Predator Press Earns "Idiot of the Week" Award

Predator Press

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Were it not for the Mighty Mighty Diesel, I might never have known that I’d received The Super Liberal’s “Idiot of the Week” Award for my post Barack Obama is BLACK!?!

This honor -as far as I can tell- has only been bestowed upon the very enjoyable Downloadable Ryan Garns’ blog [linked] thus far. There may actually be more recipients of this cherished prize, but this would require me to do tedious ‘research’ and ‘fact checking.'

While being deeply moved by this coveted acknowledgement, learning about this five days later -and by a third party to boot- kinda puts us in a lurch … as you know, we are moving into our new apartment this week. How are Terri and I to find something suitable to wear for the ceremony at the last moment under these circumstances? Do we need to RSVP? Is there free food? And do I need to write an acceptance speech?

I’ve decided that the best course of action is to develop a new award to return the favor.

Please forgive the rather primitive and crude Photoshopping as my computer is still in storage -I hadda steal the image from the late great Kurt Vonnegut’s book Breakfast of Champions and do it in Microsoft Paint.

But it’s the thought that counts, right?

Congratulations 'Super Liberal.'

You’ve earned this.

Where There's Brimstone ...

Predator Press

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Today I read an article on CNN about how George W. Bush “did not sell his soul in order to accommodate the political process.”

-This is unfortunate as the value of his soul has been in severe decline since his inception into office.

“Yep, it’s a fact,” says noted soul broker Lou C. Ferr. “The resale value of George W. Bush’s soul has been in such decline for so long, at this point I don’t think even I could find a buyer.”

When asked for advice on how to increase the value of one’s soul, Lou elaborates. “It’s like the economy. At some point the actual value needs to be truthfully recognized or the whole system falls apart like a house of cards and into chaos."

"If George is serious about profiting on his investment," Lou adds, "he should start small ... Maybe get a puppy or do some volunteer work.”

Elvis, Bigfoot and Nessie Agree: UFOs Do Not Exist

Predator Press

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Okay, you got me. A more accurate title of this post woulda been “Predator Press Reviews: Bordello of Blood.” But who would want to read a review of a fourteen year-old movie I fell asleep twenty minutes into watching?

But since you're here, “Bordello of Blood” is a documentary about what was likely the worst whorehouse in history ... I mean just to get in you have to be launched via coffin through a crematorium. While I’m sure this technique goes a long way to befuddle the local law enforcement, massage parlors have been doing just fine on this behalf since the day of the caveman.

Still you end up really feeling sorry for those girls … due to poor management and numerous safety violations I don’t think any of them made a dime: one after another the 'johns' are killed -often by the prostitutes themselves- long before any cash or credit card information is exchanged.

Perhaps the only uplifting element is Corey Feldman’s most riveting acting since The Goonies as the swashbuckling rugged hero Caleb Verdoux, and this doubtlessly earned him numerous Oscars and Emmys. Having proven he had "range" and could carry a movie as a leading man, this catapulted him into larger subsequent roles such as when he played Haley Jo Osment in The Sixth Sense and his superlative portrayal of Tom Hanks in Cast Away.

But I’m not going to sugarcoat it: despite the stellar cast and watertight script, I was still woken numerous times during inordinately loud commercial breaks hawking Extenze sexual enhancement pills, various malt liquors, X-Box 360 games and Old Spice. This seemed to me a curiously optimistic, overly-broad, improbable, and often contradictory target market: how many employed, active, cheap, alcoholic video game players with disposable income that might actually cross paths with women can there possibly be?

-I'm calling that entire demographic of consumer into question.

Predator Press ultimately gives Bordello of Blood seventy-two “Thumbs Up” for the gifted and versatile talents of Corey Feldman, a bonus fifteen "Thumbs Up" for working the words 'Bordello' and 'Blood' right smack in the title, a minus thirty-two “Thumbs Down” for waking me up during a particularly vivid dream about flying (which is two negatives which you actually add ... I'm afraid of heights), and then a final minus nine "Thumbs Up" because some kind of bug kept landing on my television screen.

I mean can you even squash a bug on a flat screen?

-Wouldn’t, like, squished bug guts mix up the plasma or something?

