So What is a Caucus?

Predator Press

[LOBO]

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.

Maybe We Should Fuck Sharks

Predator Press

[LOBO]

For an animal that considers itself “sophisticated” and “evolved,” I think we look like a bunch of assholes.

I mean a sex drive is an instinct built-in to propagate any given species, right? But does the female aardvark require constant emotional reassurance? Does the male platypus hesitate to pounce on any beaver or duck it can? An holy crap don't get me started on monkfish. I don't know who or what they're doin it with, but somebody is fuckin 'em.

No, indeed -it seems the only critter that really needs a lot of lack of simplicity is the human male. But in a Cosmic sense, it's the human male job to shoot DNA at stuff ... and if we don't, we walk around with painful diamond cutter pointing at whoever we're talking to.

Males are about Diversity: if no willing vagina can be found, we start looking for alternatives. At some point, we don’t even need it to be a live organism … it could be a plate of sheet steel for instance. It flies in the face of even environmentalism ... What the hell are we supposed to do with all those bent and bloody girders that just don't "work" anymore?

The female, conversely, is in charge of Selection: she is programmed to perpetuate only the best genes. But is anyone comfortable with this decision in the hands of Kate Gosselin, Nicole Richie and Ann Coulter? Personally, I think those guys with the so-called “best genes” are total assholes anyway. And how many rap artists and Mel Gibsons do we really need?

For most of us, a 24/7 male libido is redundant, absurd, and -well, let's face it- probably dangerous. Couldn’t we just do spores or something? This is the same logic we use for cops: we hire them under the premise of protecting us, and what typically get is harangued, fined, detained, hassled, disrespected, and abused by them 99.99999999% of the time. And before you says “Oh but you sure love a cop when you need one,” let me also underline I love Chinese food too -once a year. You can’t fuck with me five hundred times, and then justify it all by one day doing what you were supposed to be doing all along.

Me an a cop can both lose an hour at the intersection I failed to come to a complete stop at -an intersection that hasn’t seen another vehicle since 1974- and then I can lose a day of work at court and $200 for the fine. On top of that, add what that cop and that court cost to all of us via local, county, state, and federal tax "contributions." But while this huge machine has been busy thwarting my cavalier and evil traffic device disregard, the streets are crawling with drugs and violent criminals they "don’t have the resources to fight?"

Really? No resources? We simply don't count all the hi tech police cars, cameras, guns, meter maids, ticket tablets, radar detectors, radios, computers, helicopters, prisons, uniforms, et cetera ... because the recent and rampant scourge of wanton 'stop sign anarchy' is taking up the whole goddamn budget? This is beyond stupid .... this is Fucking Stupid. And I -as a human being- am checking in as officially insulted: as far as I’m concerned, we’ve hired a criminal army with a bad attitude that spends most of their time harassing us, and is analogous to hiring an arsonist fire department. Where did my money go, asshole?

The ironic concept of cops arresting prostitutes could -quite possibly- make my head explode. What happened to our sacred capitalist “freedom” when cops get to wipe out their competition? We don’t even get to pick who will be fucking us?

As a species, we just don’t make any sense. Why do we just accept all this crap?

My money is on sharks.

Predator Press Loses Product Line to DONCO

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Finally breaking the silence, blog mogul Don Lewis -author of "It's a Funny Thing"- has formally announced once and for all the sinister consolidation and centralization of humorous blogging from his notoriously evil fortress located in equally-evil Northern Idaho.

While initially shocked at the subsequent hostile takeover of our highly-profitable line of frighteningly realistic Halloween costumes, the folks at Predator Press Fiendish Fashions are preparing to surrender unconditionally to welcome their new comic overlord and CEO.



Frankenstein

Dracula

Ann Coulter

Creature from the
Black Lagoon

Frankly, these things were giving us the creeps anyway.

Clarkson Album Debut Marred by Terror Attacks

Predator Press

LOBO

In an effort to derail sales of American Idol pop star Kelly Clarkson's album "My December", Al Qaeda spent virtually the entire weekend trying to bomb the crap out of anything it could find in the United Kingdom --the birthplace of Simon Cowell.

Al Qaeda spokesman Osama Bin Laden expressed his fury in messages intercepted and decrypted by Predator Press. “I don’t care if that tawdry Jezebel won on Infidel Pig-Dog Idol or whatever. If I had known "Because of You" would be done in redneck, I would’ve bought Green Day’s “Dookie” instead!"

When asked to elaborate, Osama continued. "Well, I feel ripped off, and a Jihad on Simon Cowell is completely warranted; Sanjaya had more talent in is little pinky than this harlot has in her whole entire immodestly clothed curvaceous body! Ah ... oh jeez. Now I gotta blow something up again. That whore!”


*In Other News*
Predator Press would officially
like to thank Ann Coulter
for temporarily letting us move
our offices into her home.

The location, of course,
will be kept a strict secret.

