The Crap I Don't Give Impacted

Predator Press

[LOBO]

It was only in that moment of ridiculous terror I realized it was, well, ridiculous.

-First of all, what the hell would I be doing in a cave? I am a lazy, lazy individual; caves require, you know, getting to them and stuff.

And this is all predicated by the unlikely idea you could convince me to go into a cave as well. Think about what you are up against here: if you uttered something that could be even vaguely paraphrased into "Let's work hard to get into a place we can easily get killed in!" aloud in my house, I would immediately call 911 and secretly hope the cops beat you into paste once removed from the premises.

Who is going to miss a spelunker anyway? Somebody would go, "Where is Bill? I haven't seen him in a few days," and somebody else would reply "He's a spelunker." Then the first guy would say "Oh."

-And that would be that. They wouldn't even look for you for weeks.

If at all.

Now that I think about it, I hate spelunkers -spelunkers, and guys named "Travis." And if you're a spelunker named Travis? Please save us all a lot of time and trouble and kill youself as soon as possible. It's for the greater good. Into the zinc smelter you go, and then foom -that zinc smelter is launched into the sun.

It's that simple.

Anyway if I'm not really in this cave because I'm dreaming, it stands to reason this cable-thick webbing that is keeping me from running isn't real either. This is a good thing, because the spider the size of a 7/11 that just caught me just laid about fifty teeny weenie hungy-looking babies, each only the size of a compact car.

-They too probably aren't real.

Jesus Christ I hope my sheets are dry when I wake up.

This first problem obviously is coming up with a new dream. I don't like horror and worrying if the washing machine and dryer are empty, so no more nightmare -I wanna do, ah, smarmy science fiction. Yeah. With a zesty hint of Western and maybe a pinch of James Bond too.

-I don't remember any transition at all. It was more kinda like forgetting the cave and the spiders.

Now I'm looking down upon a magnificent futuristic city: my cape blows back in the breeze revealing two big and dangerous looking holstered guns -guns I presume I use on people that make fun of my cape.

Man I look good in Spandex.

"That was brilliant sir!" say a voice from behind.

I whirl with the reflexes of a cat, eyebrow raised and gun drawn.

A grandfatherly-seeming man with a high-tech looking darkened spectacle approached, and I could see the flaming remains of my X Wi -I mean X-Thing fighter. (Does George Lucas still sue?) "Congratulations, my boy! You have saved the world again."

"Really?" I asked. "What exactly did I do?"

Suddenly, a thick throng of people close around me in a single wave, drowning the old man out completely.

"That was a fantastic display of heroism, physical prowess and utter genius!" says one.

"Yes it was," I agree. "What was it again?"

Then the cheerleaders start a rhythmic chant, "Horay for LOBO! You saved the world again!"

"Yes I did I suppose," I acquiesce. Well why should I be a party-pooper? Heck, this dream skips right to the victorious end, minus all that exhausting, dangerous 'adventure' crap and tedious detail.

Now that I think about it, this is the best dream I've ever had.

There's only one problem really. See in every 70's or 80's movie you'll ever see, the bad guy always demands a million dollars.

One.

-By today's standards, that's, well, laughable. You could probably get a million dollars for Corey Feldman.

So this is like the Twentieth Century or something. Couldn't I have saved more than one lousy world in my own dream? That's pretty lame if you ask me.

Bodysurfing over the still-growing crowds, I sigh disappointedly under the spectacular fireworks displays spelling "LOBO" is the sky.

Then I notice something unusual.

"Put me down," I tell the crowds.

Once my feet were on terra firma, the fan I happened to be facing smacked my shoulders proudly.

"How did you do it?" he asked.

"Do what?" I replied, still watching the strange object in the sky.

It was a clearly approaching -a gigantic Independence Day-sized flying saucer.

Other people were now noticing it too.

The crowd scattered, and in moments I was in a huge clearing, directly under the central eye of the massive craft.

"LOBO" a mechanical voice boomed, shaking the ground. "We have come to destroy the universe."

"Like I care," I says. "It's a dump anyway. Just don't mess with any of my stuff."

"But," the voice continued. "We have changed our minds after witnessing your recent brilliant and heroic actions. Perhaps there is hope for your feebleminded race and ours to live in peace."

