Do Sharks Fart?

Predator Press

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Due to the holidays, I wasn’t going to post for a while. But science waits for no blog -not even Predator Press, dammit!

And you may remember that Predator Press is one of the few blogs that actually has a 47’ Great White Shark in captivity. And if Predator Press was going to keep this as an “exclusive” we needed to act fast.

What if Kathy Frederick at The Junk Drawer tried to 'scoop' me on this?

Hm?

So at great expense to you, Predator Press scienticans have been dragged out of various pubs and meth labs to answer the burning question on everyone's mind: Do sharks fart?

But good Predator Press-like science is a harsh mistress, and these experiments were beset with difficulties from the outset: immediately selecting 10,000 Taco Bell Fresco Bean Burritos as our explosive gas-inspiring catalyst, no matter how hard we tried, we couldn’t get Daisy to eat them.

This was perplexing. I have personally witnessed Daisy, our monstrous oceanic hunter, eat everything from Taylor Swift albums to pimply gangsta teenagers that piss me off in a swirling bloody chainsaw-like fashion. But guacamole? Wouldn’t touch it with a ten-foot pole no matter what we did. So I figured we feed them to one of the Predator Press Scienticians, and then feed him to the shark, right? Well it turned out that Predator Press Scienticians were too lazy and worthless for this historic opportunity.

After an unsuccessful ad I took out in Victoria's Secret, I was frustrated; the odds of a waify supermodel finding out there were 10,000 free Taco Bell Fresco Bean Burritos laying around and us catching her before she threw them up couldn’t possibly be improved upon.

This was going to take all my cunning.

-And frankly having them delivered to a Weight Watchers meeting was sheer genius.

Daisy broke wind at precisely 3:51 this afternoon.

So What is a Caucus?

Predator Press

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A caucus is a meeting held by Caucasians –hence why most are held in Iowa.

Caucasians are a group of light skinned people who, like the Jews, have faced decades of oppression. For instance in early American history, the North American Indians started firing arrows at them almost upon sight.

The "Anne Coulter" was a
popular Caucasoid model
in the late 19th Century.

The peaceful Caucasians -armed only with firearms, cannons, a naval armada and organized militia- were soundly conquered on the battlefield of Indianapolis, Indiana. Even to this day, Caucasians are subjugated by horrifying casino odds, and Caucasian children are issued agonizing "Indian burns" on the playground.

Later in early American history, plantations and farming became big business.  But while darker-skinned people were allowed to have jobs, Caucasians were forced to stay home and perform vastly less dignified duties such as accounting and planning cotillions.

Widespread violence and cruelty often forces Caucasians to deploy decoy robots of themselves. These are called Caucasoids.

Modern Caucasians, while not attending caucuses, are often found watching NASCAR, playing in the NBA [citation needed], attending square dances, and buying Toby Keith records.

'Twas the Night Before Christmas

Predator Press

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Twas the night before Christmas
and I’m wide awake,
arraying the chimney
with bear traps and snakes;
the booby-trapped stockings
set with infinite care,
in hopes that the fat man’ll
blow his hand off in there.

There arose such a clatter
up on my roof,
-and I’m sick of cleaning up
piles of froze reindeer poop!
I let loose a war cry
-a blood curdling scream-
and empty the contents
of my AR-15.

One, two, three, four,
five six seven, eight nine
thumps from above tell me
I missed one this time.
“Oh Dasher, Oh Dancer”
cries a loud booming voice,
“LOBO this tears it.
You give me no choice!”

I empty a blast
at the source of the sound
-and another at a spot
I think he might bound
-but the fat man is spry
for all that it’s worth-
he evaded hot lead,
belying his girth.

Not a creature was stirring
as I reloaded my shells,
“I don’t want any trouble!”
I finally yells.
“Just leave all the toys,
and get the hell out
I don't want to send cops
on that long North Pole route!”

The back door imploded
in splinters and slag
and a blood-splattered Santa
in smoldering rags
was removing his coat
and rolling his sleeves
“This time,” snarls Santa,
“Only one of us leaves!”

We circle each other,
and I’m very alarmed.
I can’t believe
the size of his arms!
“Hey what gives?" I says stunned.
"You’ve been working out!
Where’s the ‘bowl full of jelly’
you trespassing lout?”

