Floor 33

The Discreet Charm of the Middle Class

[Alex L.]

“Hello... hello... hello” I can remember saying, or asking, I'm not sure which, an elevator door opens and the entire room in front of you is black you're not really remembering the grammatical inflection you put on things.

“Hello... is any body here?” I asked, I remember that one. Stepping out into the blackened room, my eyes slowly adjusted to the blackness, all the lights were off but I could barely make out the cubicle in the distance. Behind me the door dinged and closed shut the elevator pulling away.

“Oh god” I murmured starting to get a little scared. It wasn't every day you get told to deliver some mail to the 33rd floor.

“I have some mail... I'm just going to leave it on the table over here” I peeped moving to the table and dropping the large orange envelope, I stepped back to the elevator door and pushed the green up arrow. I looked back at the envelope for a second. In the corner of my eye I noticed the light above the cubicle flicker on. The light buzzed and spluttered into life, under it I could make out the top of his head.

I pushed the button again, this time harder.

“Whose that?” The voice said from inside his tiny three and a half walls.

I couldn't push that arrow any harder unless I was attacking it with a bat.

“Umm, its me the mail boy...” I said slowly turning back to the cubicle.

“I have a mail?” He said again from within his composite board fortress. The one light on the roof illuminating just that. I could see the top of his head shining.

“Please, bring hence forth the mail of mine” he said loudly, after that he began murmuring under his breath, his arms flailing about in the air every now and then.

“O....k... “ this was more than slightly unnerving, I walked forward the ground beneath me crunched for some reason but I wasn't looking down, that seemed like a mistake.

“Be careful in sector 6a...” He said from within his domain.

“Why” I almost squealed searching around me for some sort of sign post to tell where I was.

“Radiation” He said casually.

“Radiation?” That time I actually did squeal.

“What from?” I asked not wanting to know the answer.

“From the monkeys” He replied.

“Monkeys!” I exclaimed.

“Yeah, the spider ones are the worst... oh that and the Nesmith... You hear that you hat wearing bastard” He said standing up and screaming the last part, shaking his fist furious at the darkness.

“Screw you to jackass” Came a scream from the darkness followed by some quiet monkey cooing. I stared out into the blackness, it could have come from anywhere the darkness seemed to stretch out for miles in all directions. I looked back at him standing up now still shaking his fist at seemingly nothing. He was still doing it when I wandered over to him.

“Um, here is your mail Mr...” I said before being cut off.

“I'm not finished yet” He said still shaking his fist. I looked blankly at him, and he wasn't he still had a good few minutes of that shake left. And there he was, and that was why his head was shining. The horns were a nice touch, but a Viking helmet made from tin foil can't have provided that much protection.



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Predator Press Declares War on Australia!

Predator Press

[LOBO]

EVERYBODY knows how America got started: in 1776 a bunch of us hated soccer so much we loaded up the Nina, the Pinto, and the Santa Fe, and left the oppressive British monarchy forever. We’ve been freely oppressing ourselves ever since.

But what about Australia? Hm? Heck, we left Britain voluntarily … those people were kicked out!

The reason this comes up now is because it’s a matter of National Security: I recently caught Australia skulking up and down the West Coast. It wasn’t doing anything particularly suspicious -in fact at first I thought it was Kirstie Alley; it just rented a boogieboard and tooled about in the surf. But in retrospect I’m almost sure it knew I was "on" to it, and it was trying to look nonchalant.

Exactly why Australia has been sneaking around isn’t quite yet clear, but it has a long history of subtly messing with us with acts such as the “Coriolis Effect”; the Coriolis Effect -first proposed by famous mobster Don Coriolis- suggests that Australians often amuse themselves by flushing their toilets the same moment we do, thusly causing ours to back up.

But now the Aussies have become so brazen they are patrolling well inside our oceanic borders in broad daylight; if you listen closely and the wind is right, you can hear the war didgeridoos blowing in the distance. How long until Australia comes straight up the Mississippi and parks itself near St Louis? Inside agents such as Russell Crowe and Mel Gibson could just wave their arms wildly an yell “Hey! Over here! Lookit my new movie!” and pow, we got Yahoo Serious in the White House.

One only has to see a few photos of the well-decimated and uninhabitable Australian landscape to realize that St Louis, nay, America doesn't deserve a similar fate: an Australian invasion deeply offends my national sensibilities, and I won’t take the inevitable sneak attack lying down.

Unless of course it occurs during my nap.

-In which case I would hope they do it quietly.

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In the Symphony of Dissonance

Predator Press

[LOBO]

On Sunday, Terri came across this great little story on Joshua Bell and we spend a good hour "buzzing" about it: this guy lays a hat down at a subway station and earns $32 in forty-five minutes.

