Predator Plus

Predator Press

[LOBO]

A little bored maybe? I dunno.

-But a rather lengthy phase of unemployment has me thinking about expanding my horizons into other fields I’m lousy at. Maybe YouTubes or podcasting audio Skype interviews of other bloggers.

Does anyone ever really click on those things? I gotta be honest: with the exception of a few blogs I rarely do personally unless I’m looking for something specific.

And I don’t want to throw a whole lot of time at something there’s no interest in. Please drop a comment and weigh in here. Would you listen to podcasts? Given the opportunity, would you like to be interviewed? Or is being phone interviewed kinda redundant for any self-respecting and already self-promoting blogger? Any useful (aka FREE) technologies and service providers I should know about?

Blitzkrieg

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Many beers.

Many, many beers.

-My memories kinda stab in in bright painful flashes. I vaguely remember making a game of yelling obscenities at the neighbors while peeing behind the shed –a concession we made to minimize tracking dirt in the house.

“Where’s Joe?” someone would ask.

-From behind the shed: “Kiss my ass you filthy butt-ugly rat-faced …!”

“Oh there he is.”

-And so it goes.

In spite of my initial dread the barbeque was mostly fun, marred only briefly by something enormous rudely crashing into me. It turned out to be the ground.

-I was in no condition to fight the entire Earth, but I intuitively knew the Earth was a pansy that would back down if properly challenged: we trash-talked each other for a few minutes, but things smoothed over fairly quickly.

This was the biggest social event I’ve attended since the welcoming party when Terri and I moved out here. Again there was a nice big bonfire. The weather was perfect, and air was thick with the delicious smells of one fabulous food after another.

I like these people too. On a whim, two of them blew in from Spokane.

-Picture a well-armed redneck ski patrol.

"You’re mama is so fat, ... !"

Maintaining a good stream of obscenities while, eh, “marking your territory” isn’t as easy as it sounds. Still I highly recommend it. It’s cathartic.

“You should try it,” I explained to Terri.

She glowered.

Priss.

Too Many Secrets

Predator Press

[LOBO]

When unfairly cursed by fame such as I have, one must take precautions when going into public.

-Luckily, Predator Press scienticians have devised a series of subtle prosthetics that I may use to walk amongst you undetected –that I may slide “under the radar” so to speak, and drink in the real Americana that most fabulously rich and successful celebrities such as myself often never see.

And it’s true: mine is, as far as I know, the first case in human medical history of actually having sprained his pupils contracting due to sunlight exposure ... but I have been assured this condition is quite temporary, and curable by physical therapy consisting of gradually-increasing increments of the ultraviolet spectrum.

Once this adaptive process is complete, I will be prowling around unobserved and writing stories about “Regular Joes.”

But it might take me a few weeks.

-The television gave me a sunburn.

Daisy the Curly Shark

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Last night, while Terri and I were going through our scrapbook, it occurred to me I’ve never blogged about how we came to adopt Daisy -our 47 foot Great White Shark.

I remember that stormy evening like it was yesterday. Answering a soft knock at the door, at first I didn’t think anyone was there ... but glancing down, there she was in a tiny little pink basket. Attached was a note that said “I can no longer care for my baby. Please help.”

Immediately our hearts melted.

We have treated her as our own ever since, and -despite Terri’s stubborn refusal to breastfeed- we built as normal a life for Daisy as we could provide: I was there for her first steps. We played catch and Hide-N-Seek in the backyard. I built a huge elaborate treehouse where we would leisurely fritter away our summers eating marshmallows and reading comic books.

High school was tough for her. She always seemed to have trouble “fitting in” and we had to encourage her to participate in school-related activities. Eventually her natural athletic abilities began to shine through, and she became the first female fullback on her football team and earned a full scholarship to NYU.

We never told Daisy she was adopted, and trust you to help us keep this dark secret.

-One only has to look into those beady little eyes to understand why we have spared her this painful revelation.

Eye Candy

Predator Press

[LOBO]

A recent post I did plugging Steam Powered Rings has resulted in a genuine interest in an art, eh, "motif" called Steampunk.

