WTF Ever Happened to Quicksand?

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Once again, at no small expense to you, we here at Predator Press have set out to settle an age-old question burning in everyone’s mind: What ever happened to quicksand?

You remember ... one could barely get through a half an hour of television without some poor slob stumbling upon his buddy's pith helmet laying mysteriously on the ground. Then he or she goes to pick it up, and the horror ensues.

-It’s quicksand!

I remember being taught about quicksand by no less than three teachers during the brief debacle of my education. They all conflicted with each other too. “Don’t struggle,” one said. “Lay flat and roll out,” said another.

Clearly even then this enigmatic sedentary evil was barely understood. Of course this was the heart of Chicago, where they taught us to curl up in a hallway in case of aerial bombings and hide under our desks during nuclear blasts.  It's safe to say if graffiti didn't stick to it, we Chicagoans didn't know shit about it.

So after years of jumping over suspicious looking sidewalk squares, it occurred that inner city quicksand may well have evolved a cracked appearance -perhaps even a Hopscotch pattern as camouflage! And tedious "research" revealed absolutely no cases of Chicago quicksand attacks, thus proving conclusively the deadly hunting prowess of this formidable and fearsome predator: no one had yet survived an encounter with it to tell the tale.

-I haven't slept in years.

Unfortunately, the Predator Press scienticians really let us all down this time. All they did was gorge Dominoes pizza, play World of Warcraft, and work on their Facebook profiles until SPAM beguiled them into downloading crippling computer viruses via porn.  Obviously the Great Mystery of Quicksand is beyond the feeble understanding of even the greatest minds of our time.

Still, we here at Predator Press remain hopeful that perhaps one day Humanity will learn to communicate with quicksand, the most misunderstood, secretive, and voracious of Nature’s killers.

But we recommend you all wear big, buoyant hats in the meantime.

Just in case.

The Truth About Tornados

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Unlike the Discovery Channel, Predator Press doesn’t make you sit through an hour of excruciatingly boring “facts” and “proof”. We’re just going to come right out and say it in the opening paragraph: Tornados Do Not Exist.

There.

We said it.

End of story.

This myth –obviously perpetuated to maintain the billions of dollars America shovels into tornado "warnings," safety equipment and protective gear every year- spins finally to rest right here, right now. Just like Bigfoot and the female orgasm, it's all hype and hippity happity-horsecrap ... and no longer shall America be terrorized by legends designed to scare children to sleep!

“But LOBO,” you say. “While I respect your staggering intellect, I’ve seen pictures of towns destroyed by tornados!”

You call that proof?

What if those people were just really messy?

FEMA: ”My god … This place is a sty. What happened?

Townsfolk: ”Um … tornado!”

FEMA: ”Really? Here is a million dollars!”

Townsfolk: ”Thanks!”

I spent about two hours yesterday on my roof with a pair of binoculars. Know how many tornados I saw? None. And I for one am tired of subsidizing slovenly townfolk with my hard-earned tax dollars.

One has merely to examine the weird recommendations the government provides to unravel the fabled ‘tornado’:

True or False: The safest place to be during a tornado is underground, preferably in a storm cellar.

Correct Answer: False. This is where they want you to be, so those lazy slugs don’t have to go through much trouble burying you!

True or False: If you see a tornado, leave your car and get into a ditch.

Correct Answer: False. What are you stupid? Who is telling you this crap? That's is analogous to that whole 'Stop, Drop, and Roll' scam! Ditches are filthy. And what if some dude wants to steal your car?

A big tornado -say an F9- will rip your shoes through your eye sockets and then beat you to death with them, ditch or no ditch. To avoid injury, a) Get out into a wide-open flat field, b) Quickly ascertain the direction the tornado is spinning, and then c) Run in circles in the same direction as fast as possible to cancel out the cyclonic effect.

True or False: Do not try to outrun a tornado.

Correct Answer: False, false, false. If you see a tornado, get the f—k away as quickly and recklessly as possible. Sabotaging fleeing others by tripping them and running them off the road is useful too, as the tornado will often pause to enjoy devouring their succulent juices -thereby gaining you what might be precious seconds.

If you ask me, America should be a lot less preoccupied with fictitious tooth fairies, boogeymen and funnel clouds, and concerned about more tangible threats like funnel cakes. I mean the unsanitary-seeming conditions of where they are cooked aside, what the hell are those things? Deep-fried sugar globs dipped in syrup and dusted in a redundant additional coating of powdered sugar?

Why don't you just try to get your arteries to process cinderblocks and pointy sticks?

Blech!

Dead Air

Predator Press

[LOBO]

My return to our Lord and Savior has nothing to do with natural disasters.