The Eagle is Stranded

Predator Press

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Well, sixty days in and we finally got a place: Terri and I exchange what little cash we have left with our new landlord tomorrow morning. And maybe -as the place isn‘t occupied- he‘ll [*hope-hope*] let us move in early.

The weird thing is this is one of the few places Terri and I both liked -I’ve liked everything since our Californian, eh, 'occupation,' but Terri wants, like, plumbing 'an stuff.

“How ’bout this one?” I would ask her.

“It’s a second floor,” she would scowl. “Screechy might fall down the stairs.”

“Kids can be remarkably resilient,” I point out.

"Can you?"

“Okay fine," I concede. "This one seems nice.”

“No,” she would sigh. “It’s in a bad neighborhood.”

“But we would be great Crips," I insist.

Terri scowls.

"Okay forget it," I says. "How about this one?”

“That’s a box of Rice-A-Roni with an old sock in it.”

“I like it’s portability frankly," I says. "We could totally drag it into an upscale school district. And once we're 'settled in' I can add on a tomato soup can for when people come visit."

Exclusive: Barack Obama is BLACK

Predator Press

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I might never have caught it, but a news conference interrupted my traditional Sunday Riverdance marathon ... one minute Michael Flatley is blazing into what could possibly be the most intense and amazing Riverdance crescendo ever, and the next, boom, some guy is going, "Ladies and gentlemen, President Elect Barack Obama."

It took me a second, you know? Like there's something you can't quite put your finger on?

Thinking maybe something was wrong with the contrast on my television, I compared Barack to my life-sized autographed cardboard cutout of Rick Dees.

Hmmmm.

Feeling I was on the verge of some kind of breakthrough, I then meditated alternately between a box of Cheerios and a can of black olives while listening to my Marie Osmond records.

I almost have it.

Only after careful examination of my Dale Earnhardt commemorative plates did it hit me like a bolt of lightning:

Barack Obama is black!

-I was so rattled, I almost missed my accordion lesson.

Predator Press Reviews: Coal Miner's Daughter

Predator Press

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Loretta Lynn, played by Sissy Spacek, is a chick that knows a lot of dudes that wear cowboy hats: this culminates ultimately into her making a career bitchin' about her husband and their horrible lifestyle together into a microphone to millions and millions of listeners nationwide.

Her husband -played by Tommy Lee Jones- eventually gets pissed off because he's tired of her bitchin' about him and their horrible lifestyle together into a microphone to millions and millions of listeners nationwide -but then realizes he’s making an assload of cash from her doing it.

Predator Press gives this movie sixty four “Thumbs Up!”

-Still, it’s depressing to think how much better Loretta Lynn’s music would have been if Tommy Lee Jones smacked the bitch around for a few hours and then made her bark like a dog while she made waffles.

I understand they were impoverished, but how much could a decent riding crop cost?

Her whiny country music prob'ly woulda been awesome then.

Ca-rack!

Hansel and Gretel

-as retold by Predator Press

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“And that’s why," I complain, “I absolutely hate the name Hansel.”

“So,” replies Gretel, cutting back a thicket with her machete. Despite the disproportionate size of the knife in her small hands she was really becoming quite adept; within moments they were now moving through the forest at a respectable pace. “You’re saying that you can't join the Ultimate Fighting Championship is because our parents named you Hansel?"

“It might as well have been Petunia," I says. Wiping the sweat out of my eyes, I wince into my fingers. “When the ring announcer says ‘In this corner, Brock Lesnar!’ you immediately think of some huge hulking guy that eats battleship hulls and craps cannonballs. But when he says ‘In this corner Hansel,” you think of somebody prancin‘ around barefoot on flower petals.”

"So what are we supposed to call you then?" asks Gretel, slightly ahead.

"I don't know," I says. "How about 'The Hulking Super Iron Man Wolverine?'"

"Seems kinda long," says Gretel. "And how 'hulking' are you really? I'm four foot six and I'm taller than you."

"Nuh-uh!"

"And then you fight Brock Lesnar?"

"Brock Lesnar cannot be defeated," I explain. "That's why he will be my tag-team partner."

