Dynasty

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Having caved to the pressure to move west, Terri and I took the kids to O’Hare yesterday so’s they could stay with relatives while we put our affairs in order.

The house is quiet without Screechy pointlessly runnin back and forth bangin’ and breakin stuff. And now instead of uselessly arguing for weeks with Shiftless, the lawn is getting mowed promptly. The phone is quiet and fully-charged in it’s cradle, cold to the touch in the absence of the medium-sized one one -eh, Complainy.

[*sigh*]

Who would’ve thought I would miss them?

I don’t have anyone to blame stuff on anymore!

[*sniff*]

Running and Mating

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Alright.

I don't usually weigh in on political matters -well, on any sides anyways- but I must say the announcement of McCain's Vice Presidential running mate Sarah Palin surprised me.

-And not entirely in an unpleasant way, like how sick I got when Ethan bet I couldn't drink all the old windshield squeegee fluid at that Amoco in Buffalo, Wyoming. I was more surprised like when MIT announced they had discovered a way to quanitify fashion sense between the hyphae mycelium of various fungi in lab Petri dishes. You know, the kind of surprise you experience when Paul Reiser lands another sitcom? You go "Huh. I really liked that guy in One Night at McCool's," followed by something like, "Hey honey, did anyone feed the cat yesterday?"

And I don't care that Sarah Palin has only been Governor of Alaska for 18 months. Nor do I care she doesn't have much experience in foreign policy. All I need to know is that she has five kids.

Five!

Sarah, that's awesome. You really like to get your 'freak' on. A lot. But just what does it take to get you to try contraception!? How many dirty diapers? How many boogers? How much screeching?

Republicans and religious people in general are against birth control ... hey I get that. But if Jesus, on a carpenter's budget, was trying to pluck melted Gummi Bears from his station wagon's upholstery while his four screaming kids bitched about how they wanted Dairy Queen instead of nachos during the Laker's game, whatever he was turning that water into would have far more devious applications than you could imagine.


Check out the Humor-Blogs Fantasy Football Blog!

Pipeline

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Ah, September.

And we all know what that means, don't we?

It's finally that special time of the year when all hearts and minds prepare for the biggest event of the year: The Santa Claus Blanket Party.

I can sense some of you starin' at this blog in utter disbelief. Oh, get over it. You're all thinking it ... at least I've got the stones to put it in print: that fat bastard has violated the sanctity of our homes for the last time. When he sneaks down the chimney 'an goes to greedily wolf down my milk 'an cookies this year, WHANG!, he's getting a snow shovel full of holiday cheer right upside the head.

Too chicken to help me with this? Fine, cowards! I'll keep all those Xbox 360s for myself then!

Look, it's not like I'm going to make Santa 'toss my salad' or anything weird; I just wanna rough the guy up a little. Maybe take the reindeer for a spin down to the Burger King drive-thru, that sort of thing. And can you imagine how much those little elves will pay in ransom for the safe return of their poorly dressed, fried food-scarfing king?

God, just the thought of that food-stained, grease-dripping beard gives me chills.

"But LOBO," I hear the mincing liberal pansies cry, "Why do you want a rusty, jagged, salted catheter put in Santa and the other end hooked up to a team of startled Clydesdales? Santa brings joy all over the world to often less-fortunate children!"

Yeah? Well screw them. I know all about being less-fortunate, thank you: one July when I was a kid I helped out the mailman by relieving him of the entire neighborhood's food stamps. But when the eighty-six pallets of Velveeta Pepper Jack arrived at my house, there wasn't anyplace to keep them except in the neighbor's empty swimming pool.

I would've pulled the whole thing off, but the dumb kid that lived there dove in and tried opening his eyes in the thick, spicy, bubbling murk. Screaming, he then attempted to wipe away the blistering sauce with fistfuls of my tortilla chips and somehow punctured one of his water wings in the process; this caused a potentially fatal clockwise downward spiral smack into the sour cream.

If that sour cream wasn't there, he most certainly would have drowned. But did the prosecuting attorney ever bother to point out my valorous consideration of the Coriolis Effect in this unfortunate incident? No. In fact, that jerk tried to my the whole thing look like it was my fault!

You just don't get any "less fortunate" than that: I'm a hero if you think about it.

This year, the fat man pays up.