Now the fun comes in when you find out he's one of the best violinists in the world, and a few days prior had sold out a show at the paltry sum of $100 per head. The violin he used? Well I'm guessing he wanted to get a really old one so he could fool his audience, and "beater" violins are hard to come by: this one set him back $3,500,000.

For "non-readers," a good YouTube distillation of it can be found here, and the site Hoax-Slayer asserts the story's truth.

Anywho, boom: switch to Monday Night.

While sifting through blogs a thought crept into my braincase, and I'm particularly aware of this because of the rarity of the event: Why is that Joshua Bell story so interesting? Is clever irony that difficult to find? What makes a good post or story in the first place?

I decided to make a little log of little things -good or bad- that caught my eye as I surfed. I'm not going to link them up as some of them aren't particularly flattering, and I'm far too young and beautiful to die.

But here goes:


Hip Hop Hats:

Are you "positive" you are wearing your clothing correctly?

According to GQ, a properly-placed cap faces the same direction as your toes -unless you were horribly disfigured in a car accident and your toes don't point forward. In this case the bill should be on the same side as the zipper on your pants.

If your toes were horribly disfigured in a car accident and you're wearing parachute pants you're pretty screwed. Start listening to country music instead: those hats are generally invertible.


The Title "Our Journey To Forever":

That slays me. You know how you brain skims lines and finishes sentences for you? While the page loads my brain reads "Our Long, Long, Long, Long Journey ..."

The word "long" isn't even in the damn thing.

This title sounds excruciating; when I visit, I half expect to see skeletons with backpacks scattered around a cobweb-covered egg timer.

If we have 'forever,' I'm just going to chill here for a few thousand years.

Don't wait up.


The Title "A Mother of Yesterday, Today and Tomorrow":

I'm no master of the use of the comma, but this gives me a mother of a headache. You know, the one you inevitably get while watching sci-fi stories about wormholes and stuff?

Okay. Is there only one mother, or are they three different ones? Can 'mother of tomorrow' get me lottery numbers? What if you had the baby the day before yesterday ... who was the mother then? If it wasn't you, how can you be a mother now? What happens to the 'mother of tomorrow' if the ‘mother of yesterday’ decides to wear a condom instead? Can 'mother of tomorrow' beat up 'mother of yesterday' due to better technologies, or would 'mother of yesterday' murder 'mother of tomorrow' before she even knew about it? If 'mother of tomorrow' kills 'mother of yesterday,' mother of yesterday won't exist tomorrow -thus, 'mother of tomorrow' has no one to kill when the scenario arises: what happens then? Is yesterday's tomorrow today -so this whole thing only lasts for a total of three days- or is today tomorrow's yesterday in perpetuity? And if mothers are so good at time travel, why the hell do my socks keep disappearing ... ?


The Terms "Pinay" and "Pinoy":

If my mom said "We're going to the boardwalk, and I'm going to push you around in a stroller with a pinay on top," I would be, like, cool with it. But then I would think Man my mom is weird. And then I would think I couldn't even fit in a stroller, could I? And then I would think WTF is a "pinay?"

Well it turns out "Pinays" aren't those shiny colorful things on a stick that spin in the wind. Those are pinwheels. This whole time I figured maybe a "pinay" was a pinwheel that spins clockwise, and a "pinoy" is one that spins, you know, counterclockwise.

But actual "Pinays" are very heavy in contrast, and often accompanied by large contingents of "Pinoys."

Well good luck getting those on a factory spec stroller.

Mom is just plain 'ol racist and mean.


The Overly-Optimistic Idea Of How Cute Your Kids Are:

Okay, for the last two years we’ve seen a huge surge in stay-at-home mom bloggers. Fine. But moms are notorious for thinking their kids are the “cutest thing” -I think it’s a primitive biological survival trick by Nature so's most of our species is fooled into not leaving them in prom trashcans.

Darwin, I love you ... but yikes, man! Some of these kids have big freaky bulging eyes and that trailer park dentistry where the heavily-gapped teeth seem to whirl and snag in impossibly horrible different directions.

-I don't know how people can sleep with one of those creepy drooling bald things crawling around the house.


Catchy Graphics:

Okay this one requires an example image. Check this out:



Kewl, huh? A powerful, scantily clad-sorceress with decorative intimidating entourage accessories: at first blush this says "Tremble before my blog, ye misogynist dragons!"

-But wait.

Ummmm .... okay. I'f she's preggers, it has to be from the weird blue guy on the far right of the lineup: her +6 Mace of Eye Burning would have likely worked on all the others 'cuz they all actually have eyes. As a result her Child Support will arrive only sporadically, and often in the form of alien heads and pelts.

But if she's not preggers it gets exponentially more complex; wouldn't one of those big scary thugs at some point question her powers -powers that have thus far failed to conjure her up even a Nordic Track?