Suddenly Gretel motions for Hansel to stop. Crawling forward on her belly, she spies something of interest in the distance.

“What’s wrong?” I ask.

“Shh!” she whispers sharply.

"You ain't the boss of me."

“There’s a weird looking house up here," says Gretel. "And I thought I heard something. Something like chewing.”

“Oh that’s just me,” I says. “I got hungry, so’s I’ve been nibbling on this here sack of croutons you gave me.”

“You idiot,” snaps Gretel, knocking them from his hand. “You were supposed to be dropping them behind us so we could find our way back to the campsite!”

“Well remember that chick in the red dress skipping with the basket?”

“Yes,” says Gretel distractedly, looking through her binoculars. “You said you wanted to ‘open her basket and check out her goodies.’”

“-And the bitch slapped me! I thought she might have bacon bits or ranch or cheddar or something. I've already eaten the croutons. If I don't find my way up to a full-on salad I'm going to feel like a total fatass."

Gretel sighs.

“She said you don’t want to leave croutons," I continue. "The damn animals will eat ‘em. You want to carry a GPS, or at the very least a map and a compass. And that we probably wouldn't want to go back there anyways because of all the recent wolf attacks,” I explain. "Three little pigs and a jackhammer are reported missing."

"Hansel, our parents are back there!"

Yes, I'm thinking. 'Hansel' eh?

"It's the Circle of Life," I shrug. "What're they, like, fifty or something? They had a good run."

“Well if you're hungry, you may be in luck,” says Gretel zooming in with the binoculars. “It's some kind of restaurant."

“Cool,” I says.

"Weird. Why would somebody build a restaurant way out here?" Gretel scans the surrounding area. "Huh. I don't see a payphone, but there’s a sign that says 'FREE PORKCHOPS' ... and there's some kid running up to the place. He almost looks ....like ...

!!!

"Hansel, you get back here!" she screamed.


***

I’ll bet I was only six or seven pork chops in when ol’ spoilsport Gretel showed up in an obviously too-large waitress outfit.

“Psst,” she says, looking in another direction.

“You ain’t foolin anybody Gretel,” I says, dipping my chicken wing in the chocolate ice cream. "And can you please move? I can't see the Laker‘s game with you standing there."

“Don’t you understand?” growls Gretel. “She’s trying to fatten you up so she can eat you! If we don't find a telephone-!”

"That sweet old woman wouldn't hurt a fly," I scoff. "Besides she's blind as a bat. And have you even tried these pork chops?”

“Those might not even be pork.”

“Well that would explain why I keep finding these Matchbox cars in them,” I figure. "I thought they were prizes."

“Has she been checking how much you weigh?”

“Well she keeps asking me to stick out a digit so she can feel it,” I offer. “And then she complains how scrawny I am.”

"I think she meant a finger."

"Well let just say I won't be pressing any charges either," I reply. "Now come on. I know you're hungry too. You've gotta try these potato skins. She put whipped cream on them!"

Gretel slides into the booth. “You really think this is just a kindly old woman?”

“I've never been so certain of anything in my life," I says confidently. Pulling up a particularly plump and juicy tender chop with my fork for her viewing I add, "Come on. If you don't learn to lighten up, you're going to end up with an eating disorder or something."

"Ooh," says Gretel, licking her lips while eyeing the menu. "That sun-dried basil bruschetta looks deliiiicious!"

"Meh," I grunt. "It's all veggies and crap. Ask her to put some M&Ms and butter in it or something."

Revolver

Predator Press

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Waaaaay way down at the very bottom of this page is a hit counter poised to roll over 100,000 hits.

And sure maybe half of those hits are me fiddlef--king incessantly with the HTML, fixing grammatical trauma, rectifying spelling, eh, "liberties," and otherwise fine-tuning my savage butchery of the English language.

-Let‘s just call it a solid 50,000.

I’ll take it.

With 1000 posts at this point, mathematically one or two of them almost have to be decent, right? (That's my overall strategy BTW ... over a long enough timeline, I'll get a Shakespeare in here somewhere.)

Still, by dividing 50,000 legitimate hits by 1,000 posts, this gives me about 50 hits per post.

Hmmm.