I Don't Do Things So J. D. Has To

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Someday, when the ‘secrecy’ of what I do for a living is no longer important, my boss will probably tell you I’m terrible at relaxing. I spend my breaks and lunch hours poring over comparative spreadsheets, checking this, verifying that … it’s pretty much a textbook case of Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder on an epic scale.

Blogging, it seems, is no different for me. Since Blogger has no download feature, I’ve been trying to get myself to take a few days off so I can backup these 900 and some-odd posts that the ever-important Predator Press files survive a catastrophic nuclear strike or whatever.

Can't.

I lie awake at night worried. Will my millions and millions of readers be okay without me? What if there’s a massive panic in my absence? In my mind, only thing worse than you guys immolating yourselves or jumping off of buildings would be you guys immolating yourselves, then jumping off of buildings.

First I thought Terri, but she can't do it while I'm hoggin the PC. Then I considered Don Lewis, but he’s embroiled in his presidential campaign; I’m not sure he wouldn’t abuse the position for political gain. I mulled over Sinister Dan for a while too, but I’m pretty sure at some point he would have you guys immolating yourselves and jumping off of buildings just for his own personal amusement.

There’s really only one other person I can think of that can lead the massive throngs of fans serene and safe through the rest of the week.

And if I’m not doing it, she has to, right?

So J.D., here’s a couple of things I would definitely not do in case your looking for ideas:

I Don’t Compete in the Olympics Anymore. Sure it was fun setting all those records for a while, but I got tired of breaking the hearts of all those spirited young athletes. Finally one day, while looking into the eyes of yet another defeated would-be champion, I just handed him my gold medal.

“Here kid," I says. "Just go up there and tell them you’re me.”

“Wow!” he says, overjoyed. “Thanks LOBO!”

I hear Carl Lewis is still doing pretty well for himself to this day.

I Don’t Use Frank Lloyd Wright Architecture and Interior Design on Ant Farms. It’s not that I don’t like ‘Organic Design’, or that I don’t like ants. It’s just that I don’t like the name ‘Lloyd’. I mean what arrogant historical prick decided that one ‘L’ wasn’t enough? Larry –while not shy about the ‘R’s- decided one ‘L’ was enough. Lance decided that one ‘L’ would do. But Loyd? Oh hell no. Loyd hadda hog all the ‘L’s. Why’d you stop there, “Lloyd”? Why not Lllllllllloyd?

-This kind of self-indulgent redundancy makes me want to puke.

Anyways J.D., you get the picture. Have a good week, remain calm, and don’t do anything I wouldn’t … wait. Do do the things that … uh …

(Great. Now I have a headache.)

Exclusive: Airline Traveler, Luggage Arrive On Time In Right Place

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Predator Press Interviews: Barack Obama

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Uncharacteristically prepared for this 07/02/08 interview, I am a little stunned at Obama’s well-groomed and relaxed demeanor. However, a seasoned journalist, I’ve learned to face these surprises with an icy cool that only comes with experience.

We professionally shake hands, and the interview begins.

-But armed with tedious 'facts' and stuff, I come out swinging.

LOBO: So why’d you do it?

Obama: Excuse me?

LOBO: You know what you did.

[Obama shrugs, bewildered]

LOBO: You know, that whole "September 11th" thing.

Obama: I think you are thinking of Osama.

LOBO: Who?

Obama: Osama Bin Laden.

LOBO: Who are you?

Obama: I’m Barack Obama.

LOBO: No relation?

Obama: No.

LOBO: Ever think about attacking America with airplanes?

Obama: No.

LOBO: Ever been on an airplane?

Obama: Yes.

LOBO: But never thought of attacking America with it?

Obama: No. I did, however, remove my seat belt before the light instructed me to.

LOBO: Now you’re being a smart ass.

Obama: No. I’m completely serious. I lost myself in a moment of reckless abandon.

LOBO: See? You’re mocking me.

Obama: I also stole four bags of peanuts when the flight attendant wasn’t looking.

LOBO: Really?

Obama: No. Then I was mocking you.

LOBO: So why are you here?

Obama: For the interview.

LOBO: Are you supposed to be interesting for some reason?

Obama: Well, I’m running for President.

LOBO: Well, so am I. Lah-dee-dah!

Obama: Good luck to you.

LOBO: What’s your platform?

Obama: Making America a better place.

LOBO: Oh god that is SO boring. We could’ve got Hillary to say that.

Obama: Boring? What’s your platform?

LOBO: I dunno. I haven’t really thought about it yet. Maybe making a gigantic space robot that’ll squish Al Queda with big-assed feet.