Click here for MapQuest

"Special" Effects

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Ethan and I, smoking cigars, watch 'the dailies' with great interest.

"Rumsfeld is killing Osama?" he asks. "I thought Cheney killed Osama about twenty minutes ago."

"No, that was Saddam. Remember the mustache?"

"No, that was Chemical Ali."

"No, Chemical Ali was killed by Ann Coulter."

"I'm confused."

"Remember, when Cheney and Limbaugh had to hook south at the Anthrax factory? Rush, the team medic, told her he had something she could take that would let her take six or seven more direct mortar hits. Then Chemical Ali attacks them, and Ann rips out all eight of his arms and pushes him over the cliff?" I sigh. "I agree. This edit seems a little disjointed. Maybe it was a bad idea to have Cobe play all the bad guys after all."

"Cobe just doesn't seem to have any acting range whatsoever," Ethan observes.

"Vince!" I yell up at the projection booth. "Play the opening sequence." I settle back in. "Still Ethan, you're gonna love this."

Wild Kingdom

Predator Press

[Mr. I]

LOBO says, "The moment you lose the ability to reinvent yourself, you get old."

Unfortunately, he learned this at the ripe old age of six, and will probably stay there indefinitely.

This is already getting worse than when he went into self-imposed astronaut training last year. We'll be publishing his NASA application and blogging some of those stories as soon as they're declassified.

Stay tuned in 2075.

While his quixotic short-attention span-addled noggin keeps his ego virtually indestructible, it never seems to make screwball ideas like "Running for President" evaporate with any efficiency whatsoever.

I'm banking on the idea that this whole thing will have run it's course within a few days.


***

LOBO understood that a presidential campaign was probably going to take him the better part of the whole day. He got out of bed bright and early --10:30-- so he could do the yard before the press conference.

When I got there, he was just finishing hosing off the green linoleum that used to be grass.

Hands on his hips, he scowled at his 'yard'...

"It just looks so plain somehow," he says finally.

"Green linoleum instead of a yard looks too plain?"

"Yeah. And it's not patriotic enough."

"You could tear out the green and put in red, white and blue."

"God that would be so tasteless."

"Yes," I agreed. "The green is much more tasteful."

"Hm," he says, looking at me. He was lighting up with that creepy enthusiasm I've grown to dread. "Are you thinking what I'm thinking?"

"What are you thinking?" I ask. Here it comes.

"Garden gnomes." he says flatly. "And I could put little American flags on 'em. You know, so it'll look like they're all waving Old Glory."

"You know, I have to say I was definitely not thinking that."

"Does Home Depot carry garden gnomes? And tiny American flags?"

"Oh, sure. But it's Wednesday, and there's always a big rush on those two items on Wednesday."

LOBO, fingertips thoughtfully pressed his mouth, mutters, "Jesus, I'll bet you're right."

A UPS truck pulled up.

"Wow!" Says LOBO. "I can't believe they're here already!"


***

The UPS guy dollied in all eight gargantuan and heavy boxes into the living room in only two trips. As my eyes adjusted to being out of the daylight, LOBO was already signing for them.

I faintly hope whatever it is, it's not expensive.

"See you tomorrow!" he says to the UPS guy.

To me, he says "Was I supposed to tip him?"

"What's all this?" I ask.

"My campaign posters," he says absently as he tears open a box like it's Christmas.

"How can you make posters before you even know who you are running against?"

He pulls one out. It says:

"___________ is a DICK
VOTE FOR LOBO"

"We can put 'em up now and fill em out later," he says.


***

I notice a large blackboard with my name on it.

Well, more accurately, it reads:

Democrats

Mr Insanity
Ethan

And in another column it says:

Republicans

Sapphire
Phoebe

Under these columns are a bunch of complex, algebraic-looking scribbly and smudged equations.

And under those, it's scrawled:

Democrats=2
Republicans=2

Seeing me reading it, LOBO explains. "It's a representative sample I was working on. It came out inconclusive."

"That you would have a hard time getting elected from us?"

"No, I'm trying to figure out which party would win, so I can represent it. And I have to say, the Republicans are a lot cuter."

"Ever seen Rush Limbaugh?"

"Eeeyikes--!"

"Or Ann Coulter?"

Wincing, LOBO covered his groin as if someone were kicking it. "Okay dude. Stop. I get the picture. I've decided to start my own party anyway. All new tenants, brand new philosophy."

"Wouldn't inventing a whole political movement take a lot of time?"

"Well sure if you're gonna write the whole thing out."

"Which you're not going to do," I says. "You going to bother to name it?"

"My current favorite is squishing together 'LOBO' and 'humanity': Lobanity."

"I kinda like it. It could double as a diagnosis."

"I'm still working on it. It doesn't seem to have the same cachet as Catholicism or Scientology. It should be something cool sounding if I'm going to be king."

"You mean President."

"Right. Whatever. Now I've also got to think of an animal."

"An animal?"