I really dig this stuff. Indeed, I’ve considered working the theme into Predator Press.

Exploring this possibility, I Googled some images -and some of them just leapt off of the screen.

There's something about the sheer inventive elegance and the retro-campy feel that appeals to me.

-And like this blog, it's irresponsibly impractical and utterly useless.

I’m using these pictures without permission, but you can click on them to go to the respective sites. I highly recommend checking them out if you have a few minutes: all three of them are fantastic.^[1]

This concludes our "art" lesson today.

-Tomorrow I'll be over it, and back to my pornographic Skittles mosaics.

^[1]See also: Skwib, The

Origami as Self Defense

Predator Press

[LOBO]

I know it’s hard to believe with a physique such as mine that I was once picked on by bullies.

-But believe me, no one knows the anguish of going to the beach and having a zombie kick sand in your face and steal your girl better!

I don't know about you, but I hate getting sand kicked in my face. And since I've selflessly dedicated my entire career to helping people, I can't just ignore you pipsqueaks and puny wimps: that's why I came up with Origami: the Art of Self Defense.

Why let all those useless and boring Geometry classes go to waste? With this 56 DVD set I’ll teach you step-by-step how after MONTHS of being brutally terrorized, I folded my high school bully into a teeny swan and then torched the evil hostile with hair spray and some matches.

-Her wheelchair melted instanly.

It was awesome.

Democracy

Predator Press

[LOBO]

“Mom,” says Screechy, our six-year old. “If you make one big plate of pork chops a week, it’s .08% less cholesterol. Plus dad will be awake 42% less, thereby mitigating our entire deductible.”

Terri whirls.

“Did he trick you into doing our insurance paperwork again?”

"He's taking out the garbage next month."

And Another Thing

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Oh yeah. And I also wrote a book in my spare time. It’s called “The Ingredients of a Good Thriller Part II: The Revenge.”

It’s essentially The Ingredients of a Good Thriller with all the “Chris Woods"-es exed out and replaced with “LOBOs,” sprinkled lightly with additional hand-written profanity in the margins.

-Mine is half the price, but it costs $600 in shipping.

(And there's nudity.)

Defenders of The Faith

Predator Press

[LOBO]

For deep, restorative healing of the soul I can’t say enough about church: if Terri ‘an the kids didn’t go every Sunday, I wouldn’t be able to sleep in or bask in the gloriously quiet solitude leisurely drinking coffee in my bathrobe and slippers.

-But being the sole guardian of an important and historic document such as Predator Press can be fraught with unseen peril.

And this Sunday started off like any other. I sat down at the computer, booted up, and navigated to my Blogger login screen.

“You don’t want to do that,” my computer warned.

“Why?” I ask.

Silence.

I continue punching in my URL.

“Seriously,” the machine drones. “I would reconsider this action.”

“What’s wrong?” I inquire. “Is MyBlogLog down?”

“No.”

“Entrecard took a crap?”

“No.”

I drum my fingers anxiously. What could possibly be so wrong, my computer doesn’t want to go to my blog?

After considerable hesitation, I reluctantly inquire “Did Diesel do another upgrade to Humor-Blogs?”

“Bingo.”

Uh-oh.

"Widgets too?"

"Couldn't tell you."

Ah, Christ.

“Well how bad could it be?” I defend. “As the creator of Humor-Blogs and Blog-Storm, Diesel has demonstrated radiant braniosity -comparable perhaps even to myself! And he’s done numerous upgrades before. Surely he has things well in hand at this point.”

“Well, don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

Hmmmm.

Taking a deep breath, I complete the URL.

-R-E-S-S-.-C-O-M

Then, backing as far from the monitor as I can reach, I stretch forward and tap the ‘Enter’ key.

Predator Press leapt from the screen, and within a fraction of a second swallowed my entire head.

I screamed.

-I'm almost sure of it.

Overbalanced, I reeled backwards while helplessly grasping for purchase -but sensing me struggle, Predator Press coiled powerfully around my neck as to weaken me and cloud my cat-like faculties.

Thinking quickly, I grabbed my hot cup of coffee and splashed it right in Predator Press’ face. But this only infuriated the beast: it threw me to the ground and started punching me in the kidneys.