Obama: Sounds expensive.

LOBO: I’ll slash the budget, then.

Obama: Where?

LOBO: Anyplace that doesn’t contribute directly to the space robot, or the Brazilian Bikini-Wax Act.

Obama: What about Welfare?

LOBO: We’ll get plenty of welfare once we’ve got a bad-assed space robot in our corner. C’mon Obama, use your imagination here. It’ll build, like, entire schools in a matter of minutes. And it will fight crime.

Obama: It will fight crime too?

LOBO: I’m sensing some skepticism here.

Obama: Will it deliver the mail?

LOBO: Now you’re being silly.

Cube of Woe

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Man I was unbelievably pissed.

"Sir," squawks the technician over my cellphone. "It would be a lot easier to help you if you calmed down."

"Calm down?" I demand. "I'm going to die in this thing!"

"I highly doubt that sir. You said you already called the fire department, right?"

"Yes I did. I also called the police, the CIA, the FBI, FEMA and Interpol. How dare you unleash this poorly designed and untested -potentially lethal device- upon the unsuspecting public?"

"It's called an elevator, sir."

"It's a goddamned box of death, you quack! You people are the geometric equivalent of Comcast. Where'd you learn engineering, cosmetology school?"

"Sir, I assure you our engineers and technicians are highly qualified. But I'm only a customer service rep for Otis Elevators."

Inspecting the warning panel, I verify this: Otis Elevators is clearly marked right next to 'In Case of Emergency' and the 800 number I dialed.

"Well, let me talk to Otis."

"Excuse me?"

"Otis," I demand coolly. "Put that fucker on."

[muffled laughter]

"Uh, sir, -"

"I'm sorry. Did you say something? I can't hear you unless you're Otis!"

"Um," says the guy. "I'm Otis sir."

"Really?" I says.

"Yes sir. Now you said you already called the fire department. Is there anything I can do for you?"

"Well it's pretty boring in here. And the fire department won't be here for another half an hour."

"You don't have a paperback or something?"

"No," I says glumly. "I even called Mandy."

"Mandy?"

"Yeah. It's scratched in the glass here. 'For a good time call Mandy'. She's actually a pretty decent cello player, but it was eating up my minutes."

"Sir, I've been running a satellite diagnostic on the elevator you're in and it's responding just fine. Which floor did you press?"

"Floor?"

"Yes sir. There are buttons you have to press with numbers that correspond with the floor you want to go to."

"No shit?"

"Yes sir. They should be right over the warning plaque."

"I'll be damned. Otis, you're a genius!"

"Thank you sir."

"Wow. They even light up!"

What Ever Happened to Quicksand?

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Once again, Predator Press scienticians have stepped up, and -at no small expense to you- decided to settle the burning age-old question on everyone’s mind: What Ever Happened to Quicksand?

You remember ... One could barely get through a half an hour of television without some poor slob stumbling upon his buddy's safari hat laying mysteriously on the ground. Then he or she goes to pick it up, and the horror ensues -it’s quicksand!

I remember being taught about quicksand by no less than three teachers during the brief debacle of my adolescent education. They all conflicted with each other too. “Don’t struggle,” one said. “Lay flat and roll out,” said another. -Clearly even back then this enigmatic sedentary evil was barely understood. Of course, this was in the same day and age they taught us to curl up in a hallway in case of aerial bombings, and hide under our desks during nuclear blasts.

I hate to say it, but the Predator Press scienticians really let me down this time. All they did was gorge Dominoes pizza, play World of Warcraft, and work on their MySpace pages until "Enlarge Your Penis" SPAM beguiled them into downloading crippling viruses via porn.

Obviously the Great Mystery of Quicksand is beyond the feeble understanding of even the greatest minds of our time. Still, we here at Predator Press remain hopeful that perhaps one day Humanity will learn to communicate with this, the most misunderstood, secretive, and voracious of Nature’s killers.

But until then, we’re hoping you all will start wearing big, buoyant hats.

The Number You Haven't Dialed ...

Predator Press

[LOBO]

"He's not calling," says Terri.

"Of course he's calling," I insist. "You remember the now-historic interview I had with Barack. We had a real moment there.”

“You don’t think he would have called you by now?”

“I'm sure he's very busy. Who else would Barack pick as VP? Do you think he wants Don Lewis to win?"

“What about John McCain?”

