's intellectual superiority over all the other stupid and inferior bloods." I hand him a $100 bill. "I just feel like I was treated rudely from the start."

"Really?"

"Yeah. When I got to the medical center, I was very clear that nobody was gonna impale me except for Doctor Toboggans ... Especially not that quack Doctor I. M. Nyarlathotep."

Speedcat paused from packing his clubs. "Well that sounds pretty straightforward actually."

"Yeah. But Doctor I. M. Nyarlathotep was argumentative," I says, throwing my football shoulderpads in the trunk. "He was all, 'But Toboggans isn't that kind of Doctor,' and Toboggans is busy saving America from certain economic disaster,' blah blah blah."

"You're kidding," says Speedcat, tightening the knot on the kayak caddy. "Hey, watch out. Here comes the Zamboni."

"Thanks."

"So what did you tell him?"

"I asked him flatly what kind of 'medical center' the ignoramus was supposedly running devoid of such luminaries as Doctor Toboggans."

"Then what happened?"

"I don't know. The tranquilizer dart started taking effect."

The Prince of Dorkness

Predator Press

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"What, brings you here today my son?" asks Father Fritz.

"Well, Patrick Swayze's death really shook me up, and I'm getting married Friday."

"I'm so happy for you my child!" says Fritz.

"She's not Catholic," I says. "I've been trying to convert her, but she's really stuck on this whole 'Christian' thing. I just want to be sure I can tell her with absolute certainty she's going to suffer Eternity burning in Hell for her heathen beliefs."

"What?"

"Hey, I'm not doing those 'stand-sit-kneel-sit-stand-sit-kneel-stand-kneel calisthenics every Sunday so's I can go to Heaven with a bunch of lazy hippie pagans."

"But you haven't been to church since 1999!"

"That was by your request."

"You kept handing out Gatorade and towels and high-fiving people. It was very disruptive."

"I was moved by The Spirit."

"LOBO," says the priest, leaning back in his chair. "Have you ever considered any other religions? Perhaps becoming Jewish?"

"I can't make that whole 'beard-without-a-mustache' look work. And those 24' sideburns could get caught in the heavy machinery at work."

"How about a cult?" he offers. "I know for a fact there are dozens of perfectly good cults out there."

"Hm," I says thinking. "I know these Qelqoth guys with a cult that seems pretty cool."

"Well there you go," says Fritz.

"I just wish I could remember what it's called ... "

Predator Press Loses Product Line to DONCO

Predator Press

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Finally breaking the silence, blog mogul Don Lewis -author of "It's a Funny Thing"- has formally announced once and for all the sinister consolidation and centralization of humorous blogging from his notoriously evil fortress located in equally-evil Northern Idaho.

While initially shocked at the subsequent hostile takeover of our highly-profitable line of frighteningly realistic Halloween costumes, the folks at Predator Press Fiendish Fashions are preparing to surrender unconditionally to welcome their new comic overlord and CEO.



Frankenstein

Dracula

Ann Coulter

Creature from the
Black Lagoon

Frankly, these things were giving us the creeps anyway.

Did I Eat This?

Predator Press

[LOBO]

After three years, I finally got my RSS feed working.

I'm really impressed with myself.

I called my dad.

"Hey dad!" I says. "I got my RSS feed working!"

"What? Who is this?"

"Dad, it's me. LOBO."

"Who?"

"Very funny dad," I says chuckling. "We missed you at the wedding"

"What wedding?"

"I am married the fair LadyTerri."

"Oh man, she's hot."

"I know!" I says.

"Who is this really?"

"LOBO," I says. "Remember? You are undefeated at finding the most Easter eggs. I was the short one wearing the blindfold."

"Has it ever occurred to you that maybe your dad was the one hiding the Easter eggs in the first place?"

"You would get frustrated after a few hours, and from then on made us paint them white so they would be easier to spot," I reflect. "I found one on my Big Wheel yesterday."

"Well I wouldn't eat it. Look. I'm sorry. I think you have the wrong-"

"You used to drill us at 3:30 every morning in case of a zombie uprising."

"Zombie uprising? I'm sorry, but-"

"Unless it was Wednesday or Sunday. That's when we practiced for alien robot overlords."

"I have no idea what you are talking about. Say, are you calling me from a cell phone?"

"You don't remember bursting out from under my bed, banging a trash can and shining a flashlight into my eyes while zapping me with a cattle prod and screaming obscenities until I wet my pants? That's one of my fondest memories."

[audible sigh]

"You realize that alien robot overlords would be able to intercept these transmissions -if they really existed?"

"Um-"

"And that once they secured a foothold on Terra Firma, they would play back all these messages searching for possible insurgents? They would send Ragnarok the Colossus!"

"Or Thrang, the Human Rototiller!"

"-If they existed."

"How is Rex?"

"Zombie."

"Really?"

"Yeah. We hadda put him down in 2005. He unmistakably had The Look."

"So Rex is gone? Who delivers your mail now?"

"I dunno. Some robot."

"How's mom?"

"Possible zombie."

"Mom?"

"You know her. It's hard to tell. She's never been the same after the abduction."

"Yeah. Good luck getting her near a trailer park."

"I keep tellin' her the best way to kill aliens is with a tornado. But then she just gives me The Look."

"How about Aunt Phyllis?"

"Robot Zombie."

"Really?"

"She always was a social butterfly. It worked out really well for her ... she's a Class C."

"A stainless model?"

"Fusion powered. All chrome. She's really come a long way. And you should see how fast she can deal the cards at Euchre. Mom and her are still inseparable ... but if we have another incident at the children's petting zoo, I think they are going to call the cops."

"I can just imagine the bill for dry cleaning."

"Look. I gotta go. You take good care of that LadyTerri, okay?"

"I will dad."

"God she's hot."

"I know dad."

"And congratulations on that RSS feed thing. If you guys ever get down here to Capitol Hill, be sure and drop into my office."

"We will."

"And stay away from Humor Blogs. Those people are weird."

"I will. I love you, dad."

"Fag."

Opinion: Fisting Not Just for Old People Anymore

Predator Press

[LOBO]

You remember the drill: no sooner would you get that kickass skateboard ramp all set up and some blue-haired wrinkle kit runs out yelling "GET OFF OF MY LAWN!" Wobbling precariously on his or her rocker, they shook their liver-spotted and crunkly clenched hand menacingly at about eye-level to punctuate every syllable.

But widely-embraced by America as a whole, 'fisting' is now being done by a whole range of generations: Years ago I fisted Madeline Albright repeatedly over her foreign policy. Now, disillusioned artists on American Idol are fisting Simon Cowell even as you read this. Heck, a guy fisted me earlier in traffic!

'Fisting' has sneakily entered the American lexicon of body language, and is rapidly rising to a level of globally recognized symbolism.

Now that's progress.