Frantic and gasping for air, I spotted a pencil that had rolled under my desk; clutching it desperately, I plunged it deeply into the Predator Press RSS.

Predator Press shrieked in furious agony, and scampered up into the upper southeast corner of the room –well out of reach.

“Bull shit!” I cried. Grabbing a handy broom, I began swinging wildly at Predator Press. But Predator Press was too fast, and the blows whistled by harmlessly.

-Well “harmlessly” if you’re not my trophy shelf.

Or the lamp.

Or the china hutch in the living room.

-For what seemed like an eternity, Predator Press zigged to my zags.

But then it made a fatal mistake: I cornered it in the laundry room, and a wild grab found my fingers around it’s neck. I hurled it hard against the dryer, and this stunned it: soon I was strangling it on the floor as it floundered and twitched.

“But,” it choked, flopping slightly. “I … love … you!”

It was at that moment I realized that I was succumbing to my own personal rage.

Slowly, I released my grip around it’s neck.

-And Predator Press kicked me square in the nuts.

Twice.

Moments later, staggering to my feet, I could hear Predator Press working the deadbolt to the front door.

Oh, this ain’t over Mister Smarty-Blog I thought, throwing open the cover to the breaker box.

-Not by a long shot.

Mom ‘N Dad: New World Disorder

Predator Press

[LOBO]

A little woozy and “loose” from the drugs alcohol, she suppressed a giggle; from this angle she had a rare view of not only his black socks, but the bottom of his shoes. They always appeared gigantic and comically elongated from underneath.

“Is that a new suit darling?”

“Why yes my love,” the man preened. He stood and did a half twirl. Funny, but kinda swank with the big cigar. “What do you think?”

“I don’t think we can afford it.”

“But I closed that purchase we wanted," he puffs. "You're looking at the second largest asbestos manufacturer in the Midwest. I can't go around dressed like a chump you know. Me ‘an you are going places baby. I love you. You are my oxygen.”

Sitting, he swings the metal tray back over her and pours a two shots of Wild Turkey.

“Thank you,” she replies.

“How’s about me ‘an you take a vacation? Huh baby? Maui. Italy. Australia. You name it.”

“Scotland,” she smiles.

“Cigarette?” he asks, fumbling his vest.

“Please.”

While presenting the Camel, he extends the pack to the young Doctor I. M. Nyarlathotep.

“No thanks,” says the pup lowering his stethoscope.

-Despite just graduating from medical school, there was no mistaking this diagnosis.

“I’m afraid I’ve got some bad news," he says finally.

“That’s terrible,” says the man. “Would you like a shot?”

“I mean terrible news for you,” he replies.

The man poured himself a shot.

Taking a deep breath, the doctor sighed. “She’s pregnant.”

The man drank his shot.

“I can’t be pregnant,” laughed the woman.

“Yes,” agreed the man after a satisfied gasp. “She’s just getting really fat.”

“Nope,” says the doctor, holding X-rays up to the light. “Preggers.”

The man gasped. “How long do we have, Doc?”

“Not long,” he says studiously, turning to the man. “Those stomach cramps are actually contractions. You may want to go downstairs and pace around in an anxiety-addled state for a few hours.”

“But if I were pregnant," asks the woman, "wouldn’t I know? I mean wouldn’t he have moved or something by now?”

The doc continues to study the illuminated X-Rays. “Look, I’m not telling you the kid isn’t lazy.”

The woman grabs the man’s hand. “Baby this is wonderful!”

“Yes,” says the man, tracing his finger across the hospital Fire Escape map. “The Maternity Ward is two floors down, and there’s a set of stairs-“

“We’re way ahead of you,” says the doc. “It has been bricked up for four years now.”

“Darling,” she insists. “We’ll have the pitter-patter of little feet running across the pool deck of out summer home.” Wistfully she sighs, “And with you being an asbestos magnate, he can go learn with the greatest minds of our time at the finest of Ivy League schools.”

Exasperated, the man looked down at his her, still clasping his hand hopefully.

And after what seemed an eternity gazing into those big beautiful blue eyes, his icy heart finally melted.