“Oh come on. Nobody is seriously voting a fast food clown in for president.”

“That’s Ronald McDonald. John McCain is a decorated war vet, and-“

“Which war?”

“Vietnam.”

“Did he win?”

“Well-"

“He must have won,” I reflect. “He also survived the subsequent World Wars One and Two. That’s impressive.”

“What?”

“They name wars alphabetically so history students don’t have a hard time.”

“Really.”

“Yes. That’s why we’re never moving to Yugoslavia.”

“Because we’re going to have a war there?”

“They will probably retool all those Yugo factories to build tanks, but we can wipe them out with cleverly placed potholes and speed bumps. In fact, my first act as VP will be to surround that country entirely with potholes and speed bumps. It'll be like trying to invade Chicago!"

"And that's your strategy against Yugoslavia?"

"If you want to pick a winner in that war, I would go with whatever country produces the most potholes and speed bumps per capita.”

“Preemptively wiping out another country’s military seems more like a conservative plan. Don’t you think you would be a better VP for a republican like McCain?”

“Who?”

Spooky

Predator Press

[LOBO]

A dark and addled thing of doom
whispers lies and gloats in gloom;
poised to strike so very soon
it haunts this place and chills my room!

"Leave me to my own devices:
I give no heed to such entices!
I will not fear what haunts my bed
-for you are only in my head!"


I feel it sniff under the door
-a gleeful, mocking predator-
"You do not fear what you don’t see?
Well, what about X-Rays? Hm? Or E-Coli? And how about radioactive isotopes? When is the last time you saw a radioactive isotope? Even a small exposure to radioactive isoptopes could really mess up your thyroid.”

Monsters hate poetry.

Shanghaied

Predator Press

[LOBO]

“So let me get this straight,” says Nurse Garrison, looking down her glasses. “Due to mortgaging the house and a streak of tawdry material, your wife assaulted you?”

“If you replace the word ‘assaulted’ with the words 'collided a cast-iron skillet with,' you would be 100% correct.”

“She must’ve been pretty mad.”

“I’ll say,” I says through the gauze. “She made bacon and eggs in it first.”

No Mammograms Were Conducted During the Making of this Post

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Not to be outdone by the rash of recent mammogram popularity across the Humor-Blogs spectrum, I was faced with either of two options: get implants myself, or simply get as close to the action as possible in order to speak knowingly on the subject.

Since the former would have required me to buy all new t-shirts, I opted for the latter; hence, I mortgaged the house and bought the Mamm-O-Van.

I can't wait to surprise Terri with this –perhaps my most noble and holistic contribution in Public Service ever. ‘Gal on the Go’ between meetings? Don't sweat it. Can’t drive all the way to the doctor’s office? I've got you covered. HMO? No problem!

-These poor women deserve fair and equitable medical services too.

Sleeping Dogs

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Well, Steven Spielberg has officially rejected my screenplay "Schindler's Full Black Down Metal Hawk Jacket": it came back in the mail today with a rejection letter smelling suspiciously like urine.

It would appear I have only one hope left for getting a movie made, and I’m banking all Terri's money on my secret weapon: The Scalding.

It’s an epic two page script about a buxom hot chick relentlessly tormented and attacked by a radioactive space toaster.

You should see the poster!


***

On the first day of shooting, the cast and crew effusively greeted me as I arrived on the set.

“Pleased to meet you sir,” says a homeless-looking guy. “I am the Producer of The Scalding, and I’m sparing no effort or expense to make this the greatest epic thriller since The Exorcist V." A thick bourbon smell complimented his whispers. "We are now filming the scene when Large-Breasted Scantily-Clad Chick Number One’s boyfriend arrives after his CIA mission."

"Oooh, goodie!" I says. "The part where the waffle iron spawns a second head?"

"Yes."

“Alright, everybody,” demands the apparent director. “Quiet on the set. Large-Breasted Scantily-Clad Chick Number One, this is your Big Scene. I want to see some fear. And ... Action!”

Large-Breasted Scantily-Clad Chick Number One cringes against the large picture window in the kitchen as special effects guys pull a rather un-menacing looking waffle iron crablike across the countertop with fishing line.

LBSCC#1 screams, mascara-stained tears raining down over her magnificent bosoms. She kicks at the waffle iron vainly with her stiletto heels. “You’re lucky my boyfriend isn’t here,” she cries.

“Alright, mark!” says the director. “Cue airplane now!”