Well which is she now, a shameless mystical warrior space floozy or a soon-to-be-behemoth, Coors Light guzzling magical fraud? I don't know. But I've come to your blog to be entertained, not to be exhausted by speculation on this woman's brazen equivocation and loose morals. At least she'll be too busy skulking around dungeons to make a blog that I gotta see her kids on.

Still, it does beg the question of what medieval trailer parks might look like. And in a universe utterly devoid of El Camino hubcaps, what in the world would she use as a candy dish? A shield maybe?

-Okay, screw it. This is flat-out the best banner I've ever seen, and I'm "bookmarking" this site.

Anywho the "moral of the story" is sure there's a lot of mind-numbing stuff out there. But don't be one of the 1000 plus people that rushed past Joshua Bell while he's playing his heart out: if any one of them took pause to consider what they might be missing, they coulda bashed him upside the head with a tire iron and grabbed that $3,500,000 violin.

-A violin I could have easily fenced for sixty cents on the dollar.

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On This Day In Predator Press History

Predator Press

[LOBO]

On August 25, 1980, while General Zod made his play for control of the Earth, I wore down Ursa's morale by covering her MySpace with anonymous obscenities and slanderous allegations about her sexual proclivities; General Zod had a "don't ask, don't tell" policy, and this fatally undermined the military effort.

And can you really be a 'general' if your entire army is only three people?

Thanks to me (and a small supporting role by Superman), Zod, his "army," and his hairline were all soon receding into the furthest reaches of outer space.

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If Only Tipping Were A City in China

Road Kill Gumbo

[Mike McHugh]

Don't get me wrong; I firmly believe in taking good care of the people who work very hard to take care of us. I only wish that this system of figuring out the tip weren't so darned complicated. A lot of the time, I don't have a clue. I wouldn't be surprised if they had a graduate level course on subject at M.I.T.

The only time I really have an inkling about this is at a restaurant. 15% of the bill is the commonly accepted guideline. But what if the waiter dyes your new shirt purple with a bottle of wine. What then?

In a bar I'm totally lost. Experience tells me the customary tip for a bartender is a buck no matter what you order. It could be a $2 bottle of bud light, or an entire round for your office mates at happy hour. On one particular occasion I bought a beer for $3.50. I left the two quarters on the bar, and the bartender gave them back to me!

Now I may not know much about tipping, but I don't think it's a good sign when a bartender refuses your gratuity. You'll probably fly through the sobriety checkpoints on your way home that night.

I'm always impressed with the very long memories people seem to have of those who under-tip them. A retired waitress with Alzheimer's who doesn't recognize her own son can probably recall the face of every patron who stiffed her over her long career.

Here's a true experience that illustrates this point. Many years ago, during a trip to Nashville, I was at a baseball game with a friend, and we run into an acquaintance of his who swore that he knew me. That seemed quite impossible to me, as I had never been anywhere near the city of Nashville prior to this occasion.

Still, he insisted. "I know you!" he kept repeating. Finally after a minute or so, a light went off in his head. "You're the guy who only tipped me a buck!" he exclaimed.

Yup, turns out he was the bellhop at my hotel. I felt bad; I was young and naive and didn't mean to under-tip him. So, I bought him a beer to make amends, which did seem to smooth things over. The next day, however, when I passed through the lobby, I noticed him sitting there amongst a mountain of suitcases, holding onto his head, obviously hung over. My luck, he was probably a recovering alcoholic, and that one beer tossed him off the wagon.

So I wonder, how exactly do you figure the tip when there's no up front charge to base it on? Theoretically, even ten cents is infinity percent. Do you give an airport baggage handler a fixed amount per bag? That can't be right. A brick salesman's sample bag would merit the same tip as a guy peddling cotton swabs.

There is one thing for sure in this situation; a baggage handler is the last person you want to under-tip. After all, his job is not done yet. If your tip was too light, you will know it when you reach your destination, only to find contents of your suitcase appearing on the carousel one item at a time.



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Predator Press Exclusive!

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Leperball

Predator Press

[LOBO]

People are always asking me, "LOBO, with basketball season over and football not yet in full swing, how does a legendary athlete such as yourself spend your leisure time?”

Well I’m glad you asked me that.

I’ve always believed that people as gifted and successful as myself should spend a lot of time giving back to the community; encouraging the "less fortunate" that they too might become a chiseled physical phenomena such as myself is exactly the false hope today’s kids need to keep them from dealing drugs, stealing my car, or other things 'the community' generally frowns upon.

With Shark Boxing still tied up in pre-production due to a quagmire of insurance hassles, I generally spend my weekends coaching a pee-wee football team I signed up for Pop Warner called the Starfishes -a spirited and rugged little squad of ‘can do’ types, all afflicted with advanced stages of leprosy.