"And what did I do exactly?"

"You saved the universe."

The crowd cheers in the distance, and once again I am flooded by well-wishers.

But suddenly a stray LOBO firecracker bounced off of the goliath saucer's hull, and a million lasers unified on a single point -incinerating the unfortunate pyrotechnics engineer instantly.

And the guns began to take aim on possible threats in the sea of people.

"Oh my god," a woman screamed. "They killed Travis, the fireworks guy!"

As the smell of burnt hair wafted over the fearful spectators, a long uncomfortable silence ensued.

Finally seeming to notice, the saucer blurted "Long Live LOBO."

Whew, I thought.

-I'm pretty good at this 'hero' stuff actually.

Massachusetts Cops: A Lighter Shade of FAIL

Predator Press

[LOBO]

I used to think of Massachusetts as sophisticated and enlightened.

-But it appears if you part that lovely ivy just a smidge, gawsh-golly there’s a rootin’ tootin knee-slappin rebel flag-flyin hoedown just a-bellerin’ ta beat the band!

Betwixt whittlin, law enforcement, and just electrifiyin’ squaredance jug-blowin, Boston Po-lice Officer Justin Barrett done used this here lighty-box to tele-e-graph a mass email hollerin how Harvard professor Henry Louis Gates Jr. is a "banana-eating jungle monkey.”

Now before all you –uh- 'darkies' git ta yer angry break dancin an thowin’ yer fried chicken, y’all should know he has done assured America on CNN he is definitely not -by inny stretch of that thar imagination- a racist.

-In fact, some of his best friends knows people that are Negroes.

The Battlefield Known

Predator Press

[LOBO]

In the last post, an anonymous commenter asked if I had thought of writing a book and -ego stoked- I caught myself giving a big, longwinded answer as if I had any idea what I was talking about.

Now I don’t generally let my lack of knowledge about any particular subject get in my way, so that’s nothing special. But I did make myself laugh at my own apparent willingness to wax on and on over the topic of becoming a professional author; in truth I think if it were to be it would have happened already ... now a combination of age, lifestyle, and a total lack of connections and resources pretty much renders the whole thing moot. Worse of all, I lack the single quality most authors rely on to overcome these obstacles: talent.

-But then I started to think about that. Why should these “talented” people get all the breaks? Were the playing field leveled, who knows? I could be the next Hemmingway!

What would be required for my success would be sort of a “neutron bomb” for talent. Picture it: a blinding mushroom cloud, and a shock wave encircles the Earth; instantaneously “talented” authors like Chuck Palahniuk, Steven King and William Gibson –and all their works- are completely vaporized in a hellish, agonizing firestorm, and I am left to misuse semicolons and hyphens and otherwise butcher the English language with utter impunity.

(I said picture it, dammit!)

The Center Divide

Predator Press

[LOBO]

It was only vaguely sunny, but comfortable. The guy that works on his kit cars was working an Aston Martin, and, as per usual, the promising husk was blocking about a third of the two lane subdivision’s road.

I never really minded swinging by him. In fact to the contrary, I had a quiet admiration for his work. A few months ago -weather permitting- he was building a fucking hot Boss 429 Mustang. But having not come down this road for some time, I never really saw the project anywhere near completion.

Still, the Aston Martin looks pretty cool already.

The fact this obtrusive hobbyist was blind wasn’t much of a secret; it was obvious by his seemingly cavalier attitude toward roadside traffic. Even now, his legs, surrounded by tools, stuck out from the skeletal underside as autumn leaves swirled in skittish somersaults across the faded concrete -a scant five feet from the center divide.

If constructing cars wasn’t enough, it was rumored Hal worked for NASA. I swear to god. Not working on rockets and such, but something to do with the concession machines; he got in on some kind of handicap program. Single and without children, his income provided an enviable house, and an even more enviable hobby.

Little of this registers to me consciously as I swing by wide in the light traffic.

The security key would doubtlessly be changed by the second shift, and the locks would be reconfigured.

While not particularly rushed, it would be of no value in a matter of hours.

A serious thief would feel more pressed for time; I regard myself as more of a passing opportunist.

An explorer if you will.