-If you look back over time, I do this every year when there's only four weeks left of fantasy football "regular season."  And this year when that collection plate comes around I got five bucks, and a two-for-one coupon on Crocs™.

It's crunch time, Jesus!

I Warned You People! Nature HATES Us!

Predator Press

[LOBO]

ONCE AGAIN Illinois has been leveled to the ground, and I alone am left to pick up the lazy, worthless pieces.  Well just once I would like to be one of those lazy, worthless pieces ... but God, in His Infinite Wisdom, is Infinitely and Wisely cruel to His favorite blogger.

It's pretty bad.

This is the worst kind of natural disaster possible -the kind that happens to me.  Now there's only one thing left: swift and lethal payback.

-It's time to show that bitch Mother Nature exactly who's in charge around here.

Take that, Earth.

My City is Gone

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Before I do a post on Mark A. Rayner's newest and seminal work -the one starring me- I should probably explain where I've been for the past month.

See, every once in a while the Earth tries to kill me. But the problem is that I'm on Earth, and the Earth is dumb and has pisspoor aim. World War II, Chernobyl, Paris Hilton, September 11, Katrina, … the list of the Earth's inept, bungled efforts to murder me is virtually endless.

But this time the Earth tried something uncharacteristically clever. A month ago, watching Thursday Night Football peacefully from my basement apartment, I heard commotion upstairs. Assuming the couple living above were in a particularly virulent argument, I did what every hero does: I turned the television up to drown it out.

When the door –out of my field of vision- got kicked in, I was annoyed. When four flashlight beams swirled in, I was confused. When the SWAT team captain's boot was suddenly on my neck, I was indignant. “I am the Senior LOBOian Ambassador to the United States! A national treasure. My blog readers will not stand for this! Your badges will be shoved up your asses so far they'll be mistaken as dental work-!”

Clearly they weren't Predator Press readers. When I came to, the bleeding had slowed considerably. Handcuffed to a chair, I wondered furiously why you people hadn't rescued me yet -it was, after all, one measly SWAT team. Some of them weren't even carrying automatic weapons, preferring shotguns instead. Have all the millions and millions Predator Press readers gone soft?

I would not learn until later the Earth was way ahead of us this time. She had distracted you all with a rather diabolic diversion: Superstorm Sandy. Now I love you readers. Seriously. But when a natural disaster occurs, nobody stops to think that maybe it's an elaborate plot to kill LOBO? That's the oldest trick in the book! You people better start thinking these things through.

So I was brought in for questioning. Supposedly, roughly ten pounds of marijuana and twenty guns were found on the premises -all of which I was completely oblivious. I had a separate entrance to the house, through the garage to my basement apartment. I didn't have keys to the upstairs. Utterly unhelpful, they released me to walk twenty two miles home in the freezing cold to a totally trashed apartment. Phil II, obviously rattled by the search and seizure, hissed as I assessed the situation.

The place was sacked. All “recording devices” were confiscated.

This unfortunately included my computers and cellphone.

I had no access to my fantasy football team.

-I had no access to porn!

And things got somehow got worse. I wasn't on the lease, so Phil II and I were technically trespassing. While I desperately searched for an apartment, the homeowner was essentially looting the place of valuable televisions and electronics, and would change the locks while I was at work. So for three weeks I would randomly come “home” locked out. But I had an ID reflecting my address, so the locksmiths would just let me right back in at $75 a pop. The next day I would have to spring Phil II out of the Humane Society at $40 a pop. And indeed I had a visceral joy perplexing the landlord with continued access, and how the evil cat, farmed away, would mysteriously return despite their effort.

I am building a new city now.

I Ate WHAT?

 Predator Press

[LOBO]

A ‘meat and potatoes’ guy myself, not a lot of foreign cuisine sneaks across my rather discriminating palette. But every once in a while there is a lapse in my security -otherwise airtight, I assure- and I feel I owe it to you O loyal reader, to complain about it in great, anguished, and excruciating detail.

While how we got the Grape Nuts cereal remains a mystery, I strongly suspect Terri: we’ve been married six years now, and I’m virtually positive it isn’t the first time poisoning me would have crossed her mind.

It has the texture you would guess human brains mixed with tiny skull fragments might feel like. And how do Grape Nuts taste?  For a toxic gash in the fabric of culinary history, it's surprisingly not very subtle or apologetic: imagine eating pulverized mulch, soil and tree bark dogs have peed on for years.  Mix that with a generous sprinkling of rabbit turds, and eating it out of a corrugated box with only a spade and a rake. Okay, are you picturing that?  Now imagine eating only the box.  Grape Nuts -utterly bereft of grapes or nuts, I should add- should be called ‘Rape Guts.’