This is my third year -the first of which I am Federally mandated to because of the “Anti-Discrimination Act.” -Little Timmy's dad used it to sue me when I puked at the post-game pizza party and tried to resign.

Little Timmy is now quarterback.

His 'lil dad must be so proud ...

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The Humor-Blogs Fantasy Football League!

Predator Press

[LOBO]

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

I might not know jack about football, but me 'an fantasy go waaaaaay back.

Visit Angry Seafood and join the Humor-Blogs Fantasy Football League.

-NOW!

The Legend of Testicles

Predator Press


[LOBO]

Sure we’ve all heard the fantastic adventures of Hercules. But Predator Press scienticians have unearthed archeological evidence that Hercules had an evil twin brother, Testicles.

Testicles wasn’t as quite as large as his legendary sibling Hercules –and frankly he wasn’t all that bright either. But in their youth, Testicles often ran the show.

Hercules and Testicles eventually became bitter rivals, and Hercules often beat Testicles severely. One fateful day Hercules beat Testicles so badly, Testicles shrank off into obscurity forever.

The Astronaut Whisperer

Predator Press

[LOBO]

After being struck by a landing space shuttle, Air Traffic Controller Dirk Elway’s life is completely transformed: sunken into a bleak and menthol fog of Nyquil and Altoids addiction, even his goldfish have run away.

Similarly one of the surviving astronauts on board that very same space shuttle goes crazy, buys a box of Depends, and rides across the country –ultimately killing everyone in Twentynine Palms California with a rake.

On a hunch, Clint Eastwood –a world-renown Astronaut Whisperer- gambles that Dirk and The Astronaut’s macabre killing spree are somehow linked; armed with nothing but a 32 oz jar of Tang and a walkie-talkie Clint makes contact, culling the rogue Astronaut and reuniting him with ailing Dirk … but soon thereafter Dirk is mysteriously killed by an overdose of rake to the back of the skull.

Can Clint teach The Astronaut to laugh and love again? Will The Astronaut once again claim his coveted spot in the London Symphony Orchestra? And how can The Astonaut's lowly new job of testing 747 engines by tossing live seagulls into them let him rise once again to his once-lofty astronaut status? Only time and a ragtag group of Baptist church choir enthusiasts can tell.

We here at Predator Press give The Astronaut Whisperer, like, ten big thumbs up: this is the surprisingly engaging tale of an astronaut beset by tragedy and a love for gardening, and Clint's dogged and relentless efforts to repair his broken and battered spirit.

Scheduled for release this summer, it’s an uplifting, fun and romantic little film that’s a must-see for the whole family.

Nicolas Cage is not in this movie.

Please Welcome Our Proud New Sponsor!

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Too slithy for anything but the mimsy of gyring toves, wabe bororoves, and gamey bandersnatches every fair and frumious brillig?

Do you find yourself always galumphing along the tulgey with uffish, manxome, whiffling thoughts -thoughts of completely outgrabed mome raths?

-Blech!

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Eat Snicker-Snacks ®
by Jabberwocky

Now chocked full of vitamin-fortified Jubjub!

* Warning: It is a period of civil war. Rebel spaceships, striking from a hidden base, have won their first victory against the evil Galactic Empire; possible side effects may include an evil Galactic Empire, hidden bases, rebel spaceships, a period of civil war, being far away yet not quite far enough, drowsiness, dizziness, migraines, insomnia, slight weight increase, massive weight increase, temporary blindness, stomach cramps, hallucinations, aneurysms, nausea, cancer, weaponized plutonium, projectile vomiting, projectile diarrhea, projectile vomiting and simultaneous projectile diarrhea, tsunamis, wormholes, lesions, malignant tumors, Cthulhu Mythos, MicroSoft updates, democratic fundraisers, and conspicuous erections in prison.

If consumed, please consult your physician and local pastor immediately.

Think First

Rocket Scientist, Ask Me Anything

[Stephanie B.]

Think first.

Really, that seems obvious but people don't put it into practice often enough. Think before you speak.

A great deal is made in this country of the right to say whatever we think, but there is something that goes with that right - responsibility for what one has said. If we thought about what we were saying more often, I suspect we wouldn't say so damn much.

Of course, many people don't even think before they act (and the lack of accountability among many is a WHOLE other topic), but speaking does plenty of damage itself. It's not harmless to mutter racial epithets when there are only your children to hear you.

It's not helpful to demand a higher authority than Hawaii prove the President was born there (hint hint, when it comes to birth record, the state IS the authority).

It serves no purpose, no matter what ideological side you are on for any topic to repeat what your leaders have said without running it through your own logical processes first. No one is infallible. Few leaders (if any) are free of ulterior motives. What they say reflects on them.