Malls, most people don’t know, have separate entrances for their employees; concrete catacombs providing unrestricted access –I learned this from my first job, hawking smoothies at one. Sure they’re monitored by video cameras, but I look a lot like my brother, and I’m wearing his uniform. He’ll be mad if he finds out, but if he finds out I’m fucked anyway –I’m using his car.

And fuck his car, I’ve got his badge and his gun too.

But the plan is only to “explore.” A short pop in and out, copping my brother’s look if you’ll pardon the pun -acting like this unwieldy utility belt is second nature

Like I’m doing something boring yet somehow relevant.

Should a bicycle or a pair of sneakers appear in my car, well, what can I do? It’s not like I could return them. Those people would then prosecute, and the need to go through prosecuting people is a big pain in the ass.

Nobody wants that. I’ll just keep them.

My mildly amused grin goes away fast when I realize the key isn’t working. And even as my mind locks into the unexpected issue, I hear the interface pop.

“Stay there Mallory,” squawked the durable-looking gray cube. ”We’re coming out.”

Fuck, I thought.

I started sweating immediately –probably even before I began the brisk trot to the car. My hand seemed to instinctively hold the pistol grip despite the unfamiliarity as I ran, and from what seemed a million miles away I wondered optimistically if they would think my brother was suddenly dispatched on a call.

My mind raced as I started the roaring engine, while simultaneously slamming the door.

Should I have bluffed it out and stayed?

Thinking ahead, I had tactically parked for a fast exit: the tires screamed into the pavement hard, and I fishtailed slightly in the unexpected thrust.

When I saw the flashing lights in the rearview, and all hope of my brother not finding out melted. I was, for lack of a better word, fucked in Fuckville at fuck o’clock.

Still, maybe if I got the car back on our property they wouldn’t tow impound it.

Maybe if I tell him “I’m sorry,” my brother will forgive me sooner.

-And panic stricken, I forgot about poor ol Hal.

A Gift Certificate From 'Best Buy' Could Probably Fix This

Predator Press

[LOBO]

“Dad,” whines Screechy. “They wont let me watch Dora!”

On the one hand, the teenagers are quietly watching television.

-But on the other, being unemployed and bored has made me an increasingly dark and deeply-conflicted individual: the five-year old and both teenagers are available for my potential amusement.

“What!?” I’ll say, feigning shock. “Well, you tell them I said ‘hoop-boobli-flip flang!’”

-And dutifully, Screechy runs down the stairs, back into the living room, and announces with distant-yet-undeniable authority, “Dad said … !”

I have to hide my laughter as the rapid footsteps return.

“They didn’t listen!” he complains. “They just, well, stared at me!”

I scowl menacingly. “Oh really? Well you tell them I said, “Quit spoinking and flizz-flazzle!” But just as he begins to run back, I grab his shoulder and look him in the eye real serious-like. “Don’t forget to tell them ‘pttttthbt’ first.” Holding my thumb to my nose, I wiggle my fingers and wince crossed eyes for effect. “Remember. Pttthbt! -or it won’t work!”

He practices the hand motion. "Spoinking the flizz-flazzle!"

“Perfect,” I smile parentally.

-This is followed by running footsteps down the stairs, muffled cursing teenagers (possibly throwing objects), and then running footsteps up the stairs.

"It's not working," he points out, breathing heavily. "You have to put on Dora."

"Did you remember the 'pttthbt' thing?"

"Yes."

"-And the fingers?"

He demonstrates. "Uh huh!"

"You did it wrong. You have to use your other hand ..."

How to Handle Cambridge Cops

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Now I wasn’t there, so let me have said up front I don’t know the facts surrounding the arrest of Henry Louis Gates Jr. But I do know firsthand that cops –on occasion- lie.

Still, I’m not here to judge -I’m simply weighing in with some helpful tips so we can avoid these circumstances in the future.

#1) Don’t Be Black and in Cambridge: I’m not saying you can’t be black or in Cambridge ... I’m just saying you shouldn’t be both at the same time.

#2) If You Can’t Avoid Being Simultaneously Black and in Cambridge, Work a Career-Oriented Lie: You know, like tell the cops you’re really a white chimney sweep on your way home from work. (An Asian chimney sweep is also acceptable, but be prepared to answer a lot of rapid-fire algebra questions.)