“Jesus, I hope he's white,” she adds.

Keeping the Romance Aflame

Predator Press

[LOBO]

I have recently made the observation that the most significant appliance in my marriage is a medium-sized cast iron skillet.

See, upon occasion I lose my sense of decorum and post about, um, fisting androids and random loose allusions about pornography.

!!!WHANGGG!!!

-In a fraction of a second the "message" is delivered loud 'an clear.

Once I'm out of the hospital, several days of apologetic groveling must ensue: this typically includes flowers, chocolates, window serenades, jewelry, luxury cars -whatever it takes to trick her into thinking I have deeply-rooted “feelings” and warrant forgiveness.

Conversely, if I’m mad, she uses this exact same skillet to make my favorite food: pork chops. Pork chops -minus the time to defrost them- take maybe an hour and max out cost-wise at around $15.

This versatile utensil is truly remarkable, and when factoring in the innate marriage-saving properties it must be regarded with a certain awe … an awe that could bring an entrepreneurial blogger such as myself an assload of cash.

-Cash that can be used for the afore mentioned apologetic groveling.

As many of you longtime readers know, Predator Press has always been a blog dedicated exclusively to successful relationships and personal fulfillment. It is in this spirit I’ve contacted DuPont and –with Doctor Phil onboard as a consultant- have developed the official Predator Press Skillet of Love.

No couple that takes itself seriously should be without it.

Retailing at around $249, the Predator Press Skillet of Love is constructed of contoured space age polymers and alloys making it extremely lightweight, balanced and aerodynamic for hurling ease and accuracy*, while the virtually impervious coating provides a non-stick surface that never requires “seasoning.”

*Detachable laser targeting scope (pictured) is optional and sold separately.

Ask LOBO: How to Blog Part III

Predator Press

[LOBO]

This installment of How to Blog is dedicated to increasing traffic by utilizing Blogger-Oriented Observations and Bold Statements.

-"BOOBS" for short.

As the primary author of Predator Press, I can’t say enough about BOOBS. Nothing attracts new readers like them, and there shouldn’t be an inch of your blog that isn’t completely devoted to them. BOOBS have forever been the life’s blood of the internet, and without them none of us would be here.

But be warned: you can’t just use any BOOBS. No matter what kind of creative savvy you command, spongy lifeless sulky BOOBS will drag your blog down into depressing obscurity. You want new and upbeat perky BOOBS. Hard BOOBS. Firm, well rounded BOOBS. –BOOBS that when called upon can slam home an exciting and informative lifestyle like a railroad spike.

And don’t get locked into specific BOOBS either: they might make your blog trite and repetitive seeming. The biggest mistake you can make is to climb up onto BOOBS you find perfect and proselytize joyously down upon your readers: while they might be hypnotized briefly by the gigantic mighty weight of your respective views, they will eventually feel alienated.

One must be open to new BOOBS occasionally. There’s nothing worse than focusing too hard on one set of BOOBS, because pow you’re likely to get blindsided by someone else’s BOOBS. You could lose an eye like that! Remember variety is good: Predator Press, for example, often features BOOBS that go in completely different directions; while this might seem self-defeating, the occasional violent collision of BOOBS is a spectacle no avid blog reader would ever want to miss out on.

And that concludes How to Blog Part III. Please put this information to good use, and stay tuned for Part IV: a riveting discourse of the next phase of good blogging, “Topical Information To Surf.”

Now go!

Blog!

Internet Swag

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Limbaugh “Spears” New Republican Direction

Predator Press

[LOBO]

To address flagging confidence in the Republican Party, Rush Limbaugh hopes to reinvigorate the American conservative youth by taking a page out of iconic pop culture.

-Limbaugh cites his only regret in this audacious new strategy “The Brazilian wax. O Holy Christ that hurt.”

Predator Press Announces Ten-Year Middle East Peace Plan

Predator Press

[LOBO]

-See I’m not thinking of it as a Holy war or a charitable contribution to either side.

To the contrary, I’m sick of reading about every last one of ‘em.