What you say, however, is your responsibility and, if you regurgitate any nonsense you're given (and reject any other information because of the source), well, that's no one's fault but yours.

You might want to think about that.



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Shocking Barack Obama Bootleg Porn!

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Yes, you read it here first at Predator Press: “Shocking Barack Obama Bootleg Porn” probably does not exist.

Probably.

And would you really want it to?

Blech.

-You people are weird.

Nights of the Round Fable

Predator Press

[LOBO]

After the release of Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom, Indy’s faithful and adorable sidekick “Short Round” just seems to vanish from the face of the Earth.

"Well that's impossible," you say. "This could never happen."

Well it turns out that about 8% of Predator Press readers are right 22% of the time: this tragic and shocking true story has been kept under wraps for over 20 years -and it might never been known if not for the dogged and relentless investigative skill of yours truly.

While Indiana’s life -filled with hot chicks, explosions and danger- has thrilled and exhilarated movie audiences for decades, it was found to be ill-suited for raising children; before long Short Round was seized from Indy by Child Protective Custody and placed into foster care.

Heartbroken and psychologically damaged permanently by Indy’s cavalier and lax parenting, Short Round subsequently ran away and seemingly faded into a mysterious shroud of obscurity.

It was no small effort to track his whereabouts from that day forward. But during a chance examination of the MIT Archives we discovered ancient correspondence with Short Round: it seems that soon thereafter it was discovered that he was woefully poor at math, and due this hideous handicap even MIT rejected him.

His last and lowliest of hopes and dreams were horribly crushed against the jagged rapids of cruel Hollywood fate.

Out of options, he spent a few years with the Harlem Globetrotters to make ends meet ... but nothing seemed to sate his emotional void; during a Vicodin and PCP-fueled rage, he punched a cheerleader and called Curly Joe a “punk-ass bitch” –acts that led to his permanent expulsion from the league.

It might seem true that life hasn't been very kind to Short Round. But shortly after serving his jail time and rehab, he met his true love in a strip bar. Connecting instantly during a conversation about their mutual obsession with snakes, the 'sparks flew' so to speak: now Short and Sassy Round live happily in a Des Moines subdivision with their eight beautiful children.

-The oldest of which begins at MIT this August.

Signs of Life

Predator Press

[LOBO]

I could’ve driven I suppose, but I’ve had two beers. Literally. I would get pulled over, the cop would ask how many beers I had 'an pow -I’m getting tuned up like a baby sea lion wearing an Al Gore sandwich board.

I watch a lot of cop TV: 'two beers' is copspeak for “You pigs are dumb. Kiss my ass.”

And I can’t back it up, but I’ve always held the theory that if you get to the point of a sobriety test you’re pretty fucked anyway: the cops are gonna make you sing 'an dance all night long until you screw up. “Walk this line,” and you walk it. “Now do it backwards,” and you do it backwards. “Now do it without your feet,” and you wobble it out handstanding. “Now doing it singing the alphabet, but only using the letters that correspond with the prime numbers.”

-Eh, “B, C, E, G, eh, … J”

“Ten is a composite number, divisible by two and five!” he says, drawing his gun. “You have the right to remain silent …”

Whatever.

-Spare yourself the funny dashboard cam appearance on Fox News. They got you.

Waking up Terri because I suddenly realize I need cigarettes twenty-five minutes after the store closed isn’t an option either.

I’m not a big fan of ‘walking’ ... at least not in public anyway. Walking in public is something only poor people do: rich people pay a lot of money to walk in the privacy of a health club like God intended.

I could pretend to be more upscale and jog, but this is a neighborhood where that would probably get me mugged. Lots ‘n lots of potential mugger material out here too. Who knew so many people still prowled these streets this late? Shadowy, beady-eyed people with undiagnosed wet-looking black sores from hard drugs lurk everywhere -lean with the animal hunger for more drugs to make their eyes even beadier.

There’s a group ahead on bicycles and I’m in a quandary; I can hold my own against an individual but groups scare me. One guy? I can brass it out. But groups of guys can ratchet up a lot more aggression. Plus now there’s a lot more people witnessing me engaged in this primitive act of 'walking' ... Sure I can easily pooh-pooh a single account of me walking, but denying a group’s account is tougher: the next thing you know I’m bein’ interviewed by Jane Goodall and Mark Rayner.

With my street cred hanging in the balance, I do something of dubious wisdom and detour through a darkened and unfamiliar field. I can’t see the thick soil under my feet, but this stuff hasn’t seen any rain in six months; experience tells me it’s so dry it won’t even stick to my sneakers. On my teeny radio earbuds a commercial I had unconsciously tuned out ends, and I’m plodding through the inky blackness to a story about three Americans in Afghanistan that were supposedly captured in Iran for accidentally hiking over the border.