#3) Convince the Police You Are Not in Cambridge At All: Quickly erect a scale replica of the Eiffel Tower or the Sphinx, and start taking snapshots.

-With sensitivity, a heightened awareness and a little planning, we can continue in the racial harmony we've grown accustomed to over the past several hundred years.

In a Nutshell

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Being a smoldering highly-desired ripped physical specimen such as myself has drawbacks, and people tend to assume I’m, you know, all brawn and no brains.

I can hardly fault them: an Adonis-like physique such as mine might suggest I spend far more time in the gym than “cracking the books.” This misconception has plagued me my entire life, and all throughout the 80's and 90’s I’ve had to beat up Billy Zabka, like, fifty times.

Well I’m tired of beating up Billy Zabka. And at this point I’m unable to guarantee Bily Zabka’s safety the next time he screws with me in the locker room -or tries to mess up my wife Terri’s mind with his twisted macho crap. (Do you hear me Billy Zabka? If I hear one more cheap knockoff of Kenny Loggins' “Danger Zone,” you’re a dead man.)

So I need some intellectual “credentials” to prove I’m not just Terri’s hot, chiseled boy-toy dripping with manliness -and that’s why I’ve just enrolled for my online triple degree in Criminal Justice, Pulmonary Surgery and Psychiatry.

“Honey,” I argued. “It’s for us.”

“Us?” she demanded.

“Well excuse me. I think $1,100 of your hard-earned money is well worth our continued marital bliss.”

“But these things are rip offs!” she screamed.

“This one isn’t. I specifically asked the woman on the phone if it was a rip off. She said it wasn't."

As her eyes roll, I snort.

"Jesus Christ, I didn't order a Nordic Track."

World Trade Organization Rejects "World Trade Foundation" Facelift

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Coming Up for Air

Predator Press

[LOBO]

CNN is ablaze with stories regarding the Nomura Jellyfish, a 450 pound six foot long creature poised to invade the Sea of Japan.

And what made the Japanese -the ferocious Kamikaze crazies- become so fearful they wont even stick a big toe in their own ocean?

I, speaking for all of us, blame the Republicans.

The Republicans are always getting in the way of scientific progress. “We shouldn’t clone,” they whimper and sob into their cognac sifters. “Cloning is the equivalent of playing God.”

Well why shouldn't poor people be able to play God too? I would love to play God (as long as I can be the racecar, and don’t have to be the Banker).

With slight little tweaks of DNA, we could counter the onslaught of Nomura Jellyfish with wave after wave of Peanut Butterfish and tenacious Whitebread Octopi. Get some already-existing Swordfish to cut the diagonal, and pow we're done: like WWII, America has once again rescued Japan from certain destruction.

-We could even develop an arthropod that takes the crusts off!

Revolting

Predator Press

[LOBO]

In May of 2007, Paris Hilton was sentenced to 45 days in jail only to be released after serving 50 hours. After much public outcry and drama, she was returned –ultimately serving a total of 23 days.

And admittedly I’d already been a Paris hater for years. It started with “The Simple Life” -a FOX Network reality show starring her and some other similarly vapid frosted flake I can’t remember, explicitly engineered to ridicule and humiliate the American working class.

That said, let’s skip ahead to a week ago. I had to renew my expiring driver’s license –including a CDL which cost me a month of intensive training and roughly $4,500.

While relieved it wasn’t the four hour ordeal I’ve grown to expect from the DMV it was all for nothing anyway: despite having no criminal record at all, my still-valid license, birth certificate copy, SS card, apartment lease, car title, marriage license -and my legally-verifyable wife Terri standing right beside me- the California DMV "could not help."

-My Birth Certificate wasn’t certified. Born in Chicago, my certified Birth Certificate would have to be attained via Illinois ... Even if I spent a fortune it would take a week.

I was told “tough luck,” and subsequently have no legal identification or driver's license –and that $4,500 CDL potential source of income? Bye-bye. I have to take written tests, driving tests -everything all over again.

Well I apparently went to the wrong DMV altogether: according to TMV [story linked here], in Santa Monica it was prearranged for Paris Hilton -criminal record and Probation in tow- not to wait in any lines at all, take five photos, and all employees were ordered to turn their cellphones off so no other photos got leaked. All this was done during regular business hours, and right in front of clearly less-important people such as ourselves.