A tiny plastic model airplane –also on fishing line— starts randomly spinning in a downward trajectory by the picture window.

"Hey!" I whisper to the producer. "That's supposed to be a stealth bomber!"

"Well to be fair sir," the producer says quietly. "How many kitchens have picture windows overlooking military airport runways?"

“There he is!”, exclaims LBSCC#1, pointing at the hero on a motorcycle. “He’ll stop you, you evil radioactive space waffle iron!” As she crosses off-screen, the click click click of her heels diminish audibly from the plastic microphone.

"Well," I concede. "She does have large breasts and is scantily clad."

Suddenly the airplane’s fishing line got tangled with the toaster's electrical cord. And after a few frenetic moments, the toaster flew up in the air and the two unlikely objects collide solidly. Both burst into flames, and -fishing line burned away- they fall to the ground with a hideous clang off camera.

“Cut!” yells the director. He stands. “That was brilliant! I'm already envisioning the 'Revenge of the Toaster' sequel!”

“What exactly is the budget for this production?” I ask.

“About eight bucks.” Says the producer. “You got a quarter? We need more fishing line.”

“Can’t any of you guys work with a budget?” I complain. “With six bucks, I’m funding the Predator Press Space Program, the Topless Holistic Online Medicine and Cancer Research Institute, and the LOBO Foundation for Sickly, Dying, Hungry-Yet-Hard-Working Orphans with Gambling Problems!”

"I'll pay you that $50 Friday, sir," he says. "But please don't put me back in the Space Program!"

"It's not my fault you bet on the Lakers with only a six point spread."

Dear Mom

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Having officially decided to move West, I think maybe I overshot.

We ended up in China just in time for the “Jump to Your Feet, Get on your Vespa and Drive to a Dennys and Order Something Not Weird From the Bitchy Waitress” Event.


After much ado we were soon chowing down on Sh** on a Shingle loaded with fried pig parts, a side of chicken embryos and a brown-colored juice made from beans.

The much-lauded decathlon was cool to watch, but seeing all the losers shot in the head was a bit distressing. Still, a bike and a gun are always handy in these circumstances; I was happy to have them.

Anyways, I did well in the Olympic Kites Event as you always predicted, and will be bringing home some gold we can melt down for rent.

Love Always,

LOBO

The International Star Registry

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Let me get this straight.

For a few measly bucks, you can name your own star?

Does this mean that in 2090 we are going to be fiercely embroiled in a galactic war against creatures from 'Steve Loves Amanda XXXOOOXXX'?

Look you waffling space pansies, pick a team for god's sake: I won't even play Tic Tac Toe unless we are both "X"s or "O"s simultaneously and I get to go first.

And how would you write catchy graffiti on the bombs like, "Take that, creatures from Steve Loves Amanda XXXOOOXXX"? You know how military spending goes: every single one of those "X"s and "O"s will be like ten billion dollars!

By 2090, an aging, balding-yet-mulletized Steve will have a flying El Camino on spaceblocks with the fusion engine hanging from a space tree in his spacetrailer's back yard. And while slaving over his spacemeth spacelab in a spacewife-beater -skillfully intercepting space disability checks and artfully avoiding spacechild support payments- he will be basking in the glorious privacy of Amanda's Temporary Restraining SpaceOrder.

Let's leave the naming space stuff to guys like Stephen Hawking. One look at the guy, and you know he's a big Dungeon and Dragons head: we'll have cool places to have wars with like The Great Ogre Vortex and The Giant Leech galaxies.


Thanks for showing up at LIVE LOBO SATURDAY Citizen Dorph!

Movers to Shakers

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Ugh.

I’m burned out on the “Midwest”.

Seriously.

One has only to Google “Midwest” to realize nobody knows where this place really even is. Middle of what? West of what?

-Imagine my chagrin to discover that in my adulthood I would grow to agree with the gnarly-toed hippopotamus woman that taught Geography in elementary school, and demand a little more commitment and resolution when it comes to my national regions!

California -where my lovely wife is from- continues to seize upon my imagination. I mean why should I deny myself the incalculable wealth and fame of such glamorous celebrities as Leonardo DiCaprio, Paris Hilton and Diesel?

And as the first blogger to have debunked tornados, why not continue on to debunk earthquakes as well?

… The scientific import alone warrants this debate.

Predator Press Welcomes CanuckleHead to HBFFL

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Olympics?