But if we get the Israelis out of there for a while, the other lunatics will start killing each other instead: in ten years and nobody'll be left, and then we send the bastards back one happy Hanukkah with explicit instructions:


Stay the fuck out of the news for a few centuries, capiche?-so's we can get back to Britney Spears and Lindsay Lohan.

So picture: around 2:00 am one fateful morning we use a bunch of low-tech cropdusters and sedate the entire population of Gaza and the West Bank or whatever.

In fact we'll get that East Bank too.

-just to show those pricks we can.

Once out cold we round the whole Israeli population up, transport them via military cargo jets, and arrange them carefully over our exact replica of the Gaza Strip currently known as New Mexico.

This “New Gaza” is far too ambitious to be perfect: doubtlessly some Israelis will occasionally grow suspicious. Perhaps even homesick. But here's where the true genius of my plan comes in: we don’t give the Israelis any time to figure anything out.

Everything in “New Gaza” is rigged to detonate at some random point when no people are within a certain radius. Thus, just as they are starting to wonder where their enemies are, boom, an empty bus explodes. Sure you’re your map seems a little off … but just as you’re trying to locate the North Star, a cactus immediately to the left goes kablooey.

And every night as they curl up to sleep, the distant horizon will be a violent and spectacular pyrotechnic symphony.

For ten years, the Israelis'll sleep like babies.

We don't have to do this for free, either: over the years the disoriented Israelis are our "guests" we can put a great big magnet on a semi or a rail car and “steer” them geographically: by carefully changing the magnetic north on their compasses we could convince them their enemies are actually to the south, surreptitiously putting the Israelis on our Mexican border patrol -all without paying them a dime.

Oh come on ... what's one more measley desert to wander? Moses had 'em goin four times that long, and this one has gas stations!

Just think if Moses had scratch-off lottery tickets and microwave burritos: that whole "New Testament" thing might've been real different.

-I'm just sayin'.

Bits of Tid

Predator Press

[LOBO]

"-that I'm sent from above. I'm not that innocent! Oops I did it again ... I played with your heart-"

Nurse Garrison lowers her stethoscope.

"You swallowed your iPod again, didn't you?"

"Maybe," I reply.

Ask LOBO: How to Blog Part II

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Millions and millions of readers are always asking me everyday, "LOBO, how can I learn to blog good?"

Well I’m glad you asked me that.

See, the environment from which you blog can’t be taken seriously enough.

Obviously we can’t all blog like Diesel does -drinkin’ chardonnay and smokin’ cigars with all the leisure time in the world, insulated in the 57th-story penthouse of the Humor-Blogs skyscraper and guarded by an evil Ed Harris and a battery of deadly bikini-clad secretaries.

Nor can we like the much-beloved Doctor Toboggans -from the deep unmapped catacomby bowels of the Delta Medical Center, surrounded by cages of helpful serial killers and upbeat Wall Street executives.

From the surface level of the Earth one must take precautions lest the aliens read your unprotected terrestrial thoughts and suck out your blogging ideas -thus paving the way to the enslavement of Humankind in the blogging labor camps on Alpha Centauri.

And not just anybody can make a regulation foil fedora that blocks your brainwaves from interception: don't fall for rank amateur construction! Without the proper pyramidical dimensions, improper geometrical configurations can actually amplify valuable transmissions to the Evil Alien Omnocracy!

Further, one should probably start with a nice and quiet ergonomic space restricted explicitly for blogging.

And deploy a 3000-watt strobe light immediately.

-It confuses the zombies.

Children of the Spud

Predator Press

[LOBO]

I’m an optimist when it all boils down.

-I mean here I am faced with an economic apocalypse which will doubtlessly spiral America into a feudal and barbaric warlike state over control of ever-dwindling resources: cities will collapse and burn under the fleeting interests of growing dissonance and anarchy.

I think this would, in fact, finally catapult my career into high gear.

Now I’ve never actually been a feudal overlord before, so I may stop just short of that -you know, maybe I’ll spend a few weeks as an underlord so I can ‘learn the ropes.’