As far as DMVs go, Santa Monica appears so uncharacteristically accommodating I think maybe I’ll provide a few links to the relevant agencies. What a fine example! They should be contacted so their unique Customer Service insights be shared, and we can enjoy the same treatment at all DMVs across this Great Nation:



The Santa Monica Department of Motor Vehicles
2235 Colorado Avenue
Santa Monica, 90404
(800)777-0133


Governor Arnold Schwarzenegger
California State Capitol Building
Sacramento, CA 95814
Phone: 916-445-2841
Fax: 916-445-4633
email

Madonna Stage Collapse Kills McMahon, Fawcett, Jackson, Mayes, McNair, Cronkite, Billings Couple

Predator Press

[LOBO]



Would you people stop dying for like five minutes
so I can get organized for Christ’s sake!?

Sonia Sotomayor, Put Down the Chunky Monkey and Step Away from the Refrigerator

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Oh come on -you're all thinking it.

Picture: the Bailiff calls “All rise,” and here she comes in flip flops -the usual schlop schlop schlop sounds drowned out in the clicketty-clackitty of hippopotamus toenails spilling over to grip the marble floor (in case gravity spontaneously reversed itself).

Approaching “The Bench,” she pushes yesterday’s cellophane wrappers and donut boxes off of her desk -in a single swipe- at the bailiff.

"File those, asshole" she demands, and punches in an eight digit combination on her government-issued briefcase to procure the sole item enclosed: a George Foreman Grill.

Belching contentedly, she then skims a jelly-stained copy of a Row v. Wade deposition while picking her teeth with a still-smoking rib from yesterday's losing prosecuting attorney -a Pfizer rep that smelled vaguely of Old Spice and barbeque sauce.

Look, I’m sure whatever the Supreme Court does is very, very important from time-to-time: I don’t want to turn on C-SPAN only to see out-of-fuel helicopters crashing due to misjudged close-up shot distances.

And I’m as “Progressive” and “Enlightened” as anybody regarding chicks wanting do a dude's work: as long as you only make 70% of the pay, hey, knock yourself out.

-But unlike American Idol, this isn't based on weight: the Senate isn't doing her any favors by mincing about the seemingly-taboo issue of her immense, galactic-scale girth. What if, for instance, she’s in Tokyo and innocuously wants to go to the beach?

Those panic-prone Japanese might call Mothra!

Ask LOBO: How To Blog Part IV

Predator Press

[LOBO]

MILLIONS and millions of readers are always asking me everyday, ”LOBO, if I make a YouTube of me sticking my head in a deep fryer, will I get as many people to visit my blog as yours?”

Well I'm glad you asked me that.

The short answer is “Well, uh, yeah” -but the long answer is more of a philosophical and humanitarian discussion that doesn't smell very good at the conclusion.

In continued offensive olfactory irony, according to Google Analytics the most popular Predator Press post ever shockingly has nothing to do with farts either: Lee Majors Endorses $14.95 Bionic Ear -as a specific Google Search- has placed Number One since it's inception, and to this day has three times as many direct visitors than the distant second.

-On occasion people still comment on it.

But if you think I’ll let cold hard statistical fact I don't understand get in my way, you’re sadly mistaken: I think we should all be doing something entirely different.

As 'Bloggers,' I think we should start ending random sentences with “and then I started killing people.”

(I’m sensing some resistance here, but don’t puss out on me yet.)

I’m not sayin end every sentence with “and then I started killing people” ... just a light dusting will do. 'Less is More' in this case.

I submit this modified excerpt from an e e cummings poem for your consideration:



a pretty a day
(and every fades)
is here and away
(but born are maids
to flower an hour
in all,all)
-and then I
started killing people
Long Live the Robots!

See that?

-And I totally improvised the 'Long Live the Robots' thing.


For the entire Predator Press
"How to Blog" series, click here.

Rebel Yell

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Between Terri and I, we have two boys and five girls -four of which girls are over eighteen.

Plus two 'Mother-In-Laws," four grand-daughters, and, like, nine sisters between us.

Not to mention Phil, the female household feline.