Pffft!

Why everyone is watching that old outmoded crap is totally beyond me. I mean what have those ancient Greek people ever done for us? And aren’t they all dead?

Soon millions and millions more countries around the world -and across it too- will be watching the infinitely more historic and important Humor-Blogs Fantasy Football League.

Predator Press heartily welcomes CanuckleHead to the games.

(And to put some clothes on.)


Contact Angry Seafood to join the
Humor-Blogs Fantasy Football League!

Predator Press Interviews: Clay Aiken

Predator Press

LOBO: It's an honor to meet you sir!

Clay: Well thanks! It's nice to be here.

LOBO: You're a lot smaller than I expected.

Clay: What?

LOBO: I guess it's true the camera puts on like 100 pounds. What're you, a buck-twenty soaking wet?

Clay: What the are you talking about?

LOBO: You must have been fast as hell. If them other football players woulda caught you, they'da squished you.

Clay: What football players?

LOBO: That's the spirit. A scrawny guy like you out there on the field's probably gotta have a scrappy attitude. 'Specially having been inducted into the Pro-Football Hall of Fame.

Clay: Don't call me scrawny.

LOBO: I wanted to draft you for my Humor-Blogs Fantasy Football team. Did you retire from the Dallas Cowboys and stop working out completely? Oh wow. Was it 'roids? Is this, like, the husk of an athlete after you burned out on anabolics and Gatorade 'an stuff?

Clay: No, it wasn't 'roids'. I think you have me confused with Troy Aikman.

LOBO: Who?

Clay: Troy Aikman. The football player. The Cowboys' first-round draft pick in 1989. Led the team to three Super Bowl wins. Winningest starting quarterback of any decade with 90 of 94 career wins occurring in 1990s. Held or tied 47 Dallas passing records, and posted 13 regular season and four playoff 300-yard passing games. Named to six Pro Bowls, All-Pro 1993, All-NFC Second Team 1994, 1995. Born November 21, 1966, in West Covina, California.

LOBO: That makes sense. I was wondering why when Troy got into that fight with that chick on the airplane a few years ago, he didn't just kick her ass right through the fuselage.

Clay: That was me that got into the fight.

LOBO: So who won?

Clay: It wasn't that kind of fight.

LOBO: What kind of fight was it?

Clay: It was an argument.

LOBO: Oh, c'mon. It was on the news and everything!

Clay: I don't really want to discuss it.

LOBO: Why? Did you get you're your ass kicked or something?

Clay: I said I don't want to talk about it.

LOBO: Well what do you want to talk about?

Clay: You're conducting the interview.

LOBO: Well, uh, have you ever done anything interesting?

Clay: I was on American Idol. I did very well. It was in all the papers.

LOBO: Did you ever meet Sanjaya?

Clay: Well, yeah.

LOBO: That Sanjaya kicks ass. I'll bet after winning that year, they hadda bring him back next season just to try and do the impossible and have him defeated. Impossible!

Clay: Actually I think Sanjaya got voted off that year.

LOBO: Really?

Clay: Yeah.

LOBO: Do you know him? I would really like to interview him.

Clay: I really don't think I would put him through this.

LOBO: Say are you hungry?

Clay: Well maybe a little.

LOBO: We're ordering sandwiches from the deli. Want one?

Clay: Do you have a menu?

LOBO: Menu? You don't want a menu. Most of their food is terrible. But they've got fantastic Reuben. Man, I highly recommend eating a big, fat Reuben sandwich from this place.

Clay: Are you screwing with me? We can do this thing in the parking lot if you want.

LOBO: The parking lot? We can't do an interview from the parking lot. And we're ordering from the deli. They won't deliver our food there.

Clay: I know women that could kick your ass.

LOBO: I'll bet! Man, you must've scored a sh**-ton of chicks after that American Idol thing.

Clay: What? Was that some kind of sarcastic crack? I just became a dad. I'm not gay.

LOBO: I'll say. You should try and get more sleep. You're about the crankiest person I've ever interviewed.


Contact Angry Seafood to join the
Humor-Blogs Fantasy Football League!

Restraining Disorder

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Okay. I’ve created my Humor-Blogs Fantasy Football team and discovered that my first match-up is going to be with none other than Renal Failure.

If Renal’s coaching is half as good as his razor-witted blog, this will take all of my football knowledge, cunning and skill.