Worse, it makes your poop unsinkable, unflushable battleship girders that circle around the whirlpool defiantly, bending the laws of physics and thermodynamics at will -some are so brazen, they swim against the Coreolis Effect! The larger ones exert a gravitational pull over the smaller ones, and they are drawn together -often into skirmishes for control of the tiny blue sea; the clanging and shrieking metal-on-metal sounds become extremely audible as armadas collide in angry, bobbing counter-orbits, and people are soon banging on the bathroom door. “LOBO are you okay?” and ”Where the hell are all those sparks coming from?”

-I would warn them to run for their lives, but I’m far too embarrassed.  In fact I'm sorry but if weeds start growing out of my ass, we’re all going to die and that’s that.

Grape Nuts scores impressively, however, in practical secondary applications. It makes a great spackle for instance. The stucco patterns one can achieve are fantastic. Has a tree in your neighborhood recently been felled by a storm? A box of Grape Nuts, some water and fertilizer, and you can just stick that sucker right back on the stump.

Another high-scoring secondary feature is how it elevates the art of farting: it’s analogous to going from mere garden-variety ma an pa sticks of dynamite to military shaped charges.  Terri had some friends over from work, and I didn’t even have to enter the room: from the top of the stairs, I cut a 'Silent But Deadly' [SBD] that felt like I passed a hot light bulb.

As you can guess, hilarity ensues.  I think they heard the palpable thump as it detonated on the living room floor below ... and what followed was ten seconds of erie silence, four minutes or so of shrill mayhem (choking, weeping, and the opening of windows and doors and such), and then five minutes of watery-eyed fingerpointing.

The next time Terri makes me go to church, I’m gonna choke down a whole box of this crap.

***

There is some good news on the foreign food front. We ate at a place called “Panda Express” the other day. Who knew panda was so delicious?  Judging from the number of customers, I'll bet they were serving up four or five pandas a day!  This is Entrepreneurialism at it's finest. And what better way to raise awareness of the plight of the mighty panda, nearly extinct, than to remind Americans how mouth-wateringly good they are when nuggettized and in a honey glaze -just like you would get them in Nature?

And they're only extinct because they won't have sex, right?  How nappy must those panda bitches and hos be if a male panda -born in a zoo and never had no sex before- don't want to toss 'em good an proper on top of the plastic habitat that looks like a rock?  Maybe the male panda is looking for something a little more upscale and refined, sensitive to his needs -like a panda in a cheerleader outfit.  Would it kill her to wear a cheerleader outfit every once in a while?

Maybe he’s a gay panda.  Or what if he's got, like a racist sex-fetish and wants a grizzly -or a polar- bear?  Hm?  Are the female pandas, like, real fat, or otherwise stricken with infirmities? Try not reminding him of Oreo cookies or Loa Tzu; maybe this bear is just such a hard-core fucking nihilist, he’s trying to end the species. This planet is a dump if you think about it.

Anyway, I can’t say enough about Panda Express, nor their fine work and noble commitment to save the lazy and otherwise worthless panda.

-And maybe they have a card I can get stamped for a free panda in the future!

WTF Ever Happened to Quicksand?

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Once again, at no small expense to you, we here at Predator Press have set out to settle an age-old question burning in everyone’s mind: What ever happened to quicksand?

You remember ... one could barely get through a half an hour of television without some poor slob stumbling upon his buddy's pith helmet laying mysteriously on the ground. Then he or she goes to pick it up, and the horror ensues.

-It’s quicksand!

I remember being taught about quicksand by no less than three teachers during the brief debacle of my education. They all conflicted with each other too. “Don’t struggle,” one said. “Lay flat and roll out,” said another.

Clearly even then this enigmatic sedentary evil was barely understood. Of course this was the heart of Chicago, where they taught us to curl up in a hallway in case of aerial bombings and hide under our desks during nuclear blasts.  It's safe to say if graffiti didn't stick to it, we Chicagoans didn't know shit about it.

So after years of jumping over suspicious looking sidewalk squares it occurred that inner city quicksand may well have evolved a cracked appearance -perhaps even a Hopscotch pattern as camouflage! And tedious "research" revealed absolutely no cases of Chicago quicksand attacks, thus proving conclusively the deadly hunting prowess of this formidable and fearsome predator: no one had yet survived an encounter with it to tell the tale.

-I haven't slept in years.

Unfortunately, the Predator Press scienticians really let us all down this time. All they did was gorge Dominoes pizza, play World of Warcraft, and work on their Facebook profiles until SPAM beguiled them into downloading crippling computer viruses via porn.  Obviously the Great Mystery of Quicksand is beyond the feeble understanding of even the greatest minds of our time.

