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.
[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.
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