And since this the name of this blog is “Predator Press," let’s call a good 50% of those hits wayward web searches looking for either endangered species or child molesters.

From there, lop off an additional 30% for the non-reading Entrecard ‘skimmers.'

Finally, subtract about half of the lonely few remaining as never-to-return readers that promptly and accurately diagnosed this blog as a pedantic and retarded festering mess.

This pretty much leaves you.

Thanks!

:)

Bonfire of the Manatees

Predator Press

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California -still stubbornly trying to kill us- finds us hopping from motel to motel in a relentless search of our own little space to throw elbows from. It's like getting strangled slowly and softly by deeply-tanned, diet pill-popping pastel tourniquets.

I’ve done this “urban survivalist” thing before, but I’ve never been so bold as to do it with a family in tow. As one person, you kind of have a “fix“ on things; with multiple people (and a cat) you get blindsided by curve balls like running out of toilet paper at 3am -and not having anyplace to get any.

Suffice to say once graced with more time and stability I’ll write in greater detail about these adventures.

But for now just take my word for it: never ever ever use the washcloths at a motel.

The House -and Heart- Broken

Predator Press

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Succumbing to the virulent torrent of angry mail from ardent (and reputedly very dangerous) Doctor Who fans, I decided to rename my robot assassin puppy ‘Scraps.'

-But even while welding his rabies tags and registration on, I knew I had a problem.

I guess when it all came down I just couldn't send Scraps to burrow his way into the succulent and still-beating hearts of my insurance agents, finally detonating himself in their steaming squirty entrails once their screams were successfully converted to mp3 and transmitted to my iPod.

-Scraps, a loyal companion, deserves better than that.

On the outskirts of town, there's a big sprawling farm that raises the robot sheep we get steel wool from: it's a place where Scraps won’t be painfully discriminated against by inbred hoity-toity big city ‘meatdogs.'

I’ve decided to send him there where he can assassinate wild and free, just like nature intended.

I'll miss him.

-He’s the best friend I ever had.

[*sniff*]

Predator Press Unveils "iByte" Prototype

Predator Press

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Before deluging us with “Congratulations” mail, you should know that Terri and I did not, in fact, adopt a dog.

In fact this isn’t even a real dog at all: this is just a little something Predator Press Scienticians whipped up overnight.

Isn’t it amazing? And we haven't even glued on the carpet remnants yet! If we could get the oil it leaks to be the color of urine, it would be totally indistinguishable from the real thing.

(I sure hope it fits in the basket.)

Shark Chum for the Soul

Predator Press

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Yes, today was to be still yet another post ranting about my Insurance Company.

-But taking a tip from Chris Wood, I’ve decided not to let them ruin my day.

Today’s post will not be about how I want them squishing barefoot through bat feces deep in the bowels of some forgotten drafty dungeon for the rest of eternity. Nor will it be about comparing the gauge of mesh screen I would like them squeezed through.

Today’s post will be about, eh, puppies.

Yes. A bunch of puppies. Cute little fuzzy wuzzy wide-eyed irresistible companion-seeking puppies. All in a cozy little basket with a big red ribbon on it.

I’ll bet if an insurance company found a basket of such puppies, their hearts would melt. They would immediately bring the puppies inside and divide them up for cuddling and adoption purposes.

-But these wouldn’t be normal garden-variety puppies.

These would be robot assassin puppies.

Someone answers the phone “You have reached Affirmative Insurance,” and boom! that’s the audio trigger for the attack: a hidden hypo delivers the paralyzing neurotoxins, and then the puppies start burrowing their way piranha-like right into the very hearts they just melted. Like that movie Alien, ‘cept in reverse.

In puppies no one can hear you scream.

And then the ugly runty robot assassin puppy? The unwanted one they left back in the basket?

Detonates.

-Wipes out the crime scene completely.


***

Man Chris was right. I do feel better!

Please be sure to visit Chris Wood’s blog.

-This guy sure knows his stuff.

Hawk

Predator Press

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I’m no vegetarian, but the product pictured left has become the major preoccupation of my entire morning.

Has American hatred for chickens grown to such a point where we sanction violent chicken-on-chicken crime in our advertising?