Still, we here at Predator Press remain hopeful that perhaps one day Humanity will learn to communicate with quicksand, the most misunderstood, secretive, and voracious of Nature’s killers.

But we recommend you all wear big, buoyant hats in the meantime.

Just in case.

Meet FrankensteinBot/pwn.exe.vi.2

FrankensteinBot/pwn.exe.vi.2 is actually
"Classified."  But you get the idea.

Predator Press

[LOBO]

With all due respect to the mighty and noble Mayan, this is the lousiest Apocalypse I’ve ever seen.

-What if there is going to be a 2013?

You mean I'll still be on this shithole dump planet spinning into an endless, shithole dump infinite void? With this credit rating? And YOU assholes?

I knew it. I should never have given that cult all my money and worldly possessions. They were all like "Yeah, were gettin on the Mother Ship today!" And I was like "Cool!"

But they ditched me at Shoe Carnival.

They went to the Mother Ship without me.

Bastards.

Space Rape

Predator Press

[LOBO]

This morning I flipped a cardboard box into the "Recycling" dumpster.

And in the brief span of time I saw triangular sun-illuminated dumpster contents, I saw like nine million twitching bees, all vertically lined up against the dumpster lining. And then the lid, as designed, shut by virtue of gravity.

"What the fuck?" I thought. "Jesus, that just looked like nine million twitching bees, all vertically lined up against the dumpster lining." Popping the dumpster back open, I thought "What the hell did I really see?"

It was at that exact moment that nine million pissed off bees attacked me.

But as you longtime Predator Press readers know, I am an honorary white-belt Master of the long-lost martial art form of Peking Duck: four or five bees stung my shirt, but I deftly locked myself in the trunk of my '74 Toyota Camry without a single sting to my actual flesh.

Still, I think all my neighbors are dead by now.

The Truth About Tornados

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Unlike the Discovery Channel, Predator Press doesn’t make you sit through an hour of excruciatingly boring “facts” and “proof”. We’re just going to come right out and say it in the opening paragraph: Tornados Do Not Exist.

There.

We said it.

End of story.

This myth –obviously perpetuated to maintain the billions of dollars America shovels into tornado "warnings," safety equipment and protective gear every year- spins finally to rest right here, right now. Just like Bigfoot and the female orgasm, it's all hype and hippity happity-horsecrap ... and no longer shall America be terrorized by legends designed to scare children to sleep!

“But LOBO,” you say. “While I respect your staggering intellect, I’ve seen pictures of towns destroyed by tornados!”

You call that proof?

What if those people were just really messy?

FEMA: ”My god … This place is a sty. What happened?

Townsfolk: ”Um … tornado!”

FEMA: ”Really? Here is a million dollars!”

Townsfolk: ”Thanks!”

I spent about two hours yesterday on my roof with a pair of binoculars. Know how many tornados I saw? None. And I for one am tired of subsidizing slovenly townfolk with my hard-earned tax dollars.

One has merely to examine the weird recommendations the government provides to unravel the fabled ‘tornado’:

True or False: The safest place to be during a tornado is underground, preferably in a storm cellar.

Correct Answer: False. This is where they want you to be, so those lazy slugs don’t have to go through much trouble burying you!

True or False: If you see a tornado, leave your car and get into a ditch.

Correct Answer: False. What are you stupid? Who is telling you this crap? That's is analogous to that whole 'Stop, Drop, and Roll' scam! Ditches are filthy. And what if some dude wants to steal your car?

A big tornado -say an F9- will rip your shoes through your eye sockets and then beat you to death with them, ditch or no ditch. To avoid injury, a) Get out into a wide-open flat field, b) Quickly ascertain the direction the tornado is spinning, and then c) Run in circles in the same direction as fast as possible to cancel out the cyclonic effect.

True or False: Do not try to outrun a tornado.

Correct Answer: False, false, false. If you see a tornado, get the f—k away as quickly and recklessly as possible. Sabotaging fleeing others by tripping them and running them off the road is useful too, as the tornado will often pause to enjoy devouring their succulent juices -thereby gaining you what might be precious seconds.

If you ask me, America should be a lot less preoccupied with fictitious tooth fairies, boogeymen and funnel clouds, and concerned about more tangible threats like funnel cakes. I mean the unsanitary-seeming conditions of where they are cooked aside, what the hell are those things? Deep-fried sugar globs dipped in syrup and dusted in a redundant additional coating of powdered sugar?

Why don't you just try to get your arteries to process cinderblocks and pointy sticks?

Blech!

FREE

NASA photo, or L.A. taxi windshield?
Either way, the universe is a dump.

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Hundreds of years ago -back before many of our parents were even born- clouds of hydrogen succumbed to the intrinsic gravitational forces they exerted on each other, drifted together, combined, and eventually collapsed.  This increased the core temperatures.