With a wink of an eye
and a twist of his head,
I know within moments
I will likely be dead.
Santa flicks his nose,
“You dumb blogging hack!
I’ve lost two hundred pounds
on my Nordic Track.”

"Old Mrs. Clause
must think you're a riot"
I says, "and that Stetson cologne?
I'll bet she don't buy it."
"I wear nothing but Polo," he says.
"Don't even try it.
Now I'll pound you to pulp,
and then leave here real quiet.”

"If you think that's Polo,
age is taking it's toll,"
-that's when I did
a slick ninja-like roll,
and from under the sugar-plums
grab the control,
“Bring a knife to a gunfight?”
I says laughing. “How droll!”

Missile TOW missiles launched
from tubes placed discretely,
but Santa danced deftly
–they missed him completely!
One of them arched
so high and so true
It blew the poor neighbor’s place
clear out of view.

“LOBO let’s stop this.
You’ve blown up the Burkes!”
“To Hell with you Santa!
Those people were jerks!”
“I don’t understand
why this is unpleasant,”
Santa opens his arms.
“Especially since I brought you a present.”

“Really?” I says,
resisting suspicion.
I lower my bazooka.
“That was your mission?”
“Why sure!” says Santa.
“It’s from your mother.”
And when I looked in that hand,
he punched me with the other.

Electric pain flashes
all through my cap,
My nose must be broken,
completely smashed flat.
I stagger backwards.
“Santa, you’re dead!”
… But Rudolph, behind me,
clean kicked off my head.

It landed on a spike
three blocks away
and I could see where my body
dropped and lifelessly lay.
Up on the rooftop,
the reindeer all raised
to resume the mantle
of pulling The Sleigh.

As I lay dying
I heard Santa fly off
-and I spat blood and teeth
in my last final cough.
“On Dasher on Dancer,
and to Mrs. Clause praise!
-We need bulletproof vests
for the reindeer these days.”

Santa, still climbing,
resumed his long flight
-his sleigh silhouetted
against the cold lunar light-
and as it grew distant
and faded from sight,
I heard "Merry Christmas to all,
and to all a good ... "

... I dunno ... I couldn't make out the rest.

But is it Artery?

Predator Press

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“Oh my God. I knew it,” remarks Barbarossa, pointing in horror at a visible wire hanging below my shirt. “You’ve been assimilated into the Borg.”

“Don’t be silly,” I says. “It’s a portable EKG.” I pull up the shirt to show the tangled nest of wires and nipple-like stickers affixed to my torso -all running to a box on my belt, not dissimilar in size and shape to a walkman.

Barbarossa, visibly alarmed, stares in jaw-agape silence.

“It’s alright,” I laugh. “It turns out my heart beats faster than normal –and even stops on occasion. Doctor Nyarlathotep obviously wants to study my hyperactive, ultra efficient heart -a superheart if you will- for the medical benefit of mankind. Just like when he has all those psychiatrists study my brain. ”

“It kinda looks like you have a bomb strapped to your chest.”

“Really?” I ponder this, slightly disappointed. “Even with the string of Christmas tree lights I ran through it?”

“Yeah,” Barbarossa nods. “You better hope they don’t say anything at work. And won’t it trip the security scanners at the door?”

I shrug.

“I hate to mention it,” he adds, “but my dad had to wear one of those the year he had a heart attack.”

“Not to question your medical credentials Doctor,” I guffaw dripping sarcasm, thumping my chest. “But this little black thing isn’t attacking anyone.” Pausing a moment, I add a thoughtful disclaimer. “But I wouldn’t put it to the test, either. It’s perfectly capable of ripping your face off if so inclined.”

Barbarossa ponders this gravely, remembering his father -in those final months- taking prescription pills labeled ‘Nitro Glycerine.’

“You better get in soon,” I says, irritated with Barbarossa’s visible squirming over concern for my health. “I don’t want you late on your first day. You going to finish those mozzarella sticks, onion rings and French fries?”

“Nah,” says Barbarossa, pushing them to me as he stands. “But it’s probably not a good idea for you to eat that stuff.”

“Pthbbt,” I says. “I doubt my digestive system would even know what to do with a vegetable. Besides, I’m drinking a diet Coke. Remember?”