-For the two boys and I, it’s like dangling precariously over intermittently-whirling serrated sawblades sharpened in acid and salted gasoline.

And what exactly are we going to do about it?

I dunno.

A bake sale maybe.

Update: Michael Jackson Still Dead

Predator Press

[LOBO]

According to various news sources, Predator Press has confirmed that Michael Jackson is still dead.

“We were thrown off by four minutes of non-Jackson related stories yesterday,” cites a Predator Press insider. “About ninety seconds in, we totally forgot.”

CNN, MSNBC, and Fox News did not immediately return our numerous phone calls.

“I am outraged,” our source continues. “What kind of so-called ‘journalism’ is that?”

“There’s still plenty of much-needed affirmation available,” says the source’s wife. “Why the four minute gap in coverage? My hairdresser had a dream about Jackson in 2008, and has yet to be interviewed.”

Sven Roberts, 31, concurs. “I remember it as if it was yesterday. I had done two perms and seven highlights in about four hours, and got a little woozy from the fumes. While napping in the back room, I dreamed that Michael Jackson and I were running through Grand Central Station in our underpants while the commuters tried to pelt us with sour cream and guacamole. We almost made it, but alas, Michael stumbled at the exit and was overtaken. I ran back, but it was too late.” A tearful Roberts continues with difficulty. “Once down, they got him with the whole seven layer dip. It was horrible.”

Even the facts corroborating this seven layer dip story are eerie: the words Roberts, Central, Station, Michael and Jackson all have seven letters each.

Creepy, eh?

Detonator

Predator Press

[LOBO]

After four days of unchecked growth, it was admittedly less like shaving and more like carving. Still, all cleaned up, I felt strangely giddy and lucid for the day ahead; within an hour I was at the employment facility -completely transformed from a person into shaven and spiff Subject 26 of Unit R.

The truth is I don’t mind the interviews and tests so much, but I hate filling out applications. It’s sooo repetitive. And pointless too if you think about it: I’m very pleased with my résumé ... why scrawl all that same information over and over and over by hand? I'm very, very busy busy being unemployed, and have better things to do than happity horsecrap. What am I, Jobe here?

Anywho, due to a scheduling snafu today was “Surprise Prospective Employee Aptitude Testing Day,” and four grueling one-hour tests and five hours later I staggered through our front door fini. Terri, already aware of the testing by virtue of a text message I managed to squeeze off, was already home and waiting.

“How did it go?” asked Terri. Noticing the shave, “You look nice.”

“Good I think,” I replied, buzzing with the dancing numbers, formulas and symbols seared painfully in my mind. Still, I felt unconsciously impelled to make excuses in case that wasn’t true. “I kinda struggled with the Math and Analytics parts though. It was tough to finish on time.”

“I’m sure you did fine baby.”

“The results should be available online already,” I reluctantly offered. In truth I was a bit burned out; the last thing I wanted to deal with at this moment was more test-related material. But -as was inevitable- curiosity prevailed.

As Terri logged in I lobbed more excuses.

“Threes are passable,” I volunteer. “Most serious jobs require a score of four. Engineering-type jobs require fives.”

Oh please God gimmee some fours.

“But threes are passable,” I repeated nervously. “I was pretty distracted toward the end. You know these tests are crap. And with the shabby way they are administered, I seriously doubt they produce an accurate assessment of-“

“It says you got a seven, two fives, and … and another seven.”

There’s a seven?

“And according to this,” Terri continues, “seven is the highest-“

She stops in mid-sentence, despite knowing fully the damage has already been done.

“Genius,” I says from over her shoulder. “I knew it.”

Without looking at me, Terri slumps into a slightly defeated posture.

I recognize her 'slightly defeated' posture. I know it because I’m a

-“Genius,” I repeat, nodding.

Terri, collapsing into the keyboard, sighs. “Oh Christ.”

“Please do not blaspheme in My Presence.”

“You put two CDs in the toaster yesterday.”

“And they sounded amazing,” I insisted. "C'mon. You're looking at irrefutable proof. These tests are very scientific."

“You’re going to be unbearable for weeks now, aren’t you?”

“Maybe,” I says coolly. Then, leaning in, I whisper in her ear. “Hey baby. Wanna get ‘wild an freaky’ with a bona-fide genius?”