So I head over to the draft roster. This turns out to be a disappointingly long list of guys nobody’s heard of. Peyton Manning? Tom Brady? Eeek! What if I get stuck with Cindy or Marsha?

I’m no sexist: if Cindy or Marsha Brady want to play on my team, that's fine … but I can only imagine what the mandatory methamphetamines and steroids would do to them over the long haul.

At the very least, they would have to sign a waiver.




Contact Angry Seafood to join the
Humor-Blogs Fantasy Football League!

The Humor-Blogs Fantasy Football League!

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Once again Chris Cameron has struck a brilliant chord in the worldwide blogging concerto, rising above the dissonance with a bittersweet and blood-soaked symphony of sweet bone-crushing harmony: the Humor-Blogs Fantasy Football League.

I’ve never done a fantasy football league before, but I’m totally jazzed at the concept: I might not know jack about football, but me 'an fantasy go waaaaaay back.

And man is Terri pissed.

… That lawn may never get mowed again.


Contact Angry Seafood to join the
Humor-Blogs Fantasy Football League!

Ask LOBO: How to Blog

Predator Press

[LOBO]

People are always asking me, ”LOBO, I too want to start a blog that’s a raging commercial success read by millions and millions of people everyday –just like Predator Press. How do I do it?”

Well I’m glad you asked me that.


# 1: Steal Ideas. There’s no shame in it out here. In fact, the idea for this post was originally Chris Cameron’s –the distinguished and erudite author of Angry Seafood.

I just happen to type faster.

# 2: Keep it Real. Forget whatever your English teacher told you. Nobody gives two craps about your spelling, punctuation and grammer ... what they really want to know about is the humdrum mundane stuff that makes up the minutia of your life. Get a cat and post pictures with canned captions like “Saltwater fish? But I’m cutting back on my sodium!”

I also happen to be a big fan of Twitter. I’ve mastered it. In the “What I am doing now” box, I put “Typing” about 6,005,004 times until I learned that I could cut and paste stuff with hotkeys. Now I can put “Cutting and Pasting ‘Typing’ With Hotkeys” 10 times faster than I ever could type “Typing”.

# 4: Use the Technology. Speaking of Twitter, get lots and lots of poppup windows and modules. I can't say enough about modules. The more modules you have, the greater likelihood at least one of them will be totally crashed and produce a ‘broken link’. Broken links are like a Google aphrodisiac. Also, broken links add to the lag time of loading your page thusly keeping your readers stuck there longer.

# 9: Be Flashy, Get Noticed. Use impossibly attractive photography and indirectly imply that it’s you. Then doctor them up with cool glittery effects circa MySpace.

Nothing impresses readers like glittery pics. And cats like it.

# 4: Make Sure Your Site Blasts Music Upon Arrival. Even if people like the song, there’s a pretty decent chance they aren’t currently listening to it. And if they are listening to it, you might have created a nifty echo effect that will endear your reader forever.

Some people are already listening to music while they are browsing. Screw them: your musical tastes are clearly superior and it’s high time they knew it! I mean if their music was so great, they would be listening to it instead of surfing blogs, right?

Also helpful is to make the ‘pause’ button on your music difficult to find. Nothing triggers a frantic search on your blog like a cubicle in a sea of cubicles suddenly blaring your 80’s crap. They might notice something they otherwise would have missed!

# 10: Know Thine Enemy. Below is a collection of links to blogging heavyweights who have offered up some of their "helpful" tips and techniques. These blogs should be avoided at all costs: They are only pretending to provide useful information in hopes that you will remain in dismal obscurity. You should stay here at Predator Press where we only have your best interests and success at heart.


Brent Diggs: The Secret to Writing Humor

Blog Like SinisterDan! Or Else!

Diesel: How to Write a Funny Rambling Style Post

Diesel: Me and My Big Head

Diesel: Close to Ten Tips on How to Write a Funny Blog Post
(yeesh. Alright Mister #1 Diesel. We get it already!)


And there you go: LOBO's 10 tips for successful blogging.

I may add some more links here and there, but you get the picture.

Now go!

Blog!

(Thank you Rickey for appearing on LIVE LOBO SATURDAY!!)

Russia Invades Georgia!

Predator Press

[LOBO]

After being without electricity for nine hours, imagine my surprise to find out Russia has boldly moved into Georgia with tanks and militia!