"Yeah," he says. "You know, like the elephant-donkey thing. I'm thinking of maybe a crocodile. A crocodile would kick the shit out of an elephant or a donkey."

"You think?"

"How about a gorilla?"

"I think a crocodile would probably fair better against an elephant."

"What if the gorilla had a machine gun?"

Now, in my mind I'm picturing the printer not understanding perfectly, and making a half a million posters of machine gun-toting guerillas, and followed shortly by subsequent inevitable visits from the Secret Service, the FBI, the CIA, the ATF ...

You know 'lobo', in Spanish, means wolf, right?" I volunteer.

"Really?" he says glumly. "I was hopin it was 'handsome' ... or maybe 'wealthy visionary genius' ... "

Okay, bad idea. "I'm leaning towards the crocodile myself."

"... I would have settled for 'Chainsaw'." he says. "I always thought that I would dig people callin me Chainsaw. It sounds cool. 'Hey everybody, Chainsaw's here.' and 'Hey Chainsaw, I want you to meet Veronica--'"

I look at him for a second. "Chainsaw."

"That settles it. My first kid is going to be named Chainsaw."

Suddenly I can't breath.

"--Unless it's a boy. If it's a boy, it's going to be Ted."

Anyone else in here got the shivers over LOBO actually breeding? "I think you should give the idea of having kids a lot of thought," I stammer. Then, thinking quickly, I add "and over a very prolonged amount of time, actually."

"There's nothing that says the crocodile can't have a machine gun too," LOBO reflects.

"Absolutely," I blurt, desperately changing the subject again. "The fact that there isn't a machine-gun toting crocodile representing a political ideology is a direct inditement of America's complete lack of imagination."

LOBO looks at me. "That was beautiful. Can I quote you on that?"

"Absolutely not."

LOBO sulks.

"How did you pay for the posters?"

"Credit card," he says.

"You realize that you have to eventually pay your credit card off, right?

"I already thought of that. I didn't use mine."

I reflexively check for my wallet. "Whose, exactly, did you use?"

"Phoebe's." he says. "I already maxed Sapphire's booking Korn for my Inaugural." He grabs an invisible guitar and starts bounding around the room. "... BUM, BUM, BUM CHUGGA-CHUGGA-CHUGGA ... "

"You stole Sapphire and Phoebe's credit cards?"

"--CHUGGA-CHUGGA-CHUGGA--"

"Do you have any idea how pissed they're going to be?" I says, louder.

He stops jumping on the couch. "It will be a very republican-friendly administration."

"I don't think that's going to help you."

"Do you know Jack Abramoff's phone number?"

"No," I says.

"Well, for someone so negative you're certainly not helping things."


***

I don't know where he got all the garden gnomes with little flags, but damn it there was a million of them at the press conference. And it was all going fairly well until the Newsweek guy asked if LOBO had ever done drugs.

"Have I ever!" brags LOBO. "Mr Insanity gets some really good shit."

I have no idea what happened after I slammed my car door and peeled out.

It was soon evident that my police scanner was malfunctioning.

" ... Kringle Control, this is Agent Foxtrot. Please come in."

"Go ahead Foxtrot, we read you."

"I found him. I'm on the premises. Awaiting further instructions."

"Terminate the subject without raising suspicions at your first opportunity. And then come on home."

"Affirmative. How is it up there?"

"It's fucking COLD, Foxtrot. What are you expecting a heat wave? Now cut the chatter and get busy--"

I clicked off the useless scanner, hoping it's still under warranty.


***

The next morning, I hadda go get LOBO out of Bertram Asylum again.

Having watched the news coverage of the Andrea Yates trial, LOBO figured it to be the foolproof angle for getting back in.

So he threw five of the garden gnomes in the bathtub, and called 911.

So I absolutely fuming as I drove him home. "Garden Gnomes!?!"

"Yeah. But Lowes ripped me off. One of them went all soft after it soaked for twenty minutes. Won't even stand up anymore."

"You knew Doctor Keller would recognize you," I yell.

"Yeah," he says glumly. "But I didn't go there hoping to stay really."

"What do you mean?"

"I needed to break out my running mate."

"Oh really." I says. "Is this 'running mate' here now?"

"Yes," says LOBO.

Oh great. Delusions about imaginary people too, I'm thinking. "Where is he?" I says sarcastically searching the dashboard and floorboards. "In the back seat?" I says, snarky as I look closely in the rearview.

LOBO at me strangely. Then he looks in the back seat, and then at me again. "No dude. Are you alright?"

"Well, I just figured--"

"He's in the trunk." LOBO confided.

I slammed on the brakes, nearly killing me, him, and fifty other motorists on the freeway.

In my trunk, I find a skinny black man in ill-fitting jeans and a t shirt that reads "I'm with stupid".

"Hello," he says, a little annoyed, wincing at me through harsh, new light.

"This guy is going to lock up my election," LOBO explains. "Mr I, I'm pleased to introduce you to the next Vice President of the United States. Napoleon Bonaparte himself!"