Terri smirks, sitting up. “I don’t think so. But let me know if you see one. I might change my mind.”

I shrugged with disappointed resolve, sighing. "Okay."

-And then farted.


***Despite my genius, I have no idea what I would have done if she said 'yes' anyway. I suppose I could have risked serious injury and held that fart in for a while longer, but the only thing worse than serious injury to myself would be me causing serious injury to myself. Let's just say we were probably better off letting things play out like this ... just exactly the way God -in His Infinite Wisdom- obviously intended in the first place. And who am I to stand in the way of His Almighty Will? Hm? I don't know about you, but I'll not be causing myself serious injury messing around with God's Plan, thanks. What are you people? Atheists?

And I don’t know how long Terri chased me -or even if she did at all. Apparently it wasn't just some garden-variety mortal gas I passed: this gas -stewing on itself for five hours of earnest and excruciating job-hunting prudence and corked by a sphincter you could sharpen a pencil in- was some kind of unnatural lethal and unholy freak force of nature: the second I saw that wallpaper curl and peel I became alarmed and, eyes burning, threw a melting end table through the living room window, thus selflessly providing clean oxygen and a single tenuous shred of hope for the remaining household occupants: my wife and kids.

I'm a hero if you think about it.

Still, I dove out and continued to run a full mile in two minutes and eight seconds. Serpentine too, just in case Terri was still pursuing; there was a good chance her vision hadn't completely cleared up yet.

But there was no sign of her. So now I'm with no wallet, car, keys or cellphone, and -exhausted and a mile away- staring down the grisly task of going home to see if there are any survivors.

And I need a new living room window. And an end table. Cripes, I probably gotta wallpaper too.

This ‘genius’ stuff is harder than it looks.

It’s the Thoughtlessness that Counts

Predator Press

[LOBO]

AS millions and millions of Predator Press fans already know, July is commemorated worldwide as the birthday of Predator Press.

And any moment now –as is tradition- people in possession of copious amounts of high explosives and potent alcohol will light up the skies in spontaneous and adoring splendor.

I am always deeply moved and exhilarated by the spur-of-the-moment festivities, and simultaneously disconcerted by the massive firepower our dangerous readers can apparently attain.

But Predator Press Birthday Month isn’t about blowing each others fingers and heads off ... in fact, I don’t really know how that ritual even got started.

Predator Press' Birthday Month is about getting presents.

There are numerous things you could give to Predator Press with far less risk of injury. Pyramids for instance. Or an eighty-foot tall solid gold LOBO effigy, surrounded by bleachers that future generations can worship from in self-deprecating comfort.


Please consider your own personal safety!

Cat Farts: “SBD,” or Just Plain “D?”

Predator Press

[LOBO]

I’m a little behind in responding to comments, but I have to say I’m a little stunned at what I’m reading.

There happens to be some demand for my “Cat Fart” story mentioned in the post Dr. Conrad Murray is Guilty of SOMETHING.

-This is further compounded by the startling concept of actually having to answer for something on Predator Press: never in a million years -after posting about topics like Planet Earth precariously dancing on the strings of a Robot Dinosaur Overlord- would I have ever guessed I’d be called to the carpet over “cat farts.”

Seriously. Do you guys hate Michael Jackson that much?

Hm.

Well, in any case I’m caught in a total lie. At the time I was joking: I didn’t really have a cat fart post brewing. And if you think about it, you're an asshole to bring it up. Still, while blaming you for this, I forgive you simultaneously.

There. I feel better.

Don't you?

Okay, also I'm sorry - I wanted you all to think this blog was like, cerebral, you know? Do you millions and millions of readers know how much decent cat fart recording equipment costs? And –more importantly- who do I know that will put crap like that on their credit card?

Silently, I handed my buddy Jim Tarkenton (VISA #5426-9425-2775-5555, security code 951) these encrypted instructions while pushing him violently into the Best Buy:

FELINE+(S)B/D = HAPPY READERS

***
To facilitate this groundbreaking research, we subsequently scoured the countryside.

-and what happened next was too horrible to describe in words.

Predator Press Exclusive! Shocking and Totally Legal Michael Jackson Will Found

Predator Press

[LOBO]