Some of these clouds would become so hot and dense they would ignite and become stars. These stars would burn all the available hydrogen, and thus transform what was left into more complex elements in the process.

Hydrogen, in essence, is the first and simplest step toward everything we know in the physical universe. Earthquakes? Hydrogen. Asparagus? Hydrogen. Colon Cancer? Hydrogen. Matthew McConaughey’s acting chops? Hydrogen.

-Hydrogen has been trying to kill us since the beginning of fucking time.

I dunno what this movie was about, but I'm sure it
was chocked full of Oscar-worthy performances

So why has Nature afflicted us with this hydrogen scourge? And more importantly, why has Nature afflicted me with this hydrogen scourge? If you want to know the truth, Nature doesn’t give two shits and a fart about us. Remember that environmentalist guy who was on the high seas trying to protect some dolphins, and a bear jumped out of his closet and killed him? That’s how much Nature ‘cares’ about us. And do you know how much hydrogen it takes to make a bear that will stowaway onboard a ship in a closet to kill a man? This was no accident, Sherlock … this was a Homicide by Natural Causes.

Doubtlessly by virtue of this dialog I have incurred Nature’s wrath: even as we speak, She is vengefully destroying some unpronounceable place on the other side of the Earth, bathing a hapless indigenous people in the full fury of Her terrible lightning, insatiable fires, crippling diseases, howling cold winds, and decades of subsequent famine and strife. Ooooo. I’m so scared! You know what Nature? Is that all you got? Fuck you! Take this craptastic maggot farm and shove it up your ass! I am so sick to death of taking your ill-tempered bullshit, I'm making up profanity -words like 'clitch' and 'slunt!'  It’s high time we showed you once and for all who is in charge, bitch!

Another sandstorm.  Really.  [*yawn*]  How original.

As most of you already know, I, like Mother Theresa, have dedicated my life to easing the suffering of others by marketing a line of products guaranteed to improve otherwise decimated lives. Luckily, seeking out said otherwise decimated lives turned out to be easy.

The Greyhound station was perfect for many other reasons as well. First, it’s a small audience … perhaps thirty people at a time, and all thirty “attendants’ would essentially have recycled themselves on an hourly basis. That means every hour, my message of salvation would race across the country in fleet brick-shaped economic cans of Truth and Justice, stuffed with people spreading The Word of a Hydrogenless Utopia at an exponential rate.

Alas, Nature had beaten me there. I swear every other passenger was carrying a bottle of water –every last one just oozing in hydronic pestilence!  These people were unwittingly spreading Nature’s evil like a disease, and if I didn’t do something fast, hydrogen would be all over the United States within, like, eighty-seven days.

See? This proves it. With science.

All I really remember is smacking an Aquafina out of someone’s lips so hard, it cracked against the wall audibly. ”Don’t be Nature’s whore!” I demanded. “Is that what you want? To be Nature’s filthy slut?” Stunned, the little girl started crying –it would appear being nature’s whore and slut can be a little overwhelming to children. But I didn’t have much time to ponder this, as before the teddy bear she dropped even hit the floor a couple of largish guys started circling me.

Deducing I had already lost the crowd somehow, I dove at a public water fountain against the wall. “Don’t come any closer!” I growled, fingering the fountain lever menacingly. “I’ll fucking do it!”

“My god man!” gasped a security guard. "Don't!" he begged.

Then, I don’t know -somebody flinched. Turning the faucet on, I stared into the stream as it worked its way past pieces of gum in the drain ... and an instant later I was tasting the ice-cold spearmint-flavored death. A woman screamed, and a tough-looking ex military type guy rolled his eyes and just fainted dead away. I hear the closing footsteps and whirl, revealing my cheeks bulging with Greyhound public fountain water, a trickle of hydrogen-laden venom seeping from the corner of one lip.

"We're peeing with you, not at you."

Everyone in the station threw themselves to the floor and put their hands behind their heads.

"We don't want any trouble son," soothed the security guard into the well-scuffed, toxic-looking linoleum.  "Now calm down-"


***
Long story short, without that helicopter they never would have caught me. And they don’t let me into the Greyhound station anymore. But I did learn a lot from it all.  First, maybe selfless and charitable works aren’t my “thing,” right? I mean don’t remember anybody tazering Mother Theresa. I think I will have to market a line of products guaranteed to improve their otherwise decimated lives for profit from here on out.  Burn cream isn't cheap, you know?

Every case of FREE comes with a cart -I mean
what is more environmentally-friendly than that?