Jesus Christ I don’t want to be hiking here … what the hell would motivate someone to hike in Afghanistan?

“You know,” says one American. “I’m really sick of this sand those rocks. Let’s go see new sand and rocks!”

Pondering this, I breach the pale streetlights of the grocery store’s desolate parking lot.

-If I’m in Afghanistan, the only recreational hiking I’m doing is preceded by a shovel: I would be the Afghanistani equivalent of veal.

“Did you bring the straw?” I would demand before sliding the money under the door to the Afghanistani delivery guy. “I’m not tipping unless you brought the straw.”

The straw pokes out under the door and I grab it fearfully.

“Okay, now push the pizza through the keyhole!”

The teeny radio earbuds preclude me hearing the automatic doors, but the delicious rush of chill from the air conditioning inside cannot be ignored. Fwoosh! -only then do I realize I’ve made half the journey safely. Still, the sudden transition from subdued blue-black outdoor lighting to an assault of tactically-sprawled colorful packaging requires a split second of blinking reorientation, and I find myself spilled slightly into a small section of bakery goods. Terri, Screechy and Complainy all go ape batshit for chocolate chip cookies, and fatefully standing before a large display I grab a bag without thinking. Cigarettes are up by the cashier in a locked transparent plastic display, so I proceed to the checkout.

What’s up with locking the cigarettes in those displays? I’m thinking. Are cigarettes so dangerous to the public, they require a feux Fort Knox so G. I. Joe figures don’t try ‘an steal them? I’ve seen the locks up pretty close and I gotta tell you they don’t look like much of a deterrent ... sufficiently motivated, I’m sure I could bust into one with little effort. Those things probably couldn’t keep the cigarettes from breaking out.

The only cashier line open has his light on, but I half notice a shopping cart placed diagonally across the access path. It’s one of those bulky-looking plastic red 'an blue ones kids like to get pushed in. I lift up the handled side slightly to pivot it over, and I’m surprised at how light it is despite it’s appearance. Catching the cashier’s eye, I point at his light wordlessly. I’ve still got the earbuds in, but he gives me a “yes I’m still open” nod. I pluck out one of the buds while simultaneously wiggling past the obtrusive cart, and once past I give it a nice shove so it rolls back into a wider thoroughfare of the store out of the way.

I plop the bag of cookies on the counter. “Marlboro Lights in a box too, please,” I says.

After an odd look, he grabs the keys from his belt and kneels in a well-practiced move, and inserts one with a circular tip; the flimsy plastic wobbles slightly as he pulls it open.

I get that cigarettes are expensive, I surmise. But if these people are serious about locking up cigarettes, this plastic crap just doesn’t cut it. If you’re going to bother, you should at least seal them off like a gas station attendant in Los Angeles: bulletproof glass and the works.

“These?” the cashier shows me a red box.

“Lights, please,” I correct.

-And if you’re going to go with bulletproof glass, fuck, go the distance. Stop at nothing short of an acid moat spitting flames, teeming with angry, starving alligators and sharks. Vaguely, I’m aware of another customer getting behind me in the short line. Yeah, I’m thinking. If I saw bulletproof glass and acid ‘an flames ‘an a moatful of alligators fighting with sharks, mmmmm, I'd bet those must be some damn good cigarettes …

I absently glance back, and see the red cart once again, now within inches of my thigh.

An angry-looking lady is behind it.

Puzzled, I do a better visual skim of the situation. Under closer examination from this angle I realize there’s a handful of products in the cart.

And as it slowly dawns on me that the lady had left the cart to save her place in line to get a last minute-item, something moves below.

-A tiny baby in a pink jumpsuit is smiling and waving at me.

Alarmed, I look at the furious woman.

Then the baby.

Then the furious woman again.

“That’ll be $8.44,” the cashier interrupts.

“Well it’s a damn good thing I showed up when I did,” I says to the woman while fishing out my credit card. “This asshole was trying to sell her cigarettes.”

AutoChrist

Predator Press

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In a day and age where we can simultaneously download a bazillion gigabytes and get a cooked pizza in 30 minutes or less, I think we are alarmingly short-sighted.

See, we’ve recently enjoyed exponential advances in communication technology. With these advances, we slowly gather the wisdom and beliefs from all across the globe -the ancient wisdom of Buddhism, Zen and the Toa, for instance, have never been more accessible.

And as Americans, our steady and linear march to a global awareness, expanded world consciousness, and –perhaps most importantly- tolerance is quietly tempered in the patient steely Faith that any minute now Jesus will return and kick the living crap out of all those pagan infidels, and cast them into the Lake of Fire to suffer for the rest of Eternity.