But ultimately -once I’ve re-unified all the global superpowers and voluntarily abdicated my throne- you won’t be able to throw a rock without hitting my movie or book deals. My biography will be all the rage, ‘an the poster will be me in some kind of crazy battle armor swinging a high-tech battleaxe with a scantily-clad Terri hangin on my bulging pectorals.

See?

Optimist.

But Northern Idaho stands poised to change all that.

See most people don’t put the words “evil” and “Idaho” together often. It’s true about me too: I just don’t care that much about foreign policy abroad, and tend to stick with domestic issues. Besides, sometimes I really question this whole prejudice against big scary "evil." I mean what has evil ever done to me?

-Nor do I think "Regular Joe" Americans really know Idaho’s rich heritage of blood-soaked serious evildoing. Even today Idaho grows potatoes. Hitler loved potatoes: a large part of Idaho’s economy is subtly intertwined with nourishing the Fuhrer (should he have survived).

It’s Prima Facie: the average Idahoan capacity for evil is underestimated and completely unregulated, and I don’t understand why we don't send our navy to bomb the crap out of that place before Don Lewis returns.

Internet Swag

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Nosebleed

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Possessing the radiant braniosity of 1,000 men (or roughly six women) can be a lonely cross to bear.

See, people don’t always embrace genius. True, genius is often well-received ... but more often than not genius is dressed like Rihanna and in front of Chris Brown’s house, yelling disparaging comments about his penis size.

-But I carry on because I care.

Still, when I found out there was a scientific institute named The National Aeronautics and Space Administration (NASA) that I wasn’t a part of, I was furious.

Not only was I not invited to participate, but they didn’t even change the name -lifting it directly from my own institution: The National Aeronautics and Space Administration of LOBO (NASAL).

And how can you have an “aeronautic space administration” –national or otherwise- without the world’s foremost theoretical astrophysicizer?

Hm?

Spree

Predator Press

[LOBO]

“I fixed your hood ornament,” says the tech.

“Actually you broke it off,” I point out.

“Semantics,” he replies. “It kept poking me while I was under the hood so I got rid of it. You didn’t need it anyways. It’s more aerodynamic this way.”

“That’s not the point, is it?”

“Look,” says the guy. “I put a different one on. It’s just as good, and this one doesn’t poke me anymore. What are you afraid of? Somebody will mistake your stupid car for another stupid car? Frankly I’m sick of you people and your petty imaginary car competitions -all conducted the expense of my physical and emotional well-being!”

I have a headache now.

He pokes me in the shoulder.

"By the way, here's your antenna.”

How I Got Back on the Board of Education

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Being back in the Principle’s office, I believe, makes my edginess warranted.

My fifteen years of adolescent “education” were absolutely riddled with paddlings.

-They don’t do it anymore, but I still make the association.

For a few moments I fall behind the gentleman as we walk to Screechy’s classroom, and I find myself staring at the back of his head and thinking I could take this guy.

“This is the classroom,” he says, swinging the door wide.

What followed was an assault of color and information that reminded me of that mushroom pizza I had in Amsterdam: there wasn’t a square inch of that place that wasn’t both visually stuffed with information and somehow delicious in appearance like candy.

This room could make me insane.

“He’s a good student,” the Principle says. “He just-“

OMG they’ve got 'HOP on Pop‎.'

“-and upon occasion we’ve noticed-“

I LOVE 'HOP on Pop!'

“Sir?” says the Principle.

“I said this room is terrifying,” I repeat.

I think.

“How so?”

“Well,” I begin. “The alphabet pictures over the chalk board. They show pictures of animals. A-Aardvark, B-Brontosaurus, C-Cat, D-Dog…”

“And this is a problem?”

“S is a stethoscope. Until ‘S’, we have all animals.” I shake my head. “You people will be the first to ditch me when my son asks for a pet stethoscope. How could you be so heartless?”

“We’re trying to tell you,” Principle Estevez continues, “that your son is exhibiting narcissistic delusions of grandeur, aggression and slightly paranoid antisocial behaviors.”

“That comes from his mother,” I explain. “Are you guys serving donuts? You guys dragged me in here at 8:30 in the morning and don’t have coffee and donuts? Seriously?”

"Sir, we-"

"I should totally kick your ass."