“Blech,” Barbarossa winces in acknowledgment. “Well, I’m going to go in early to make a good impression. Thanks for getting me the job.”

“Nrrp prrbllm,” I says, chewing. “Now go bust your ass so I don’t look like a fucktard for it.”

“Okay.”

I watch Barbarossa enter the building, and ten minutes later the shift bell sounds. At that point I get up and slowly meander into the building, finishing my cigarette.

-Unlike Barbarossa, I’ve already been working here for two weeks; I’m almost expected to be late every day.

It’s called a “Power Move.”

I’m sending a message to The Suits.

I slide my card at the door, enter, and hang my jacket in the in the antechamber.

My thoughts drift the afore mentioned security scanner. It is two slender black pillars -immediately between where I must clock in and the rest of the warehouse- that must be walked through.

This EKG thing won’t set those off, will it? I’m thinking. Just play it cool. Proceed like nothing is fucked whatsoever.

And I pass through without incident.

That dumbass Barbarossa doesn’t know shit, I smile to myself, picking up pace to get to my station.

Unfortunately –regarding “Power Moves”- my company doesn’t know shit either. Because apparently they just had a brief meeting alerting everyone else that they were testing the fire alarms this morning …

Sickbag

Predator Press

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Just yesterday I felt like this:

Artist's rendering of LOBO clinging to life by a fingernail

But now I'm totally back to normal:

Driver's license photo taken at noon

As you can see, I had the typical DMV experience.  But I'm in too good a mood to complain about it.  This Erythromycin stuff is amazing.

Yes, it makes your poop into something akin to railroad spikes ... but if you avoid using the bathroom at night (so the clanging and sparks don't wake everyone up), everything else is peachy.

Where Do Babies Come From?

Predator Press

-By LOBO

(My first children’s book. Illustrator needed)

So you have been wondering where babies come from, and you’re not buying the whole “stork” thing anymore?

Fret not.

-I'm gonna give you the straightforward birdless, beeless science.

See when mommies and daddies are in love, they take their pants off and share a ‘Special Hug.’ And if the hug is done right, they shoot Deoxyribonucleic Acid [DNA] all over each other.  This acid sometimes makes babies.

But one day mommy found daddy with his pants off, shooting Deoxyribonucleic Acid all over the Realtor lady.

Mommy should have almost certainly gotten therapy -she still has that weird tic in her face. But instead she got an AR15 from the gun rack downstairs, and unloaded the clip on daddy and the Realtor lady while they were in the shower.

The lawyers tied up the entire estate in probate, and the whole thing was gone even before the blood, bone and hair had swirled down the shower drain. And they were unable to get mommy a manslaughter plea deal: she was sentenced to six years, and subsequently jumped the $250,000 bail. That’s why you and mommy live out of a car in rural Montana, drink boiled rainwater and eat slightly al dente squirrels six times a week, and poop into a coffee cans for squirrel cooking fuel.

Probably.

But now that you’re older and have read the newspaper articles, have you ever wondered why you, daddy, and the Realtor lady all had the same last name and mommy doesn't? Or noticed that you look more like the Realtor lady than you do your so-called "mommy?"

Babies come from a horrible, horrible place.

Now go to sleep, ya lil bastard.

Forever is Our Today

Predator Press

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Forced into doing a job where I have to deal with the “Unboiled Masses,” I have caught a cold.

“Fornicorn” = A four-horned unicorn

-Many Predator Press readers immolated themselves. Many Predator Press readers jumped from tall buildings. Many Predator Press readers immolated themselves and then jumped from tall buildings.

And I kinda “get” the ones that immolated themselves. They effectively sterilized themselves instantaneously. But seriously what am I supposed to do with the “jumped from tall buildings” crowd?

Newt Gingrich "Seeing-Eye Orphan" Proposal Meets Cross-Platform Opposition

Hm?

So yeah I’m sick. And I’ve been babysitting Facebook and Twitter all day. To my surprise, a lot of people I’m fond of showed up.

"Books" = The Internet for Poor People

-And Unfinished Person did too!

HACK

Predator Press

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It took me two months to figure out Brent's password, but I finally did.

Sure I could have hired some nerdy brainiac for like 50 bucks ... but the satisfaction of having done it personally just tickles me pink.