Second, I learned environmentalists are dumb. See, I’ve been working on a few other things to save the planet from the hydrogen scourge: one is a diet bottled water -I call it "FREE"- that is one hundred-percent hydrogen free.  But I’m having a little trouble finding a packaging method: environmentalists are already upset about my proposal to make the bottles out of half inch thick steel.

True it’s a few pounds heavier than a full bottle of hydrogen-contaminated water … but there would be a huge uptick in these jobs, and thus a much-needed boost to the American economy.  What the hell do these hippies have against America?  And think about it: isn’t the best environment one completely devoid of Nature? We spend a lot of money separating ourselves from Nature. Do you environmentalists live in a tent or something? If so, do you know what a tent is for? It’s to keep out Nature, dumbass!

Come on.  Is opening a closet without fear of being mauled by a bear in the sanctity of my own home too much to ask?

Hm?

All Blogs Go to Heaven

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Getting back into the blogging “groove,” I’ve done some visiting to old friends’ blogs -and found many of them are either dormant of gone entirely.

In possession of an unprecedented and staggering intellect -the equivalent of a hundred men or five or six women- I am forced to conclude that, in addition to Twitter and Facebook watering down our numbers, we are up against a battle for relevance.

The choice is clear: to rise once again to former glory, we bloggers must either focus ourselves on topics of social significance or start doing pornography. And because my beloved wife stubbornly won’t let me do porn, my current options appear fairly narrow.

Undeterred, I have decided that Predator Press will have to be a blog of Social Conscience, thus the pacecar for the generations of blogs to come. And it is in pursuit of these lofty goals that I announce -without equivocation- that Predator Press has solved two of the greatest problems ever to face humankind simultaneously: that of 1) forever being free of Middle East oil, and B) the elimination of abortion.

What am I specifically speaking of? The single most overlooked, most economic, and most renewable energy source the United States has ever had: orphans.

First of all, unless they are in a musical, nobody really likes orphans. They are grubby and smelly, often terrible at shoplifting, and do nothing but complain. As CEO of the most profitable orphanage in New Jersey, I can‘t tell you how sick I am hearing that same ol‘ singsong bullshit all day and night, “O I wish I had a mom and dad,” or “I’m so hungy!” Orphans, left to their own devices, are nothing but inexhaustible whiners.

-But we can change all that. Why have big ugly windmills blocking your skyline when you can lay them down and have orphans spin those now-inconspicuous blades for you? And with some advance planning, we don’t have to give up our kewl cars either: 20 buried orphans will, in a few years, completely replace the much-maligned dinosaur and the fuel it produces. And c’mon … what the fuck have dinosaurs ever done to you? Has a dinosaur ever abandoned mopping the floor to break into some annoying weepy song and/or monologue, thus exposing you to potential slip-and-fall lawsuits from your dinner guests?

Crash test dummies can cost thousands of dollars. Impact-absorbent NASCAR walls can run into the millions. And forget the delight of simply punching one; have you ever tasted orphan meat? It’s like tofu: it takes on whatever flavoring you add. Why eat, say, endangered bald eagles when there are thousands of these little bastards … and they are virtually everywhere?

I say the potential untapped technologies based on an ample and replenishable orphan supply have been ignored for far too long, and it seems to me Humanity owes it to the Mother Earth to give it a shot.

Predator Press Movie-Middle Reviews: Avatar

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Everything probably would have been fine if not for the Nader guy.

All through the line at the box office, that guy just went on and on about Ralph Nader. ‘Ralph Nader supports this,’ and ‘Ralph Nader opposes that.’

-And from the way his date feigned enthusiasm, I’m pretty sure she was ready to smack him too. She kept kissing the guy just to shut him up.

“Oh please,” I muttered as my ticket is bein torn. “Ralph Nader is a fucking populist. Voting for him is just throwin your vote away.”

We crossed the heavy double-doors into the darkened theater in the same small group. And as the ambient sounds diminished -as the room is designed to do- I distinctly heard the Nader guy whisper, “That guy is an asshole.”

“You’re an asshole,” I rasp quietly. “And a naïve asshole. America is a two-party system. Period. Now go fritter away the attention of some other country with your Lawn Party or whatever.”

“Fuck you hippie.”

“Nader tot!” I shrieked.

-The ‘shhhhhh!’s came from multiple directions, and almost on instict we scatter for seats.

Some previews started … but I got distracted tryin to figure out with more precision where Nader guy was sitting. He was about six rows up, and slightly to my left. Oh man, I’m thinking. Just let your stupid cellephone ring or something, and I’ll haul your stupid Communist ass right out of this stupid fucking movie and-

By the time Avatar started, I had completely lost my 3-D glasses.

Fuck.