I, for one, cannot wait to see those dumb jerks all boiling in agony as Satan rips off random pieces of flesh and bone while they howl in pain, doggie-paddling in the flaming lava of their own boiling misguided swill. “Get out now!” I’ll cry throwing them a life preserver -but I’ll have that life preserver on a super-thin string they can’t see: just like that twenty dollar bill trick we used to see in the movies, as they get tantalizingly close, yoink, I pull it out of their reach.

Haw!

Oh man it’ll be a million laughs. Over a big enough span of time, it would be a million million laughs: I could do that forever, pausing only briefly to high-five all the other angels.

But it’s been two thousand years now, and as evidenced by His failure to return my phone calls and emails I’m starting to suspect Jesus is pretty busy. And can we fault Him for that? No! Can you imagine what Jesus’ itinerary must be like? Oh sure it probably looks pretty simple … 8:00am: Smite Evil, 8:15am: Smite Evil, et cetera. But “Evil” has a tendency to do bad things with complete disregard to Jesus’ WhiteBerry™: Jesus might slip out to Starbucks for a café mocha grande and pow, Evil makes it’s move.

Until we can get it to play fair, Evil should be regarded as very very sneaky.

Well we can’t put all this pressure on Jesus alone, or Jesus might wig out one day and throw the fax machine through the stained glass windows. And we can’t fight Evil without Him either … while the spirit is willing, the flesh is pasty and watching American Idol.

-What I propose is that we take all these miraculous technological advances and build a RoboJesus.

Now before all you religious people start thinking crazy, at least take a moment to consider my RoboJesus idea: we don’t worship RoboJesus of course … we just make a NASA-grade titanium bulletproof steel version to fill in on occasional "light" Evil jobs.

Programmed with both the Old and the New Testament, RoboJesus would wade through Al Qaeda camps spraying them with righteous lasers and napalm, all the while preaching Gospel, humming psalms, and otherwise forgiving the remaining skeletons with deadly pinpoint accuracy. And to ensure the skeletons don’t here the same sermon twice? RoboJesus has, like, iPod technology, and a memory bank chocked full of no less than thousands of hours of Peace and Love audio in any ass-backwards language besides English you could possibly think of.

Even British!

Because Reading is Such a Hassle

Predator Press

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I don’t often post YouTubes 'an Hulus or whatever, but this one made me cry. It’ll make you cry too –unless you’re a heartless bastard. Or a boneless bastard. And hell if you’re a heartless boneless bastard I wouldn’t know where your tear ducts would be anyway.

WTG Jon!

The Daily Show With Jon Stewart	Mon - Thurs 11p / 10c
Chuck Grassley's Debt and Deficit Dragon
www.thedailyshow.com
Daily Show Full Episodes Political Humor Health Care Reform

POP Schedule

Predator Press

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Week: 09/06/09-09/12/09
Featured Author: Mark
Blog: neOnbubble
Status: Published


Week: 08/30/09-09/05/09
Featured Author: Alex L
Blog: The Discreet Charm of the Middle Class
Status: Published


Week: 08/23/09-08/29/09
Featured Author: Mike McHugh
Blog: Road Kill Gumbo
Status: Published


Week: 08/16/09-08/22/09
Featured Author: Stephanie B.
Blog: Rocket Scientist, Ask Me Anything
Status: Published


This schedule is updated as needed, so check frequently.

Predators on Patrol

Predator Press

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Okay. Most of this stuff is common sense and disclaimer blah blah -but since I put the relevant, juicy stuff like contact info (Section 7) waaaaay at the bottom, I get to incorrectly assume you bothered to read the whole damn thing.

But for those of you so bored you're not skipping down to Section 7, here are the rules ... all subject to change as I see fit:

1) I reserve the right to use or not use anything. And for no reason whatsoever. I will occasionally reject a post just because it feels itchy, or contains too many instances of the letter “T.”

2) Submissions must be uniquely written. If this thing sputters out due to lack of interest I may change my mind on this rule in the future, but as for now Predators on Patrol isn't a "Best Of" column ... it's a cross-promotional experiment to expose new readers and writers to new readers and writers. I'm sure those posts of yours are great, but if your fans have already read it, why would they come here to see it again?

Uh, submissions must also be in English. And not butcherin' our fine American language like the British do either.

-And oh holy crap don't submit somebody else's work and claim it's yours. Regarding submissions I will take you at your word, but subsequently busted plagiarists will be disqualified and then beaten to death with cinderblocks and pointy sticks.

3) Content: I use curse words and skirt some taste boundaries upon occasion, but I'm also happily married and have teenage kids and family that read this blog. While Predator Press is certainly not 'PG' in any respect, please use some discretion; nudity, overtly pornographic, racially charged and offensive material will not be accepted. Outright product promotions and ads are not in the spirit of "Predators on Patrol" and will be rejected as well.

[-not that I wouldn't love a good sponsor: separate space for that can be negotiated at the same email address outlined in Section 7.]