Plus I didn't have 50 bucks.

So I started with "1, 2, 3 ... " and so forth.

His password, fortunately, can only be 9 digits long; I only had to go to 999,999,999 before I figured out that the jerk must have letters in it too.

Oh, very clever Brent.

Very clever.

So I began again. "1A, 2A, 3A ... " and so forth.

Three weeks in, I no longer slept or ate.

-And I lost count at 87A4B669.

"Brent!" I sobbed into the air. "Truly you are a worthy adversary," I cried.

"What if his password is case-sensitive?" asked LadyTerri.

I don't remember much after that. But somebody had apparently thrown the Christmas tree through the living room window. I had been trying to get around to taking it down for some time already, and while this was an appreciably and straightforward solution to the issue, it would have been better to open the window first.

With the cold February winds blowing through the living room, it was clear that my plans to infiltrate Brent's Platform of Evil would have to temporarily be postponed: by sheer bad luck, The Ominous Comma would continue to survive on borrowed time.

At this point I was also forced to conclude that going through the 51,999,999,896,000,000,052 possible permutations of his password wasn't going to be a very practical solution.

Plus people might think I was obsessing.

I decided to sneak into his house instead.




Brent going to Texas for a wedding turned out to be just the break I needed to crack this case; with him safely out of the country, I could do a little unobserved personal reconnaissance. My three private investigators got his address within hours, and it turned out to be only about an 11 hour drive.

I put the long journey to good use by playing Tinsel of Doom backwards and at varying speeds, searching for secret messages. I found numerous. For instance, during the song Danger Couch is Coming to Town you can distinctly hear the following:


"And then I will kill LOBO, and
dancing upon the charred and blackened
remains of his clearly superior blog,
I shall build an empire that dominates the Blogosphere!"


-You have to add all the nouns and verbs to tie it together. But once you do that, the sinister message is clear as a bell.

I'll have to minimize my commentary on his startlingly tasteful decorative skill; while lacking the acid-spitting robot watchdogs I was expecting, his house is pretty cool as far as evil geniuses go.

But I was on a mission to find Brent's password, and that seemed nowhere to be found.

I needed to think like Brent.

So I put on Brent's evil pajamas, and padded down to his evil refrigerator and got one of his evil beers. And then I sat in his evil living room eating his evil popcorn and watching his evil DVD No Country for Old Men. That movie was awesome. But what was up with that ending? Did all the writers suddenly get tired and just say "Ah, whatever"?

Cursory searches provided little information, save for some rather convincing evidence here and there.

I didn't strike gold until I went into Brent's den. The evil in that room was nothing short of palpable, and his new computer hummed and throbbed with electronic malevolence.

So this is where it all happens, I thought to myself. My God.

Fearfully, I pressed the 'On' button, and the booting cycle began. And after a few moments, a deeply synthesized voice greeted me.

"Good evening Brent," it said. "What despicable evil shall we inflict on LOBO today?"

Terrified, I clutched my mouth to hold back a scream. I became dizzy and grasped desperately at the edge of his desk for balance, accidentally tearing a Post-It note by his mousepad loose.

I staggered backward in into the hallway in barely-muted horror.

Only then did I dare read the Post-It.

It said:



Reeling in the mixed emotions of victory and fright, I felt myself overwhelmed by the urge to vomit. Quickly finding a nearby bathroom I flicked on the evil light, lifted the evil toilet lid, and roared Technicolor chunks of popcorn, beer and bile for what seemed like an eternity.

Shakily, I went to wash my sweating face in an effort to regain composure.

It was then I noticed a small brown furry object on the counter.

At first I thought it was a caterpillar.

As the slow realization of what this strange object really was sunk in, the hair on the back of my neck began to rise.

It was Doctor Toboggan's mustache.

Overwhelmed with panic, I shrieked and fled the house.

Unfortunately, we may never know what Brent has done with the rest of poor Doctor Toboggans.

... But would we really want to?

Predator Press Remembers the REAL Commander Adama

Predator Press

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"There are those who believe that life here began out there, far across the universe, with tribes of humans who may have been the forefathers of the Egyptians, or the Toltecs, or the Mayans. They may have been the architects of the great pyramids, or the lost civilizations of Lemuria or Atlantis. Some believe that there may yet be brothers of man who even now fight to survive far, far away, amongst the stars."