While I will most certainly miss the World's Largest Peanut Monument and the Replica of the Statue of Liberty, you have to tip your hat to the tactical brilliance of the Ruskies here: they have put themselves in a good position to strike at Alabama and South Carolina, and effectively cutoff Florida and Key West altogether.

I would like to be the first to express a whole-hearted welcome to our Soviet conquerors, and how much I always liked those big fuzzy hats. And who is really going to miss Georgia anyway? I mean they put a peach on their commemorative quarter for god’s sake! There can’t be much going on down there.

As Chancellor of LOBOnia -a tiny territory consisting of a mobile 10' circle around myself- I assure you the diplomatic relationship with the capitalist pig-dogs is cordial but very loosely maintained. And Predator Press -in keeping with our long-standing tradition of being one of the most progressive independent publications on the internet- is all about embracing change whenever completely necessary.

In honor of our glorious and valiant new comrades, tomorrow at noon Predator Press will be conducting the first “LIVE LOBO” completely in Russian.

The topic shall be, “So How Cool is that Kremlin?”

The Power of Cripes Compels You

Predator Press

[LOBO]

"Sir," says Natalie, scowling into her computer screen. "This is the sixteenth time you've called."

"I'm hoping for an update."

"Nothing has changed in the last eight minutes."

"A lot can happen in eight minutes. I can make eight completely different batches of rice in eight minutes."

"I understand that sir-"

"Miss, I don't think you do understand. I have no electricity, and millions and millions of readers are waiting anxiously for me to post today. Do you want to be responsible for what could happen if I don't?"

Natalie leans back in her chair exasperated. "Sir, there were three confirmed tornado touchdowns in your area."

[audible sigh] "Of the thousands of electric company customer service representatives, how do I happen to get the one that isn't a Predator Press reader? I debunked tornados weeks ago!"

"Sir-"

"Maybe next you can tell me the story of how Bigfoot and the Tooth Fairy are to blame!"

"We've got 200,000 other people out of power as well," she says twirling the phone cord in her fingers absently. "And you are accounting for half our phone traffic."

"Well this is important. In my absence, who will protect my readers from internet marketers, Forex associates, alien invaders, SEO optimization, shark attacks, Olestra, scams from Nauru, mad cow disease, zombie uprisings and tofu? Who?"

"Brent Diggs maybe?"

"Hiatus."

"Really?"

"Yes."

"Is it because his power got shut off? I can switch the grid and have him back up in five minutes."

"I knew it! How come you can't do that for me?"

"Sir, your problems are far more serious."

"It's sweltering hot in here, and my refrigerator doesn't work," I add. "And what the hell am I supposed to do with all this rice?"

She plucks at the keyboard. "Our technicians are working around the clock to restore your power. The current esimated time of repair is ..."

"Yes?"

"Huh," says Natalie, leaning into her screen. "That's strange. I'm showing your power was only out for twenty minutes."

"Twenty minutes? It's been nine hours."

"Did you flip your breaker switch?"

"Yes. I tried that right when it went out."

"Did you flip it back?"

"Of course I did."

Over the phone there's an audible click, followed by the sounds of a blaring stereo, three televisions on different stations, an air conditioner, two blenders and a microwave.

"Is there anything else I can do for you today sir?"

"Do you know how iPods work?"

Rental Hygiene

Predator Press

[LOBO]

There’s been a lot of controversy surrounding the use of cellphones while driving recently.

Now I get that, but I’m also very laid-back about it personally. If you can multi-task while driving, that’s great. I suppose I trust you. Ethan, for instance, uses an electric shaver on his way to work.

I, for one, “self-police” in this regard: I can barely drive when that’s all I’m doing; if the phone rings while I’m driving, I’ll let it go to voicemail and return the call later.

But this morning in traffic, I saw a woman flossing.

To me, handling any two-handed activity while simultaneously driving with your elbows is impressive.

But flossing?

How can you see with big chunks of food obscuring your windshield?

Predator Press Reviews The Mummy: Tomb of the Dragon Emperor

Predator Press

[LOBO]


From the moment lights dim, suddenly the action begins.

First Jet Li does some stuff, and then Brendan Fraser does some stuff.

But the stuff that Brendan Fraser does really pisses off Jet Li, and then they start karate-chopping each other.

Predator Press gives The Mummy: Tomb of the Dragon Emperor sixty-nine thumbs up: between the explosions, swords clanging, audience gasping and the thunderous soundtrack, I don't think I got eight consecutive minutes of sleep during that whole two hours.