Yes, I’m impressed this company has trained chickens to cruelly fry other chickens. In fact it’s clear to me now this must be a super-intelligent breed of very highly-functioning chicken too: typical chickens operate at a very poor level in kitchens -particularly when it comes to the sensitive timing required to deep fry things.

Is this tied to cockfighting, or are these superintelligent chickens, like, doing some kind of horrible and macabre ethnic cleansing? Or what if there is one like mastermind chicken controlling all the others to do his diabolic culinary will?

-Man I wouldn’t want to mess with that chicken.

And yes, for a moment I had a distant, receding impulse to do the right thing and get indignant. My god, I think. Unless it’s by a professional chef, these delicious creatures should not be abused!

-But this thought is almost immediately drowned out by What are you stupid? You could pick up a few grand assisting the marketing campaign!”

So screw the chicken.

Hard.

-Before it messes with your ankles or something.

'An I can already hear you bleedin’ heart Liberals ”But LOBO, you’re rationalizing animal abuse. Surely you wouldn’t compromise your ethics and contribute to a brutal campaign like that.”

-I, for one, am shocked at you bleedin’ heart Liberals. Of course I wouldn’t give these people more sick ideas.

I would, however, present a few to see if they’re interested in purchasing them …

And hey, what about my ankles?

I deserve pre-compensation.

For Screechy

Predator Press

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Once when I was a child, my father –an expert mechanic- took me into the garage.

“Son,” says Dad. “Do you want to grow up to be a great mechanic like myself?”

“Sure I do, Dad!” I says.

He scruffs my hair, grinning. “That’s my boy.”

I reach for a hammer on the shelf –it seemed gigantic compared to my smallish hands- but Dad stopped me.

“No son,” he corrects. “As a mechanic, you gotta understand the nature of things.” He walks me outside to the now harsh-seeming daylight. Scooping up a handful of dirt, he sifts it through his fingers and says “You want to work on an internal combustion engine? Well this is where it all begins. You see we get our blah oil from the ground, and blah blah energy into blah petroleum and blah blah blah blah fires the pistons blah blah blah … ”


*** Despite not knowing shit about being a mechanic, at sixteen I was tenured at Harvard and consequently became the Chief Engineer for Boeing.

A "prodigy," my very first duty as Chief Engineer for Boeing was to determine why so many workers were getting limbs and digits torn off on the factory floor.

I quickly submitted a report stating that the equipment would work more efficiently, faster, and most importantly safer if the workers stopped tearing their limbs and digits off with it.

I was promoted to National Safety Board Chairman, and fired later that same day for driving my forklift to a McDonald's Drive-Thru for fries.

There Is No "U" In "TEAM"

Predator Press

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“The insurance people won’t talk to me at all,” I complain.

“I’m not surprised after all that cursing,” says Terri. “They probably regard you as belligerent.”

“Then let them continue to regard me as big words I don’t understand!” I says triumphant.

“Atta boy,” sighs Terri.

There Was An Old Woman Who Lived In A Shoe

-as retold by Predator Press

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Humpty Dumpty knocked on the outside of the massive shoe.

No answer.

He knocked again. Louder.

“Who is it?” she cried from deep within.

“It’s the Humpster, baby.”

“Come on in. The door isn't locked.”

“You busy?” he calls into the shoe as he opens the door.

“No,” she replies. “I’ll be there in a second.”

“Damn girl,” jokes Humpty. “You ain’t havin another baby, are you?”

There’s an awkward silence.

“Aw, congratulations!” says Humpty. He grabs some towels, and heads over to the kitchen to boil water. Man this crazy ol lady sure does love to get her 'freak' on, he thinks smiling to himself.

He fires the burner and fills the pot with water muttering to himself, "Well, you know what they say about women with big hands and big feet."

“What?”

But Humpty, struggling for his asthma breather, didn’t hear her. The sight of the boiling pot of water had triggered a panic attack; all he could hear was the voice of his other saying ”That’s what happened to your father. One minute he was driving a forklift at a macaroni factory, and the next,” she pauses, ”poached.”

“Hey are you alright?” asks the old woman. Now dressed in a sweatsuit, she alertly helps Humpty fumble his breather to his mouth. “What’s wrong?” she asks.