Starter Gods

Predator Press

[LOBO]

I don’t imagine you would start out as The God. I think you would start small and work your way up. Like, for instance, you would begin as the God of the Star Wars Jawas –curing blindness by changing the AA batteries that make their eyes work, et cetera.

See the rules for gods are the same as in boating: the bigger gods get the “right of way” and the smaller ones have to yield. For you non-nautical types, think of it in terms of going to the buffet: if you and some kid that looks like Pauly Shore are making a play for the same pork chop, you stab Pauly with your fork to make your intentions clear and that’s it. But on the other hand if it’s the woman being recruited as a linebacker for the Saint Louis Rams –you know, with her fat, powerful toes spilling out over her flip flops and gripping the carpet like it might suddenly become the ceiling should gravity reverse itself- you might consider some Salisbury steak instead.

So where was I? Oh yeah. Jawas. Creepy little guys. They dress kinda like ghosts. Ever play Pac Man? When you eat the big flashing dot the ghosts turn blue, and you can eat them. Blue like R2D2! Coincidence? Or were the Jawas trying to protect their endangered brethren? Hmm?

Answer me, dammit!

I’m kidding, of course. As the Unofficial God of Jawas, I have it on good authority R2-D2 was mistaken for a Jawa in a mumu, and all efforts to get him to Mos Eisley where he was to catch his connecting Honolulu flight were all grossly overblown misunderstandings. Then one Jawa innocently peaked up R2’s torso to see where that third leg came from and whammo: lawsuit.

And what would Jawa porn be like? I mean you don’t see much of them except their glowing eyes what with the robe and all. Are their eyes the only -*ahem*- things that glow? Could we expect a strobe effect while on Jawa spanked the other screamin ”Who’s your daddy?”

So where was I?

Oh yeah.

To All You Poor Rich People: WELCOME!

Predator Press

[LOBO]

I heard Rush Limbaugh giving a speech today.

It’s safe to say it alarmed me a little. Not what he was actually saying … oh Christ no I’ve been tuning that guy out for years. But the fact that he is talking to people who are listening always gives me the heebie-jeebies.

The Obama camp is being besieged by a re-inspired Republican Party: the rationale is that Obama is supposedly leading us into a Socialist-type quagmire.

I’m not any political party.

And with that being said, I think the Republicans should shut the fuck up. You “Republicans” who rationalized George W. Bush –barely a mammal- for eight fucking years have the balls to wonder why the “Republican Party” leaves a bad taste in America’s mouth right now?

Seriously?

I suggest you guys reprioritize and go find yourself a candidate that can be, well, elected.

:)

All My Worldly Possessions

[LOBO]

Okay.

I’ve bought a chest from roughly the World War II era.

And for the last ten years I’ve filled it with random stuff like slabs of cuneiform, Aztec sundials, obscure navigational coordinates, and maps of unidentified-yet-historic European fortresses and cathedrals.

–All sprinkled lightly with tantalizing Latin and Arabic poetry and diagrams.

The lawyer reading my Last Will and Testament will bequeath this unexplained trove via Overnight Fed-Ex to my least favorite relative with the following note:


I was so close!

Predator Press: Wise Investing

Predator Press

[LOBO]

As a male, I have a preoccupation with the family’s “Investment Strategy.”

Terri is always “401k this,” and “stocks ‘n bonds that.”

All that Wall Street hocus-pocus never excited me much: I always thought we should simply buy a waterbed frame that I can just lie in and, fed by tubes, slowly fill up to exactly the size of my coffin.

Life insurance? O hell no. Just spray the lining with PAM and flip me into the cemetery!

See, I’m thinking of installing a garage door right in the bedroom. Terri –once she’s acquired the proper OSHA certifications- could theoretically drive a forklift right in. Modern forklifts –and I’m speaking of the ones with electric batteries- can run without issue for eight hour stretches. I would probably top out at about six hundred pounds -well below specifications.

From our location, we could make it to Alcatraz, Los Angeles, the San Andreas Fault and the Sequoia National Park with a good 50 hours of hard driving and intercepting charged batteries via strategic Fed-Ex locations.

-But I think Terri is just plain lazy.