***

Twenty minutes in, I had a splitting headache. So rather than watch the excruciating blurry images, I began to stare at the back of Nader guy’s stupid fucking head. He was an older guy, with well-manicured and gelled stupid hair, shaved just above his stupid collar. Pastel shirt -a stupid Polo shirt if I remember correctly.

After about an hour and a half, I began to relax a little and watch the movie.

Man the Smurfs in Avatar are fucking huge. Didn’t the guy who wrote this tripe do any research at all? I happen to know Smurfs are roughly three apples tall. Apples are, like, four inches or so right? These fucking things were at least five or six feet tall. Well that’s just plain lazy.

Lookit that stupid asshole with his stupid Nader hair warmin his stupid Nader thoughts.

I’m guessing the main Smurf in this story is Jokey Smurf, because everything is constantly blowing up. Jokey and Smurfette have some bizarre obsession over letting this poor crippled guy sleep, yadda yadda, more stuff blows up. They are probably alien Smurfs if you think about it.  You know, made gigantic by bein exposed to gamma rays and stuff.  Still, advanced civilization or no, Smurfette is the only female of all the Smurfs if I remember correctly … and it’s depressing me that she has all this free time. Maybe she’s a lesbian.  Now that I think of it, I don't think these guys even have any genetalia.  Nope.  I don’t remember seeing any ‘Predators,’ either, but Sigourney Weaver goes on and on and on about how to be nice to the aliens.  The humans -having finally found a long-sought alien species to have wars with- will have none of that 'peace' and 'love' hippie shit, and it's on bitches!  The humans finally shoot Sigourney to get her to shut the fuck up. Ironic.

How dare that Nader prick call me a hippie? I find myself thinking, starin at the back of Nader guy's stupid evil noggin in the pale bluish flashing lights.

All the Smurfs apparently live in this giant tree. Maybe that’s where the abnormally-large apples come in -like a crazy behemoth tree planted by Johnny Mnemonic-Appleseed or something. I don’t know for sure, because it was right about then I slammed my $15 tanker truck-sized Coca-Cola right into the back of the Nader guy’s fat, stupid, ugly head. It was spectacular.

“Nader is an Environmentalist!” I cried in exhilaration. “Save the environment?  The environment is trying to kill us all the time! Is he stupid?”

If you factor in the ticket, food, parking, and bail, I spent about $500 that night. You would think I would be left to enjoy the movie, right? But immediately after the Coca-Cola thing, there was ushers and lights, an ambulance and cops -virtually anything you could dream up that would make it impossible to follow a movie plot.

Still, Avatar‘s movie-middle garnered a healthy eighteen thumbs up. Despite the wanton Smurf inaccuracy -borderlining on outright historical butchery- when that Coke smacked the back of Nader guy’s head that shit exploded everywhere. People all over the theater were taking off their 3-D glasses and freaking out for a second.

Some applauded.

See that Ralph Nader?

Fuck you.

I Cleaned Up the Oil Spill Today. You're Welcome.

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Yeah, well, it was nothing.

I was sick of all those other so-called “news” people bitching about it.

-Those people are lazy.




Anywho, I need your help. I installed a webcam in the Gulf of Mexico to ensure those British pricks didn’t come back and, I dunno, napalm our American forest preserves or something.

But I cannot monitor it 24 hours a day. Shit, I'm only awake for ten or so.

Please alert authorities if you see anything unusual.

Big Oil Buys Detergent Company, Detonates Offshore Rigs

Predator Press

[LOBO]

“I’ll speak only on the condition of strict anonymity,” says ExxonMobil President Rex W. Tillerson, climbing off of a small pile of teenage prostitutes.

“Deal,” I says.

"’Big Oil’ is tired of taking everybody’s crap" he says, lighting a big Cuban cigar with a $10,000 bill. “Would you like a cigar?” He gestures to a small mirror piled high with mountains of a flaky, white powder. “Or would you like a line of, eh, special detergent perhaps?”

“No thanks,” I says. “I just washed my nostrils yesterday. But if I may speak candidly, I’m just interested in ‘Big Oil's’ position on suddenly becoming ‘Big Detergent.’ Millions and millions of Predator Press readers hinge on my journalistic integrity when world-changing stories like this break.”

“Know what they’ll be washing off all those birds with?”

“Ah. That’s why you blew up your own oil rigs.”

“Yeah,” Tillerson says smiling. “Tell all your readers Big Oil said ‘How do you like me now, assholes?'” With that, he kicked another puppy off the deck of his luxurious yacht.

"I hate those things, son."

"You're punting them into the ocean," I says. "I'm convinced."

"Well," Tillerson sulks, "I'm fresh out of ammo, and the skeet thrower has been jammed up since Kitten Day."