”Poached,” his mother repeated in his head.

“I’m sorry,” he chokes, tears streaming. “Every time I see boiling water, I just want to grab a Bushmaster AR-15 and kill everyone I can find.”

“Well I do loves a man with an eye for safety,” she whispers. “I like Armalites ... don’t get me wrong. But they just don’t have the Viper range safety device that Bushmans do." She throws his arm over her shoulder. "Humpty, have you met my kids?”

Humpty leans away from the kitchen counter, testing his weak and wobbly legs. “Probably not all of them ma’am.”

With her arms still around him, she helped him stand. Perhaps it was the proximity or the moment of utter vulnerability –maybe it was merely the smell of her perfume- but Humpty decided if ever there was a moment to tell her how he feels, this is it.

“Baby,” he says, staggering to look into her eyes. “We’ve known each other for a long time. How come we never, eh, 'hooked up'?”

“Oh, Humpty,” she blushes. “I’m very flattered, but you’re an egg. What would my friends say if I started dating an egg?”

Humpty, pride mortally wounded, looked away to hide the tears.

“I mean maybe if you were at least an embryo or something,” she continues. “But an egg? Ewe!”

Despite his aching heart, Humpty fought to reply. “You know,” he sobbed. “We have our differences. But I have yearned for you for years now. I know your favorite band, favorite color, favorite flower … Damn it I love you.”

The woman, shocked, stared in disbelief.

“And I don’t care that I’m an egg and you’re an old woman that lives in a shoe,” Humpty continued grabbing her shoulders. “Can’t you see that your discrimination is tearing us apart!?”

The woman’s pupils narrow.

“Get your filthy egg-hands off of me!” she screams.

“But baby-“

She dives for her cellphone, “How dare you!?”

“I was only trying to-“

“Hello?” she barks into the phone. “Is this all the King’s men?”

“There’s no need to-!“

“Yes,” she says. “A filthy egg is attacking me. How did you know?”

Humpty lunges for her phone, and wrests it away from her. “God damn it woman, those people will be trying to kill me now!”

Suddenly, Humpty realizes he has a .45 caliber pistol pointed into his temple.

The woman growls. “You make a sound before the cops get here, and I’ll blow your yolk all over the goddamned leather.”

“Jezebel!” cries Humpty, lashing out.

"You damn ... dirty ... egg!" she chokes, and falls limp in his arms.

“Oh my god,” cries Humpty as police sirens wail in the distance. “She’s dead!”

And even as the galloping sound of all the king’s horses become deafening, he screams into the sky:

"Oh sweet Jesus! what have I done!?!”

Playing With Matches

Predator Press

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HINTS
v

One of these two will transport you into hellish wastelands, and subject you to unimaginable atrocities.

The other will only write about it.

One of these would wipe out the entire salad bar, and then make out with Princess Leia.

The other is made of Latex and rubber.

One of these is a visionary of internet comedy.

The other is in a DVD my kid made me buy.


One of these was in a TV series.

The other runs a weapons factory for irate golfers.


One of these two made an outrageously successful DVD.

The other is somehow cashing in despite "Pet Detective", and Lemony Snicket's "A Series of Unfortunate Budget Surpluses".


One of these two is a highly-pressurized windbag with a reflective surface, containing a gas that makes you talk funny when ingested.

... I can't tell the difference either.

Dona Nobis Pacem

Predator Press

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The Bloggy Electric

Predator Press

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If you told us ten years ago we would be in the middle of something even bigger than the "Industrial Revolution," we would have laughed.

-But never before has any animal been able to communicate to the other side of the planet instantaneously.

The internet has given us a virtual telepathy unrivalled in the animal kingdom, and it will irrevocably alter the species entirely.

Indeed, our children's children will be downloading historical data on this momentus occasion directly to their cerebral cortexes, and have to create longwinded 87 terabyte 3-dimensional holographic essays on how "Those Dumb People Were So Dumb, They Had No Dumb Idea. ROFLMAO. LOL they were so dumb! WTF?"

And to commemorate this fantastic Age of Achievement, I plan a blog post entitled "Did I Eat This?" as soon as the Polaroids come back.