Play Now for Effect





-I said play it now!

Sad kinda, isn't it?  To end this decorated military career -a war hero- selling food to dogs.  I mean I like dogs.  But dogs don't have money, or pockets for wallets and stuff.

And nobody takes checks from dogs.

-Even if the dog has a valid ID.

Ask LOBO

Predator Press

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People are always asking me, "LOBO, what is the secret to your staggering successes when it comes to keeping women happy?"

Well, I'm glad you asked me that. Now, happily married for well over a year, I feel I am qualified to lecture comprehensively on the subject.

As a busy and successful entrepreneur, trying to fit in all my meetings, alien and zombie insurrections and Muscle and Fitness photo shoots barely leave me any time whatsoever for my more scientific endeavors –let alone the day-to-day chores such as taking out the garbage; one only has to have his still-beating heart ripped from his chest and impaled by salted glass shards a dozen times or so before he realizes that there is definitely room for improvement in overall relationship contentment and stability.

One solution that showed moderate success was to ensure Terri had an ample and adequate supply of chocolate available. This often seemed to “take the edge off” of conventional disputes: when chocolate chip cookies and/or brownies were readily on hand, she would often forget to salt the glass -in fact there were times when she didn’t even impale the pulsing organ with any salted objects whatsoever, instead electing to douse it in gasoline and torch it with matches. While not considered entirely a success, this did in fact provide a sterilizing effect and cauterize the points where her fingernails penetrated, significantly improving the odds of surgical reinstallation.

The seemingly obvious solution –to actually remember to take out the trash- is a simpleminded, Luddite-esqe approach. Why go through all that effort if modern chemistry could take care of all that for you? I then presented the crack staff of Predator Press Scienticians with this problem.

According to the rjxchange.com, “Studies have shown that people in love have an unusually high amount of [Chocolate], thus, [Chocolate] is also known as the “love drug.” [Chocolate] increases blood pressure and sugar levels and creates the feeling of well being and [Chocolate] contentment.”

And so what if the article was really about heroin? The solution is clear: an abundance of chocolate is indeed the key. Confident I was “on” to something, I designed a custom Chips Ahoy holster and spent countless hours practicing a quick-draw technique –ultimately achieving a high level of deadly accuracy.

Unfortunately Terri, when upset, can be very uncooperative with science: numerous computer simulations were conducted, proving conclusively that the cookies would simply shatter against her clenched and growling jaw serving only to enrage her further. (Worse, the broken cookies would only contribute to the afore mentioned neglected trash.)

Thus it was back to the drawing board. If Terri was to resist high doses of chocolate as they are required, what good is this knowledge at all?

And that’s when we developed the Predator Press Chocolate Blowdart [retailing at $799.50, available at Ace Hardware and Autozone]. Days of garbage-forgetting ambushes can be a thing of the past: with a simple deep breath and exhale, you too can watch as your formely-hostile spouse’s eyes glaze over in loving contentedness. And once sedated, you can “tag” them with such pertinent information such as address, blood type, a tracking device, and a microchip preemptively transmitting anniversaries and pertinent birthdays to your Blackberry.

Order today and receive a $10 off coupon for the Predator Press Skillet of Love and free shipping.

Where There's Smoke, There's ART

Predator Press

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One of the most intriguing sites I've found tooling around on the web is PaperKraft.net.

It claims that you can take this:



And make it into this:



Unfortunately, I can't confirm the veracity of the site because I always end up with this:


and occasionally this:

-It always seems to come apart during the flight stick assembly.




***

Woe to thee PaperKraft.net -if in fact that is your real name: you have cost me 17 hours of life, eighty pounds of construction paper, four gallons of Elmer's glue, and caused countless paper cuts resulting in $1,457 in self-inflicted hospital bills my insurance will no longer cover.

For this I'm directing the full and mighty vengeful force of Predator Press to inflict swift, lethal payback by beating you at your own game.

Jerks.

Tune in next week, 'O Loyal Reader. For then Predator Press will launch our own series of fantastical origami art tutorials.

We will teach you to take this:



And make stuff like this:

Star Wars Deleted Scenes

Predator Press

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