“But won’t there be backlash?" I says, trying to stay on subject. "You know, for creating an apocalyptic disaster 'an stuff?”

“Shit that’s the least of your problems” he says. Aiming for a cluster of yelping puppy heads -bobbing as they frantically paddled to keep up with the boat- he began peeing off the side.

“'Big Tobacco' is pretty fed up too.”

BP Unveils Plan to Clean Oil Slick Using Animals

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Facing worldwide ecological condemnation and what may amount to be a billion dollar cleanup effort, British Petroleum [BP] has put forth what it hopes to be a revolutionary new technique for environmental rescue.

“In the first few days of the disaster,” explains BP Environmental Affairs Spokesman Destry Dentin, “we made some observations regarding the wildlife that we believe can be used to reduce the costs and increase the efficacy of our cleanup efforts.”

“Every time we would clean one of these critters, what do they do? They just dive right back into the muck,” he elaborates. “Animals are dumb like that. They love filth. Thus, they are a natural magnet for toxic chemicals.”

A typical animal takes an hour to clean.

“The process needs to be accelerated,” he suggests. “An hour apiece is simply untenable from both a ecological and corporate standpoint. We tried grinding the animals up and distilling the fuel out, but then got complaints from a bunch of bitchy liberals. Then they wouldn‘t let us squeeze the oil off either. And the whole ‘wringing them out’ thing was impossible to hide -Jesus you shoulda heard all that screeching. It was pretty horrible.”

"Now, we’re affixing all previously-rescued animals with steel information tags" says Dentin. “This way we can sort of 'reel them back' through the stuff in staggered, manageable waves by use of giant magnets. Then, we economically remove all the oil from them -virtually instantaneously, I might add- while simultaneously launching them right back into the filthy ‘Nature’ they like to live in. It‘s very humane, and at the same time efficient.”

With this fresh new eco-friendly recycling approach, once the feathers and/or fur are filtered out each processed animal yields about a quart of sweet, sweet crude per rotation. "And this can be improved upon exponentially," continues Dentin, "by use of larger, more porous animals. A bear, for instance, could bring in several gallons at a time."

When confronted with the fact that bears are not indigenous to the Atlantic Ocean, Dentin balked.

"That's what helicopters are for."

icanhasflamethrower

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Every once in a while, I’ll make some flimsy attempt at cleansing my Karmic palette by putting forth something other than my usual schlock.

For example, if you text ‘HAITI’ to 90999 on your cellphone, you will make a $10 donation to the Red Cross. ‘UNICEF’ to 20222 will make a similar donation to Unicef. And if I find a number you can text to get ‘Pants on the Ground’ guy Larry 'The General' Platt back on American Idol for the rest of the season, I’ll publish that too: it seems the least I can do to punish Simon Cowell for crimes against humanity.

But with horrific disasters, national humiliation, and crimes against humanity already on the table, can you possibly segue into a discussion about Pat Robertson any smoother?

I smell Pulitzer.

”I’m not really sure what I should do, LOBO,” says Pat over the speakerphone.

“Well hiring me was your first step in the right direction,” I says reassuringly. “Out of curiosity, how did you hear of the Predator Press Public Relations Agency?”

”It’s the last one in the phone book,” says Pat. ”Zimmer and Zellwig recommended I bury myself up to my neck and let red ants eat my head off.”

“Zimmer and Zellwig are amateurs,” I scoff, surreptitiously crossing ‘RED ANTS’ off of my brainstorming list. “Still, blaming the Haitian disaster on a pact with the devil presented us with quite a challenge.”

”One can only assume that’s why your retainer is so high.”

“Yeah. Well, um,” I begin carefully. “In truth that money is already gone.”

”What?”

“Pat, you understand what you’re up against here, right?” I says, reclining in the chair, talking to the ceiling. “I mean I don’t know much about religion, but I thought you people were supposed to be compassionate and forgiving. If you want to keep fooling people into believing that, you’re going to have to accept some of the, eh, 'initiatives' we’ve taken on your behalf.”

”Initiatives?”

“Yes,” I says. “See, we figure you’re going to have to do something in Haiti that demonstrates that you sympathize with their plight –regardless of whatever Faith and culture divides you.”

”But they practice Voodoo!”

“That’s what made it so easy,” I says, looking at my watch. “We hired some cargo planes. Even as we speak, they are dumping one million live sacrificial chickens over the devastated nation on your behalf. I called it the 'Pat’s Preachin' Poultry Project' on the press release." Hands behind my head, I puff my cigar confidently. "America loves alliteration.”

“My congregation will never agree to fund sacrificial chickens.”

“I already thought of that,” I says. “That’s why tomorrow, we’re hitting them with mayonnaise and celery.”