4) Submission Mechanics: You can use pictures, but I will only open text files. I will not upload photos under any circumstances. If Section 5 [Format Tips Tricks and Recommendations] is too much, please include the linking address to your desired photos with your submission in an email body. I will take care of the rest (assuming the linking info is accurate), but note the Section 5 opening-paragraph "disclaimer" and try to be available via email in case I have questions or recommendations.

5) Format (Tips, Tricks and Recommendations): Whenever I've guest posted, I've developed the post on my own blog without publishing it to get a "feel" for what it will look like via previews. If you don't know diddly about HTML formatting, skip to Section 7 below with the understanding I may need to fiddle with how the stuff will look. While not entirely precluding layout alterations, the following steps are recommended to ensure they are kept to a minimum:

a) Save your completed post as a draft on your site (most if not all the HTML should still work for me if you follow these steps).

b) switch to "Edit HTML" (or equivalent)

c) Copy the HTML to your clipboard and then paste it into a word processor. If you're new to this, it'll look like it's half symbols, numbers, and other gibberish. That's okay ... I speak Geek.

d) Save the pasted code as a text [.txt] file.

e) Email that text file to me as an attachment per Section 7, and thank you in advance: this way I can simply cut and paste it with a minimal amount of "tweaking." This further preserves my upload space, keeps my page fast, and also protects me from virus threats, malicious codes and blah blah (this is not to imply anyone would do that on purpose, but a lot of bad codes are transmitted by people that don’t know they are doing it.)

6) Everybody who did not read everything up to this point probably has cooties.

7) Where and how to send your stuff. Put "Guest Post Submission" in the email header and send it to carpenoctum[at]hotmail.com. (Potential advertisers and/or sponsors should use this same email address but use "Predator Press Advertising" to initiate a dialog.)

Note: If you want me to notice an email containing your content or questions, do not, under any circumstances, use the words "Winner Notification" or "Enlarge Your Penis" 'cuz I'll never even see it: all that gets promptly escorted into electronic oblivion, your email address gets automatically banned, and God hates and punishes you for the rest of your pathetic, worthless, and revolting excuse of a disease-addled life. And beyond the grave. Probably.

-Follow up if you don't hear from me within a few days too as I might have missed it. (As you might've guessed, I get a lot of junk mail and ignore virtually everything I don't immediately recognize ... you might have accidentally been overlooked.)

8) Don't sweat it. Most of this overcomplicated-seeming blah blah is CMA [aka "Cover My Ass"]. Lock in a date and get your submissions in as early as possible, and we'll figure it all out from there. Have fun. I self and cross-promote wherever possible, so I hope this will be a mutually-beneficial project for everybody.

-And welcome to Predator Press!

Less LOBOs

Predator Press

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Before you start immolating yourselves or jumping off of buildings –or worse, immolating yourselves and then jumping off of buildings- please read this post in it’s entirety.

I didn’t consciously take a week off; I sorta got myself tripped up over a bit of a quandary.

See I’ve had a “Facebook” account for a few years and have neglected it. And as it is still unfamiliar, I was puzzled by the handful of people that had already found the undeveloped page and added me as friends. Heck, half of those resourceful few didn’t remember who I was when I returned the favor.

Despite the nagging guilt, this disregard may have gone on indefinitely. But I read recently that facebook and LinkedIn –used properly- can be assets when on a job search.

-Unfortunately, “used properly” means divulging a whole lot of personal info that I tend to avoid.

So now I need to decide how or if these tools are suitable for my purposes. But I like the relative anonymity, and truth be told there is little spectacular to reveal in regard to my personal and professional life anyway ... and doesn’t putting all that information out there pose a lot of risk of misuse too?

It seems like a lopsided equation in favor of leaving well enough alone.

The reason this is now pivotal is because of a good idea Terri had: taking on guest authors on a non-formal semi-regular basis. Specifically, featuring a unique article by a different blogger or writer maybe once a week or so, and switching up the page philosophy to be more of a magazine-format gallery.

That said, is there even interest in guest participation here? As a former newspaper editor, I would probably skim the grammar and ensure the formatting matches my site -but wouldn’t foresee a lot of micromanaging the guest post content … if it’s interesting, it’s fine. And to mitigate my own irregular posting patterns (I’m not quitting, I’m augmenting), I would make a banner in the #1 sidebar spot for that week’s Guest Poster for easy navigation, and ensure the post would be replete with links back to the respective author’s site.

So there it all is. If you’re interested in guest posting here, leave a comment. Or regarding facebook and LinkedIn users, how have these services impacted your lives? And were I to develop them, should they be extensions of Predator Press humor, or should they be serious and “real,” with author info and so forth?

And if you think about it, you’re doing us all a favor here.

-I could write epic volumes on cat farts.